Authors: Julia Watts
He returned to his eel pie and chewed thoughtfully. “Sure, I captured and held for ransom occasionally, but only people who could afford to pay. And I hardly ever resold.”
“You sold some people twice?” Cal squeaked. Morehouse waved him off and shrugged.
“I had no right to speak to you that way,” said Frederica. She held her head high, but her voice quivered. “I’m the one who stole the box from Liv and started this mess.”
“Maybe so, Frederica, but the box was in my care,” said Liv miserably. “I let everyone down.”
Morehouse looked to the boys, who suddenly seemed very interested in their food. Cal picked bits of eel meat from the spiky bones and sank them in the pool of parsley liquor nestled in a mound of mashed potatoes. Anthony stared at his near-empty plate.
The pirate sighed and ran a hand through his wavy, dark hair. “There’s enough blame to go around for all, but right now we’ve work to do. Allow me to recap and see if I understand. I’m expected to save one of my mortal enemies—Cumpston— from killing another mortal enemy—the King himself—all at the request of you two blighters and your friends here. I should have sold you off when I first met you.”
Anthony spoke up. “Well, no offense, Mr. Morehouse, but that’s exactly what you tried to do. It just didn’t work out.”
Morehouse laughed. “You’re a pair, aren’t you? And what if I don’t want to save His Royal Highness? He wasn’t much of a friend to me. And Cumpston?”
Anthony slapped his hand on the table and ignored the “Shh!” from Liv.
“That’s exactly what I’m starting to think,” he said. “I did a little research before we left home, reading about George the Third and some other monarchs, scoping out what I might want to see while we’re here. Did you know he had a disease that made him crazy and miserable when he was old? Maybe it isn’t up to us to decide who would be better off dead, but it looks like America still got its independence even with George being killed. What about the American and British soldiers who wouldn’t have to die, if reasonable heads prevailed and cut the war short? Maybe we should just leave things the way they are now.”
Morehouse shook his head. “The king was no friend to me, but I won’t decide when he should die. And let the revolution take its course. America will have to go down the path it chose.”
He set his empty plate on Anthony’s and lifted his tray, motioning for Anthony to slide his own beneath it. “It’s still my opinion this time traveling business is wrong, mind you, but I’m beginning to think it might be fun to pull one over on old Cumpston. I find it hard to worry about the lasting effects on him and his descendants, knowing one of them as I do.”
He looked at them one by one. “Now, the question is: Where to send him? This must be carefully thought out.”
He rose from his chair and led the way to the tray return area, sorting out plates utensils, and trash as the others handed him their trays. “We’ll have Cumpston abducted and sent to. . . the Caribbean, I think. Barbados? Nevis? Antigua?”
“Maskelyne’s been to Barbados,” said Liv. “I don’t think he liked it much.”
“Then, Barbados has possibilities!”
A thud and a scuffling of footsteps sounded behind them, and they turned to see a busboy speeding away, ponytail bouncing on the back of his neck and plastic dishpan carelessly tossed on a table.
Morehouse grimaced. “Apparently the walls have ears in this place. Let’s walk a bit, shall we?”
They exited the shop and followed Morehouse down an alley. “Sorry not to treat you to a tour,” he said, “but we need privacy. Now, it may take several hours in the past—even a whole day—to set up everything for Octavius Cumpston. One of you needs to come along to take me, bring me back and act as general dogsbody while we’re there. Who’s going then? Cal?”
“I guess I can.” Cal shifted his weight from one foot to another.
“I know I can,” Anthony said. “Take both of us.”
“Done,” said Morehouse.
Anthony pulled the box from the pocket of his jacket, and Morehouse turned to the girls. “We’ll be right back.”
Liv said to Frederica,“Keep an eye out in all directions. They may not pop up exactly where they left.”
There was no time to watch or worry. Morehouse and the boys returned in a blink, looking no worse for wear. “It’s all arranged,” he said. “We’ll have a bit of a job dispatching him into a waiting hackney carriage, but I’ve set the bait and I think he’ll show up. Then it’s down to the Isle of Dogs, where a chap will be waiting to take him in a little boat to a big boat and finally across the ocean.”
