Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(116)

He offered his arm and she took it, as would be expected. “I am, in many ways.”

“Why?”

“At home, I’m too well known. I’m stared at all the time if I go out in public. It’s one of the reasons I keep out of view.” His expression transformed into a genuine smile. “Here, I’m no one. It’s refreshing.”

She hadn’t ever thought of that. “It must be weird to be so famous.”

“It’s a double-edged sword. I see why Harter hides himself away like this. It has a certain appeal.”

Along with some downsides.

Not wanting to ruin his good mood, she said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint. Watch what you say. The pub will be crowded.”

The Ten Bells was packed, as usual. After muscling their way to the bar and claiming their drinks, they found a spot in the back of the room.

“Right friendly place, ain’t it?” Morrisey remarked. His thick working-class accent sounded natural. He had the advantage on her: he was a native.

“Not hearin’ much that helps us, though,” she replied, trying to match him.

“Well, at least the ale’s worth the time,” he said, taking another sip and smacking his lips.

She nearly burst out laughing. If the Vid-News reporters ever caught wind of T.E. Morrisey slumming in 1888 London, their readership would double.



“Is it always like this?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Friday’s a holiday. They want to get a head start on the drinkin’.”

“No, no, he’s good for it!” someone shouted above the din. “They’re all crooked, those rozzers. Don’t want to pay for a leg-over like the rest of us.”

That generated raucous laughter. To her astonishment, Morrisey called out, “Why pay for what ya get for free?”

Before she could issue a warning, a man answered, “Right ya are, sor. That’s what I’m sayin’.”

“I’m sure I saw him with old Polly,” another said. “He’s got to be the Ripper. How else could he get away with it?”

“I bet he was goin’ to do that posh bint like the others, but he heard ’em comin’ and ran away,” a woman said.

“Not that rozzer,” a young woman piped up. “He’s a good sort. He’d slip me tuppence every now and then, tell me to get home safe.”

“Oh, I’d slip ya brass too, but you’d have to earn it,” a man said, elbowing her.

“I know yer kind, Tom. Yer all talk.” More rude laughter.

“I heard someone spoke up for him. Some Irish girl,” another man added. “She’s lucky Flaherty gave the word or she’d be payin’ for that dearly.”

“Yes, she was lucky,” the woman said pensively. “But it was the right thing to do.”

“I wouldn’t do that for no rozzer,” the one called Tom shot back. “Ya heart’s too big, Mary. Ya can’t see the truth for what it is.”

Mary?

Cynda thought she’d seen her before. Young woman. Red shawl, no hat. Some night in… She couldn’t quite remember. It had been in front of the Ten Bells. Then it fell into place.

“What’s wrong?” Morrisey asked.

“Nothin’. Done with yer pint?” she asked, working hard to keep in character.



He took a final sip. “Ready.”

Once they were back on the street, she leaned close and delivered him the stock lecture about blending in.

“I think I did rather well,” he said peevishly.

“You did, but you’re always supposed to be part of the scenery.”

“If I remember, you’re not very good at that, either. Is that why you dragged me out of there?”

“Part of it.” Cynda took his arm. “The other part’s the downside of being a Rover.”

“Which is?”

“Seeing people who are going to die.”

“They’re all dead, Jacynda,” he replied gently.

“Yes, but I know how she dies, when…where.” Every damned detail.

Morrisey looked puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”

“Mary Jane Kelly. She was the woman in the pub talking about how good Keats was to her.” Cynda watched as the name hit home.

“The Ripper’s next victim,” he murmured.

“This Friday, early in the morning, in Dorset Street.” She’d not taken him there during their tour. That would have been ghoulish.

He looked away, his mind somewhere else. If he’d seen the crime scene photos…

You shouldn’t have to face this.

It was one of the hardest things that a Rover had to handle: everyone you met was dead. Some of them would haunt you forever. For her, it was Kate Eddowes: laughing, playfully putting her hand on the shoulder of the man who’d mutilate her in Mitre Square a few minutes later.

“Look, you can’t stay here,” she pleaded. “We’ll find somewhere else for you to go—”

“No,” he retorted, “I need to be here.” His voice went rough. “This…” he said, gesturing around him at the teeming streets, “is real. I made this possible. Why shouldn’t I see the human consequences of my so-called genius?”