Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(40)

“Nothing. Didn’t drink much, just a couple pints. Nursed them all night. Then he got on the train back to London.”

“Anything else you can tell us?”

A shake of the head.

“Then thank you for your time, Sergeant.”

“All I got,” the man said.

They finally tracked down the newspaper boy. He didn’t remember Keats, but then he didn’t seem the brightest of Ingatestone’s population. The eel-pie seller didn’t remember the sergeant, either.

“This isn’t a good start,” Ramsey commented, studying the list of pawn shops.

“Maybe he did make it all up.”

“Could be, but why go to all that effort? It’s too bizarre a tale.”

It wasn’t until they reached the second pawnbroker that someone recognized Keats’ photograph. He was seventy, if a day.

“I saw the gent. He pawned his boots here.” He looked down at the inspector’s card. “Never thought I’d ever talk to someone from Scotland Yard. Wait til I tell my missus. She’ll not believe it.”

“When did he pawn them?” Ramsey asked.

Muttering under his breath, the old fellow shuffled off, then returned with a ledger that looked as old as he was. He cracked it open and ran a bony finger down the columns of surprisingly neat writing.

“Wednesday, the seventeenth of this month, in the morning.” He looked up. “I keep track. Never know when it’ll be important.”

“Did he pawn anything else?”

“No, just a pair of boots. Excellent condition. I gave him top price. I could tell he hadn’t been down for long.”



“Down?” Anderson asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“Down on his luck, if you know what I mean. He’d been living rough, but not as long as some of them I get in here. His suit was dirty, but the cuffs weren’t frayed and his boots were almost new. He had that stunned look when life takes a bad turn. The ones who’ve been down for a time don’t have that anymore. They expect it to be bad.”

“Did he say anything?” asked Ramsey.

“He was right sad to pawn them. Said they were the best he’d ever had and once he got some money from his family, he’d be back. Keen not to lose ’em.”

“Did he buy another pair?”

“Right y’are. Sold him an old pair to tide him over. Nothing like the ones he pawned, I can tell ya that.”

“Do you still have those boots for sale?” Ramsey asked.

“I’m wearing ’em.”

“They’re evidence. We’ll need them for the trial.”

The man’s face fell. “They’re right fine boots.”

Ramsey dug in his pocket. “I’m willing to buy them from you.”

“You got the pawn ticket?” the fellow asked. “I like to get them back. Keeps my records tidy.”

“No, it went missing somehow.” Hulme had never explained just how that had happened.

A shrug. “Well, I supposed it don’t matter. You got something better than a pawn ticket,” he said, pointing to the inspector’s card.

The old man shuffled off again across the wooden floor. He returned in his stocking feet and placed the boots on the counter. “Fit me right perfect. I tried ’em on the moment he left. Needed a bit of cleaning, they were muddy and such, leaves stuck to the soles. They’re a good pair, that’s for sure.”

“Leaves? Like he’d been in a forest?” Ramsey quizzed.

“Just like that.” The fellow consulted his ledger and quoted the price. The inspector handed over the coins.

“Did this man have any injuries?” Anderson asked.



The inspector cursed to himself for not asking the question first.

“Yes. A bruise on his left chin. Nasty one. He said he tangled with a big Irishman.”

Ramsey and his companion traded looks. Keats had said he’d been struck a blow. “Has anyone else been to talk to you? Another inspector from London?”

A shake of the head.

Why hadn’t Hulme followed this lead? It was easy enough.

“You have a card, sir?” Ramsey asked. “We may need to call you to testify.”

The bony hand produced one. “I’d love to come to London. Never been there before.” He grew pensive. “Did that copper do what the papers say?”

“We’re not sure,” Ramsey replied, tucking the merchant’s card in a pocket.

The old man shook his head. “I’ve seen lots in my time. Mean ones. They have that look in their eyes, cut you for a farthing. This one didn’t. He looked lost, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.”





Chapter 13




Alastair floated home, barely aware of his surroundings. His heart warred over the joy at seeing Evelyn again and the cruel reality of Keats’ future. His euphoria faded at the realization that unless Jacynda had dramatically improved during the day, there was little he could do to help her.

Mrs. Butler was drying the last of the new dishes and placing them in the Welsh dresser. “She doesn’t say much,” his housekeeper observed when he’d asked about their guest’s welfare. “Just does whatever you ask her. Not at all like she used to be. Simple, if you get my meaning.”