Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(114)

The Home Office mouthpiece spoke up. “It was to prevent panic, my lord. The citizenry would be overly frightened. They are not equipped to handle such disturbing news.”

To Fisher’s astonishment, Ramsey rose again. “I disagree. The public is a lot smarter than you give them credit for. Besides, it’s already common knowledge in the East End.”



“You misunderstand me, Inspector,” the Home Office representative replied smoothly. “Our concern was for the people who matter.”

Before Ramsey could burst out in fury, Fisher gave a quick tug on his sleeve. The inspector grudgingly returned to his seat.

“Self-righteous bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

“Careful, Martin. They will be your masters soon enough.”

“That may be true, but I’ll be biting them on the ankles as often as I can, that I promise.”

No doubt you will.

The prince’s spokesman cleared his throat. “Contrary to what my colleague in Home Office says, both His Royal Highness and Her Majesty hold deep regard for all our citizens, be they lesser or greater. The prince, in particular, has been dismayed at how this trial has brought turmoil to Scotland Yard, especially at a time when they have a myriad of other more important matters to attend to, including the safety of Her Majesty.”

It was a strong rebuke delivered in velvet tones. The Home Office man fell silent, his arms crossed in sullen displeasure.

Coleridge nodded his approval. “Very well, Mr. Kingsbury, bring me your new evidence. The Crown Prosecutor may file objections as he chooses, then I shall weigh as to whether the convicted man deserves to be set free or make a second and final journey to the hangman.”

“My lord, we hope that you might make that decision as promptly as possible. This whole ordeal has been incredibly difficult for the sergeant.”

“No doubt. Just send me your evidence, sir. I will give it due consideration as my schedule permits.”

“As your lordship pleases,” Kingsbury said.

In the hallway outside the chambers, Ramsey whispered, “Surely they can’t have the fix in all the way to—” he gestured with his head toward the closed door.

“Let’s pray the rot hasn’t risen that high,” Fisher replied.“If so, this mighty empire is foundering on the rocks.”





Chapter 8




Upon her return, Cynda found Morrisey awake, reading a newspaper. At his elbow was a cup of tea. The furniture had been moved to create an open space, suggesting he’d practiced his Tai Chi during her absence. Much like a chameleon, he was rapidly adapting to his surroundings. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

He studied her clothes with a critical eye. “Is that what is required for an inquest?”

“No. Just trying to be invisible. Not everyone knows my brain is back from vacation, and I’d like to leave it that way.” The hat and veil came off immediately, followed by the mantelet. “That’s better. I can actually see.”

She stepped inside her bedroom and closed the door. A rummage in the wardrobe produced her old costume, all patched and faded. Waltzing through the front lobby looking like a beggar would invite problems. She’d have to slip out some side door. The spare room at Pratchett’s Book Shop would have been an ideal solution, but she had to admit she liked a hot bath every now and then.

“How’s your time lag?” she called out, pulling on the worn skirt.

“Better. I had a long nap and some tea.”

“Excellent.” Not as good as sex, but it works.

“I gather you’re changing clothes,” he called back. “Do I need to do the same?”

“Yes. We’re headed for the East End. Dress downmarket. We got away with what we were wearing this morning, but at night it’s best to blend in.”

She heard noises from the sitting room. “Luckily, I brought something appropriate,” she heard him say. “I gather the garments can have lice or fleas in them if you buy them secondhand here.”

“He did read the run reports,” Mr. Spider announced. “Sobering thought.”



Morrisey would remember all those details. She just remembered most of them.

Cynda heard him open his pasteboard suitcase. His boots hit the floor with two pronounced thumps.

“I met up with Alastair Montrose at the inquest,” she reported.

“Oh.” Then silence.

“Morrisey?”

More silence.

“Hello, boss?”

“One moment. I’m still dressing.” Now that was so Victorian.

Oh, she was enjoying this. How many Rovers got to mess with the Genius? “The first time you were here, you saw me in a bathtub. Why can’t I see you in your underwear?”

“Because this Victorian underwear is embarrassing,” he groused. “All right, I’m decent.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped out, still buttoning her bodice. He was tugging on his boots. Other than his clean-shaven face, he could easily be mistaken for some loser in the East End. The clothes were perfect.

Then she remembered his special ability. “Why don’t you go en mirage? It’d be easier.”

“This takes less concentration.”

“Which means you don’t shift often,” she replied.