By now, in need of a proper wash and a change of clothes, and weary from lack of sleep, Dorjan could only focus on his task and his reward. His family’s fate and the payment to come depended on his surveillance skill, and it was not his area of expertise. It was imperative he reached the Institute before Clearwater and secured a suitable vantage point from which to witness him enter and leave, taking the rightful viscount away with him. However, he returned to the station to find only one available cab, and that was being taken by another traveller. Fearing Clearwater might order one from the hotel at any moment, Dorjan was left with one course of action, and approached the man who was discussing his destination with the driver.
‘Excuse me,’ Dorjan said, speaking English as it was more likely to be understood than his native Romanian. ‘Are you, by any chance, heading south?’
Dorjan put the man in his mid-twenties due to his clean-shaven appearance and assumed him a foreigner due to his clothes. Startled at being approached, he had one foot in the carriage and the other on the pavement, but quickly regained his composure and answered, ‘Yes, why?’ in a rich, East European accent.
‘It is an imposition I know, Sir,’ Dorjan pleaded. ‘But I am late for a meeting at Ootskil. Could I share with you and take the cab onwards?’
The young man looked him up and down, and Dorjan tidied his coat.
‘It has been a fraught journey thus far,’ he explained, fixing an ingratiating smile.
‘Little English,’ the man said with a shrug and climbed into the cab.
Leaning in after him, Dorjan persisted. ‘I beg you, Sir. It is a matter of urgency for my family.’
Seeing that he was not going to take no for an answer, the other traveller nodded, and Dorjan climbed aboard, calling his destination to the driver.
‘I shan’t vary from your route, Sir,’ he said. ‘And I mean no harm.’
‘Sit,’ the man said. ‘You have cab when I finish.’
The carriage pulled off with a jolt as Dorjan sat with his cane between his knees, studying the fellow passenger who seemed more interested in the surroundings than his travelling companion.
‘Joshua Smith.’ Dorjan removed his glove and offered his hand. ‘It is several miles to the south of the city, we may as well be polite.’
The stranger turned to him and seeing the hand, offered his own with a weak smile.
‘Doctor Nevidimi,’ he said, and returned to the window.
‘A doctor of medicine, Sir?’
‘Nyet.’
The accent and name suggested he was Russian. It was all Dorjan could tell about him, except he was not very talkative, and not wishing to draw more attention to himself, he left the conversation there.
They rode in silence with the assassin watching surreptitiously in case he saw the viscount overtake when the carriage stopped for traffic, but no other cabs or horses passed, and by the time they drew to a halt, he realised where the young doctor worked.
‘The Rotterdam Institute?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘You are a doctor of the mind?’
‘Da. Excuse,’ the doctor said, collecting his bag. ‘Much to learn. Little time.’
‘I shall pay the man,’ Dorjan smiled. ‘The least I can do.’
‘Spasibo.’
With that, the doctor left, and Dorjan watched him enter the hospital grounds, tip his hat to the guard, and present a letter. The guard accepted it and was escorting the young gentleman to the main house when the cab pulled away, only to be stopped a short distance later by the tap of Dorjan’s cane on the roof.
The institute had been built outside the city on flat, marshy ground, through which ran many streams and irrigation channels that fed into the Haringvliet and thence to the sea. It was not the most attractive location in the world, but he saw sense in building such an institution there. The hospital housed some of the most violent madmen from northern Europe, and although the hospital’s security was renowned, should any of the insane escape, they would have a hard job fleeing across the treacherous ground.
The likelihood was they would either be seen on the low-lying land, or would drown in the swamp.
The level terrain concerned Dorjan. With no hills from which to look down onto the hospital enclosure, he was left with only trees to use as a vantage point. Many grew scattered around, but he chose a clump close enough to the gates to see who came and went, and hidden by the marsh reeds at its roots, was able to clamber unseen into the cover of its branches. Being careful not to disturb the foliage, he arranged himself against the trunk while disguising his body as best he could, and cursed himself for forgetting his spyglass. The curses came again when he remembered he had left it on the roof of the house in Bucks Row, meaning he would have to return there at some point to remove the evidence.
