Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(2)

“You did everything humanly possible to save her. Your injuries attest to your courage.”

Alastair was not so sure.

“How did the fire start?” Reuben asked.

“I have no notion,” Alastair replied with a distracted shake of his head. “There was a lantern in there, maybe it tipped over.”

His host put down his glass, then tented his fingers in thought.

“Hmm…Tell me more about the corpse you found.”

Alastair took a deep breath. “His name was Hugo Effington, a warehouse owner who lived in Mayfair. He’d been stabbed, a single thrust between the ribs that must have nicked the heart. When I returned with the constable, the doors were locked and the building ablaze.” He added, “Jacynda has been investigating Effington for some time.”



“Why would she do that?” Reuben asked.

“It all began with an attempted assassination at a dinner party earlier this month. Effington was the host.”

“Who was the intended target?”

“It’s hard to tell. The Prime Minister was in attendance as well as the Prince of Wales, amongst other dignitaries.”

“Why in heavens were they there?”

Alastair’s eyebrow rose. “I don’t follow.”

“You say this Effington chap was a warehouse owner, no doubt a prosperous one to live in Mayfair. While I understand that the prince loves a party as much as anyone, still it’s a bit…downmarket.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

Reuben chortled. “Of course, if Effington has a wife or daughter who’s a beauty that would explain it. The prince is always looking for a new conquest.”

Reuben tended to view most matters in terms of human frailty.

“Mrs. Effington is quite handsome,” Alastair allowed.

“Aha!” his mentor exclaimed. “I knew it.”

“Jacynda foiled the assassin. From what Chief Inspector Fisher told me afterward, she just leapt on him before he could shoot. Knocked him to the floor. She has been involved in the case ever since.”

“You make her sound like a professional sleuth.”

“In many ways, she is. She told me that she works for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”

It was a passable fib, one that he knew Jacynda used with others. Far better than attempting to explain to his mentor that she was a time traveller from the future.

“How did you meet this remarkable person?” Reuben quizzed.



“She was rooming at the boarding house for a time. I treated her for an illness. I found her quite…unique.” Irrepressible, quick-witted, and prone to occasional oaths.

Reuben’s face burst into a smile. “I must meet this woman. What verve!” Then the smile dimmed as he added, “Of course, her boldness is what put her in the middle of that fire.”

She’s not dead. She can’t be.

“I haven’t seen any mention of this botched assassination in the newspapers. Certainly such an event would have been hounded into the dirt by the Fourth Estate.”

“It was kept very quiet.”

“It won’t be when the fellow is brought to trial.”

“That may not happen. He…vanished from his jail cell the same night he was arrested.”

Reuben snorted. “Now you’re sounding like a penny dreadful.”

Alastair looked away, unable to explain further. He had no idea if his friend knew about the Transitives, the shape-shifters who could mimic any form. Or the Virtuals, who seemed invisible. How easy it would be to shift into nothingness, wait for the cell door to open and take a quick stroll to freedom…

“What sort of man was this Effington?” Reuben quizzed.

“He was an arrogant bully, one of Nicci Hallcox’s paramours. From what I gather, he was being blackmailed by her.”

“Like most of London, it seems. She had a vast number of men in her bed. If the calling cards we found in her room are any indication, she was well connected in society.” Reuben shook his head. “I still do not understand why Chief Inspector Fisher summoned us to the murder scene rather than one of the Home Office coroners.”

“Sheltering my friend Keats, no doubt. He’s very fond of him. Fisher hopes that he will someday take his place at the Yard.”

“Well, that’s not likely to happen now,” Reuben mused. “Even if your friend comes forward and is found innocent, his behavior has tainted his reputation.”

Unfortunately, Reuben was correct. Keats’ decision to remain on the run was at odds with what was expected of a detective-sergeant of Scotland Yard.



“I am astounded at how his life imploded,” Alastair observed. “One moment he’s a rising star, and then the next a wanted man.”

“Fate can be very cruel to the best of us,” Reuben observed.

Alastair had been so proud of his friend that night in Green Dragon Place. Keats’ daring attempt to arrest a dangerous Fenian anarchist had resulted in his recovery of a wagonload of stolen gunpowder. The papers had lauded his triumph. Now he was known as the Mayfair Slayer.

How quickly they’ll turn on you.

“It’s pure fiction to believe that he would spend a night in sexual congress with that Hallcox woman and then strangle her in an insane rage,” Alastair protested. “Keats would never do such a thing.”