‘Yes. I’ve not met the girl. He says she’s very ill. Poor man.’
Poor man? What about her? Silas let it go. ‘Are you sure he’s meant to be married and he’s not like us?’
It took a few seconds for the words to travel from Archer’s ear to his brain, but when the connection was made, he jerked his head in surprise. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, I’ve never done anything with him, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You’re jealous.’
‘I’m not.’ It was true. Silas didn’t feel threatened by Roxton despite Archer’s over-enthusiasm for the man. ‘I’m not, Archie. Honest,’ he said. How could he be? Archer was the most handsome, caring man in the world, and the most trustworthy. ‘But I’m worried.’
‘What about?’
‘You might not like it.’
Archer fumbled, ploughing one arm beneath Silas and dragging him closer with the other.
‘I like this,’ he giggled, and gripped Silas’ arse.
‘Listen.’ Silas stroked his face hoping it would help him concentrate. ‘What if I said I might have seen him in a molly house?’
Archer blinked several times. ‘I’d say you were mad. Why? Have you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Then I am. No, you wouldn’t have seen Cadwell in such a place.’
‘Will you ask him?’
‘No I will not!’ Archer slapped his arse, agape with mock outrage. ‘Anyway, so what if he has? Oh!’ Outrage turned to shock. ‘Have you…? I mean, you think you’ve…? With him?’
‘No.’ Silas shuddered at the thought, although in the blacked-out alleys and doorways of his past, who could tell?
‘Then there’s nothing to discuss.’
Not even the fact that Silas was concerned?
Archer’s voice changed and became salacious. ‘Undress me.’
‘Not yet. Look, what if he has used a molly house? What if he’s got a past?’
‘For heaven’s sake, man,’ Archer derided. ‘We all have a past. Look at mine these last two months. Look at yours.’
‘You’re not getting it,’ Silas complained. ‘What if one of them hacks snouts around and finds out he’s a secret queer?’
‘He’d deny it, and that would be the end of it.’
‘What if he couldn’t? And there he is, standing on the stage, singing your praises and encouraging the gents to hand over their cash while banging on about boys who have to turn to vice to survive, or whatever he’s going to say.’
‘Then good for him.’
‘No, Archie.’ Frustration boiled into anger. ‘No good for no-one. Can’t you see it in the papers? “Viscount Clearwater’s raising money to keep boy-whores healthy so his friends have clean arses to fuck”? Jesus!’
‘No newspaper would create such a headline.’
‘You know what I mean. Can’t you see it?’
Archer grinned. ‘I can only see you.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Archie. This is serious.’
Silas had never told him to fuck off and meant it.
‘Rather fuck you,’ Archer sniggered.
He wasn’t taking this seriously.
‘You’ll end up in a scandal. I’m thinking of you, Archie.’
‘And I’ve got dirty thoughts about you.’ He tried to kiss Silas.
Silas struggled free. ‘It would be in all the newspapers. You’d be ruined.’
‘No-one reads those things.’ Archer dismissed it, his lips still reaching. ‘Only the lower classes, and what does that matter?’
Silas rolled away and stood. Archer groped for him, but his arms fell under their own weight. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his voice small and pathetic.
‘Bed,’ Silas said. ‘If you won’t do anything about it, I’ll have to.’
‘Come to me.’
They were the last words Silas heard from him as he left the room. They were plaintive and childlike. Archer was drunk and wouldn’t remember anything in the morning. Silas could forgive him. He shouldn’t have brought up the subject when he was in that state.
His own bedroom was warm and softly lit. James had been in and turned back his bed, the fire was stoked, and clean clothes were set out for the morning.
Silas rested against the door, ripped off his collar and sighed slowly, ejecting his anger and settling his thoughts. He had been right to speak with James. Archer had Thomas to confide in, Silas had Jimmy. It was too late to find him now, but they would speak in the morning. James might know a way of contacting Lovemount. He had been there the night Silas might have seen Roxton, and if he didn’t remember anything, he might know the whereabouts of the boy with the scars on his back. He, more than anyone, would be able to identify the man who had marked him. If nothing else, Lovemount could tell him where the molly-house was, and he could go straight to Danvers.
His plan made, he undressed, washed and climbed naked into bed. Come the morning, his concerns would be forgotten, and he wouldn’t mention them again.
At least, not to Archer.
Nine
The Times, Friday, December 2nd, 1888
Clearwater’s Gala Raises Eyebrows
The Clearwater Foundation has caused a stirring of feathers among society. The charity aims to assist impoverished men. Men are the breadwinners and should be encouraged to find and fulfil employment, and some have said that a charity to assist only men will strip them of their natural masculine urge to hunt and gather, procreate and provide.
The Times has now discovered the exact nature of the men the Foundation will assist, and procreation is not on their agenda.
There is, as we know, a thriving under-class in our East End. Men and boys are forced to survive by following in the footsteps of female members of the oldest profession. Whatever our thoughts on such matters, the gala is for their benefit and has already drawn a surprising amount of support from a number of wealthy donors, earning it the nickname of The Clearwater Fundation.
