Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  The earl was glowering at James, presumably thinking of more insults, but Archer’s words distracted him.

  ‘I will speak with you alone, Clearwater,’ he said.

  ‘I would rather Mr Wright remain.’

  ‘Actually, Your Lordship…’ James squared his shoulders. ‘I should attend to your uniform and prepare your bath, or you will be late for dinner.’

  Kingsclere smirked as if he had won a point, and Archer conceded. Not because he cared about being late, but because it would spare James further verbal abuse.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wright,’ he nodded. ‘I shall be up presently.’

  ‘My Lords.’ James bowed and left the room.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Kingsclere drained his brandy glass and slammed it on the table.

  ‘Bloody peculiar,’ he said, and Archer wasn’t sure if he meant James or the arrival of the painting. ‘You mentioned other mysteries,’ the earl clarified. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Happy to. The obvious one is the reason. Why was this sent? Does the work mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Do you know what it is called?’

  ‘Yes. It is titled, “Brothers in Arms”, why?’

  ‘I am merely trying to establish…’ Archer broke off. ‘Brothers?’ he asked, and Kingsclere concurred.

  Another worrying possibility joined the list of connections. Delft, BQ, Five Dials and now the title of the painting. Delft was not far from Dordrecht where Archer’s brother was incarcerated, and dread crept more stealthily towards his chest.

  Fighting it, he thought harder. Was the timing relevant? Whoever had sent it could have done so on any day of any month, why now? Was it because Archer was staying at Kingsclere House? Any number of people could have learnt of his presence from the back of The Times where social gatherings were published for the inquisitive, and where the earl’s Friday-to-Monday had been announced some weeks beforehand.

  ‘What of it?’ Kingsclere’s impatience broke into his thoughts. ‘Why is the title a mystery?’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Archer said. ‘But the missing section is. It appears there was a column there, and I assume from the style there would have been something on it as is typical of the period. A Latin inscription was common, a commemorative date or a name. It strikes me, that if the sender’s intention was to shock you into an arrest of the heart, there are other and better ways to achieve that end. If, however, they had some other purpose, then to remove a part of the painting becomes meaningful.’

  ‘Will this take long, Clearwater?’ The earl had moved to the window. ‘The admiral will be arriving.’

  ‘I would remind you that I am here at your command, Sir,’ Archer said with as much restraint as possible, and before Kingsclere could counter-attack, returned to his train of thought. ‘Do you recall what was on the missing section?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a description of it? A plate in a catalogue perhaps?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of, but no doubt there will be something in the British Museum Library.’

  Archer needed something more immediate. ‘It would be easier to view the original at the gallery,’ he said. ‘Take a look next time you are up in town.’

  The suggestion did not go down well. ‘What do you take me for?’ the earl turned from the window and having glanced at the door, beckoned Archer nearer with a jolt of his head. ‘There’s something else,’ he said, his face paling. ‘But I need to know I have your trust.’

  ‘You do,’ Archer said, more in intrigue than honesty.

  For someone eager to prepare for his guests, Kingsclere took his time weighing up his next words, and the grandfather clock ticked away thirty solemn seconds before he spoke.

  ‘I have no choice but to ask for your involvement in this affair,’ Kingsclere said. ‘But if you breathe a word, I swear I will have you ejected from the House of Lords.’

  It was not the most charming way to approach the asking of a favour, but as it was technically impossible and the threat meaningless, Archer let it go and remained silent.

  ‘For some time, I have been at the mercy of a blackmailer,’ the earl admitted. ‘I don’t know who, and I’m buggered if I know why, but someone has made a threat against me. You don’t need to know the details, save to say my wealth is on the line, and you don’t need to know what has happened up to this point. Naturally, I have not given in to the intimidation.’

  ‘Threats of what?’

  Again, the earl took his time, studying Archer to the point of unnerving him, and when Archer tired of it and smiled encouragingly, the man turned away and slumped into an armchair.

  ‘To make public certain matters of the past,’ he said. ‘And there we will let it lie, but you should know that if these matters become known beyond this room, all this… The house, the esteem, the family reputation… Everything will be lost.’

  Archer could tell he meant it and understood his concern. Every man in society was a potential target for blackmail, and whether Kingsclere had done anything to deserve it or not, the menace was real. Even if spurious allegations were made public, he would suffer downfall in the same way Archer would if his love of men was known. All men had something to hide, but the higher one stood, the further one had to fall, and Archer knew the constant concern that came with being in a position of privilege.

  Added to that was the suspicion that Kingsclere knew about Archer’s affair with Lieutenant Harrington. Although not his captain at the time, Archer had served under Kingsclere, and naval captains were a close-knit conclave; word would have spread.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, and for the first time in his life, saw the earl smile.

  ‘Thank you, Clearwater,’ he said before the smile was lost among folds of apprehension. ‘Simply put, discover who is behind this menace, and let me have the name.’

