Revived Spirits

by Julia Watts

  Frederica stepped forward. “We’re sorry to have disturbed you, Sir John, and we mean you no harm. We came here, well, sort of by accident, and we don’t intend to stay.”

  The old man’s skin appeared almost transparent in the dim light, and his face bore an unsettling resemblance to the skull candleholder. “I’ve been a collector of oddities and a student of secrets for a long time now, and I think I know how you came to be in my house.”

  Liv stammered, “Uh, we just wandered in. The door was unlocked.”

  Soane chuckled. “My dear children, I’m far too old and tired for games. I particularly enjoy the legends that surround things I collect, or would like to collect.

  “There’s an intriguing story of a golden disk, cast by an ancient South American tribe. It enabled the makers to travel through time.

  “In their wisdom, they knew it was too dangerous a thing to use much, so the secret was closely guarded. Only one elder at a time knew how to make a device to activate the disk.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “Hah! There’s my confirmation I see it in your eyes. I’d hoped the Quimbaya legend was true. I don’t suppose you’d want to sell it, would you?”

  “Oh, no sir, we couldn’t,” replied Liv.

  “I thought not.”

  Curiosity got the better of her. “Even if you knew the legend, how could you be so sure we’d time traveled?”

  He wagged a finger at them and grinned. “It wasn’t as much of a leap of logic as you might think. In fact, it was beautifully simple. You weren’t here, and then you were. Your accents are strange, your clothing is strange, and you’re. . .”—he poked the air with a finger, searching for the right word—“. . .cheeky.”

  His expression sobered. “I have only two concerns. First, are you using this extraordinary gift in a frivolous fashion, or out of necessity?” He peered at them over the pince-nez spectacles perched on his long nose.

  “We were running for our lives,” said Liv, “and trying to save three others.”

  Soane nodded. “That, at least, is the truth. I hear it in your voice. Second—and it’s a self-centered question from a bitter old man—what about my work? All my beautiful buildings, and this house?” He waved his hand. “I poured my heart and soul into it all, and look at me. Feeble and lonely, hoping someone remembers me. Does anyone?”

  Frederica moved a step closer. “Sir John, I’ll just tell you the truth, because I don’t think you’d respect anything less. There’s not much left of your public buildings, but you’re still regarded as a great architect.”

  She raised her head toward the ceiling. “And this place is known all over the world. It’s been visited and loved and cared for by generations of people who appreciate what you did.”

  “Well, now, that cheers a fellow up, doesn’t it? An ancient mystery solved, and good news about the future. I’m doubly glad you came.”

  He pointed to the hallway. “The housekeeper has taken off early, so you may go anywhere you wish and travel back to your own time. There’s no one else in the house. For some reason, I can’t seem to keep live-in help anymore. No one wants to spend the night here. Pity—the house is wonderfully spooky at night.”

  Sir John dipped his quill in a nearby inkpot and began to write again. “Spoke with time travelers after dinner. It seems the legend of Quimbaya is true.”

  He closed the book, picked up the skull, and gave a start when he saw the girls still standing there. “Oh, I thought we’d said good bye. Thank you for an interesting evening, but you’d best be going. Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks,” they said in unison.

  They hurried along the hallway. “Let’s walk to the gift shop area,” said Liv. “When we go back, maybe there’s a phone at the cash register.”

  “Right. Once we’ve traveled, you look for the boys. I’ll make the call and join you.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The quiet of eighteen thirty-five was shattered by the chaos of the present. Staff and visitors had gathered near the stairs, yelling and pointing up to the loft area. Mobiles were everywhere, and two people were using theirs to take video of something happening above.

  Liv looked up and saw Anthony, struggling with Nigel, trying to keep from being pushed over the railing. Cal was tugging at Eddie with one arm and pounding him with the other in an attempt to keep him from helping Nigel. If Anthony fell, it would be a multistory drop onto the stone floor.

