Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(15)

“Blunt as usual, but correct. I want you to do two things: verify the validity of Keats’ alibi, and ask around about Inspector Hulme. Something’s off there.

When he rose, Fisher added, “Oh, one other thing. Police Commissioner Warren has saddled us with some American reporter. He’s here in London doing a piece on Scotland Yard.”

“Damned poor time for it,” Ramsey observed.

“I pointed that out, but Sir Charles disagreed. Vehemently. Let’s see, I have the man’s card…here.”



Ramsey took it, looked at the name and snorted. “Robert Anderson?” he read with a smirk. “We already got one, and ours is a Sir. Don’t need another.”

“Common name, apparently,” Fisher replied. “Warren wants the world to know we’re going about this case totally without prejudice. I was against the notion, but I was overruled, yet again.”

“Can’t someone else squire this fellow around?”

Fisher looked him straight in the eyes. “There’s no one else I’d trust with this, Inspector.”

“You always say I’m too blunt. I could say something wrong and it’ll end up in the newspaper.”

“I’ve been given permission for this man to be fully involved in every portion of this investigation.”

Ramsey stared in horror. “What? Is Warren mad?”

“Very likely. So take this Mr. Anderson everywhere. Let him hear it all.”

“I don’t know if that’s a wise idea, sir.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be my head on the platter, not yours.”

“But—”

Fisher leaned forward. “It doesn’t matter, Martin. I’m not going to be here much longer. Warren is just looking for a reason to send me packing. We’ve never seen eye to eye. If my career is at an end, I want the truth out there for once.”

Ramsey grunted. “I don’t think they want to know the truth, sir.”

“That’s entirely possible. Either way, take this Anderson fellow under your wing. Show him what he needs to know. I leave it up to you.”

A resigned nod. “Where do I find him?”

“He’ll be at the Clarence at one sharp. I have no idea what he looks like. Warren didn’t bother to tell me that.”

“I’ll find him. Reporters all look the same.”

“If you find Keats, kick him in the arse for me, will you?”

Ramsey nodded, a smile lighting up his face. “With pleasure, sir, right after I give him a swift one of my own.”



Then the man was gone, his heavy boots thumping on the stairs.

Fisher’s eyes fell upon Warren’s latest note. He reluctantly slit it open. It was almost a twin to the one he’d received the day before, and the day before that.

He skimmed the message, pulling out the relevant passages. “Dismayed at my lack of progress. Wishes to see me promptly with a full report.” He crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the fireplace. It slowly unfurled, mocking him. With a low sigh, he collected his bowler and headed off for yet another dressing-down.

What had his wife said over breakfast? ‘Let them sputter, J.R. They are in no better position than you. Only you can solve this case, and they know it.’

Fisher smiled. Jane loved him so much, she never gave an inch.

In the courtyard, the Rising Sun was bustling like any other pub in London. Maybe when he got back from Whitehall, he’d have a pint, even if he was on duty. What would they do? Give him the sack?

He laughed at the thought, and began to whistle as he headed for the far gate.





Chapter 5




“So what do you think?” Reuben asked, circling around the center of the room, arms extended like a dervish.

“Ah…I…don’t know,” Alastair sputtered. One moment they’d been discussing a peculiar set of post-mortem findings, and then the next his fellow physician had hauled him to this house and proclaimed it should be his.

Reuben abruptly halted. “There are two floors, three bedrooms, a large room near the kitchen for a cook or housekeeper, and an additional room next door that the tenants used for their shop. It’s not fancy, but the furniture comes with it and it’s near the train station.”

The furniture was decent, the location ideal. Still, that didn’t help Alastair understand what his mentor was up to.

“Reuben, I can’t afford a house,” Alastair protested. “I’ve some money, but—”

“How much?”

That was a rude question, at least from anyone else but Reuben Bishop. “About three hundred pounds now.”

“Three hundred!” the man shouted. “I thought you were impoverished.”

Alastair flooded with embarrassment. “Well, one hundred of it is from the Wescombs, to fund my work amongst the poor, so that’s not really mine, you see.”

“And the other two hundred?”

“Jacynda gave it to me to help me build my practice, but I prefer not to spend it on my personal expenses.”

Reuben shook his head in dismay. “Good Lord, you must have Scottish blood in those veins.”

Alastair bristled. “As a matter of fact, I do. Why does that matter?”