The story certainly explained Archer’s wealth and Quill’s motivation, but it didn’t tell James where the mine was to be found.
‘And it’s where, exactly?’
‘Hold up.’
Marks pulled a map from the folder and brought it to a table where he lit a candle. The flame threw just enough light for James to make out paths, buildings and words. The Yard, Furnace, Old Smoking House and in the centre, beside a wheelhouse the words, “Main Shaft, 1,256 feet, uncapped.”
‘May I?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for a reply before sketching the plan in his book. ‘And the name of the nearest town? Does it say?’
‘Aye, Sir, if you care to use your eyes. There.’
As clear as day, across the top of the map was written, “Crosstown Mine, Sheldon.”
‘Sheldon?’
‘Derbyshire. You’ll find it in your atlas. Now, if that’s all, I’ve an appointment tonight in Southampton.’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Marks.’ James put away his pocket-note. ‘There is one other thing.’
‘Be quick,’ Marks huffed. ‘It’s knocking on teatime.’
‘Does a painting called “Artful Deception” mean anything to you?’
The solicitor gave him a withering look and thumbed to the archives.
‘Does it look like I’ve got room for paintings?’
‘Of course, but I wondered… There was a family death there, you see, at the pit, and it’s depicted in a painting. Two brothers inherited the mine, couldn’t decide who should profit most from it, and killed each other.’
James suffered another long stare before Marks asked, ‘When?’
‘Seventeen hundreds.’
Marks closed his eyes to think, and exhaled through his teeth by way of a complaint. Growling impatiently, he replaced the folder and inched his way along the path to another section of shelving, before selecting a weighty, black book, and dropping it on the table. Dust rose in a cloud, angry at being woken, and the gaslight filtered through it in confused beams that churned before being consumed by darkness. Motes rolled in waves as the solicitor turned the pages, and when he invited James to look, said, ‘Brief family tree,’ and indicated a vertical line of names.
James read. Beside each ancestor was a list of properties and business, showing clearly which viscount bought and sold each enterprise, and when he saw the wording by Crosstown Mine, Quill’s involvement became apparent. At least, it became as clear as the dusty light he read through.
‘What does this mean?’ he asked, and read the words. ‘Fratres decipi.’
‘Latin isn’t my strongest suit,’ Marks said. ‘But something like… brothers deceived, or compromised.’
‘And that?’ James pointed to the second line.
‘Hm, it’s a legal term, is that. Easiest translation is to say the business was already sold to another party, so wasn’t the brothers to inherit.’
‘And that other party was called Quille? With an E?’
Marks growled irritably again. ‘Aye, looks like it. Quill, as we’d spell the name now.’
‘So…’ James thought aloud. ‘The two men in the painting were fighting pointlessly because the land had already been sold to the Quill family? Is that right?’
‘Aye.’ Marks closed the book with an impatient snap, panicking the powdery air.
‘So why was I told it was bought by the Kingsclere family?’
‘Bloody hellfire,’ the solicitor sighed. ‘For a footman, you don’t half ask a lot of questions.’
‘I am a valet, Sir. A gentleman’s man, and again I apologise for the intrusion on your time, but might I remind you it is time for which we will be invoiced. Now, it is imperative that I understand this completely.’
Expecting a rebuttal, James was taken aback when Marks accepted his tone.
‘As I can see, Sir,’ he said, his mouth creasing at the corners, possibly in admiration of James’ gall. ‘But if you’ve set yourself the task of asking an obscure question, you should keep in mind the obvious answer.’
‘Which is?’
‘That the mine was sold from Riddington to Quill and later to Kingsclere. In that case, you’d have to speak to them for the land registry documentation. Or there’s something even more blindingly obvious.’
Marks wove back to the shelves and replaced the book while James watched, his mind picking up a pace. Even though he thought hard, he couldn’t understand what the solicitor meant.
‘What’s more obvious?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain on the way up,’ Marks said. ‘Sorry, Sir, but it’s hard to breathe in here.’
It wasn’t until they were back in the cleaner air of the crimson corridor that James realised Marks had gone from calling him lad to Sir, and as if to remind himself of his temporarily elevated position, James straightened his jacket.
‘That’s better.’ Patting his forehead with a handkerchief, Marks took a deep breath and pointed ahead to his clerk crossing the passage with a tea tray. ‘And that’s my tea.’
‘Of course. I’ve kept you long enough.’ James trotted to keep up with the man as he made for his office. ‘But this thing that I’ve missed, Sir? The thing that’s blindingly obvious?’
Marks stopped at his door. ‘That where Lord Clearwater’s family name is Riddington, so Earl Kingsclere’s family name is Quill.’
‘Kingsclere is related to Quill?’ James had to stop himself from swearing.
‘Possibly. Distantly. Anyway, if you’ll forgive me, I must get on. If there’s nothing else, Sir?’
Marks’ politeness and the use of Sir, put James’ mind straight back on track, and he offered his hand.
‘You have been most helpful, Mr Marks,’ he said. ‘Please bill His Lordship for your time and accept my apologies for arriving unannounced.’
Marks’ face, until then mainly engaged in unusual twitches of thought or glances of scepticism, developed an uncustomary smile of admiration.
