‘I should think not,’ Mrs Marks tutted, shivering with disdain.
‘Aye,’ her husband said. ‘Well you’re not on the committee, woman, so kindly keep your tongue in your head and be grateful His Lordship saw fit to include you in his party.’
He received a glare that, had it been directed at the flower arrangements, would have caused them to shrivel.
‘My point is,’ Archer went on. ‘Mr Roxton is firmly on our side. He, like us trustees, is compassionate, but unlike most of us, is in a more public position to drive the message home. I do what I can at the Lords, and I hold my personal political views which, although the majority oppose, I air in the chamber when appropriate. Mr Roxton can do it on stage in front of the public. It will be reported in the newspapers, it will no doubt ruffle some feathers, but we are prepared for that. Although Cadwell is our most public and powerful mouthpiece, we do not need to tread gingerly around him. He and I go back years, we knew each other well, and he is both charming and enlightened. Therefore, we may relax and enjoy the company. Later, if I feel it appropriate, I will ask him if he will sing.’
James crossed the hall, distracting Silas briefly.
‘I’ve read the speech, Sir,’ Marks said. ‘It’s near enough settled. When it is, there will be nothing in it that can come back on the theatre nor us. No words, suggestions or incitements for the Lord Chamberlain to complain about neither, all above board, Mrs Marks, Miss Arnold.’
It was strange that a man should call his wife missus, Silas thought. He imagined being called Mrs Archer Riddington. Or would it be Lady Clearwater? He smirked at the idea, but baulked when he imagined himself in a dress and bustle. His eyes drifted back to Miss Arnold as the conversation continued in the background. He was contemplating the high neck of her dress and soft collar that covered her throat when James appeared in the doorway, a coat draped over his arm.
‘The Viscountess Delamere and Mr Roxton,’ he announced.
A display of silver chiffon and diamonds arrived in the shape of Archer’s godmother, a suited gentleman hanging from her arm. Silas took no notice. His eyes were on the coat.
The distinctive, red velvet collar took him back to a dark recess of his previous existence. He had seen it before, somewhere… Somewhere unsavoury.
Lady Marshall glided confidently across his path.
‘I do hope I am only fashionably late,’ she announced. ‘I come bearing gifts. Clearwater, you remember my nephew, Cadwell?’
As soon as the man entered the room, Archer’s face lit up like the chandelier. He put down his glass, nearly missing the table, and strode towards Roxton with open arms. Thomas, watching silently from the sideboard, raised his eyebrows at the greeting, and even Silas found it unusual that the two fell into an embrace. It wasn’t the hug of old comrades either, but the kind usually given by parents reunited with a child they thought lost. Silas was surprised, but relieved, that they didn’t kiss.
‘Caddy! You old cad,’ Archer boomed.
They admired each other at arm’s length, eyes dancing, smiles fixed. They were of similar age, but Roxton was taller, and whereas Archer had a thick mane of hair, Roxton’s was already receding. Not quite as dramatically as Marks, but it wouldn’t be long.
‘Six years is it?’ Roxton said.
‘I can tell you exactly,’ Archer replied. ‘November the twenty-fifth, eighty-two. Savoy Theatre, opening night of Iolanthe. You were superb.’
‘Oh, my God! That dinner afterwards.’
‘Simpsons in the Strand.’
‘Did you enjoy the trout?’
‘That’s no way to talk about the contralto.’
They roared with laughter at the shared memory, shaking their heads in wonder.
‘It’s been too long,’ Archer said.
‘And it has been too long since you gave us your performance, Clearwater,’ Lady Marshall tutted.
Archer was still smiling at Roxton as if he couldn’t believe he was there. ‘Performance of what?’
‘A man with manners.’ Her Ladyship clipped his ear.
‘My fault,’ Roxton declared, and threw himself on his audience. ‘Hello.’ He greeted Mrs Marks with deep interest edged with concern, and gasped when he moved on quickly to Miss Arnold.
