"I suspect that I am only just beginning to discover what it is," said Jherek feelingly. "Does it involve a belief in an anthropomorphical and malevolent being called Fate?"
"I'm afraid it does, Mr. Carnelian."
He pulled himself slowly to his feet. She helped him on with his coat. He brightened at the next thought which occurred to him. "Perhaps, however, it is furthering my 'moral education'? Would that be the case, Mrs. Underwood?"
They began to climb down the bank and back to the sandy path.
This time she took him by the hand. "It's more in the nature of a side-effect, though I know I shouldn't sound so cynical. Mr. Underwood has often said to me that there is nothing so unwelcome in the sight of the Lord than a cynical woman. And there are a great many of them about, I'm afraid, in these worldly and upsetting modern times of ours. Come along, let's see where this path takes us."
"I hope," he murmured, "that it is not back to Bromley."
15. Entrained for the Metropolis
The small sandy-haired man unscrewed the ebony and glass object from his right eye and sucked somewhat noisily at his teeth. "Funny," he said. "It's a cut above yer usual paste. I'll give ya that much. But it's no more a real ruby than the kind ya kin by fer a shillin' in the market. Settin's nice, though, I can't recognize the metal. Well, 'ow much d'yer wanna borrow on it?" He held out Jherek's power ring on the palm of his hand.
Mrs. Underwood stood nervously beside Jherek at the counter. "A sovereign?"
"I dunno." He looked at it again. "It's a curiosity, an' beautiful workmanship, I'll grant … But what do I risk? Fifteen bob?"
"Very well," said Mrs. Underwood. She accepted the money on Jherek's behalf. He was half-stupefied by the negotiations, having no clear idea of what was taking place. He didn't mind losing a power ring, for he could easily get another on his return and they were useless here, but he could not quite understand why Mrs. Underwood was giving it to this man and why the man was giving her something in exchange. She accepted a ticket and tucked it into his top pocket.
They left the shop and entered a busy street. "Luckily it's market day and we shan't be too noticeable," said Mrs. Underwood. "Gypsies and so on will be about, as well." Carts and carriages jammed the narrow roadway and a couple of motor cars added to the confusion, their fumes giving rise to a great deal of pointed coughing and loud complaints from those on foot. "We'll have something to eat at the station buffet, while we are waiting for the train. Once in London, we'll go straight to the Cafe Royale and hope that one of your friends is there. It is our only chance." She walked as rapidly as possible up the winding pavement of the country street, turning into an alley blocked by two posts; the alley became a series of stone steps. They climbed them and found themselves in a much quieter road. "The station's this way, I believe," she said. "It is a stroke of luck that we were so close to Orpington."
They approached a green and red building. It was indeed, the railway station and Mrs. Underwood marched boldly to the ticket office and bought them two Second Class single tickets to Charing Cross. "We have twenty minutes to wait," she said, glancing at the clock over the ticket office, "ample time for refreshments. And," she added in an undertone, "there are no police in evidence. We appear for the moment to have made good our escape."
It was Jherek's first encounter with the cheese sandwich. He found it rather hard going, but he made the most of the experience, telling himself that, after all, he might not have the chance again. He enjoyed the tea, finding it rather nicer than the beverage he had had at Mrs. Underwood's, and when, at last, the train came steaming into the station he cried out in delight: "It is just like my own little engine at home!"
Mrs. Underwood seemed embarrassed. Some of the other people in the refreshment room were looking at Jherek and whispering among themselves. But Jherek hardly noticed.
He was dragging Mrs. Underwood eagerly through the doors and onto the platform.
"Orping ton ," called a thin man in a dark uniform. " Or pington!"
Jherek waited impatiently for some passengers to leave their carriage and he climbed in, nodding and smiling to those who were already seated.
"Isn't it splendid?" he said to her as they sat down. "Ancient transport has always been one of my chief enthusiasms — as you know."
"Please try to say as little as possible," she begged him in a whisper. She had already warned him that the newspapers would have published reports of their adventures of the previous night. He apologized and settled back, but he could not resist peering animatedly out of the windows at the scenery as it went past.
Mrs. Underwood seemed particularly distraught by the time they reached Charing Cross. Before leaving the carriage, she leaned out of the open window and then waited until all the other passengers had gone before saying to Jherek: "I cannot see any sign that the police are waiting for us. But we must hurry."
