by Julia Watts
“In ancient times,you just walked down to the river and caught, cooked and ate your eel. The jellied eel stalls in the Middle Ages were a great invention.” He smiled at the thought. “Washed down with a pint—a sweeter meat you’ve never tasted.”
Liv pulled a sliver of meat from the spiny bones with her fork, then loaded her spoon with mashed potatoes. She buried the meat in a mouthful of potato and swallowed without chewing. Congratulating herself, she repeated the process. Frederica watched for a moment, then tried the same thing.
Cal took a bite of meat, closed his eyes, swallowed quickly, and made a face. A shudder began at his mouth and traveled down his entire body.
“Okay,” he said to no one in particular. “I tried it. Are you happy?”
Anthony spoke with his mouth full. “And you’re not going to finish it? I can’t believe you—this stuff is great!” He reached for the bottle of vinegar. “Here,” he said, drenching Cal’s plate with the liquid, “you need more of this. Or just spoon some of that crazy green sauce on it. What’s not to like?”
“What’s in the sauce?”
Morehouse wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s just the water from the pot used to cook the eels. They boil parsley in it to give the lovely green color we call it parsley liquor.”
Cal pushed his plate away and looked out the window.
Frederica laughed. “It’s okay, Cal. I don’t like them either. The bones stick out like thumbtacks, and you have to chew and chew that slimy skin. The jelly’s the worst part of it—like someone with a sinus infection had a great sneeze.”
“You’re not helping!” he said, keeping his face toward the window. Something on the street seemed to capture his attention, and he laid his fork down and stared.
When he turned back to the others, he whispered to Morehouse, “It’s lucky you made me look out there. Two guys are standing on the corner.” He stole a glance. “They were looking right at us and now they’re talking to each other, but they’re still not moving.”
“Mmm. . .it’s Nigel and Eddie—two of Lance’s toughs,” Morehouse said in an undertone. “They’re not the sharpest rounds of cheese in the cheddar factory. Usually they just deliver messages for Lance, which I suspect come with threats and a bit of roughing up.”
He spooned a bite of mashed potatoes and swallowed. “But why hang about out there, watching us and not coming in? I don’t like it.” As he spoke, the two nodded at each other and moved on.
“Probably nothing to worry about,” said Morehouse, “but it bears being a little more careful. We won’t come here again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was time to get down to it. Frederica began, smiling at Morehouse. “The others tell me you were something of a buccaneer in your day.”
“Well, I suppose I was for a time,” he admitted, a hint of pride showing in his voice. “My usefulness, in the government’s opinion, was attacking French East India Company ships. It drove the company out of business in seventeen sixty-nine. As a reward, I was offered the position of lieutenant on a British East India Company vessel with the promise of working my way up to captain, but I turned it down.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Now there was a magnificent ship—a British East Indiaman. Lord of the Ocean. It couldn’t outrun a pirate ship, mind you, but it took care of itself with heavy arms.”
Anthony was wide-eyed. “It sounds awesome—what an adventure! How come you turned it down?”
“It was dangerous enough. But adventure? Back and forth, back and forth, officer cabins furnished like a fancy house, crews with scurvy, dysentery, and the likes of me chasing after them.” He shook his head. “No thanks, I told them, I’ll just keep on pirating. Things began to go downhill, to use a modern expression, after that.”
His voice turned bitter. “We’d served the government for over a century, mapping the Caribbean, collecting scientific data, harassing the Spanish Navy.” He stabbed at his potatoes. “Why, there was a time when whole towns in the Caribbean made their livelihood by trading with pirate crews like mine, buying our booty and selling us supplies.”
Anthony whistled softly.
“Often my crew and I pretended to steal goods from the merchants, when we were actually paying—double price, in fact. Dealers would leave things ‘unattended,’ then send a messenger to collect the money and tell us where to find them. And I can tell you, the officials and legal merchants often behaved worse than the pirates, so I chose my side. We were democratic—no matter what your race, religion or prior social rank—if you were on the ship, you had a vote.” He smiled at the memory.
