Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  ‘It’s none of my business… No, forget it.’

  ‘It’s okay, Harvey,’ James said. ‘You’ve helped me, if I can help you, I will. What’s your question?’

  Harvey rubbed his palms on the back of his trousers, and swallowed before replying.

  ‘You and Lord Clearwater,’ he said, in a whisper. ‘Are you… You know. Are you two… like, together?’

  James couldn’t help but smile, and it was a question he could answer honestly. ‘No, Harvey, we are not. My affections belong to another man entirely. Shall we go?’

  James had reached the third step before Harvey caught up.

  ‘You mean that, Jimmy?’ he whispered, wide-eyed. ‘You admit it?’

  ‘To you, I do. You’ve trusted me with your secret, so it’s only fair to trust you with one of mine. But it stays a secret,’ he emphasised. ‘Are we clear?’

  ‘We are,’ Harvey said, and walked ahead to lead the way.

  James was unsure if Harvey wanted to speak further on the subject, and was still trying to work out why he should want to when they arrived at the servants’ hall. It was heaving with activity as maids, hall boys and even the strikingly good-looking Joseph scurried this way and that with plates and cloches, trays and cloths, preparing dinner for the two people above stairs.

  ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is,’ Harvey said. ‘I’ll get Jasper to see you out.’

  ‘Okay, and thanks.’ James offered him his hand and was interested to see that Harvey held his gaze as he shook. Most men, having learnt the man they were shaking hands with was like James, would, at best, have walked away, at worst, reported him immediately to the police. Either James was too trusting and being tricked, or Harvey understood completely.

  It was the latter.

  ‘Can I still write to you, Jimmy?’ he asked. Rather than sounding pathetic, which it could easily have done, it was said with sincerity and came with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Of course,’ James replied, and meant it. ‘But I am… involved.’

  ‘Oh! I only meant as mates,’ Harvey whispered, adding cryptically, ‘I can get that elsewhere.’

  Leaving James wondering as he collected his hat, Harvey vanished to find the hall boy, and when he returned, wished James well and promised he would write that week.

  ‘Better get on,’ he said. ‘Jasper will see you out, Sir, and Mrs Jenkins has arranged a trap to take you to the village. Not sure as you’ll make the train now, but when you get back, please thank Lord Clearwater for the tip he left me.’

  James thanked him again, and watched Harvey join the other servants until he was absorbed into the sea of black, white and silver.

  Jasper led him through the river of activity to the back door, and as he opened it, James asked if he was happy at the house.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sir.’

  James wasn’t sure what he could do, other than tell Archer, but that would, at least, be something.

  ‘Do you want me to speak to anyone?’

  ‘About what?’

  James pointed to the side of the boy’s face, and the bruise around his eye.

  ‘No, Sir. It only leads to worse. Mind how you go.’

  ‘No, wait…’

  Jasper was intent on closing the door, and only his face showed through the gap.

  ‘Jasper, if it happens again, you tell Harvey and get him to write to me. Will you? Lord Clearwater will know what to do.’

  Jasper said nothing, but gave a weak smile of defeat, and closed the door.

  Seventeen

  Harvey had been right, and James had missed the last train. After dispatching a telegram to Clearwater House to let Thomas know he wouldn’t be back until the next day, he took a room at the inn and spent a night troubled by dreams of tyrants and footmen, Mrs Norwood and mineshafts.

  Waking early the next day, it was tempting to take a walk through the village in the sunshine and enjoy the country air, but instead, he waited at the railway station flicking through Archer’s pocket-note and finding no other clues to his intentions. While there, he made a list of things to do and questions to be answered, adding a timeline of Archer’s intended whereabouts. Everything was meticulously noted in his own form of shorthand, and by the time the connection to Newbury arrived, he had planned his next course of action to the letter.

  Due to improvement work on the route, the mainline train didn’t pull into Paddington until after midday, and he took a cab from Praed Street directly to Mr Marks’ new offices in Clerkenwell Road, where he was asked to wait while a clerk went to find the solicitor.

  Marks was busy with a client, and James was told to return in an hour. Using the time to pace the street and think, he ventured as far as a new development of shops and offices, marvelling at the billposters that promised the forthcoming businesses. One of them was Eastman’s, the manufacturers and sellers of cameras, and his mind flicked back to the Kodak Number One Silas had used at the gallery.

  That had been only two days ago, although it seemed longer, and again, he considered Archer’s location. From his experience of the postal system, James judged that it was possible for the viscount to have reached Rotterdam the day after he left London. The note Silas and Thomas had, hopefully, left aboard The Invisible, stated that Archer was prepared to meet Quill tomorrow at or after sunset. James needed to discover the location of the mine and arrive by eight the following evening. That was plenty of time for Archer to return from the continent, but he wasn’t sure it was enough time for him to locate Crosstown, and be there ready and waiting. The only person who might know its location was Archer’s solicitor and business manager, Marks.

  More confident now that he was sure of his plan, he checked his watch and seeing his hour was nearly up, headed back to the office.

