TIME QUAKE (13 page)

‘No!’ exclaimed Kate. ‘Gideon has got to lie still! Look at his face. It’s the colour of rice pudding!’

‘You have no cause to be anxious on my account, Mistress Kate,’ said Gideon in a voice that made it difficult to believe him. ‘It is my own pride that pricks and stings me most. Twice he has overcome me. Once during Lord Luxon’s race, when none but the birds and the trees bore witness to my humiliation, and now here at Bartholomew’s Fair, with a baying crowd to compound my indignity. He will not lay me low again! I swear it. I swear it on my mother’s grave . . .’

Kate looked at Gideon’s poor, swollen eye, and at his waxen complexion, and she was not the only one to think that
if
what they had heard was true, thrashing the Tar Man – much as the idea might appeal to the assembled company – was unlikely to be what the siblings’ late mother might have desired . . .

‘Oh, Gideon,’ said Kate, ‘you don’t have to prove yourself to
us
! No one could have done more than you have!’

‘Anyway, the Tar Man cheated!’ said Peter hotly. ‘You don’t have to feel bad about anything!’

Gideon did not look convinced. ‘As Blueskin himself told me, I should have had more sense than to turn my back on him. It is not a mistake I shall repeat.’

Peter searched in vain for words of comfort.

‘It is ever in my mind,’ continued Gideon, ‘that it was I who led you into the path of Blueskin on that very first day you arrived in this century. In consequence I cannot doubt that it is squarely my responsibility to put matters right.’

Sir Richard smiled. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said. ‘How lightly you bear the world’s weight on your young shoulders . . .’

Pulling Peter with her, Kate walked over to Gideon. Then, hesitating a little, she planted a swift kiss on his cheek. ‘You don’t owe us anything. I think it’s the other way round . . .’

Gideon nodded by way of thanks and a twinkle came to his one
good eye. ‘Though ’tis true, on reflection, that were it not for you two wretched children, I should doubtless be supping ale in some pleasant inn . . . and in company that required cheerful conversation rather than a narrowly missed appointment at Tyburn and regular beatings.’

As Peter laughed the memory came to him of that moment in Derbyshire – it seemed so long ago now – when he had first admitted to Gideon that if this was 1763, everyone he knew and loved was centuries away in the future. Gideon, a total stranger, with no resources, and more than enough troubles of his own, had believed him and promised to help them get back home. Gideon had kept his word and had risked everything to help these strange children from another world while the Tar Man had done everything he could to thwart them. How could one family produce such different offspring?

‘Alas, I cannot believe you, Mr Seymour,’ observed the Parson. ‘Having enjoyed your company for some goodly time, I believe I have the measure of you. There is a light which burns bright within you which a quiet life would swift extinguish.’

‘I agree with you, Parson,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I fear Gideon will always have to search for some grindstone on which to sharpen the blade of his convictions.’

A quiet cough alerted the party to the presence of a woman who appeared at one side of this little scene, her jet-black hair glistening in the half-light. Her eyes kept finding Kate. The woman stepped forward, bracelets jangling, her flamboyant dress and confident air belying a deep unease. She clutched something in her hand. After a moment Kate realised that it was the fortune-teller. Sir Richard and the Parson were still propping up Gideon. The fortune-teller surveyed the three men uncertainly and suddenly stepped towards Sir Richard and, after executing a rather hasty
curtsy, slipped a scrap of paper into his free hand. Kate noticed a tender blue bruise blossoming on her temple.

‘What is it that you give me, madam?’ asked Sir Richard. ‘It is a picture of some kind but, alas, I can barely decipher it in this light.’

The woman replied in a low, hesitant voice, looking this way and that as she spoke. ‘I have marked where you might find the lodgings of him whom you seek, your honour. I trust that you are gentleman enough to forget the identity of she who divulged the information.’

Sir Richard peered at the piece of paper and the Parson leaned over Gideon to see better. Smiles appeared on both men’s faces and the Parson slapped Gideon on the back.

‘Such timely information! Madam, we are your humble servants!’ exclaimed the Parson gleefully. ‘Please accept our most grateful thanks.’ He shook the piece of paper in front of Gideon’s nose. ‘This is capital news,’ he roared. ‘Capital!’

