Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(18)

“All the more reason you need to move, Mrs. Butler. I am offering you thirty-five pounds per year, room and board. You will have your own room, which is much bigger than this one.”

“Thirty-five,” she repeated, astonished.

“All right then, make it forty,” Alastair responded, feeling generous. “I will pay the first month in advance, as I know you will have expenses for the move.”

“Dear God, that’s a fortune.”

“Well, what do you say?” Alastair pressed.

“Yes.” Mrs. Butler wrapped her son in a tight embrace. Then she broke into tears.

~??~??~??~



The moment the transfer effect began to stabilize, Copeland knew he’d find the Ascendant on his knees, head bowed reverentially. What else would a Victorian make of those whirls of light and that odd sound, especially if he was at all religious?

He couldn’t restrain a grin. Damn, I love this job.

Sure enough, there was Hezekiah Grant, prostrate in awe as if his visitor were a god or something. From Copeland’s perspective, Grant had three things going for him. First, he lived in an unstable time period. Second, he was the leader of the shape-shifters. Third, he was a very pious man—too pious, some might say, with a tendency toward fanaticism. Thanks to a few examples of technical hocus-pocus from the twenty-first century, Grant was now absolutely convinced that he was receiving visits from the Archangel Michael. His ego already oversized, Grant had no trouble believing that he, alone, was the recipient of God’s most senior messenger.



What a sucker.

“Have you done what God asks of you?” Copeland boomed.

Trembling, Grant nodded furiously. “In all things, Most Holy Messenger.”

“Tell me.”

“I have ensured the explosives are divided amongst the warehouses so they will not be found before the Day of Judgment, just as you instructed.”

That would please Copeland’s new bosses. They demanded results. Failure, they said, wasn’t an option. He liked it that way. Davies and his TPB cronies had been too skittish to really turn him loose, let him use that street knowledge he’d picked up over the years. They’d never understood his particular talents. His new bosses did.

“The w-warehouse owner is dead, as you commanded,” the Ascendant stammered, evidently unnerved by the silence.

“Well done,” Copeland said, throwing the man a rare verbal bone. Pulling his strings was so easy.

Step by step, he’d guided Grant through the theft of the explosives and their distribution. When the plan reached fruition, the shifters would take the blame, along with that Fenian.

“What of the Devil’s servant?” Copeland demanded. “Is she dead?”

Grant’s trembling accelerated. “No…no. She is in Bedlam,” the man murmured, still on his knees. “Insane, I hear.”

Bedlam? Endorphin Rebound finally got her. He let loose a laugh, causing Grant’s eyes to snap upward in surprise. Apparently, archangels weren’t known for their humor.

“God’s wrath has fallen upon her,” Copeland announced with relish, staying in character. “We have no mercy for those who side with the Devil.”

The Ascendant nodded enthusiastically.



“She must die before the Sabbath. Do you understand?”

Grant’s eyes widened. “But the Lead Assassin—”

“Is standing in our way!” Copeland bellowed. “Go around him!”

“As you command, Most High Messenger,” Grant said, his forehead touching the carpet in humble obeisance.

Copeland smirked, knowing it wouldn’t be seen.

Just kill the bitch, will you?





Chapter 6




“I expected something more posh,” Ramsey complained as he took a visual inventory of Keats’ sitting room. Two chairs, a couch, small writing table, and a bookcase. Decent condition, but not new. No obvious signs of wealth.

Disconcerted, he moved to the window and looked out onto the street below. “Nice view,” he muttered.

“Why did you expect anything different?” Anderson inquired, still hanging back by the door.

“Keats’ family has a bit of money, from what I hear. I figured he lived better than this. Looks like any other sergeant’s rooms, except they wouldn’t have all those books.”

Anderson edged inside. “Are you saying that police officers don’t read?”

“No,” Ramsey responded curtly, suddenly aware of the trap opening up in front of him. “I’m saying that most coppers don’t have time to sit on their bums in front of the fire.”

“You think Sergeant Keats was derelict in his duties?”

“I don’t know that for sure. Always had a hunch, you see.”

“I thought inspectors kept a tight rein on their detectives,” Anderson declared.

“They do, but when it came to Keats the chief inspector gave him all sorts of liberties.”

“Why do you dislike the man so much?”

Ramsey’s nose wrinkled. “He’s the sort I used to beat up when I was a lad. You know, the short, whiny ones.”

Anderson raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? The only reason you dislike him is because he’s short?”