Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  There were, however, two problems.

  The first was that he had to keep some information from his comrades and leave them to solve Quill’s clues on their own. There was no doubt they would; he knew his men and trusted them to the end. It was regretful that Quill’s plan would not allow him to lead them, but they would come through, and just as he was able to pre-empt Quill’s moves, so could he foresee those of his most trusted allies. Most of all, when they understood the reason for his duplicity, they would, without question, forgive.

  The second problem was that, despite his confidence, Archer could not guarantee he would return from Quill alive. If that was the case, his will was in place. If he returned injured or incapacitated, then his life was in Silas’ hands.

  There was nobody better, and he told his solicitor so as he read the completed power of attorney papers. Agreeing that what was stated was his wish, Archer waited while the solicitor fetched a colleague to act as a witness, and signed.

  The colleague thanked and sent away, Archer took a copy of the affidavit and turned to his third item of business.

  ‘I want to start a new company,’ he announced as Marks took his seat. ‘I made some notes while on the train. Perhaps you could look through these…’ He handed over some pages torn from his pocket-note. ‘They are not comprehensive, of course, but you’ll get the idea. I have named the other co-owners. It will be a commercial enterprise with salaries paid. It’s all in there.’

  ‘What is this one to be?’ Marks queried as he peered from one sheet to the next. ‘Another investment in the providing of the new electricity? A second trading company? Or are you thinking of the railways? Branching into a branch line, you might…’ His voice trailed off as he read the viscount’s notes. Flipping the paper to find the other side blank, he flicked it back and stared incredulously across his desk. ‘Are you serious?’

  Archer couldn’t help but laugh. When Marks became bothered, his face swelled like a balloon, and his lips worked faster than a zoetrope.

  ‘Yes, I am serious, Marks,’ he said. ‘And that is to be its title. Just draw up the papers and I will see to the rest when I get back. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have another visit to make, a piece of machinery to buy, and an exhibit to examine. Ah, Sedgwick, directly on the appointed hour.’

  The clerk had returned, his clothes dusty and his face flushed.

  ‘I found this, My Lord,’ he panted. ‘There is a second copy exactly the same downstairs if you require it.’

  ‘No, thank you, Sedgewick,’ Archer said, flicking through the pages. ‘This will do.’ Addressing Marks, he said. ‘Alex. If I am not mistaken, my valet will call upon you in a couple of days.’

  ‘Your valet, My Lord?’

  ‘Yes. James Wright. You may remember him as the other man hanging perilously from a gantry at the Opera House. If he does come to you, please see him yourself and answer all his questions. Give him whatever he asks for and treat him well. However, it would be best if you made no mention of my visit today, and appeared surprised at his requests.’

  Marks glanced from the viscount to Sedgewick who looked equally as puzzled.

  ‘He may want to know about the same mine,’ Archer said, waving the documents as he stood. ‘Now, I shall bid you a good day, Sirs, and Marks, please send my regards to your somewhat satisfactory wife.’

  ‘You give her too much praise, Your Lordship,’ the solicitor sighed as he shook Archer’s hand. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll hack it about a bit and see what I can do.’

  Unsure whether his solicitor was talking about his wife or the new business, Archer left the office in search of a cab.

  Eight

  Archer mulled over Marks’ scepticism as the cab trundled him eastwards. Watching the buildings pass, he couldn’t help but wonder how the city had developed for the benefit of the wealthy. Clearwater House in the west was nestled among noble houses protected by the Palace and the area’s affluence, and within easy reach of museums and galleries, respectable theatres and the political hub of the country. Beyond the West End lay Chancery Lane and the solicitors and barristers who maintained order. Around them, the Inns of Court were a barrier between the rich west and the poor east, as if their placement had been designed to hold back the tide of depravity and lawlessness that lapped at the shores of respectability. The financial heart of the city stood incongruously beside the most deprived of Smithfield and Greychurch, the Tower its outpost acting as a historic warning to those tempted to better themselves through illegal means.

  When coming from the west, the design of the city made sense, but anyone wanting to progress from east to west was faced with an insurmountable climb. The land lay flat enough, but the ascent from poverty to a living wage was a near-impossible struggle.

  Passing through Aldgate and entering Greychurch, the pavements thickened with citizens. Top hats and canes gave way to bowlers and suits which, in turn, were replaced by bare feet and rags until the throng of pedestrians appeared as one seething mass of torn clothing, dirt and desperation.

  Archer couldn’t help every one of these people, but he could help a few. Why then, should Marks be cynical that he had planned to financially better his staff in the event of his death? Surely, he thought as he rested his head sadly on the window, to help just one man was better than helping none?

  The hansom jerked to a halt outside the Clearwater Foundation where, drawing back from his reverie, Archer paid the driver to wait before greeting the doorman.

  ‘Very fine day, Michael,’ he enthused. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Still living, Your Lordship,’ the man replied, wearily tipping his hat.

  ‘Your wife, the children?’

  ‘Not dead of the plague yet, Sir.’

