Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(95)

Once the door closed behind the pair of them, Alastair took a seat on the bench, placing his Gladstone and a newspaper next to him. He gestured for Keats to remove his coat and shirt.

“There’s no point,” Keats protested, working on the shirt buttons. “Tomorrow morning, it will no longer matter.”

Alastair didn’t reply as he continued his examination, carefully palpating along the broken rib. “Healing very nicely,” he remarked. “Your head wound is much improved. There’s still a scar, but your hair hides most of it.”

“Stop being so damned positive, will you?” Keats barked. “We both know—”

“Until that final moment, I will keep hope,” Alastair thundered back. “You can be all gloomy if you want, and Lord knows you have the right, but nevertheless I feel this will be resolved.”

“How can you be so sure?” Keats asked.

“Jacynda has returned. I received a note from her late last night.”

He started in surprise. “Is she herself now?”

“It would appear so. The letter was most coherent. If she can be restored to us, so can you. She’ll not let you hang, Keats.”

For an instant, he felt hope. “So you say,” he conceded, pulling on his coat. “How is Lord Wescomb?”

“Improving. He has been writing letters to everyone who carries any weight. And lest you think you’re forgotten…” Alastair handed off the morning paper.

Keats scanned the newsprint, then blurted, “They’re bringing the matter up in Parliament tomorrow morning?”

“Indeed. Questions are being asked in the newspapers as to why the explosives were not allowed into testimony. Why your execution is being rushed. Why the government is not providing any answers. The city is in an uproar.”



Keats tossed the paper aside. “It won’t matter. Parliament won’t convene until after I’m dead.”

“Perhaps enough pressure will be applied to stay the execution until we get this sorted.”

Keats scoffed. “You honestly believe that?”

“I refuse to give up on you,” Alastair said firmly. He packed his stethoscope into the Gladstone and snapped it shut. “I’ll be back this afternoon to see you.” He dug in his pocket and placed a pouch of tobacco on the bed. “Happy Birthday, my friend. May it be one of many more.”

“Thank you,” Keats answered softly, picking up the gift. “For everything.”





Chapter 3




A comfortable bed didn’t prevent Cynda from tossing and turning the entire night. After spending so much time formulating her plan it was being trashed by people she’d never met. It was bad enough TPB and Guv were messing with her life. Now there were the Futures, some vague group of people with their own devious agenda.

“Too bad, guys,” she murmured. “Mine takes precedence. Keats is not going to hang.”

To perk herself up, she ordered a big pot of coffee and some breakfast. After that, she’d start with the big dog. You should always have one of those in your corner.

The letter she penned to the Prince of Wales requested his assistance in a matter of extreme urgency. Since he believed she’d saved his life a few weeks earlier at Effington’s dinner party, the least he could do under the circumstances was send her a polite reply. If he ignored her, she’d have to track him down on her own. Finding the Royal would be easy compared to locating the anarchist.

Cynda began pursuing that thread. “Who wants Flaherty in prison?”

“The police,” Mr. Spider replied. He was nestling down on top of the linen napkin, as usual.

“The coppers for sure,” she agreed. “Who else?” Then she smiled. There was one person who’d want to see him swing: Johnny Ahearn’s widow. Nothing brought out the desire for vengeance more than having your husband’s throat cut, especially when you were left to raise a child alone.

She synced up with TEMnet and posed the question to Ralph. He came through with the address where the Widow Ahearn lived in Stepney.

Thanks. How’s it going there?

Not good. TPB knows you’re gone and has begun formal proceedings against the boss.

Oh, boy. Send him my best.



Will do. Pull this out of your hat, Cyn. We’re all counting on you.

No pressure there.

Will do. Later, guy. Log Off.

Logged off.

~??~??~??~



Cynda had always been in awe of women who were pregnant. They held mysteries inside of them she could not fathom. Would never fathom. That was one of the reasons why there were so few women Rovers: childbearing ceased to be an option once you began traveling through time. Something about hopping through the fourth dimension altered the ovaries, and not in a good way. The guys weren’t affected. Another inequity.

Cynda hadn’t expected a warm reception, but Johnny Ahearn’s widow didn’t even bother to invite her into the small hovel. Instead, Mrs. Ahearn leaned in the doorway, a protective hand on her vast belly. Given the girth, noticeable even under the full skirts, her time was near.

“I am a friend of Sergeant Keats,” Cynda began.

“The rozzer they’re gonna hang tomorrow?”

“Not if we can stop it.”