‘What night was it, Sir?’
‘It was August,’ Silas said. ‘The hot week. We met in The Ten Bells, and you took me to a house run by a man called Danvers. Remember that?’
Lovemount’s eyes shifted from Silas to James who moved his own to look at Fecker. Lovemount followed and when he saw the coachman glaring down at him and tapping his whip in the palm of a hand, swallowed and turned his nervous attention to Silas.
‘I might know that place,’ he said. ‘But you ain’t to tell no-one.’
‘We won’t, Eddie,’ James reassured him. The man was firmly caught between greed and cowardice, he just needed a little more persuading. ‘Mr Hawkins is a good man. Remember when you met him? Look at him now. You can trust him.’
‘Do you, Jimmy?’
‘Totally, mate. Go on. You’ll get a tip.’
Lovemount looked at his watch before taking a ready-rolled cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.
‘Got to say first off,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I was never here. I got caught up on a delivery. That’s why I’m late back.’ He looked knowingly at James.
‘If Langton ever says anything, I’ll tell him I called by to catch up on the backchat,’ James said. ‘Blame me for your being late, he knows I’m here.’
Lovemount’s eyes smothered James with doubt before they narrowed, and he took a long drag of his cigarette.
‘You ain’t working for Adelaide, are you?’ he asked, transferring his mistrust to Silas.
‘I reckon you know that ain’t never going to happen, Eddie,’ Silas laughed. He dropped his impersonation of a gentleman, presumably to put Lovemount at his ease.
‘Only, I heard that now the Ripper’s gone quiet, he’s onto Danvers. Different case, of course, and behind the scenes.’
‘Why? Has something happened at this house?’
‘All kinds of strange things happen in houses,’ Lovemount said. ‘Not saying I know nothing about them, but that place ain’t one I care to talk about much. Not right now.’
Silas ran coins noisily through his fingers.
‘You’ve already incriminated yourself, Eddie.’ James was unable to hide a smirk. ‘Besides, I know what you get up to in the restroom with the new lads. I could do with a few shillings for my silence, but information will do as payment.’
Silas grinned and said, ‘Reckon Jimmy knows quite a bit about you, Eddie. And don’t worry about Adelaide. He calls at our house sometimes. I’ll keep an eye on him.’
The statement, although as far as James knew not truthful, suggested Silas was offering protection or a threat, and it was up to the messenger which he chose.
Lovemount understood the seriousness of both. ‘What can I tell you, Irish?’ he asked, shuffling his feet and lowering his head.
‘The night I was there.’ Silas put away his wallet. ‘There was another boy. He came in naked and had scars on his back.’
Lovemount waited for a question, but when none came, shrugged. ‘And?’
‘You know who I’m talking about. What was his name?’
‘Stella.’
‘That was it!’ Silas clicked his fingers as if he had been trying to remember the name all night. ‘Poor sod. Well, he was told he had a gentleman come to see him, and this geezer called for him by name. I was leaving at the time, didn’t see his face, but he went upstairs to wait for Stella. Remember? He had a black coat with a red collar.’
Lovemount was thinking, and it didn’t look like a pretence. His cratered face scrunched, and his eyebrows met.
‘He was popular,’ he said. ‘Might have been anyone.’
‘Was popular?’ Silas queried.
‘I ain’t been to that house for weeks now,’ Lovemount continued. ‘Last time was around the second of third Ripper murder, see? Everyone was talking how the molly-houses would be next, and they wasn’t safe. So I stayed away.’
‘You didn’t go back?’
‘I did, once. I was hard-up for cash, and we’d got some new boys in.’ He thumbed towards the post office. ‘No need to go trawling The Ten Bells when there’s fresh faces here after making a few shillings.’
‘And was Stella still there?’
‘No, don’t think so. Least, I didn’t see her.’
‘Her?’
‘They call the boys by girl’s names, Jimmy,’ Silas explained.
