My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(60)

That was harder than Alexander anticipated, because in spite of growing up in London, he knew very little about shipping or docks or even who he might need to talk to. So his quest began with asking strange men about their superiors.

“Go see Fred over there. He’s in charge of this area,” said one man. He pointed toward a small shack.

Alexander didn’t see a man. “You mean that pigeon?”

“No, I mean—” The man looked around and shrugged. “I guess he’s gone. Try the dockmaster, though.”

“Where’s the dockmaster?”

“He could be anywhere. He has a lot of docks to master.”

Alexander nodded. “What about his office? Maybe I’ll try there first.”

“Good idea.” The man offered a few simple directions and sent Alexander off, but the docks were much more confusing and busy than he’d been prepared for, and he was soon lost. Several more times, he had to ask directions to the dockmaster’s office. The afternoon sun was punishing, and the crowds of men hollering and hauling only made the heat worse. The stench of fish and brine filled the air, suffocating, and several warehouse guards gave him suspicious looks. Probably because of his mask.

Finally, though, he reached the office (which was actually quite close to the dock entrance, and it was possible all the dockworkers he’d gotten directions from had been having a good time watching him go in circles). He stepped inside to find a haggard-looking man sitting at a large desk with stacks and stacks of papers. Yet more papers spilled from file cabinets.

Even with the windows open, the room was stuffy. Sweat beaded behind Alexander’s mask as he approached the desk. “Good afternoon. I’m Alexander Blackwood, with the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits.”

“I’m sure you are. And I’m King William IV.” The man looked up. “Oh. I see you are from the Society. I recognize you by your mask.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m Guy.”

“Guy?”

“Yes. What can I help you with?”

“I’m looking for a Mr. Mason,” Alexander said.

Guy jerked a thumb at the window at his back, toward the crowded docks. “Do you see that?”

Alexander nodded.

“There are at least six hundred ships in there. That’s thousands of crewmen. Thousands of dockworkers. Hundreds of guards. I don’t know all those people by name, and I certainly don’t know your Mr. Mason.”

“He’s not my Mr. Mason.” Wait, that was off topic. Alexander searched his memory for everything he’d learned about Mr. Mason during his stay in Thornfield. “Mason owns a business, and at least twenty ships. He might be on one of the vessels leaving soon.”

“Oh,” said Guy. “That Mr. Mason. I know him!”

“Really?”

“No.” Guy dropped his face to one of the piles of papers and began flipping through. “But I do know of him, now that you mention it. His ships come through here with sugar, molasses, other goods like that. He’s a popular fellow. Always kind, I hear. He has a charming nephew. A hard worker, that boy. He—”

“Ahem.” That was great, but Alexander didn’t need gossip now. He needed to find the man himself.

After a few minutes, Guy jabbed his finger at one of the pages. “Ah! Yes, he’s on the PurlAnn. He was added to the passenger manifest just today, and the ship departs in”—he squinted at the page—“thirty minutes.”

Alexander exhaled in relief. He hadn’t missed him after all. But thirty minutes wasn’t a great deal of time. He’d have to go after Mason immediately. “I don’t suppose you can show me which ship the PurlAnn is?”

Guy heaved himself up off the desk and limped toward the door. His peg leg thunked on the floor.

“That one.” Guy pointed toward a four-masted galleon. Blue and green sails snapped in the wind. “Good luck.” Guy thumped back into his office.

“Thanks!”

Alexander started toward the PurlAnn, but instinct—an intuition that had never led him astray—told him to check on the Bront?s. He glanced toward the dockyard exit and waited for a break in the crowd on the street.

There was Miss Bront?, writing in her notebook, as usual. Every now and then, she lifted her glasses and gazed around the street, as though just the right words would appear before her. And when she caught him looking, she smiled and waved.

Then there was Branwell, bent down and offering something to a homeless child.

A . . . teacup?

The teacup.

And he wasn’t wearing gloves.

“No!” The shout broke from Alexander and he took off at a mad sprint. “Branwell, no!”

His cry drew eyes as he barreled through the crowded docks and pushed his way through the busy street. But it was too late. Branwell straightened, his shoulders thrown back.

He was possessed. By Brocklehurst.

Why wasn’t that fool boy wearing his gloves? Hadn’t Alexander told him that the cup (and pocket watch and the cane) was dangerous?

Alexander pushed his way through the crowd, shouting, “Miss Bront?, watch out!” but it turned out she didn’t need instructions or help.

He did.

Branwell/Brocklehurst spun toward Alexander just as the crowd broke and backed off, probably realizing something terrible was about to happen, and the possessed Society agent lifted the teacup into the air.