Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(17)

“Warren?”

A nod. “I wrote an article about Sir Charles’ exploits in the Sinai. He thought it flattered him.”

“Did it?”

“Not really. The folks in Chicago want to know what it’s like in London, so I’ve been here since the second Ripper murder.”

“If you want to know about him, you have to talk to Inspector Abberline.”

“I already have. Now I’m interested in the Yard’s latest case.”

Ramsey groaned. “Everybody wants to know about Sergeant Keats.” He halted abruptly. “It’s like this, Anderson. We’ve got a mess here. The last thing I need is a reporter dogging my heels, but if Warren says you’re with me, that’s the way it has to be. In return, I expect only one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Honesty. Call it straight. If Keats killed that woman, he swings. If not, we’re barking up the wrong tree and it would do no good to hang an innocent man while the real murderer laughs at us.”



“Is Keats innocent?”

“That’s what I have to find out.” Ramsey hesitated for only a moment before detailing the sergeant’s alibi.

Anderson mulled on the information as they continued down the street.

“It sounds fantastical,” he noted after some time.

“I agree.”

Anderson arched an eyebrow. “I understand that you and Sergeant Keats have an adversarial relationship. That, in fact, you detest each other.”

Ramsey eyed him. The reporter seemed to be very well informed for someone hailing from Chicago. How much had Warren told him?

“We can’t stand each other. Been that way since the first time I saw the little runt.”

“What if he murdered that woman?”

“Then everything I’ve worked for over the past fifteen years goes to hell. It throws mud on all of us, don’t you see?”

They paused at an intersection, waiting for a lorry to pass.

“I’ll keep an open mind, Inspector,” Anderson replied.

“Good.” Dodging between a hansom and a brougham, Ramsey followed up with, “Do me a favor, will you?”

“Which is?” Anderson said, hurrying to catch up.

“Remind me to do the same.”

~??~??~??~



“My chest is much better,” Mrs. Butler said. She was sitting at the flimsy table in her minuscule hovel she and her son called home. “I’m coughing less and I don’t have to take that medicine you gave me.”

“Excellent,” Alastair replied, pleased his treatment had a good result. Chest infections were often fatal. “I have some news of my own,” he began.

Then he blurted it all out in a rush, though he’d not intended to. He still didn’t believe it himself. As he gave Mrs. Butler time to gather her wits, his mind flashed back to their initial meeting. In truth, he’d met her son first, as the lad lay in a street with a broken leg. His tending the boy had cost him his position with Dr. Hanson who had long frowned on his charity work. Despite Hanson’s theory that the poor were indolent and gin-soaked wretches, he’d found Mrs. Butler to be a hardworking woman. She’d already lost a husband and two other children to illness and that had bred a tenacity for survival.



“You bought a house?” she asked wistfully.

“No, no,” he replied. “I’m only a tenant. I cannot afford a house of my own.”

She stared at him with open-mouthed incomprehension. The concept of possessing even enough funds to rent a house was beyond her ken.

Davy, now all of twelve, understood immediately.

“You need a maid,” he said brightly.

Alastair beamed. The lad was always quick on the uptake.

“Actually, I’ll need a housekeeper, and I want you, Mrs. Butler, if you’re willing.”

Her eyes widened further. “Me?”

“Yes. The house is very pleasant. Eight rooms, plus space for my clinic. I know your health is not strong enough to handle everything, so I will allocate funds to hire a maid-of-all-work to do the heavy tasks.”

Mrs. Butler blinked, her mind clearly awhirl. “A whole house? Near the train station?”

“Yes. Reuben…Dr. Bishop assures me that most of the street’s residents are of a decent nature. I would not bring you or your son into a situation that was not to your liking.”

Mrs. Butler’s attention roamed around the one-room Bury Street hovel in which they lived. Mold laced its way down one wall, and the single broken window had a rag stuffed in it to keep out the cold. Loathsome things lived inside the walls. Alastair could hear shouts from some brawl above them.

“You make it sound like a palace,” she said dreamily.

“To me, as well,” Alastair replied, though in truth he had grown up in a house much like the one he’d just rented. “You will have Sundays off. I promise you will find me not a demanding master.”



“I…”

“Mum,” Davy urged. “We can’t stay here. Not with the landlord pushin’ you all the time.”

“Your landlord has been bothering you again?” Alastair asked, hackles rising.

“He’s always sayin’ he’ll lower the rent if she goes with him. When she tells him no, he raises it again.” The glower on Davy’s face told Alastair that one of these days the landlord would find himself on the wrong side of the young man’s fists.