by Julia Watts
On the opposite side of the room, a small orchestra had been set up. Liv counted twelve chairs, plus a keyboard instrument with a bench. Apparently, the musicians were on break. Violins rested on velvet seats and candles on the music stands were snuffed. Liv looked around for Cumpston and spotted Maskelyne instead, bowing stiffly as he greeted his guests. She caught the astronomer’s eye, and the slight shake of his head indicated that Cumpston wasn’t near yet.
Liv was drawn to the keyboard and she walked over to get a better look. Was it a harpsichord? How did it feel and sound? She became aware of Frederica beside her, and they both jumped at Maskelyne’s voice.
“And these are my nieces,Your Highness, the Misses Havard.” Liv winced as Maskelyne took her arm and turned her firmly around to face a plump, sweet-looking older lady.
“We don’t turn our backs on royalty,” he hissed quietly into Liv’s ear, never losing his smile or taking his eyes off the woman. Frederica immediately curtsied, and Liv followed suit. If they’d broken any rules of etiquette, the woman kindly pretended not to notice, and addressed Liv with a slight German accent that was as friendly as her smile.
“I saw you looking at the instrument with longing, my dear. It’s a new fortepiano. You should play it. Go ahead—no one will mind. Enjoy yourself.”
Liv’s face flushed with pleasure. Permission to play a cool instrument, granted by Queen Charlotte, wife of George the Third!
She sat on the seat cushion of rich blue velvet and felt the ivory and ebony keys silently, wondering how they would respond to her touch. She plunged into her favorite Bach Invention, pleased with the delicate but beautiful tone.
Queen Charlotte beamed and nodded, making her way back to her friends and waving her hand back at Liv. Murmers of approval reached her ears before she lost herself in the joy of playing.
Polite applause followed the end of the piece, then everyone went back to partying and talking. The king had made no formal statement yet, and the guests were still abuzz with anticipation.
Liv was having fun. She began to play bits of the Mozart sonata that she had memorized. Frederica came and went, sometimes sitting beside her and talking, then drifting off to chat with Maskelyne. There was still no sign of Cumpston or Harrison.
Deciding that no one was really paying attention to her background music, she began to play the one other thing she could remember, a favorite Beethoven sonata. She smiled as she thought how Beethoven was probably just a little child right now, and didn’t notice the man making his way toward her, impatiently darting through the crowd.
“What the devil was that?” he demanded, pulling up a chair beside the harpsichord’s gilded bench. “The one before sounded like that little Austrian monkey, Mozart, and never mind how a young lady like you got hold of it.” He stabbed the air with his finger. “But that last one is extraordinary! I’ve never heard such. Whoever is the composer?”
“I’m, uh. . .visiting from America.” Could she talk her way out of this? “I, er, don’t have the music. A friend showed it to me. I’ll have to ask her about it when I get back—to America, that is.”
Frederica walked past and whispered in Liv’s ear, “Brilliant! You’re creating a diversion. Keep it up.” Liv watched her make her way back to Maskelyne, and stood to follow.
“Wait!” the man cried. He walked a few steps to an orchestra chair and picked up a violin. Back at the fortepiano, he played a snatch of the piece. “Isn’t that how it goes? What was the next part? Can you hum it for me?”
Liv was worried now. Would this man remember the tune for a long time? When Beethoven wrote it later, would there be a lawsuit? She reached for the keys and began to repeat one of her earlier selections, ignoring the man until he shrugged and walked away.
She became aware of a plain brown jacket, its elbows at her eye level. She’d gotten used to people wandering by, murmuring compliments or just listening for a moment before moving on. She wondered what this one would say. She glanced up at his face, then wished she hadn’t. It was the king.
Calm down, she told herself. He must be enjoying it.
King George smiled. “I recall a time when a little boy— young Mozart—came to London and played for us,” he said wistfully. “He ran around in the palace garden with my children and sat on my wife Charlotte’s lap.” He sighed and wiped his eyes. “It was a happy time. My own children loved me. Even the colonies, my American ‘children’, loved me. Or so I thought.”
