The Castaways (15 page)

“Why did you tell him that?”

“It’s called bargaining,” the King said grandly. “We were playing our cards close to our vest.”

“Bargaining? That’s called stupid,” I said. “He came and took Midge!”

“Ah, that’s what he
thought
he would do.” The King held up a finger. “But we outwitted him, Tom.”

Word by word the tale unfolded. The King didn’t look at me, but glanced often through the doorway as dawn brought to the sky the awful, yellow light of London’s fog.

“Mr. Goodfellow’s no fool,” he said. “He wouldn’t trust you to hand over the diamond, so he wanted something up his sleeve. He thought he would hold something of yours for ransom. But worry not.” Red in the face from all his talking, the King leaned back in his chair. “We have the upper hand, Tom.”

“How’s that?” The story didn’t seem to quite hang together. “Just how did you outwit Mr. Goodfellow?”

“We saw to it that if he came to fetch Midgely he would
leave empty-handed.” The King smiled at me. “Let’s put it this way, Tom. Midge was already gone.”

“Who took him?” I asked. “You?”

The King only smiled. I looked away, at the faint lines of ropes and masts in the fog. I couldn’t see as far as the buildings, but I heard the softened rumble of the city coming awake. Lost in its crowded streets was Midgely, and I suddenly guessed who had taken him. It was someone who’d acted before the soldiers arrived to move the ship, someone whom Midgely knew and trusted, someone strong enough to lift him up the rusted old ladder. It certainly wasn’t the King. I could think of only one person.

“Calliope!” I said.

The King looked astonished, perhaps amazed that I’d figured it out. “There, you see.
That’s
sharp,” he said. “Now let’s go, Tom, and find that diamond.”

I was more wary than ever. The King had lied to me more than once, and he still hadn’t told me where Midgely was. Now he jumped to his feet and urged me toward the door.

Thicker by the moment, the fog swirled yellow round the ratlines. I thought I saw a movement by the rail. I definitely heard a tapping sound, a clatter in the fog.

“Someone’s out there,” I said.

Up from the gangway, across the deck, came Mr. Goodfellow.

It had been more than a year since I’d seen him, but he hadn’t changed at all. He was
exactly
the same—in white clothes, with a white cape and a top hat. In his hand was his walking stick with its silver knob. He tapped the stick on the deck.

The little King was gawking past me. “Now who the devil’s that?” he said. “Who’s that fine monkey?”

I thought his eyes—older than mine—were not so strong or keen. “Why, it’s Mr. Goodfellow, of course,” I said.

In a flash, the King was behind the door. In another—to my great surprise—he was underneath the table. His breeches vanished last, and then he was peering out between the legs of a chair. “Is it really him? Is that what Mr. Goodfellow looks like?”

I couldn’t have been more surprised. “You’ve never met him,” I said.

“Quiet, Tom!”

“You didn’t go to his office last night. Everything you’ve told me is a lie.”

“Shhh!” said the King in a whisper. “If he finds me, he’ll kill me. He’s vicious, isn’t he? He’s mean as rats, they say.”

Mr. Goodfellow, standing firmly now on the deck, adjusted his clothes. He tugged at each white glove, at each white cuff. He smoothed his side whiskers with the silver knob of his stick.

“Oh, crikey!” said the King, in a squeak. “Go and take him away, Tom. Please.”

Mr. Goodfellow tapped the wood in front of him. His cape was dusted with black flecks of coal. I bent down and looked under the table, where the little King was quivering.

“Tell me the truth for once,” I said. “Where’s Midgely?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Where?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I sent them up the ladder, among the warehouses. But, Tom—”

“Is that the truth?”

“The god’s truth. I swear it.” The King looked out at Mr. Goodfellow, now only yards away. “You have to save me, Tom. Please.”

“Why should I save
you?”
I looked down at him, disgusted. “You schemed against me.”

“It was Calliope’s fault,” he said desperately. “She wanted to steal the Jolly Stone from you, and … and the ship from Mr. Goodfellow, and… Oh, I tried to stop her, Tom. I tried. But you know how she is.”