‘Hard to think you’re the same man who served my wife too much wine come last year,’ he said. ‘Either Clearwater has trained you well, or you were born into the wrong job. Good luck to you, Mr Wright, and my regards to His Lordship.’
Marks left him with a firm shake of the hand, and the clerk deferentially saw James to the door.
He had entered as a valet and was leaving as a businessman, or so it seemed. Whatever he was, he had as many unanswered questions leaving as when he entered, and as soon as the clatter of hooves and the clanging of omnibus bells assaulted his ears, so did the problems, possibilities and puzzles caused by the arrival of a damaged painting at Kingsclere House.
‘At least you now know how Quill will understand the note,’ he muttered as he sought a cab. ‘What’s next?’
Next was to return to Clearwater House and link up with Tom and Silas. One thing James had not considered was how they had fared in their quest to plant the note on The Invisible. There was no need. As long as the ship was accessible, he knew both men well enough to be confident they had carried out their task without mishap. Checking the time once more, he imagined they were already back at Clearwater House and waiting for him.
In this, however, he was entirely mistaken.
Eighteen
Clearwater didn’t leave the Dordrecht hotel until that morning when he crossed the road, entered the railway station, and booked two tickets on the afternoon train to Brussels. Once the viscount was back in his hotel, Dorjan visited the booking office and made enquiries which consisted mainly of lies, ascertaining that the viscount had also booked passage for two on The Abbeville, a steamer leaving Calais that night. Checking the timetables, he discovered there was no onward connection to London the same day, and Clearwater would have to take a South Eastern Railway train the following mornin
g.
While at the station, he bought his own tickets under a made-up name and composed a message to Quill in Chatham to keep him abreast of developments, coding the telegram according to the doctor’s instruction.
The words would make no sense to anyone but Quill, and the message read, “Quarry surface 50% XI 194. Eleanor plus Agincourt. Tracing. Recommend.”
In translation, it was a simple update and request. The quarry, Clearwater, would surface at Charing Cross at eleven-thirty the next day, the 194th day of the year, fifty-per cent representing the half-hour, XI being eleven. The railway station was at the site of the stone cross erected by Edward the First for his wife, Eleanor of Castile. Crispin, born on the anniversary of the battle of Agincourt, was with him, and Dorjan would follow the viscount, unless Quill directed him otherwise.
That job done, Dorjan spent the rest of the day at the window of his pension pretending to read a book while only removing his eyes from Clearwater’s hotel when he needed to aim at the piss pot or call the proprietor to empty it.
He was interrupted only once when a telegram arrived from Chatham. Having decoded the jumble of words according to Quill’s prescribed method, he learnt that Clearwater had somehow dispatched two of his men to the dockyard, presumably to scout the area in his preparation for the final battle. “They shall no more be bothersome”, Quill had written. “Dispatched. Follow Clearwater. He will lead you to me”, was the cryptic closing statement, and Dorjan could only wonder what Quill had done to weaken Clearwater’s team. “Dispatched” could have meant anything.
The events taking place in England slid to the back of his mind when Clearwater appeared from his hotel ten minutes before the train was due to depart.
His luggage was carried by a uniformed doorman, while Clearwater led his brother by the arm. The only difference in Crispin’s appearance from the day before was a hooded cloak, but, at the doorstep of the hotel, Clearwater pulled this back to reveal the masked face and let his brother gaze at the sky. No doubt he was adjusting to clean air and the view, but he walked like a man half asleep, his head hanging as if he had no strength to keep it upright, and swaying enough for the doorman to offer assistance which Clearwater declined.
Dorjan appeared on the platform in time to see them board the train, by which time the cowl was back in place covering the mask that otherwise drew attention from the public. The brothers had taken seats in first-class, and Dorjan, as was his custom, took the last second-class carriage. Having discussed with the guard the layout of the stations they would call into, he took a window seat on the appropriate side from where he could see if the viscount unexpectedly left the train.
It was a slow and tedious journey during which Dorjan took naps to revitalise his energy, waking by instinct when the engine slowed, and finally witnessing Clearwater and Crispin alight in Brussels as expected. There, followed by a porter, they changed platforms and waited for the connection to Calais.
The evening boat train was crowded, making it easy for the assassin to blend into the throng. It was also easy to follow a man dressed like a monk, particularly as Crispin was led into the fancy first-class carriage by his swaggering brother. Clearwater strutted with his silver-topped cane as if taking a pleasant walk, but spoke to no-one. Nor did he seem aware he was being followed, he even sat in the window facing his brother, giving Dorjan a clear view of both from his lookout post in the ticket office where he observed until the last moment. Boarding the train at the back, he engaged the conductor in conversation about the upcoming destinations.
The day was progressing well, and Dorjan saw no cause for alarm. Clearwater was easy to track from train to steamer at Calais, though he did lose him momentarily when the passengers filtered onto the decks. Not long after, he spotted him ordering supper from the dining room, and having it delivered to a private cabin. This, presumably, was done to save Clearwater having to publicly remove his brother’s mask of leather and steel, thereby presenting a potential danger to those nearby.
