Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(97)

The church was deserted, the parishioners celebrating Guy Fawkes’ thwarted attempt to reform British government. She adjusted her shawl and hurried down the center aisle toward the altar. Two rows from the front, she slid into the pew and waited. And waited. No sign of the priest or the Fenian.

Come on.

There was a creak of wood as someone slipped into the pew behind her. Fighting the urge to turn around or fidget, she waited. After a few seconds, the man moved and took a place next to her.

She looked over. Desmond Flaherty was scruffy, but there was intelligence in his tired eyes. He seemed different than that night in Green Dragon Place when he’d nearly killed Keats.

“Why’re ya here?” Flaherty asked gruffly.

“To save an innocent man.”

“There’s nothin’ that can be done now.”

“You were there that night,” she insisted. “You can tell them.”

“They’ll not listen to an Irishman. They want the little sergeant dead, that’s plain enough.” He dug in a pocket and retrieved a small canvas bag. “These are his. Show ’em to the coppers and tell where ya got ’em. Maybe they’ll see he wasn’t lyin’.”



She shook her head. “They can ignore the evidence. They can’t ignore a person. You have to come and testify.”

Flaherty snorted and dropped the bag back into his coat. “Ya got no sense, girl. Why would I spend years in prison for a damned rozzer?”

“Because it’s the decent thing to do. It’s what you would’ve done in the past.”

His eyes flared with sudden anger. “What do ya know of it?”

“I know your wife died because some damned fool decided to shoot into a crowd of unarmed citizens. You couldn’t kill the idiot with the gun, but you could harm the people who sent him. I understand revenge.” Better than you know.

Flaherty shook his head. “I can’t. If I turn myself in, they’ll kill my daughter.”

“The ones who can look like anyone they want?”

The man’s breath caught.

“I know about them,” she said.

He looked around them, wary, and lowered his voice. “How?”

“One of them tried to kill me.”

“Was he was tall, black-haired, dark eyes like the Devil himself?”

“Sounds familiar.”

A snort. “Ya could be him, for all I know.”

“But I’m not. How’s this for a bargain? You give written testimony that Keats was in Whitechapel at the time of the murder, and I’ll help you find your daughter.”

The Fenian stared at her as if she’d just proclaimed herself Empress of India. She stuck out her hand. He didn’t take it. She left it outstretched.

“You’ll not get a better offer,” she pledged, refusing to give an inch.

“Written, ya say?”

“Yes. We’ll go to Lord Wescomb and—”

“No toffs.”

“Wescomb is Keats’ barrister. He’s fighting to save the sergeant’s life.”



The Irishman shook his head. “Don’t matter. I’ve been all over Whitechapel and couldn’t find Fee.”

Her arm was beginning to cramp. “It’s simple: you want your daughter safe, and I want Keats alive.”

“Why?” He cocked his head. “Are ya lovers?”

“No. It’s deeper than that.”

Flaherty glowered at her, then took another quick look around the empty church. Satisfied, he called out, “Ya hearin’ this, priest? What do ya say?”

Father Nowlan stepped out from behind a cloth screen and crossed the sanctuary like a silent breath of wind. He sat in the pew in front of them.

“It’s not what I say.” The cleric looked upward into his Savior’s mournful eyes. “It’s what He says. ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’”

“Ah, by all the saints,” the Fenian muttered. “Paddy’s been ridin’ me, as well.”

Cynda quirked an eyebrow. “Paddy?”

“He was the one who took the copper into the woods. I’ve had to stop him from goin’ to the rozzers a couple of times. His heart’s too big.”

She extended her hand further. “I’ll do everything I can to find your daughter. If Keats is free, he’ll do the same.”

It was her last card. If the anarchist didn’t take it, she was out of the game.

He studied her face and then gave the faintest of nods. His rough hand shook hers.

My God.

“I’ll get ya what ya need,” he said. “Be at the Aldgate Pump in an hour. But know this—if ya cross me, I’ll have no choice but to kill ya.”

“Fair enough.” You’ll have to stand in line.

~??~??~??~





“Mr. Keats? There is a gent to see you, sir.”

A dark-suited man entered the condemned cell. He had prominent ears, closely cropped beard and a solemn demeanor.

The executioner.

“Good evening, Mr. Keats. I am Mr. Berry.”

Keats stuck out his hand. “I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but that would be lying, sir.”