This simple lunch was followed by a long, lingering coffee at Café Nero with a slice of millionaire shortbread for desert. She dawdled over the coffee—partly to kill time, but also out of professional interest— observing the operation of the coffee shop closely, critiquing the service and savouring the hot, black brew—analysing the entire experience in a way that never would have occurred to her before. On the street once more, she passed a Waterstones Bookshop and, on a whim, worked her way up to the fourth floor, where in a little-visited side room she pulled science books off the shelf, spread them on the floor, and chose three for Brother Lazarus: The New Physics: A Guide to Life, the Universe, and Everything; Quantum Physics for Dummies; and Advanced Cosmology—Comprehending the Cosmos.
She resumed her promenade along Oxford Street, window-shopping. When at last the sun began to lower in the west, Wilhelmina bade farewell to the city and turned her steps towards Stane Way in preparation for phase two of her plan: a rendezvous with Dr. Thomas Young. While she did not entertain any notions that it would be easy to locate a man who had, in the present world, been deceased for almost two hundred years, she could not have predicted just how crooked that particular path would prove.
CHAPTER 16
In Which a Long-Promised Tea Is Taken
The blue light on the new-model ley lamp indicated the presence of an active line. It was time to go. Wilhelmina tightened the laces on her new boots and, tucking the lamp into a pocket of her new blue jacket, started down the narrow service alley. The wind kicked up suddenly, and a few errant raindrops spattered around her. The world grew dim—as if she had passed into deep shadow. A few steps more and she emerged from the darkness and into a passage in every way similar to the old Stane Way . . . yet different. This alleyway was bounded by wooden walls, not brick, and the path was paved not with tarmac but with uneven cobbles.
She moved quickly towards the end she could see ahead and emerged into the light of a sun-bright seaside village. A tall-masted schooner stood docked at the wharf a short distance away, and in the harbour another lay at anchor. A few smaller fishing boats plied the waters farther out, rocking in the gentle swell, and sea gulls filled the soft, salt-scented air with their high-pitched chatter.
Her immediate thought was that the jump had gone wrong. She had expected to connect with the Bohemian Ley, and this place was definitely not Bohemia. Pulling the ley lamp from her pocket, she detected only the faintest glint of light, a sign that the ley activity had indeed waned. The sun was high overhead, so there would be a few hours to kill before she could resume her journey; in the meantime she might at least find out when and where she had arrived, and make a note of it for future reference. Stepping out onto the street, she moved along the waterfront trying to appear inconspicuous in her new clothes, and alert to any clues that might help determine the time and place.
Along the wharf, the warehouses and stores were open and either receiving or dispatching cargo in the form of barrels, crates, and bundles bound in burlap and hemp—all of it toted one way or another by stevedores in short trousers and long, floppy shirts. Everyone she saw wore a hat. The men wore either shapeless knit caps, straw hats, or felt constructions with round crowns and wide brims. The few women she saw wore bonnets; they also had shawls or scarves tied around either their shoulders or hips, and all wore long skirts and blouses with scooped necklines and short sleeves. Wilhelmina pulled her blue pashmina from her bag. If only M&S carried bonnets in its new line, I’d be set, she mused and, draping the scarf over her head and shoulders, continued with her amble along the harbour and soon found herself enjoying the fresh air and the relaxed and peaceful atmosphere of the little fishing village—a welcome relief after modern London.
As she strolled along she became aware of the feeling that she knew this place. Although she was certain she had never seen or set foot in the town before, there was something vaguely familiar about it—something that eluded her ability to pin down, yet persisted in her awareness. What was it?
“Come from the Indies?”
The voice startled her out of her reverie. She spun around to see a dirty-faced girl of perhaps ten or so watching her with a keen and vaguely disapproving expression.
“Excuse me?”
“Yer from the Indies, ent ya?”
“You speak English,” said Wilhelmina.
