THE TIME THIEF

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  “What nightmare is this?” he cried.

  Abruptly someone turned the door handle and, finding it locked, rapped sharply on the door instead. Lord Luxon was in such a heightened state of alarm he all but screamed at the interruption.

  “May I be of assistance, my Lord? I heard a cry,” his servant called.

  “No, no…. All is well. A bad dream, that is all…. I bid you good night.”

  “Very well. Good night, my Lord.”

  The dagger fell onto the wooden floor with a clatter and Lord Luxon watched, unable to move, as the Tar Man heaved himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. There was a small, frayed slit in his shirt over his heart and he clutched at his stomach and prodded his face and his arms and his legs as if to reassure himself that they were still there.

  “Do I yet live? I feel I have been turned outside in and pummeled in a butter churn for good measure,” groaned the Tar Man. “By heaven, I feel sick to my stomach.”

  He let his head drop forward between his knees and his back started to heave as if he were about to vomit. After a moment, though, he revived a little and sat up. The Tar Man looked directly into Lord Luxon’s eyes, and when he read the horror-struck expression on his old master’s face, a wafer-thin smile flickered over his lips. Then the Tar Man chose to vanish into thin air, but very slowly, like condensed breath evaporating from a cold mirror. He kept eye contact to the end. Lord Luxon staggered backward and fell into the armchair, where he contemplated the full horror and mystery of what he had seen until dawn’s watery light announced the break of day.

  Once he had recovered from the physical shock of experiencing his blurring body repulse an object from a different time, the Tar Man rejoiced in the possibilities which this encounter suggested to him. Just as materializing in a tree had caused him no lasting hurt, he had been stabbed in the heart and yet had suffered no injury. Was he, the Tar Man wondered, to all extents and purposes, invincible when he faded back to his own time? Not, he thought, that he was in any hurry to repeat such a nauseating experience. However, what gave the Tar Man most satisfaction was that Lord Luxon had plainly taken him for a ghost. Which, in a way, he was. A ghost from the future. And it seemed to him that even the duplicitous Lord Luxon might think twice before concealing the truth from a visitor from the spirit world….

  Had he been able to compare notes with the young Kate Dyer, the Tar Man would have discovered that soon after his first experience of fading on the Golden Gallery of St. Paul’s, by dint of practice and perseverance he was able to blur for substantial periods of time, longer by far than Kate had been able to, before feeling the inevitable and irresistible force that hurled him back to the twenty-first century. In the same way that pearl divers gradually build up the length of time they can spend underwater, on his trips back to 1763 the Tar Man always resisted, with gritted teeth, the pull of the future for as long as he possibly could before the luminous spirals covered his vision like a migraine. Soon he could manage a full half an hour with little discomfort—three times the length of time, at least, that Kate had ever been able to manage. But, unlike Kate, the Tar Man was planning a whole career around his ability to blur at will.

  He blurred back to Bird Cage Walk three times over the following few days, reasoning that the more fear he could instill into Lord Luxon’s heart, the more likely it would be that he could tease the truth out of him. In general, the Tar Man hurt people to get what he wanted from them and, unlike Joe Carrick, did not take any particular pleasure in seeing them suffer. However, the prospect of watching Lord Luxon squirm was not without its attractions. The Tar Man therefore appeared fleetingly at the end of his bed on the following night, and the next evening stepped out suddenly in front of Lord Luxon as he walked out of his front door. The day after that he materialized at supper-time while Lord Luxon was sipping some chicken soup alone in his parlor. When Lord Luxon saw the ghostly apparition yet again in as many days, with his nerves already torn to shreds, he dropped his silver spoon, staining his silk waistcoat and the spotless linen tablecloth. The Tar Man was just about to sit down next to him and engage him in conversation when footsteps in the corridor announced the imminent arrival of a servant. The Tar Man walked to the window and concealed himself behind the long, red velvet drapes. Lord Luxon continued to look in horror at the curtain while his footman took away his half-empty soup dish and replaced it with a platter of grilled Dover sole. Noticing the look of anguish on his master’s face, the footman asked if he could be of any assistance.