The fortune-teller looked around her, anxious to avoid drawing any attention to herself, and Sir Richard gestured to the Parson to moderate his ebullient behaviour.

‘Madam,’ said Sir Richard, with a bow of his head, ‘we are vastly indebted to you.’

Sir Richard drew out a guinea from his purse and held it out for her on the palm of his hand. She shook her head firmly, and made as if to push his hand away.

‘But why is she telling us? How do we know that she is telling the truth?’ asked Peter. ‘She could have been sent by the Tar Man. It could be a trap!’

The fortune-teller glared at Peter and said: ‘This young lady will vouch for me!’

Suddenly Kate let go of Peter to cover her face with her hands. Peter heard her sharp intake of breath.

‘What’s wrong, Kate?’ asked Peter in alarm.

Kate quickly grabbed hold of Peter’s hand again. ‘Nothing . . . I’m fine.’

Peter raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Kate ignored him.

‘We
can
trust this lady – she is a fortune-teller and it was the Tar Man who gave her that bruise.’

Kate looked over at the woman and was somehow certain that she, too, had suddenly smelled the stink of the river, had heard the lapping of water and had shared the selfsame vision of a highceilinged room, crammed with artefacts, its pale walls glistening with damp. Through a circular window the Thames had been visible, its greenish-brown waters swirling and heaving. She saw the billowing sails of cargo ships gliding by and the watermen plying their trade. Above all, she saw the unmistakeable and glowering profile of the Tar Man looking out over the city.

‘Then why are you helping us?’ demanded Peter.

‘The Oracle has always been in my dreams. Her face has haunted me my whole life long.’

‘The Oracle?’

The fortune-teller pointed at Kate. As she spoke her large eyes darted fitfully about as if she hardly dared even rest her gaze on this terrifying spectre of a girl. Her voice wavered. ‘I was born with a gift to perceive echoes of what will come to pass but it is as nothing compared to the powers which will manifest themselves in you, my lady . . .’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kate in alarm. ‘What powers?’

‘I’ll wager you already have your suspicions . . . By rights I should pay you my respects as an apprentice would a master – save that in my dreams your arrival heralds destruction and despair. Tell me, I beg of you, my lady, is it the end of the world that I see?’

Kate looked at her companions in distress and shook her head.
‘Stop calling me “My Lady”! I’m not your lady . . . I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!’

‘Then I can only pray that I have an imperfect understanding of my vision—’

The fortune-teller fell abruptly silent as a flamboyantly dressed group strolled by, talking loudly and passing around a basket filled with sweetmeats. One of the women wore her heavily powdered hair very high and it was dressed with tiny models of exotic birds, their blue and yellow plumage setting off the vivid hue of her silk dress, the colour of sunflowers. The wind had dropped a little since the party had arrived at Bartholomew Fair but now it was strengthening again and one of the little birds was blown off. The ladies and gentlemen paid scant attention to the party, even Gideon, whose face, as Hannah said, told an eloquent story. Soon the wind had blown the ladies and gentlemen on their way again and Kate, spying the little wooden bird lying in the mud, picked it up and held it tightly between the palms of her hands. When she stood up again she found the fortune-teller staring at her once more, seemingly mesmerised. ‘I wish there were some greater service I could perform for you but the whereabouts of Master Blueskin will help you. Your fate is linked to his, although this is also, no doubt, already known to you.’

Peter did not try to hide his disbelief but let out a sharp cry as the woman grabbed hold of his wrist in her hot, dry hands. She was strong. She opened up his fingers and scrutinised his right palm, frowning in concentration. After a few seconds she let go of it as if what she saw was a disappointment to her. She turned her back on the party and they all saw her head suddenly droop.

‘What is it, mistress?’ It was Hannah who spoke. ‘What did you see?’

The fortune-teller turned around slowly and faced Peter. ‘You
are her guardian but you will lose her. And yet you must hold on to her for as long as you can for all depends on it . . .’

Peter and Kate looked at each other in dismay, neither understanding, nor wanting to.

