The Adventures of a Timetravel Watch
Chapter 6

Copyright© 2014 by Old Man with a Pen

London, 1953. Lots of rooming houses, small tea rooms, neighborhood pubs, chimney sweeps, fog ... and tourists.

London, 1953. Austerity, food shortages, high taxes and pay meters.

London, 1953. National Conscription sent a total of one hundred thousand sons and husbands to Korea ... but there were the sounds of possible accords.

We found a nice two bed sitter in a rooming house at a £2.6 a week, with an ordinary ... not a restaurant but, meal hours. No menu ... just today's shopping. On Wednesday the landlady rapped on the door and handed Gwen the paper.

"Just so you know," she said. "I don't ask questions ... and I don't peach. Had there been a reward, Timothy Baines would be running to the Yard. As it is, I believe he's walking."

Curse all policemen with excellent memories!

The sketch picture was on the front page of The London Times, the day after our little adventure with secret passageways, men in overcoats and constables on patrol.

Scotland Yard: The following is a description of an American male being sought as a person of interest and material witness in a delicate matter: 40 years old, exceeding six feet tall, long blond hair, blue eyes, 12 stone, well setup. Tan tweed jacket/leather elbows, brown shirt, dark trousers, brown shoes.

Accompanied by a fit, well spoken British woman 18 years old. Striking figure, red hair, green eyes, between 6-7 stone. Tan trousers, green sweater, fluffy scarf worn as a waist belt. Runners.

Call the Yard or nearest Officer.

"Thank you Mrs. Rose."

"We'll be on our way," I said.

"For my own sake," Mrs. Rose said, "What have you done?"

"Stopped a murder."

"Yesterday?" Mrs. Rose asked. She wasn't stupid, by any means. "The Queen?"

We nodded.

"Why?"

"Why are we leaving? We don't want to be involved."

"MI6?"

"Something like that."

Mrs. Rose bustled into the room, swung the wardrobe away from the wall, kicked the wainscoting and a dusty narrow stairs appeared.

"Bomb-shelter. Egress in the Park. Off with ye."

I tried to hand her a £50 pound note but she refused.

"Don't be insulting. Off with you, Yank. You too, Miss."

I heard the door in the wainscoting shut and latch. We were gone.

I made sure there were footprints in the dust ... all the way to the overgrown bunker in the park.

"Now what?"

"We need to know what this watch will do."

Seven said, "Lots, come on."

And we did.

A kitchen with a short busty red head preparing stewing tomatoes for canning. A husband ... much younger, peeling parboiled tomatoes. Young teen twins with tears in their eyes, dicing onions. And a spitting image of the redhead seeding peppers.

"Too?" said Seven.

The woman at the stove jumped a good mile, threw her hand to her abundant chest, and said, "SEVEN! DON'T DO THAT!"

 
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