They joined the crowds making their way towards the barriers at the far end of the platforms and here even Jherek was conscious that they did not quite look the same as the others. Mrs. Underwood's dress was muddy, crumpled and torn in a couple of places; also she wore no hat, whereas all the other ladies had hats, veils, sunshades and coats. Jherek's black coat was stained and as battered as Mrs. Underwood's dress and he had a large hole in the knee of his left trouser leg. As they reached the gate and handed their tickets to the collector, they attracted some comment as well as disapproving glances. And it was Jherek who saw the policeman come walking ponderously towards them, his tongue thoughtfully stroking his lower lip, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Run, Mrs. Underwood!" he shouted urgently.
And then it was too late for her to brazen out the confrontation for the policeman was saying: "By Golly, it is them!" and was beginning to pull a whistle from his pocket.
They dashed for the exit, blundering first into a very large woman carrying a basket and leading a very small black and white dog on a piece of string, who cried " 'ere, watch it!" rather too late; then into two maiden ladies who cackled like startled hens and said a great deal concerning the manners of the young; and lastly into a stout stockbroker in a hat of exaggerated height and sleekness, who grunted "Bless my soul!" and sat down on a fruitstall so that the fruitstall collapsed and sent apples, grapefruit, oranges and pineapples rolling about in all directions, causing the policeman to interrupt his attempts to blow his whistle as he dodged a veritable Niagara of pears, calling after them: "Stop there! Stop, I say, in the name of the Law!"
Outside the station they found themselves in the Strand and now Jherek saw something leaning against a wall on the corner of Villiers Street.
"Look!, Mrs. Underwood — we are saved. A time machine!"
"That, Mr. Carnelian, is a tandem bicycle."
He already had his hands on it and was trying to straddle it as he had seen the others do.
"We would do better to hail a cab," she said.
"Get aboard quickly. Can you see any controls?"
With a sigh, she took the remaining saddle, in the front. "We had best head for Regent Street. It is not far, happily. The other side of Piccadilly. At least this will prove to you, once and for all, that…"
Her voice was lost as they hurtled into the press of the traffic, weaving between trams and omnibuses, between horses and motor cars and causing both to come to sudden stops and stand stock still in the middle of the road, panting and shuddering.
Jherek, expecting to see the scene vanish at any moment, paid little attention to the confusion happening around them. He was having a great deal of trouble keeping his balance upon the time machine.
"It will be soon!" he cried into her ear, "it must be soon!" And he pedalled harder. All that happened was that the machine lurched onto the pavement, shot across Trafalgar Square at considerable speed, up the Haymarket, and was in Leicester Square almost before they had realized it. Here Jherek fell off the tandem, to the vast entertainment of a crowd of street urchins hanging about outside the doors of the Empire Theatre of Varieties.
"It doesn't seem to work," he said.
Mrs. Underwood informed him that she had told him so. She now had a large tear in the hem of her dress where it had caught in the chain. However, for the moment, they did not appear to have the police on their trail.
"Quickly," she said, "and let us pray to heaven that someone who knows you is in the Cafe Royale!"
Heads turned as they ran across Piccadilly Circus and arrived at last at the doors of the Cafe Royale which Jherek had last visited less than twenty-four hours before. Mrs. Underwood pushed at the doors, but they would not budge. "Oh goodness!" she said in despair. "It's closed!"
"Closed?" said Jherek. He pressed his face to the glass. He could see people inside. He signed to them, but they shook their hands from side to side and pointed at the clock.
"Closed," sighed Mrs. Underwood. She uttered a funny, toneless laugh. "Well, that's it! We're finished!"
"Hey!" called someone. They turned, ready to run, but it was not the police. From the great tide of traffic converging upon Piccadilly Circus they distinguished a hansom cab, its driver seated high in the rear of the vehicle, his face expressionless. "Hi!" said a voice from within the cab.
"Mr. Harris!" called Jherek, recognizing the face. "We were hoping you would be in the Cafe Royale."
"Get in!" hissed Harris. "Hurry. Both of you."
Mrs. Underwood lost no time in accepting his offer and soon the three of them were crammed in the cab and it was jogging around the Circus and back towards Leicester Square.
"You are the young man I saw yesterday," said Harris in triumph. "I thought so. This is a bit of luck."
