Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance by Jana G Oliver Page B

private. Perhaps it was best not to pry too far into her personal life. Finally, he gave in to the temptation: he’d already violated her privacy by searching the Gladstone in the first place.
    He opened the lid. Inside was a photograph that he remembered well—that of Christopher Stone in his coffin. Alastair had commissioned it so Jacynda would have something to remember her lover by after his violent and untimely death. It tugged at the doctor’s heart that she carried it with her even now.
    Stone had been young, perhaps mid- to late twenties. According to Jacynda he was a merry sort who could tell a good joke and had a sense of adventure. Alastair regretted he’d only seen the man after his passing. With a troubled sigh he repacked the case, checked the room one last time, and then headed for the bookshop to return the spare key. There was a finality to this task, weighing him down like a millstone.
    Chapter 8
     
    If they wouldn’t feed her here, she’d have to find her own food. Cynda spied the moldy potato in a bin behind a pub. It had black spots on it, but she didn’t care. She dug the worst parts out with her fingers and ate it slowly. It tasted grainy, but was better than nothing.
    She’d felt safe in the crazy place. The Mouse Lady had watched over her. There was no Mouse Lady here. Maybe the not brother who threw her in the river would find her. Throw her in again. She looked up, panicking at the thought.
    When a portly man walked out of the rear of pub, Cynda shrank back, hiding herself behind a pile of planks. He belched and then unbuttoned his pants. A stream of urine hit the board fence. When he finished, he shook himself and went back inside.
    Once the potato was gone she rose. In the distance something caught her eye. It was red, moving in the sooty breeze.
    “Pretty,” she said, clambering over the low fence. She heard something rip when her skirt caught. Looking back, she saw a small section of cloth trapped in the boards. She pulled it off and put it in her pocket, not sure why she did it. Her hand touched something else. She unfolded the handkerchief like it was a treasure.
    The paper inside was still damp. “Jacynda.” That was who she was. That was all she knew. She hid it away again and set her sights on the red shawl hanging on the line in the next backyard. A quick tug made it hers. It smelled clean. She wrapped it around her shoulders and continued on.
    When someone brushed against her on the street she jerked away, anxious. Just an old woman with a basket of apples. They looked so good. Maybe she could take one and the old lady wouldn’t notice.
    “Hey, girl,” a man called out. “Pretty shawl ya got there.”
    “It’s mine,” she declared, looking around for a means of escape.
    “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” the man replied with a toothy grin. “Why don’t we go into the pub? Have a drink and a laugh.”
    “No,” she said, backing up. The leer on his face frightened her.
    “Ya hungry?” he asked, moving in closer. “I got some food.” He stretched out his hand, displaying a half loaf of bread.
    Not right.
    She fled before he could reach her.
    ~••~••~••~
     
    Keats moved closer to hear the man’s voice, he spoke so softly.
    “It was that warehouse there.” The watchman pointed, then spat on the ground. “Heard about Effington. Good riddance.”
    Clancy snorted his approval.
    “Were you there the night Dillon was hurt?” Keats asked.
    “Yeah.” The watchman pursed his lips. “I never seen nothin’ like that. Just hit him, no warnin’. Left him bleedin’ like ya would a dog. Couldna cared less.”
    “Dillon asked about a particular load. Did you see it?”
    The man nodded. “I saw the casks. Somethin’ odd about them. Got no notion of what was in them boxes.”
    “Boxes?” Keats repeated, his pulse picking up like a hound sighting a hare.
    “Yeah. Didn’t have no markin’s on ’em.”
    “I’d like to see them.” As well as Ramsey’s