Whether we consider it serious or frivolous, it is, without doubt, a bold and controversial move by Lord Clearwater, and yet one that has attracted the interest and unlikely support from many an unexpected patron. Chairman of the board of trustees is Lord Clearwater’s godmother, The Viscountess Delamere, a personal friend of Her Majesty and aunt of Cadwell Roxton. Lord Ribble, Earl Romney and other liberal peers, plus members of Parliament are also members of the board.
Why so much interest in such a provocative endeavour? It can only be due to the recent attention brought to those in the East End who seek the career of the ‘renter’ either by choice or necessity. These are the victims of The Ripper still in the headlines of today. Or at least, of two months ago as no further Ripper murders have been recorded since the ‘double event’ of October last. The murders may have abated, but the controversy, however, shows no signs of lessening.
But, is the timing of this gala profiteering on the part of the Foundation? It is, in our belief, not. Now is the time for the plight of the unfortunates to be made more publicly known, and we have the Ripper to thank for that if we as decent human beings can thank such a monster for anything. Viscount Clearwater, it seems, has found a way.
It has only this day been made public that the cost of admittance to seating above stalls and first circles will be paid by Lord Clearwater himself as his contribution to the Foundation’s coffers. It is said that this act of generosity towards the unfortunates is itself a ploy, one engineered to prompt those in the better seats who can afford their ticket to pay more than the asking price. All profits, of course, to be donated to the cause. Whatever the strategy, it appears to have worked, and the Foundation has already raised sufficient funds to
cover the performance twice over.
This is something which has caused consternation among others who seek to promote charitable endeavours. The East End Mission of the Hospital of Saint Mary, for example, has expressed concern that lines beyond the bounds of Christian charity have been crossed. ‘If we are to extend our Christian goodwill to men who indulge in such unspeakables,’ the Reverend Arthur McQuinn stated in a public letter, ‘are we not sending a message that such behaviour is acceptable? Are we not, in effect, treating a diseased dog which should otherwise be put down?’
The Times sought an opinion from the Commissioner of Police, whose job it is to protect society from the evils of men, and a reply was furnished by Inspector Adelaide, of late swamped by the Ripper murders of course, but also a man charged with ‘cleaning house’ in the city’s East End. Readers may be surprised to learn that the Foundation has communicated with the police throughout the refurbishment of the property, and Inspector Adelaide is himself in favour of the mission. ‘When word gets around that there are safe places for these men,’ he has said, ‘then more will come to it and find, through the good works of the mission, that they have alternatives. I am hopeful that some of the less salubrious and organised houses [of male ill-repute] will take notice and see that their days are numbered.’
Whichever side of the thorny fence one sits, there is no denying the gala will attract a full house. The evening is to be attended by lords and ladies taking the stalls, boxes and grand tier, but the Foundation has reserved the balcony for the general public, and the gallery and ‘gods’ for ordinary working men and women whose home is Greychurch. As we reported last week, it is to be a night “For all people”, although it is unlikely Her Majesty or the Royal Family will attend, due to the nature of the piece, and the Royal Box will stand empty.
Another intriguing aspect of the event is the announcement to be made by Mr Roxton before the performance. We cannot help but wonder if this break in tradition is another reminder from Lord Clearwater that the status quo is perhaps in need of what our American cousins call, “A shake up.” A polite stirring of conscience, we British might say. We will have to wait until the speech is made before taking an opinion on its value, because the subject on which Mr Roxton will speak is a closely guarded secret.
Whatever the outcome of this most unusual spectacle, The Times shall be reporting the gala with interest.
The King Visits the Capital
King Wilhelm III, King of the Netherlands and Grand Duke of Luxembourg, will be visiting our shores from tomorrow. His Majesty, known for his eccentric behaviour, will be accompanied by the Queen Consort, but not their eight-year-old daughter Wilhelmina, and will be staying with Her Majesty here in the city.
Ten
Each time Silas woke during the night, the first thing that came to mind was his suspicion. He lay in the darkness listening to the clock ticking monotonously until sleep triumphed over his unease, only to wake a short time later, because the clamouring annoyances refused to let him rest.
He was awake when James knocked and entered, bringing a recently laundered shirt.
‘Good morning, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, turning up the gas before crossing the room to pull back the curtains. ‘We’re rain-free today, but there’s a chill wind.’
James always arrived with a weather report and a friendly expression. He appeared even more cheerful than usual, and Silas flashed back to their conversation.
‘Morning, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘Good night?’
‘It was relaxing, Sir,’ the footman replied.
Silas decided to take that the way it was intended. ‘Good for you,’ he said, smirking.
He dragged himself upright expecting to feel tired, but now he had company, his mind was suddenly less cluttered, and he was surprisingly alert. James’ presence had lifted his mood and, in doing so, allowed a decision to drop into place. It had been hanging over him through the night, he realised, and now it had landed, it did so with a pump of adrenaline that fed a positive mood.