  Archer was tempted to say there was still hope, but he held back. The man was so dour his face hung like a bulldog, and he rarely had a cheerful word to utter, but that was no reason to tease.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said instead as he trotted up the steps, his cloak swishing obediently behind.

  Unlike other charitable missions in the area, the entrance to the Foundation was a place of calm. It had been designed that way so that when young men first entered, they immediately left behind the mess and smell of Cheap Street and the rambling alleys beyond. The doors swung shut of their own accord with a soft brush against clean tiles, and the seething world of the East End was silenced. Once inside, the first person visitors met was a shining example of the Mission’s success, a young man who had known and survived the streets and used the charity to find a safer, dignified life.

  One such success story was present when Archer whistled into the hall.

  ‘Hello!’ he said as he approached the desk.

  The lad looked up, and seeing a gentleman, scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Ah, it’s Dragos, is it not?’

  On hearing his name, the lad became confused, and an old instinct kicked in.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I love it that we have working boys here.’

  Archer offered his hand, but Dragos stepped back, sneering like a guard dog.

  ‘We’re not that kind of place,’ he said, and what had been a handsome face became darkened by mistrust. ‘This ain’t a molly house, mate. That’s what the boys have come to escape. Piss off to Tanner’s Lane if you want that.’

  ‘My dear chap,’ Archer laughed. ‘I am not here to procure, I am here to see Doctor Markland. I meant working as in…’ He waved his hand at the desk, noting the precisely stacked ledgers, the perpendicular alignment of the pencil to the edge, and an open visitors’ book, immaculately kept.

  ‘Oh.’ Dragos was taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am, rather. I take it the superintendent is in his office.’

  ‘Depends who wants him.�
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  Although he was impressed at the way Dragos defended his charity, Archer was in a hurry. Leaning to the youth, he bade him follow his finger as he turned it towards the wall where a granite freeze announced the name of the organisation.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Where it says The Clearwater Foundation. I’m the Clearwater part.’

  Dragos was mortified and lost two feet in height as he shrank with remorse.

  ‘My humble apologies, Your Lordship,’ he flustered. ‘But you can’t be too careful around here.’

  ‘I quite agree, Dragos, and I congratulate you on your tenacity. It’s good to see you have moved on from mopping floors.’

  ‘I plan to go all the way, Sir,’ the lad said, strengthening his posture.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. You’re of Romanian descent and have the ambition to marry and raise a family.’

  ‘How do you know my business?’ Dragos challenged before he remembered he was talking to the patron and adjusted his attitude. ‘That’s right, Sir, and thanks to this place, I can. I only did the streets like so many others ‘cos it’s easy money when you’re young. But that ain’t for me, Sir. Not once I secure a job that pays.’

  ‘Which will come along soon, I have no doubt. Now I must see the superintendent. Oh, and thank you for translating that Romanian text last Easter.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Mr Hawkins tells me everything.’

  Archer waved his farewell and left the young man scratching his head.

  Taking the corridor to Markland’s office, he began whistling again, but stopped when he wondered why he was so cheerful.

  The answer was simple. Tiring of the permanent threat of Quill’s ridiculous games, he had been waiting for the opportunity to face him and make the confrontation their last. While waiting for the madman to play his hand, Archer had devised a way to lay Quill’s revenge to rest once and for all, and yesterday, the game had begun.

  It was to be an easy one. All Archer needed to do was appear at the location, draw his sword and cut the man down.

  Which was precisely what Quill would expect him to do and thus, the opposite of what Archer had in mind. They knew each other’s ways, they had trained together in the navy, served together aboard ship, and although they had spent months at a time apart, had grown up together as close friends. Archer, however, had the advantage. He knew Quill better than the doctor knew him, mainly because Quill had been absent for some months nursing his wounds and fashioning himself masks out of wax and pigskin. While the doctor had been trying to rebuild a life, Archer had been getting on with one. As Quill sat in his lair plotting his ultimate revenge, so Archer had spent days studying his previous moves, his strategy and his modus operandi.

  Archer was ready for the forthcoming showdown, but there were a few more moves to prepare in Quill’s imagined game of chess. If Archer was the king, and Silas his queen, then Thomas stood with him as some kind of bishop, James was his knight and Fecker, unquestionably the rook, as solid as the Tower of London itself.

  What that made Markland was open to speculation. More than a pawn, Archer thought of him as another bishop, though one nowhere near as stately as Thomas. Whatever he was, Markland was currently stationed in a cluttered office with a window wall that overlooked the hostel dormitory below, and Archer needed his assistance.

  ‘Philip!’ he called cheerfully as he swished into the room, expecting to find the doctor at his desk. ‘Where are you, man?’

  A mess of black hair bobbed behind a stack of books, and a voice complained, ‘That’s not your best impression of Himself, Hawkins. I thought you’d gone.’

  When the whole head popped up, the mouth dropped open, and Markland almost slid from his chair in shock.

  ‘So sorry, My Lordship,’ he flustered, fixing a pen behind his ear. ‘I thought you were Silas doing one of his impersonations.’