  Had the painting been sent directly to Archer, he would have had no doubt the name was Quill, but it was addressed to Kingsclere who could have called the police or any guest with a knowledge of art. How could Quill have been sure he would summon Archer? The letters BQ could have stood for anyone. There had been another sailor on Kingsclere’s ship with the same initials, Barrington-Quincy, and who knew how many using the popular Five Dials post office. Delft was known for its artists, many capable of producing a forgery. It was all too vague and yet, that was how Quill liked to present his clues.

  ‘You have no idea who the blackmailer is?’ Archer asked.

  ‘None whatsoever, but he knows everything about me.’

  ‘And the previous communications? Did they offer any indication?’

  ‘No.’ The earl stared glumly into his empty glass, and Archer felt obliged to refill it. ‘Thank you. The first couple of letters I threw immediately into the fire. With the third, I noted it was posted from London, and all three contained the same message. A message, before you ask, that was made up of words taken from periodicals and newspapers, so offered no clues by handwriting. It also went in the fire. This…’ Kingsclere waved his hand towards the painting. ‘Is the most audacious.’

  ‘And most worrying,’ Archer suggested.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because it has been planned well in advance. To make such a forgery, one that would convince its owner it was the original, takes skill and time. Whoever has it in for you, Kingsclere, has been plotting against you for some months.’

  ‘Huh,’ the earl grunted. ‘And time is not on my side.’ Slipping a hand into his inside pocket, he drew out a piece of paper and handed it to the viscount. ‘I didn’t want to tell you in front of your servant, but this was rolled in with the painting.’

  Archer took the paper and unfolded it. One side was blank, but the other bore pasted numbers torn from a variety of sources. None of
them matched in style, but together, they made up a date.

  ‘Does the date mean anything?’ Archer asked.

  ‘And this.’

  The earl handed him a second paper on which were written the words, ‘You will die.’

  ‘Good Lord. You should contact Scotland Yard, Kingsclere.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I have met with Inspector Adelaide on occasion. I am not his favourite person, but he assisted with my work in the East End. Perhaps I could have a word.’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ The earl leapt from his chair, more agitated than Archer had yet seen him. ‘Not a word to anyone,’ he insisted.

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t present these to Mr Wright. He would have told you where the paper originated, and where…’

  Kingsclere ripped the papers from Archer’s hand, and before the viscount could stop him, thrust them into the flue of a table lamp where they burned.

  ‘I do not want a jumped-up servant knowing my business, Clearwater. Be sure of that. The man is too far above his station and deserves a flogging.’

  In the time it took Archer to draw a breath of restraint, he saw how he could turn the earl’s predicament to his advantage.

  ‘Kingsclere,’ he said through a clenched jaw. ‘I will help you with his matter on my terms.’

  ‘No. No bloody terms,’ the earl blustered, ‘Just make it go away.’

  ‘I shall, but I will not be able to do it on my own. Discretion is assured, but in return, I have two conditions.’

  The earl ground his yellowing teeth, but Archer refused to back down. The apathetic grandfather clock clunked its mechanism and rang its half-hour like a weary death knell before Kingsclere answered.

  ‘What terms?’

  Archer was about to tell him when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Wait!’ Kingsclere raged, his stare burning into Archer’s face. ‘What conditions?’

  ‘That you remove your amendment from the Master and Servant Bill coming before the Lords and ensure it is not reinserted in the Commons. Better still, alter your amendment to favour the employee, not the employer or kill the bill completely.’

  ‘Are you mad, Clearwater?’

  ‘Are you about to be exposed, Kingsclere?’

  The earl turned purple and was on the point of imploding when another knock diverted his anger. ‘Wait, God Damn you!’ Fixing Archer with angry eyes, made furious when Archer smiled sweetly, he growled and thrust forward his hand, mumbling, ‘No bloody choice.’

  ‘Secondly…’ Archer took the hand, ‘you will excuse me from tonight’s dinner.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Time is of the essence, Sir, and I must return to London immediately.’ Archer shook the hand. ‘Ah, good. We have an agreement between gentlemen. I have your word.’

  ‘I had better have yours, Clearwater, or we…’

  There was no knock, but the door opened, revealing Kingsclere’s withered butler.

  ‘Apologies for the interruption, My Lord,’ he croaked, ‘But Lord Admiral Hay has arrived.’

  Archer chipped in before the earl could react. ‘And that concludes our business, Your Lordship. Thank you for a delightful stay. I am sorry I shall miss this evening. Goodbye.’

  One more firm shake of the hand, and he beat a hasty retreat, leaving the earl defeated.

  Kingsclere watched him leave before signalling his butler to approach.

  ‘Send Joseph,’ he ordered. ‘Tell the Admiral I will be with him presently.’

  The butler tipped his head, his heavily wrinkled face displaying no emotion, and returned to the hall, his knees clicking with every painful step.

  The earl waited until he was alone before taking a seat at the table and pushing the painting to one side. By the time Joseph appeared, he had composed a note and was drumming his fingers nervously.

  ‘You called, My Lord?’

  ‘Come here.’

  The footman took less time to travel the distance than the butler, and did so with more elegance, snapping his heels when he came to a halt beside his master, shoulders back, chest out. A soldier ready to obey any order without question, he stared at the wall, not daring to look at the earl until he was spoken to.

