Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then…’

  The voices faded as his target crossed the bridge and Dorjan crossed the tracks beneath, securing himself another hiding place until the next train arrived. It was only when he heard the party descending the iron steps that he realised he would be seen if he made for the rear carriage from there, and thinking quickly, scooted back to the original side of the tunnel.

  When the small and unimpressive locomotive pulled in, fuming and straining against its cars, its outlet of steam allowed him cover. While Clearwater boarded at the front and on the other side, Dorjan clambered from the tracks into the last, third-class compartment.

  ‘Didn’t want to miss it,’ he told the collection of poorly dressed and foul-smelling passengers crammed onto one bench, before making himself as unobtrusive as possible.

  The station at Sheldon was even smaller than Bakewell, and there was no way he could leave the carriage without being seen. Only two of his fellow passengers got off with Clearwater, leaving him with the decision to risk making a run for it or remain on the train until Clearwater was out of sight. Deciding on the latter option meant waiting until the train was moving, but there was no choice. As soon as was safe, he amazed those in his car by standing, exclaiming, ‘Oh, my word!’ and leaping from the carriage before the locomotive picked up too much speed.

  Using the overgrown verge as cover, he waited until the chug and puff of the engine had faded to silence before crawling to the top of the bank, where still camouflaged, he trained his eyes on the station exit.

  Dusk was falling, and once the smoke cleared, his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of damp grass. The heat of the day had faded, and the humidity was settling as a mist over the distant, folded hills. Hedges and trees allowed for some cover as he tracked Clearwater to the nearby inn, staying low and listening for any clues to their destination. There were none, and forced to remain at a distance, he watched as the imposter led his men inside.

  There they remained, leaving Dorjan to contemplate Clearwater’s actions as he slunk further into the shadows of a copse. The target should have been on the bridge of a rusting battleship, a location which, the doctor had said, held great significance for them both. Dorjan’s instructions were implicit; to lie in wait and only appear when called. Quill wanted one last stand-off with Clearwater, to lull him into false security, and make him think he was battling only with the injured doctor. The appearance of the assassin would come too late, and Dorjan was to disable the imposter, allowing Quill’s knife easy access to his throat.

  It was messy, and Dorjan had said so, but Quill was adamant he would be the one to strike the fatal blow. All Dorjan had was his swordstick. It would be enough to slit a throat or pierce a heart, but if Quill only wanted Clearwater disabled, then a slash to the back of his knees would see him crumple in agony, his legs would be useless, and the doctor could do what he wanted. Now there was the Russian in play, however, he would have to think again, and he was contemplating when and where he could take out the man, when a hand clamped across his mouth and a body pressed from behind.

  ‘Stay silent,’ a voice rasped.

  Dorjan was furious with himself for being caught, but allowed himself to be pulled gently back into the cover of the trees. The voice was unmistakable, and the breathing behind it came in short, saliva-sucking gasps.

  Quill released him, and Dorjan came face to face with the disfigured pigskin mask that did little to hide the doctor’s deformed features.

  ‘They are at the inn,’ he whispered, wondering how Quill had come on him so quietly.

  ‘I know. I have been watching it for hours. Clearwater is not playing by the rules, and my plan has had to change. You have your knife?’

  ‘I have my sword. It will be enough. Why are we here?’

  ‘I know his intentions.’ The doctor wiped spittle from his chin. ‘He sought to outwit me with a veiled clue and sent his catamites to leave it. They have been taken care of, and Clearwater has his brother with him.’ Quill paused to regain his breath. ‘He is thus still amenable to my demands, and although he has changed the rendezvous, he has not raised the stakes. We proceed as planned, but in a different direction.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘Not two miles hence by foot. We must leave and prepare the battlefield.’

  ‘We should wait until dark,’ Dorjan advised, judging the approach of night.

  ‘It will not be fully dark for another two hours.’ Quill tightened his cloak about his twisted form. ‘The mine is deserted. No-one will be there except us.’

  ‘Clearwater also has his Russian.’