"Luck for us, Mr. Harris," said Mrs. Underwood, "but not for you if your part in this is discovered."
"Oh, I've bluffed my way out of worse situations," he said. He laughed easily. "Besides, I'm a journalist first and foremost — and we newshounds are permitted a certain amount of leeway when obtaining a really tip-top story. I'm not just helping you out of altruism, you know. I read the papers today. They're saying that you're the Mayfair Killer come back from the dead to be reunited with your — um — paramour!" Mr. Harris's eyes gleamed. "What's your version? You certainly bear a striking resemblance to the Killer. I saw a drawing in one of the papers when the trial was taking place. And you, young lady, were a witness for the defence at the trial, were you not?"
She looked at Mr. Harris a little suspiciously. It seemed to Jherek that she did not altogether like the bluff, rapid-speaking editor of the Saturday Review .
He saw that she hesitated and raised his hand. "Say no more at this stage! What reason, after all, have you to trust me." With his stick he opened a hatch at the top of the cab. "I have changed my mind, cabby. Take us, instead to Bloomsbury Square." He let the flap fall back and turning to them said, "I have rooms there where you will be safe for the moment."
"Why are you helping us, Mr. Harris?"
"I want an exclusive of your story, ma'am, for one thing. Also, there were facts about the Mayfair case which never seemed to fit right. I am curious to know what you can tell me."
"You could help us with the Law?" Hope now overcame her caution.
"I have many friends," said Mr. Harris, stroking his chin with the head of his cane, "in the Law. I am on intimate terms with several High Court Judges, Queen's Counsels — eminent lawyers of all descriptions. I think you could call me a man of influence, ma'am."
"Then we may yet be saved," said Mrs. Underwood.
16. The Mysterious Mr. Jackson
After installing Mrs. Underwood and Jherek Carnelian in his Bloomsbury rooms, Mr. Harris left, telling them that he would return as soon as possible and that they were to make themselves comfortable. The rooms, it seemed, did not really meet with Mrs. Underwood's approval, though Jherek found them extremely pleasant. There were numerous pictures of attractive young people upon the walls, there were thick velvet curtains at the windows, and deep-piled Turkish carpets upon the floors. There were porcelain figurines and a profusion of jade and amber ornaments. Looking through the books, Jherek found a great many elegant drawings of a kind he had not previously seen and he showed them to Mrs. Underwood, hoping that they might cheer her up, but instead she closed the books with a bang, refusing to explain why she would not look at the pictures. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that she would help the time pass by reading to him from the books. He found some other books, with yellow paper covers, which did not have pictures, and handed one of these to her.
"Perhaps you could read this?"
She glanced at it and sniffed. "It is French ," she said.
"You do not like it, either?"
"It is French." She looked through into the bedroom, at the wide bed with its lavish coverings. "This whole place reeks of the fin de siecle . Although Mr. Harris has helped us, I do not have to approve of his morals. I am in no doubt as to his purposes in keeping these rooms."
"Purposes? Does he not live in them?"
"Live? Oh, yes. To the full, it seems. But I suspect this is not the address at which he entertains his respectable friends." She crossed to a window and flung it up. "If he has any," she added. "I wonder how long we shall have to stay here."
"Until Mr. Harris has time to talk to a few people he knows and to take down our story," said Jherek, repeating what Mr. Harris had told them. "There is a great sense of safety about this apartment, Mrs. Underwood. Don't you feel it?"
"It has been designed to avoid ordinary public scrutiny," she said, and she sniffed again. Then she stared into one of the long gilt mirrors and tried, as she had tried before, to tidy her hair.
"Aren't you tired?" Jherek walked into the bedroom. "We could lie down. We could sleep."
"So we could," she said sharply. "I suspect that there is more lying down than standing up goes on here, as a rule. Art nouveau everywhere! Purple plumes and incense. This is where Mr. Harris entertains his actresses."
"Oh," said Jherek, having given up trying to understand her. He accepted, however, that there was something wrong with the rooms. He wished that Mrs. Underwood had been able to complete his moral education; if she had, he felt, he, too, might be able to enjoy sniffing and pursing his lips, for there was not much doubt that she was taking a certain pleasure in her activities: her cheeks were quite flushed, there was a light in her eyes. "Actresses?"
"So-called."
"There does not seem much in the way of food here," he told her, "but there are lots of bottles. Would you like something to drink?"
