Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(32)

Keats glared. “I am not a gnome, sir. I am a detective-sergeant, at least until such time as they give me the sack.”

“Fisher tells me that Flaherty’s your alibi. If that’s the truth, you’re already on the gallows.”

Keats nodded. “I know.” That’s just what you’re hoping for, isn’t it?

“Who killed Effington?”

“Could have been anyone. He’d been skimming off the top of every load. That adds up to a lot of enemies. It might even have been Flaherty himself.”

Ramsey leaned back. “I want you to tell me everything that happened from the moment you arrived at the tart’s house that night. I want to hear all of it.”

As if he cares. “If you’re keen to know my story, then I suggest you read the letter I wrote to Fish—”

He found himself pinned against the back of the carriage by two massive hands. “I don’t care what you told Fisher. I want to hear it from you. Got it?” Ramsey growled.

Keats managed a weak nod.

The big man’s face split into a triumphant grin. “You know, I think you look more like a scared rabbit than a gnome.”



“Note where the rabbit has his knee,” Keats replied coolly.

Ramsey’s eyes roved downward, judging its proximity to his groin. He laughed and the hands retreated.

“So tell me this amazing tale of yours, Sergeant.”

After a deep breath, Keats began his report, skipping any mention of Clancy Moran. It took as long as the trip from Wapping to Leman Street Police Station, even though he’d pointedly left out his visit to Alastair’s this very night. Ramsey had only said he’d been spotted in Whitechapel, not at the doctor’s. Hopefully, that would spare his friend any further trouble.

Much to Keats’ surprise, Ramsey didn’t interrupt once.

“Helluva story,” the inspector remarked at the end.

“Try living it.”

A snort returned. “Why were you in Whitechapel?”

The lie came easily. “Looking for Flaherty.”

“You didn’t mention his daughter in your report to Fisher.”

“Learned that after I posted the letter.”

“You honestly believe that someone has him by the nads?”

“Yes.”

“God, what a cock-up,” Ramsey muttered. As the carriage drew to a halt, the inspector adjusted his coat. “Let’s get you into a cell and I’ll send word to the chief inspector that you’re safely in custody.”

Keats remembered the headlines, the drubbing Fisher had taken on his behalf. “How’s he doing?”

Ramsey’s expression flattened. “Looks a decade older. Your little crusade is going to cost him his job.”

“That shouldn’t trouble you,” Keats shot back. “You’re next in line.”

“Won’t trouble me in the least, if you’re guilty.”

If? Perhaps there was hope for him yet. “Just find the damned explosives.”

“And save your life?”

Keats shook his head. “Not likely. Flaherty will be buying the first round the morning I swing.”

Ramsey opened the door and grinned ghoulishly. “Who knows, I might buy the second one.”



Bastard.

~??~??~??~



Sunday, 28 October, 1888

Spitalfields

“I concur with your findings: a slight concussion, but nothing to the extent that would cause such issues with her memory,” Reuben replied, stepping back after his examination. Jacynda watched him placidly, the stuffed animal in her hands. “I know this is a delicate subject, but have you determined if she has been…violated?”

“Mrs. Butler did not mention anything untoward after she helped her bathe this morning. I specifically asked her to be observant for any unusual signs. I was concerned that if I had another physician conduct such an intimate examination, it would frighten Jacynda even further.”

“I agree.” Reuben looked back at the patient and winked. A wink returned. “I am so sorry I didn’t meet her before this,” he remarked regretfully.

There was a pounding on the front door. Alastair opened it before Mrs. Butler could even exit the kitchen. It would take some time to realize he had someone to do for him. The young messenger held a telegram. Alastair dug a few coins out of his pocket and traded them for the paper. A quick glance proved it was from Lord Wescomb. The first line confirmed the worst.

Keats in custody.

“Oh, dear God,” he murmured. It was plain to see—his friend had been found because he’d brought Jacynda to Whitechapel.

“Alastair?” Reuben probed. “Bad news?”

“It depends on how you look at it,” he replied, handing over the telegram. As he sank in a chair, a tide of emotions battled for supremacy. Keats would be safer in custody. And yet…

“They’ll move him to Newgate at the first opportunity,” Reuben observed, dropping the telegram on the small table by the door. “I’ve never been inside there. I can only imagine what it’s like.”



“I had hoped he would find Flaherty, secure his alibi.”

“And then you wouldn’t have to testify?”