His shoulders sagged, and he placed a hand on the fortepiano to steady himself. “It’s different now.” Liv continued to play, unsure if she should say anything, but feeling an unexpected wave of sympathy for this man her country would fight to be rid of in a few years.
She knew the music so well that she could continue playing and look beyond him. No more than ten feet away, Frederica was nodding at Maskelyne and beginning to make her way toward Cumpston, who had just stepped into the room.
Cumpston snapped his fingers at a servant carrying a tray of wineglasses and took two without thanking him, holding them both in one hand. If Liv hadn’t been looking for suspicious behavior, she would never have noticed that Cumpston moved his palm over one glass, then took it in his free hand and swirled it around.
Maskelyne was now speaking earnestly to a man who must be John Harrison, pursuing him while Harrison attempted to break away. But the farther Harrison moved from Maskelyne, the closer he came to Cumpston, and to Liv and the king. Obviously not eager to converse with his rival of many years, Harrison turned toward the smiling Cumpston and inclined his head, falling for the “rescue”.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you have to move.” She stood up and pulled at George’s sleeve. Cumpston and Harrison came closer, and she saw Cumpston reaching into his pocket. “Now!”
“You don’t touch a king!” cried Frederica, suddenly appearing at Liv’s side as the monarch raised his eyebrows and peered down at Liv in disapproval.
Frederica turned from Liv and the king and stepped in front of Cumpston. “Don’t do it, Mr. Cumpston. You’ll be caught and hanged for it.”
Cumpston’s eyes widened, then narrowed as recognition slowly dawned. “You two!” He checked the wineglasses, took a sip from the one that wasn’t cloudy, and set them down on an orchestra chair. “I assure you, I won’t be caught, as my preparations are meticulous. But since you’ve rather spoiled my first plan, I’ll put the second one into play.” He pulled a pistol from inside his jacket, keeping it half-hidden by the jacket and covering the barrel with a silk kerchief.
“No!” cried Liv and Frederica, but their voices were lost in the sounds of the party. Cumpston aimed the pistol at Harrison, who was focused on Liv, pushing forward to protect the king from her and politely requesting that His Majesty step back a bit. The pop of the gun went unnoticed, sounding more like the uncorking of a champagne bottle than an assassin’s bullet.
Liv held her breath and waited for Harrison to fall while the king, with a puzzled look on his face, put a finger to his side. He stared at the red stain that appeared there, growing quickly to the size of a grapefruit.
John Harrison had stepped forward to shield the king, and had caused him to move into Cumpston’s line of fire.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The girls watched in horrified fascination as the monarch sat heavily on the floor and was immediately surrounded by a swarm of would-be helpers. Men shouted, a woman screamed, and Liv grabbed Frederica’s arm. “Find Cumpston! Where is he?”
“He’s gone! I don’t see him anywhere!”
Liv looked around the room and caught Anthony’s eye. Anthony grabbed Cal’s arm and headed toward the door. Liv nodded and did the same with Frederica.
Fighting their way against the tide of people rushing toward the king, the four reached the doorway at the same time and squeezed out together, spilling into the hall. Cal, athletic and not wearing a long dress, took the lead. The girls picked up their skirts and followed, trailed by Anthony.
Around a corner they ran, down a flight of stairs. “Any sign of Cumpston?” puffed Liv.
Cal stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked in every direction. “None. I don’t know which way to go, and it’s too dangerous to split up right now.”
Frederica and Anthony caught up, and Frederica took the lead. “Let’s head to the front, toward the path downhill.”
They scurried to an outside door and onto a small stone stoop, lit feebly by a black iron lantern nailed to the masonry. Liv gave a little shriek as a man cried, “There you are!”
