TIME QUAKE (3 page)

‘A vampire?’

‘Are you all planning on putting a stake through my heart or something?’

‘Don’t be daft, Kate!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘We’re just worried about you, that’s all.’

‘I most humbly beg your pardon, Mistress Kate, I thought you
were asleep,’ the Parson said guiltily. ‘To distress you was the last thing in the world I intended . . .’

‘I’m not fading!’ Kate practically shouted. ‘I’m
not
! I’m still me! I’m Kate Dyer and I have five brothers and sisters and I live on a farm in Derbyshire and I have a Golden Labrador called Molly and my dad is going to come and get me! You see if he doesn’t!’

Parson Ledbury and Peter exchanged glances. Peter looked at Kate’s pale face, flushed with emotion, and expected to see tears rolling down her cheeks though none came.

‘I am a foolish old man who should have known better . . . I hope you will forgive me, Mistress Kate,’ said the Parson.

Peter sat down next to Kate on the sofa and slowly put an arm around her shoulders, unsure whether she wanted to be comforted in this way but Kate immediately clung to Peter and put her face into the crook of his neck. She took hold of his hand and gripped it hard. Peter looked down. Kate’s flesh was no longer the same as his own. The effect was subtle but unmistakeable. It looked faded and ever so slightly translucent, a little like wax and, if he had not known better, he would have thought there was an invisible layer that insulated his skin from hers. So little warmth radiated from her hand. Peter felt desperate. He badly wanted to help Kate get better, but what could he do?

‘I promise we won’t let anything happen to you, we’ll—’

Kate cut him off mid-sentence. ‘Don’t. Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.’

‘I shall fetch Hannah,’ said the Parson. ‘She will know what to do for the best . . . Some smelling salts perhaps, or a drop of brandy . . .’

Parson Ledbury stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind him. Kate and Peter were left alone and, anxious to break the silence, Peter reached into his pocket and showed Kate a worn and very grubby piece of paper, folded up into a tiny square.

‘Look. Do you remember this? I’d forgotten I still had it—’

‘What is it?’ said Kate, peering at it. ‘It’s not your Christmas homework, is it?’

Peter smiled and nodded. He unfolded it carefully and read:

‘
Christmas homework. To be handed in to Mr Carmichael on Jan. 8th. Write 500 words on: My Ideal Holiday
.’

Kate burst out laughing. ‘You showed it to me that first day in Derbyshire. How funny!’

‘If I did it, do you think it’d get us home?’

‘You’d be handing it in really late . . .’

‘Yeah – I’d probably get a detention . . .’

‘Probably two . . .’

‘And a hundred lines.
I must not time-travel during term-time
.’

Peter put it back in his pocket and presently they heard voices in the hall and the sound of the front door shutting, and then the click of heels against wood as someone bounded up the stairs.

‘I trust that Mistress Kate fares better,’ said Sir Richard, striding into the room, followed by Parson Ledbury. ‘Ah,’ he continued, observing her strained, pale face. ‘I see that she does not . . .’

‘No, I
do
feel a little better, thank you,’ protested Kate, who hated people to make a fuss – well, unless it was her mother.

‘Then I am heartily glad to hear it.’

‘I trust your luck improved after we left you, Sir Richard,’ said Parson Ledbury. ‘For I grow weary of searching for confounded needles in confounded haystacks.’

Sir Richard beamed. ‘Indeed our luck
did
improve, my dear fellow. I shall let Gideon tell you his news in person, but I gleaned a crumb or two of information myself in the city this afternoon. I admit that I was becoming a little dispirited and resolved to take my ease a while in the Mitre tavern in Fleet Street. It was while I was there that I happened upon an old acquaintance, a wealthy
merchant from Surrey – and a most happy coincidence it was, for he is a great lover of horses and his country estate adjoins that of Tempest House.’

‘Lord Luxon’s house?’ asked Peter.