That was an error Quill didn’t need to know.
For the next three hours, Dorjan scrutinised each arrival and departure. There were few visitors, and the arrivals he saw came at midday in a cluster, as if there was a change in shift within the three-storey building that served as the main accommodation wing. Dorjan had last been inside at Easter, when he was forced to report back to Quill that his mission to poison Stoker had failed due to the tenacity of the child he had been sent to kidnap, and the persistence of Clearwater’s servants. Quill had not been pleased, but the failure had fuelled his determination, and with the sedated, true viscount lying between them, Quill had laid out his plan to ensnare the imposter, Clearwater.
Why the doctor insisted on this charade was beyond the assassin. If a man wanted another man dead, then it was a simple matter of hiring an expert, giving him the target’s location, and letting him get on with his job. Clearwater could be dead in a canal by now, but no, the doctor insisted on playing his games, ‘As the white bishop chases the red king’, he had said. ‘The out-manoeuvring intensifies the satisfaction of the checkmate. To see a man in panic and fear as he knows the end of his life approaches is more satisfying than learning of his death via a hired hand.’
All very well, and it was up to Quill. The doctor could play as many games as he wished. After all, he was paying, and as long as the money was there, Dorjan was prepared to follow his instructions to the letter.
Dorjan grinned when he imagined the fate that awaited Clearwater, but the grin faded when a carriage crossed the distant bridge and trundled closer. He pressed himself tightly against the trunk as the cab pulled up, and his heart kicked when he saw Clearwater step from it and say something to the driver. The carriage turned, but didn’t drive away, suggesting the viscount wouldn’t be long inside, and the gatekeeper greeted him with a bow.
Clearwater was led to the main building, and before he entered, he took a moment to adjust his cape and remove his hat, brushing it nervously before squaring his shoulders, and preparing himself for what he was about to see. Dorjan didn’t blame him. His memory of the place had been of stark, tiled walls resounding with screams and wailing. The slamming of iron doors and the clanking of chains had remained in his mind since that day, along with a foul smell of antiseptic which barely hid the stench of excrement. That had been on the ground floor. Once he had been shown up the echoing staircase to the first, the stench was replaced by the smell of flowers, the corridors were carpeted and the doors, although still iron, were locked with quieter mechanisms. The first floor was where the rich were housed, and it was to that floor that he strained his eyes, imagining Clearwater’s progress through the building.
The true viscount had been kept in the last-but-one room in the south wing, and Dorjan was able to see its bars from where he hid. Although unable to see into the cell, he could make out shapes if anyone stood close to the window, and a few minutes later, he saw one such shadow. It could have been anybody, but at least it told him something was happening, and Clearwater was still following instructions.
Dorjan
had never seen a man go so willingly to his death, and he marvelled at how well Quill knew his adversary.
‘I intend to offer him a simple choice,’ Quill had said. ‘To die, or hand Crispin into my care, so that he can reclaim his title. Being as vain as he is, Clearwater will bring Crispin to me and leave with his life, but with no money, no property and no future. If we cannot ruin his reputation, Dorjan, we shall simply have to ruin his life, leaving him on this earth, so that when the mood takes me, I may cause him further pain in other entertaining tournaments.’
Dorjan wasn’t interested in the why, he was only concerned with the how and when; how he would be paid, and when he and his family would be left alone. The thought turned his mind from the past to the present.
Clearwater made him wait one hour more before he reappeared on the steps of the institute. He emerged first and alone, giving Dorjan cause for alarm, but a few moments later was joined by the superintendent and the young Russian doctor who had shared the cab. Behind them came two orderlies in white coats, and between them, a man of Clearwater’s height supported by the arms.