  The next question to occupy his mind as he dodged the well-to-do and crossed the street, avoiding an omnibus and several carriages, was how Quill would know the connection between the painting “Artful Deception” and the mine it depicted. The question was quickly answered by logic. The two had known each other since school, but the viscount knew Quill would understand the cryptic note, so really, the question was moot. Archer was equally as confident that Quill would obey and be there, but behind that was the concern Quill would have been angered by the forced change in venue. The man was already unhinged, and Archer would only madden him further with his audacity. The viscount had said that was part of his plan, but why?

  More unanswered questions crowded his mind as he approached Marks’ building. What was Danylo’s involvement? Why would Archer be willing to kill himself along with Quill? What was the deception the painting illustrated, and how did its title tie in with the story the artwork told? If he could discover that, he might be able to better understand Archer’s intentions.

  There was too much to think about on a city street, and he was unable to find answers on his own. If Marks couldn’t help, then Thomas might, and if not him, then together, they would have to think of another way to best to assist the viscount, and more importantly, prevent his death.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jimmy,’ he said as he approached the massive, darkly painted entrance. ‘How did you get yourself from a telegram runner to this?’

  He hadn’t, he decided as he waited for the bell to be answered. Archer had, and with his mind teaming and his head aching, he wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or angry that the man had put him in such a difficult and responsible position.

  ‘He hasn’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve followed your orders, but now you’ve gone too far. If anyone’s to blame for this, it’s you.’

  ‘Mr Wright?’

  The clerk was waiting for him to enter, and James realised he was staring through the man into his own uncertainty.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, stepping over the threshold. ‘Is
Mr Marks free now?’

  ‘He is. If you would care to follow me, Sir.’

  In recent days, it had become unclear exactly who James Joseph Wright was.

  A year ago, James would have been running the pavements, his satchel over his shoulder, a blue peaked cap on his head, leaping the horse shit in the road and avoiding the cutpurses who tried for his money bag. Today, he was walking carpeted floors along panelled corridors, passing portraits of gentlemen and pretending to be one himself, and all the time, unsure that he was up to the role.

  Uncertainty was set aside when the clerk stopped at an oak door and rapped as soberly as Black Rod at the opening of a parliament. A voice shouted, ‘Come!’ and James was suddenly in a new and strange world. That of a man of business.

  ‘Mr Wright?’ Marks queried. ‘Aren’t you the footman from the Opera House?’

  Instantly brought down to earth, James shook the offered hand with trepidation. ‘I am, Sir. At least, I was. I am now His Lordship’s valet and on an unusual mission.’

  ‘You must be. Sit, lad. I can give you half an hour at full rate.’

  Judging from the size of Marks’ office, his rates were doing him well. His desk dominated the large room, and yet there was little on it but a few files. Two tall windows looked out onto a railed garden, and between them behind the desk stood a fireplace that matched the Clearwater House dining-room in stature. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with thick, gold and red-bound books, and the chandelier wouldn’t have been out of place at Larkspur Hall.

  ‘I recently moved,’ Marks said, catching James as he gawped. ‘Thanks to my main client, His Lordship, I bloody had to. Right, lad, what can I do for you?’

  Marks’ direct approach gave James hope that his question might be answered simply, but it was not to be.

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ he said, deciding not to bother with social conversation. ‘I need to know about a particular business interest of the family’s. If you can tell me anything, I would be grateful.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What do you know about Crosstown Mine?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  For some reason, James suspected he had, but was being cagey. ‘It’s in the north,’ he prompted.

  ‘Aye, lad, and so are hundreds of pits. What name was it?’

  ‘Crosstown?’

  Marks screwed up his face in thought, pouting one moment and sucking in his lips the next, until after clicking his tongue and closing one eye, he shook his head.

  ‘The Riddington family haven’t been in mining while two generations back.’

  In trying to appear nonchalant, Marks’ eyes fell on his desk and a ribbon-bound document. Following his gaze, James was just in time to read the words “Last Will and Testament of Arch…” before the solicitor turned the papers over. He drummed his fingers on them before regarding James suspiciously and asking, ‘What about it?’

  ‘Where is it.’

  ‘Why not look in an atlas?’

  ‘I intend to do that when I get home,’ James said. ‘I was hoping you might have more detailed information. You run His Lordship’s businesses, don’t you?’

  ‘Mostly and mainly,’ Marks said. ‘Where is he? Is he better?’

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Aye. He were in a strange state when I gave him…’ Marks’ saggy mouth clamped shut, and he glared at the chandelier as if it had spoken out of turn. ‘Aye, well, never mind that, it’s not your concern. He’s not with you?’

  ‘He went to visit his brother,’ James said, and was interested to see the solicitor grimace. ‘I need to discover where this particular mine is before he returns.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he asked you to come today?’

  ‘Yes.’ Not true, but James sensed it was what Marks needed to hear. ‘He has some facts to hand, but asked me to discover more.’

  ‘Ah, more. I see.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. And it is a very urgent matter.’

  Marks studied him while he ran two fingers across his leather desktop and tapped them against the oak edging. The rhythm stopped, and he pushed back his chair.