‘Precisely, Master Schock. And when I asked him if he had seen his neighbour of late, he replied that he had seen him not two days past in Child’s coffee-house in St Paul’s churchyard. The merchant did not announce himself, however, as he was hidden behind
The London Gazette
, toasting himself in front of the fire. Lord Luxon sat at one of the small tables, in earnest conversation with a gentleman whom my friend immediately recognised as none other than Mr Gainsborough, the portrait painter.’

‘Oh, I’ve seen his pictures at Tate Britain!’ exclaimed Kate.

Sir Richard smiled. ‘It does not surprise me that his fame will live on – he has a truly remarkable talent.’

Peter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Never heard of him,’ he muttered.

‘My acquaintance admitted that the two gentlemen’s conversation was more interesting than his newspaper. Mr Gainsborough, it appeared, remarked to Lord Luxon that he was sick of portraits and wished, instead, to take up his viol da gamba and walk off into some sweet village where he could paint landscapes and enjoy the autumn of his life in quietness and ease. To which Lord Luxon replied that if only he would agree to sell him his present commission and the diverse drawings and sketches of which they had spoken, he would give Mr Gainsborough more than enough gold to retire from society if that is what he so wished. He also advised him to invest his wealth in the American colonies as he himself had been doing, for he was convinced that the country had a great future . . . My acquaintance observed the two fellows shake hands and leave the coffee-house in excellent spirits.’

‘So Lord Luxon is still in 1763!’ said Peter.

‘Or he’s returned here,’ said Kate. ‘If he knows about America it means that he’s learned how to use the anti-gravity machine.’

‘Which is not such good news . . .’ said Peter.

‘But what the devil is the fellow doing commissioning paintings?’ asked Parson Ledbury.

‘That’s easy,’ said Kate. ‘A painting by Gainsborough would be worth millions in our time.’

‘Ha! I thought as much!’ exclaimed Sir Richard. ‘Well, if my Lord Luxon is bent on plundering his past to pay for his future, at least we stand a whisker of a chance of catching the rogue.’

Peter’s face brightened. ‘Not to mention the anti-gravity machine!’

‘I have already sent a couple of fellows to Tempest House and also to Lord Luxon’s residence in Bird Cage Walk. If Lord Luxon is still here we shall find out before the night is out.’

Suddenly the drawing-room door swung open and Gideon Seymour’s lean and agile figure appeared in the doorway. He looked about the room and his blue eyes softened when they fell upon Kate. He nodded to the Parson, then walked over to the children and knelt at Kate’s feet.

‘We have promising news, Mistress Kate. There has been a sighting of the Tar Man. At Bartholomew’s Fair. He cannot have been able to solve the puzzle of how to start up your device. If we are to stand a chance of catching up with him and the machine we must make haste. Even if you are still not fully rested, I wonder if it would not do your heart good to help run down that foul villain who is the root and cause of your unhappiness. Will you accompany us, Mistress Kate? Shall we capture Blueskin and win back your machine?’

Kate jumped up from the sofa. ‘Are you kidding? Of course I’ll come! I want to see the Tar Man get a taste of his own medicine for once!’

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

In which the redcoats take to spitting at Orcs
and Lord Luxon contrives to
meet a talented young American

William, Lord Luxon’s trusted valet, who had relinquished his liveried uniform for a sober, dark suit, dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief as he perched on the edge of the sidewalk hoping to flag down a yellow cab. The heat and the noise bothered the grey-haired William, as did the uncouth dress of the people who thronged the pavements of Prince Street, and he longed to return to the verdant, rolling hills of Surrey and the cool stone walls of Tempest House with its gardens and fountains and an etiquette which he understood. But William had seen the look in his master’s eye and he knew that he would have to be patient until the deed was done.

The sound of sudden, ferocious barking caused both William and his master to look up in alarm. On the second flight of iron stairs one of the redcoats, a short, wiry man, was kneeling down, talking quietly into a massive dog’s ear. Then he took something out of his pocket, a piece of raw meat by the look of it, and threw
it into the air. The dog, half Irish wolfhound, was disturbingly cross-eyed. It jumped up, snapping shut its powerful jaws over the morsel. The redcoat gave it a rough pat on its head and the animal licked his fingers and sat peaceably at his feet.

