They were shown to their table as if they were processing to an altar, Archer tipping his head to a few people he knew, and Silas watching their reactions carefully. He wasn’t introduced to anyone, and held his head high, expertly playing his role until he was seated in the private banquette. It was a few minutes later, once a waiter had fussed and Archer had ordered wine, that they were able to continue their conversation.
‘So,’ Silas began. ‘Is there anything else that needs to be done before the show?’
‘Lots,’ Archer replied. ‘But nothing I have to worry about. Bursnall is directing the production and dealing with everything at the theatre, and Marks has everything in place on our side. All we have to do is entertain Mr Roxton and look after him while he’s in town.’
‘Staying with Lady Marshall, right?’
‘Yes.’ Archer suddenly clutched Silas’ hand across the table, disturbing his row of forks. ‘Silas, you’re going to love him,’ he enthused. ‘Apart from his voice, he is so witty, so charming.’ His eyes misted. ‘I do hope you get on.’
‘We will, Archie.’ Silas slid his hand free as the waiter returned. ‘You’ve known him a long time and any friend of yours…’
‘Ah, the wine.’
Silas remained silent while the waiter put on a song and dance, showing Archer the label, flicking a white cloth over his arm before delicately popping the cork, twisting the bottle as he poured a drop and standing back to await the verdict. Archer lifted the glass, examined the spit of wine against the light, rolled it around several times, lifted it to his nose, sniffed, made approving noises and finally took a tiny sip. Even that was a process, and Silas rolled his eyes.
‘Perfect as always.’ Archer spoke to Silas and winked. Daring.
The waiter poured them each a disappointing measure, and a rigmarole with the cloth and an ice bucket took place. It was a good minute later before Archer was able to top up their glasses to a decent level, and Silas said, ‘Bloody hell, that was a palaver.’
‘I know,’ Archer agreed. ‘But what must be, must be. Yes,’ he went on without a breath. ‘Cadwell and I go back a long way. Prep school.’
‘Which was when you were little, right?’
‘I was eight, so was he. But where I left at thirteen to attend the academy, he was a student of the classics and the arts, lucky bugger, and stayed on. We kept in touch and would visit each other when we could, the best of friends. But then I was sent to sea and meeting became more difficult.’
‘Not part of your crew then?’
‘Not literally, no.’ Archer knew what Silas meant. ‘And not figuratively, as far as I know. He’s married, not that that means anything. Either way, no jealousy needed.’
Silas never suffered from jealousy, but Archer’s enthusiasm was not as contagious as usual. Somehow, Silas felt it was misplaced, which was wrong of him. He’d never met Cadwell Roxton. He’d met few of Archer’s friends, but those who had visited, he had liked. There was no reason why he should be uneasy about a man he’d never met. Unable to explain it, he opened his menu.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘What’s this?’
‘French, sadly,’ Archer sighed, opening his own. ‘One of the establishment’s less popular affectations. Shall I translate?’
‘Do they do bacon and cabbage?’ The menu meant nothing to Silas, and the script was so fancy he would have had trouble reading it in English.
‘They have loin of pork with fennel and haricot beans.’
‘Yuk. A sandwich?’
Archer put down his menu, his face clouding.
‘Sorry,’ Silas said. ‘I’ll have whatever you have.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Archer was worried. Silas could tell from the way his mouth turned down, and he blinked several times.
‘What’s up?’
‘I just remembered.’ The viscount glanced around the room before focusing on Silas. ‘The last time I was here was with Benji Quill.’
Silas shuddered. ‘Instant indigestion?’
‘Not at the time. I had no idea he was…’ He mouthed the words. ‘The Ripper.’
‘No-one did, and no-one does,’ Silas reminded him to put him at his ease.
There had been no news of Quill since they saw him falling into a train crash, and both assumed he was at the bottom of a river. He’d not, as Archer first feared, shown up at the sanitorium in Holland where Archer’s brother was held, and no more murders had been reported. Still, the memories were fresh. Any more of them and Silas would lose his appetite.
‘Done and dealt with,’ he said, keen to change the subject. ‘So, no boiled bacon, no sandwiches. What is this place?’
Archer’s mood was lifted, and he raised his eyebrows. ‘Coq au vin?’ he suggested.
‘If it’s got the word cock in it, I’m up for it.’
‘Shush!’ The viscount hid his laughter behind the menu. ‘You behave yourself, Mr ’awkins,’ he chided in a faux East End accent. ‘Or you’ll be on bread and water.’
‘Sounds highly preferable, My Lord,’ Silas grinned back in his more polished upper-class impersonation.
The waiter arrived as if he had telepathically known Archer was ready to order and, that done, they returned to the subject of Cadwell Roxton.
Archer spoke at length, singing his virtues and loading praise on the man. It was rewarding to see him so excited. He had worked hard over the past few weeks and all for the good of other people. Yet another admirable trait that Silas couldn’t resist. Despite his unfounded misgivings about the opera singer, he listened silently as Archer told him about their shared past. By the time their meal was delivered and devoured, he knew all there was to know about Cadwell Roxton.