  She screamed, “No-ooo!” and ran toward the stairs. Shouts and footsteps came from behind her, and she was knocked aside. She heard the thud of her head hitting the iron railing, and everything went black.

  When she opened her eyes, it surprised her to see that the floor had zoomed up to just below her shoulders. The walls and ceiling spun around merrily at first, then slowed as a pair of arms lifted her head and shoulders. She looked up.

  It was Tommy. She tried to struggle and fell back, watching bright spots dance around his face. As they disappeared, she could make out more shapes. Frederica, Anthony and Cal.

  None of them seemed worried about Tommy. She needed to save them all, but she felt so tired. She’d just close her eyes for a minute and save them after she’d had a little rest. . .

  Bursts of static and unintelligible talk woke her, and she watched Tommy pull a walkie-talkie from inside his jacket. “This is Harper. Yeah, the kids are safe, but we need an ambulance for one of them.”

  He looked down at Liv, but before he could speak, the yellow-green jacket of a police officer came into blurry view. The woman reached down and touched Tommy on the shoulder. “Sir, we have two mobile units and several officers on foot trailing Cumpston. The bug in his suit jacket is still working. We’ve been able to hear everything, even his mobile conversations. He’s chasing Morehouse.”

  “Right. Let’s go the extra mile to save Morehouse if we can. It’s Cumpston and his goons we’re after.”

  He turned to Liv. “Not the best timing, was it? You lot being pursued by Cumpston and friends just as we were closing in. Wish we’d been a day earlier.”

  He grinned and pointed his thumb behind him. “But it worked out all right for your brother, didn’t it? My boys dashing up the stairs—a bit fast, but I hope you’ll forgive them for knocking you down on their way to save him.”

  He pulled Liv up to a sitting position and motioned to the boys and Frederica. “Here, take care of her. And don’t let her go to sleep.”

  The policewoman held up a hand for silence, and everyone listened to Cumpston’s voice, relayed through her walkie.

  “He’s headed to the Silver Vaults. It looks like. . .yeah, he’s going in.”

  “We’re on it,” replied a second voice. “Right behind you. The Silver Vaults, eh? There won’t be an easy way for him to get away from us.”

  They could hear Cumpston’s labored breathing and he gasped, “That could get dangerous in a hurry.”

  The second voice drawled, “Yeah, but it could also be a bit of fun.”

  “Stop it. And be there by the time I get there.”

  Cumpston’s phone beeped as he disconnected the call, and the room was filled with the amplified sound of his shoes hitting the sidewalk, closing in on Morehouse. Tommy said to the policewoman, “My team’s out of here. Truss Nigel and Eddie up like chickens and treat them as very dangerous. We’ll charge ’em with attempted murder of a child.” He spoke into his walkie. “I’m on my way. I want a couple of extra squad cars and an ambulance at the Vaults.”

  He waved to Liv and the others. “Wish us luck.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Morehouse wondered which would get him first—the burning in his lungs or the screaming of overtaxed leg muscles. A few years of the soft life, and he was out of shape. But even in his pirate prime, he’d’ve been no match for these pursuers. With their mobile phones and cars, they could run him to ground without exerting themselves.

  The sidewalks of Chancery Lane, in London’s historic legal district, offered
no cover, and the next tube station was probably a three-minute run. Too risky.

  He jogged past the entrance to the Silver Vaults, where he’d done business a few times in the sprawling underground-safeturned-mall. Room-sized shops sold everything from old coins to fine jewelry, used teaspoons to precious silver antiques.

  There were plenty of nooks and crannies for him to hide in, but they could fast become places to get cornered, and the way in was probably also the only way out. He tried not to think about that as he went in.

  Passing several little shops, slowing his pace, he willed his heart rate to slow down and wondered what to do next.

  At a jewelry shop window, he pretended to examine the selection of vintage watches while checking the glass for reflections of Lance or his boys. Satisfied, he moved on, matching his step to the meandering stroll of the few customers in the long hall.

