Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  There was also the reward.

  Once Clearwater was dead, the rightful viscount would, on the doctor’s instruction, be released from his confinement and returned to his station. Incapacitated though he was, Crispin was only held in check by drugs administered by the institute, but once freed, Quill would alter the medication to his own advantage. The new viscount would act as any sane man when the doctor deemed it appropriate, and the rest of the time, would be a drooling, bed-ridden puppet, his fortune Quill’s to manipulate.

  The client’s motives were not Dorjan’s business. His was to see the doctor’s scheme through, until Clearwater had stopped breathing, and his reasons to agree were simple. His family’s freedom and a share in the Clearwater wealth he could use for his own cause.

  That alone had been enough to drive him during the last month when he had been living like a tramp on Bodmin Moor, watching the viscount at Larkspur Hall, and after as he made visits at various country houses on his journey back to London.

  The double-edged sword of the threat to his family and the untold wealth when the mission was complete, was enough to bring Dorjan to his senses on a bright, but chilly summer morning, four floors above Bucks Row.

  The household of number six was away and would not be returning for some weeks. That information was easy to come by, and so was access to the rear of the terraced property via the backyard. Dorjan could come and go as he pleased, making use of the house as if it was his, but being careful to leave no trace. Just because he had spent the last few weeks living rough, didn’t mean he had to forgo a decent wash and a shave, albeit in cold water. That morning, before Clearwater House woke, he made use of the master bathroom of number six and changed in readiness for another day’s surveillance. According to Quill’s plans, the viscount would be staying for a few days while he scrambled around to find the original painting and decipher the message therein, and he made a mental note to pick up some more provisions on the way back from the post office.

  Washed, dressed like any other gentlemen in West London, and after a final look from the front, he was satisfied that nothing was going to take place across the road until he returned.

  Later, the telegrams sent, he slipped back into the empty house through the yard, noting the time for his report. He entered via the basement where he had slid the latch with his knife, and was behind the parapet in time to witness Clearwater’s butler opening the curtains. A short while later, the same man accepted the morning post. At eleven o’clock, the viscount’s carriage appeared at the junction, the tall coachman above and the shutters below closed. Immediately suspicious, Dorjan trained his spyglass on the drawing room but was relieved to see the viscount swan through the room and enter his study. There, he stood gazing out at the window, tapping a book in one hand, thinking, presumably, how he might gain access to the painting.

  Dorjan smiled knowingly. The original ‘Brothers in Arms’ was locked safely from reach, a measure Quill insisted upon to complicate the viscount’s quest and keep him in London until the doctor was ready for him at the killing ground.

  The painting had been easy to damage as it hung in room nine. A spill from Dorjan’s hipflask caused a woman to slip as she entered the gallery, distracting the curator and visitors, and allowing the assassin enough time to whip his blade from his dragon-headed sword-cane, and slash the painting with one expert swipe. The sword back in its housing, he moved towards the exit, making a passing comment to an art student about the condition of the Vaine. The alarm was raised as he arrived in the foyer, and the police arrived as he sat in Trafalgar Square, draining his flask of the alcoholic tuicã to celebrate. Once the activity at the gallery had died down, he re-entered and was admiring the Gainsborough when the Vaine was escorted to the restoration rooms, accompanied by much gnashing of teeth by the concierge. The man made such a fuss, it was no trouble to overhear the details of how it would be locked away until the restorer returned.

  A letter, sent previously by Quill, ensured that Mr Redmond had left that very morning to be with his dying father in Zurich, a death which, Doctor Quill intimated with a sly laugh, would linger for months.

  Clearwater turned from the window when a hansom approached the house from the east. A man Dorjan didn’t recognise stepped from it, took the steps confidently, and rang the bell. The assassin noted the time and details, but with the man wearing a cloak and hat, and only seen from behind, there were few to record. The cab pulled away, and the viscount withdrew into the study as the ring was answered, and the man entered the house. He was announced from the drawing room by a tall footman and greeted by Clearwater. The men shook hands, the footman was dismissed, and they sat, only the top of the visitor’s head visible above the back of the settee.