It was her musician friend, on his way back in and unaware of the drama going on inside Flamsteed House. “I wasn’t finished questioning you! What about—”
Liv grabbed both his forearms to get his attention. “Did you see a man running away? Heavyset with a green velvet jacket, thick lips? He’s committed a crime!”
“A woman very nearly knocked me down just now—right over there!” He pointed into the darkness.
“The odd thing was her shoes. They were men’s shoes. I couldn’t see her face—she wore a veil.”
He looked at Liv. “That was your man, wasn’t it?” He shook his head. “You’ll never find him now.” He started up the stairs. “I must get back to the party.”
“There’s no more—” began Frederica.
Liv caught her arm and whispered, “He’ll find out soon, and we want to be long gone before he tells someone we were running away and asking about the murderer.”
The man had barely disappeared inside the entrance when Cal said, “We can’t let Cumpston get away! I’m a pretty good sprinter—let me make a quick circle around the grounds.”
Frantic to keep the group together, Liv said, “The damage is already done. And don’t forget, I was with the king when it happened. Frederica was right there, too.” She looked up at the brightly lit windows. “They may come looking for him and us any second.”
No sooner had she finished than they heard muffled shouts from inside, and the door burst open.
Cal nodded. “Quick!” he whispered. “Let’s move over to that tree. If we time travel right here, we’ll be standing on the Prime Meridian and all the tourists will see us.” He raced ten yards and stopped. The others followed. “Hold on to me,” he panted.
Cal’s fingers were quick, and it took only seconds for him to open the box and set the drawers properly. Still, before the positioning was complete, a voice cried out, “There they are! Over there!”
They locked arms and closed their eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
With no time passing in the present, they would appear in full daylight. Liv hoped the tourist crowd would be focused on the brass strip with the red LED printout that marked zero degrees longitude, and so fail to notice the peculiar-looking foursome.
But there was no crowd. The spacious brick-paved area in front of the observatory was planted with grass, and the only access to the building was a narrow gravel path. “Look, guys,” said Anthony. “It’s gone.”
He was right. The dividing line between the Eastern and Western hemispheres, the Prime Meridian, was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what else to do, they walked up to the entry and stood as Liv read aloud the words on the brass plaque beside the door.
“Flamsteed House, constructed sixteen seventy-five to sixteen seventy-six, partly of recycled materials, and paid for by the sale of decayed gunpowder at a cost of five hundred twenty pounds. Residence of many Astronomers Royal.
“After the assassination of King George the Third, champion of John Harrison’s H4 timepiece, which made possible the determination of longitude at sea, and the ensuing madness of Royal Astronomer Sir Nevil Maskelyne, England’s prominence in that science was threatened. In eighteen eighty-four, the official Prime Meridian of the world was declared to be in Paris, France.”
“Let’s go,” said Anthony, his face pale. “We can decide what to do while we walk back.”
“I’ve had just about enough of this dress,” complained Liv as she hiked her skirts up for the third time with one hand, holding her shoes in the other, and grimacing at each piece of gravel that dug into the soles of her feet.
“Well, stop sweating in it!” Frederica ordered. “I’m sure it’s had enough of you, too, and Philomena won’t be happy about getting it back all smelly.”
Anthony gazed down the hill at the city of Greenwich below. “We have a long way to go. We can slow down now. Nobody’s chasing us.” He shook his head sympathetically. “Too bad you couldn’t bring a change of clothes.”
Frederica giggled. “Oh, but we did.” She pointed to the bustle-like poufs below the waist of her gown. “You can pack quite a bit in here. T-shirts and flip-flops, for instance. We never took off our shorts, so we need only a moment to change. I say we stop at the first available place with a loo.”
Liv offered, “That would probably be a sandwich shop. I’m betting Anthony scoped out all of them.”
“Of course,” he replied.
They made their way along the path, flanked by huge sweet Spanish chestnut trees, alive with birds and butterflies. A large sign with arrows pointed the ways to cricket, rugby, tennis and putting areas. “Hmm. . .” said Frederica, “I don’t see much difference in the park. That’s good.”
