Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(171)

“I must bring Mrs. Butler and her son here. This is an amazing feat of architecture,” Alastair said.

Cynda did a slow three hundred sixty degree turn while Keats and Alastair watched, each with smiles in place. “Wow. It’s huge.”

“When it was originally built in Hyde Park, it was nearly eighteen hundred feet long and just over one hundred feet high,” Keats announced proudly. “Now it’s even larger.”

“Look at that!” Cynda proclaimed, pointing at a tall glass fountain.

“It was made by a firm from Birmingham and has more than four tons of glass in it,” Keats said, this time consulting a brochure.

Victorian ingenuity. Why this time period had gotten under her skin. She’d originally hated it but now it was like a beloved old aunt you couldn’t wait to visit. It was the improbable marriage of stuffy manners paired with an indomitable spirit. A spirit that said anything is possible if you put your mind to it.

As she gaped in wonder, people wandered around them. All were dressed in their finest clothes, whether that be a simple gown or something far more elegant. Children laughed or stared in astonishment at the displays.

Alastair touched her elbow. “Is this still there in…?”

She shook her head. “You’ve got about another fifty years to enjoy it.”

“Oh. Perhaps someday I’ll bring my children and grandchildren here,” Alastair exclaimed.

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, my friend,” Keats remarked.

“How so?”

“I would suggest you bring Miss Hanson first. That way you’ll have a better chance of making the other visits sometime down the line.”

Cynda giggled. “He has a point. Besides, when you bring those grandkids here, you can tell them your best friend kept this from being destroyed.”



“I did, didn’t I?” Keats replied.

She held out both arms and they took them, walking three abreast. Cynda couldn’t help but notice some of the women shooting her envious looks.

“I’m leaving right after this,” she told them. “It’s time for me to go home.”

“We thought that might be the case,” the doctor replied. “You have a life there, a future, one that holds a great deal of promise.”

“That wasn’t always the case,” she admitted.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why I’m so happy for you.”

“This Morrisey person, does he love you?” Keats blurted.

“Keats,” Alastair protested. “That’s a very personal question.”

“I know, but…”

Cynda squeezed the former sergeant’s hand. “Yes, he does love me, and I love him.”

Keats tilted his head in thought. “Well then, it will be all right,” he proclaimed. He gestured with his free hand. “Come along, I’ll show you the Medieval Court. It is very striking.”

As they strolled, Alastair mused, “When I look back on it, I have no regrets for how it’s fallen out. I still work with the poor, and yet now I truly make a difference.”

“Even the future king knows your name,” Keats jested.

“Oh, did I tell you?” the doctor asked. “Reuben has arranged for us to go to Edinburgh so I may meet Dr. Joseph Bell. Can you believe that?”

“That’s fabulous, Alastair. You’ll learn a lot from him.” She turned toward the former detective-sergeant. He’d lost the most of any of them. “What of you, Jonathon?” she asked.

“Well, I would have liked to be chief inspector, but that’s not in the cards now. As for my future, the jury is still out on that.”

“I suspect it will be just fine,” Cynda replied.

“I sometimes have my doubts,” he replied.

“Excuse me, sir?”

They turned as one.

“Are you the fellow in the paper?” a young man asked, addressing Keats.



“I am,” he replied, instantly ill at ease.

“It’s him!” the man said to a group of people. “It’s the man who stopped the bombings!”

There were tentative smiles, and then someone gave a cheer. Others followed. Keats’ face went crimson, his eyes darting around in extreme discomfort.

“Excuse me, but my friend here, Dr. Montrose, was involved as well,” he informed them, gesturing toward Alastair. “He put himself at great personal risk.”

“Don’t confuse them,” the doctor replied.

Cynda broke ranks with the pair, turning to face them. She began to clap.

“Bravo!” she shouted. Heads turned. People began to gravitate toward the noise. “Bravo!”

“What’s it all about?” someone asked. The news began to spread.

Not everyone clapped. Some remembered Keats’ face from when he was on trial. Luckily, those who did appreciate his heroic efforts made up for those who didn’t.

When it was over, Keats was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

“How embarrassing,” he murmured, his face still crimson. Cynda could see he’d been moved by the gesture.

“Very extraordinary,” Alastair remarked. “I shall always remember this moment.”