It didn’t matter if they talked about her. She just liked being outside. There was white sand that didn’t act right and a lot of blue above her. That was good. She sat on a square pillow, pulling the blanket around herself to keep warm. When she looked back the men were gone. She sighed in relief. Closing her eyes, she thought of kittens and string.
When it began to turn dark, the solemn one, the one who said his name was Morrisey, came for her. “Time to call it a day, Miss Lassiter.”
“Jacynda,” she corrected proudly. That she could remember.
She rose stiffly and followed him. When she stepped off the sand, she abruptly halted. “What are they called?”
He turned around. “Pardon?”
She pointed upward at the creatures on the building. “Those.”
“They’re celestial dragons.”
“Cel…lestial dragons,” she repeated. “Do they eat people?”
“They won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about. They guard the temple and whoever is inside it.”
She liked that idea. “What did you say your name was?”
“Morrisey.”
“I’m Jacynda,” she announced.
A bemused smile. “I know. What did you think about while you were sitting out there?”
“Kittens.”
He gave her an odd look. “Why kittens?”
“They chase string.”
“Did you used to have a kitten?”
Did I? “I don’t know,” she admitted. “What are they again?”
It took him a moment to recall her question. “Celestial dragons.”
“I like them.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Feel free to ask me anything you wish.”
As they walked, she pondered that offer. “Was I always like this?”
“No, you weren’t.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated and then suddenly veered toward the sand again, gesturing for her to follow. Kneeling, he scooped up a white handful. “This is what your mind used to be like.” He spread his fingers, letting the sand drain out in rivulets. When nearly all of it was gone, he closed his fingers again, stopping the flow. “You’ve lost a lot of your memories and your ability to connect objects with their names.”
She looked at what was left in his palms. It didn’t seem like much. “Will it get better?”
“Maybe.”
Cynda turned, studying the structure behind them. “Why do they live up there?”
This time, he knew what she meant. “I don’t know,” he replied, dusting off his hands as he rose. “Maybe they like it there.”
“Do they have one of these on them?” she asked, holding up her wrist to expose the blinking band.
“No. You’re only wearing that because we’re afraid you’ll get lost.”
“I won’t,” she assured him. “I know where I am.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “You do?”
Cynda nodded. “I’m here,” she declared, gesturing toward the ground. “Where else would I be?”
He smiled, although his eyes still looked serious. “How Zen. Come along, you need your rest.”
Cynda kept looking at the dragons over her shoulder as she followed the man named…whatever it was. She’d come back in the morning. Maybe the dragons would talk to her then. She bet they knew things no one else did.
Chapter 17
Wednesday, 31 October, 1888
Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)
With Keats’ name in nearly every newspaper, it wasn’t surprising most of London’s underworld was here. The criminals wanted a front row seat for this one, a rare chance to see a copper sweat.
From his position in the dock, Keats had a clear view of the courtroom. In front of him was the chair from which the judge would make his pronouncements and sum up the case for the jury. To Keats’ left was the jury box and to his right the spectator’s gallery. It was filling rapidly. He recognized some of the faces: petty thieves and confidence men he’d arrested, a few of the prostitutes, a forger, and some of the local toughs.
Then he heard the catcalls start up.
“’ey rozzer, bet ya wanna be up ’ere now, don’t ya?” A chorus of laughter. “They’ll ’ave to cut the rope mighty short for that one.”
In reality, the rope would have to be longer because of his slight weight. Keats inwardly grimaced: knowledge was not always a good thing. He stiffened his resolve, if nothing more than to uphold the reputation of Scotland Yard.
Just in front of the spectator’s gallery was where the barristers sat. Lord Wescomb would be to the left of the long table, the Crown Prosecutor on the right. Just behind the barristers sat the privileged witnesses and visitors. That section was already crowded. He saw familiar faces, and that cheered him.
Alastair was talking animatedly to another man, most likely Reuben Bishop. Seated a short distance away was Lady Sephora Wescomb. Her anxiety was displayed by the constant fussing with the strings of her reticule. The Chief Inspector sat next to her, pointedly not looking in Keats’ direction. In the second row was Keats’ cousin Roddy, dispatched by his grandparents to provide daily reports on the trial’s progress. His usual gay demeanor was missing. When Roddy peered up at him, Keats gave a slight smile, hoping to allay the young man’s fear. It proved futile. Roddy had always looked up to him, called him a hero. Now he saw that even his cousin’s feet were made of clay.
Keats tugged on his coat sleeves. The action did nothing to obscure the chains at his wrists. Every movement generated a rattle. It was humiliating and the extra weight made his healing rib ache. How many men had he put in this very dock? How many had been innocent?
Why should my fate be any different?
“Are you prepared if they call you as a witness?” Reuben asked, keeping his voice low.
“Yes, I am,” Alastair replied resolutely.
Lord Wescomb leaned closer, clad in his black robe and horsehair wig. “They will try to ignore the scientific evidence. Most likely they will go after you as Keats’ friend. Perhaps even mention your past brush with the law.”
Alastair gave him a sharp look. “My past has no bearing on—”
“Come now, Alastair, don’t be na?ve!” Wescomb replied. “The Crown Prosecutor is particularly known to go for the jugular. If he can plant a seed of doubt that you tampered with the evidence, that you’re not a man of your word, all the rest will mean nothing.”
“So what do you propose?” Alastair asked, acidly.
“I will stress that neither of you knew that Keats was the prime suspect when the chief inspector summoned you to the scene of the crime, and that you did your duty without bias.”