An audience was gathering for a puppet show, while a group of determined-looking individuals, some armed with garden spades, waited beside a sign reading, “Plant Sale and Practical Demonstration: Propagation of Herbaceous Perennials”.
“Normal,” observed Frederica. “Absolutely normal.”
They arrived in the town and walked two by two on the sidewalk, ignoring the stares of passersby and the requests of tourists to stop and have their pictures taken with them. Anthony took the lead, looking ahead, turning onto King William Street, where he stopped at last in front of a shop called Nauticalia.
“I knew it would be like this,” he said. “I just had to see it with my own eyes.”
“See what?” asked Liv. “It looks the same to me.”
“When we passed it before, the sign was different. It said, ‘First Shop in the World’ with the longitude marking—almost zero degrees.”
Liv put her hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “We need to go home. We’re going to have to do something, and I don’t even know where to start.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“So, you’re saying Cumpston was never caught for George’s assassination? Let’s hope he was too scared to follow through with killing Harrison.” Liv waited for Frederica’s reply.
She watched idly as Anthony and Cal threw a baseball back and forth. They’d brought their gloves along to Kensington Park this morning, to pass the time while they waited for Frederica. Now she was here, but they weren’t quite ready to stop. Frederica remained silent, and Liv shifted uncomfortably on the park bench. An unspoken truce had developed since the girls’ first trip to Greenwich, and Liv wanted it to last, at least as long as they needed Frederica’s help. After that. . .who could tell?
Among other things was the issue of Frederica’s cutting. Liv suspected the little cuts might have been for shock value. She’d known Liv would come to her room, looking for her backpack, and she’d left the door open.
But the scars higher up on her arms—those were evidence of something much more serious. Since that first day, Frederica hadn’t spoken a word about cutting, and more often than not, she’d been pleasant.
It was almost like being friends, except that friends, Liv knew, would talk about their problems. A good friend would listen and try to help. Liv wasn’t sure she was ready to be anyone’s good friend.
The boys wandered over, laughing and trading insults with each other. Cal made it to the bench first, ball in hand. Liv cupped both hands together and held them out. Cal tossed the ball to her, and she pitched it to Anthony. He caught it, kept jogging toward them, and threw it back.
The ball headed for the park bench, and Frederica squealed and jumped out of the way. Liv caught i
t easily and said, “My brother isn’t the world’s greatest pitcher, but he’s not that bad. Here,” she said, holding out the ball to Frederica, “you try it.”
Instead of making a haughty refusal, Frederica took the ball and threw it. Her pitch fell short, and Anthony scrambled to pick it up and throw it back.
Frederica appeared to be trying hard, arms outstretched. She missed the ball, and refused to attempt another throw. “I don’t know what you Americans see in that silly game.” She sounded aloof, but Liv noticed the skin in the V of her T-shirt starting to get blotchy.
Cal scooped up the ball from the grass, and Anthony said, “We’re ready to get down to business if you are. Got any bright ideas?”
The red spots began to fade, and Frederica sniffed, “It seems rather simple to me. We just go back again to yesterday—same time—and watch for Cumpston to arrive. We tell a guard or someone that he has a pistol. That we saw him take it out of his coat pocket.”
“Won’t work.” Anthony pulled off his glove and stared into the distance, as if he’d just given up on Frederica as a source of help.
“Well, I can’t think why not!” Her pale face flushed and the blotches returned. “We did see him do it—the fact that it won’t have happened yet doesn’t matter.”
She waved a hand in front of Anthony’s face to get his attention. “If he’s caught and searched, they’ll find the gun, and maybe the poison, too.”
She scanned their faces. “Why are you all looking at me that way? At least it’s a plan, which is more than I’ve heard from any of you.” She turned to Liv. “If you’ve a better idea, now’s the time to say so.”
