Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(77)

“Thank you, your lordship. I wish to call forward Mr. Quincy Leonard.”

Keats cocked his head. Leonard was the chap who printed his cards. What was Kingsbury up to?

After the oath, Leonard testily explained that the card found in Miss Hallcox’s room was not of his manufacture, and did not match the ones in Keats’ rooms. Someone, he said, had created a decent imitation, but not the real thing.

“How can you be so sure?” Kingsbury quizzed.

“Not the same quality at all. I use only the best card stock. This,” he said, dismissing the evidence with a distasteful flick of his wrist, “is decidedly second-rate. I would not give such a respected customer such shoddy merchandise.”

Keats hid the smirk behind his palm.

After a brief recess, the jury returned to hear the final statements in the matter of the Crown vs. Jonathon Davis Keats. It would be up to Kingsbury to speak of what was in Keats’ heart, for by law the prisoner was not allowed to testify in his own defence. Uttering a silent prayer, Keats watched the young barrister rise from his seat. Would he be able to rally the jury’s sentiments in the prisoner’s favor?

“This has been a troubling case from the onset,” Kingsbury began, “for not only has a woman lost her life, but Detective-Sergeant Keats has lost what he holds most dear—his career.”

The barrister eloquently described Keats’ years on the force, his glowing record as he’d served both at Arbour Square, and at the Yard. As he spoke of certain events, Keats’ mind relived those moments. Like a young spaniel, he’d been keen to hunt down those who would flaunt the law. Early in his career, he’d caught gangs of robbers, forgers, and even put Desmond Flaherty in jail. This time, the Fenian had outwitted him.



Kingsbury shifted tone. “Esteemed members of the jury, as you weigh the facts, it is vital to remember that there is a dearth of physical evidence that places the sergeant at the scene of the crime. His hair was not found in the victim’s bed, though evidence of three other paramours were. Who left behind those black strands? It was certainly not my client.

“You’ve been shown a riveting demonstration of how the murderer was considerably taller than the detective-sergeant. It is only Mr. Landis’ testimony that has placed my client in the dock. I submit that the butler’s propensity for drink and stark grief at the terrifying death of his mistress has led him to point the finger of guilt erroneously. He clearly harbors ill will toward the sergeant for reasons unknown. As his attention was elsewhere while his mistress died, is it not possible this false accusation is his way of atonement?”

The jurors were held in rapt attention by the young barrister’s oratory. Wescomb would be proud.

Keats’ eyes wandered. In the spectator’s gallery, he caught sight of a familiar figure—Clancy Moran. Their eyes met briefly, then Keats looked away with a twinge of regret. Clancy would never get the reward money now.

“We must admit that the detective-sergeant is guilty on one count,” Kingsbury said, addressing the twelve men. “He will admit to the sin of obsession. Fearing for the public safety, he sought to bring Desmond Flaherty and his associates into custody, to prevent future attacks upon this city and its populace.”

Justice Hawkins leaned forward in his chair, the barest hint of a frown on his face.

The barrister turned introspective. “The very second Keats learnt of Miss Hallcox’s death, he should have turned himself in to the constabulary in Ingatestone. He did not. That was a grievous error on his part, and he readily admits it. Yet, when taken in context with this man’s brilliant career, it is but a momentary lapse of judgement.



“Jonathon Keats is a copper, through and through. He was willing to risk everything—his life and his career—to do his duty. He is only guilty of the sin of obsession, not murder. It is my hope that justice will prevail in your hearts and you will set this man free so that he may continue the fine work at which he excels.”

If I am found guilty, it is not because my barristers lacked ardor.

Now it was Arnett’s turn. The jurors shuffled in their seats, eager to hear what he had to say. The barrister smiled politely in Kingsbury’s direction. “My learned colleague has given us a glimpse of a promising young policeman’s career. The prisoner has gone from strength to strength, excelling at each of his tasks. Until that fateful night.”

He turned toward the jury. “Admittedly, the victim was hardly a paragon of virtue, but she knew precisely what it would take to bring the prisoner to heel. That was her undoing.

“In the course of the investigation, we learned that the prisoner argued with Miss Hallcox on the night she died and left, as the butler has testified, in a fine fury. Later, he returned and spent time in her bedroom. To cover his crime, the prisoner spun a fantastical tale worthy of any Penny Dreadful. He claims he encountered his arch enemy in an alley in Whitechapel.”

Arnett took a step forward. “Allow me to paint this picture: five Fenians, all, no doubt, armed, have trapped a single police sergeant, an individual they despise, in a dark alley. An arch criminal finally has the prisoner within his grasp. Why let him live? Instead, the sergeant claims he was accosted, imprisoned in a coffin, and ferried into the country.” Arnett shook his head in dismay. “Such a vivid imagination.”

He drew himself up. “It is true that Miss Crickland saw the prisoner in Whitechapel, but she was uncertain of the time. We have heard how the prisoner pawned his boots in Ingatestone, but that in itself is not sufficient to acquit him. It only proves that he was in that city after the murder. It is the prosecution’s belief that the prisoner is guilty of the heinous crime of which he is charged. As our learned colleague observed, the prisoner suffers a deadly obsession—the need to capture the elusive anarchist. That mania clouded the sergeant’s mind. I contend that he returned to Nicola Hallcox’s house, perhaps used his skills to pick the front door lock, and ascended to her bedroom. It is my belief that Miss Hallcox never possessed any information about the Fenian, but used that ploy to lure the prisoner into her bed. She played him for a fool.”