Unspeakable Acts
The Clearwater Mysteries Book three
by
Jackson Marsh
First published in Great Britain in 2019
Copyright © Jackson Marsh 2019
The right of Jackson Marsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Proofread by Ann Attwood
Cover Design by Andjela K
Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com company.
ISBN- 9781071152768
Available from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other retail outlets. Available on Kindle and other devices.
Also by Jackson Marsh
Other People’s Dreams
In School and Out
The Blake Inheritance
The Stoker Connection
Curious Moonlight
The Mentor of Wildhill Farm
The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge
The Mentor of Lonemarsh House
The Mentor of Lostwood Hall
The Clearwater Mysteries
Deviant Desire
Twisted Tracks
Unspeakable Acts
One
The Times, Thursday, December 1st, 1888
Opera House Gala
Famed countertenor, Mr Cadwell Roxton is to make his debut appearance at the Opera House in “Aeneas and Dido”, an acclaimed if unusual work by Austro-German composer, Johann Bruch.
Mr Roxton was the sensation of the 1887 Paris season, following that triumph with another in Leipzig the subsequent spring. His debut at our opera house this month will herald the beginning of what this publication hopes will be an illustrious career on the opera stage for a countryman returning home from his studies after training in the conservatoires of Europe.
Mr Roxton’s performance, however, is not for the purpose of his own self-progression. The presentation is a gala event in aid of The Clearwater Foundation, a benevolent trust recently inaugurated to benefit the destitute men of the City’s East End.
Readers will be aware, no doubt, of the good works undertaken by the late Viscount Clearwater (1838 to 1888) in the assistance of destitute women. His son, previously the Honourable Archer Riddington, was elevated to the title in the summer and has already taken up the reins of philanthropic leadership.
Charles Tripp closed the newspaper. He’d read enough about the good works of the sodomite, Clearwater, and instead turned his attention to the sodomites of the Central Telegraph Office, a group of young men occupying the adjacent table.
It wasn’t that Tripp had any desire to be among their company, he was well into his sixties and far above their juvenile banter, and it wasn’t because he found any of them to his liking, they were of the wrong sex. He was interested in their stories. The tales they exchanged over beer in The Crown and Anchor would, at any other time, make Tripp’s blood curdle, but the more he listened to their furtive whisperings, the more he was convinced they could be of use.
The messengers lived a double life, or at least, some of them did, and none of the others, apparently, minded. Tripp knew — because it was common knowledge, though generally unspoken — that messengers working for the Central Telegraph Office could earn more than their wages and commissions from other, less legal means. Namely, the hiring of their youthful selves for the pleasures of older men.
Tripp was not interested in hiring any of them for that revolting purpose. He was, however, keen to learn of their life, because with the right information, he might further his dark cause.
He had been using the public house of late in the hope that Viscount Clearwater’s new footman, James Wright, would honour his commitment. The boy had been in place for several weeks now, and Tripp had expected to hear from him regularly. That was their deal, but it was now apparent that Tripp had been duped. Either that or there was nothing untoward to report, but knowing Clearwater as he did, he thought that highly unlikely. Wright should have returned to him at least with news of Hawkins, the East End renter Clearwater employed, or the behaviour of his previous master’s favourite servant, Thomas Payne, another sodomite and one who had usurped Tripp’s crown as the viscount’s butler.
He scoffed before sipping his beer. It washed away the unpalatable taste created by thinking about those kinds of men, but it soon returned.
He had hoped to learn more about Clearwater’s private life from Wright, but Tripp assumed that Clearwater had brainwashed the boy into his way of thinking, or bribed him for his loyalty. Whatever the reason James had for not returning with information, it was now clear that Tripp had to think again.
Having waited expectantly and so often in the Riverside pub, he had come to recognise the messengers who gathered there after work. The boys, some as young as sixteen, spoke furtively and often used coded words. Mary Anne, Marjorie, or poof were the most common, and Tripp, having tuned his ears, deciphered them as new alternatives for ‘Homosexual’, itself a word he only came to hear in his forties. Before that, these twisted men were called less effeminate names. He found them equally as unpalatable to consider, as were their unspeakable acts of depravity, the mention of which caused bile to rise in Tripp’s scraggy throat.
The messengers, however, also spoke of sweethearts of the opposite sex, alerting Tripp to the fact that many of them were not queer at all, simply seeking a living from the depravity of others. He had been close to their company so often, they now recognised him as a local and saw him as no threat. Wheedling his way into their acquaintance, albeit only as a regular drinker, one of the group stood out as being of possible use. This Mary-Anne — he shivered — would arrive at any moment. He was as regular in his after-work drinking as his colleagues and, Tripp had noticed, was something of a ringleader.
