He slipped from the carriage, disturbing the thicker, lower mist at his feet and took off his coat. He passed it up to James and attended to his disguise. The scarf would come away from his face once he reached the house, it was one of James’ and had smelt as old as it looked. Now it was greasy with smog, as were his bare hands which he had dirtied-up before leaving Clearwater. His clothes were the oldest and shabbiest they could find. He didn’t exactly resemble the wasted street-rat who had been brought here two months ago, but it was as close as he could manage.
James jumped down from the trap. Dressed in a long overcoat, a newsboy cap and a scarf around his face, all that could be seen of him was a dark shape with two eyes.
‘Ready?’
Silas nodded, and, with a last wave at Fecker, they headed back the way they had come. They paused on the corner of Cleaver Street to see how many people were about, but the pavements were quiet. The immediate vicinity was murky beneath the struggling glow of nearby lamps, the shadows a darker shade of gaslight yellow than the road which glinted where it could, damp from the moist air.
‘It’s six houses down,’ Silas whispered. ‘You can just see it from here. Don’t come closer, though. Just watch to see if anyone comes to the door after me.’
James faced him, his back to the row of houses opposite number nineteen. ‘How about over there?’ he asked, nudging his head backwards towards a shop. ‘Deep doorway, better view.’
Silas looked. His friend was right. He could hide in the shadows and not be seen.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Go now while there’s no-one watching.’
‘Hang on.’ James held his arm. ‘Your ring?’
‘Oh, shit. Thanks, mate.’ Silas slipped off the ring Archer had given him on his birthday. It was best not to present himself as a pauper wearing personalised jewellery. He handed it to James knowing it would safe.
‘Good luck,’ James said, and put it in his inside pocket.
Silas didn’t need luck, just his wits, but it was good to know someone was watching out for him. They had rehearsed signals. One long whistle from James meant that someone was approaching, two meant danger. He would hear James’ piercing signal probably even from beyond the door, assuming he gained entry.
He waited while James crossed the road unseen and slipped into the shop’s recess, becoming one with the shadows. There was nothing out of the ordinary here, nothing to suggest the police were watching, or even close by. In fact, Silas had not seen any bobbies since leaving Riverside. All the same, Silas already had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Remembering Lovemount’s words caused his unease to deepen.
With James in place, Silas drew in a deep breath, wished he hadn’t, coughed and focused.
It was a short, eerie walk. Alone, guilt nagged at his concentration; Archer had no idea what he was doing.
The viscount was dining out with Roxton, oblivious to Silas’ concerns, which he wouldn’t have entertained even if Silas had been able to discuss them. When Archer found out, he would most likely be angry, or accuse Silas of mistrust. He might hate him for trying to shame Roxton, but that that wasn’t his intention. His aim was to protect them both, and if he ever had to explain himself to Archer, he hoped the viscount would understand.
The thoughts were not helping, and he told himself he was not alone. James was watching, Fecks was on hand, and this was all for Archer’s good.
He checked the time; ten-thirty. Archer and Roxton would have finished their dinner, but he was not expecting Archer home until well after midnight. With plenty of time, he mounted the steps to number nineteen.
A painted, wooden front door, a letter box, a bell-pull and a boot scraper. Nothing remarkable. The curtained window to his right was framed by the warm glow of lamps, and above the front door, more light welcomed callers through a semicircle of glass. Silas steadied himself and pulled the bell.
For a while, nothing happened, and he wasn’t sure if the bell had worked. Perhaps there was a code? He tried to remember how he had arrived that night in August, but it had been different then. The air had been clear, the smog not yet settled, and the night had been warm. He thought the door had been green but now it was blue, and he’d probably remembered incorrectly. He checked the number; it was the right house.
There was no time to think further. Footsteps approached, and he messed up his fringe, wishing he hadn’t washed his hair that morning.
The handle rattled before the door was opened by a smartly-dressed, middle-aged man wearing a smoking jacket and a round, tassel-cap on his head in the bohemian style. It was not the broad-set Danvers, but Silas was unable to see past him into the hall.
‘Yes?’ the man said, holding the door open only halfway.
‘Evening, Sir.’ Silas put on the voice of an affable Irishmen. ‘I was told I might find some gentlemen here.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Name’s Billy O’Hara.’ He offered a grubby hand. ‘Sorry I don’t have an appointment, but Mrs Danvers knows me.’
He studied the man’s reaction at the mention of the name. His grey eyebrows rose briefly, but his pale expression remained distrustful, and he didn’t accept the handshake.
‘I think you have the wrong address, lad,’ he said.
Silas might have believed him had he not looked up and down the street as if nervous that they would be seen.
‘Number nineteen?’
‘What do you want?’
‘To see Danvers.’
‘No-one here by that name.’
Silas was worried that Lovemount had given a false address, but there was a way to test that.
‘Eddie sent me.’
Another twitch of bushy grey brows suggested he had hit a nerve, but the man shook his head and started to close the door.
‘Eddie Lovemount.’
The closure was halted, and half a face peeked out. The eye, tired and sagging, painted Silas with suspicion. He winked when it returned to his face.
