Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(31)

The waterman shot Keats a questioning look. “I can cut ’round ’em, try a run down river.”

Was it worth the risk? Could they escape? He only needed a few more days…

“Don’t bother. It’s not worth the risk to you and the boat.”

The man shipped the oars.

“If you have any sense, you’ll claim you recognized me right off and were going to turn me in once you reached Bermondsey. That way, you might be able to collect the reward.”



“Reward?” the man repeated eagerly.

“It’s a large one. Seventy-five quid is the last number I heard.”

Realization dawned as the waterman gave a low whistle. “Yer that copper they’re looking for.” Keats nodded. “That’s a right fair number. Did ya do it?”

“No.” Which is why I am the unluckiest man in all of Christendom.

As the launch drew nearer, a familiar voice bellowed across the water. “Thought you’d get away, didn’t you, you little gnome?”

Ramsey. Keats groaned aloud. Why couldn’t it have been the two constables? The Ram, as he called him, would make this arrest a personal triumph.

He waited until the launch pulled up alongside, sending the small boat rocking precariously. “You’re a bit late,” Keats called out, issuing a wink to the waterman. “This fine gent had already nicked me.”

“Ah…I spied him right off,” the man shouted.

Clancy was right: he won’t collect a bit of brass out of this.

“We’ll sort the reward out later. Now get your arse up here, Sergeant.” Ramsey turned to a trio of Thames constables and barked, “Got some chains on this boat? I want him secured. He’s a wily one. If he gets loose, I’ll have every one of you up on charges.”

What an overbearing sod. He’s playing it to the hilt.

Keats grasped the rope lowered over the side of the launch. Then he remembered his damaged chest.

“I’ll need some help. I’ve got a busted rib.”

“Fish him up!” Ramsey ordered. “He’s a light one. Shouldn’t be any trouble.”

One of the Thames constables snagged onto Keats’ shoulder on the affected side. He winced at the sharp bite of discomfort.

“Easy, please.”

As he tugged upward, the constable whispered, “The guv’ner ’ates ya summat fierce. What’d ya do to ’im?”

Through a grimace, Keats confided, “It would take too long to explain.”



Once on the launch, he tried to stifle the pain in his side.

“You all right?” Ramsey asked.

“A bit sore, that’s all.”

“Is that the rib that was broken during your altercation with the Fenians?” a man asked. Keats eyed him warily. He didn’t look like a policeman.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Robert Anderson. I’m with the Chicago Herald.” He had a notebook in hand, pencil at the ready.

Oh, Lord.

“Sergeant Keats, do you have a comment for our readers?”

To hell with the lot of you. Instead, he replied, “Nothing that is printable, sir.”

He peered into the dark water. He could cast himself overboard and might actually make it to shore. Or drown under the weight of the chains.

“I wouldn’t suggest you try jumping,” Ramsey advised cheerily, “though it would save the Crown a lot of money.”

“Then it would be my civic duty, wouldn’t it?” Keats snapped.

“No,” Ramsey barked. “Stay put. You move and I’ll have them chain you to the deck.”

So this is it. He’d failed. Flaherty was still free and he was the one in chains. Still, deep down, a part of him felt immense relief. He no longer had to look over his shoulder in fear of his fellow coppers. No need to listen in on every conversation in case someone had recognized him.

He sagged in the chains. “How did you find me?”

The inspector beamed. “De-duction. That’s what you’re always spouting, isn’t it? I have informants too, and one of them saw you in Whitechapel tonight. I knew you were hiding in Rotherhithe, so it was only a matter of waiting until you tried to return. You wouldn’t dare take the train, so that left the river, one of the bridges, or the Tower Subway. I had them all covered.”

“Well done,” Keats muttered. That’s exactly how I would have handled it.



Silence fell for the remainder of the journey. The inspector looked infinitely pleased with himself. The reporter remained quiet, studying Keats and making notes in his little book. No doubt it would be quite a coup—an American newshound present at the daring capture of the Mayfair Slayer.

It wasn’t until Keats was manhandled into a carriage that his superior dropped the pleased-as-a-peacock attitude. Ramsey hauled himself into the conveyance and slammed the door with more force than necessary. He pounded on the roof and the carriage rolled off.

“Why do you have a reporter with you?” Keats asked.

“Warren’s orders. I don’t like it, either.” A pause. “Why in God’s name didn’t you turn yourself in?”

“Flaherty. I was getting close to both him and the explosives.”

“You’re not the only copper at the Yard, gnome.”