Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(63)

“I haven’t hurt anyone,” she told him. At least not that she could remember.

“No, you haven’t, but they think you might. The judge is allowing you to stay here, but he did order you to receive the treatment.” He looked away. “I’m so very sorry.”

Cynda wasn’t sure what it all meant, but it seemed to hurt him. The lines on his face were deeper now.

She panicked. “Will it make me worse?”

“I don’t know.”

That was honest. “If it does, I won’t do it anymore.” She pointed. “Do you think I should have another…ah….ah…mmm…water thing over here?”

The question pulled him out of his dark thoughts. “Yes, I think you do. The castles I’ve seen had moats on most of the exposed sides.”

Moat. She kept forgetting that word. “You’ve seen them for real?” she asked in wonder.



“Yes. So have you, or you wouldn’t have made this so accurately.”

“Maybe I have. I just don’t remember.” She pointed at the top of the turret. “What are these called?”

“Crenellations. They allow an archer to fire down upon an enemy.”

“What’s an archer?”

“Someone with a bow and arrow.”

“Do you know everything?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No, unfortunately I don’t.” He sighed and rose. “I will let them know you will accept the treatment.”

“Only if I can stay here,” she insisted.

A nod. He plodded off, shoulders bent under some invisible weight.





Chapter 20




Thursday, 1 November, 1888

Scotland Yard

Fisher looked up as the door opened. “Thank you for coming in early, Inspector.” Ramsey heaved his bulk into the chair and then yawned.

“What’s going on, sir?”

“In a moment. First, what do you think of the trial so far?” Fisher quizzed.

“Well, if I ever need a barrister, Wescomb’s the man. He’s sharp and he knows how to play to the jury.”

“True.” Fisher watched his subordinate shift his weight in the chair for the third time. “What’s troubling you?”

“To be blunt, sir, Inspector Hulme. He’s not doing a proper job of this. He didn’t seem to care a lick when I told him about the boots. It’s like it didn’t matter at all.”

“I agree, it’s quite odd,” Fisher replied.

“It’s more than odd, sir. Anderson and I talked to every single bloody coffin maker in Whitechapel. Only one said Hulme had been to see him. From what I hear, he spent his time in the pub in Ingatestone rather than conducting his investigation.”

Fisher frowned. “He’s had a tolerably good record up to this point. Nothing outstanding, mind you, but solid work.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Ramsey concurred. “I keep asking myself why he’d bugger this up so badly. Hulme could look right smart in your eyes, maybe land a job here in the Yard. Instead, he’s made a royal cock-up of it.”

Fisher opened a desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper. “I suspect it might have something to do with this.” He handed over the sheet. “This is the list of men who left their calling cards at Miss Hallcox’s residence. The dates are when we believe they partook of her custom. She may well have been blackmailing all of them.”

Ramsey studied the list, then whistled. “There’s a load of toffs here.”



“That’s my point. Important people know how to pull strings. It’s how you remain important.”

“This didn’t come out in the inquest.”

“We were not allowed to mention it. Find me the truth, Ramsey. I’ll live with it either way.”

Ramsey returned the list.

Ramsey’s eyes raised, then he frowned. “Why not us?”

Fisher stroked his moustache. “That’s why I called you in. I was summoned to Warren’s office last night. A complaint has been lodged at the highest level. He’s not happy about it either, truth be told.”

“What sort of complaint?”

“About your sterling work on behalf of the sergeant. I have been instructed that there is to be no further effort on any matter related to the Hallcox case. It is Hulme’s kettle of fish, so I’ve been told.”

Ramsey glowered. “So let me make sure I’ve got this.” He paused, his face turning ruddy. “You’re saying that some posh gent who doesn’t know his arse from his ears is telling me not to do my damned job?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Ramsey dropped the list on the desk and spread his hands. “Why should I fight them? I’ve got the best pony in the race, don’t I? I play along, Keats’ll hang, and I’ll be sitting pretty, won’t I? He’ll be out of the way and someday your desk will be mine, along with the title and the pay packet.”

His face went dark as he leaned over and jammed a thick finger at his superior. “No one—not Hulme, Warren or the Queen herself—tells me not to be a copper. If I have to do this under the table, then I will. You understand me?”