The actress, until then a model of calm, became nervous at meeting such an esteemed and not unattractive, star of the stage. She fumbled her curtsy.
‘I hear you are to debut as an actress,’ Roxton enthused. ‘What is to be the play?’
‘Toyless and Watercress,’ Lady Marshall quipped, glaring at Mrs Marks who occupied her preferred seat.
‘Troilus and Cressida,’ Miss Arnold said, with a coquettish lowering of her head.
‘Gosh. I can see you as more of a Rosalind. You have the beauty, but also that rare, manly poise needed for Ganymede. Honoured to meet you, Miss Arnold, but I can’t help thinking we have met before.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Roxton,’ she replied, blinking fiercely. ‘I have not yet had my debut, but the honour is mine.’ She offered her delicate fingers for his attention, and he kissed her glove.
‘A pleasure, Madam.’
‘The pleasure is all mine, Mr Roxton.’ She turned away demurely and sat.
Roxton greeted the men more formally. ‘Doctor Markland,’ he said, bowing. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘As does yours, Sir.’
‘And Marks.’
They shook hands while Lady Marshall greeted the other guests, and Thomas offered his tray. Silas hung back at the sideboard, intrigued by the opera singer. He must have seen his face in a brochure, or on a poster as they had never met, and yet, there was something about him he recognised, as there was with Miss Arnold. Perhaps it was a talent every actor had, he thought — an ability to be familiar with strangers as a way of putting them at their ease.
Silas, however, was far from easy, and it wasn’t until Archer brought Roxton to meet him that he understood why.
‘May I present my assistant,’ he said. ‘Silas Hawkins.’
Silas’ hand was grabbed, pumped and held as Roxton stared deeply into his eyes. ‘Have you been with His Lordship long?’
‘Not long, Sir, no.’
The man’s hand was warm, and his grip was powerful. He stood several inches taller than Silas, broad in the chest, but not overweight, and had he not known otherwise, Silas would have thought him an athlete, a swimmer perhaps.
‘Her Ladyship speaks very highly of you,’ Roxton said, indicating Lady Marshall. ‘What were you doing before?’
Silas’ blood ran cold, but his skin glowed hot. He looked at Archer for help, not because he wasn’t allowed to tell Roxton the truth, but because he was confused. He was sure he knew this man, but couldn’t place how, and trying to remember was sapping his concentration.
‘We can go into all that after dinner,’ Archer said, saving him. ‘Now, Caddy, come and chat to Marks, he has questions regarding the speech and we should get the boring things dealt with first. Excuse us, Hawkins.’ He gave Silas another quizzical look as he led the singer away, glancing back over his shoulder and mouthing ‘What?’
Silas adjusted his expression from shock to interest as Markland approached.
‘Is everything alright, Silas?’ he whispered, leaning close to his ear as he put down his glass. ‘You are pale.’
Silas swallowed. No, everything was not alright, but he couldn’t explain it to the doctor.
‘Just a bit hungry,’ he replied, his eyes fixed on Roxton.
‘You seem concerned.’
‘Ah well.’ Silas’ gaze returned to Miss Arnold. ‘Things aren’t always what they seem, are they?’
Markland stood back questioningly.
‘Ignore me,’ Silas apologised. ‘I’m thinking alou
d.’
Reassured, the doctor managed a sympathetic nod and returned to Roxton. The doctor must have said something funny, because the singer let loose a piercing, high guffaw. It rang through the room, darted among the chandeliers and crashed into Silas’ ears. To everyone else, it was an eccentric, affected laugh, but to Silas it resounded like the clang of a bell, shattering his intrigue in Miss Arnold and leaving his mind clear to remember where he had seen Roxton.
Where he thought he had seen him.
He was dredging his memory when the dinner gong sounded, and James reappeared.
