Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(48)

The last thing he needed was equipment malfunction. He’d shaded the truth with his old friend: it was still too soon for him to be traveling like this. The wound hurt more than he’d admitted and his strength had yet to fully return.

Grumbling under his breath, he picked up the suitcase, adjusted it to reduce the throb in his chest, and set off down the alley. When he reached the next street, he knew he was out of position. A short walk down the pier was a massive steamship, passengers streaming up the gangplank.

He made for the closest newspaper boy. As he dug in his pocket for a coin, the masthead caught his attention. The New York Times. October 28 1888. Wrong place, wrong date.

I don’t need this right now.

“Sir?” an eager lad called out. He was dressed in a messenger’s uniform. “You Mr. Defoe?”

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. No one of this century called him that. Warily, he replied, “Yes?”

“Delivery for you, sir.”

Defoe took the proffered envelope with a sense of foreboding. Digging out a coin, he realized it wouldn’t do. “I’m sorry, all I have is British money.”

“That’s all right, sir. I’ve been paid.”

“By whom?” By the time Defoe posed the question, the messenger had already scurried off into the crowd along the pier.

The envelope contained a First Class ticket to London dated that day. It was for the steamship further down the pier, which departed in two hours.

Annoyed beyond reason, he returned to the alley. This had to be Morrisey’s doing— a means to ensure Defoe had time to recover from his wound.

You think I play God.

As soon as he was alone, he opened the interface and began the winding procedure. A moment later, he was gone. Then he was back. To the same location. He repeated the maneuver. And returned to the exact same spot.



“Morrisey, I swear I’ll—” Just then, his interface lit up and glowing letters marched across the dial.

The time has come.

This wasn’t Morrisey’s meddling, and for once he wished it was.

Knowing it was useless to try to transfer again, Defoe put away his interface, picked up his lone piece of luggage and headed for the ship. He was out of commission for a week, subject to First Class pampering that would rival Adelaide’s.

I hope you idiots know what you’re doing.





Chapter 16




Monday, 29 October, 1888

Newgate Prison

Alastair had never been inside the prison before, but it was as bleak as he imagined. The moment the cell door opened Keats rose from his bed, smiling when he recognized his visitors.

“Welcome to my new home, gentlemen,” he announced, gesturing broadly. “It’s not quite as grand as I’d hoped, but it does rival my shabby room in Rotherhithe.”

Alastair immediately took Keats’ hand and clasped it between his. “Good God, my friend, I had never thought it would be like this.”

Keats’ bravado faded. “Neither had I.”

“I asked for you to be put in your own cell,” Wescomb explained. “I felt you would be safer that way.”

“Thank you, my lord. How bad is it?”

Wescomb didn’t hesitate. “It appears formidable. The butler is the lynchpin of their case. I hope to pound home the fact that he’s a drunkard and that he harbored ill will toward you. Other than your calling card, the Crown has no other evidence you were there.”

Keats retreated to the bed. “Sorry, I have no chairs,” he said, keeping his back to them to allow himself time to regain his composure.

“Where would the killer have obtained your card?” Alastair asked.

“Oh, anywhere,” Keats replied absentmindedly. “I am very free with them.”

“Did you leave one with Miss Hallcox the night of the party?” Wescomb asked.

“No,” he replied, turning back. “I wanted no trace of me to remain in that household.”

“Have you seen the card, my lord?” Alastair asked.

“I have not.”



“Surely Fisher would know my card,” Keats insisted.

“Nevertheless, I think it would be of value to have someone examine it. I am leery of leaving anything to chance.”

“Excellent idea. I shall arrange it.” Wescomb tugged on his waistcoat out of habit. “I do have other unpleasant news, Sergeant. Your trial has been scheduled for Wednesday next.”

“Wednesday?” Keats repeated incredulously. “Keen to get it over with, aren’t they?”

“I sense that, yes,” Wescomb concurred with a grim nod. “All I can offer are my best efforts.”

“In all honesty, my lord, I could not hope for a more spirited defender.”

“Alas, that spirit must be tempered in some regard. I shall present your case with extreme care. If I portray Miss Hallcox as a scheming woman inclined toward blackmail, it will only give the Crown Prosecutor further ammunition as to your potential motive. I have asked Kingsbury to help me with this matter. He is a very able assistant. He often sees things I miss.”

“I leave it in your hands, my lord.”

“I advise you to get your rest.” As Wescomb reached the door, he turned. “If you need anything else, or think of something that may sway matters in your favor, send word immediately.”