Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(34)

He had failed not only himself and the Yard, but the one man who meant everything.





Chapter 11




Ramsey glowered as he jotted a line in his notebook. They’d visited every coffin maker they could find in Whitechapel. All claimed they could account for each piece of stock, and none employed a large Irish fellow who might be a Fenian.

“No luck so far,” Anderson commented, surveying the scene around them. “Your job reminds me of mine. I spend the entire day wearing down my boot leather while people lie to me.”

Ramsey snorted. “People in Whitechapel are closed mouthed. Jesus Christ himself could appear in the middle of Commercial Street, and no one would claim to have seen him. Well, except the toolers. They’d have his pockets picked in no time.”

Anderson gave him a bemused expression.

“It’ll happen some day, mark my word,” Ramsey added. “Best not to put that in your paper, though.”

“Agreed. So now where do we go?”

Ramsey flicked open his watch. That attracted the interest of a grubby boy loitering nearby. The copper shook his head at the pint-sized thief who scooted off in search of a less savvy victim.

“Let’s find some food and then we’ll do the rounds of the pubs. See what we can hear.”

“Surely they know you down here,” Anderson protested. “They wouldn’t talk to a cop.”

Ramsey eyed him. “You’ve done some studying on me, haven’t you?”

Anderson nodded. “You used to work at Leman Street Station. You spent a number of years in the Whitechapel district before you moved up to the Yard.”

“Like Keats. He started in Arbour Square. Those are rough patches for new coppers.”

“You both survived.”

Ramsey grunted. “Tomorrow, we’ll go north to Ingatestone, check the sergeant’s alibi in that part of the country.”

“You actually expect to find a coffin in the middle of the forest?” Anderson asked.



“I once found one lying in the street with a gent in it. He’d been dead for a very long time, they said, at least one hundred years. Now how in the hell he got out of the ground we never did find out.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Had him reburied and threw a wake. That’s about the only thing the Irish get right.”

“You don’t like them, do you?” Anderson quizzed, his pencil suddenly appearing in his hand, the notebook open.

The inspector didn’t hold his tongue. “I don’t like any of ’em—Irish, Hebrews, Germans, Poles, Russians,” he paused for effect, “even Americans, not if they’re making plans to bugger up my country. Now if they’re here to earn a few quid, raise their families, go to whatever sort of foreign church they go to, I’m good with all that. They start making explosives and spouting nonsense about revolution, and they become my enemies.”

“That seems pretty simplistic.”

“Coppers like it simple. We leave the politics and all that shite to the highborn. We just get on with the job.”

“Did Sergeant Keats get on with the job, as you say?”

“Yes. He’s a sharp one. Got up my nose every time he could.”

“Did you do likewise?”

Ramsey laughed. “Of course. That’s what inspectors are supposed to do.” He set off walking. “Food first. Oh, and mind that notebook and pen of yours.”

“Why?”

“They’ll steal you blind here, right down to the clothes you were wearing the day you were born.”

“Sounds like Chicago,” Anderson replied, carefully tucking away the items.

“Then you’ll feel right at home,” Ramsey shot back, leading the way.

~??~??~??~



“There’s a little inflammation, but less than I thought there’d be,” Alastair replied, gently examining the healing rib. The bruises had faded to a dull gray-green.



Keats observed his efforts solemnly. “Is Jacynda any better?”

“No. Still very quiet and unsure. Mrs. Butler plans to take her to the market this afternoon just to get her out of the house. She’s not hard to manage, just very docile.”

“So very unlike Jacynda,” Keats replied.

Alastair nodded. “You can put your shirt back on.”

As Keats slowly worked his way into the garment, the doctor packed his bag. Noise from the jail filtered into the cell.

“Your head wound has healed very neatly,” Alastair reported, feeling some positive news was needed.

“Probably the vicar’s salve,” Keats remarked. “He seemed very proud of it.” When he saw the doctor’s puzzled expression, he added, “I met him and a very pretty lady named Lily when I was staying with the bums on my way to Ingatestone. The vicar was very…gregarious.”

Alastair clicked the bag shut. “I’ll go to your rooms, obtain a change of clothing and toiletry items.”

“Thank you. Pull out my new suit. I just got it from the tailor. I never thought I’d be wearing it at my trial.”

There was an awkward pause.

“They’ll move me in the next day or two. I’ll be at Newgate.”