Chapter 6
Harry’s arrival was fortuitous indeed. I spotted him running toward us moments before he grabbed the man’s arms from behind. The older, smaller fellow didn’t stand a chance, and Harry easily wrestled him further from the hotel entrance. He didn’t even drop the newspaper tucked under his arm.
Peter assisted Frank to his feet while Mr. Hobart picked up Frank’s hat from where it had fallen on the pavement. They joined Harry who was speaking to the assailant sternly. Whatever he said kept the man quiet.
The commotion had distracted the journalists and their photographer, but now they turned to tackle me again. I was prepared to send one of the porters who’d emerged from the hotel back inside and ask the front desk clerk to telephone the police when my uncle and Floyd barreled out of the hotel.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Uncle Ronald demanded.
He’d never looked fiercer with his ruddy complexion turning redder by the minute, and his imposing stature blocking the entry.
He wasn’t tall, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth and rage.
The hotel was his domain, it was his livelihood as well as his home, and he would protect it at all costs.
“These men are journalists,” I said. “I’ve ordered them to leave.”
Uncle Ronald glared at them. “Then why are you all still here?”
Floyd must have thought we had it in hand because he broke away to find out what Harry and the others were doing, several feet away. At that moment, Harmony came outside. She stopped short, then watched on as Uncle Ronald jabbed a finger in the direction of the journalists.
“Go!” he shouted at them.
One of the journalists swallowed heavily while the other squared his shoulders. “We have a right to be here, just like anyone else. Are you the manager?”
“I am Sir Ronald Bainbridge, owner of the Mayfair Hotel. What do you want?”
“We want to speak to Mr. Louis Arkwright, a guest here at your fine establishment. We won’t make a scene if you just let us in.”
“There is no one here by that name,” Uncle Ronald said, the lie rolling smoothly off his tongue.
The journalists exchanged glances. One of them produced a newspaper from his leather satchel. “That’s not what The Daily Advertiser reported.” He tapped his finger on one of the articles.
I swallowed my gasp as I spotted the accompanying sketch. It was a close approximation to Goliath. Not too close, but near enough that those who knew him might recognize him.
“Don’t believe everything the gutter press print,” Uncle Ronald snarled.
One of the Mayfair’s carriages rolled up and two guests emerged from the hotel, their luggage wheeled on a trolley behind them by a porter. The coachman, Cobbit, touched the brim of his hat to us in greeting.
Uncle Ronald indicated the journalists should walk off. “Your presence is upsetting the guests.”
The photographer indicated the man who’d made the commotion inside. “I reckon he’d be upsetting them more.” Even so, the three moved away.
Uncle Ronald personally farewelled the two departing guests and assisted the lady into the carriage before shaking the gentleman’s hand. He waved and smiled as they drove away, then tugged on his jacket lapels and strode off toward Harry and the others, scowl once again firmly in place.
“Well done, Uncle,” I said, falling into step alongside him. “That was a lesson in handling the press. Next time I’ll take a leaf out of your book and lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” he said. “Louis Arkwright isn’t staying here. Louis Arkwright is a pseudonym. He checked in under his real name.”
I started to laugh, only to stop upon his sharp glare.
“Hobart,” he barked. “What’s going on here?”
Before Mr. Hobart could explain, the man spoke up. “I want to see Arkwright! I know he’s staying here.”
Oh, dear. With The Daily Advertiser stating that Mr. Arkwright was a guest at the Mayfair, this man might be the first of many to show up today. Hopefully, they wouldn’t all be as violent, or persistent.
I expected Uncle Ronald to feed him the same response he’d given the journalists, but he didn’t deny Mr. Arkwright was a guest. “Why do you want to speak to him?”
The man’s haggard features seemed to relax a little as he realized he wasn’t being dismissed outright.
“You’re clearly an important man, sir, and I thank you for taking the time to hear me out.
I’ve been looking for Louis Arkwright for years, but his publisher wouldn’t tell me where they send his royalties to. I all but gave up.”
Harry held up the newspaper. “Then you saw the article about the death of his biographer.”
“I want to speak to Arkwright.” He pointed his hat in the general direction of the hotel entrance. “Must be nice to be rich enough to live in a hotel, eh? The thing is, he only got rich because of my grandfather’s story.”
“And you are?” Uncle Ronald asked.
The man slapped his cap back on his head. “Bill Watson, the grandson of William Watson, sir.”