‘How’s things with you?’
‘All good, thank you, Sir.’
The curtains open, James hung the shirt in the wardrobe before handing Silas his dressing gown.
‘Would you like me to ring for coffee?’
‘No, I’m alright thanks.’ Silas threw back the warm sheets and was hit by cold air. He slipped into the gown as he stood.
‘Are your thoughts any clearer this morning?’ James asked, passing through to the adjoining bathroom to prepare the shaving table.
‘Not exactly,’ Silas admitted. ‘But I know what I want to do next. What are you doing today?’
He joined James in the bathroom where the footman, now in the habit of acting as valet, was running warm water into a bowl. He set it on the stand beside a brush and a tub of foam and laid a towel over his arm.
‘Just my usual duties,’ he said. ‘It’s not a calling day, we’re not expecting visitors.’
Silas was slowly adjusting to the routine of the house. On some days, visitors could arrive between certain hours with no appointment and no invitation. Archer was expected to be at home to receive them, a task that in most houses fell to the mistress. At Clearwater, with only one man in residence, all duties fell to Archer, and he was often absent when visitors came. The only person Silas had seen arrive unannounced was Lady Marshall. On days when Archer was not at the House of Lords, or meeting with his business manager or solicitor, he preferred to spend his days in his study, or when the weather permitted, in the park riding with Fecker and exercising the horses.
‘Your plans, Sir?’ James asked. He stood beside Silas with the shaving bowl in one hand, offering the brush with the other.
Silas took it and lathered his face. ‘I want to talk to His Lordship first,’ he said. ‘But will you be free to come out with me?’
‘If Mr Payne will allow it.’
‘He will if I tell him. I’ll let you know later.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
‘Are you still in touch with your old work colleagues?’ Silas asked, dipping the brush and wiping off the excess foam.
‘I’ve seen a couple of them at The White Hart on my nights off,’ James admitted. ‘But not often.’
‘What about Lovemount?’
‘He drinks at The Crown and Anchor, but I stay away these days so as to avoid Mr Tripp. You need to be careful of Lovemount.’ James passed him the razor.
‘Why?’
Silas regarded him in the mirror. James’ ruddy-cheeked expression of healthy, boyish fun faded as he gazed back and was replaced by concern.
‘I never trusted him,’ he said. ‘Like me, he was passed the age where messengers get promoted to postmen, but unlike me, he had the chance to better himself. He never went for it, as if he didn’t need the income and preferred to hang around the dispatch room with the teenagers. I think he made more money out of them than he would have done up at Mount Pleasant. I found him shifty.’
‘I only met him once, and I got the same feeling,’ Silas said. ‘Hey, don’t worry about me.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Thanks, Jimmy.’ Silas was warmed by his concern and winked at his reflection.
James blushed and looked away.
‘Anything else, Sir?’
‘No, you’re alright.’
‘Then I shall draw your bath and leave you to it.’
James left the shaving bowl on the stand and ran the taps before he left Silas to bathe.
Silas held the razor to his cheek. He always experienced a tingle of nervousness when he shaved. It had been a rare pleasure to find a decent blade and soap when in the East End. His shaving routine then, which he maintained daily no matter his condition, had consisted of cold water and Fecker’s knife. His face was often left burning from the scr
apes, but with his new life came scented soap, a warm bowl and a cut-throat that James kept sharp on a strop. He still caught the occasional nick, but this morning, the razor glided smoothly, and shaving was a joy. It also helped him put on a different persona as he washed away the night and prepared for another day as Lord Clearwater’s private secretary.
‘It’s all just acting,’ he said, as he slipped into the hot water, where he lay considering his chosen course and adding in the details.
Silas was apprehensive when he joined Archer at breakfast. There was no way of knowing what the viscount might remember of the previous evening, or how he might act. It was the first time Silas had turned him down.
He had no cause for concern. Archer behaved as if no crossed words had been said and greeted Silas as warmly as ever. Although he gave no indication that anything was wrong, Silas wanted to test the waters.
‘How’s your head?’ he asked.
Archer glanced at James standing attentively at the end of the sideboard and turned his back.
‘Was I terrible?’ he asked, under his breath.
‘What do you remember?’
‘Playing Bruch badly as Cadwell sang, saying goodbye to Marks’ dreadful wife as politely as I could, and waking up clothed on my bed. How did I get there?’
Although Silas was annoyed that he hadn’t remembered the seriousness of his warning, he was also relieved. While in the bath, he had decided the time was, after all, not yet right to involve Archer, and it would be better if he knew none of Silas’ intentions. Archer had other things on his mind, and Silas needed to be sure of his accusations.
Archer was waiting for an answer.
‘Ah, I helped you up,’ Silas said as if it was nothing. ‘You were drunk, but didn’t do anything to upset anyone.’ It was partly true. He had behaved well with his guests, and the only person he had hurt had been Silas.
Unspeakable Acts Page 9