Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(20)

“Ya’ll not get much,” his wife said.

“Was it in barrels?” Keats asked.

The man reached over with his good hand and gave Keats’ arm a squeeze.

“Yes,” the wife translated.

“Was the top of the load rum?”

Another squeeze. Yes.

“What about the bottom ones?” He immediately cursed himself. The poor wretch couldn’t answer such a complex question. “Were the bottom barrels different?”

Squeeze.

Gunpowder?

“Do you know Desmond Flaherty?”

Squeeze.

“Was he there?”

A nod this time.

“Stttttopped…”



“What? I don’t understand.”

The man’s wife cut in, “That Flaherty fellow kept him from bein’ beat to death.”

Keats shifted his questions to the wife. “Do you know where this warehouse was?”

“Near the docks, that’s all I know. They brought him home on a piece of planking.”

“Effington is dead. Someone killed him.”

There was a thick wheeze. The drooping corner of Dillon’s mouth vainly tried to angle upward into a pathetic smile.

As Keats rose he pulled out all the money he had with him, about two quid. He placed it in the woman’s hands. “We did not come to visit you, do you understand? If Flaherty learns what we’re about, there could be trouble.”

The woman nodded, her eyes riveted on the coins in her hands. “I never seen ya.”

“Good.” Keats placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, sir.”

The barest of nods was the only response.

“I don’t think Flaherty did that poor blighter any favors,” Clancy observed once they were on the street. “Livin’ like that…” He shook his head in dismay.

That could have been me.

Flaherty had taken after him with a vengeance the night Keats had discovered the wagonload of gunpowder, striking him a horrific blow that had ended his ability to go en mirage and nearly cost his life. That rage hadn’t been there when they’d next met in Whitechapel. Flaherty had appeared weary, unwilling to kill him though the anarchist had ample opportunity. Then there was Dillon. Why would the anarchist get involved? That was out of character for a man who’d cut Johnny Ahearn’s throat.

“Something’s changed him,” Keats murmured. But what?

~??~??~??~



Cynda’s visitor didn’t look familiar. He wasn’t young or old, but he looked fuzzy around the edges. She blinked her eyes to clear them. Still fuzzy.



“Do you know me?” he asked. She shook her head. His face seemed to fall. “It’s a sad day when you don’t know your own brother.”

Brother? Did she have one? Cynda frowned, picking through the clouds in her mind.

“Jane has always been very simple, and we’ve been embarrassed about how far she’d fallen. She was on the streets and…” he trailed off.

“Ah,” the attendant responded, nodding sympathetically. “She’d be easy pickin’s for some of them out there.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Still, ya’ve come for her, and that speaks well of ya.”

“Thank you.”

Come for me? Cynda stared at him until her head began to hurt again. It was no use. She had no idea of his name. Still, maybe it was all right.

An attendant walked her back to her cell, saying something about papers to sign. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her nose. A flutter of white fell to the floor. As she picked it up, she remembered. It was the piece of paper the veiled lady had given her. She kept forgetting it was in her pocket.

“Jacynda…Lassiter,” she whispered and then tucked it away.

The attendant returned. “Are you ready?”

Behind her was the man who’d come for her.

“It’s time for us to leave, dear sister,” he said.

Cynda stared at that unfamiliar face. It had a slight smirk on it. Or did it? It was gone in a flash.

Outside, a carriage waited for them. It seemed huge, all black with no markings. The driver eyed her, then turned away as if she was no longer of importance.

Not right. Cynda looked back at the big building. She’d miss the columns. As they’d walked toward the carriage, the new man hadn’t let her touch them, saying that was ridiculous.

“In you go, sister,” the man told her, devoid of emotion.

She thought of refusing, but what good would it do? Maybe the new place would be nicer. Maybe they’d help her get better.



“Where are we going?” she asked.

No reply. He pushed her into the carriage and she huddled on the far side, not liking him to touch her. The carriage rolled away the moment the door shut. She shivered in the cold. He wouldn’t let the curtains be opened, and the dark frightened her. Once her eyes adjusted, she studied him. He seemed younger now, his hair a different color. How could that be?

The coach rolled on for a long time. She huddled to stay warm. He’d not offered her a coat or a blanket to cover herself. Even the people in the crazy place had done that.

“Where are we going?” she asked again.