Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(111)

Ramsey’s eyes lowered to the gun. Perhaps it wasn’t just for protection.

Sensing a fleeting opportunity, he dropped the notebook into a pocket and then quietly lifted the revolver. Slipping the thumb catch back, he broke open the gun and deftly dropped the cartridges into his hand. He barely got it back in place on the desk when Hulme turned toward him.

“Why are you still here?” he asked. “I’ve told you my tale.”

“I’m still here because we coppers have to stick together. Come forward, Hulme. Give us names. We’ll kick those toffs in the nads, teach them some manners.”

Hulme shook his head.

“For God’s sake, don’t let them win.”

Hulme scoffed. “They always win. You know that. Now get the hell out of here!”

Ramsey did as the man asked, dropping the cartridges into his pocket the moment he was out the door. Unless the inspector had more tucked somewhere in his rooms, the future might not be as bleak as Hulme imagined.



~??~??~??~



Inquests were boring, at least from Satyr’s point of view. You listened to dull testimony about how the deceased had shuffled off this mortal coil, and then the jurors affixed blame…or not. In this case, none of them had any idea who had slipped that knife into Hugo Effington’s heart.

Tempting as it was to proclaim to the packed room, I did it and I’m extremely happy that cruel tyrant is dead, Satyr held himself in check. En mirage as a humble clerk, he stood at the rear of the room, an excellent vantage point from which to observe the proceedings. His disguise was perfect. Clerks were ubiquitous: no one paid them any attention.

At the very front, in the first row, was the veiled widow, recently returned from New York. Inky black was not Deidre’s best color. He wasn’t surprised that there were no sobs from behind that dense shroud. She was well rid of the man, and only the rules of etiquette kept her from dancing a jig.

Pity I shall never share your bed again. Too many questions might be asked, though he’d certainly enjoyed his time en mirage as her lover. The real Reginald Fine was in India, with no notion that someone was having a great deal of fun at his expense.

At least he won’t be charged for a murder he didn’t commit.

According to the newspapers, the police were stymied. No jealous lover to blame and the widow was on a ship to America when her husband died.

Dr. Montrose testified next. His firm voice and commanding presence was impressive for someone so new to his job. Satyr listened with interest as the doctor spoke of that night: the horrific discovery of Effington’s still-warm body, the mysterious disappearance of Miss Jacynda Lassiter, and the hellacious warehouse fire.

Satyr smiled to himself. The fire had been hellacious. He’d always had a certain talent with combustibles.



“At that time, did you have any notion of where Miss Lassiter had gone?” the coroner inquired.

“No, I did not,” Montrose replied.

“And yet, I understand she reappeared a few days later.”

Satyr straightened up, on the alert. Twig was alive? Now that was news he’d not heard.

“Yes,” Montrose replied. “In the meantime, she had suffered a mental collapse, no doubt from the horrific nature of the event. She remembered no details of that evening.”

If she’s still among the living, would she be here? His eyes scrutinized the females in the audience. Too old, too dowdy, too heavy…

A woman sitting three rows behind Deidre caught his notice. She was clad in a steel-gray dress and fully veiled. Could it be? He would have dismissed her outright as some aggrieved relative, except she had a particular way of holding herself not usually seen in women of this century. A gifted assassin could always suss out his prey.

His smile widened. Tobin had made a very grave error. He should have left her in the asylum.

Fool.

The coroner began to question a member of the Fire Brigade. Now truly bored, Satyr left the inquest. Twig would be out soon. He couldn’t wait for a personal chat with one of Bedlam’s former inmates. Somehow, she’d put her mind back together. He wanted to know how she’d achieved that miracle. Then he’d let her know the game was not over yet.

Death by person or persons unknown. Alastair hadn’t expected anything else for the verdict. Still, he would need to send Reuben a letter in Dublin, reporting the outcome. He waited until the majority of the room had cleared and then exited the building, holding the door open for a lady clad in dark gray.

“Thank you, Dr. Montrose,” she replied.

“My pleasure, madam,” he said.

“Want to share a cab?” the figure asked.



He started at the blatant invitation. The woman carefully raised a portion of her veil. A wink came in his direction.

Jacynda. “I should have known.” The veil dropped. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

He offered his arm and she took it. “The Arundel Hotel. The sooner I’m out from under this damned veil, the better. It’s driving me nuts.”

“Very effective, though.”

“I thought so.”

“I will join you and then take the cab on to Lord Wescomb’s. I wish to ensure he is resting. He was at the prison this morning and it was very hard on him.”

As he waved down a hansom, a prickling sensation began, then increased. He hunted for the source.