Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(126)

“What will happen to him?” she repeated.

He turned toward her with grateful eyes. “Since he’s already a Virtual, it’s said that if you keep taking from the dead, insanity is the final gift.”

“Then it was him,” she said softly. “Defoe wasn’t after the prince at Effington’s party. He came back to kill Satyr. He blames him for Adelaide’s death.”

And I told Rover One right where to find him.





Chapter 11




It took Keats some time to pick the lock on the warehouse door. He didn’t have his tools and it fell to using a couple pieces of wire. As he worked, Flaherty and the doctor stood watch.

To relieve his nerves, Alastair joked, “To hear the Crown Prosecutor tell it, you’re a master criminal who can open a lock in a fraction of a second. Lose your touch in the nick, my friend?”

“It would help if I had my lock picks,” Keats fumed.

“I’m sure the rozzers will give ’em back,” Flaherty assured him. “Ya just gotta ask nice and polite-like.”

“We could just break it open,” Alastair suggested.

“Don’t want to leave any trace that we’ve been here.” Keats tugged on the lock. It popped free. “There.”

After a quick look around, Flaherty opened the warehouse door.

“Come on, I’ll show ya where they are.” His voice echoed more than Alastair had expected. As they walked further inside, the reason was made clear: the warehouse was empty.

Flaherty rotated in a slow circle, his mouth open. “I swear, the gunpowder was here!”

“If you’re lying to me,” Keats hissed, jabbing a finger in the anarchist’s direction for emphasis, “I will personally introduce you to the hangman. Mr. Berry and I are very well acquainted.”

“I ain’t lyin’. No need.”

Keats slowly deflated, wiping a hand across his chin. “How many casks of gunpowder did you have left?”

“Twenty-four. But they had me repack it into half barrels.”

“Four dozen.” Keats shook his head at the thought.

Alastair watched as his friend made as thorough a search as he could with the light of a candle he’d brought from the church. He appeared about to give up, when he spied something. He waved his companions over.

“Hold this,” he said, shoving the candle into Alastair’s hand. He ran his fingers through the black material. “Gunpowder.” Something shiny caught his interest and he extracted it from the black grains.



“It’s a coin,” Alastair said, holding the candle closer. “Sixpence.” He frowned as he examined it closer. “Shouldn’t it be silver?”

Keats glared at Flaherty. “Shall I add forgery to your list of offenses?”

“That’s not my doin’.”

Keats swore under his breath, then dumped the coin into his pocket. Dusting off his hands, he stood. “Let’s get out of here before a watchman sees us. I have no desire to spend another night in jail.”

After they secured the door, Keats sat on a thick coil of rope by the water’s edge, filling his pipe as if this were just another evening’s jaunt. After striking a match, the tobacco came to life. He tossed the match into the water.

“How many other sites are there?” he asked.

“Seven,” Flaherty answered, kneeling next to him. “I’ll take ya to them.”

Keats nodded, his eyes fixed on a point across the water. “We’ll make the rounds, but I’m willing to bet they’ll be empty.”

His pipe went out. Swearing, he lit it again and took a few deep puffs. Aromatic smoke rose in a thin column.

“We’ll check the other sites, then I’ll let the Chief Inspector know that you’re no longer the primary threat.”

Flaherty shot him a skeptical look. “Will he believe ya?”

“He has no other choice.”

~??~??~??~



Thursday, 8 November, 1888

Rose Dining Room

The moment Satyr entered, the Ascendant looked up from his newspaper. Faint surprise flickered across his face. Then his expression reverted to neutral.

“Mr. S.,” he acknowledged cautiously.

“Sir,” Satyr replied, skipping the courtesies. He sat in his appointed chair, amazed that Tobin wasn’t already in his place.



He could read the headlines from here. The report was in all of the newspapers. It wasn’t often that a courtesan was gunned down in her own home. To his distaste, the killer’s description sounded eerily familiar.

Only amateurs use firearms. Only dead men use my likeness when killing another.

Satyr had arrived at Madam Winston’s shortly after the crime, as per their arrangement. Taken aback at the unthinkable news, he’d wandered throughout the house, unseen, listening in on conversations with the butler, the police, and the hysterical maid. Whoever had co-opted his form knew it was the best means to gain entrance to the house. Since only Satyr and the now dead courtesan were aware of their appointment, the other assassin had just gotten lucky.

Acting on a hunch that this wasn’t an isolated event, Satyr had contacted those few members of the Twenty that he knew and they spread the word amongst their compatriots. Not quickly enough. By morning there was more grim news: three others had met Adelaide’s fate.