‘Where did that hideous hell hound appear from, Sergeant Thomas?’ called William. ‘It has a bark like a six-pounder!’

Sergeant Thomas stood up and his intense gaze met that of the manservant. ‘I did not know you’d been near enough action to recognise the sound of a cannon, Mr Purefoy,’ he commented good-humouredly.

William’s colour deepened. This gruff veteran of numerous military campaigns enjoyed taunting his employer’s valet. He could not understand why a man would want to spend his life attending to the whims and wardrobe of Lord Luxon. Only the previous night, as he and the men had supped cold beer together Sergeant Thomas had slapped him on the back and called him a canary in a cage. ‘A pretty gold cage to be sure,’ he had said, ‘with plenty of vittles, where you are no doubt sheltered from the harsh winds of life. But you are a
man
– would you not prefer to spread your wings even if it meant a harder existence?’ William’s ego was still smarting.

‘A valet knows the sound of a cannon, Sergeant Thomas, even if he is not accustomed to firing one. But what of the hound?’

‘The bitch has taken a fancy to me and I have a mind to keep her,’ the soldier called down. ‘As I have said to you on numerous occasions, Mr Purefoy, this building is the devil itself to guard, and for such a task a dog is worth half a dozen gangly youths who’ve taken the King’s shilling. You’ll sniff out any intruders, won’t you, my girl?’

Lord Luxon raised an eyebrow. Sergeant Thomas and his men were a law unto themselves and he chose to avoid direct contact
with them, preferring to leave day-to-day negotiations to William.

‘What shall I call her, do you suppose, Mr Purefoy?’

William looked at the dog, and reflected for a moment. Then he smiled. ‘Sally,’ he said. ‘After my sister. She’s the ugliest woman in Suffolk but she’s got as much bottom as you, Sergeant Thomas, and she’d tear anyone apart who tried to harm her or her abundant brood.’

Sergeant Thomas roared with laughter. ‘Then by all means, my friend, her name shall be Sally.’

As if she understood, the dog lifted her head and howled.

‘And if she does not behave herself,’ said Lord Luxon under his breath to William, ‘you’ll be slipping poison into the bitch’s supper.’

The smile faded from William’s face. ‘Yes, milord.’

When, at long last, a yellow cab swooped towards him, William hurried to open the door for his master and, sweat dripping from his nose, stood to attention as Lord Luxon lowered himself elegantly into his seat.

‘Do you wish me to accompany you, my Lord? Or any of the men?’

‘Thank you, but no, William. I scarcely think an assignation with the charming Mrs Stacey and her clever niece should cause you to be fearful for my person. On the other hand, I sense that our redcoated friends are restless. An attack of cabin fever begins to afflict them. We should take yesterday’s incident as a warning sign.’

‘I conveyed your displeasure to Sergeant Thomas, as you requested, my Lord, and I know that he remonstrated with his men – although I fear it was in a half-hearted fashion. I am given to understand that the men see such incidents not as misdemeanours but rather as the spoils of war.’

‘The spoils of war! Fleecing some pathetic fellows who cannot hold their wine? And surely it cannot have slipped Sergeant Thomas’ attention that battle has not yet commenced.’

‘With respect, my Lord, that is not how the men see it . . . They hope for much out of this campaign; indeed, you have promised them much . . . and, surrounded by the temptations of this city, I fear they grow tired of being confined to camp.’

‘A soldier’s life is not all action,’ snapped Lord Luxon. ‘This ragged band should be more sensible of the unique honour bestowed on them . . .’

‘And yet, my Lord,’ said William softly, ‘they come with the Colonel’s highest recommendation. Sergeant Thomas says that every last one of them would lay down their lives without a murmur if he asked it of them.’

‘Very well, William, very well. Besides, if Mrs Stacey’s niece is free with her information they will have action aplenty ere the month is out . . . and it is true that this maddening heat is enough to turn a saint into a scoundrel. Profit from my absence and contrive to divert them in some way.’

‘A visit to the cinema, perhaps, my Lord?’ suggested William hopefully. ‘I could escort them, of course . . .’