Having looked to the sky, Crispin hung his head, and Dorjan squinted to improve his vision. The man’s hair was as he remembered it, brown and unkempt, but where Dorjan had last seen him in a buckled jacket, he now wore a suit, slightly crumpled and too big for him, as if it had been the one he had worn when admitted, and he had been underfed since. He kept his hands clasped, and Dorjan wondered if they were, in fact, bound.
The most startling thing about him was the mask he wore, and which one of the orderlies tightened at the back. It covered most of his face, leaving only the eyes and forehead showing and to anyone unaccustomed to the insane would have been shocking. It was to be expected, as was the parcel that the superintendent handed to Clearwater. Quill had said they wouldn’t let Crispin leave unless escorted by a family member, and then, only if he was sedated until he was, at least, out of their jurisdiction. It was a private institute, and rightly or wrongly, the family who paid whistled the tune.
Clearwater might have been handing over money in return for the medicines, or it could have been a gift of thanks to the staff, either way, he and the doctor were waved off by the superintendent and escorted by the orderlies to the carriage, where they helped Crispin inside.
His job there done, Dorjan waited until the cab was safely distant before shinning down the tree trunk to follow on foot.
Finding transport so far outside of the city was not easy, and by the time Dorjan had run a mile, Clearwater’s carriage was out of sight. Reaching the edge of the marshland, he was relieved when a cab trundled by, and offering the driver a ridiculous sum, persuaded him to take the horses to a gallop, only slowing when they entered the busier streets of Dordrecht. The viscount might have intended to travel to London that night, and if he had made straight for the train, there was a possibility Dorjan would lose him. However, what was also likely was that Clearwater would return home to work on Quill’s clue, as that’s where his resources were, and if he did slip from Dorjan’s sight in Dordrecht, he would be easy enough to trace in London.
The carriage slowed at the railway station, and leaving the cab some distance away, the assassin disguised himself among the pedestrians enjoying the afternoon sun, and cautiously approached the Station Hotel.
He was in luck. His delay had not affected his plans, and he arrived in time to see Clearwater pull up and step from his cab followed by the Russian doctor. The two men shook hands before the Russian crossed the road, waved another farewell and entered the station where he was swallowed by the throng making for the next departure.
Crispin was the last to appear from the carriage, and he stood taking in the view as might any man who had been incarcerated for nearly three years. His brother allowed him the time, but not for long. The mask attracted attention, and Clearwater quickly escorted him by the arm and into the hotel.
There was little more Dorjan could do except watch until they left, but while he waited, he investigated the train schedule and discovered there were no more departures for Brussels and the boat connection until the following morning. Having made enquires, he secured himself a room within sight of the hotel, and sat to eat before allowing himself the luxury of a wash, followed by another night’s vigil at the window waiting for Clearwater’s next move.
Fifteen
No matter how many times James reread the verse, he was unable to see what Tom had seen. Flipping pages, words from other verses jumped out at him, “Shadow from a soul on fire”, “Upon this chequer-board of nights and days…”, “Threats of hell and hopes of paradise”, but nowhere was there the name of a location.
Silas was also reading the lines, and must have been thinking the same as James, because he said, ‘Want to tell us what you’ve seen, Tommy?’
‘It’s very simple,’ Thomas said. ‘You know that Archer and Quill trained together and moved on from cadet college to serve aboard the same ships. Archer’s last commission was under the direct command of his brother in the Black Sea, running missions between Sevastopol and Odesa, which is where Crispin tried to kill him.’
‘We know this,’ Silas said. ‘It’s where the Lieutenant Harrington incident happened.’
‘Quite,’ Thomas agreed. ‘Which was, as far as I know, the start of Quill’s obsession with Archer’s downfall. Well, the ship where it all happened was called The Invisible. He pointed to the verse. ‘”I sent my soul through the invisible…” I don’t know what it means in the context of the Vaine painting of the two brothers, but it’s a suitably obscure reference for Quill to have found. I imagine he wants to call Archer to their old ship so they can have their final confrontation back where it all began. It’s just one idea.’