“Blackheart?” Peter blurted out.
“The pirate?” Floyd said, scrutinizing the fellow more closely.
Even Frank seemed to forget his sore jaw for a moment as he stopped rubbing it and stared.
Bill Watson puffed out his chest and rocked back on his heels. “The very same.”
“I haven’t got time for this,” Uncle Ronald grumbled. “There’s no one by the name of Arkwright staying at the hotel.”
Mr. Watson frowned. “But—”
“Hobart, telephone the police and have them remove this man from the hotel’s vicinity.”
“I just want to speak to Arkwright! I know he knows where my inheritance is.”
“Armitage, Cleopatra, see that he doesn’t try to get inside while you wait for the police to show up.” Uncle Ronald walked off. “Floyd, with me. Leyland, I believe you have a task to complete.”
They all dispersed, leaving Harry and me to contend with Bill Watson. I was about to ask a question when he tried to push past Harry.
Harry grabbed him again. “Stay here or you’ll be arrested. Trust me, Sir Ronald doesn’t care if you end up in jail. He will press charges.”
The man struggled in Harry’s grip. “All right, all right, I’ll go. But can you get Arkwright a message from me?”
Harry released him. “Sir Ronald says he’s not staying here.”
The man snorted. “And I’m the queen of England.”
“What’s your message, Your Majesty?”
“Tell Arkwright that Bill Watson wants what’s his.”
“Your grandfather’s treasure, I presume?”
“Aye.”
“Why should we believe you are who you say you are? There was no mention of Blackheart having children in his biography.”
Mr. Watson bristled. “The writer, Arkwright, left that bit out, didn’t he?
It didn’t suit his story of a lonely figure who didn’t care what legacy he left behind.
” He snorted. “My father used to tell me the stories about his father’s adventures when I was just a lad.
I’d sit at his knee and drink up the tales like I was dying of thirst and they were the sweetest cordial.
My Pa barely knew his father. Blackheart was always off on a voyage somewhere around the world, but the one time he came back to London, they had a grand old time.
That’s how my Pa learned all the stories…
sword fights, stranded on deserted islands, outrunning the Royal Navy through stormy seas, and the treasure Blackheart and his crew confiscated from the foreign ships they attacked.
Some of them were English, which is why he had a price on his head in this country. ”
His eyes lit up as he recounted the pirate’s exploits.
It seemed a little cruel to ask a rather obvious question, but I asked it anyway.
The fellow must be in his fifties or sixties, so hardly a starry-eyed child.
“Are you sure your father wasn’t just repeating the stories he’d read in Mr. Arkwright’s book about Blackheart? ”
Far from being upset, Mr. Watson seemed glad I’d asked, so he could put any doubts to bed.
“My father couldn’t read, so I’m sure, Miss.
He met Blackheart just the once, when he risked his neck to be back on English soil.
Being a wanted man, he couldn’t just come and go as he pleased, not even to see his son.
If he was caught, they’d string him up for three tides at Execution Dock.
” Bill Watson rubbed the navy blue neckerchief tied around his throat.
“I can prove he was my grandfather.” He dug into his jacket pocket and removed two crumpled pieces of paper.
“These are copies of my father’s birth records from the parish, and mine, too.
I brought ‘em along today to show Arkwright in case he doubted me.”
Harry and I scanned them. They looked real, but good forgeries could be bought.
Bill Watson seemed so earnest that I wanted to believe him.
It was possible he believed he was Blackheart’s grandson, even though his father may have lied about the connection to the pirate in a bid to impress a young son.
He may have simply been repeating the stories he’d heard from Blackheart’s biography.
Even though he couldn’t read, someone may have read them to him.
The book had been written sixty years ago, so it certainly existed when the fellow before us was a child.
“My father was born out of wedlock,” Mr. Watson went on, “but William Watson’s name is on my father’s birth certificate as clear as day. So that makes me Blackheart’s grandson. Now, I just want what’s mine—Blackheart’s treasure.” Mr. Watson brandished the papers before folding them up.
“Where can we get a message to you?” Harry asked.
Mr. Watson seemed to think Harry was promising him an audience with Mr. Arkwright and answered readily.
“St. Katherine’s Dock. You tell Arkwright if he refuses to see me, I’ll go to the newspapers.
Seems to me there’s interest in my grandfather again with the death of Arkwright’s biographer, so I reckon they’ll want to print my story. ”