Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(131)

“Their attitudes will change,” Fisher replied. “Give it time.”

Keats shook his head. “Theirs might. Mine will not, at least in the short term. It’s all wrong now. In truth, I have little faith in what we do anymore.”

His superior turned toward him. “I must admit I feel the same, but we have a duty to perform. Until those explosives are secured, this city is at risk.”

“Sir, I—”

“I need your expertise, Keats. Do this for me, if not for the Yard.”

Keats looked away, thinking it through. There was more here than just the explosives. Fisher would be vindicated if they brought this case to a successful conclusion. He acquiesced. “As you wish, sir.”

The chief inspector openly sighed in relief. “You believe Flaherty’s claim he has no knowledge of where the explosives are hidden?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Blast,” Fisher muttered. “Who do you think has them now?”

That was the question Keats and Alastair had argued most of the previous night. All indications pointed toward the Transitives. Now he had no choice but to stoke Fisher’s suspicions regarding his kind.

“Sir, I think it’s best we discuss that outside of this building.”

Fisher eyed him. “I see.” He stuck Keats’ resignation letter into a drawer, then collected his hat and coat. “Let’s take a stroll along the Thames.”

~??~??~??~





Friday, 9 November, 1888

St. Paul’s Cathedral

Theo’s second visit to Lord Mayor’s Day was less fiery than his first. He arrived at half past nine in the morning, dressed in his best clothes and promptly bribed himself into the choicest vantage point in London: the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He’d hoped to be alone, but that wasn’t the case. There were a few others up there, including a family. The eldest daughter kept shooting him coy glances when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He turned his attention to the view. It was breathtaking, though wet. Still, the rain didn’t seem to dampen the festive mood on the streets. People were milling about, setting up in their favored locations to watch the Lord Mayor’s Show. He remembered seeing it as a child, fascinated by the golden coach that carried the Lord Mayor to the Royal Courts, and the wicker figures of the two giants, Gog and Magog, the guardians of the City of London.

In any other circumstance, he would have felt on top of the world. He was experiencing life as it really was in the late nineteenth century. Now he understood why Harter lived for this sort of adventure. It had been so many years since he’d felt this alive. What was technology compared to this?

Theo peered down at the street. He knew what was about to happen, but if he tried warning people, who would believe him? He could go to the government, but that risked exposing the Transitives or getting him locked up as a loony.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” he muttered.

Now I sound like Jacynda.

Hours passed. Just as he was about to head down the stairs, the first explosion lit up the sky. It was to the northeast of the church, near Bethnal Green.

Below him, people on the street grew uneasy, talking amongst themselves. He made note of the time on his interface: half past eleven, just about when the Lord Mayor reached the Royal Courts of Justice. Precisely five minutes later, another detonation.

The family hurried down the stairs, along with the other onlookers. At street level, people began to disperse, moving toward their homes. Theo took a deep breath and waited. Two blasts were not enough to create the destruction he’d witnessed.



With clockwork precision, ten more explosives followed at exactly five minutes apart, spreading in a line from north to south, the final one near Limehouse.

Theo frowned. That didn’t explain the Rotherhithe fires. Gritting his teeth, he waited. Ten minutes after the last blast in the East End, they began again on the south side of the river. There were seven of them and they were exactly twenty minutes apart.

After making the requisite trip to empty his bladder, it’d taken him two transfers to zero in on the location of the first explosion. The trips took their toll, rewarding him with a buzzing head and a churning stomach. Still, he was where he needed to be. Jacynda could not handle this sort of travel now. Though her Endorphin Rebound was in remission, it could easily return. They couldn’t chance that.

He was the best choice for this—the freshest of the Rovers.

A Rover? Not really. He didn’t have what it took to do this day to day. What he did possess was an analytical mind, and that might tip the balance.

Once he’d found the location of the first explosion, he cautiously moved into a dismal rear yard behind an equally dismal tenement. Mud puddles dotted the ground. The yard was a jumble of abandoned items, all of it useless. Victorians wasted little. From recycled dog muck to ashes from the fireplace, they found a use for everything. If anything was left out where it could be stolen, it was truly junk.

Something caught his notice—a half-sized barrel jammed up against the gas pipe, partially covered with a ratty tarp. It would have been easy to miss it in the scattered debris. Theo knelt and gently pulled back the covering. Something was scrawled in red paint on the side of the barrel.

“R12:7.” He frowned. Twelve explosions in the East End, seven in the Docklands. What did the “R” stand for?