‘Sounds like a bloody perfect one to me,’ Silas said. ‘I mean, it makes sense in Quill’s mad way, but where is this ship?’
‘That’s the problem. It could be anywhere.’
‘So how do we find it?’ James asked. ‘Tom, you know more about Archer than the rest of us. How did you find out where he was, when he was away? At sea, I mean. Was the family told where he was?’
‘Good question.’ Thomas removed his tailcoat and sat at the table to think. ‘Lady Clearwater received notifications as to the whereabouts of her husband and her sons. Tripp would deliver the post to her directly, and she was always more concerned for Archer’s safety rather than his brother or father, who by that time was mainly ashore at Greenwich. So, yes, I assume she was kept informed of the fleet.’
‘Are you sure?’ James asked, sitting opposite.
‘No.’
‘Only—and this is different, I know—but when my dad’s at sea, we’re not allowed to know exactly where he is unless he writes to us, and he’s only in the merchant navy.’
‘As far as I know, there is no listing of where warships are at any one time,’ Thomas continued, thinking aloud. ‘It’s not like they post them in the back of the papers as they do with steamers and liners. We need someone on the inside, and preferably at the admiralty.’
‘So, what exactly sparked all this off?’ Silas asked, slipping into a chair beside James. ‘I know the story of how Archer and Harrington were found together. How his brother was in charge, punished Harrington and tried to kill Archer. But I’ve always had questions.’
‘Go on,’ Thomas encouraged.
‘Well, and tell me if I’m wrong, but if Archer and his man got caught… I don’t know, fucking, say, or even just kissing, wasn’t that a capital offence? Why weren’t they hanged?’
‘Because Crispin didn’t take it to the captain,’ Thomas said. ‘I assume his captain knew about it, but in times of battle, it’s better to have a full, working crew than to cut morale by hanging sailors from the yardarm. I assume. I don’t know, but clearly, Harrington paid for their love affair with his life, as Archer very nearly
did too. I don’t see how knowing the details would help.’
‘No, maybe not. Go on,’ Silas prompted. ‘Where exactly did all this kick off?’
‘Again, I am not completely sure,’ Thomas admitted, staring from the window. ‘But on The Invisible, for sure. That’s where they were found doing whatever they were doing. Why is that important?’
‘Well, a ship’s a big place to meet someone for a duel, let alone leave a note willy-nilly. You know, the hold, the decks, engine room… The way Quill works, the exact location will be important, won’t it?’
‘The bridge.’ Thomas glanced up, startled by his own memory. ‘Archer once told me they were discovered on the bridge.’
‘Excellent.’ James slapped him on the back. ‘Assuming we can locate the ship, the bridge seems most likely place to leave the note. And that brings me onto the next thing.’
The other two waited expectantly, Thomas fiddling with a pencil, waving it back and forth like a pendulum, as if to silently remind James that time was of the essence.
James crossed his arms and stared at a blank page in Archer’s notebook.
‘The envelope,’ he said. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Our instructions were clear.’ Thomas sat up and put the pencil aside. ‘We find the location of the ship, place the message there and stand down.’
James regarded him doubtfully. ‘You really think he expects us to do that?’ he scoffed. ‘He said we should do whatever I think best.’
‘Our master’s wishes.’
‘Aye, Tom, and you’re going to obey?’ Silas challenged.
Thomas shrugged. ‘What else can we do? Where are you going?’
James was on his way to the safe. ‘Don’t you want to know what it says? Where he’s going to be?’
‘It’s not what we were told…’
‘Tom, don’t be daft. Are you really going to stand back and let him go off to fight Quill on his own? What’s he going to do? Hand over his brother and say, fair enough, game over?’ James jeered, and Thomas drew in a breath.
Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6) Page 17