by Julia Watts
“Relax, McKnickel,” ordered Morehouse. “Tommy works for all of us. We can count on him to take us around safely and keep the details to himself. And he can’t hear through the glass anyway.” He pointed to the roll-up window separating the front seat from the rest of the car.
Morehouse introduced the well-dressed man first. “This is Carmine Pridgeon, the brains of the firm, I like to say.” He nodded toward his companion. “And this is Forrest McKnickel, the third associate.”
McKnickel didn’t appear to notice the slight. “It seems you’ve gone and created a problem that we now have to deal with,” he vented. “You’ve gotten Cumpston on the warpath. I’ve never seen him like this. I really don’t know what to do.”
He chewed a fingernail and looked around, as if Cumpston might be listening. “Lancelot is the last person you want to get all stirred up and annoyed at you.”
Morehouse smiled. “No. That last person would be me,” he said slowly, unclasping his hands and crossing his arms. “But you’re right to be worried about him. He’s up to something.”
McKnickel looked away from Morehouse and raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “If ever you could accuse anyone of simply being evil, it would be Cumpston.” He shuddered and glanced at Pridgeon, who shook his head imperceptibly.
McKnickel ignored him and continued, “He—he does things for people, and then they’re in his debt before they know it. He lets you know later what you owe him, and it’s always much more than you feared. Fail to pay up and worse’ll happen to you.” Liv heard a little moan escape her throat. She covered her mouth. In her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of Tommy, who seemed to be watching her thoughtfully.
McKnickel leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Say someone owes you money. The chap may fall victim to a mugging. He won’t report it—they never do.”
“It’s true,” Pridgeon broke in, “Lancelot is a businessman, so if your victim wants revenge, he’s happy to do a job for him as well. Try to do anything about it and you’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life. If you’re still alive.”
Morehouse sighed. “That’s the trouble with today’s criminals—no sense of honor.”
Pridgeon gave him a peculiar look and turned to Liv. “And now you’ve upset the balance of nature. Cumpston thinks someone is after him, and he’s out for blood.”
He shrugged and spread his hands. “Of course, he’s often out for blood, but this is different. He’s no longer detached. He’s an extremely loose cannon, and I do not intend to be found in his line of fire. The question is: What do we do about it?”
He pointed a manicured finger at Morehouse. “It’s mostly your fault,” he accused. “There’s something about you, beneath the charm. Cumpston fears, respects and despises you all at once. So if you’ve made a threat, you’d best carry it out.”
He ignored the four young people, and murmured in Morehouse’s ear, “What we can’t absorb as assets, we dispose of as liabilities, if you get my meaning. Let us know very soon which one you are.” He tapped on the glass behind Tommy and the door locks clicked open.
Afterward, they watched the car pull away and Frederica remarked, “They’re vicious criminals, aren’t they? I didn’t expect them to look so. . .so ordinary.”
Morehouse nodded. “They’re people, trying to make their way in the world by thinking only of themselves. I’ve lived in three centuries now, and some things never change.”
Liv thought he looked tired, and his face was more lined than she’d remembered.
“There’ll be no point now trying to convince Lance we mean him no harm,” he said. “He’ll never believe it. But I’m a glass-ishalf-full man, and the good news here is that Lancelot Cumpston is unlikely to cross our paths in the twenty-first century if he’s Octavius’s great-great-whatever-son, and that’s one bit of history I won’t regret tampering with.”
Morehouse stood up straight and set his jaw. “There’s much to do, and saving King George takes precedence for now.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“It’s a fine day for a kidnapping,” said Morehouse, guiding the girls off a Docklands Light Railway car into the Island Gardens Station. They’d left the boys at Canary Wharf, with orders to keep an eye out for their return. “I’d completely given up this sort of thing, but who else could carry it off? Ironically, Octavius is perfect for the job, but he’ll be unavailable.” Morehouse laughed at his own joke.