The door opened fully, and the man stepped aside.
Silas recognised the place immediately. The same heavy drapes across the passage leading to the back, the two armchairs by a small table and a closed door behind a beaded curtain to his right. It was no doubt the same as any other entranceway to a house in this street, but the atmosphere was unmistakable. A heightened sense of anticipation in the lighting, the softness of the rug and the staircase running up one side to a dimly lit landing, the darkness beyond suggesting anonymity and temptation, it was all sickeningly familiar.
‘What was your name?’
‘Billy. Danvers knows me as Marjorie.’ Both lies.
‘We’re all Marjories, dear.’ The man closed the door and threw his hand to one of the chairs. ‘Wait there,’ he said, and when Silas was seated, ducked through the heavy curtains.
Silas held down anger as he pictured the bored faces of boys waiting silently in the salon, Stella’s naked, scarred body trudging the stairs, and his own climb to the room with a bath. There had been muffled sounds from behind closed doors, fumbling and grunting, the slap of flesh, and he walked through them knowing what each one represented. They came back to him in snatched fragments of a cloudy memory. He was among the ghosts of past misdemeanours waiting for the only connection between them and his current suspicions; a man built like a blacksmith who dressed like a duchess.
He only had to wait a short while before the drapes parted and the host appeared. Or should he say, hostess? The man’s face was plastered with makeup and sat too small atop a large crinoline dress of black and midnight blue. It shimmered in the lamplight and rustled as he appeared, straightening a badly-fitting wig. He stopped when he saw Silas, who stood, cap in hand, doing his best to appear lost.
Danvers stayed within the safety of the arch, the curtain held to the
side by a hairy hand with painted nails. In the other, he clutched a pair of opera gloves. He drew his head back as if he didn’t want to be too close to anyone less than a lord, and sneered at Silas’ appearance. ‘Who or what are you?’
Behind him, the passage to the salon was a tunnel of whispers Silas was unable to decipher.
‘I was told you might have work for me,’ he said, in the voice he had used when renting. ‘Some of me mates already help you out.’
Danvers dropped the curtain but remained static. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘I’ve been here before.’
‘When?’
‘August. Eddie brought me.’
Danver’s face, naturally crooked, skewed further as he tried to remember. He shook his head.
‘You have the wrong place,’ he said, a direct repeat of what Silas had been told, as if he was working from the same script.
‘Not what Stella said, Ma’am.’
The change in Danver’s expression proved Silas correct. This was the right house and the name Stella meant something.
‘You know her?’ Danvers asked.
‘In a way.’
‘From when?’
‘A while back.’
If they were going to play a game, Silas wanted to make sure he had the upper hand. In this case, being vague was the safest strategy.
‘She told you to come?’
Silas moved his head, noncommittal, letting Danvers make up the rest of the story for himself.
‘Where is she?’ Danvers asked.
‘Was hoping you’d tell me,’ Silas replied. ‘She said she would bring me here, but I ain’t seen her since. I need money, Mister, and I know what I’m doing.’
Danvers was not convinced. ‘I don’t invite just anyone to my parties,’ he said, studying Silas in detail. ‘You look too old for my friends, and I expect those I invite to be properly dressed.’
‘I weren’t the last time I came, and you was good enough to borrow me some clothes, Ma’am,’ Silas said. ‘I smarten up nice. Oh!’ He fumbled for some change. ‘Promised I’d pay you back for the garb, and this is all I got. Sorry.’ He offered the money.
Danvers considered it, it was only a few shillings, but a priceless gesture.
‘Keep it,’ he said, warming. ‘And come closer.’
Silas stood before him still wringing his cap in his best impression of a down-and-out renter in need of protection, and kept his eyes on Danver’s feet which poked from beneath a beaded hem. He wore pink silk shoes and jewellery, but stank of smoke and alcohol.
‘Age?’
‘Younger than I look.’
‘Age?’
‘Eighteen, Ma’am, but I knows what I want.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘You know. Same as the other boys.’
‘A nice little scar.’ Danvers touched his cheek with the back of a finger.
A large, uninvited hand cupped Silas’ balls but he didn’t flinch even when guilt stabbed. He blocked Archer’s face from his thoughts and reminded himself he was doing this for the viscount.
‘Not very big,’ Danvers complained, and turned Silas around to fondle his arse. ‘Firm enough I suppose. Had a cock in it?’
Despite the nausea rising from his stomach, Silas said, ‘Not yet.’ It was an evening of falsehoods.
‘Really?’ Danvers was doubtful. ‘They all say that.’
Silas pulled away and turned. ‘Yeah, well, I heard gents pay well for a tight arse, whether it’s been used before or not. Stella told me what to expect. Ain’t she here?’
‘Let me see you without these.’ Danvers flicked his gloves towards Silas’ trousers. ‘I do insist on seeing the goods before tasting them.’ His tone became salacious, excited that he would be the first to examine, and probably bed, the potential recruit.
Silas had no intention of undressing.
‘I want to see Stella first.’