  With Lance nowhere to be seen, Morehouse entered a shop, empty except for an elderly merchant seated on a stool by the cash register. Browsing at a table near the window, he stood perfectly still. Something—some heightened awareness told him danger was coming.

  Sure enough, two strangers came into view. Their senses must have been as hyped-up as his—one of them scanned the shops and his eyes locked on Morehouse. Without a word, he placed a hand on his buddy’s arm.

  Morehouse’s mind raced. Who were these two? Where were Nigel and Eddie? If they weren’t here, they must have gone after the kids. He had to get out and find them.

  A sword at the back of the shop caught his eye. He darted past the surprised shopkeeper and pulled it off the wall.

  “Are you interested in that piece, sir? No silver on it, but it’s a very fine seventeenth-century hunting hanger. The blade is single-edged and curved, as you can see. Staghorn handle’s in perfect condition, and the owner’s name’s engraved on the knucklebar.”

  “Hmm. . .R. Clark. Didn’t know him, but it was before my time.”

  The owner gave him a puzzled look.

  “Could be a naval officer’s sword,” said Morehouse, hefting the weapon and keeping an eye on the shop windows at the same time.

  “Very good, sir! Naval officers in the sixteen hundreds often used hunting hangers. This one’s priced at seven hundred fifty pounds, but I could let it go for seven hundred.”

  Lance’s minions slipped in at the shop door.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a shield about the place, would you?” Morehouse grabbed the handle of a silver tea service, sending the teapot, sugar bowl and creamer clattering to the floor, pulling the tray to his chest for protection.

  The dealer’s mouth popped open, but he made only a squeak, as a strong arm reached from behind and gripped his neck like a vise. Lance’s helper held a gun to the old man’s head with his free hand, while his partner rushed at Morehouse.

  The partner pulled his own gun from a shoulder holster and aimed it at Morehouse as he closed the distance between them.

  Morehouse feinted to his attacker’s left, thrusting the sword just enough to distract him, then lunged and flicked the gun from the man’s hand. He’d meant only to knock it to the floor, but the tip of the blade nicked the webbing between the thug’s forefinger and thumb, and a small red fountain spurted.

  “Shoot him, would you?” he shouted, waving his hand at his partner. “Look—I’m bleeding, and that blade’s probably filthy with germs. I’ll need a tetanus sho—”

  A metallic thunk interrupted his request and he sank to the floor, unconscious.

  “You shouldn’t’ve gone and done that!” the first thug shouted at Morehouse, pressing his gun barrel hard at the merchant’s right temple. “I can hang onto the old man whilst shooting you, and still have my hostage.”

  It was true. The hostage was a couple of inches shorter, several pounds lighter, and a few decades older than his captor. And his right arm was jammed up against his body. His left hand was free, which probably counted for nothing.

  Still, bravado had saved him before. He grinned and said, “You don’t want to fire that thing in here. The bullet might ricochet right off this tray and fly back at you.”

  The shopkeeper’s left arm snaked backward. His fingers closed around a tall silver candlestick on a nearby table. Slowly, silently, the candlestick rose.

  “Sorry, chum, a bit of silver’s no match for a bul—”

  The merchant nodded in satisfaction as Morehouse whistled and said, “These lads have trouble finishing their sentences, don’t they? How’d you manage that?”

  “I snatched the nearest piece of inventory I could reach. I still play tennis. . .” He smiled. “And I’m left-handed.”

  Just Lance now to deal with, and he might get out of here yet. Morehouse shouted, “Call the police!” and waved the sword. “Need to borrow this a bit longer.”

  The dealer looked up in dismay. “There’s more?”

  He held the door for Morehouse, turning the “Open” sign to “Closed.” He followed him out, slamming the door shut and twisting the key in the deadbolt lock while he struggled to pull his mobile out of his pocket.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Morehouse took off at a dead run, vowing to join a gym if he lived through this. He hadn’t gone far before Lance’s men had found him, but that point of geography might play in his favor now, as the main entrance was only about fifty yards away.