‘Well, that ain’t right.’ James shuddered.
‘Nothing about it is right,’ Silas said. ‘Go on, Eddie.’
Lovemount smiled. Among messengers, it was seen as a mark of respect for a customer to use a Christian name. James and his friends had kept a scoresheet in their lockers. Each time a customer asked for a messenger by name, they gained a point. A Christian name, two, and the points were doubled if the customer was gentry.
‘Things were different when I went back,’ he said. ‘The rozzers had been sniffing around ’cos…’ He jerked his head, drawing his audience closer and whispered. ‘Word was, some of the classier gents were drawing too much attention to the place.’ He stepped back. ‘I didn’t want to get investigated, so stayed clear. Don’t remember Stella being there.’
Silas was deep in thought, silent until James nudged him.
‘Yeah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Cheers, Eddie. But you don’t remember who Stella’s man was that night?’
‘She probably had a few,’ Eddie said. ‘Wouldn’t be unusual.’
‘Jimmy,’ Silas said taking his arm. ‘I need to ask him something, and you might be shocked. If you want to stand away, I understand.’
‘No need,’ James said. ‘It’s about last night’s guest of honour, right?’
Silas nodded.
‘Allow me.’ James turned to Lovemount. ‘Did Cadwell Roxton ever use the house?’
Impressed, Silas grinned, but the messenger’s face remained expressionless.
‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Who’s he?’
‘An opera singer.’
‘They get all sorts. Might have done. I don’t know.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Lovemount sucked on his cigarette with a hiss, pinching the end between thumb and forefinger. He released the smoke slowly. ‘But I remember Stella weren’t there last time I went ’cos she’d got a better job.’
‘Better job?’ James was aghast. ‘You call it a job?’
‘Jimmy’, Silas sighed. ‘It’s a wage. Go on, Eddie. What about Stella? Where was she?’
‘Dunno,’ the man replied and took another drag. ‘Ask Danvers, he’ll know.’
‘He’s my next port of call.’ Silas handed the man half a crown. ‘Where is he?’
‘At work, I should think,’ Lovemount said, inspecting the coin with his teeth. ‘Like I should be. Anything else?’
‘Yeah.’ Silas dangled another half-crown. ‘What’s the address?’
Lovemount snatched the money. ‘Cleaver Street,’ he said. ‘Number nineteen, and you didn’t get it from me.’
‘Okay, here’s what we’ll do,’ Silas said, once Lovemount had wheeled his bicycle into the yard. ‘We’ll drop you back at the house, then Fecks and I’ll go and have a look at Cleaver Street.’
‘I’m happy to come with you,’ James volunteered. Apart from the intrigue, he was enjoying being away from his chores.
‘Better not,’ Silas replied. ‘If that place is getting a reputation, we don’t want his Lordship’s livery seen in the area.’
It was a valid point. ‘I’ll get changed.’
‘Thomas wouldn’t allow it.’ Silas was climbing back into the trap.
‘His Lordship is out for lunch, I won’t be needed.’
‘Look, Jimmy,’ Silas smiled. ‘I’m touched you want to help, but
this ain’t a game, and it don’t need all of us.’
‘Do you know where Cleaver Street is?’ James asked. Perhaps he was being too eager. If so, it was only because he wanted to help.
‘Now that’s a good question,’ Silas said. ‘No. And Fecks won’t either. Can you draw a map?’
Disappointed that Silas hadn’t taken the hint, James joined Fecker on the front seat.