“Does the chief inspector know this?”
“Yes. He agreed to it.”
Reuben shook his head. “Fisher is destroying his career.”
“Perhaps, but at this point we’re only worried about Sergeant Keats.”
“I will do my best,” Alastair pledged, still frowning.
“Whatever you do, refer to Mr. Justice Hawkins as my lord. It’s a term of respect. The justices are rather prickly about that.”
“I shall.”
“And do rein in that temper of yours. Now is not the time for emotional displays.”
Chastised, Alastair murmured, “Yes, my lord.”
“Be upstanding in Court!” a strident voice cried out. The courtroom rose as Justice Hawkins entered. With a rustle of his red and black silk gown, he settled into his chair. The room returned to their seats.
Keats braced himself for what would come next.
The Clerk of the Court cleared his throat and read out the charges.
“Jonathon Davis Keats, you are indicted and also charged with willful murder of Nicola Therese Hallcox on the 13th day of October instant. Are you guilty or not guilty?”
Keats rose with a clatter of the chains. He ensured his voice was firm and penetrated to all parts of the room. “Not guilty, my lord.”
There were boos, but a few cheers came from the spectator’s gallery, requiring Judge Hawkins to voice his disapproval. That surprised Keats. He’d figured everyone was keen to see him hang. Confounded, he lowered himself into the chair.
He made a study of the men who would hold his life in the balance. The jury was a mixed lot, both young and old. Only a few of them were staring up at him, the rest at the Crown Prosecutor, who cut a striking figure in his black robe and wig.
“You may proceed, Mr. Arnett,” the judge commanded.
Arnett rose. “May it please you, my lord, members of the jury, I appear in this case with my learned assistant, Mr. Daniel Pryor, for the Prosecution. The Defence of Sergeant Jonathon Keats will be conducted by my learned colleagues Lord Sagamor Wescomb and Mr. Herron Kingsbury.”
“Just so,” the judge replied, nodding his approval.
To Keats’ relief, Wilfred Arnett was not as long-winded as most. As Arnett laid the case before the jurors, the summary leaned heavily on Keats’ moral downfall, which led the prisoner to strangle Nicci Hallcox after what the prosecutor supposed was a night of unrestrained sexual congress.
The image made Keats queasy. He had never found Nicci of interest in that way. If anything, he’d always had the strong desire to boil his skin after coming in contact with her.
Arnett paused dramatically for emphasis. “We shall see that one of the motives for this horrendous crime lies within the victim herself.”
Syphilis. Wescomb had said he’d hoped Arnett would go that way rather than toward blackmail. Keats wasn’t sure if it would make any difference. From what he’d heard from his lordship, Home Office was applying pressure, insisting that certain topics were off limits during the trial. Wescomb had promised to work around those limitations as much as possible, but the blunt truth was that his barrister was already hobbled.
Much of the Crown’s case hinged on the butler’s testimony. Wescomb, in particular, was hoping to tear that to shreds during cross-examination. In the end, it might come down to the world learning about the existence of the Transitives or one detective-sergeant going to the gallows to preserve that secret.
That’s no consolation.
Keats struggled to catalog every detail as Arnett continued, but his mind easily wandered. Who had been the killer? Was he in this very room, watching while gloating over his fortunate escape?
The first witness was called forward to the witness box. After the inspector held the Bible and swore the oath, Arnett began to build his case.
“Inspector Hulme, you are local inspector in “C” Division, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell us your actions on the night of the crime.”
“I was called to the Hallcox residence at Half Moon Street at approximately one in the morning on the fourteenth of October this year.”
“What did you discover at that address, Inspector?”
“The deceased, Nicola Hallcox, lying on her bed.”
“Who found the body?”
“Her lady’s maid, Miss Ellis.”
“At what time was the body discovered?”
“Approximately half past midnight.”
“And the manner of death?”
“According to the post-mortem, Miss Hallcox was strangled with the cord from her dressing gown,” Hulme replied.
“Was there anything else about the scene that you found unique?”
Keats set his jaw. He’d already heard the details from Wescomb. To look away might indicate to the jury that he was responsible for such a horror.
“She was…unclothed and her hands were placed on her breasts. Her legs were parted and—” Hulme halted abruptly, took a deep breath and then continued, “and a fireplace poker was lying on the bed, pointing toward her female regions.”
There were gasps throughout the courtroom.
“What does it indicate to you, Inspector?”
“An extremely disturbed mind.”
“Sexual deviancy, perhaps?” Arnett asked.
Wescomb rose. “Your lordship,” he protested, “my learned colleague is leading the witness.”
The judge nodded sagely. “Indeed you are, Mr. Arnett.”
“As your lordship pleases,” the prosecutor conceded.
“With due respect, your lordship,” Wescomb continued, “unless Inspector Hulme is an expert in deviant sexual behavior, his opinion is hardly worthy of speculation.”
“Certainly it could be argued that a police officer has daily contact with just such behavior,” Arnett retorted.
“He well may come in contact with it,” Justice Hawkins replied, “but that does not make him an expert. I am in the company of criminals every day, however I certainly wouldn’t be inclined to consider myself an expert safecracker or forger.” Justice Hawkins peered down at Hulme. “Confine yourself to the facts, Inspector.”
“Yes, my lord,” Hulme replied with a deferential nod.
Arnett smoothly transitioned to the next question. “Was there any sign of a struggle or disarray in the room?”