  A few minutes later, the man rose, and the viscount himself saw the man out. Again, the ordinary hat and cape prevented Dorjan from seeing too much of him as he watched his step and hurried away.

  The next twenty minutes passed with no activity, giving Dorjan a chance to write his notes, but at eleven twenty-five, another hansom arrived, and this time, it was the driver who rang the bell.

  The same strapping footman answered the door, and Clearwater appeared shortly afterwards in a summer cape and top hat, carrying a silver-topped cane. He climbed into the cab, and by the time it drove off, Dorjan was on the move.

  Scurrying to the back of the property, he scaled the sloping roof to the chimney stack to see which way the cab turned when it reached the end of the row, and saw it head towards the West End. There was no time to lose.

  Sliding down the roof tiles into the gutter, Dorjan used the momentum to vault the parapet, clutching the drainpipe deftly, and slithered to the basement in a well-rehearsed move that brought him directly to the yard. He had run the distance to the end of the alley in time to see the hansom keeping its westerly course, and, maintaining a safe distance, tracked it until he was able to procure a cab of his own.

  Clearwater travelled north of the Palace and into Piccadilly where he turned south into the Haymarket before making a left into Pall Mall. The viscount was on his way to the National Gallery, and the assassin grinned, knowing frustration awaited.

  Dorjan banged on the roof, and when his driver pulled up, paid the man and disguised himself among the well-dressed and unsuspecting, all the while with one eye on Clearwater, watching to see where his cab stopped.

  It didn’t. It passed the gallery, and to Dorjan’s dismay, turned right towards the Strand.

  He ran. Leaping the balustrade with no thought for the spectacle, and scattering birds at the tuppenny-a-bag crumb-sellers, he darted through Trafalgar Square, not slowing his pace until he reached the far side.

  Clearwater’s cab continued slowly on the clogged road, allowing the assassin to follow on foot. The traffic thickened as it entered the Strand, and Dorjan slowed his pace, focusing on one cab among many, determined not to lose sight.

  It was unlikely the viscount knew he was being followed. Quill was confident that the man was not as intelligent as he appeared, and certainly not as devious as the doctor. All the same, Dorjan was cautious, keen to know where Clearwater might so casually be going.

  When the hansom pulled onto the forecourt of Charing Cross Station, he knew.

  The target had chosen to complete Quill’s task in the wrong order, a sign that he was wrong-footed. Although it now meant Dorjan had to travel abroad, it would give Quill plenty of time to prepare his chosen location, a task that, for a man of limited ability, would take some time.

  Clearwater left the cab and called a porter for his luggage. The taxi turned into Villiers Street and became lost among the other traffic while the viscount followed the porter, and Dorjan followed both onto the concourse towards the ticket office. There, Clearwater collected a ticket and walked with his porter to the platform. The viscount’s unpredictability was infuriating, but the assassi
n maintained his composure and thought practically. He had nothing with him but his sword-cane and wallet, but the viscount was travelling south, and that could only mean the boat train. Dorjan had to take the same train, the next one didn’t leave for hours, and he could not let the target out of his sight. Images of his young daughters crowded his mind, and with no time to run back to Buck’s Row and collect his tools, he decided to buy what he needed en route. With one eye on the time, or rather, lack of it, he ensured Clearwater boarded before hurriedly buying himself a second-class ticket.

  He hung back at the gate until guards slammed doors and the train was ready to leave, watching the other passengers arrive in case he saw any of Clearwater’s staff among them.

  Seeing no-one he recognised, and safe in the knowledge that the viscount was travelling alone, he slipped into second class just as the guard blew his whistle,

  Archer settled into his seat in the private first-class compartment and invited Danylo to sit opposite.

  ‘I see you found the Villiers Street entrance with no problem, Mr Danylo, well done.’