He lifted his daily newspaper to hide his face. It was a good cover and enabled him to learn many facts about homosexuals he’d rather not have heard. Sadly, knowledge and information were necessary if he was to succeed in bringing down Clearwater and the catamites he protected.
There was one conversation that intrigued him more than the rest, and that was when the boys talked about ‘The House,’ — or rather, ‘The ’ouse’, as none could speak well — a property towards the North Cross railway station at the edge of the West End. From what Tripp could glean, this was a place where, behind allegedly respectable lace curtains, boys were paid to be of sexual service to men.
That was all Tripp needed to hear, but he also learnt that there were several other such establishments, all operating beneath the law, yet this one at Cleaver Street was the most discussed, and if such a thing was possible, respected.
The idea that base acts between men should ever be respectable was anathema to Tripp, a man who held up his own strong religious and ethical standards as a beacon for others to either follow or be damned by. It was this moral high-view that proved he was right to set his mind against Clearwater, although to anyone who knew his intent — which was no-one but himself — the true reason for his passionate hatred of the man had nothing to do with his perversion. Th
at was only its focus. The man had fired Tripp and disrespected the good name of the late and noble viscount. Tripp wanted his revenge. It was that simple.
What was not so simple was finding the way to knock the man from his perch of respectability, to serve him the retribution he deserved, to crush him beneath his foot in the way the viscount had crushed Tripp, and to shame and expose him for the upstart and cad he was. Clearwater wore the strongest of social armour, but there was one chink. He was homosexual, and that was the easiest point of attack.
An idea forming, he opened the newspaper again, returning to where he had left off.
‘Hello.’
He looked up and into the cratered face of a tall, wiry man in his mid-twenties. Casually but smartly dressed, the youth was in the process of greeting his fellow messengers, and yet was addressing Tripp.
‘Ah, good evening,’ Tripp replied, folding his paper once more and offering the opposite seat. ‘A word?’
‘In return for a drink.’
It was a straightforward barter and one which would award Tripp a few moments of the lad’s time. He attracted the landlord’s attention, and when his companion was delivered a beer, paid for it and pushed out the chair with his foot.
The lad sat.
‘How are you tonight, Mr Tripp?’ he asked, turning his beer glass so the handle faced him, an unnecessary ritual Tripp had noticed on several occasions.
‘I need information,’ Tripp replied.
He kept his voice low. Although the messengers were speaking loudly tonight, and the volume increased parallel to their consumption of alcohol, if he could hear them in quieter moments, so they could also hear him. His companion gave a silent nod of the head, showing he understood, and moved his glass to position the handle at right angles to the table edge. It was another pointless exercise, because he drank with his left hand and by holding the glass not its handle. When the boy had completed his manoeuvres and told his friends he would join them presently, Tripp had his attention.
‘Have you been busy of late, Mr Lovemount?’ he asked. He had known the man only a few weeks and only superficially, but he was convinced he used a pseudonym.
‘Busy as always at this time of year, Sir,’ Lovemount said. ‘Sending cards at Christmas is a growing trend, and each year they send them earlier. We’re weeks away, and already they’ve started.’
‘It’s a fashion that has been growing in popularity since I was your age, Lovemount. I would have thought the post office was prepared. It was, after all, an invention by the office itself.’
‘Yeah, one of those things you wish you could uninvent,’ the messenger grumbled. ‘What can I do for you?’
He was a skeleton of a youth, but under the ravaged skin of his head, he housed a brain that thought quickly and well when it was to his advantage. He and Tripp had other things in common and were more akin than the casual observer might think.
‘Did you know a messenger called Wright?’ Tripp asked. If Lovemount could come directly to the point, so could he. ‘James Wright?’
Lovemount lit a cigarette, and it wasn’t a cheap brand. ‘Depends,’ he said.
‘Half a crown.’
‘Then, yes, I did.’
‘But I will need more than that.’
The messenger inhaled and held the smoke, waiting for Tripp to add to the reward. When he didn’t, he exhaled and sent a cloud billowing directly into his face.
‘So will I,’ he said.
Tripp waved away the pollution. ‘A crown if I am satisfied.’
Lovemount nodded and rested one arm on the table, turning his back to his colleagues. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I understand you are the senior messenger at the Riverside office. Tell me what you know of Mr Wright.’
Lovemount’s hooded eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. He studied Tripp’s face (an unnerving trauma for anyone to endure), but Tripp allowed it until a dubious thought occurred to Lovemount, and his expression warped into a leer.
‘He’s a clean enough lad,’ he said. ‘A pretty boy, got stamina, average cock, I’d say.’
When Tripp swallowed, the folds of his chin vibrated as his Adam’s apple rose and fell like a fairground sideshow.
‘I didn’t mean “know” in that respect,’ he said, disgusted.
‘Oh, as a post worker? Always on time, always neat, fast, accurate with his money. Why?’