At least, that was what he thought at the time.
Three miles away, the winter sun filtered through the grime of a cracked window, throwing jaundiced light across a sheet of paper. Below, in the streets of Greychurch, people went about their daily lives unaware of and not caring for the man and woman who lived in the room above the Cheap Street coffin shop. Had anyone called to the room to enquire after the young lady, they might have been greeted by the man. Had they called to visit him, they might have been met by the woman. It depended entirely on what purpose each character was serving, for they were one and the same person.
He admired his arm beneath the faint yellow sun, turning it from the smooth underside to the equally as smooth upper skin, extending his fingers and admiring the Chinese lacquer recently applied to his long nails. He curled his fingers into his palm, comparing the nails to his delicate skin, and flexed his powerful biceps. Having smiled at the strength behind his demure outward appearance, he unwound his fingers, curling his hand like the unfurling of wings and brought it to land on the tabletop. There, he selected a reservoir pen, recently loaded with black ink and with the nib prepared, and unscrewed the lid. Every movement was precise and delicate, as fitted his female character, while behind his shadowed eyelids, he considered the words he was to write with the cunning of a man accustomed to deception.
Nothing must be too obvious, but nor could it be too much of a conundrum. Time was limited, and it was imperative the message be understood clearly by its recipient. The terminology would ensure only a musical mind, or one as devious as his own, would fathom the threat, yet the statement accompanying it should leave no doubt.
He took a deep breath to calm his excited heart, his diaphragm fighting his corseted bodice, and when the breath was released, produced a sigh of feminine satisfaction.
The nib touched the virgin paper, and he began to write.
Cadwell Roxton…
Four
Later that evening, Silas stood before the bedroom mirror and tugged his waistcoat to straighten it before adjusting his collar. The high, starched band was designed to keep him straig
ht-necked. If he lowered his chin even slightly, the collar rubbed uncomfortably, and its confines irritated more than just his skin.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this, Jimmy,’ he said to the footman waiting behind him, a tailcoat held open ready to receive his arms.
‘The collar, Sir?’
‘The whole lot. The narrow trousers, waistcoat, this trap at my neck, and the jacket. Looking straight ahead, flicking tails when I sit. Blimey. How does anyone dress like this every day?’
‘You get used to it, I suppose.’
Silas regarded the footman’s reflection thoughtfully as he centred his cravat. ‘Not so long ago you were running messages in a blue uniform,’ he said. ‘Now you’re in completely different garb. How does that feel?’
‘Speaking honestly, Sir, it makes me proud. The uniform reminds me of who and where I am.’
‘A servant to a man with money?’
‘It’s more than that, Sir. Your dinner jacket?’
Silas sighed. ‘Yeah, I suppose I must.’ He threaded his arms into the sleeves and James dropped the tailcoat onto his shoulders.
‘We must all look our best for the evening,’ the footman said. ‘And you do look elegant.’
‘Thanks, Jimmy.’ Silas had to agree. ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said as James reached for the clothes brush.
‘Of course.’
‘How are you getting on?’
‘Mr Payne seems happy with my work, Sir,’ James replied, skimming Silas’ shoulders with the soft bristles.
‘You’ve picked it up quick.’
‘Mr Payne is a good teacher.’
Silas didn’t doubt it, and he knew for a fact that Thomas was teaching James more than just the duties of a footman and the etiquette expected in a noble house. The sounds he heard through his bedroom ceiling at night suggested the couple were learning something more intimate than dinner service and answering bell-pulls.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked. ‘You and Tommy?’
The footman’s brush paused in its work, and the mirror reflected his embarrassment.
‘Asking as a mate,’ Silas said. ‘Tell me to mind my own if you want, but after what we’ve been through, I reckon we’re mates. Are we?’
‘At the appropriate time, Sir.’
‘And this ain’t one of them?’ Silas questioned. ‘Come on, Jimmy. We’re alone in my room like we are just about every day, and you’re the only one I’ve got to talk to.’
‘His Lordship?’
‘Yeah, sure. I talk to him about all sorts, but I mean, friends talk differently to each other than they do with lovers. Who do you speak to about you and Tommy?’
James blushed further. His round cheeks glowed, and he lowered his eyes to study the fall of the tailcoat.
‘My Payne would say that this is an inappropriate conversation, Sir.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but Lord Clearwater wouldn’t, and he’s the boss. We’re on our own, Jimmy. I trust you as much as I reckon you trust me, and besides, I can always pull rank and demand you tell me.’
‘You don’t need to do that,’ James said, standing back. ‘May I see the front?’
Silas turned to him. James was five years older and one inch taller, but had more flesh on his bones. He wasn’t fat, but he was solid, and his stocky body contained by his smart evening livery strengthened his presence. He radiated reliability.
‘It’s going alright, though. Isn’t it?’ Silas pressed.
James tipped his head as a yes, and his naturally smiling lips curled further. ‘I have only been at Clearwater a few weeks, Sir,’ he said. ‘But they have been the most exciting of my life, and in more ways than one.’
‘Yeah, well, I know what you mean there.’ Silas took the brush. ‘Here.’
