Chapter 11 #2
It was a convenient answer, but could be true. “A man claiming to be Blackheart’s grandson came to the hotel yesterday.”
“That darned newspaper article,” he muttered. “I presume the fellow was looking for me because he wants to know where his so-called inheritance is buried.”
“You don’t believe he really is Blackheart’s descendent?”
“The crackpots have been looking for me for years. One in particular has been persistent, according to my publisher.”
“He had birth certificates proving he’s the son of William Watson.”
“It’s a common name, Miss Fox.”
“His father told him stories about his father’s pirate exploits.”
“The key word in your sentence is stories. This man should be grateful his father cared for him enough to tell him stories as a child. Not all fathers do. Stories are an invaluable learning tool for children. It teaches them morals, right from wrong, and it instills in them a sense of justice and, perhaps more importantly, hope. Stories are the key to a civilized society. Without them, we descend into barbarism.” He stopped suddenly and gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“My apologies, Miss Fox. I tend to get carried away.”
“Why are you so sure this man isn’t telling the truth?”
“Ah, but it is the truth—for him.”
“It cannot be the truth for him if it’s not true at all.” I pressed my fingertips to my temple. This conversation was getting rather confusing. “I’m sure Blackheart told his biographer whether or not he had children.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Arkwright finally admitted.
“I asked and he told me he didn’t. So this fellow can’t be Blackheart’s grandson.
However, I left that out of the biography altogether.
That was my mistake. It left a void and naturally someone has filled it with their own tale to suit themselves.
” He placed his cup and saucer on the table beside him.
“I’ve just had a thought. All this talk of truth as perception has given me an idea for getting rid of those reporters. ”
The sudden change in topic made my head spin. His mind moved easily back and forth, whereas mine was more linear. Before I could ask him to return to the previous question about Blackheart’s grandson, he continued to follow his current thread.
“You should tell them I’m dead.”
Sister Meersham choked on her tea.
I stared at Mr. Arkwright. “Why would they believe me?”
“You’re going to provide proof, my dear Miss Fox. Fake proof, of course, just like the fellow who says he’s Blackheart’s grandson.”
“I don’t think he faked those birth certificates.”
He waved off my comment. “A great show will be made of a doctor arriving at the hotel, then leaving with a grave air about him. Then an undertaker will be called in. He could be either real or an actor, just as long as he plays the part. A body can then be carried out on a stretcher, through the hotel foyer and past as many people as possible. You’ll require a cart of some description, something that undertakers use.
Finally, Sir Ronald will make the announcement to the press. ”
It was a good plan but couldn’t possibly work beyond a day or two.
“Unless you’re willing to hold your own funeral, they won’t fall for it.
You’re a well-known figure, Mr. Arkwright.
Your death will be news throughout the country.
It’s unlikely funeral arrangements can be successfully faked, and besides, there are records of deaths to be kept. ”
He sighed heavily. “You’re right. As interesting as it would be to see who showed up to my funeral, there are just too many people who’d have to be let in on the ruse to make it work.”
I sipped my tea as another thought occurred to me. His idea might not work, but it spawned another, better idea. I outlined it to Mr. Arkwright and Sister Meersham over another cup of tea.
* * *
"What do you think?” I asked Harmony as she divided my hair into segments.
She regarded me in the reflection of my dressing table mirror. “I presume you’re telling me this plan because you need my help.”
“More than your help. You’re going to organize it.” I watched her as she brushed one section of my hair. “I think it’s the best way to get rid of the journalists wanting to speak to Mr. Arkwright, not just now, but long term.”
She lifted her gaze to meet mine in the mirror’s reflection again. Her eyes had dulled when she spoke about the canceled dinner earlier, but the brightness had now returned. “I think we need to speak to all parties as soon as possible.”
“I’ll leave the arrangements to you. You can even tell my uncle it was your idea.”
There was a sudden thud on the door of my suite, followed by male voices raised in anger, but not so loud that I could understand what they were saying.
Harmony and I raced out of my bedchamber, through the sitting room, to the short entrance hall at the end of which was the door to the main fourth floor corridor.
I opened it and Mr. Watson stumbled in, almost knocking me over. Behind him stood Floyd, breathing heavily, a thick fringe of hair falling over his forehead.
Upon seeing us, he pushed the hair back. “I found him wandering the corridor, drunk.”
Mr. Watson adjusted the cap that had slipped askew during the scuffle. “I ain’t drunk!”
“I can smell it on your breath.”
“I admit to fortifying myself before coming here, but I ain’t drunk. I’ll prove it. I’ll walk in a straight line down this here hallway.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Floyd growled. “You’ll disturb the guests.”
