Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance by Jana G Oliver
In Memory of
Jeremy Beadle, MBE
Raconteur, Ripperologist & Humanitarian
The world is darker without you
Part 1
“As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.”
– William Shakespeare
Chapter 1
Wednesday, 24 October, 1888
London
Even emptiness has an echo.
She heard it in her mind, fighting for primacy. As time passed and the fire in her head dimmed, she became aware of movement. Creaking leather, the sharp click of horses’ hooves. Each jolt of the carriage set off new reverberations in her head, causing her stomach to churn. Someone was talking. It only made the echo worse.
An eternity. The movement stopped. More voices. She felt someone help her to the ground and then walk her forward. Each step felt as tenuous as the last. She kept her eyes jammed shut. It hurt less that way.
“Stairs here,” a deep voice warned.
She forced open her eyelids to find herself dwarfed by an immense stone building. Huge alabaster columns loomed upward into the night, so tall she couldn’t see the tops of them. The columns spoke of strength, of permanence.
She pulled free, wanting to touch one. It was cool. She laid her left temple against it, relishing the sensation. It numbed the pain.
“Miss?”
“Leave her be for the moment,” a voice commanded. It was the one that had been with her since the emptiness began.
Eventually, she straightened. The inferno between her eyes reignited, causing her stomach to heave. She vomited near the base of the column. Couldn’t they hear the roaring? Why didn’t it hurt them like it did her?
Someone handed her a piece of cloth, a handkerchief. She wiped her face with it and then clutched it to her chest as she was led inside.
There were more voices. They rose and fell like the wind on a winter’s night. As they talked, she tied the handkerchief into knots. Knots were real.
Brain fever. Laudanum. Papers. Committal.
She bowed over, the storm in her head raging anew.
“Name?” an older woman asked, looking down at her like she was a lost child.
“Doe…Jane Doe,” her companion replied.
~??~??~??~
Dr. Alastair Montrose gingerly splashed his face with cool water from the basin, cleansing away the soot. Then he leaned closer to the mirror, studying the effects of the warehouse fire. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot; his nostrils stung with every breath and his cheeks were splotched with red where falling embers had scorched them. The suit was ruined, the shirt as well. There were even abrasions on his palms, courtesy of his dive for safety when the rum barrels exploded.
Given the magnitude of the blaze, he’d gotten off lucky.
But what of Jacynda?
Even now, he could still hear her frantic cries from inside that warehouse as he fought to tear open the locked doors. Hours later, when the fire had died down, he and Reuben Bishop had found a charred corpse amongst the ruins. It was not that of a slender female: a fact that gave Alastair cause for rejoicing, although it felt heartless.
The question remained—what of Jacynda?
Reuben observed him from a nearby chair, his feet propped on another. “At least your eyebrows are still there,” he commented casually. “I think your moustache took the worst of it.”
Alastair studied his reflection again. “Indeed.” It was a measure of his mentor’s decency that he was trying to lighten the moment.
“Personally, I would be devastated if anything happened to mine,” Reuben joked, running a finger along his upper lip.
That was a given. Reuben sported a moustache that would turn any woman’s head, along with sandy hair that made Alastair’s brown hair seem dull by comparison. He cut quite a figure for a man who spent most of his time conducting autopsies.
“I’ll loan you one of my suits,” Reuben offered. “It won’t fit, but at least you’ll not smell like one of those fellows in the Fire Brigade.”
Alastair delivered a wan smile. “I appreciate that.”
“Put some ointment on those palms,” Reuben advised. “They look rather nasty. I’d offer you some, but I don’t have any. The dead don’t seem to require that kind of care,” he added with a wink.
“No, I suppose they don’t,” Alastair replied, betraying a hint of a smile at his boss’ characteristic black humor.
He took his time patting his face dry with the cloth. He knew Reuben wanted the whole story, but he didn’t know where to start. He dropped into the chair near the kitchen stove. The room was chilly, lit by a single gas lamp on the wall. He took a sip of brandy. The liquor burned his raw throat, making his eyes water and he blinked to clear them.
“In the past,” he began slowly, “I’ve spoken to you of Jacynda Lassiter.”
Reuben nodded, his face brightening. “Ah, yes, the adventurous American who has captured your heart.” His jubilance instantly withered. “Good God, she wasn’t in that blaze, was she? Was that why you were so keen to ensure the corpse was a male?”
Alastair nodded, shifting his attention back to the brandy. “The last I saw her she was inside the warehouse, near the doors. We’d discovered a body and I had gone for a constable.” He put the glass down, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “I should never have left her alone.”
“You did everything humanly possible to save her. Your injuries attest to your courage.”
Alastair was not so sure.
“How did the fire start?” Reuben asked.
“I have no notion,” Alastair replied with a distracted shake of his head. “There was a lantern in there, maybe it tipped over.”
His host put down his glass, then tented his fingers in thought.
“Hmm…Tell me more about the corpse you found.”
Alastair took a deep breath. “His name was Hugo Effington, a warehouse owner who lived in Mayfair. He’d been stabbed, a single thrust between the ribs that must have nicked the heart. When I returned with the constable, the doors were locked and the building ablaze.” He added, “Jacynda has been investigating Effington for some time.”