“Aye,” agreed the girl. “Here’bouts, we does. And are ye speakin’ the King’s English in the Indies?”
“How do you know I’m from the Indies?” asked Wilhelmina.
“It’s yer rags.” The girl raised a filthy hand and extended a slender finger at Wilhelmina’s shawl and blouse. Her own clothes were bedraggled and dirty; her long brown hair was lank and clearly had not been brushed for some time. “We don’t wear aught like here’bouts.”
“No,” agreed Wilhelmina, “I suppose not.” Directing her attention to the wharf and docklands, she made a sweep of her hand and asked, “Where am I? What is this place?”
“This be Sefton,” the youngster replied.
That’s it! she thought. Sefton! That was the name of the place Kit had told her about—the place he had been taking her to see when they had become separated on that first climactic leap. She gazed up and down the seafront, taking in the harbour and village with new eyes. So this was the little seaside town Kit had wanted to show her. It was much as he had described it—at least the little she could recall of his description. On that fateful day, Kit had promised to take her to tea at the seaside, to demonstrate the truth of his nutty claim about ley lines and alternate dimensions. “Sefton-on-Sea?”
“Aye,” confirmed the girl. “I be Maggie.”
“My name is Mina. I am pleased to meet you, Maggie.” Wilhelmina extended her hand to the girl, who, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and gave it a halfhearted shake. “Can you tell me what year it is?”
“Ye don’t ken the year?”
“No,” answered Wilhelmina. “I’ve been travelling a long time.”
The girl’s round face scrunched up in thought. The answer forced its way to her lips, and she proclaimed, “This be the year of Our Lord and King William I8 and I8!”
Wilhelmina smiled. No doubt the youngster was simply parroting back something she had heard, but it was enough. Wilhelmina thanked her and asked if she was hungry. The girl hesitated. “I was thinking of having some tea and a bun, maybe. Would you like to take tea with me?” Mina invited.
Maggie frowned. “I never, my lady,” she said, growing suddenly shy and polite. “I ent allowed.”
“Something else? A glass of milk, maybe?” Mina offered. “I have money, and no one to talk to. Maybe there is someplace you could show me where we might get something to eat and drink?”
The girl thought for a moment. “There’s the Old Ship,” she said. Extending a grubby finger, she pointed to a storefront a little farther along the street.
Wilhelmina glanced around and saw a low building painted white with a black door. A sign overhead bore the image of a ship under full sail on a stormy sea, the waves crashing against its prow. “Well,” said Mina, “I’m going to go there. I hope you’ll come too.”
She turned and started towards the public house. Maggie watched her for a moment, then followed a few steps behind. The door of the pub pushed open easily, and Wilhelmina entered a dim, low-ceilinged room. The air, redolent of stale beer and coal smoke, was thick and muggy, but not unpleasant, and unlike anything of Wilhelmina’s experience.
A plump young woman stood behind the heavy oak bar drying thick glass jars with a rag. “G’day, m’lady,” she called cheerfully. “What can I get ye?”
“Good day,” replied Mina. “I would like a cup of tea. Is that possible?”
“To be sure, m’lady,” replied the barmaid. Her eyes flicked to the youngster who had entered behind Wilhelmina. “You! Haven’t I told you ’bout comin’ in here? Now, get on wi’ ye.”
“Sorry,” said Wilhelmina quickly. “She’s with me. I as
ked her to join me.”
“That’s as may be, m’lady. But young’uns ent allowed in t’pub. An’ she knows better, that one.”
“Oh yes, of course. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You ent from around here, are you, m’lady,” said the young woman behind the bar.
“No, I—no, I’m not.”
“Just off t’ship, then?”
“Travelling, yes.” Wilhelmina, keen to change the subject, glanced around the pub. “Do you think I could have my tea outside? And maybe some cake if you have it?”
“We have some nice oat cakes just come out t’oven. I can give ye o’ that wi’ some good jam.”
