Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(39)

Too overcome to speak, he offered a smile and guided her to seats in the spectator’s gallery, her maid trailing behind. The moment they were settled, there was a clamor. The doctor swiveled and watched as his best friend made his way into the dock. Keats was clean-shaven and wearing the suit Alastair had fetched for him. A rattling of chains accompanied the prisoner’s every move. The doctor could feel his stomach turning. This must be hell for him.

“He looks so calm,” Evelyn murmured.

“I suspect he has no other choice,” Alastair replied grimly.

Keats saw them at that moment, and the ghost of a smile appeared. He did look better than the night before. The doctor gave a reassuring nod and it was returned.

When the time came, Keats stood with a clank of chains.

“Not guilty, my lord,” he announced to the judge, his voice sure and strong.

“Not guilty? That’s a crock. He done her for sure,” a gent commented two seats away. “He’s a rozzer. He didn’t think he’d get nicked.”

“Shoulda stayed in Whitechapel,” another weighed in. “They’d-a never bothered him if he’d choked some whore down there.”



“Mind your tongue,” Alastair warned through gritted teeth, fighting back the urge to confront whoever deemed his friend capable of such barbarian conduct. The coarse man muttered a half-hearted apology, but didn’t retract his statement.

There would be no use arguing with any of them. They’d already convicted Keats. If hangings were still public, they’d be there, drunk as lords, to watch his friend twitch at the end of the rope.

With a sick anger lodged in the pit of his stomach, Alastair watched the inevitable play out. The court moved swiftly: Jonathon Davis Keats was remanded for trial for the murder of Nicola Hallcox.

With every step in this case, he’d hoped reason would prevail. What was Keats thinking? A quick look up to the dock yielded no answers. His friend’s face was unreadable.

The courtroom emptied rapidly. To her credit, Evelyn had remained throughout the entire ordeal, one time taking his hand for comfort. Having her here with him had made the horror bearable. When they reached the street, he turned to her. He had many things he wanted to say but reined himself in. He dare not in such a public venue.

“Would you…like to go for some tea?” he suggested.

She shook her head. “I must go home.”

Alastair’s hopes crashed to earth. She had only been here to comfort him, nothing more.

She adjusted her arm in his. “My father’s carriage is just there,” she said, gesturing farther down the street. They strolled toward the conveyance.

He took a gamble. “I would like to see you again, Evelyn, if you are agreeable.” The seconds ticked off. He heard none of the commotion around them, his attention riveted on what her answer might be.

“Perhaps we can go walking in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon,” she offered. “Would that suit?”

“Of course,” he replied, before even considering his schedule. “May I call for you at…ah…two?”



Another smile appeared, this one much more reminiscent of when he’d first met her. “Yes. I would like that, Alastair.”

They reached the carriage and he handed her inside. After her maid was settled, Evelyn called out, “Tomorrow, then. I am looking forward to it.”

As am I.

~??~??~??~



“Quaint,” Anderson noted, looking around the main street of Ingatestone. They stood in front of a chemist’s shop. A sign in the window advertised Thermogene Medicated Wadding for all nature of chest ailments.

Ramsey took a deep breath. “Clean air. Not like London.”

“Or Chicago,” Anderson responded.

“Another nice thing about the country is that people pay attention, and they like to talk. If anyone saw Keats up here, they’ll want to jaw about it. It makes them famous, you see. They actually saw a killer.”

“Or an innocent man,” Anderson corrected.

After asking a helpful citizen who seemed impressed that they were from London, they found the local sergeant at his post in front of the dining hall. His hair was combed back, his moustache bushy. From the bulging of his coat buttons, apparently he was inside the establishment more than was prudent.

“Inspector Ramsey, Scotland Yard,” the inspector intoned. He offered one of his cards. The copper waved it away. “Need to ask you about the fellow who’s up for murder in London. Sergeant Keats says he was here in Ingatestone the middle of this month.”

“Heard about all that,” the man replied. “What you want to know?”

“Did you see the sergeant that day?” Ramsey asked, his notebook out.

“I probably wouldn’t have noted him. We get strange characters through here, what with the rail line and all. As long as they’re not up to mischief, I ignore them.”



“I see. Where are your pawn shops?”

The sergeant listed them off as Ramsey noted them. There were two.

“Did you or one of your constables go into the woods with Inspector Hulme to try to locate a coffin?”

“Who? Oh, that one. No, he didn’t go nowhere. Sat in the pub all evening.”

“Doing what?” Ramsey pressed.