Silas had already given away too much to the footman. James was trustworthy, but it wasn’t Silas’ place to take him away from his work and put him in danger. What he had in mind was something he and Fecks could see to alone; it was safer that way. He watched James take up his place and noticed he sat with his shoulders slumped lower than before. He was only trying to be of use, and he was. He was a sensible voice in Silas’ ear, here to keep his head level and lend an open mind when needed. He was Archer’s footman and Thomas’ junior, and much as Silas was uncomfortable having one, he was his servant. As a gentleman, Silas had a responsibility to consider his well-being, Archer had hammered that message home many a time. It confused Silas to consider himself as a gentleman, but that was what he now was, albeit one plotting to go behind another’s back. Behind his lover’s back at that. It was not what Archer would call sportsmanlike behaviour, but Silas hoped he would never find out. He was probably mistaken, and Danvers would confirm that Roxton was unknown at the brothel. That would put an end to his suspicions, and he could give Archer his full attention.
The trap moved off with a jolt that brought his thoughts into focus.
Even if Danvers let him in and agreed to talk, Silas couldn’t trust a man who dressed like an old hag and sold boys for sex. He couldn’t turn up at the house and state his true purpose or his position. Archer’s name must not be mentioned or even suspected. It was risky enough to mention Roxton’s, considering the publicity the gala had already attracted. Someone like Danvers wouldn’t think twice about blackmail, and if the police were interested in the house, someone poking around asking about a specific punter was going to make the man clam up tighter than a prison door. Maybe driving straight there and confronting him wasn’t the best thing to do.
Silas spent the rest of the journey working through other scenarios, and by the time they pulled into Clearwater Mews, he had only one viable option.
‘Thanks, James,’ he said, once they were out of the trap and heading for the back door.
‘Are you not going straight out again?’
‘No. I’ve thought of another way. You’ve been a help, though.’
‘You know,’ James said, giving the back of the house the once over to make sure no-one was watching. ‘If you want to discuss it with me, I’m all ears. Just say.’
‘Cheers, but I’ll be fine.’
‘Oh, alright.’ Disappointment was written across that footman’s face. ‘Very good, Sir. Shall I bring you anything?’
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Silas gripped his shoulder. ‘Chatting in my room is one thing, but what I have in mind… It’s best you don’t know. And not a word to Archer, right?’
‘If he asks, we went to send a telegram,’ James suggested.
‘Oh, bugger. I meant to do that.’ His concern for Archer had driven his sisters’ money from his mind. ‘Maybe you could post a letter for me later.’
‘Whatever you need, Sir.’
It was correctly spoken, but the more Silas heard himself called Sir, the more he disliked it.
‘Whether it’s Sir or Silas, you’ve got me.’ James fixed him with a look of concern. ‘Agreed?’
Silas considered the offer. His new plan was a simple one. To go to Cleaver Street after dark on the pretence that he had changed his mind and now wanted to work for Danvers. The madam had seen his potential in August and apparently liked what he saw. If he was still interested and engaged Silas in conversation, he might give away details about the clientele. If he was not interested, Silas would drop Stella’s name and see how Danvers reacted. That way, he might find out where he was living and take his investigation there. James wouldn’t need to enter the house, but after what Lovemount had said about the police keeping the place under observation, it might be useful to have a lookout. Fecks would have to park out of sight and stay with the trap. If Danvers saw Silas arrive in a private vehicle, he wouldn’t believe his story, and whether he needed James’ help or not, the man’s calm and assured manner would help temper Silas’ anger.
He relented. ‘You win, Jimmy,’ he said, and enjoyed the pride that spread across James’ face. ‘Right now, though, I reckon I need coffee in my sitting room.’
‘Right away, Sir.’
‘But…’ Silas held him back. ‘Bring a tray for two. If you’re serious about helping me, Jimmy, we need to put our heads together.’
Twelve
The afternoon warmed beneath dense cloud that rolled across the city trapping factory fumes and coal-fire smoke. It clung to the buildings, each year bringing another layer that blackened the stone. Intricate detailing crafted decades before had gradually become lost beneath layers of filthy air that disguised the beauty of the stonework on private houses, banks and churches alike, as if hiding the grandeur behind a widow’s veil.