  ‘Quill’s scout is in the last second-class coach,’ Danylo said, placing his hat on the spare seat. ‘We caught him off guard, and I wasn’t seen.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have recognised you,’ Archer said. ‘I must say it was a good idea of yours to be seen arriving at the house and then leaving soon after.’

  ‘My regiment specialised in surveillance, Sir, and I was taught that an enemy is best tricked by assumption. Our man would have seen no unusual activity at your house because he was only watching the front. When Andrej left with the others, and you made sure you were visible inside the building, he would have assumed the coach was sent out to collect a guest or was taking a servant on an errand. When he saw me arrive and leave, he would have thought it business as usual, especially when Oleg answered the door.’

  ‘Yes, I must thank Lady Marshall for the loan. But you are sure the man on the roof was Mr Smith?’

  ‘He is exactly as you described, Sir, though, from his looks, I don’t think his name is Smith.’

  ‘Probably not. You are a marvel, Mr Danylo,’ Archer smiled.

  The assistant gamekeeper shrugged in much the same way as his brother, and said, ‘If I am allowed, I am enjoying myself.’

  ‘Oh, you are allowed, Danylo, because so am I. But we must ensure we stay alert.’

  Danylo nodded and turned his attention to the platform as the train picked up speed.

  Archer had meant what he said. Although he had been in his employ only six months, Lieutenant Kolisnychenko had displayed the loyalty of his brother, the skills of a huntsman, and in training Silas in the use of the foil, his expertise at swordsmanship. On top of that, he had charmed Treleven, the gamekeeper, and even Mr Harrow, the Larkspur estate manager, not to mention the maids.

  Shorter than Fecker, as most people were, what he lacked in strength, he made up for in agility. Where Fecker could stand on a horse at a gallop, or mount one as it cantered past, Danylo could disarm a man with his sword in the blink of an eye. His skill had been proved to Archer on many occasions when practising together in the library.

  As with his brother, he accepted Archer’s love of Silas without question or judgement, and displayed loyalty to the viscount, which, at times, Archer thought he didn’t deserve. Watching Danylo marvel at the sights of South London, he fondly remembered their first meeting in January.

  Archer had been in the library with Barnaby, attempting to understand the indexing system for the thousands of books when Thomas announced, ‘My Lord, the Kolis…nee… Kolisenshen… Mr Andrej and his brother have arrived. Shall I show them up?’

  ‘Please do, Payne. And it’s Kolisnychenko.’

  ‘Of course, it is, Sir.’

  Sometimes it was hard to tell if Thomas was sarcastic or deferential, an endearing quality that amused the viscount.

  Fecker appeared in the doorway a short time after, cutting a striking figure in a gentleman’s suit and looking as if he had come for a Friday-to-Monday shooting party. Except no-one else in Archer’s circle of friends would have worn their hair so long, let alone intricately plaited.

  ‘I brought my brat,’ Fecker announced before Archer had a chance to invite him in. ‘This is Danylo Sava Valentyn Kolisnychenko,’ and standing aside, he revealed a surprise.

  Standing at approximately the same height as the viscount and a good six inches shorter than Fecker, Danylo could not have looked more different from his younger brother. Fecker was blond and built like a warhorse, but Danylo’s hair was cut short in military fashion and the colour of caramel, and he had a far lighter frame. Where Fecker’s eyes were blue, his brothers were amber, and, more startlingly, reminded Archer of his brother, Crispin. The unusual colour, the brows and the shape were so similar, if it wasn’t for their ancestry, the viscount and the Ukrainian might have been related.

  Fecker looked Archer directly in the eye, but Danylo kept his gaze trained on the far wall. Neither ignoring his host nor paying attention to the sumptuousness of the room, he stood to attention with the bearing of a soldier called before his captain. Confident, he was prepared for any request.

  ‘It’s good to meet you at last,’ Archer said, holding out his hand to be taken in greeting.

  Danylo snapped his heels, glanced at the hand and then to the wall.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, and Archer feared he might salute.