  ‘I have seen, and I will not be surprised if other men appear. They will be yours to disable, Dorjan, but do not kill them. Let them live with the knowledge they failed to save their master’s life. I only want one death tonight. Clearwater. And he is mine to execute.’ Quill breathed heavily and groaned as he stood as upright as his injuries would allow. ‘His reign is nearly over.’

  ‘I understand,’ Dorjan whispered. ‘And when this is done? What then?’

  Quill dabbed his chin again and smeared his hand beneath the mask to clear his lips before spitting to the side.

  ‘In his vain attempt to play against me, Clearwater has given us the perfect resting place for his corpse. It was to be the filthy mud of the River Medway, but instead, it shall be the deepest shaft on a property that once belonged to our families. I must admit, Dorjan, I was almost impressed with his choice. Come. Stay alert and lead me cautiously across these fields. The mine is beyond that hill. There is cover, and if anyone sees, we are simply enjoying a stroll in this balmy evening.’

  With a last glance back to the inn, and seeing no activity, Dorjan let the doctor lean on his arm. The body, once lithe and athletic, was little more than a crumpled mess of skin, his neck fused to the shoulder by the contraction of burn scars, the solitary eye misty and yellowing, and the frame now heavy with the weight of inactivity. Quill’s power was in his mind, and although his body was gnarled, he was as cunning as ever, made more so by his determination.

  ‘And after?’ Dorjan repeated once they were free of the copse, and it was sheltering them from the village.

  ‘You will be free to go, and you will be paid, fear not,’ the doctor replied. ‘But only if we succeed in taking Crispin and ending Clearwater’s life. My last farthing has been spent on this quest, and without the rightful viscount in my care, I have nothing left to give you except my word that your family will not be harmed.’

  ‘How can I be sure?’ Dorjan ventured, unwilling to antagonise the man, who, he knew from experience, could turn his congeniality to spite as quickly as a body could be slit with a knife. He could wait for the payment, but he needed to be assured his daughters would be safe.

  ‘At this moment, I have but thanks for your hard work,’ Quill replied. ‘But where I have trusted you, so must you trust me. Why, if I dared risk deceiving you, I know I would last no more than five minutes. You have my word, Dorjan. Once Clearwater is dead, your family will be secure, and once Crispin is reinstated with me as his guardian and physician, you will have your compensation and more. Are we agreed on this?’

  ‘And you don’t want me to kill.’

  ‘Correct. Only disable. The joy of killing is to be mine.’

  ‘Very well. We are agreed.’

  ‘Then we walk in silence, and as we do, watch for anyone approaching our destination. I judge we shall be ahead of Clearwater by an hour. Plenty of time for me to outline our final moves and prepare the ground. Now, silence, please. Our enthusiasm must not overshadow our reason. We shall talk more when we see the lay of the land.’

  ‘Stay one step ahead,’ Archer said, as Fecker mounted a horse. ‘Be wary. Smith is capable of as much trickery as Quill, and will, no doubt, be with him. Take the south
ern route around the hill, gallop, and you will make it there before them.’

  ‘Da. Understood,’ Fecker said, pulling a second horse alongside. ‘And you don’t want Romanian dead because…?’

  ‘I would rather not see anyone dead, Andrej. But Quill has left me no choice. If you have the opportunity, take Smith out of play, but not fatally. I will not see you hang. Agreed?’

  ‘Da.’

  Archer passed up a canvas bag which Fecker tied to his saddle. ‘I expect Jimmy and the others to arrive shortly if they are not already here, so you shan’t be alone.’

  ‘You are too certain, My Lord,’ Danylo spoke from behind the leather mask. ‘I am with my brother on this. Let Andrej go on ahead and cut the man’s throat, clearing your way to take Quill. I am concerned that I am not armed, and you have nothing but your sword-cane.’