As if on cue, a door to one of the rooms opposite opened and two guests stepped out. Floyd and I greeted them amiably. Mr. Watson doffed his cap. They nodded in response and went on their way.
“Don’t talk to the guests,” Floyd hissed at Mr. Watson.
“I didn’t.” Mr. Watson snorted. “And you reckon I’m the drunk one.”
Floyd took Mr. Watson’s elbow. “Come with me quietly.”
“If you were going to take me to Arkwright’s room all along, why’d you shove me into the door?”
“I’m escorting you off the premises. Don’t make a scene or you’ll be forcibly removed.”
Mr. Watson crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going until I’ve seen Arkwright. I know he’s here.”
Floyd huffed a frustrated breath. “Bloody hell, drunkards are annoying.”
I arched my brows at him, but he merely arched his back and shrugged in question.
I stepped aside. “Come in, please, Mr. Watson. There’s something I want to say to you.”
Floyd followed Mr. Watson inside. Harmony had retreated to the sitting room after giving instructions down the speaking tube that connected to the kitchen and she now stood watching us, brush in one hand and a box of hairpins in the other.
Mr. Watson thrust out his hand toward her. “Hello.”
She tucked the box under her arm and shook his hand. “Hello.”
“You’re very pretty.”
“Er, thank you. Cleo, we should finish your hair. I’m expected in Miss Bainbridge’s room soon.”
“Can you do it here while I speak to Mr. Watson?”
She pulled out the chair at the desk and turned it to face the room, then indicated I should sit. She stood behind me and separated my hair into segments again. Mr. Watson watched on in fascination.
“You are right,” I told him. “Mr. Arkwright is still here. But,” I added as he opened his mouth to speak, “you cannot see him. He’s unwell and has become quite upset over the multiple disruptions lately.
The journalists won’t leave him in peace, and I’m afraid you being here will upset him further. ”
Mr. Watson removed his cap and scrunched it in both hands. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“You can’t see him, and that’s final. Anyway, I told him all about you and he claims you can’t be Blackheart’s grandson. Blackheart had no children.”
“He did! You’ve seen the proof yourself, Miss.”
“William Watson is a very common name.”
“I know I’m his grandson, and I want my inheritance.” He shook the cap at me. “If you don’t tell Arkwright, I will.” He slapped the cap back on his head. “Where is he? What’s his room number?”
Floyd blocked the exit. “Listen to my cousin. If she says Arkwright told her Blackheart didn’t have children—”
“I ain’t calling her a liar. I’m calling him one. Arkwright. If I had the letter from Bradbury on me, I could prove it, too.”
“What letter?” Floyd, Harmony and I asked in unison.
Mr. Watson swallowed heavily. “Er…”
“You’re not in trouble,” I assured him. “Unless we discover you’ve lied. Just tell the truth now. Did you receive a letter from Chester Bradbury that mentions the treasure?”
“Aye. He wrote that he knows all about it. He said there’s something I, as Blackheart’s only descendent, should be told.”
I frowned. “Were those his precise words? Something you should be told? He didn’t mention knowing the location of the treasure, or deciphering clues to the location?”
He removed his cap again and scratched his balding head, frowning hard. “I can’t rightly recall the exact words now.”
“Have you still got the letter?”
“I burned it after I read he died. I didn’t want anyone seeing it and thinking I killed him.”
“Why would they think that?”
Mr. Watson glanced nervously at Floyd. “I ain’t going to tell you until you promise not to tell the police.”
“We can’t promise that,” I told him. “But we can promise to tell the police you know something about Mr. Bradbury’s murder if you don’t tell us the truth now.”
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t kill him. But I burned the letter because it gives me a reason to kill him. At least it might be a reason, in the eyes of the pigs, if they wanted to pin the murder on someone like me.”
“Mr. Watson,” I prompted. “What did it say?”
“Bradbury wrote that he’d tell me about Blackheart’s treasure if I did something for him. He wanted me to do a little burglary.”
I gasped, partly in surprise and partly because Harmony pulled my hair in her surprise.
“Did he want you to steal something in particular?” Floyd asked.
“Just whatever I thought was most valuable…money, jewels, gold. I reckon he was in need of some ready and he needed it real fast. Before you ask, I don’t know why.” He shot a glare at Floyd.
“Was there a specific place he wanted you to burgle?” I asked.
“Aye. A real big house where a rich toff lived, somewhere Bradbury reckoned he could get me into easily. A place in Hampstead on the edge of the Heath.”