Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(19)

The inspector’s bravado deflated. “Not really. I’ve always had to work for everything I got. For Keats, hell, it just seemed to always go right for him, like he had some guardian angel watching over his sorry arse.”

“The sergeant has had some successes.”

“Yes,” Ramsey admitted grudgingly, “he has. And he’s sure to wave them under my nose every time he can.”



“If he did kill that Hallcox woman, what would be the motive?”

Ramsey scoffed. “Simple. He jumped in bed with that tart, and she laughed at what he offered her.”

“Does that happen often?” asked Anderson, his face all innocence.

“Not to me,” Ramsey replied with a manly grin. “Let’s see where he hides the posh bits.” The inspector made it as far as the small room off the hall and then stopped.

“What in the hell?” He pushed inside and lit the gas lamp. Tiny colored pins littered maps that were attached to three of the four walls. “I thought he was winding me up.”

“Pardon?” Anderson asked from the doorway.

“The sergeant said he’d comb the newspapers and put pins in maps so he could see if there was a pattern to the crimes.” He moved closer and tapped a thick index finger on the map of Whitechapel. “Damn, look at this. Robberies, indecent acts, murder. He’s got it all.”

“So that’s why there’s a large stack of papers by the chair in the other room,” Anderson observed. “Quite a useful tool.”

Ramsey shook his head. “A waste of time, I think.” He bent over and riffled through the contents on the desk. Nothing promising. A check of the drawers revealed the usual detritus of life: paid statements from a tailor and a cobbler, old letters from Keats’ family. Nothing that pointed toward blackmail or the desire to throttle the woman in Mayfair.

Ramsey frowned. “He’s a short little bugger. Where would he hide things?” Certainly not up high. He bent over and dug under the desk. Nothing. Running his head underneath the top revealed a small shelf concealed behind the wooden fa?ade.

“I thought so. So what’s this?” He opened the book. “A diary.” With a disapproving chuff, he retreated to the sitting room for better light, pushing past the reporter along the way.

“Anything of interest?” Anderson inquired.

Ramsey flipped through the pages. “His last entry is on the twelfth. Says he went to Nicci Hallcox’s house.”



“The night before was she was killed.”

Ramsey nodded. He squinted at the writing. “Her butler lied to me and said there was no gathering in progress. I was very afraid for Jacynda’s safety. Their perverted behavior sickens me to the core. I would have arrested them all, but heaven knows who they really were. Given Nicci’s licentiousness, any one of them could be a lord, a judge or a clergyman. Nicci was of no help in regard to Effington, only interested in pressing her lurid attentions upon me.

I fear I shall never find Flaherty before he employs those explosives. That will taint the Yard’s reputation further and may well cost Chief Inspector Fisher his position. That would be a great loss.”

Ramsey closed the book and said nothing for a time.

“Not what you expected?” Anderson observed quietly.

The inspector shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Don’t know,” he muttered as he stuck the diary in his pocket.

The sergeant’s bedroom revealed no surprises. His clothes weren’t expensive, he hid nothing under the mattress, and his wardrobe was obsessively tidy. A picture of a woman hung on one wall. Given the resemblance, probably his mother.

“Bloody waste of time,” Ramsey grumbled as they headed down the stairs to the street.

~??~??~??~



Friday, 26 October, 1888

Rotherhithe

My God.

Keats shot Clancy a look. He received a nod of understanding in response.

Effington’s former foreman, Dillon, was slumped in a chair near the fire, one side of his mouth slack. A line of spittle dribbled from the corner. His hand on the opposite side of his body was clenched into a permanent fist, the arm now useless. Each breath required a thick rasp of effort.

The man’s wife glared at them from across the tiny room. It’d taken all of Keats’ charm to gain them admittance. The room was chilly, the fire subsisting on only a few chunks of coal. The woman wore no coat, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to forestall the cold. Her husband had a threadbare blanket over his shoulders. The story was plain to see: everything they’d had was gone, pawned for food and warmth. All because the man had dared to ask Hugo Effington a question.



Keats felt the anger stir in his soul, his bones. It was fortunate the bully was dead.

“Why are ya here?” the woman asked warily.

“We’re wondering what it was that caused Mr. Effington to do this to him,” Keats replied as evenly as he could.

The name evoked an immediate reaction from the crippled man. His eyes rose and his mouth worked without producing any sound.

Keats knelt next to him. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but I have to know what happened that night. What made you ask Effington about that load?”

The man’s eyes grew wide, but the mouth wouldn’t work right. “Bl…bl…”