‘She’s not here. I told you. She left a couple of months ago.’
‘She said she’d be here tonight.’
‘Then she lied. Drop your trousers.’ Danvers was fiddling with the buttons.
Silas stepped away. ‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘But no. Not without seeing Stella. For all I know, I might be in the wrong place.’
Danvers laughed. ‘Look at me,’ he said, and raising his hands in an affected manner, turned a circle. ‘Does this look like the wrong place?’
‘Still need to see her.’
The madam’s expression changed in an instant. Fierce this time, he grabbed Silas’ lapels and forcefully dragged him closer.
‘She ain’t here, Irish,’ he spat. ‘But you are. If you want to work, you’ve got to do as you’re told. Drop your kegs and show me your young, Irish cock.’ His hands were grappling more desperately. ‘My gents like young and untouched. Got to make sure you ain’t diseased. You ain’t even getting hard.’
Nervousness blossomed into anger, and Silas pushed him away.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not ’less I see Stella.’
A stinging slap from nowhere jolted his head, and he bit his tongue, staggering to the side. Danvers was on him, yanking their faces together. ‘She ain’t fucking here,’ he growled, spittle and powder spraying Silas’ raw cheek. ‘Fuck off and stop wasting my time.’
He was hurled towards the door where he stumbled, reaching out to stop himself falling.
Silas had one card left to play, and forced tears to his eyes.
‘Stella said he’d be here belts and all,’ he whimpered, a cowering puppy. ‘He said the gentleman would pay good for me ’cos I ain’t been fucked before, and I ain’t a sissy.’
‘Who would want you?’
Silas sheltered his face with his arms, but left enough of a gap to see clearly.
‘I’m meant to meet Mr Roxton.’
Danvers was taken by surprise, and his eyes flicked to the ceiling. It was a blink, but it sent a pump of horror to Silas’ heart.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’ The madam made a decent job of covering his mistake, but he’d been too slow. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’
Silas had seen enough. It was obvious that the boy known as Stella was not at the house, but Danvers knew where she was. It was also clear that the name Roxton had wrong-footed the madam. That was enough to convince him he was right. Archer’s friend was a punter.
‘Alright,’ he said, reaching for the door handle. ‘No need to go mental on me.’ A movement at the curtains stopped him.
A lad appeared, topless, his thin, pale chest glinting with sweat. He ignored Danvers as he brushed past but lifted his face to Silas. It wasn’t Stella, but the boy was young and just as pallid. He breeches were undone, he wore nothing on his feet, and he carried a leather barber’s strop. His shoulders hung limply as he mounted the stairs in silence.
‘Out,’ Danvers barked. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Is that Mister Roxton’s new boy?’
Silas was thrown against the door, banging his head. His immediate reaction was to fight back, but he kept in character and snivelled pathetically.
‘Please, Mister,’ he said, shielding his face. ‘I’m going. I only wanted to earn a bob or two.’
He threw open the door and fought his way free. Danvers slammed it against his back as he hurried through and Silas was sent tumbling into the street. As soon as he heard the door close, he straightened.
‘Fucking eejit,’ he mumbled.
Instantly composed, he pulled on his cap and cleared his throat.
He was alone except for the dim figure of James who emerged from hiding to join him as he walked towards the corner, angry but in control.
His friend followed a few paces behind unti
l they turned into the alley.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked, catching up and putting an arm around Silas’ shoulder.
Silas wanted to shrug it off, but it was kindly meant. ‘Yeah,’ he panted. ‘Give us a minute.’
James helped him into the back of the trap.
‘They hurt you?’
‘No, Fecks. Don’t worry.’
The trap swayed as Fecker stood.
‘No, Fecks, honest.’ Silas pulled him down. ‘Leave it. We don’t need to make a scene.’
‘What happened?’
Silas told James what he had seen, what had taken place and how he was convinced the madam knew both Stella and Roxton. ‘What’s more,’ he added. ‘That strop looked familiar.’
‘You think he’s there?’
‘I reckon so,’ Silas said, remembering the glance to the upper floor. ‘Just got the feeling. Roxton should have been with Archer, but…’ He looked across to the house. ‘He’s been here before for sure.’
‘That’s enough, isn’t it?’ James asked.
‘I don’t know.’
There had been something about the leather the boy had taken upstairs, the whispering from the salon, the atmosphere. It was as if he had walked into a room where people had, until that moment, been talking about him. Blank faces radiating guilt because they had been caught… Doing what?
Running an illegal house.
That made sense of the secretive atmosphere, but what niggled him was Danver’s nervous twitch and the leather strap with its brass buckles at either end. He had seen similar things in St Mary’s hospital when he was taken there after the warehouse fire. In fact, the more he recalled it, the more convinced he became that it wasn’t a strop, it was a restraint.
He stood to peer at the rear of the house in time to see a light extinguished at a first-floor window. The others were dark and probably closed; it was hard to tell at that distance. As far as he could see, an iron downpipe rose from the ground to the guttering four stories above, there was an area and a lean-to on one side.
Unspeakable Acts Page 12