It was painful to watch the rightful viscount being cared for as though he was a child, but understandable considering his past three years. Strapped to a bed, medicated with laudanum and suffering the humiliation of being bed-washed and chamber-potted, Crispin deserved more than mothering by a decadent who had stolen his birthright. Dorjan internalised his hatred and remained outwardly cool-headed because that was his job, happy in the knowledge that when the time came, Clearwater would die. He would have been more than happy to throw the man overboard during the crossing, but Quill had given his implicit instructions, and the doctor, despite his injuries, insisted that he kill the man himself.
When that would be was another matter. From Quill’s message, Clearwater’s men now knew the location of the final battle, and Dorjan was not surprised that with unlimited resources at his groomed fingertips, Clearwater had sent his men on ahead. Somehow, he had bypassed the diversion of the National Gallery and found another way to see the clue presented by ‘Brothers in Arms.’ Just as Quill had predicted, Clearwater understood the clue as soon as he saw it, and that, too, was not surprising. The image represented the Poet of Persia and his translator, albeit in a stylised manner, and Quill and the fake viscount had spent many evenings discussing the philosophy behind the Rubaiyat.
Dorjan had dared question Quill over the diversion, but the doctor had asserted in his rasping, spittle-clogged voice that, when presented with such a challenge, Clearwater would have no choice but to accept. He was a man who couldn’t resist such mind games, and revelled in the unscrambling of clues, the vaguer, the better. Besides, Quill had said, why not let the man enjoy his last few days on earth?
The diversion also gave the doctor time to prepare himself for the endgame. Sending the forgery to the earl during Clearwater’s visit, ensured that Kingsclere was involved in the plot and could set it in action.
Again, Dorjan had dared question the doctor’s motives, suggesting, cautiously, that it was an unnecessary move, but Quill explained his logic.
Kingsclere had a vital role to play in returning Crispin to his title when Clearwater was dead. It would require the medical recommendation of a doctor such as Quill and the patronage of a man such as the earl. Together, they would persuade the Crown that Crispin was of sound mind and able to take back the responsibility. The earl’s payoff was generous but simple. Quill’s silence about his provable affairs in the bed chambers of other men’s sons, the boy brothels of Greychurch, and the treatment of his staff, which one witness had already sworn was worse than outlawed slavery. That was without bringing in his addiction to opium, or the mention of his syphilis.
Quill’s plan had been so well laid, it included removing the restorer of artworks from the National Gallery for some months. A backup plan, he had called it, suggesting that Clearwater would be so determined to end Quill’s games, he would risk criminal activity and break into the gallery. If he was caught, he might wheedle his way out of a criminal conviction due to his contacts — he had done it before — but by the same token, his reputation would be smeared. Kingsclere would have grounds to force the Crown to remove Clearwater for the good of the establishment, and thus Crispin would, in whatever mental state, hold the title.
Whatever happened, there was no way out for Clearwater, and Dorjan passed the voyage in silent contemplation of what the man might do next, and what Quill meant by, “He will lead you to me.” Whichever way he looked at it, he could see no option for Clearwater but to return to London on tomorrow’s first available train, and make for Quill’s long-anticipated endgame in Chatham, there to wait until after dark, as he had been instructed.
That evening in Dover, with the fate of Clearwater’s men and the doctor’s cryptic message playing on his mind, Dorjan took up his vigil from the best vantage point possible, and still unnoticed, watched the comings and goings of messenger boys and guests in and out of Clearwater’s hotel. It was i
mpossible to see whether the imposter left by any other entrance, but after a discussion with a slightly inebriated guest in a nearby café, he learnt that again, Clearwater had dined alone before ordering food to be taken to his room.
Once the drunkard had staggered away, and the café owner made it clear he was closing, Dorjan took the shadows to the back of a nearby property and found himself a stable in which to hide until the journey resumed in the morning.
Nineteen
At the time Archer’s train was approaching Calais and the waiting steamer, James was paying a cabbie to drive faster to Clearwater House while setting his plan of action firmly in his mind. Firstly, he needed to make sure Thomas and Silas had found the ship and were able to leave Archer’s message. That wouldn’t be possible if the ship was at sea, but something told him Quill knew it wouldn’t be. Why send Archer to his final battle in an unreachable place? The Invisible, he decided, had to be within easy distance of London.
Secondly, with the message planted, they needed to find the exact location of the mine and make their way there before sunset the following day.
It was when he reached the third stage of this plan that it became unclear. What then? Watch Quill and Archer fight? Kill the doctor? Could he do that? Should he intervene, or should he adopt Thomas’ attitude and stand down, leaving everyone’s fate in Archer’s hands?
Hoping the path forward would become clear once he had spoken to Tom, he entered the servant’s hall to find Mrs Norwood agitated and pacing.
‘Oh, thank the Lord!’ she exclaimed on seeing him, and immediately fell into a chair.
‘What’s the matter?’ He dumped his knapsack, instantly on alert.
The housekeeper was white in the face, her eyes red-rimmed as though she had been crying, and the table was only half-cleared after a meal, suggesting she had been distracted halfway through clearing, and hadn’t been able to finish the job.
Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6) Page 21