Mr. Goodfellow came closer. The little King, huddled into a tiny ball, begged me one more time. “Go out there and lead him away, Tom. If you save me, I’ll tell you
all
the story. I can take you straight to Midgely I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

But Mr. Goodfellow was already at the door. He looked in at me, and I looked out at him, and he didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.

“Good day, Tom Tin,” said he.

Mr. Goodfellow put a hand on the top of his tall hat. He clamped it onto his head as he stooped through the door, into the cookhouse.

The last time we had been together in the same room was at the Old Bailey. He had sat high in the courtroom then, drumming his fingers on that same hat. He had drummed away while the judge delivered my sentence: transportation beyond the seas.

Though I was older and stronger now, a thrill of fear ran through me again.

“You saved my ship, Master Tin,” he said. “I should thank you for that.”

But he didn’t.

“You’ve done rather well. You surprise me, in fact.” That was all he said.

I could hear the King shaking. It was a rustle of clothes, a tremble of breath, like the sound of a squirrel in the forest. Mr. Goodfellow reached out and took hold of the table.

Now that table had weathered every storm in the ocean. It was a solid, heavy thing. But Mr. Goodfellow flipped it over as easily as he’d turn an egg. It crashed to the deck on its side, and there was the King in his white breeches, staring up with the most fearful look in his eyes.

“Who the devil are
you?”
said Mr. Goodfellow.

“Only a humble servant, sir,” said the King. On his elbows and knees, with his round bottom in the air, he looked like a piglet on a platter.

“By what name?” said Mr. Goodfellow.

I felt pity for the little King, he trembled so badly. “George, sir,” he squeaked. “George King.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “So
you’re
the wretch who married my half sister.”

I was dumbfounded. There were now more sides to the story than there were facets on the Jolly Stone.

Mr. Goodfellow poked his walking stick at the little King’s plump leg. “You’re a fortune seeker, George. You marry your way into my business, but all you bring is ruin. No doubt you’re plotting something else at this very moment.”

“Oh, no, sir,” said the King. “It’s Tom here who’s doing the plotting. I’ve been—”

“Do you know you’ve cost me a great deal of money?” said Mr. Goodfellow. He walked down the short length of the cookhouse, rapping the end of his walking stick along
skillets and pans that hung on the wall. “A freed slave was found last night wandering the edge of the City. They brought someone in who spoke his lingo, and what a remarkable story the chap had to tell. I shouldn’t be surprised if our loyal opposition raises some questions in the House. I’ll have to grease a few palms here and there. It shall cause me a bit of bother, and not a small expense, you ham-fisted fool!”

“Mr. Goodfellow, please.” The little King swiveled on his haunches to keep an eye on our visitor, who was then running his stick down a row of carving knives. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Not at all. I understand that you’re a cheat and a thief.” Mr. Goodfellow put on his black hat. “You’re a turncoat. That’s what you are.”

“Mr. Goodfellow,” said George. “I had the best intentions.”

“Indeed. You intended to make yourself wealthy.” Mr. Goodfellow looked at me. He rapped his stick on his palm. “Master Tin, do you have the Jolly Stone?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are you willing to find it and deliver it to me now?”

“For a price,” said I.

“Well, of course there’s a price. There’s always a price, you young fool. I would have paid it gladly from the start,” he said. “You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble, Tom. A lot of bother. Here we are, right back where we started. You have the stone, and I want it.”

“But the value has increased,” I said. “My price has risen.”

He flushed, but managed a laugh. “Why, you
have
learned a thing or two, haven’t you? It’s not the same boy who stands before me now; I see that. Perhaps there’s something of your father in you after all.”

This gave me a grim pleasure. For a moment I looked eye to eye with Mr. Goodfellow, and fancied that I saw something like admiration in his expression.

It was a strange moment, and the King took advantage of it by leaping from the deck. He dashed for the door.

Mr. Goodfellow whirled after him. He followed the King over the sill and out to the deck. His hat struck the top of the door and flew from his head. In the yellow fog that hung thickly now around the ship, Mr. Goodfellow raised his walking stick.

“No!” I shouted.

But down it came, and twice more. Three swift blows and a single scream, and the King lay lifeless on the deck.

“Now, Master Tin,” said Mr. Goodfellow, not even out of breath. “Fetch my hat, and we’ll go and get that Jolly Stone, shall we?”