‘Discreet?’
‘Very, I should say. We see a lot of stuff on our deliveries, Sir, but none of us talks about them.’
‘Well, I know that’s a lie, Lovemount. Tell me some truths.’
‘About what?’ Lovemount continued smoking, but he blew it from the corner of his mouth, for which Tripp was grateful.
‘About Mr Wright.’
‘Such as?’
‘Don’t play games.’ Tripp lowered his voice further, but aimed his words forcefully at Lovemount’s impertinence. ‘I have recently come into substantial resources, and I need information. I will pay well for discretion, and if you are my man, you will speak with honesty, and benefit in silence.’
‘You can trust me,’ Lovemount said.
‘If that is true, you will ask me no questions, but answer all of mine.’
Lovemount nodded, and Tripp moved closer.
‘I have heard of a place in Cleaver Street,’ he said. His companion registered no surprise. ‘Did Wright ever visit there?’ His meaning was obvious, and Lovemount, to his credit, had fallen serious and did not continue his game.
‘No, Sir. I can tell you that with my hand on my heart, ’cos it’s a place I have a special association with.’
‘You procure young messengers to work as boy-whores,’ Tripp said. ‘Yes, I know.’
Lovemount was taken aback, and the sight awarded Tripp an unfamiliar shiver of joy. ‘Your voices carry,’ he said, jerking his head towards the next table. ‘But you are certain Wright has had nothing to do with the place?’
‘He’s too much of a goody-goody,’ Lovemount whined. ‘Tried to get him once ’cos of his looks and his body, see? Some men like them tough and rough, others like them tough and pretty, like him.’
‘Yes, alright. Enough detail. Did he use any other such places, do you know?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’
‘I said to ask no questions.’ Tripp growled.
‘Quite right, you did.’
‘Going back to Cleaver Street,’ he continued. ‘I was thinking of taking apartments there. Number twenty, to be exact. Number nineteen is opposite, and I wondered, do any noblemen use the establishment?’
Lovemount glanced about to make sure he wasn’t being watched, and nodded.
‘Any local to here?’
The messenger didn’t understand.
‘Clearwater?’ Tripp hissed, leaving the boy to read his lips rather than hear his words.
‘Oh, I get it.’ Lovemount’s face erupted into a grin that created peaks and troughs among the craters. ‘No, Sir. Again, I can honestly say that in the five years I been having dealings with Cleaver Street, Viscount Clearwater has never stepped foot in the place – that I know of. Probably never in any other kind of molly house neither. Clean as a whistle. Sorry.’
Tripp growled. Had Lovemount said the opposite, he would have all the ammunition he needed to ruin the viscount. As it was, he was back to square one.
‘Is that today’s Times, Sir?’ Lovemount asked, changing the subject
‘It is. Why?’
‘May I?’ The messenger took it and thumbed through to a particular page. ‘Clearwater has never been to Cleaver Street,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you someone who has.’
Tripp waited, but the boy didn’t move. Realising, he sighed and drew a crown from his purse, placi
ng it pointedly on the table.
Satisfied, Lovemount opened the paper, turned it and showed Tripp a name.
Until that moment, Tripp’s mind had been fogged by a frustrating cloud of impotence. Other than bribe James Wright, he had no planned course of action. However, as he read the name on the not unfamiliar page, the doubt cleared as an idea came crashing through. It was bold and gave no thought for his safety. It took no prisoners, charging onto the battlefield of his mind in shining armour, its pennant held proudly aloft on a spear of justice.
It was the way forward, but for the battle to be won, he would need to form an alliance with the enemy; the homosexual sitting opposite grinning like a gargoyle.
‘I see,’ Tripp said, closing the paper. ‘Tell me, Mr Lovemount, how would it please you never to have to deliver Christmas cards again?’
What Tripp didn’t know was that Lovemount, the name in the newspaper and Clearwater were already connected. Not by himself, not yet, but by others plotting against the viscount for their own reasons at that very moment and only a few miles away. Nor was Tripp able to know, as Lovemount’s ravaged face contorted into a grin of comradeship, that he had just put in place a chain of events that would ultimately lead him to the most notorious boy brothel in the city.
Two
Silas Hawkins had known Archer for less than two months, but in that time his life had changed beyond measure. One day he was an Irish immigrant rent boy searching for dropped coins in an East End gutter, and the next he had a suite of rooms at Clearwater House. Behind closed doors, he had a man he loved without question and who wanted him because he was Silas. In public, he was the viscount’s private secretary, and it was in that capacity he found himself approaching the stage door of the City Opera House under a cloudless but unforgiving sky. Dressed in a fine suit and checking the time on a new pocket watch, he grinned, half-impressed with what he had achieved and half-bemused by his change in fortune.
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