‘Ladies…’ Archer spread his arms to the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen. As you know, we do things differently at Clearwater. Thus, Lady Marshall, would you and Cadwell lead us in? Mrs Marks, Miss Arnold?’ He herded his guests towards the hall. ‘Mr Hawkins?’
Silas joined him as James processed the others to the dining room.
‘Having fun?’ Archer whispered.
‘Interesting.’
‘Don’t be concerned at the way Cadwell and I are together,’ Archer said. ‘We are old friends, and we haven’t seen each other for a long time.’
‘That’s okay,’ Silas smiled. ‘But is it right that you and I go in to dinner together? I mean, like a couple?’
‘We are a couple.’ Archer nudged him. ‘A couple of friends sharing my house, outwardly respectable and nothing out of the ordinary.’
Archer was right. They had nothing to be ashamed of.
When it came to Cadwell Roxton, however, he was not so sure.
Six
Crossing the hall, Silas’ gaze fell on the cloak hooks in the vestibule. Roxton’s black coat was there, hanging neatly and displaying its unusual, red velvet collar. The sight continued to pull a loose thread at the back of his mind as he skirted the round table a step behind Archer until he was once again distracted by Lady Marshall.
‘It appears I am to be everyone’s mistress,’ she laughed, as they entered the dining room.
Although it was not her house, Lady Marshall played the role of hostess while Archer played host, taking the head of the table with his godmother opposite. He seated Roxton to his right as the guest of honour, with Silas to his left. Silas was grateful. Since living with the viscount, he had only attended informal dinners, and being close to Archer brought security. Thomas and James had done their master proud. The table was as dazzling as the rest of the house, and there were more knives and forks than Silas knew what to do with. If in doubt, Archer would silently help him do the right thing.
Mrs Marks was planted between Markland and Roxton, but as Archer and his old friend had much catching up to do, it fell to the doctor to quell the large lady’s enthusiasm for snobbery, and she was politely reminded of its unattractiveness several times during the four courses.
The talk was mainly of the upcoming gala and how Archer’s party were to take a backstage tour during the interval. The viscount had made the arrangements that day, and once enough delighted surprise had circled the table, the conversation turned to Roxton’s part in promoting the charitable mission.
Although Silas was as keen as anyone to see the project succeed, he quickly tired of the chat, having heard most of it before. Beside him, Miss Arnold said little, for which he was grateful. She was more intent on watching the opera singer with dewy eyes and a deep inquisitiveness which Silas found unsettling. Her intrigue allowed him to enjoy his meal alone and watch Thomas and James expertly serve and clear, but the black and red coat nagged at him. During one of the quieter moments among the praise for Mrs Flintwich’s cooking, his mind wandered back to the summer.
It had been a hot August with long, dry days. The puddles, usually traps for the unwary, because they disguised potholes and blocked drains, had soaked away, and there was little to disguise the stench of the sewers. Shorter nights meant less time for renting, but Silas had seen fair trade, and he and Fecks took up a more nocturnal routine.
The rope-house was always their last resort, but with warmer evenings, people took to sleeping in the yards, and the rope-rooms were quieter, the communal pumps and taps less busy, and the East End population generally more at ease. As the temperatures rose, however, the smell of sewage and rotting rubbish became unbearable. When the yellow, acrid peasouper descended to blanket the East End with its choking smog, people took to wearing scarves across their faces, but when the days were stifling, they were worn to mask the stink of the fleets and effluent which trickled and slopped rather than flowed and sloshed in open channels.
The smell more than the lack of dark hours deterred potential punters from a few minutes of fumbled release in the alleys and ginnels, and instead, those who could afford it took their business to the molly houses. Here, they were not only away from the fumes, but also safer from detection, although should a house be raided as they frequently were, the chances of escape were fewer. For renters like Silas, the choice was between the quieter, familiar streets, or finding a house that offered reasonable security. That was no easy matter without an introduction via a renter already employed there, or an invitation from a molly-owner to join the ‘parties’, as nightly gatherings were euphemistically called. He knew of several and had drunk with a few of the boys who used one, but had never followed them up on their offer to attend. He had always found the idea of working at a brothel too organised and false, preferring the anonymity of the alleys, and if he was to be honest, the danger.