  ‘It is all I need, Danny,’ Archer replied. ‘That and Andrej’s preparation. As I have told you, with Quill, we play a game of deception he may well easily see through, and, yet, I am prepared to gamble against his madness. All he will see is the chance to humiliate me before he dispatches me to the gloomy depths, and I must allow him to think he has won. Can I rely on your obedience, Lieutenant?’

  ‘You must refer to me as your brother,’ Danylo said. ‘They can’t hear us now, but once out in the fields, our voices will carry.’

  ‘You are quite right. So, Crispin, can I reply on you to do as I tell you?’

  ‘Of course… Er, what does your brother call you?’

  ‘He called me many unsavoury names both in private and in public. Quill would expect you to call me a ponce.’ Archer sickened at the memory and the implications of the word.

  ‘If I must.’

  Danylo adjusted the mask before crossing his wrists and drawing his arms beneath the cloak. The shackles had been removed from his belt, but the pretence kept. With his head lolling forward, he slumped his back, affecting the stance of a man drugged to near unconsciousness. The similarity to Crispin was uncanny, and the only thing that could differentiate the two was Danylo’s voice.

  ‘If you have no option but to speak, Crispin,’ Archer said, adjusting to the name. ‘Then do so as a man heavily sedated. My brother hardly speaks anyway, but if he does, it’s slurred and in an accent similar to mine. Now, are you ready?’

  ‘Brother, you ponce,’ Danylo grunted, sounding unnervingly like the man he was impersonating. ‘I am prepared for death.’

  Archer was too disturbed to reply, but no answer was necessary; there was no more to be said on the matter. They had discussed their strategy on the train. He had faith that James would have refused to remain in London, and if his plan was foiled, Marks had all his legal matters in hand. With every position covered, it only remained to confront Quill, and put a stop to his madness by whatever means necessary.

  ‘Go now, Andrej,’ Archer said, taking the second horse by the reins. ‘Take the lamps, prepare the scene, and let’s give Benji Quill exactly what his letter called for. A confrontation with me apparently delivering my brother into his arms.’

  ‘I will, Geroy,’ Fecker nodded, tightening his cloak. Offering his hand, he shook his brother’s and said, ‘Trust Geroy. He is as mad as Quill, but sometimes he is right.’

  ‘We will be with you shortly, Andrej,’ Archer said, and Fecker walked the horse from the yard.

  Leading the second horse to a bench, and bringing Crispin, as that was how he had to think of him, Archer helped his brother to mount. Crispin swayed in the saddle until Archer was seated behind him where, holding his brother around his chest, he clicked the horse into a walk. To any onlookers, he would appear as a man helping a drunkard home as they took the western lane around Crosstown Hill and approached the mine from the north. The sun would have set by the time they arrived, but the dusk would linger, offering only vague lighting, and lessening the chances of Quill seeing through Danylo’s disguise.

  As he walked the horse lethargically towards the destination, Archer took a moment to settle the uneasiness that had festered since he received Quill’s letter. So far, he had managed to keep up an appearance of nonchalance, but his simmering doubt was in danger of boiling over. It didn’t help to remember he was working from an epiphany, a sudden spark of an idea with no sturdier foundation than, ‘What if?’ His plan was improvised, but Quill would have plotted his strategy for months. Improvisation was not how battles were won, and Archer had acted on instinct, but it was now too late to change what would come.

  The sun was low on the horizon, filtering the land through a low-hanging mist while a few lines of thin cloud gave colour to the greying sky. Red and glowing, they resembled Archer’s scar, and that, added to the feel of the man in front, caused his anxiety to turn to anger. This journey might be his last, and he was going willingly, because he had no other choice.

  It all came down to one wonderful moment of ecstasy years ago, aboard The Invisible. That first kiss with Simon Harrington on the bridge. The first time another man had told Archer he was loved. The first realisation that life did not have to be lived behind lies, that he was understood, that Simon was the same, and more, that they loved each other equally.