"No thank you, Mr. Carnelian. Unless there is some mineral water."
"You had better look for yourself, Mrs. Underwood. I don't know which is which."
Hesitantly, she entered the bedroom and surveyed the wide selection on a small sideboard set against the wall. "Mrs. Harris appears to have a distaste for Adam's Ale," she said. Her head lifted as there came a knocking upon the outer door. "Who could that be?"
"Mr. Harris returning earlier than expected?"
"Possibly. Open the door, Mr. Carnelian, but have a care. I do not entirely trust your journalist friend."
Jherek had some difficulty with the catch and the light knocking sounded again before he had the door open. When he saw who stood there, he grinned with relief and pleasure. "Oh, Jagged, dear Jagged! At last! It is you!"
The handsome man in the doorway removed his hat. "The name," he said, "is Jackson. I believe I saw you briefly last night at the Cafe Royale? You would be Mr. Carnelian."
"Come in, devious Jagged!"
With a slight bow to Mrs. Underwood, who stood now in the centre of the sitting room, Lord Jagged of Canaria entered. "You would be Mrs. Underwood? My name is Jackson. I work for the Saturday Review . Mr. Harris sent me to take some shorthand notes. He will join us later."
"You are the judge!" she exclaimed. "You are Lord Jagger, who sentenced Mr. Carnelian to death!"
The man who claimed to be Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows as, with a delicate movement, he divested himself of his top-coat and laid it, together with his hat, gloves and stick, upon the table. "Mr. Harris warned me that you would still be a little agitated. It is understandable, madam, in the circumstances. I assure you that I am neither of the two men so far mentioned. I am merely Jackson — a journalist. My job is to put some basic questions to you. Mr. Harris sent his regards and said that he is doing everything in his power to contact someone in high places — who must for the moment be nameless — in the hope that they will be able to assist you."
"You bear a remarkable resemblance to the Lord Chief Justice," she said.
"So I have been told. But I am neither as eminent nor as talented as that gentleman to my regret."
Jherek was laughing. "Listen to him! Isn't he perfect!"
"Mr. Carnelian," she said, "I think you are making a mistake. You will embarrass Mr. Jackson."
"No, no!" Mr. Jackson dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his slender hand. "We journalists are pretty hardy fellows, you know."
Jherek shrugged. "If you are not Jagged — and Jagged was not Jagger — then I must assume there are a number of Jaggeds, each playing different roles, perhaps throughout history…"
Mr. Jackson smiled and produced a notebook and a pencil. "That's the stuff," he said. "We seem to have a rival to your friend Mr. Wells, eh, Mrs. Underwood?"
"Mr. Wells is not my friend," she said.
"You know him, however, don't you — Mr. Jackson?" asked Jherek.
"Only slightly. We've had the odd conversation in the past. I've read a good many of his books, however. If your story is up to The Wonderful Visit and can be presented in the right way, then our circulation's assured!" He settled himself comfortably in a deep armchair. Jherek and Mrs. Underwood sat on the edge of the ottoman opposite him. "Now, I gather you're claiming to be the Mayfair Killer returned from the dead…"
"Not at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Underwood. "Mr. Carnelian would not kill anyone."
"Unfairly accused, then? Returned to vindicate the claim? Oh, this is splendid stuff!"
"I haven't been dead," said Jherek. "Not recently at any rate. And I don't understand about the rest."
"You are on the wrong tack, I fear, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood primly.
"Where have you been, then, Mr. Carnelian?"
"In my own time — in Jagged's time — in the distant future, of course. I am a time traveller, just as Mrs. Underwood is." He touched her hand, but she removed it quickly. "That is how we met."
"You honestly believe that you have travelled through time, Mr. Carnelian?"
"Of course. Oh, Jagged, is there any point to this? You've already played this game once before!"
Mr. Jackson turned his attention to Mrs. Underwood. "And you say that you visited the future? That you met Mr. Carnelian there? You fell in love?"
"Mr. Carnelian was kind to me. He rescued me from imprisonment."
"Aha! And you were able to do the same for him here?"
"No. I am still not sure how he escaped death on the gallows, but escape he did — went back to his own time — then returned. Was it only last night? To Bromley."
"Your husband then called the police."
"Inadvertently, the police must have been called, yes. My husband was overexcited. Have you heard how he is, by the way?"
