Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(13)

Cynda nodded and the door swung shut behind her. The woman in the corner jutted out her neck and glared at her. They eyed each other. When the other woman didn’t speak, Cynda pulled a bit of leftover bread out of a pocket and offered it to her. Nothing happened. She took a few steps forward and held out her hand. The woman snatched it from her like a feral child.

Then she began to sing. The voice was low, with an earthy Irish accent. It sounded like a lullaby. Entranced, Cynda went to the far side of the cell, settling against the wall, knees to her chest. She drifted with the voice. It made her head hurt less. In her mind, she heard another voice singing along, and saw the face of a woman with brown hair. She had no notion who the woman was and that made her sad.

When the song trailed off a flitting gray figure scurried toward the other woman. It was a mouse, a baby one. It paused, whiskers testing the air. Then it inched closer.

The woman crooned, “Come here, little one.” She laid bread crumbs on her palm and then extended it flat on the stone floor. The little mouse hopped up and began to daintily nibble on the food.

Cynda smiled in wonder. “So small.”

The odd woman’s face turned toward her, neck extending. Her eyes narrowed.

“I had a pet mouse once,” Cynda said, then blinked in confusion. Where had that come from? She tried to remember the creature, but nothing more came from her ravaged brain.

“Ya’d feed it?” Mad Sammy asked.

Cynda nodded.

The eyes grew less cautious. “There’s another one,” she said, pointing.

A fuzzy gray face appeared from under the bed. It was bigger than the baby one. Cynda broke off a piece of bread and placed it on her palm like the other woman.



Whiskers twitched.

“I won’t hurt you,” Cynda murmured, captivated by the creature. It worked its way toward her, one cautious scurry at a time. It climbed up onto her hand, claws resting on her flesh. The mouse picked up the piece of offering and began to eat, rotating the bread after each nibble.

Cynda beamed. When she looked up at her companion, Mad Sammy gave a jerky nod of approval.

“Ya’ll do,” she declared. “Ya’ll do.”

~??~??~??~



The sharp rap on Alastair’s door didn’t sound like his landlady, but nevertheless indicated someone of authority. He rarely had visitors late in the evening. His interest piqued, he cracked open the door. His hunch was correct: Chief Inspector Fisher waited in the hallway.

“May I come in?” Fisher asked.

Caught off guard, Alastair could only agree.

Fisher hoisted a chair. “Your landlady advised me you only had one.” He moved in as if he were a relative, setting himself close to the hearth. Then he examined the room. “Intimate,” he observed politely.

That was an understatement. All of ten-by-ten, the room contained a single bed, chair, a washbasin and wardrobe, all jostling for space with his medical books.

Alastair angled his own chair toward his visitor, leaving only a few inches between them. It was uncomfortably tight.

“Has Keats turned himself in?” he inquired hopefully. He could think of no other reason for this unprecedented visit.

“No. Instead, I received a letter at my home this evening. It is a rather remarkable one. I felt you should see it.” Fisher retrieved a folded stack of papers from his jacket. “I will admit to being stunned upon reading this. Keats has an alibi, did you know that?”

“Then why has he not come forward?” Alastair asked, astonished.



“It’s the nature of the alibi that is the issue. These…” Fisher waved the many pieces of paper, “comprise a private letter and a police report, if you can believe it. He’s on the run for murder and he’s still filing reports, just like he’s on duty.”

“Sounds like Keats.” Alastair accepted the papers, straightening them.

“Before you delve into all that, you might as well know: Desmond Flaherty is his alibi.”

Alastair’s mouth dropped open. “But…how…that’s absurd!”

“Indeed. After Keats visited Miss Lassiter at the hotel on the night of the murder, he went into Whitechapel. He was promptly accosted by Flaherty and a few of his men. Instead of cutting him up…well, read it for yourself. It is no less improbable on paper.”

Alastair skimmed through the documents. Smudge marks immortalized Keats’ thumbprint in grime. The penmanship was uneven, as if he didn’t have a desk, but wrote on whatever surface came to hand. The first page was a letter to Fisher, apologizing for the trouble he had brought upon his superior. The next few sheets comprised a detailed summary of Keats’ whereabouts from the night of Nicci Hallcox’s murder until he realized he was a wanted man. The last page was a summary of what he’d learned about Hugo Effington and the possible connection between the warehouse owner and Desmond Flaherty.

By the time he finished the pages, Alastair was despondent. Keats, blinded by his duty to capture the anarchist, had put himself into the noose. Instead of recovering from his injuries in the safety of his rooms, he’d been snooping in Whitechapel—a fact that had allowed someone to frame him for murder.

“What an idiot,” Alastair muttered. “If he’d only listened to me.” He found the chief inspector watching him intently. “If you arrest Flaherty, can the Yard bargain with him in order to obtain his testimony?”