‘What are you doing?’
He brushed James’ lapels and his collar. ‘We’re pretty much the same you and me,’ he said, ignoring the footman’s protestations. ‘Except you’re not as rough.’
‘Rough?’
‘Background and that.’ He turned James and attended to his back. ‘Happily mooching along in life and then comes Archer bringing murder, mystery and mayhem. You know.’ He laughed. ‘Me mam wouldn’t have believed it.’
‘Mine still doesn’t.’
‘Of course, he also brought Thomas.’ Silas winked knowingly into the mirror. ‘Which is something that’s changed you as much as Archer has changed me. You’ll do.’
When James turned to face him, his smile had gone and was replaced by uncertainty.
‘Do you feel different?’ he asked. ‘If that’s not an inappropriate question.’
‘Jimmy, I know as much as you do about what’s appropriate in this house. In fact, you probably know more. But I don’t mean changed in a bad way. I love it here, I love Archer, and I see you every day mad in love with Tommy. There’s no point hiding it between ourselves when we’re alone. I like talking to you. I ain’t got no-one else.’
‘Mr Andrej?’
‘Well, yeah, of course.’ Silas replaced the brush on the dressing table. ‘There’s always Fecks, but he’s Fecks.’
‘We all need friends, Sir.’ James set about tidying Silas’ other clothes. He shook a jacket and hung it before collecting a shirt for the laundry.
Silas voiced his thoughts as he combed his hair.
‘I mean someone who understands this change like you do,’ he said. ‘We were both on the streets, obviously doing different things, and your old job was respectable, but we were both street-runners one day and here the next. How do you cope with that?’
‘It’s an act that comes with the position. That’s all. And, speaking of acts, the guests will be arriving in a few minutes. Is there anything else?’
Silas gave himself one last look in the glass. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Can you come here a minute?’
James dutifully stood at his side, and they regarded their reflections. Two young men, one dark, one blond, one slim, one fuller-figured, and both a hundred miles away from how they were a few weeks ago. A servant and a gentleman, both inexperienced in their new roles, both in love with other men in the house, and both born to a class below their current station — several classes in Silas’ case.
‘We look nifty,’ he said.
‘An unlikely pair.’
‘But a pair of mates, Jimmy? Brothers in arms?’
‘Against a sea of battles?’
‘Whatever that means.’
‘Mr Hawkins, I’m not sure what you’re thinking.’
‘What I’m trying to say…’ Silas put his thoughts in order. ‘We play our roles as we have to, but neither of us has anyone in the house we can talk to about real stuff. You know, where we are, how we got here and the men who make us what we are.’
‘We make ourselves what we are.’
‘Yeah, don’t get all deep on me, Jimmy.’ The corner of Silas’ mouth twitched in a faint grin. ‘If you need to talk to someone about you and Thomas, or anything, you can come to me, yeah?’
‘Thank you.’
Silas waited, expecting the offer to be reciprocated.
Beside him, the blond lad drew in a breath and cleared his throat quietly. ‘Is everything alright with you and His Lordship?’
‘Oh yeah, perfect.’ It was. That was not what Silas was trying to communicate. ‘Just, sometimes, I want to talk as meself, you know? I do with Archer when we’re alone, but I’ve got no-one else to let off steam with. There’s Fecks, yeah, and he is me best mate, but he don’t do conversations, just two-word advice, and one of them’s usually in Russian. You, though… You and I have things in common, I want us to be frank with each other.’
‘Confidants?’
‘Yeah, I think that’s what I mean. See? You kn
ow what I’m thinking, and you know how to reply.’
James shrugged.
‘Alright, mate,’ Silas said. ‘Sorry. Didn’t want to mortify you, but one last promise, yeah?’
James tipped his head again.
‘You got any problems, you tell me. Anything. You trust me enough, Jimmy?’
‘I do.’
It was hard to know if James responded with what Silas wanted to hear, or if it was what he truly wanted to say.
‘Then we’ll do what Archer would expect us to do,’ Silas said, and turned to him. ‘Shake on it.’ He offered his hand. ‘We’re both new to this, so we’re in the same boat. On the same crew.’
James considered his hand with thoughtful, hazel eyes before fixing Silas with them seriously.
‘It would be an honour, Sir,’ he said, and took it.
‘Then would you sound like you mean it?’
‘I do!’ James protested. He glanced around the room as if to find a way to prove it. He squeezed Silas’ hand harder. ‘I mean it, mate,’ he said. ‘And cheers. I’ve got no-one else either, Thomas aside. So it’s reassuring to hear what you say.’
‘You’ll get to like me, Jimmy,’ Silas winked and let go of his hand.
‘I already do.’
‘That’s good, ’cos we’re newcomers to a strange world, and we need all the friends we can get. I mean it,’ he repeated. ‘Anything you want, you can talk in here when we’re alone.’
‘Same goes for you,’ James said, and added, ‘Silas.’
The use of his name was reassuring. James had broken through the etiquette, and that was enough to put Silas’ mind at rest.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that, but now I better get into character and put on me act.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 4