“No!” Binnie screamed, and ran into the fray, attacking Dreidel with everything she had. Then she stopped abruptly and said, “Why am I hitting you?” She turned and began pounding Simon. “How could you, Simon?” Simon wasn’t about to hit her so he just raised his arms and shielded himself from the blows.
At last she stopped. “You still love her?” The expression on her face was one of devastation.
Simon nodded meekly.
“You git,” said Dreidel with barely concealed malice. He took Binnie by the hand and led her out of the common room, leaving a bloody Simon standing there staring after him.
Simon was on cloud nine but there wasn’t time to enjoy it or feel the pain of his smashed nose. The detectives were in crisis and it was up to him to save them.
He went back to his machine and miracle of miracles, it was working, so he pulled Clive and Moriarty up again. Perhaps Ivy’s nearness had worked some sort of magic on it. Whatever had happened he was grateful, but what he beheld took his breath away. Was Clive really telling the worst criminal England had ever produced about the twenty-first century? Of course he would never bring Moriarty back—that went without saying—but to divulge secrets like that. No matter what he did or didn’t do the world would never be the same. How could Clive not see that?
Simon’s mind raced. Was there any way to limit the damage? Perhaps when he got the machine fixed he could go back before the point where Clive had blabbed and prevent it happening. Or maybe a miracle would occur and Moriarty would die before he could put another of his dastardly plans into effect. Was there a way he could help that along? Yes. If he went back himself and killed Moriarty. That would do it. But if he did that, who would operate the history machine? Who would debug it if it messed up again? With Clive gone there was no one, which meant that such a trip would only work in one direction. If he went he too would be trapped in the past.
He had to do it though. There was no other option. Unless . . . no, there wasn’t time to document how it worked—Simon had always been lazy about that and had neglected to write anything up. But he could make a quick video.
He mounted his phone on a tripod and spent a half hour making the video. When that was done he grabbed a throwing star and one or two more weapons and set the target date and time. He took a deep breath and pressed SEND. Then he closed his eyes and waited.
And waited and waited. When he opened them he was still sitting in front of the machine in the common room. He pressed SEND again. Same thing. He recalibrated and tried again. Still nothing.
“No!” He screamed. “Not now.” He hit the machine as hard as he could.
“Ow!” It hurt. He cradled the injured hand in the other one and rubbed it.
“This is a fine mess I’ve gotten us into,” he mumbled. He wondered for the millionth time if there were a way to get a message to his friends in the past. “It’s all on Nick now,” he thought. “He’s the only one who’s still free. He’s got to kill Moriarty.”
But although he racked his brain for the longest time, he couldn’t come up with an answer. Clive knew the stakes. If he were to get free he might do the deed. But that was a big if. Neither Nick nor Amanda knew what Moriarty was up to, so he couldn’t count on them, especially considering Amanda’s predicament. No, he was stuffed and so were they. All he could do now was continue to try to “reverse the process” and hope for the best.
19
Wimbly Coatrack My Foot
Shortly after they took Micajah Splunk away he was back. “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Amanda said.
“Aw, it’s not as bad as all that, darlin’,” he said. “Just a quick appearance before the magistrate.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d thought something terrible was going to happen to him. She was becoming attached to the old coot. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“I’m always all right . . . till I ain’t.” He laughed.
“What happened?”
“Nothin’ much,” he said. “They sentenced me to death.”
Amanda felt as if an arrow had pierced her heart. “What?”
“The usual,” he said. “It will be fine.”
“What are you talking about?” she said through the tears that were beginning to gush. “That isn’t fine at all.”
“Ya got to have faith,” he said. “Everything will turn out for the best.”
“But they’re going to execute you!” she insisted. “How is that the best?”
“It just is,” he said.
“Maybe you can appeal,” she said.
“Futile,” he replied.
“My father is a solicitor. I know all about legal things. It isn’t over until it’s over.”
“It isn’t over until it’s over, eh?” he mused. “I like that. Catchy. Except I’d fix the grammar: it ain’t over till it’s over.”
Amanda didn’t know how he could be talking about grammar at a time like this.
“Mr. Splunk,” she said. “How can you be so casual about being sentenced to death? Aren’t you afraid?”
“Gosh, love, I ain’t never afraid,” he said. “What’s the point o’ that?”
She wanted to shake him. Except when she thought about it, his attitude was way better than hers. Why be afraid when you don’t need to be?
“I guess that makes sense,” she said. “I could never do it though.”
“You don’t have my resources,” he said.
No, she supposed she didn’t. Whatever this Cockney had was completely out of the realm of her experience. She almost wished she’d been born poor and had to rely on her wits to survive.
Suddenly a man appeared with the guard. He was dressed like someone important with a top hat and long coat, very much like the outfit Nick had stolen. His hair and walrus mustache were blonde but his brows were dark. There was something about him that struck her—something familiar—but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Wimbly Coatrack, Greater and Smaller London Legal Aid,” he said. “Guard, may we have a moment?”