Liv and Frederica made their way to the restroom, where they slipped long skirts over their jeans. The box was wrapped in a shawl. Morehouse was waiting for them, and they made their way outside.
It wasn’t a long walk to the Isle of Dogs, and no one paid much attention to two eccentrically dressed girls. Morehouse had come out of the men’s room dressed like a beggar and he walked alongside them now, practicing a variety of limps and applying streaks of soot to his face. He ruffled his hair and smiled at a pair of middle-aged ladies, who jaywalked to get to the other side of the street.
“We’ll have a pleasant wait,” he told the girls. “We can sit on the bank of the Thames, out of the way, and watch people take the ferry over to Greenwich.”
He reached into the deep pockets of the loose, ragged jacket he wore over his sportcoat and pulled out bananas, cheese crackers, bottles of water and paper napkins. “I even brought supper. All we need now is for the sun to set.”
Liv loosened the shawl, linked arms with Frederica and Morehouse, and adjusted the drawers of the box.
It came out of the dark through the mist, its wheels on the cobblestones barely audible over the clip-clopping of a single horse’s hooves. A dingy yellow lantern made a feeble attempt to cut through the fog, but it was like trying to shine a light through pudding.
Morehouse motioned the girls off the street and onto the curb as the hackney carriage came into view. The carriage’s two wheels were almost as high as the horse’s rear flanks, but the cab was small. Even with the driver outside, behind the cab, Liv wondered how the four of them would squeeze in.
Morehouse had instructed them to stand on the sidewalk and wait for Octavius. Morehouse would take it from there.
Liv fingered the box nervously under her shawl, feeling the hinges beneath its thin material. If something went wrong and Morehouse couldn’t protect them, could she get both herself and Frederica safely back? As soon as she thought of it, she realized it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t desert him. . .even though he’d probably scream at them to do just that.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the lane, and a thick, cloaked figure approached. The man stopped within an arm’s reach. Liv and Frederica looked down meekly, as they’d been told to do. Liv’s heart thudded in her chest. If he looked too carefully, he’d realize they weren’t Africans. And while she knew he couldn’t recognize them from the fateful night in the Octagon Room that hadn’t happened yet, it was unnerving to be this close to King George’s assassin.
“So, it’s like that, is it?” His mouth curled downward at the sight of the girls. “You’re just thrown out in the street! I suppose I’m expected to pay your cab fare—an expense I shall have to pass on.”
He blew out a snort and peered into the blackness beyond the carriage. “Now then, where’s your, er, sponsor?”
Morehouse stepped out of the dark and grabbed him from behind. “Been looking for me, Cumpston? It appears you found me.”
“Take your filthy hands off—” He twisted his neck to get a look at Morehouse and gasped, eyes bulging. “You!”
Cumpston did a visual sweep: first the girls, then the carriage, and finally down to the tip of the blade glinting in the feeble light as it pricked his silk shirt front. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he appeared to put the puzzle together in his mind.
“You don’t want to know what I’ve done with this dagger, do you now?” Morehouse said.
Cumpston’s fingers touched his parted lips and he squeaked, “Where are you taking me?”
�
�Oh, you’re going on a nice Caribbean holiday. Well, not technically the Caribbean—more like the Western Atlantic. A lovely spot on Barbados. If you fancy turtle meat and working for a living, you’ll have a grand time. There’s a family at the old Beringer plantation who can always use an extra field hand.”
“A slave? You’re going to sell me as a slave? That’s illegal— it’s kidnapping!” Cumpston’s voice cracked and Liv came close to feeling sorry for him.
“Hah!” Morehouse scoffed. “As if you weren’t just trying to do the same thing yourself.” He wagged a finger at Cumpston.
“But let me put your mind at ease. Though hardly anyone takes on indentured servants anymore, that’s what you’ll be— not a slave. Why, in seven short years, you can start saving up money to come back home. Think how fit and lean you’ll be!” He pushed an index finger into Cumpston’s ample belly, and it disappeared up to the last knuckle. “The rural east coast of Barbados is picturesque, with places like Cattlewash and Ragged Point.” Cumpston cringed and wrung his hands.