"I have only read the papers. He is quoted, in the more sensational sheets, as claiming that you have been leading a double-life — by day a respectable, God-fearing Bromley housewife — by night, an accomplice of thieves — 'A Female Charlie Peace' I believe you were termed in today's Police Gazette ."
"Oh, no! Then my reputation is gone for good."
Mr. Jackson inspected the cuff of his shirt. "It would seem that it would take much, Mrs. Underwood, to restore it. You know how the odour of scandal clings, long after the scandal itself is proved unfounded."
She straightened her shoulders. "It remains my duty to try to convince Harold that I am not the wanton creature he now believes me to be. It will cause him much grief if he thinks that I have been deceiving him over a period of time. I can still attempt to put his mind at rest on the issue."
"Doubtless…" murmured Mr. Jackson, and his pencil moved rapidly across the page of his notebook. "Now, could we have a description of the future?" He returned his attention to Jherek. "An Anarchist Utopia, is it, perhaps? You are an anarchist, are you not, sir?"
"I don't know what one is," said Jherek.
"He certainly is not!" cried Mrs. Underwood. "A degree of anarchy might have resulted from his actions…"
"A Socialist Utopia, then?"
"I think I follow your meaning now, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood. "You believe Mr. Carnelian to be some kind of mad political assassin, claiming to be from an ideal future in the hope of propagating his message?"
"Well, I wondered…"
"Was this idea original to you?"
"Mr. Harris suggested —"
"I suspected as much. He did not believe a word of our story!"
"He considered it a trifle over-coloured, Mrs. Underwood. Would you not think so, if you heard it, say, from my lips!"
"I wouldn't!" smiled Jherek. "Because I know who you are."
"Do be quiet, please, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood. "You are in danger of confusing matters again."
"You are beginning to confuse me , I fear," said Mr. Jackson equably.
"Then we are only reciprocating, joking Jagged, the confusion you have created in us!" Jherek Carnelian got up and strode across the room. "You know that the Morphail Effect is supposed to apply in all cases of time travel to the past, whether by travellers who are returning to their own time, or those merely visiting the past from some future age."
"I'm afraid that I have not heard of this 'Morphail Effect'? Some new theory?"
Ignoring him, Jherek continued. "I now suspect that the Morphail Effect only applies in the case of those who produce a sufficient number of paradoxes to 'register' as it were upon the fabric of Time. Those who are careful to disguise their origins, to do little to make use of any information they might have of the future, are allowed to exist in the past for as long as they wish!"
"I'm not sure I entirely follow you, Mr. Carnelian. However, please go on." Mr. Jackson continued to take notes.
"If you publish all this, Mr. Carnelian will be judged thoroughly mad," said Mrs. Underwood quietly.
"If you tell enough people what I have told you — it will send us off into the future again, probably." Jherek offered Mr. Jackson an intelligent stare. "Wouldn't it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson said apologetically. "I'm still not quite with you. However, just keep talking and I'll keep taking notes."
"I don't think I'll say anything for a while," said Jherek. "I must think this over."
"Mr. Jackson could help us, if he would accept the truth," said Mrs. Underwood. "But if he is of the same opinion as Mr. Harris…"
"I am a reporter," said Mr. Jackson. "I keep my theories to myself, Mrs. Underwood. All I wish to do is my job. If you had some proof, for instance…"
"Show him that odd-looking gun you have, Mr. Carnelian."
Jherek felt in the pocket of his coat and pulled the deceptor-gun out. "It's hardly proof," he said.
"It is certainly a very bizarre design," said Mr. Jackson, inspecting it.
He was holding it in his hands when there came a knocking on the door and a voice bellowed:
"Open this door! Open in the name of the Law!"
"The police!" Mrs. Underwood's hand went to her mouth. "Mr. Harris has betrayed us!"
The door shook as heavy bodies flung themselves against it.
Mr. Jackson got up slowly, handing back the gun to Jherek. "I think we had better let them in," he said.
"You knew they were coming!" cried Mrs. Underwood accusingly. "Oh, we have been deceived on all sides."
"I doubt if Mr. Harris knew. On the other hand, you were brought here in an ordinary cab. The police could have discovered the address from the cabby. It's rather typical of Frank Harris to forget, as it were, those all-important details."