Finally the fortune-teller took Gideon’s hand. ‘Surely you do not need the word of a soothsayer to confirm the tie of blood. Your hand resembles Blueskin’s.’ Nodding towards Peter, she continued: ‘Help the boy. He has need of you more than he knows.’

Through one bloodshot and horrified eye, Gideon returned the woman’s searching stare. The woman’s words caused ripples of distress to spread through the party, and before anyone spoke she vanished from sight, bowing her head to Kate as a mark of respect as she passed her.

After a prolonged pause Sir Richard roused himself. ‘Ha! That woman is wasted in Bartholomew’s Fair – she should be on the stage at Drury Lane at the very least . . .’

‘Quite so, my dear fellow!’ agreed the Parson as energetically as he could. ‘She has a veritable talent for making the blood freeze! Besides, I fancy I caught a whiff of gin about her – doubtless she is intoxicated.’

‘Come, my dear friends,’ continued Sir Richard. ‘Be not so downcast! Are we men of reason or do we jump at shadows in the dark? Come, let us return to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Supper and repose will quickly restore our spirits after such a night.’

‘Ay,’ said the Parson. ‘Supper and repose. I shall make fine work tonight of Hannah’s ox tongue, I promise you.’

Gideon unhooked his arms from his two companions and endeavoured to stand as tall as he could. ‘Let Hannah return with the children, by all means, but how, my good sirs, can you think of abandoning our quest tonight? Blueskin holds every advantage! There is not a rogue in the city who would refuse him. Please, I
beg of you, now that we know where he lives, and before the Tar Man disappears like woodsmoke into mist, let us pursue him while we may.’

‘You’re not leaving us behind!’ cried Peter. ‘And you can’t go alone!’

‘But if you are prepared to give credence to the woman on one point,’ asked Sir Richard of Gideon, ‘are you prepared to do so on another? Do you accept that you and the Tar Man might be brothers?’

Gideon looked at his hands. ‘What say you, Mistress Kate? For this night you have had cause to observe the Tar Man at closer quarters than you should have liked.’

Kate cast a glance at Gideon’s hands. She said nothing but Gideon read the expression on her face and she saw his agony as he contemplated the awful truth: the man he most despised and hated on this earth could also be his own flesh and blood.

Sir Richard looked over at the Parson. The latter nodded his head.

‘Very well, if Mr Seymour insists on it, let us depart without delay.’

As the party began to walk slowly out of Bartholomew’s Fair, scarcely noticing the wonders that had so struck them on their way in, Kate approached Parson Ledbury and pulled something from under her arm and handed it to him.

‘Here’s your wig, Parson. Everything else has gone wrong today but at least I found your wig.’

The Parson accepted her offering with quiet gratitude.

‘My Mistress Dyer, you are ever full of surprises . . .’

C
HAPTER
N
INE

The Splintering of Time

In which Anjali makes a decision, Sam wonders
if Kate is lost to him and the Marquis de
Montfaron watches ghosts on the internet

Vega Riaza, as Anjali still thought of the Tar Man, had secreted vast amounts of cash in the penthouse apartment in Docklands, more than enough for Tom’s modest and Anjali’s rather more exacting requirements. Tom had a talent for discovering these little stashes. He knew all the Tar Man’s tricks. He found a fat roll of twenty-pound notes in the sugar, envelopes stuffed with tenners taped to the back of half of the kitchen drawers and, most satisfying of all, nearly seventy-five thousand pounds in six separate packets, slid up the back of the huge Italian sofa and the seam neatly re-sewn. Each time Tom found another secret store he would shout out, ‘Pease Pudding! Pease Pudding!’ – a habit which he had caught from the Carrick Gang because that’s what they would eat after a good night’s thieving. Then, with sparkling eyes, he would watch Anjali as she whooped with delight and threw armfuls of notes high into the air so that it rained down on her like giant confetti. But Anjali began to realise that what drove Tom to keep playing this game was
not, in fact, the money but the excuse to spend a little time, in a manner of speaking, in his old master’s company. It was plain, to Anjali at least, that Tom missed the Tar Man badly.