“Of course, there’s always an alternative.” Morehouse flashed his trademark smile—the one that melted women’s hearts and struck fear in his enemies.
“Ooh, an alternative. Yes—anything, anything at all.” Cumpston pointed to his pocket. “I’ll pay—I have money, you know. I have influence.” He waited, quivering and breathing shallowly.
The pirate’s eyes turned to blue steel. The girls shivered as he whispered into Cumpston’s ear, just loudly enough for them to hear. “The alternative is that I slit your sorry throat right here. After all, that would be better than reporting to His Majesty that while you can’t even catch an old pirate for him, you were plotting to kill both the king and his prizewinning clockmaker.”
“But I never!” spluttered Cumpston.
“Oh, he’ll think you did,” replied Morehouse. “And by the time I get through making the case against you, he’ll be falling over himself to pardon me—maybe even reward me.”
He pulled a length of rope from each sleeve and tied Cumpston’s hands in front of him with one piece. He tackled Cumpston’s thrashing legs and threw the other rope to the girls. “Here—get the other rope round his ankles. And be sure the knot is fast.”
Frederica took it gingerly and held it out to Liv.
Morehouse laughed. “What’s wrong, ladies? Don’t like to get your hands dirty? Do it, and be quick about it!”
Liv swallowed hard and took the rope, tying it the best she could. She glanced at the cab driver a few times, but he made a show of not watching any of their goings-on. Frederica moved off the curb and walked around in front of Morehouse and his quarry, ready for further instructions. Morehouse nodded his approval. “Liv,” he said, not dropping his gaze from Cumpston, whom he still held down, “crawl around and reach into the left front pocket of my coat. Pull out the piece of rope that’s in there —that’s right—now the two of you—No!”
Liv’s head had come within Cumpston’s reach, and his pudgy fingers grabbed her hair and pulled her off-balance. She winced as the cobblestones scraped skin from an elbow and the palm she planted on the bricks to steady herself. Cumpston proved surprisingly strong, not letting go of the handful of curly hair in his grasp.
Suddenly, she was set free. How Morehouse had done it she couldn’t tell, but he yawned and shook his head at Cumpston.
“I’d demand an apology, but I’m not convinced it would be sincere. Instead, I’ll give you a demerit.” He slapped Cumpston’s face with an open hand, the sound echoing against the bricks of the narrow street and close-in buildings. Liv bit her lip. Her carelessness had caused Cumpston pain and she didn’t like it, even if her scalp and skin were still throbbing.
Morehouse used the third rope to wrap around Cumpston’s torso, trussing him up with his arms at his sides. He spoke in a casual tone as he worked.
“There’s a schooner moored in the harbor that’s been there for several weeks. They’re just waiting to fill up so they can push off for Barbados. You’ll like the mix of interesting people you’ll meet working in the sugar fields, Cumpston: Irish Catholics, gypsies, captured natives, in addition to the Africans.”
He cocked his head toward the cab door and Liv ran to open it, while the cab driver climbed down without comment and helped pick up Cumpston.
“In fact, I’m tempted to wager you’ll start making contacts while you’re still chained to your bunk in the ship. By the time you’ve been in Barbados for a year, you’ll have your own network and a whole new life for yourself. You may grow fond of the Bajan way of life and not even want to come back to England. Isn’t that right?”
Cumpston gave Morehouse a look of pure evil. “I hope you hang for this, you filthy pirate. I hope they hang you and then skewer your head on a stake in the harbor for the gulls to peck your eyes out.” He glared at Liv and Frederica. “And that goes for these shameless brats, too.”
