Chapter 10
Keats cut south toward a landing where he could hire a waterman to take him to Church Stairs. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to hear a shout or a police whistle at any moment. Once he was in Rotherhithe, he’d be fine.
Only a few more days. Find Flaherty and the explosives, then everything would fall in place. The charges would be dropped and he might be able to resume his career, though there would no doubt be disciplinary action for his egregious behavior. Hopefully, they wouldn’t bust his rank.
When he reached the landing, he saw a waterman returning across the Thames, oars breaking the surface in long, sure strokes. Keats tugged up his collar, trying not to look nervous.
Speed it up, will you?
The boat was forty yards from the shore when he saw the constable. The fellow was swinging his lantern around, hunting for something.
Me.
If he moved from his spot, it would look suspicious. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay put. The boat glided toward the shore as the constable tromped on. It would be too close for his liking. In the dark, he saw a second boat approach the first, causing it to stop. The two watermen began to chat about whatever was on their minds, a waiting customer be damned.
Talk to him later! He had no choice now and turned away, intending to skirt along the river’s edge and cross using the underwater tunnel.
“Sir?” a voice called. It was a second constable and his bull’s-eye lantern caught Keats straight in the eyes, blinding him.
“Constable,” he acknowledged, shielding his face.
“What’s your business, sir?”
“Goin’ cross the river to my wife and bed,” he replied, pushing the working-class accent to the hilt.
“What were you doing in Whitechapel?”
“Lookin’ for a job. T’ain’t any to be found.”
Behind, Keats heard the first constable approaching. He was trapped between them.
“Ya need a row across, mate?” a voice called. The waterman had finally arrived.
Keats turned away from the glare of the lamp. “I do.”
“Then get aboard,” the fellow called. Keats made sure not to hurry, moving more like a tired man might rather than one fearing arrest. Behind him, the two constables talked amongst themselves.
As the boat steadily moved away from shore, Keats allowed himself to relax. Finally, he could no longer resist and he looked back over his shoulder at the constables. One was waving his lantern, like he was signaling someone. Keats turned toward the far shore. Another lantern swung in reply.
They’d figured out who he was, but too late. “Let’s land a bit further upstream,” Keats suggested.
“Prince’s Stairs?”
There was a police station near there. “No, Cherry Garden Stairs,” he replied.
“Cost ya extra.”
“I’m good for it.” Keats leaned back in the boat.
Too close.
A few minutes later Keats heard the sound, but tried to ignore it. There were a number of steam vessels on the Thames, he assured himself. It could be any one of them. The noise continued, rising in intensity. When the boat’s bow chugged out of the darkness, it angled to cut them off from the far shore. Keats swore under his breath. The constables had signaled a launch.
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.”
Keats glared. “I am not a gnome, sir. I am a detective-sergeant, at least until such time as they give me the sack.”
“Fisher tells me that Flaherty’s your alibi. If that’s the truth, you’re already on the gallows.”
Keats nodded. “I know.” That’s just what you’re hoping for, isn’t it?
“Who killed Effington?”
“Could have been anyone. He’d been skimming off the top of every load. That adds up to a lot of enemies. It might even have been Flaherty himself.”
Ramsey leaned back. “I want you to tell me everything that happened from the moment you arrived at the tart’s house that night. I want to hear all of it.”
As if he cares. “If you’re keen to know my story, then I suggest you read the letter I wrote to Fish—”
He found himself pinned against the back of the carriage by two massive hands. “I don’t care what you told Fisher. I want to hear it from you. Got it?” Ramsey growled.
Keats managed a weak nod.
The big man’s face split into a triumphant grin. “You know, I think you look more like a scared rabbit than a gnome.”
“Note where the rabbit has his knee,” Keats replied coolly.
Ramsey’s eyes roved downward, judging its proximity to his groin. He laughed and the hands retreated.
“So tell me this amazing tale of yours, Sergeant.”
After a deep breath, Keats began his report, skipping any mention of Clancy Moran. It took as long as the trip from Wapping to Leman Street Police Station, even though he’d pointedly left out his visit to Alastair’s this very night. Ramsey had only said he’d been spotted in Whitechapel, not at the doctor’s. Hopefully, that would spare his friend any further trouble.
Much to Keats’ surprise, Ramsey didn’t interrupt once.
“Helluva story,” the inspector remarked at the end.
“Try living it.”
A snort returned. “Why were you in Whitechapel?”
The lie came easily. “Looking for Flaherty.”
“You didn’t mention his daughter in your report to Fisher.”
“Learned that after I posted the letter.”
“You honestly believe that someone has him by the nads?”
“Yes.”
“God, what a cock-up,” Ramsey muttered. As the carriage drew to a halt, the inspector adjusted his coat. “Let’s get you into a cell and I’ll send word to the chief inspector that you’re safely in custody.”
Keats remembered the headlines, the drubbing Fisher had taken on his behalf. “How’s he doing?”
Ramsey’s expression flattened. “Looks a decade older. Your little crusade is going to cost him his job.”
“That shouldn’t trouble you,” Keats shot back. “You’re next in line.”
“Won’t trouble me in the least, if you’re guilty.”
If? Perhaps there was hope for him yet. “Just find the damned explosives.”
“And save your life?”
Keats shook his head. “Not likely. Flaherty will be buying the first round the morning I swing.”
Ramsey opened the door and grinned ghoulishly. “Who knows, I might buy the second one.”