  “I fear not,” replied Lord Luxon, who had convinced himself that, like Macbeth and the ghost of Banquo, he alone could see the vengeful spirit of his old henchman. The Tar Man came so close to laughter he had to return immediately to the future for fear of ruining the effect of his haunting and decided to wait for a couple of days before attempting to extract the truth from Lord Luxon.

  Exciting new challenges were presenting themselves in the twenty-first century and the Tar Man’s preoccupation with his relationship to Gideon Seymour diminished. Instead, forging relationships with a handful of key figures in London’s underworld became his priority. Back in the eighteenth century, however, Lord Luxon, for his part, could think of nothing but the next ghostly visitation. Any unexpected movement in his peripheral vision was apt to make him jump out of his skin. Not only that, his sleep was shattered, he had lost his appetite, and his consumption of wine, already high, increased further. Habitually fastidious with regard to his dress, the aristocrat was seen to arrive at his club, White’s on St. James’s, looking somewhat disheveled. This provoked much comment among his gambling cronies, and when one of them suggested that the black circles under his eyes were a result of his guilty past catching up with him, he had to be restrained from challenging the impudent fellow to a duel.

  But, at last, the Tar Man took it into his head to revisit his old master in Bird Cage Walk. Certainly one reason was to clear up, once and for all, the troublesome matter of his relationship to Gideon Seymour, but now he had another reason. He had it on Anjali’s good authority that the paintings and engravings of certain eighteenth-century artists would, as she put it, “fetch a packet” in London’s great auction houses. Anjali had done her homework and had given him three names to remember: Thomas Gainsborough, Joshua Reynolds, and George Stubbs. The Tar Man had not heard of any of these gentlemen, but he was actually acquainted with another artist she mentioned, William Hogarth. They both frequented the same chop house in Covent Garden, and Lord Luxon, he knew for a fact, had purchased several of his engravings to grace the hall at Bird Cage Walk.

  And so it was that Lord Luxon arrived back from White’s Club one evening to find Blueskin draped over his Italian marble staircase with a small pile of Hogarth engravings neatly stacked next to him. Gray with fright and unable to bear this haunting any longer, the aristocrat sank to his knees in despair.

  “How much longer must I endure this, O Spirit?” he cried.

  It was then that the Tar Man chose to pose the question he had delayed putting to Lord Luxon for so long.

  “Was it well done, my Lord, to bring two brothers together only to deceive them as to their true identity and then condemn one of them to death?”

  Lord Luxon covered his face with his hands. When he removed them, his cheeks glistened.

  “It was wrong of me, Blueskin, and I do most sincerely repent my actions. I assure you that I had intended to tell you … at an apposite moment.”

  “Before or after Gideon Seymour was hanged!” exploded the Tar Man. “So it is true then.”

  Lord Luxon was all confusion.

  “You did not know? The dead are then as ignorant as the living?”

  “I am not dead, you fool! I am transported to the future by the magic machine. I am able to return to my own time only in this altered form. Ha! You have used me ill, my Lord! I deserved better!”

  “The machine transported you to the future!”

  “Ay, my Lord. Hundreds of years into the future.
I have seen things the like of which would make your hair stand on end…. And already I am rich!”

  Lord Luxon remained speechless and stared at him in astonishment. Had the Tar Man not been so angry, he might have noticed the sparks of desire and cunning that suddenly blazed on Lord Luxon’s features before he smothered them, as fast as they had appeared.

  “I must inform you at once, Blueskin, that I cannot swear that you and Gideon are brothers. It was based on mere conjecture, that is all.”

  The Tar Man stood up and said angrily: “Is Gideon my brother or is he not?”

  “Without further investigation, I can neither confirm nor deny it. And, alas, your informant, the gamekeeper, is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “An accident. An encounter with a poacher, I believe.”

  “Do not play with me, my Lord!”

