Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(122)

“I never thought I would do this so willingly,” Alastair grumbled.

“At least you have the option.”

“You still can’t shift?” he quizzed.

“I haven’t tried for a very long time,” Keats replied. “It just doesn’t matter anymore.” His tone of voice said otherwise.

“I don’t see why you need to speak to Flaherty,” Alastair said.

“I must know where he’s been looking for his daughter. That way I won’t waste time.”

“He may well cut your throat just for something to do.”

“That might be a blessing,” Keats replied.

Alastair fell quiet. There was no point in arguing.

Flaherty’s situation wasn’t much better. The Irishman had made the ultimate sacrifice for his daughter. The Fenians would never trust him again, not with him coming forward to help a copper.



When they reached the church, Alastair suggested, “I’ll go in and find the priest. You wait here.”

“He won’t know who you are.”

The doctor had forgotten he was en mirage. That was unnerving. It was becoming too easy. As they entered, Keats genuflected and headed for the front pew. Alastair joined him.

Keats peered up at the crucifix. “I feel a bit like Job,” he said, “as if God and Satan had made a bet between them to see how strong I was.”

“The Devil lost,” Alastair said.

A faint smile returned. “Maybe.”

The priest appeared. Then he recognized Keats. “Sergeant?”

“We’re here about a missing lamb,” Keats said.

Nowlan frowned. He beckoned and they followed him outside the church, into the graveyard.

“Wait here.” Then he left them alone.

Keats pulled his coat tighter. “Is Johnny Ahearn buried here?”

“This way,” Alastair said, leading him through the gravestones.

The sergeant studied the grave. “Has his wife had the child yet?”

“No.” It was the Fenian, the priest at his side. “What ya doin’ back here, little sergeant?”

“I owe you my life,” Keats began. “And though I should arrest you on sight, I’ve come to pay my debt. I need to know where you’ve been looking for your daughter and—”

“What’s this game?” Flaherty asked, frowning.

“No game. I’ll help you find her, but I have to know—”

“Ya brought her here a couple hours ago.”

“What? I didn’t—”

“Yer off in the head,” Flaherty said.

“No, I’m not!”

“Ya brought her here, to Father Nowlan. She said ya promised ya’d keep her safe, and ya did.”



“It wasn’t me, Flaherty,” Keats admitted. “I had no idea where she was; that’s why I came to talk to you.”

“Then who…” Flaherty asked.

A slight wind blew through the graveyard, ruffling leaves near the old stone fence.

“It had to be one of the strange ones,” the priest said, crossing himself.

“Apparently her captors decided she was of no more value,” Alastair offered. “I am relieved they didn’t harm her.”

Flaherty had his knife out in an instant. “Yer one of them. I know yer voice, and it don’t go with that face.”

Alastair groaned, then shot Keats a desperate look.

“Go on, you’ve already stepped in it,” his friend advised wearily. “He might as well know it all.”

The transformation went smoothly, but still left the doctor queasy.

“What the hell is goin’ on here?” Flaherty demanded.

“We’re both what you call strange ones,” Keats explained. “Alastair can look like anyone he chooses, but he’s not practiced enough to do it properly.”

“Ya can change as well?” Flaherty asked, the knife still out.

“Not anymore. You took that from me when you hit me on the head in Green Dragon Place.”

Flaherty’s eyes narrowed. “Ya was with him that night?” Keats nodded. “Looked like a woman, didn’t ya?” It was Alastair’s turn to nod. “If yer one of them, ya know who took my daughter,” Flaherty growled.

“No, we don’t,” Keats replied.

“I don’t believe ya.”

“Do you know every Irishman in London?” Alastair challenged. “Of course you don’t. Same with our kind.”

Flaherty spat on the ground in disgust, then reluctantly tucked the knife away. “No wonder ya always seemed to know what I was about.” He spat again. “Don’t matter. Fee’s safe now, and that’s what counts. I sent her with her man to Dorset Street. I’ve got friends there. They’ll look after her.”



Keats felt their advantage waning. They’d not found the girl, so Flaherty had no obligation to help them. He could arrest the Fenian—he was still a sergeant—but that wouldn’t yield the explosives. And it would tear his soul apart in the process. Still, he had to make the effort.

“We need to know where you’ve stashed the dynamite and the gunpowder,” he said. A stronger gust of wind blew Keats’ coat open, making him shiver.