  That moment of bliss and a few passionate nights were what he was now paying for. The shame of discovery had been immense, but was quashed beneath the pain of seeing Simon humiliated, savagely beaten, whipped and degraded. The pain became anguish when, impotent, Archer was made to watch as Simon suffered, and ultimately took his own life. The anger intensified into biting shards of agony that stabbed Archer’s body, until he forged them into a sword of hatred, pointed at the engineer of Simon’s death, Crispin.

  When Archer faced him on the eve of a physical battle, his fight became emotional, and years of pent-up loathing spilt over. Crispin, equally as incensed by Archer’s love of men, was prepared for the fight and quicker with his sword. Severely injured, Archer had been saved from death by Quill, not knowing that the doctor harboured his own hatred. Even as he stitched Archer’s flesh and kept infection at bay, his friend was planning revenge. It all went back, through Quill to Crispin, and through him, to Simon Harrington, but the starting point had always been Archer and his love of men.

  The finishing point would be death. Death for Quill, possibly for himself, but also the end of memories, which, on this, the anniversary of his father’s blessed passing, would finally be banished into the pit, along with those who would seek to confine Archer’s love.

  ‘Brother?’

  Crispin’s grunt brought the viscount to his senses, and he was immediately alert. Crispin was nodding to the left, but when Archer looked, he only saw undefined shapes.

  ‘Two figures walking a distant hedgerow,’ Crispin hissed. ‘Mere shadows, Sir, but one is stooped and shuffling.’

  ‘Quill,’ Archer whispered. ‘And he is not alone.’

  ‘Give me your sword, and I will gut him now.’

  ‘No, Crispin. Your brother has control, remember? Allay your fears and put your instinct to rest. We will not be alone. Prepare. We ride faster.’

  Taking his horse to a trot, Archer waited until the hill blocked them from Quill’s line of sight, before breaking to a gallop. Knowing Quill’s position gave him time to get a lay of the land and lessen the chances of being caught off guard, and approaching the entrance to the mine, he found it exactly as described in the papers Marks had provided.

  The property was skirted by a brick wall, made cancerous by an overgrowth of creepers, and hanging from one hinge, a gate stood ineffectual as a barrier. Beyond it, the path tapered off into wild grass which fell away either side as they rode an incline towards a manmade bank. Buildings came into view, silhouetted against the gathering gloom. Crumbling and misshapen, it was easy to think of them as Quill, relics of a past and vulnerable. Among them stood a solid, intact chimney representing Archer, if he cared to
think vainly, and beside it, smaller works; an iron crane housing, a furnace, and the wheel supports standing guard, stoic, but useless, above the open mineshaft.

  ‘Our amphitheatre,’ Archer whispered. ‘Andrej is here.’

  Lanterns had been lit either side of the square, gaping hole, throwing light onto the crane and the low stone wall, that was all that kept the curiously wandering from falling to their deaths.

  ‘It looks perfect.’ Archer steered the horse to the seclusion of a roofless shed beside the gates where he found Fecker’s mount, and left a lantern there to guide their return.

  As he dismounted, Fecker appeared, and having helped Crispin down, spoke to Archer in whispers.

  ‘Quill is half a mile away,’ he said. ‘I did what you told me.’

  ‘I saw the lamps. Is everything else ready?’

  ‘Da, Geroy. Go. I guard brother.’

  ‘Take him to the shed. I shan’t be long.’

  Trusting Fecker’s judgement, and knowing he had a few minutes before Quill arrived, Archer climbed the manmade embankment to flatter ground and the mineshaft. Skirting it at a distance, he only came closer when he had hold of the sturdy machinery that hung over the pitch-black pit. The low wall crumbled beneath his boot as he looked in, and he gripped the ironwork tighter, his fingers scrambling among cables and hooks for a better hold. It was impossible to say how deep the shaft descended, but Marks’ records suggested at least a thousand feet, the first few of which were planked. After that, what little daylight remained lit only a brief area of open rockface, before darkness consumed the void.

  Archer gasped against a sudden feeling that he was unable to stop himself from falling, and retreated from the temptation. Turning his back to the mine as if to block it from existence, he stretched his arms behind his neck to massage a pang of tension.