Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(52)

Why should my fate be any different?

“Are you prepared if they call you as a witness?” Reuben asked, keeping his voice low.

“Yes, I am,” Alastair replied resolutely.

Lord Wescomb leaned closer, clad in his black robe and horsehair wig. “They will try to ignore the scientific evidence. Most likely they will go after you as Keats’ friend. Perhaps even mention your past brush with the law.”

Alastair gave him a sharp look. “My past has no bearing on—”

“Come now, Alastair, don’t be na?ve!” Wescomb replied. “The Crown Prosecutor is particularly known to go for the jugular. If he can plant a seed of doubt that you tampered with the evidence, that you’re not a man of your word, all the rest will mean nothing.”

“So what do you propose?” Alastair asked, acidly.

“I will stress that neither of you knew that Keats was the prime suspect when the chief inspector summoned you to the scene of the crime, and that you did your duty without bias.”

“Does the chief inspector know this?”

“Yes. He agreed to it.”

Reuben shook his head. “Fisher is destroying his career.”

“Perhaps, but at this point we’re only worried about Sergeant Keats.”

“I will do my best,” Alastair pledged, still frowning.

“Whatever you do, refer to Mr. Justice Hawkins as my lord. It’s a term of respect. The justices are rather prickly about that.”

“I shall.”



“And do rein in that temper of yours. Now is not the time for emotional displays.”

Chastised, Alastair murmured, “Yes, my lord.”

“Be upstanding in Court!” a strident voice cried out. The courtroom rose as Justice Hawkins entered. With a rustle of his red and black silk gown, he settled into his chair. The room returned to their seats.

Keats braced himself for what would come next.

The Clerk of the Court cleared his throat and read out the charges.

“Jonathon Davis Keats, you are indicted and also charged with willful murder of Nicola Therese Hallcox on the 13th day of October instant. Are you guilty or not guilty?”

Keats rose with a clatter of the chains. He ensured his voice was firm and penetrated to all parts of the room. “Not guilty, my lord.”

There were boos, but a few cheers came from the spectator’s gallery, requiring Judge Hawkins to voice his disapproval. That surprised Keats. He’d figured everyone was keen to see him hang. Confounded, he lowered himself into the chair.

He made a study of the men who would hold his life in the balance. The jury was a mixed lot, both young and old. Only a few of them were staring up at him, the rest at the Crown Prosecutor, who cut a striking figure in his black robe and wig.

“You may proceed, Mr. Arnett,” the judge commanded.

Arnett rose. “May it please you, my lord, members of the jury, I appear in this case with my learned assistant, Mr. Daniel Pryor, for the Prosecution. The Defence of Sergeant Jonathon Keats will be conducted by my learned colleagues Lord Sagamor Wescomb and Mr. Herron Kingsbury.”

“Just so,” the judge replied, nodding his approval.

To Keats’ relief, Wilfred Arnett was not as long-winded as most. As Arnett laid the case before the jurors, the summary leaned heavily on Keats’ moral downfall, which led the prisoner to strangle Nicci Hallcox after what the prosecutor supposed was a night of unrestrained sexual congress.



The image made Keats queasy. He had never found Nicci of interest in that way. If anything, he’d always had the strong desire to boil his skin after coming in contact with her.

Arnett paused dramatically for emphasis. “We shall see that one of the motives for this horrendous crime lies within the victim herself.”

Syphilis. Wescomb had said he’d hoped Arnett would go that way rather than toward blackmail. Keats wasn’t sure if it would make any difference. From what he’d heard from his lordship, Home Office was applying pressure, insisting that certain topics were off limits during the trial. Wescomb had promised to work around those limitations as much as possible, but the blunt truth was that his barrister was already hobbled.

Much of the Crown’s case hinged on the butler’s testimony. Wescomb, in particular, was hoping to tear that to shreds during cross-examination. In the end, it might come down to the world learning about the existence of the Transitives or one detective-sergeant going to the gallows to preserve that secret.

That’s no consolation.

Keats struggled to catalog every detail as Arnett continued, but his mind easily wandered. Who had been the killer? Was he in this very room, watching while gloating over his fortunate escape?

The first witness was called forward to the witness box. After the inspector held the Bible and swore the oath, Arnett began to build his case.

“Inspector Hulme, you are local inspector in “C” Division, are you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell us your actions on the night of the crime.”

“I was called to the Hallcox residence at Half Moon Street at approximately one in the morning on the fourteenth of October this year.”

“What did you discover at that address, Inspector?”

“The deceased, Nicola Hallcox, lying on her bed.”

“Who found the body?”