He was, however, tempted to consider brothel life one sweltering night in August.
Fecker had found work at the docks and good work at that. It was only temporary, but his strength and stamina put him in demand, and he was one of the few chosen daily from the line of hopefuls who gathered at the wharves. This meant that he and Silas were able to rent a room rather than hang off the rope at nights, but the long hours also meant that Silas was left on his own, Fecker being either at work or sleeping off a day’s labouring.
It was on one such evening when he had a few shillings in his pocket and no need to look for trade, that he treated himself to a social night at The Ten Bells and fell into the company of a lad a few years older than himself.
His companion that evening was an affable man in his mid-twenties, reasonably well-spoken and well dressed. He wasn’t out of place in the Greychurch pub, and his was a face Silas recognised, although they hadn’t spoken until that night. He wore a smart jacket over a waistcoat and bow tie, his hair was neatly cut, and although he was slim, he didn’t look undernourished, despite his pockmarked face.
‘Mind if I sit with you?’ he said, opening the conversation.
‘Help yourself.’ Silas offered the opposite chair.
The pub wasn’t busy, it was early evening, and the last of the daylight was visible through the etched windows. Without Fecks, he had no-one to talk to, and if the man wasn’t a potential punter — he never said no to easy money — at least there might be conversation.
Around them the bar hummed with dull chatter. The working girls had not yet arrived. Although many of them inhabited the pub from opening time to closing, filling the smoky air with cackles and swearing, bawdy talk and competition, they like many others were making the most of the fair weather and plying their trade down by the river.
‘The name’s Billy,’ Silas said, using his false name as he always did when meeting someone new.
‘Eddie.’ His companion lowered his lanky frame into the chair and put down his beer. ‘I’ve seen you in here before.’
‘Yeah,’ Silas nodded. ‘It’s my office, same as many.’
Eddie grinned, understanding his meaning. ‘One way of putting it,’ he said. ‘Been working long?’
It was not unusual for renters to discuss their work as though it was something commendable that offered a career path.
‘Nearly four years. You?’
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, I’ve been working since I was nine.’
‘Nine?’ Silas was stunned, and it took a fair amount to shock him. ‘Get away with you, man.’
‘Not like that.’ Eddie laughed. His grey eyes wrinkled, and his cheeks filled. ‘I’m not a renter.’
‘Looking for one?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I work as a messenger.’ Eddie brushed his hands up and down his jacket as if showing off a uniform. ‘Been doing it since I was nine, see.’
The lad’s clean-cut appearance suggested he would have been more at home in one of the middle-class boroughs, but the more comfortable he became with Silas, the more his accent slipped to reveal a harder, less educated voice.
‘So why are you in Greychurch?’ Silas queried.
‘Having a drink, meeting new mates.’
Eddie winked to convey a meaning Silas couldn’t read. He raised his eyebrows by way of a reply.
‘I turn a few bob scouting,’ Eddie said, lowering his voice unnecessarily. ‘You must get fed up with tramping the streets. Can’t be any fun.’
That was true enough. Silas had warmed to him, but without knowing his purpose, remained guarded.
‘You have no idea,’ he said.
‘Actually, I do.’ Eddie took a sip of beer. ‘It’s what I do most days from morning until night, but at least I’m guaranteed a pay packet. What’s your real name?’
The question caught Silas off guard, and he almost gave himself away with a chuckle. ‘Billy,’ he said. He didn’t know this man well enough to come clean. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Oh, mine’s Eddie. I’ve got nothing to hide. ‘Eddie Lovemount.’ He stuck out his hand.
Unspeakable Acts Page 6