  “Upon my word, why should I play with you?”

  “And yet you knew there was a possibility that Gideon Seymour and I were brothers the day you hired me!”

  Lord Luxon did not reply.

  “Do not deny it!”

  “Ah, how the past does ever hold us in its thrall,” replied Lord Luxon. “Even if you and Gideon were brothers—would it change your life one whit?”

  “But why did you not tell me of the possibility, damn your eyes!” hissed the Tar Man. “The truth, my Lord!”

  Lord Luxon opened his mouth and closed it again. His mouth twitched.

  “Because it amused me.”

  The Tar Man gave a hollow laugh. “I believe you! The day of the race, how you must have relished your secret … to pit brother against brother … I could have killed him!”

  “I told you! It is a possibility, that is all!” Then Lord Luxon added petulantly: “But what a pleasure it would have been to see the look on Gideon’s self-righteous face on being told that your black blood runs in his own veins.”

  The Tar Man leaped up, beside himself. “Blood is blood, my Lord Luxon, and we’ll soon see the color of yours!”

  The Tar Man took a furious swipe at Lord Luxon but his former master did not end up in a huddled heap on the stairs as he had intended. Instead, the Tar Man found that his fist sank into his victim’s chin as if it were jelly. He pulled it out straightaway with considerable repugnance. Lord Luxon, meanwhile, retched uncontrollably. His henchman had touched the roots of his teeth, grated his bones with his nails; for an instant their flesh had mingled. His pale complexion grew even paler and he repeatedly stroked his chin to reassure himself that all was well. The Tar Man was cradling his fist in his other hand but refused to admit to any discomfort or surprise. So, he thought, I might be invincible when I fade, but neither can I do more damage than make a man heave…. He sat down again, a little breathless, on one of the marble steps and gazed down at Lord Luxon in distaste.

  “I’ve often heard say that Gideon Seymour is your conscience. ’Tis no wonder, then, that you wanted to kill him.”

  Continuing to rub his chin, Lord Luxon considered his reply. The two men eyed each other.

  “Come, Blueskin, let us not quarrel. It is true that Gideon had a rare talent as a cutpurse. But his conversion to a righteous existence was ill timed…. I lost a tidy sum—and more than I could afford—when he refused to ply his trade. But, all’s well that ends well, and with your arrival my troubles were over. Your reputation is well deserved. I have been unable, in truth, to conduct my affairs properly in your absence….”

  The Tar Man did not care to acknowledge the compliment, mistrusting, as he did, his old master’s motives. What is he about, now? he wondered. My Lord is as slippery as ever….

  “I have not had news of Gideon since his rescue from Tyburn,” Lord Luxon continued. “Did the magic machine also transport him through time?”

  “No. He remained here with Master Peter Schock. I journeyed to the future with Miss Dyer and her father.”

  “So the boy is still here! How really very intriguing! … Then is the machine in your possession?”

  “No.”

  “Then how … ?”

  “I am able to fade back here, but for a short time only, before I must return to the future.”

  “In the same manner in which you told me Mistress Dyer and Master Schock faded! But the machine allows you to travel from one century to another as you will?”

  “Ay, that would seem to be the case….”

  “Then you would do well to track down this ingenious device!”

  “I know nothing of that,” said the Tar Man, irritated that something so obvious had not occurred to him before. He was beginning to feel strained. Invisible forces were clutching at him. “And now, my Lord, I must bid you adieu. I trust you will not begrudge me these worthless engravings by way of recompense…. It was wrong of you to withhold this secret from me….”

  Lord Luxon laughed. “What, do you mean to tell me that Mr. Hogarth’s pictures have a value in the future? Take them with my blessing, Blueskin! For I shall do my utmost to make amends for the wrong I have done you. I have always admired you and thought you deserved better….”

  In some pain, the Tar Man grimaced and clutched the engravings to him. He managed to whisper: “I could buy Tempest House twice over with the proceeds from these.”