  ‘Aye, well, his were a brief visit, and seeing as how I know who you are… Come with me, lad.’

  Rising from the desk, Marks led James from the office and along a crimson-carpeted passage panelled in dark, reddish wood. At the end, he selected a key from a large ring.

  ‘Down here,’ he said, unlocking a heavy door and putting his shoulder to it to push it open.

  James was met by a waft of musty air as they took a flight of stone stairs into what must have once been the servants’ area of a house large enough to rival Clearwater. There, and after unlocking another solid door, they entered a room as spacious as the office above.

  ‘This is the start of the Riddington archive,’ Marks said, turning up the gas to light rows of shelves on each wall. A table stood in the centre, and trunks and boxes were stacked wherever there was room.

  James whistled through his teeth at so many volumes and ledgers. The library at Clearwater didn’t compare.

  ‘What year are we talking about?’ Marks asked, moving to a register on the centre table.

  ‘I’m not sure. All I know is the family had the mine in the eighteenth century, but sold it to the Kingsclere estate, possibly under His Lordship’s grandfather.’

  Marks nodded as if he understood and opened the records.

  ‘I take it you have permission to look at these things?’ he asked as if the thought had only just occurred.

  ‘His Lordship said we were to do what was needed.’ It was perhaps best not to go into detail.

  ‘And Mr Hawkins has agreed to this?’

  ‘Mr Hawkins?’

  What did Silas have to do with anything?

  ‘Aye. With His Lordship away, Mr Hawkins has his authority. I shouldn’t show any of this to anyone without his agreement.’

  ‘Really?’ James couldn’t work it out. ‘Silas?’

  ‘Aye,’ Marks said, flipping more pages. ‘Until His Lordship returns, his East End enigma of a secretary runs everything, but that’s his affair.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins isn’t available, but I am sure, knowing the urgency of the matter, he would give me his permission.’

  Marks eyed him sceptically and made more facial distortions, before replying. ‘Well, as this is old information, and seeing as how His Lordship said…’ Cutting himself off for a second time, he mumbled, ‘Bugger, shouldn’t have said that. I don’t suppose it will do any harm.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  James was trying to fathom why Archer would have left his business empire in Silas’ hands, when Marks, seeing his confusion, explained.

  ‘He were worried,’ he said. ‘I can’t place my finger on it, but it were like he wasn’t sure if he’d be coming back. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, Mr Wright?’

  The solicitor’s words compounded James’ fear that Archer was prepared to end his life to stop Quill, and he shivered at the thought.

  ‘All is well,’ he said, not believing it to be the case. ‘I just need to be certain of the location of Crosstown Mine.’

  Marks seemed only half convinced, and for a moment James pictured himself having to run to Clearwater House to fetch Silas, a delay he could ill afford. Marks, however, was happy that what he was doing was not against Archer’s wishes, and said so before delivering the next piece of news.

  ‘If it’s last century,’ he said, beckoning James to the far side of the room. ‘You’ll need to come to the basement.’

  Leaning his hand on a shelf of books, the bookcase swung inwards to reveal a dark void beyond, and following, James descended another set of stone steps to a cellar which smelt of cold stone and d
amp paper. Marks lit the gas, and as the light improved, another extensive vault came into view. Again, James was staggered by the collection. Books, ledgers, folders, files, maps, rolled charts and scrolls, every inch of the place was taken up with paperwork bar a table and a narrow path.

  ‘And this lot goes right back.’ Marks found a ledger among the hundreds, as if he knew precisely where to look. ‘Of course, the title papers are all at the College of Arms, but the land registries… Over there…’ He pointed to one wall. ‘The properties on those shelves. The original Larkspur deed from Henry the Eighth is in that chest if you ever want to see it. And there…’ He indicated a third wall. ‘That’s the defunct mining business. Deeds, acquisitions, plans, you just want to know the whereabouts?’

  ‘Yes,’ James stammered. ‘Crosstown Mine. Sorry, maybe the atlas would have been easier.’

  ‘Aye, it would.’ Marks ran his finger over a page to a series of numbers, and mouthing them, found the corresponding shelf. There, still muttering, he crouched and read the spines until he found the correct records. Pulling a collection free, he stood and offered the folder to the light, undoing a ribbon and carefully turning the yellowed pages, occasionally stopping to tut at the dust that transferred to his fingers.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and James stepped up beside him. ‘Crosstown Mine… Seventeen twenty… Aye, that’ll be right.’ He slammed the folder shut as if to hide it from James. ‘Silver.’

  ‘Silver?’

  ‘Aye. It’s where most of the Riddington money came from.’ Seeing that James wasn’t trying to snoop, the solicitor opened the folder and examined a couple of pages. ‘Deepest in the country back then, and the richest. A third of all silver mined in England at the end of the eighteenth century came from the Riddington mine at Crosstown. The family were plenty rich enough before, but when they went into mining and hit on this seam, well, they didn’t need to dirty their hands in the mining business no more. So, having drained the vein of most of its value, shut it down and sold the land.’