“Would you?” said Mina. “That would be perfect. Bring me a pot, please—and a glass of milk. I’ll be waiting outside.”
Wilhelmina stepped back onto the seafront and, with Maggie in tow, found a pleasant spot on a wharfside bench to wait. The sun was warm on her back, and she gazed out on the peaceful little harbour, the sea glinting blue and silver beneath a cloudless sky. Presently the tea came—served in a brown crockery pot with two chunky cups— one filled with milk—a plate of small round oat cakes, and a tiny bowl of red jam.
“Will there be anything else, m’lady?” asked the serving girl.
“This is lovely,” said Mina. “Thank you, no. That will be all just now.”
“Just bring the tray back when you’re done.” She cast a last dubious glance at Maggie, then returned to the pub.
After a moment Wilhelmina poured her tea. “Sefton seems a pleasant place,” she observed, passing the cup of milk to her young companion. “Have you lived here long?”
“All me life long,” replied Maggie. “An’ have ye always lived in the Indies?”
“No,” replied Mina. “I used to live in London.”
“London,” mused the girl. The way she said it made it sound as exotic and far away as China. But then, Wilhelmina reasoned, being a deep-water port, little Sefton probably saw more folk from foreign climes than from the capital.
The two chatted amiably, and then a bell in a church tower somewhere in the town tolled the hour: three o’clock. Maggie jumped up and, curtsying awkwardly, took her leave, saying, “My da’ will be comin’ home wi’ the catch.”
“Then you’d better run along,” Wilhelmina agreed. “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble. Good-bye,” she called as the girl scurried away. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
Wilhelmina sat for a while longer enjoying the day, and thinking what a strange life she now led. Her experience in London, far from arousing any lingering feelings for her life there, merely confirmed what she had known, or at least suspected, all along—that she did not miss the place and no longer cared to live there.
When the clock in the unseen church tower tolled four, Mina gathered up the tray and took it back inside the Old Ship Inn; she paid for the tea and cakes, holding out an assortment of coins from her penny jar from which the barmaid selected a few coppers. She then returned to the alley to see if the ley was active yet. With a quick glance around to see that she was unobserved, she drew the ley lamp from her pocket and ascertained from the absence of blue lights that the ley was still dormant. Stuffing the device back into her pocket, she stepped back from the mouth of the passage and, as she did so, her eye fell upon a word scrawled low down on the wooden siding of one of the walls. The mere glimpse rooted her to the spot.
She blinked her eyes to make sure she was indeed seeing what she thought she saw. There, written in black grease pencil, was a name: Wilhelmina.
There was more—a brief message that read simply, Collect letter from Molly at the Old Ship Inn—Cosimo.
“What on earth . . . ” She stared at the unexpected communication. Cosimo! That was the name of the man Kit had met in the alley, his great-grandfather—the one Kit had tried to tell her about the day they made that fuddled jump.
Wilhelmina made quick strides to the pub. The round-faced girl was still there, still behind the bar. “Was there something else?” she asked.
“Yes. Are you Molly?”
“Aye, I am.”
“My name is Wilhelmina. I forgot to ask earlier, but did someone leave a letter for me—someone by the name of Cosimo?”
Molly the barmaid disappeared into the room behind the bar and returned a moment later with a thick yellow envelope. “Ye be a friend o’ Cosimo’s?”
“Yes, I think I am.”
“What’s yer full name, then?”
“Wilhelmina Klug,” replied Mina, then spelled out her last name so there would be no misunderstanding.
Molly peered at the writing on the envelope, then passed it to Mina, who thanked her and went outside. She resumed her place on the bench and carefully tore open the envelope. Inside was a single, tightly folded page written in smudgy pencil. She opened it to find a handful of shillings, two guineas, and a large silver five-pound coin. She scooped up the money and quickly scanned the note.