  ‘Just missed him have I?’

  ‘By about half an hour, Sir.’

  ‘Well, we shall soon be reunited. Now then, Philip, I need you to write me a letter.’

  ‘Why? You’re right here.’

  The doctor had composed himself enough to move some of his books and allow Archer a view across his table as he sat. It took Markland a moment of squinting to realise that he still wore his reading spectacles, and he took them off. When he had pointlessly searched two drawers and not found what he had forgotten he was looking for, he froze, smiled at Archer and said, ‘Hello,’ as if surprised to see him.

  Archer wasn’t sure if Markland helped himself to some of the drugs he worked with, but it was an unkind thought. The man hadn’t been completely settled since he discovered the woman he had fallen in love with was not only a man, but a homicidal one and the brother of the viscount’s arch enemy. If that wasn’t enough to cause him discomfort at every meeting, he had just referred to Archer as ‘Himself’ as if he had no respect.

  Luckily, Archer found the show amusing and distracted Markland from his embarrassment.

  ‘A letter, Philip. Can you write me a note of introduction?’

  ‘Introduction? Yes, I suppose. To whom?’ Markland folded his spectacles and fiddled with them as he waited for an explanation.

  ‘It’s quite straightforward, but listen carefully.’ Archer retrieved another page torn from his notebook. ‘I need you to write to Doctor Steiner at the Rotterdam Institute and introduce to him a young Russian by the name of Doctor Nevidimi. This man is working for the family and has our permission — and yours as our family doctor, to have Crispin Riddington removed from the institute and placed in the hands of said Doctor Nevidimi who will assess his condition before handing him to me to escort back to the family here in England. Please ask Doctor Steiner to ensure the patient is sedated enough to be of no harm, and yet able to walk and comprehend instructions. Also, add that it would be well thought of if he supplied additional medicines, so I may maintain my brother’s state of mind through the journey. The institute is to expect the Russian doctor in two days. No reply necessary.’

  Markland was gawping in much the same way Marks had done, except his face hadn’t reddened, it had paled.

  ‘Your concerns, Philip?’

  Markland stammered before pulling himself together. ‘Firstly, Clearwater,’ he said through a cough which seemed to finally put him to rights. ‘When did I become the family doctor?’

  ‘Oh, about thirty seconds ago,’ Archer smiled. ‘No objections, I take it? Not exactly a royal crest on your stationery, but it’s a name you can throw around should you need to. Go on.’

  ‘Go on? Oh, yes… Who is this young doctor? If I am to entrust your brother to him, I should at least read his credentials.’

  ‘There aren’t any,’ Archer said. ‘In fact, the good doctor is not yet aware that he is a man of medicine at all. He is currently somewhere around Bristol, I shouldn’t wonder, so there’s nothing we can do about that. Will you send it immediately with your stamp and seal? Use a special dispatch via Five Dials post office. It is very important.’

  ‘Five Dials? Why not the office at the end of the street?’

  ‘Five Dials,’ Archer insisted. ‘There’s more chance of it being intercepted should anyone have a mind to.’

  Markland was still trying to take it all in, so Archer gave him a helping hand.

  ‘I have written most of it for you,’ he said, thrusting over the page. ‘You just need to see if the medical language is on point, copy it in your hand, sign, seal and have it delivered. You will?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Markland waved away any refusal as he put on his spectacles to study the writing.

  ‘This appears to be a shopping list for Ede and Ravenscroft,’ he said, handing it back. ‘My expertise doesn’t extend to men’s tailoring.’

  After holding the paper at a distance and squinting,
Archer realised his mistake and delved for further pages which he handed across.

  ‘Are you having trouble with your vision, Archer?’

  ‘Heavens, no. Not at that age yet. Here you are.’

  Markland studied him dubiously before reading the drafted letter. ‘You are sure about this?’

  ‘You sound like Marks,’ Archer replied. ‘Yes, I am.

  ‘Where is your brother to go? Surely you’re not thinking of having him home?’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ Archer exclaimed. ‘I am merely taking him out for a walk. I’ll have him back to the institute before they can say…’ he searched the office for inspiration and spied a shelf of bottles, only then realising what a mess the place was. ‘Before they can say tincture of camphorated opium,’ he finished with an air of triumph.

  ‘Which is used to treat diarrhoea,’ Markland sighed. ‘Very well. I will write it immediately and have Dragos take it to the continental post, poste-haste. Literally.’

  ‘Excellent, Philip, thank you. I will explain all in due course. Meanwhile, talking of our Romanian friend, you need an assistant.’

  Piled folders waited by an already overflowing cabinet, the bookshelves were disordered, and the only thing that stood out as useable was the doctor’s chalkboard where he kept scrupulous notes on every resident.

  ‘There is no budget for an assistant,’ Markland said.

  ‘Indeed, but how can you find anything?’

  ‘That is a question I ask myself every morning while I waste time searching. I would love someone to archive and assist, but we simply have no funds.’