Greed was the cause of the growing imperfection. As if unable to stand the beauty of the past, the factory owners and capitalists relished the pumping pollution. They held the regularly falling smog in high regard, uncaring of its long-term effects on the work of their artisan ancestors. The city’s degeneration was a reminder of their success.
The peasouper thickened imperceptibly in the still night air, wrapping itself around streetlights and dulling the light until the roads became little more than a progression of softly flickering torches either side of the wide thoroughfares of Fitzrovia. People moved carefully from the cafés to carriages, feeling their way along iron railings, scarves and shawls wrapped round their faces, their irritated eyes squinting against the fog. The sound of coughing was as muffled as the cautious clatter of hooves, all sounds subdued and distorted in the thickening air.
Fecker drove the trap slowly, following directions given by James beside him, while Silas sat in the back running through his plan and looking for pitfalls. They passed grand houses, curtains drawn, gas lights burning ineffectually in the smog they contributed to, and encountered little traffic until they took the wider, fashionable Cambridge Street towards the West End. Here, carriages moved at a crawl giving passers by the opportunity to gawp at gentry on their way to the theatre, but the nosey were rewarded not with the wrappings of finery, jewels and expensive gowns, but with smudged faces and steamed windows.
As Fecker pulled left into Cleaver Street, James turned to Silas in the back, only his eyes visible beneath his scarf.
‘Be coming up on the right in a minute,’ he said, his words muffled.
‘Go past slowly,’ Silas instructed, and, sitting up, raised his collar.
He pulled down his cap more tightly, the peak shielding his eyes, and paid attention to the row of identical house fronts they passed. The street was quiet, but well-lit behind the haze, and there was enough lamplight for him to be recognised, not that he could think of anyone who would know him in this part of the city. They had brought the trap, because unlike the carriage, there was no crest on its doors. It was anonymous, but still obvious as the vehicle of a wealthy man.
James turned again, and holding his arm low, pointed to the right. Silas followed the finger and shifted to the end of the seat for a better view.
He had been to this house before and not that long ago, but he had no recollection of its frontage. Even if he had, it would be barely recognisable through the peasouper. The house was the same as the others around it, one in a terrace of respectable but ordinary four-storey buildings. Steps led to an arched porch, two windows of a reception room to one side, three symmetrical windows above,
the same on the next floor and above them, barely visible, two garret windows in the sloping roof. It was a decent sized house, the kind of place a well-to-do businessman or popular writer might live, someone with enough money to run a house that would, Silas guessed, take at least four staff. It was not the kind of squalid brothel he had seen in the East End, and, from the outside, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the building.
They drove by, and Fecker took them right at the next turning before making another right to enter the alley behind the terrace. It had been six houses from number nineteen to the end of the row, and Silas asked Fecks to stop. There were no other carriages or people in the ginnel, but he didn’t want to be too close to the house, just near enough that he didn’t have far to run if things turned sour. He had spent the afternoon plotting with James, and together they had come up with a simple course of action. ‘A quick in and out,’ Silas had called it.
They had been full of bravado and daring ideas as if they had no thought for their own safety, or being discovered and shamed. Silas didn’t expect trouble, and if it did come his way, he would fight it off, and Fecks would be nearby. Now they had arrived, however, the first tremors of nervousness unsettled his gut.
‘It’ll be easy,’ he told himself as he stood. Standing behind his companions, he supported himself with one arm around Fecker and the other resting on James’ shoulder, leaning in between the two. ‘Wait here Fecks, I won’t be long.’
‘I come with you.’
‘No, mate. Stick to the plan. You alright, Jimmy?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘I go, Banyak,’ Fecker insisted.
‘Yeah, well, if I don’t get the information I need, you might get a chance to bull-in and bang about a bit, but I’d rather not resort to violence.’
Fecker shrugged.
‘If there’s any trouble, we’ll whistle, yeah?’ Silas double checked the arrangements and his companions agreed, Fecker more reluctantly than James.
Unspeakable Acts Page 11