  ‘I know you are busy,’ the earl said, ‘but this must be telegraphed immediately. Rouse whoever you need if the telegraph office is closed. Take a horse if you must, but be quick.’

  ‘Certainly, My Lord.’

  The earl reread his message before sealing it in an envelope. Joseph wouldn’t dare read it, he valued the flesh on his back too much for that, but Kingsclere was not taking any chances and handed him the envelope knowing that even if the man did see it, the words would make no sense.

  The telegram was addressed to BQ, 106, GPO, WC2, and read, “Bait taken. Leave me alone.”

  Five

  James fumed all the way to Archer’s room, waiting until he was in the servants’ corridor before swearing aloud, but resisting the temptation to kick the wall to vent his anger. The earl was nothing more than a bully with money, and whereas James had suffered at the hands of bullies at school and the Post Office, none of them had held any real position of authority. The night Silas had been arrested, James had vowed that he would not allow anyone to treat him in the same way as Inspector Adelaide treated his friend, and yet that was what had just happened. Holding his tongue had exhausted his willpower, and he wanted to set free his frustration with tears. To do so, however, would be to let the bastard win, and no way was that going to happen.

  Whatever was thrown at him, James was determined to remain strong for Archer, the only person in authority to treat him like a human being rather than like a dog to be whistled for and kicked when down. Before entering the bedroom, he paused to breathe deeply and remind himself that he had done well to ignore the old man’s insults. Where Archer showed him respect and benevolence, James had returned the kindness through his behaviour, and painful though it had been, he knew Archer would be pleased.

  That was all that mattered.

  ‘Yeah, well, he won’t be pleased if you don’t get his uniform right,’ he mumbled as he let himself in, talking himself through what needed to be done. ‘Belts, whites, medals and…’

  When he saw the room, he stopped with a start.

  Archer’s dress uniform was already hanging on the wardrobe, his underclothes were laid on the bed neatly and in a logical order beside his dressing gown, and his boots gleamed on the floor beside them. Stranger still was the sight of Harvey drawing the curtains, usually the duty of a maid.

  The footman spun when he heard the door, and snapped himself to attention.

  ‘Mr Clearwater,’ he said as if announcing James at a ball.

  Below stairs, visiting servants were addressed by their master’s names to avoid confusion. James was still unused to the tradition.

  ‘Harvey?’ He gawped in wonder at the work the footman had done for him. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Clearwater…’ Harvey dared a step forward. ‘I took the liberty, you being tied up with the Master and all. I thought it would save you time.’

  It would have done had the prepared uniform been the one James was planning to lay out.

  ‘Is this the correct dress?’ he asked, scanning the gold epaulettes and sash. ‘I had another ready.’

  ‘Er, yes, you did,’ Harvey said with a grimace, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. ‘But that was the dinner whites. Oh, don’t get me wrong, that’s usually correct, but it’s Admiral Hay, you see. He’s very particular about appearances, and won’t want to see the whites, because he thinks all officers, retired or serving, should be in Palacewear in his presence.’

  ‘Mr Evans didn’t tell me that, but then he hasn’t said more
than four civil words to me since I got here.’

  ‘As many as that? You’re lucky.’ Harvey gasped. ‘I hope I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Not at all,’ James said, to put the man at his ease. ‘It’s very kind of you. His Lordship won’t mind, and I certainly don’t. I would have made a right mess of it by the sound of things. But shouldn’t you be downstairs?’

  ‘I have a few minutes yet,’ Harvey said, edging towards the bed. ‘I thought I might give the buttons a final polish. I haven’t touched the medals because I don’t know where they are.’

  ‘His Lordship keeps them…’ Deciding not to go too far with his trust of the footman, James said, ‘Elsewhere. I’ll find them after I’ve run the bath.’

  ‘May I see to the buttons, Mr Clearwater?’

  ‘Yes, please do,’ James smiled. ‘If you won’t get into trouble from what’s his name, your butler. The man who looks like a prune.’

  Harvey’s laugh quickly turned into a cough. ‘Sorry. No disrespect.’

  ‘Harvey,’ James said as he crossed to the bathroom. ‘You can disrespect that man, Mr Evans and the bloody earl himself in front of me, I shan’t mind a bit.’

  Leaving the footman astounded by his candour, James entered the bathroom and set out Archer’s shaving kit. That done, he attended to the bath, running both hot and cold together, his mind switching from the earl and the way he had been treated, to the viscount’s requirements for the evening ahead. Unsure if Archer was allowed a handkerchief about him, he was about to ask the footman when he realised Harvey was watching from the doorway. The sight gave him a jolt of surprise, but it wasn’t an unpleasant one, because the man was beaming. James hadn’t taken much notice of his features until then, because they had been set in an expression of nothingness. His detachment was probably instilled into him by the shrivelled old man in the butler’s uniform, but now, his eyes were alive and his mouth curved, giving him an entirely different appearance. For the first time since James had been in the house, Harvey looked human.