Liv frowned. “I don’t understand something. You must have worn the clothes you have on now. Didn’t people question the way you looked?”
Morehouse laughed. “For the crowd we were dealing with, a gold coin answers all questions.”
He pointed to Liv. “But you girls can come on the next round and do the honors with the box. We’ll need a bit of finesse to trick Octavius. Wear some simple costumes if you like—long skirts you can just put over your jeans. We’ll let the boys wait for us this time.”
He grinned and gave Anthony a clap on the shoulder. “All for king and country, right?”
Morehouse’s phone buzzed inside his sportcoat and he answered, listening for nearly a full minute before speaking. “Well, I still have them here with me,” he said. “Get Tommy to drive—no one else.”
He folded the phone and put it away. “I’m not sure what this is about, but its proximity to the time of our eavesdropping encounter at The Jellied Eel makes me suspect someone tattled to someone.” He looked puzzled. “Pridgeon and McKnickel want to talk to me about you, and they don’t mind if you hear it.”
He led them away from Portobello Road to a deserted side street. “While we’re waiting, girls, I’ll outline tomorrow’s plan. I’ve already counted on your cooperation. We’ll all meet near Canary Wharf, right at the tube stop, and the boys will remain there. I’ll travel with the pair of you to the Isle of Dogs, where we’ll slip into seventeen-seventy-one early in the day and wait until dark.
“I’ve paid someone to deliver a message to Octavius Cumpston: that an anonymous gentleman needs a skilled negotiator to broker a deal, and he wants someone with Cumpston’s skills to do the job. It involves the sale of two young slaves, for which he thinks he’ll get a nice fee and possible referrals for future business.”
He looked at Liv’s hair. “You should get by, with your dark curls. I’ll bring a wig for Frederica. Wear shawls over your heads to cover your necks and part of your faces. It’ll be dark— long sleeves and long skirts should hide the rest well enough. Octavius’s eyes will be on the fat profit he’s expecting.”
He raised his eyebrows. “In the best-case scenario, we’ll show up, he’ll show up and we’ll dispatch him quickly. I’ve arranged for a carriage to meet us there.” Morehouse stopped in front of a shop whose windows were filled to bursting with a jumble of used vases and figurines, appropriately named Bric-a-Brac, and waited, looking up and down the street.
“We’ll tote him to the general area where we’ll have left the boys in the present. The Docklands and Canary Wharf are bustling with activity in modern times, but back in the day, it was rather isolated—just right for our needs. There’ll be only one business establishment about the place: a pub with no name. My, um, associates will be waiting there, and old Mr. Cumpston will be the one going on a journey, instead of his would-be victims. The three of us will disappear and rejoin the boys.
“Ah,” he said, indicating a huge black car, “here are Pridgeon and McKnickel.”
A sleek, black limousine glided up to the curb and stopped. The driver looked scarier than Cumpston, with a purple birthmark on one cheek and a flattened nose. Through the dark glass, Liv could make out the shapes of two passengers in the last row of seats.
“Is it safe?” she asked.
“I know them,” he replied, avoiding her question. “Get in. I’ll introduce you.” He opened the door of the cab and motioned for the four of them to enter. They sat cramped together, facing backward, behind the driver. Morehouse eased himself in beside the two men, who shifted to make room for him.
He began, “These are my unfortunate young friends.”
“Yes, unfortunate,” echoed one man. He wore a gray pinstripe suit and his shirt collar and cuffs were white, in contrast to the blue and white stripes of the shirt front. Heavy gold rings adorned his perfectly manicured fingers, and he pulled at his sleeve to reveal a Rolex watch on his left wrist. He glanced at it for a millisecond.
Liv suspected he already knew what time it was. He clasped his hands and stared at the four of them, brown eyes unreadable in a carefully shaven, unsmiling face. She studied his companion. Not so well-groomed as his associate, this one had a worry line creasing his forehead in a deep groove. Sweat stained his unbuttoned shirt collar. A loosened necktie revealed a metal extender loop hanging from the top button. His gaze shifted nervously from the driver to the window, and back to the driver.
“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-f 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.”
“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.