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.”
“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.
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.
~??~??~??~