It read:
My Dear Wilhelmina, I can well imagine how confused and frightened you must be. But take heart in the knowledge that we are looking for you. I urge you to stay here. Take a room at the Old Ship on my account, and remain in Sefton until we come for you. Kit is with me, and sends his greetings.
Your servant,
Cosimo Livingstone
Pocketing the money, she read the message again, then turned the page over. On the back, scratched hastily in one corner of the page, was a little list of sorts—as if someone had been quickly jotting down ideas. There were six items, and three of those had lines drawn through them. The six were: Mansell Gamage, Sefton-on-Sea, Wern Derries, Much Markle Crosses, Black Mixen Tump, and Capel-y-Fin. They were place names—employing odd, old-timey words—and certainly none that Wilhelmina had ever heard before. The first three on the list had been crossed out—apparently considered and then discarded for whatever reasons the list maker had deemed appropriate. But why? Even as she considered the question, it occurred to her that if Kit and his great-grandfather were searching for her and, obviously, leaving messages for her in likely places, this might be a list of such places. The inclusion of Sefton clinched it in her opinion. The three crossed out were places already visited and, presumably, where messages had been left. The last three, then, were next on the list.
The thought that they were worried about her and looking for her made her smile. Bless ’em, she thought. But they were not to know what she had been up to since she and Kit had parted company. The situation had changed, and she certainly did not need rescuing.
Mina returned to the letter and list once more and noticed something else: beside three of the place names was a tiny equal sign, a simple = as found in mathematical equations—written in lighter pencil as one might make when thinking on paper. Taking these additions into account, the list read Mansell Gamage = China . . . Wern Derries = Ireland . . . Black Mixen Tump = Egypt . . .
“How very interesting,” she said to herself, tucking the note away. Rising from the bench, she went back to the Old Ship and inquired of Molly whether there might be a carriage or coach she could hire to take her to London. “Anything at all, really,” she added. “I don’t mind.”
“Mail coach comes through at six,” the barmaid replied. “Going up t’London from Plymouth. It stops here for the driver to wet his whistle. Be in London by morning.”
“Splendid,” said Wilhelmina. “I’ll just wait outside.”
“Suit ye’self, m’lady,” said Molly, resuming her work of lining up clean jars for the evening’s custom.
Mina returned to her bench in the sun to await her transport and determine how to make best use of her new information. By the time the mail coach arrived in a clatter of hooves, trailing plumes of dust, Wilhelmina had a new plan firmly in mind.
Sorry, Cosimo, she said as the carriage came rattling down the street, but I’ve got a better idea.
CHAPTER 17
In Which an Unwanted Partnership Is Forged
Burleigh’s fortuitous return to London after his disappearance in Italy meant different things to different people. To the winsome young socialite, Phillipa Harvey-Jones, his long-suffering fiancée, it meant heartbreak when the young lord eventually called off the wedding; to his clients, it meant a veritable treasure trove of rare and precious objets d’art, each more wondrous than the last; to his bank manager, it meant joy unbounded as the earl’s fortunes increased, swelling his coffers by leaps and bounds. For now that he had discovered ley travel, Burleigh was secretly employing his remarkable ability to amass a fortune through the acquisition of rare and precious artefacts. What better place to acquire invaluable antiques than directly from antiquity? His lordship’s early experiments with ley travel swiftly gave way to an all-consuming obsession; thus, he no longer had time for Phillipa. Who could blame him? If his newfound ability to leap into parallel worlds could result in something so mundane as obtaining expensive knickknacks to sell to a hungry clientele in latenineteenth-century London, what else could it do? Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, was on a quest to find out.
“Lord Burleigh,” intoned His Lordship’s valet, “forgive the intrusion.”
“What is it, Swain?”
“A letter has arrived from Sotheby’s.” The gentleman’s gentleman extended a small silver tray with a cream-coloured envelope addressed to the Earl of Sutherland. There was no stamp; it had been hand delivered. “I thought you would rather be apprised sooner than later, sir.”