It froze my blood, such a deed so easily done, so easily forgotten. I feared that I might be the next to succumb to that stick if I didn’t do as I was told. Yet if I buckled under now, all would be lost.

I looked away from the crumpled body on the deck and tried to keep my voice steady. Along with the King had gone my hope of easily finding Midgely And without Midge the Jolly Stone was that much more elusive. But I didn’t let on to Mr. Goodfellow. “There are certain things I want from you,” I told him.

“Mind to whom you’re speaking, Master Tin,” said he.

“First, you’ll get pardons,” I said. “For myself and the others who were with me. That’s four pardons I want.”

“I’m not a magistrate!” snapped Mr. Goodfellow.

“Look in your pockets,” I said boldly. “Perhaps you’ll find one there.”

He smiled at this. “"Yes, I can pull strings, Tom. Very well, you’ll get your pardons. I’ll have them delivered when I see the Stone.”

I shook my head.

“How dare you!” said he. “I’ve given my word; is that not enough?”

“No, sir,” I said. “It’s not.”

Such fury and heat came from his eyes that he might have burst into flames on the instant, consuming himself to a little heap of white ashes. But he only walked past me and got his own hat from the cookhouse floor, then led me off into the fog.

We went to his office, on the third floor of a building by the bank of the river. We walked through an enormous room packed full of clerks, all earnest young men who didn’t look up from their ledgers and ink pots. The only sound came from their scribbling, as though hundreds of mice were scurrying through that cavernous space. We passed through high doorways, through rooms that were each more splendid than the last. The entire floor—the entire building, in fact—belonged to Mr. Goodfellow. There were barristers bustling about, and errand boys who went everywhere at a run, and a man whose only job was refilling the ink pots, and another who minded the lamps.

Mr. Goodfellow strode through it all, his cape flapping like wings.

A thin man fell into pace behind us, his polished shoes going
clickety-click
on the gleaming wood of the floor. He dogged us down the last corridor, through an anteroom, into Mr. Goodfellow’s private office.

There I looked in wonder, all around, at a fireplace where a heap of coal glowed merrily, at a high desk so long and wide that a team of horses could have stood atop it. There were bookcases that soared to the ceiling, and chairs like the thrones of kings. I felt very tiny, and quite fragile, to be surrounded by such oversized splendor.

Mr. Goodfellow flipped off his cape, and the man was suddenly there to catch it. Then he moved behind the desk, and, quick as a wink, the man was there to pull out his chair.

“Bring your pad, Silbury,” said Mr. Goodfellow, and the thin man trotted off.

The office was in a corner, with towering windows on two walls looking out on the fog and the shadows of buildings. I could hear the clang of bells and the mournful hoot of foghorns on the river, but perhaps only imagined the faint lines of masts and rigging. It was a mystery no longer how Mr. Goodfellow had known that his ship had come home. He had likely watched it sailing in.

He had to climb to a platform to sit at the desk. There, above me, he flipped through a few papers and said nothing until the thin man came clicking back to the office. Then he spoke quickly.

“Listen, Silbury. Pop round to Downing Street and see
Wellington. Give him my compliments and ask for pardons for these boys. Tom, give him the names.”

I rattled them off, feeling very important that I was sending a man on an errand to see the Prime Minister of England. “And one for myself, of course,” I said at the end. Silbury looked down his nose at me and said, “And
you
are?”

Mr. Goodfellow laughed. “Silbury, this is Tom Tin. The son of Redman.”

“Ah,” nodded Silbury. “Any news of the father? Has there been some difficulty?”

“Only that he was captured by cannibals,” said I.

Mr. Goodfellow’s eyes flickered with that bit of news. There seemed a hint of concern—or worry—but no more than a hint. From Silbury came a little sigh. “Ah,” he said, and made a short note on his pad. I imagined he was recording the loss of a ship, or reminding himself to strike my father from the paybooks.

“Next thing,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “Master Tin will be leaving with me presently. Assign him a carriage and team when he returns. We can’t have him riding in a hackney, can we?” Mr. Goodfellow gave me a quick look. He may have winked; I wasn’t certain. “Now, Silbury, be sure you tell Wellington this is a matter of some urgency. I need the papers on my desk by nightfall.”