Morehouse nodded at the girls. “If we’re through with the niceties, let’s all climb in, shall we? We’ll escort our guest to the gateway of his new life.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Our problem with Lance may be solved, if that’s his ancestor we relocated.” Morehouse’s voice sounded upbeat, and Liv dared to hope he was right.
They’d returned to the present and were retracing their steps, headed back to Island Gardens Station to catch the train. Frederica pulled off her wig and handed it to Morehouse. He put it under his jacket and said, “Finish in the restrooms. Two minute limit. The clock is ticking in real time now.”
The journey back to Canary Wharf Station was blessedly dull. The hard part was over, and Liv was glad to be sitting. She’d been surprised to find the relief made her legs shaky. Mudchute Station, Crossharbour, Heron Quay—she could relax a little and enjoy the quaint names as they passed.
“I’ll just stop at a pay telephone and check my voice mail,” Morehouse told them as they exited the train. “Didn’t want to take the mobile with me and lose it in a scuffle. That would have planted a very disturbing object in the past.”
He pulled coins from his pocket and counted them. “If we’re lucky, a nervous message I received from McKnickel this morning will no longer be in my mailbox. He was demanding I come up with an idea today for dealing with Lance. Tee-hee—if he only knew!” He took long strides to a telephone on a wall and fed it coins. The girls trotted over to join him.
“Look,” whispered Frederica to Liv, “I see the guys!” Cal and Anthony were sitting on a bench just outside, eating ice cream and looking around.
Morehouse pushed buttons and held the receiver to his ear, frowning. Too much time was passing for everything to be okay, and Liv tapped Frederica and pointed to the pirate, who pressed his finger to disconnect and made another call.
“It’s me...Yeah, I got McKnickel’s message. . .I did try something—not sure why it didn’t work. I think it’s not safe hanging about—send Tommy with the car, will you?. . .At Canary Wharf. Pick us up in fifteen minutes.”
He replaced the receiver. “Let’s collect the boys and get out of here.”
Liv and Frederica followed. Outside, Cal and Anthony leaped off their bench and met them halfway. “Well?” asked Anthony.
“Minor inconvenience,” replied Morehouse, as the boys fell in step. “Tommy’s picking us up. I’m sure Octavius had an interesting time of it in Barbados, but somehow Lance is still here—can you believe it? Mean as ever. Pridgeon says he’s on the warpath, and a couple of his goons spotted us when we first arrived. They’ve probably been keeping an eye on you two – don’t know if they saw the girls and me get on the Light Rail. We’ll keep our pace moderate, avoid attracting attention, and walk to the nearest underground station. We’ll enter as if we’re going to take the tube, then double back and wait for the car.”
He looked directly at Liv. “From there, I’m having Tommy take us to the nearest police station to drop off the four of you, where you’re to call your parents. Tell the police what y
ou know about Lance, which isn’t much. It’ll give them something to go on while I get with Pridgeon and try to work on damage control.”
He rubbed his face. “McKnickel I’m not sure about, but that’s not your concern. And you’d best start coming up with a believable story about what the three of us were doing at the Isle of Dogs. That’s not going to be easy.” “I hate lying to my parents!” Liv balled up a fist and hit her other hand. “Can’t be helped,” said Morehouse, no trace of sympathy in his voice.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
They made their way to the Underground. Unlike its Light Rail namesake, the Canary Wharf tube station beckoned them from the street with a glass canopy that became a transparent cathedral when they entered the escalator area.
“Can we turn around yet?” Anthony asked Morehouse.
“In a minute. Move forward about five more yards, then circle back to your—”
Liv was closest to him, and he pulled her back. “Uh-oh.”
He turned on his heel and walked back toward the entrance, his mouth set in a tight line. The others followed, saying nothing.
Liv risked a look backward. Everyone seemed to be going about their own business, but two men, standing still and talking to each other, seemed out of place.
They were dressed in suits, but neither was carrying a briefcase. The slicked-back hair of one and the earring of the other clashed with the image of business types Liv had seen on the streets and up close on the tube trains.