  Fecker prompted him to take the hand with a nudge that nearly unbalanced his brother, and taking the hint, Danylo shook it firmly, but for only as long as was efficient, before whipping it back to his side.

  ‘I hope your journey was not too arduous,’ Archer said. ‘I hear you had to make port to repair the ship?’

  ‘The Firebrand is a worthy vessel, Sir.’

  ‘But not Ukrainian built, I fear.’

  Archer detected the briefest of proud smiles before Danylo reset his face and nodded sharply.

  ‘And Mr Andrej took care of you in Plymouth?’

  ‘Da. We drink,’ was Fecker’s explanation of the weekend they had just shared. ‘But not today.’

  ‘Permission to speak, Sir?’ Danylo’s English was fluent, but accented, and his voice clipped by his military experience.

  ‘Of course. Would you like to sit?’ Archer offered the room, but neither man moved.

  ‘No, thank you, Sir.’ For the first time since his arrival, Danylo looked directly at the viscount. ‘I am not here to disturb you, but to thank you. You have saved my brother from a hellish existence, as you have saved me from one of my own. For that, I thank you on behalf of my family. I come to serve you in any way you direct, Sir. What are my orders?’

  Archer considered the man a moment longer before replying. His double-breasted suit might well have belonged to a naval officer, the buttons were brass and the trousers perfectly creased, and his language had clearly been learnt from the British soldiers he had fought alongside. The man had lived among them for several years and was trained to accept a commanding officer’s expectations without debate. That gave him his bearing, but according to Archer’s contact in Sevastopol, he had been working as a stevedore. That gave him his strength. However, Archer was more interested in his life before he was drafted into the Russian army.

  ‘Firstly,’ Archer said, ‘I thank you for your kind words. Secondly, I would rather we sat, and if you wish me to command rather than ask, I shall.’

  Fecker took two strides to a chair by the fire and waited, while Archer took four paces to join him, leaving Danylo by the door.

  ‘Barnaby, would you bring something for the gentlemen? Something to warm them after their journey, brandy perhaps?’

  ‘My Lord.’

  ‘No, not brandy.’ Archer stopped the footman at the door. ‘I should have some horilka by now. Mr Payne will
know.’

  Barnaby left with a bow, and Danylo still hadn’t moved.

  ‘Lieutenant Kolisnychenko. Sit.’

  Danylo snapped his heels, marched to an armchair and sat on the edge, his back straight.

  Archer sighed. ‘At ease.’

  Danylo hardly moved, but his face relaxed.

  ‘And you have permission to speak freely,’ Archer continued. ‘I take it you enjoy a glass of horilka?’

  It was a drink Archer had found when ashore in Odesa. When news had come that Danylo had been found, he had dispatched instructions to bring the Ukrainian to England along with a crate of the spirit. As far as he knew, it was the most alcoholic beverage one could buy, but it hadn’t bought it for himself.

  ‘Yes, Sir. But one small glass only.’ Danylo gave his brother a sideways look, and Fecker shrugged.

  ‘I quite agree, Lieutenant,’ Archer said, and able to think of only one way to have the man relax, continued with, ‘Here are your orders.’

  Danylo shot to his feet, his arms by his side, thumbs downwards.

  ‘First order,’ Archer said, holding back a smile. ‘Take a seat. You are not in the army now.’ Danylo obeyed and resumed his previous upright position. ‘Secondly, may I call you Mr Danylo? I’m afraid most of the staff can’t get their tongue around Kolisnychenko, and it might embarrass you to hear them try. We call your brother Mr Andrej, because it is easier. Would you mind?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Now then, I understand you grew up on a farm. Tell me about that.’

  Danylo spoke fluently, but dispassionately, and having heard the man’s history, Archer offered him a plot of land beside the stables, a room in the coach house alongside his brother, and the position of under-gamekeeper, because Mr Treleven was drawing close to retirement. By the time he had finished, a tear was rolling down Danylo’s cheek, and yet his expression hadn’t altered.