“By the time I got into the life, the British government’s imperialist takeover of the Caribbean and South Pacific was almost complete. The state turned its back on my kind, criminalizing and imprisoning us. They couldn’t hire me or convince me to turn in my fellow privateers, so I became a liability to be disposed of at all cost.”
He propped his elbows on the table. “So, you can understand, London in seventeen seventy-two would be the last place I’d want to go. And I must ask, why me?”
“We’re in situation that’s beyond us,” said Frederica, giving the others a look that dared them to say otherwise. “We need someone with connections, experience and intelligence. No one alive can match your combination of those qualities.”
He looked pleased. “And exactly what is it you need done that only I can do?”
Liv spoke up. “We’ve tried to think of several possibilities, Mr. Morehouse, and we hoped you might have some ideas of your own.”
Morehouse picked up his fork, snorted, and took another bite. Liv continued, “It’s the twelfth of June today. King George the Third was assassinated on June eleventh. We don’t know how to choose the month or day when we travel, just the year. So do it today, and you go on the twelfth of June. The closest you can get is seventeen-seventy-one almost a year before the event.
“We were hoping you could draw Cumpston away from the scene—maybe offer him something to disappear, or send him on a really long errand out of the country—even kidnap him. Anything—just so it takes him months and months to get back home.”
Morehouse dropped his fork and stopped chewing his eel pie. “Who’s that? What was the name? I didn’t know any Cumpston in the seventies—the seventeen seventies, that is.”
“Well, he knows all about you!” said Cal. “Or knew about you. He had you followed. He was paid by the king to make you disappear, and he hired the guy who gave you your scar.”
Morehouse gave his parsley liquor a languid stir. “Even after all this time, it’s daunting to learn the name of the person who pursued me and tried to carry out His Majesty’s orders to kill me. It gives me a bad feeling about Lance, too. Heredity or environment, he seems to have continued the family tradition. And now I’ve two descendants of men from my past to deal with.”
“Two?” Liv’s discomfort increased. Morehouse surely had some strange baggage.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Jonathan Pridgeon was my Quartermaster in the sixties—the seventeen-sixties,” Morehouse said, “and a finer one I never saw. He was my second-in-command, elected by the crew, though I would have chosen him myself. He kept order on the ship, settled disputes kept records, and fought alongside me every time.”
The memory brought a smile to Morehouse’s face. “He led a raid on a Spanish ship, which we decided to keep. He wanted to take a few crew members and become captain of it, and I was happy to reward him for years of faithful service. Pridgeon headed to Jamaica and recruited enough British sailors to desert the navy and fill out his crew.
“Imagine my surprise when I first stepped into Carmine’s office and saw the oil painting on the wall behind his desk. Jonathan’s ship, which he renamed the Blue Star, with him at the helm! I nearly swallowed my tongue—I’d never made the connection, in spite of the uncommonness of the name.”
Morehouse peered out the window and cut his eyes left and right.
Satisfied, he returned to his story. “He’d bought the painting because it had his ancestor in it, but he’d never heard of me, which was a great relief. I suppose it lulled me into complacency to know a descendant of my good friend was one of those in charge, and I didn’t look into the firm’s doings as I should have. Jonathan would never have let things get out of hand like this.”
He shook his head. “It pains me to say it, but Carmine is more corruptible than his ancestor ever was.”
Frederica asked, “More corruptible than a pirate?”
The handsome smile froze. “You see yourself as better than imperialists of your own time? Better than other pirates of my time who joined the government to rid itself of pirate competition?” Morehouse lowered his voice to a growl. “I find it incredibly offensive that anyone would compare what wealthy colonists did to Africans, indigenous peoples, women, natural resources—even their own working classes to what I did in my pirate prime.”
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?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
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 figur
ines, 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.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
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.