  All the commotion had drawn a small crowd out into the mall area, and mobile phones appeared at ears, with variations of, “There’s a lunatic running through the Vaults with a sword!” pinged off the walls and down the hallways. It occurred to him that the average bystander might assume he was the criminal, and he hoped to be able to sort that out later.

  Another ten yards or so. Then what?

  There was no time to consider it. Out the door of the last shop came Lance, his gun pointed straight at Morehouse. Screams split the air and people scattered.

  Lance seemed oblivious to the sounds. He was completely focused, holding his gun with both hands and glowering at Morehouse.

  Morehouse knew that look—he’d seen it in Octavius’s eyes not long ago. Ironic: it looked as if Lance was about to finish what his ancestor would have liked to do.

  He had nothing to ward off the bullets. The silver tray lay on the shop floor, forgotten in his haste to leave. He gripped the antique sword.

  “You! And those brats!”

  “Leave them out of it, Lance—your quarrel’s with me. And you’d better not’ve hurt them.”

  “Ha! I left them for Nigel and Eddie to dispose of. You’re mine.”

  Morehouse slowly tightened his grip on the sword handle and centered his weight, ready to spring.

  Cumpston gave a thin smile. “You didn’t do a very good job protecting your young friends. They never called the police, and Tommy phoned to say he lured them into the car, where all three of them fit nicely into the boot.”

  Morehouse had nothing to go on but sheer rage and willpower. At a distance of only about ten feet, Lance couldn’t miss, but the first shot probably wouldn’t kill him instantly. Might as well do some damage on the way down, maybe even take Lance with him.

  The sound of the gun was deafening, and the pain in his head was stunning. Blood filled his eyes, but he didn’t need to see or hear to find Lance. Instinct guided him forward, and he knew he was about to make contact when a fire erupted in his shoulder.

  Then the world fell on top of him, and there was nothing.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jagged pieces of consciousness stabbed at the pleasant curtain of blackness. Morehouse was on the floor, but someone was cradling his head and shoulders, wiping the blood from his eyes. His temporary deafness was replaced by a painful roar in both ears, and over it he heard a familiar voice.

  “This is getting a bit tiresome.”

  He opened his eyes to slits, and gave a moan of despair: Tommy. But. . .there were police everywhere, and people carrying Lance away on a stretcher. And Tommy seemed to be in charge
of it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We just went through a similar drama with your young friends at the Soane Museum, though I’m pleased to report no one was shot.”

  “That’s a relief. Just me, eh?”

  “Two places, mate. A nice, clean hole through your shoulder. Bullet went right in and out—we collected it already. The other’s a crease to your skull. Lots of blood, not much damage though, I think.”

  Morehouse struggled against the wave of nausea stirred by hearing about his own injuries. His ears were still ringing, and he couldn’t tell if the voices of the other police were near or far away.

  He complained, “Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a copper when you need one?”

  Tommy chuckled. “I shouldn’t wonder—we had the whole neighborhood cordoned off. Put out word through the media for folks to stay inside or stay away.”

  “What about Cumpston?”

  “Hmph. He did some damage to himself on that sword, but he’ll live.”

  “You mean he just fell on it—all by himself?”

  “More or less. We came dashing in just as he was stepping forward to shoot you in the face. We startled him and ruined his aim, which is how your shoulder got clipped. You fell to the floor, still holding up the sword. I must say, your form was rather impressive. A single thrust at Cumpston, and he lost his footing. Fell on top of you and skewered himself. Nearly squashed you in the process.” He scanned Morehouse’s blood stained body. “Hurt a lot?”

  Morehouse nodded and was grateful when a medic appeared at his side with an IV and bag. Almost immediately, the pain decreased and he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Morehouse’s hospital room was a mirror image of the one Liv had just left. During her overnight observation, a nurse had awakened her every thirty minutes to ask how she felt, and now she was ready for a nice, long nap.