Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(96)

“What’s that got to do with me?” the woman asked, now frowning.

“I need to find Desmond Flaherty.”

The widow grew wary. “Why?”

“Because he can save my friend. Flaherty and a few of his men were with Keats the night of the murder. They can testify that he didn’t commit the crime.”

The widow rubbed her belly in thought.

“I only need one of them to come forward and tell the cops what happened,” Cynda pleaded. “Sergeant Keats is innocent. He can’t die, Mrs. Ahearn.”

“Why not?” the woman retorted. “My Johnny did. Someone cut his throat, did ya know that? Cut off his—”

“Someone? I thought Flaherty did it.”



The woman shook her head. “Not him.”

Now that’s interesting. “I’m sorry for your loss, but—”

“Loss? Ya know nothin’ of that,” the woman spat. “I’ll not save a rozzer. If ya want help, go to the priest.”

“What priest?”

“Nowlan.” With that, the door banged shut in her face. As Cynda turned away, she thought she heard the sound of weeping.

~??~??~??~



After ensuring the shawl covered her head, Cynda padded into the church. It wasn’t as grand as some of Europe’s mighty cathedrals, but she could still feel the divine power here. As she moved forward, she counted five heads bowed in prayer.

She stopped in front of the altar. Around her came the sputter of candles and the slight click of rosary beads, overlaid with hushed murmurs. Her eyes rose to the crucifix, to the face of the man from Nazareth.

Cynda slid into a pew and knelt in prayer. She’d never been very religious. She’d traversed time, witnessed religions at their best and their most cruel. Still, there was something out there she couldn’t quite fathom. Some called him God. Some said it was a Goddess. Others said it was multitudes of the same. Cynda had no idea what was the truth. She only knew that when things were very bad, someone was always there to comfort her.

When she finished her prayer for Keats, she looked up. The priest was older, his collar not as white as some she’d seen. Was it Nowlan? She doubted a church this small could afford two clerics.

“Are you all right, miss?”

“No, I’m not, Father,” she replied quietly. “A dear friend of mine is going to die tomorrow. They’re going to hang him for a crime he didn’t commit.”

The priest’s face went expressionless.

“Flaherty knows he’s innocent. So does anyone else who was with him that night. Any of them could come forward and save him. I think you know at least one of them.”



Nowlan looked around and lowered his voice. “Ya should put yer faith in God, miss.”

“I do, Father, but I know God expects us to do the right thing. If not, what’s the point of all this?” she said, gesturing toward the altar.

No reply.

“You can help me make this right.”

Still no reply.

The priest was her only conduit to the anarchist. It was now or never. “Tell Flaherty I want to talk to him. I promise I’ll not sell him out to the police. He needs to hear what I have to say.”

The priest eyed her skeptically. “Why should I?”

“Because he has no one else who can help him now.”

A moment passed. Then Nowlan motioned for her to follow him. They left the church out a side door and into the night toward the graveyard in the back. He stopped in front of a mound of dirt. The crude headstone proclaimed it the final resting place of Johnny Ahearn. The father-to-be had been thirty-seven years old. His missus was much younger, maybe nineteen, if a day. Cynda couldn’t fault the widow for her bitterness.

“Did ya know him?” the priest asked quietly.

“No, I didn’t.”

In the far distance she heard a train’s whistle, low and mournful.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll help Flaherty find his daughter if he testifies about what happened that night in Whitechapel.”

Nowlan stared at her. “How can ya find his daughter when he can’t?”

“Because I know that there are others at work here.”

Their eyes locked in mutual understanding. Then the priest murmured under his breath and crossed himself. “Be back tonight, at six,” he told her. “If he wants to see ya, he’ll tell me. If not, we’ll pray together for yer friend’s life.”

“Fair enough.” She handed the priest a five-pound note. “Give it to the widow, will you? I think she’ll take it from you better than from me.”



As Cynda turned to go, the cleric touched her arm. “That sergeant did the same. Why?”

“Because he’s a good man. There aren’t many of them left.”

As she reached the gate that led to the street, she looked back toward the grave. The priest was on his knees in the dirt, head bowed, evidently seeking divine guidance.

Whatever it takes.

~??~??~??~



Cynda returned to the church at the appointed hour, her stomach balled into a tight knot. Since she’d not received a reply from the prince, that left her trying to convince the Fenian to save a policeman’s neck. To prepare for the meeting, she’d spent the afternoon researching Flaherty, looking for any weaknesses. His daughter was the only one. Defoe was probably right: she was being foolish, but sometimes you just had to gamble.