“Behave yourself, Coatrack,” said the guard. “You got five minutes.” He moved off, out of Amanda’s field of vision.
Mr. Coatrack put his lips to the bars of the cell. “There isn’t much time. Be ready at midnight. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“At midnight?” she said.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said. “Just be ready to go, and whatever you do, do not say a word. It’s critical that you remain as quiet as a mouse no matter what happens.”
Amanda knew that bail bondsmen in the twenty-first century worked around the clock so this didn’t strike her as that peculiar, and yet there was a furtive air about the man that made her wonder if there was more going on than she knew. But what choice did she have? The Society had come highly recommended, even if it had been by a condemned prisoner. She had to trust him.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”
He winked and she could see that his lashes were long and dark. She studied his hair under the top hat. There was something wrong with it. Wait! He was wearing a disguise. Why would a legal aid representative feel it necessary to hide his true identity?
She needed to hear his voice again. She had a hunch and she wanted to see if she was right.
“Uh, Mr. Coatrack,” she said. “How long has the Society been in business?”
“A couple of years,” he said.
So much for her theory. It wasn’t the voice of Sherlock Holmes, as she’d surmised it might be. And yet she thought she’d heard it before. Who could the man be? She was stumped.
“Thank you,” she said. “You provide a valuable service.”
“Any time,” he said, and slipped away.
Come midnight Amanda could hear a faint sound of footsteps and Wimbly Coatrack appeared in front of her cell dangling a ring of keys. He quickly unlocked the door and ushered her out. Then he stepped down the corridor and freed Splunk. He put a finger to his l
ips and motioned for them to follow, but rather than going out the front of the building he took them to the end of the cells where there was a high barred window. He entwined his fingers and held his hands out for Amanda.
“Get up there and push the bars out,” he whispered.
There was no time to question him. She stepped onto his hands, hoisted herself up, and grabbed the bars. They were loose. She pressed and they fell soundlessly to the ground. With the man’s help she levered herself through the window. There on the ground someone had placed a couple of old mattresses. No wonder the bars hadn’t made a noise when they dropped. She let herself fall and turned to make sure she didn’t hit her bad shoulder. The impact was soft and not uncomfortable. She righted herself and scrambled to her feet.
Within seconds Splunk and Coatrack had followed her. The lawyer took her hand and they ran as fast and as quietly as they could until she was completely winded.
“Come on, lass,” he said. “It isn’t too far.”
“Where are we going?” she said.
“My flat. And before you ask, I’m not going to hurt you. I would never do that. I’ll explain everything when we get there.”
Amanda would have been suspicious and scared except that she’d come to trust old Micajah Splunk. If Wimbly Coatrack was all right with him, he was all right with her. She decided to go with the two men and see what this was all about.
Soon they arrived at a crummy old building that looked as if it had seen better days. Coatrack led them into the hall and inside a tiny flat that looked as if a cyclone had hit it. He lit a lamp and doffed his hat.
“I think that worked out quite nicely,” he said, tearing off his blonde wig and mustache.
Amanda couldn’t believe her eyes. There in front of her stood none other than Lovelace Earful! Now she recognized the dark brows and lashes, the shapely mouth, the cleft chin. How could she not have known?
“Mr. Earful!” she said.
“At your service,” he said. He turned to his friend. “You were right. She is a smart one.”
“You’ll see,” said Splunk. “She’ll be perfect for the mission.”
“Mission?” said Amanda. “What mission?”
“All in good time,” said Earful. “Would you like some light refreshment?”
Amanda noticed that her stomach was growling. “Yes, please. And thank you so much for springing me.”
“My pleasure, darlin’,” he said. He was most charming. Despite his reputation she liked him instantly.
He put a small kettle on the ancient ring and extracted three little cakes from a cupboard.
“You’ll like these,” he said. “I got ‘em at Covent Garden.”
Splunk laughed. “They has the best cakes there.”
“Yeah, but you have to be quick,” said Earful. “The proprietors have got eagle eyes.”
So Earful was a thief too. It seemed that the detectives revered a man who was no better than the criminals he was supposed to be catching.
“You don’t really work for the legal aid society, do you?” she said.
“Not likely,” he laughed. “Because there is no such thing.” He seemed to think this was the funniest joke because he dissolved into giggles.
“Me and him concocted that together,” said Splunk. “Pretty good, eh?”
Amanda smiled. “I love it.”
“Mmm,” said Earful with a mouthful of cake. “Let me show you something.”
He led her to a table in the corner of the crowded room and pointed. “I’m doing something here that’s never been done before.”
The teakettle started to scream and he ran to turn off the gas. “Tea in un momento. Take a look. They won’t bite.”
Amanda looked at the table and gasped. There in front of her lay several peacock feathers and some iridescent ink—the same feathers and ink that were responsible for the secret layers of The Detective’s Bible.
