Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(166)

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“If you would prefer not to do this, I am willing to view the body,” Keats offered, clearly puzzled by her reticence. “Just give me a description and I’ll see if it’s him.”

“No. You’ll just be guessing,” Cynda replied.

“I hadn’t expected you to find this so difficult,” he noted sympathetically.

“It’s not. It’s just that… Chris. I had to identify him just like this.” Cynda touched his arm. “If it’s him, I’ll need a couple seconds alone with the body.”

“As you wish.”

This morgue attendant seemed a bit more on the ball than the last one she’d encountered. Keats did the talking, explaining how Cynda was looking for a lost relative and that when she’d read the article in the newspaper, she felt the need to view the body that had been fished out the Thames just this morning.

“Who ya missing?” the man asked.

“My cousin,” she said, trying to sound suitably upset.

“What’s he look like?”

She told him. He heaved himself out of the chair and waved them forward into the room.

The form was covered by the usual gray sheet.

“Ain’t pretty, miss. Been in the water a few days. Doesn’t do nothin’ for ’em.”

“I know. Go on.”

Keats took hold of her arm as the sheet was drawn back. Cynda winced and wrinkled her nose at the smell. Unlike Chris, who had been found very quickly, this body had been given the full Thames treatment. One leg was at an odd angle, chunks of flesh were missing. The bloating had begun, but the face was still recognizable. A massive bruise sat just below his chin.

She gave Keats a look. He took the hint.

“Who found him?” he asked, leading the attendant a few steps away.



“Couple of watermen. They hauled ’im in.”

Alf and Syd, maybe? She hoped that was the case.

Cynda leaned closer. Carefully touching the Dinky Doc to the corpse’s neck, she held it in place until she got the post-mortem readings she needed. Water in lungs. Copeland had landed in the Thames and drowned like a rat. No matter how hard she tried, there was no sympathy.

“You family, too?” the attendant asked.

“No, I’m an agent of private enquiry,” Keats replied.

“A what?”

“Sort of a detective. Did this fellow have any personal possessions on him?”

“Nothin’.”

So much for his interface. If Guv wants it, they can send someone else to find it.

“Is he the one, miss?” the fellow called out.

Yeah, he’s the one. “No,” she said, turning away, holding a handkerchief to her face, mostly to stifle the smell. She walked hurriedly toward Keats. “I need air,” she said, trying to sound breathlessly feminine.

“Thank you, sir,” her companion said, dropping a coin in the man’s outstretched hand.

Cynda jammed the handkerchief back into her pocket the moment they reached the street. Copeland had met a nasty end, killed for his failure. If no one claimed his body, he was headed for a pauper’s grave. She saw no reason to alter that.





Chapter 24




Tuesday, 13 November, 1888

Highgate Cemetery

Cynda carefully made her way down the steps of the carriage, mindful of her full skirts. She could have come by hansom, but in her mind that would not have shown her respect for the woman they would bury this evening. As was proper, she’d chosen the finest black mourning dress with a full veil. It had only taken a quick trip to the venerable Jay’s of Regent Street to acquire everything she needed to pay tribute to Adelaide Winston. If nothing else, the Victorians were masters of grief.

“Come back in about an hour,” she called up to the driver.

“As you wish, miss,” he said, tapping his hat. “Sorry for your loss.”

So am I. Though Cynda had only met Adelaide Winston once, it was easy to discern the power the woman held over Harter Defoe. A strong woman navigating the waters of a man’s world. She’d been worthy of his adoration.

She took her time walking toward the gravesite, passing mausoleums and gravestones alike. This would be an unusual funeral. Most did not occur at dusk, and few involved a top London courtesan. The funeral notice had appeared in the paper, black-edged, but dignified. Even in death, standards must be upheld.

As Cynda approached the final resting place, she noted only a handful of Victorians present. It appeared most of Adelaide’s admirers were more concerned about maintaining their reputations than bidding her farewell. Still, in years to come the occasional bouquet of roses or bottle of sherry might be propped up against the headstone as a token of respect, and of fond memory.

Anderson had kept his word. To her relief, Harter Defoe stood at the side of the grave, his face pale and his coat rumpled. The figure next to him was immaculate: top hat, black suit, black gloves and cravat. The epitome of Victorian mourning. As she moved closer, he tipped his hat in respect.



“Theo,” she said softly. Thank God you’re here.

“Jacynda,” he replied solemnly. Their hands briefly touched, then withdrew. To do more in front of Defoe would be thoughtless.

Robert Anderson stood on the other side of the grave and he nodded at her. She recognized a few of the other mourners: Adelaide’s butler, for one, and a few other well-dressed women. Probably rivals.