Mr. Jackson called out: "Wait one moment, please. We are about to unlock the door!" He smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Underwood as he undid the catch and flung the door wide. "Good afternoon, inspector."
A man in a heavy ulster, with a small bowler hat fixed rigidly upon the top of his rocklike head, walked with massive bovine dignity into the room. He looked about him, he sniffed rather as Mrs. Underwood had sniffed; pointedly, he looked neither at Jherek Carnelian nor at Mrs. Underwood. Then he said:
"Herr-um!"
He wheeled, a cunning rhino, his finger jutting forward like a menacing horn, until it was quite close to Jherek's nose. "You 'im?"
"Who?"
"Mayfair Killer?"
"No." Jherek inched backwards.
"Thought not." He fingered a thoroughly well-waxed moustache. "I'm Inspector Springer." He brought bushy brows down over deep, brooding eyes. "Of Scotland Yard," he said. " Heard of me, 'ave you?"
"I'm afraid not," said Jherek.
"I deal with politicals, with aliens, with disruptive forrin' elements — an' I deal with 'em extremely firm ."
"So you believe it, too!" Mrs. Underwood rose. "You are mistaken in your suspicions, inspector."
"We'll see," said Inspector Springer cryptically. He raised a finger and cocked it, ordering four or five uniformed men into the room. "I know my anarchists, lady. All three of yer have that particular look abart yer. We're going' to do some very thorough checkin' indeed. Very thorough."
"You're on the wrong track, I think," said Mr. Jackson. "I'm a journalist. I was interviewing these people and…"
"So you say, sir. Wrong track, eh? Well, we'll soon get on the right one, never fear." He looked at the deceptor-gun and stretched out his hand to receive it. "Give me that there weapon," he said. "It don't look English ter me ."
"I think you'd better fire it, Jherek," said Mr. Jackson softly. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of choice."
"Fire it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I think so."
Jherek pulled the trigger. "There's only about one charge left in it…"
The room in Bloomsbury Square was suddenly occupied by fifteen warriors of the late Cannibal Empire period. Their triangular faces were painted green, their bodies blue, and they were naked save for bangles and necklaces of small skulls and finger-bones. In their hands were long spears with barbed, rusted points, and spiked clubs. They were female. As they grinned, they revealed yellow, filed teeth.
"I knew you was ruddy anarchists!" said Inspector Springer triumphantly.
His men had fallen back to the door, but Inspector Springer held his ground. "Arrest them!" he ordered severely.
The green and blue lady warriors gibbered and seemed to advance upon him. They licked calloused lips.
"This way," whispered Mr. Jackson, leading Jherek and Mrs. Underwood into the bedroom. He opened a window and climbed out onto a small balcony. They joined him as he balanced for a moment on one balustrade and then jumped gracefully to the next. A flight of steps had been built up to this adjoining balcony and it was an easy matter to descend by means of the steps to the ground. Mr. Jackson strolled through a small yard and opened a gate in a wall which led into a secluded, leafy street.
"Jagged — it must be you. You knew what the deceptor-gun would do!"
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Jackson coolly, "I merely realized that you possessed a weapon and that it could be useful to us in our predicament."
"Where do we go now?" Mrs. Underwood asked in a small, pathetic voice.
"Oh, Jagged will help us get back to the future," Jherek told her confidently. "Won't you, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson seemed faintly amused. "Even if I were this friend of yours, there would be no reason to assume, surely, that I can skip back and forth through time at will, any more than can you!"
"I had not considered that," said Jherek. "You are merely an experimenter, then? An experimenter little further advanced in your investigations than am I?"
Mr. Jackson said nothing.
"And are we part of that experiment, Lord Jagged?" Jherek continued. "Are my experiences proving of help to you?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I could enjoy our conversations better," he said, "if we were in a more secure position. Now we are, all three, 'on the run.' I suggest we repair to my rooms in Soho and there review our situation. I will contact Mr. Harris and get fresh instructions. This, of course, will prove embarrassing for him, too!" He led the way through the back streets. It was evening and the sun was beginning to set.
Mrs. Underwood fell back a step or two, tugging at Jherek's sleeve. "I believe that we are being duped," she whispered. "For some reason, we are being used to further the ends of either Mr. Harris or Mr. Jackson or both. We might stand a better chance on our own, since obviously the police do not believe, any longer, that you are an escaped murderer."