  He half closed his eyes and luminous spirals began to cloud his vision. He was beginning to fade. Lord Luxon rushed toward his increasingly transparent henchman, his hands outstretched. The Tar Man heard him calling after him as if from a great distance….

  “Promise me that you will come again, Blueskin! I, too, desire to see the future! If you agree to help me, I shall give commissions to every last painter in London! And I shall leave no stone unturned until I discover the true nature of your relationship with Gideon Seymour. Just say the word and it shall be done!”

  THIRTEEN

  THE SIX CONSPIRATORS

  In which the six conspirators make plans in the Derbyshire farmhouse and Dr. Pirretti makes a confession

  Dr. Dyer kept the promise he had made to Mr. Schock in Middle Harpenden. He immediately contacted Mrs. Schock to explain that both her husband and his daughter were currently in the mid-eighteenth century attempting to track down Peter. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Schock was outraged that Dr. Dyer would taunt her in this ludicrous manner and questioned whether the balance of his mind had been disturbed by the stress both families had been under. She had slammed the receiver down and burst into tears. But when her husband still had not contacted her after twelve hours, Mrs. Schock had telephoned the Dyers. Kate’s mother had confirmed the story and also arranged for Mrs. Schock to speak with Dr. Pirretti in the States. There had been a short delay while Dr. Pirretti located a secure landline, for she was concerned that her telephone might have been bugged.

  Now Peter’s mother stood at her sitting-room window, gripping the receiver and staring out at a sunny Richmond Green, as Dr. Pirretti repeated the same story. Mrs. Schock doubted neither her sincerity nor the feelings of sympathy and professional regret which she expressed. And even under such devastating circumstances, she warmed to the Californian scientist.

  Dr. Pirretti was honest enough to admit that she had been against revealing the truth to her. She also spoke of her dismay at the unexpected side effect of their antigravity experiment and her determination, one way or another, to kick over all traces of the existence of a machine capable of time travel.

  “I’m so sorry that you’ve been burdened with this knowledge when you’ve already got so much to deal with, but please,” urged Dr. Pirretti, “I’m begging you to be discreet. It will be a catastrophe for the world if this gets out.”

  When Mrs. Schock put the receiver down she felt curiously detached from the world. Her gaze followed the progress of a group of children and their small dog along the diagonal path that crosses Richmond Green until they reached the red postbox on the opposite side. She had never felt more alone.

  Megan had promised Kate to keep an eye on Sam. She was visiting him the following day after scho
ol when, unannounced, Mrs. Schock arrived at the farm. She had driven up to Derbyshire to speak with Dr. and Mrs. Dyer in person. Megan and Sam were sitting around the kitchen table munching on peanut butter biscuits when Kate’s mum brought in a pretty woman with dark, bobbed hair to say hello.

  “This is Peter’s mother,” she said.

  The grown-ups shut themselves up in the dining room where they talked for three hours without a break. Megan gingerly opened the dining-room door to say good-bye when it was time for her to go home. Mrs. Schock immediately got up and asked Megan if she would be coming again soon because she wanted to hear all about Kate and what, if anything, she had told her about the time she spent with Peter in the eighteenth century. Megan took to Mrs. Schock. She looked sad—which was hardly surprising—but she was smart and quick to smile.

  “Kate takes after her dad,” Megan told her. “They’re both incredibly determined.”

  “And stubborn!” said Mrs. Dyer.

  “Thanks!” said her husband.

  “I know Kate and Peter’s dad will find him—you’ll see….” said Megan.

  Mrs. Schock gave her a grateful smile and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “So you think there’s hope yet?”

  “Definitely!”

  Mrs. Schock had booked herself into a nearby hotel but was persuaded to stay on at the farm. She never left. It was so much easier to be with people who knew exactly what she was going through, and it was good not to be forever watching her words. Megan came most days to spend some time with Sam and, in an unspoken pact of secrecy and support, the five of them—two children and three adults—in their own very different ways, shored up the collective morale against those negative thoughts that inevitably assailed them all.