“I’m making invisible ink,” he said proudly, pouring the hot water over tea leaves. “From those feathers. I think it will work. I haven’t got to the end of my experiment yet though so I can’t be sure.”
“W-why are you doing this?” she said.
He laughed. “It’s a secret.”
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I was joking,” he said. He took her by the chin and examined her face. “I can see you’re an honest person. Too bad, but the good side of that is you can be trusted. If I tell you about the ink will you promise never to tell a soul?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“I’m going to be rich,” he said.
“Ahem,” Splunk said.
“Correction,” said Earful. “We’re going to be rich.”
Splunk beamed.
Earful let go of Amanda’s chin and studied her face. “Would you like to be rich?”
“I, uh,” she said.
“Well you’re going to be,” he said. “We need someone just like you. What do you say?”
Amanda didn’t know what to say. The man was completely disarming. With everything she knew about him—good and bad—she felt as if she didn’t know him at all. She had no idea whether she could trust him. Although he had broken her out of jail, which was definitely a good thing. But what about Nick? She had to find him. She couldn’t dilly-dally all night with these two crazies.
On the other hand, here was another unique opportunity to learn all about the iconic figures who had founded Legatum and furthered her profession. Simon had to be watching. If she kept Earful and Splunk talking he could learn so much.
“Tell me more about it,” she said.
“A reasonable request,” said Earful. “However, I’m going to have to ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement first.”
He turned to a desk in the other corner and withdrew a hand-written document. “Sign this.”
Amanda took the document and began to read. Earful’s handwriting was so terrible she could barely tell what it said. But it didn’t really matter. She’d decided to go ahead with whatever it was he was doing, so she took the pen he offered her and signed her name.
“Amanda Lester,” he mused. “Has a nice ring to it. Although it’s a little close to ‘Lestrade’ for my taste. You’re not related, are you?”
Amanda wanted to burst out laughing. “How could I be? The man arrested me.”
“So he did,” said Earful. Then, peering at her, “You don’t look a thing like him.”
“Why should I?” she said.
“I have no idea,” he said, and giggled. He took the paper and threw it over his shoulder. “Very well, all is signed and legal now. Have a seat.”
Amanda sat down in a dubious-looking yellow chair and Earful handed her her tea. Then he and Splunk took the remaining two chairs, both iffy, one green and one brown.
“My name is Lovelace Earful,” he said. “I don’t know how you knew that but Micajah here talks in his sleep, so that must be it.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“I am what you call a detective,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”
Amanda decided to play dumb. She wanted to hear how he’d describe his activities.
“Not really. I come from a family of solicitors,” she said.
“You come from a family of solicitors and no one would help you get out of jail?” Earful marveled.
“They’re all dead,” Amanda ad-libbed.
“Oh, dear,” said Earful. “You should have said.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
“You didn’t, darlin’,” said Splunk. “What he means is that we would have done more to help had we known you was an orphan.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s okay. I, uh, do all right selling flowers on the street.” Like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. It was the first thing she could think of. How a mere flower seller could have been a guest at a swanky party like Mrs. Parrot’s she couldn’t imagine, but then this pair didn’t
know about that so it didn’t matter. She just hoped she could remember all her lies so she didn’t mess up.
“You’ll do much better than that with us,” said Splunk.
She felt herself getting into character. “I’m anxious to hear.”
“As I was saying, I’m a detective,” said Earful. “Micajah and I both are.”
Amanda gave Splunk a sharp look. “I thought you said you were a criminal.”
“Oh I am,” said Splunk. “I’m both. So’s my partner here. You don’t think a detective can make an honest living, do you?”
Amanda was shocked. These paragons of detective-ness were self-admitted criminals. Thrillkill would be very unhappy to learn this.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why do you do that?”
“Why do we do what?” said Earful.
“Why be a detective if you can make a living being a criminal?”
Earful smiled sadly. “We’re striving. We want to live a better life.”
“He’s too kind,” said Splunk. “I’ll never be a good man. I’m just greedy.”
“But you just said being a detective isn’t lucrative,” said Amanda.
“No, I said I couldn’t make an honest living being a detective,” said Earful. “You can make a helluva great living being a dishonest detective.”
Amanda couldn’t believe her ears. What a terrible thing to say! And this from the man the detectives considered their sainted founder.
“Are you telling me you’re dishonest because you can’t make a living being honest?” she said.
“That’s right,” said Earful. “We have to eat.”
“There’s nothing honest you could do and still make ends meet?” she said.
“Not for people of our class, no,” said Earful. “We weren’t born with silver spoons in our mouths. You of all people should know this.”
Amanda sighed. He was right. Her character should have known.
“Look,” said Earful. “You sell flowers. Don’t you think you could make more money if you told people those flowers could cure their acne or make them attractive partners or assure them of great popularity?”
Amanda Lester and the Black Shadow Terror Page 24
