Fecker considered, his nose twitching in annoyance. ‘No good for Geroy?’
‘No, no good at all.’
Unhappy, but resigned, Fecker’s shoulders slumped. He gave James a sideways look, still not convinced.
‘Hey,’ James said, an idea sparking. ‘You remember how you saved me on that train? You rode past and shoved me back on.’
‘You were idiot.’
‘Yeah, probably. Well, thing is, you did it ’cos it was the right thing to do, right? Well, I want to help you the same way by telling you to stay here and let me do what I think’s right. Yeah?’
‘What you do?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ James said, and smiled. Whether Fecker could see it or not didn’t matter. ‘Agreed?’
‘Da.’
He had Fecker’s silent blessing, and James had never felt so honoured.
‘Stay here, watch the back, have the horse ready.’
Fecks nodded.
‘If Silas comes out that way, get him and clear off. Don’t worry about me, I’ll meet you back on Cambridge Street. Look for me there.’
‘Where you go?’
‘Taking a stroll, mate. You watch the house and count to sixty.’
‘In English?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Fecker! When you get to sixty, whistle twice, loudly.’
‘Da, okay.’
James jumped from the trap and set off towards the front of the house. The closer he came to Cleaver Street the more concerned he became. His idea was a simple one, perhaps too simple, but it was all he had. Fecker was right to be anxious. Silas had been away too long, and the house was becoming busier. More lights had been lit in higher windows and Silas would soon be discovered if they didn’t do something.
He rounded the corner into Cleaver Street giving each direction a quick scan. As far as the fog would allow, he saw no-one else. Visibility was at ten yards, he estimated. He could run that in a few seconds and be lost to the gloom as soon as someone approached the door.
Stopping outside the house and, under the pretence of tying a shoelace, he confirmed he was still unobserved before confidently climbing the steps. He cleared his throat, crouched to the letterbox and lifted the flap. There was no-one in the hall, but he could smell cigars and hear voices. He took a deep breath and balled his fists.
‘Open up!’ he hollered, hammering the door. ‘Police!’ Silence. Another breath. ‘Oi! Police.’
He waited until he heard movement inside, hammered again and scarpered.
One by one, lamps lit the bedrooms of disturbed neighbours. Some opened their windows to lean out but saw no-one, only the swirl of fog. Others, on hearing no more commotion, dimmed their lamps and returned to sleep.
In the shop, directly above where James had stood, the apartment had been in darkness all night. Had the lamp been lit, Tripp would not so easily have seen the young men coming and going from number nineteen. What was more interesting and of much more use was seeing Hawkins leaving. He had noted a man with his gait arrive at the house, and his suspicion had been aroused when, at the same time, another masked youth took up a watch in the doorway below. He’d not been able to see their faces, but he was the same boy who had just cried wolf through the door.
Clearwater, or his staff at least, clearly had an interest in the place, and he silently thanked Lovemount for his loyalty.
Tempting though it was to alert the authorities, Tripp knew he would not be taken seriously. He needed more than one sighting of the viscount’s boy, he needed a scandal involving the man himself. It would be a slow process, months probably, and he was prepared to wait and bide his time. “There’s no point letting the gun go off half-cocked,” the late viscount would have said. The sodomite Clearwater had called Tripp the tortoise, behind his back of course, but worse, among the servants. Tortoises lived long, gradual lives where every step was for a purpose and Tripp admired the animals. They always got there in the end.
His goal could not have been clearer, and now he had the first proof of a connection between Clearwater House and the Cleaver Street brothel, all he needed now was the patience of a saint.
Fourteen
James ran until he reached the junction with Cambridge Street where he slowed his pace. There were more people on the wider road, a few private carriages and some Hansoms trundling cautiously through the fog. His scarf was around his face, and he was sweating beneath it, but he wasn’t out of breath as he walked briskly, staying close to the pavement’s edge so that Fecker would see him when he passed. Silas had told him to do whatever he thought was right, and it had been the first thing that came to mind. He would have panicked the men inside the house, giving Silas a diversion. After that, he was on his own.
He had walked half a mile when a whistle attracted his attention, and Fecker drew the trap alongside. He clambered onto the front bench and investigated the back. Silas sat beside a hunched man who had his face in his hands. From what James could see, he wore only an overcoat. His legs were bare.
‘You alright?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ Silas said. ‘Not so sure about him.’
‘Who is it?’
As soon as the man raised his head, James recognised his receding hairline.
‘Mr Roxton?’
Roxton groaned and dropped his gaze.
Fecker had the horse trotting steadily, making it easy for James to climb over the bench and into the back. He squeezed in beside Silas and handed him his ring.
‘What happened?’
Putting his ring back on, Silas explained how he had found the singer tied to the bed and left there when the warning went up. At first, he thought it was a real raid, but he had faintly heard the whistles and took a gamble. The whole affair had been a gamble, James thought, but Silas waved that away.
‘I cut the binding,’ he said, and James noticed Roxton was unknotting lengths of material from his wrists.
‘How did you get out?’ James had seen Silas climb the gutter but couldn’t imagine Roxton shinning down it.
‘I was ready to throw him out of the window,’ Silas said, trying to control his anger. ‘Let him break a leg if necessary. Would have served the fecker right, but by the time I’d got him up, the house had gone quiet. I recognised your voice the second time, Jimmy. So, I knew there were no bobbies. Got him into the corridor, and everyone else had disappeared. Don’t know if they ran from the back or what.’
‘Da,’ Fecker said, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Rats from fire.’ He laughed.
‘I took him out the front door as if nothing had happened,’ Silas continued. ‘Had to be quick, but no-one saw me.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Yeah, we both were, but now we’ve got a bigger problem.’
Roxton sat back and filled his lungs. His face was streaked with tears and his eyes puffy. He fell against the seat and gasped.
‘He’s got an injury,’ Silas explained. ‘A deserved one.’
‘What do we do with him?’
‘Now, there’s the question, Jimmy. I ain’t had a chance to get any sense out of him yet. He was drugged, he said. Thing is… Hang on.’
Silas manoeuvred himself to the other side of Roxton where he could lean against the door and face both James and the singer.
‘Thing is,’ he said. ‘We need to find out what’s going on before we decide what to do.’
‘Take me home.’ Roxton’s voice was brittle. He was shaking and not just from the cold.
James took off his cape and placed it over the man’s knees.
‘Drugged?’
‘Yeah. He was meant to be with Archer.’
James looked at Silas sharply, and the Irishman knew what he was thinking.
‘No,’ he said. ‘He wasn�
��t there.’ He poked Roxton. ‘Was he?’
The man shrugged and buried his head as he cried. The sight unnerved James.
‘Shock,’ Silas explained before turning his attention to Roxton. ‘Oi, you ready to tell me what you were doing?’
Roxton wiped his eyes. Any attractiveness he had about him melted into red and sagging features. He was unshaven, and the passing rise and fall of ineffectual streetlamps turned his skin from grey to yellow, hiding the pallor beneath.
‘Take me home,’ he repeated, this time adding, ‘Immediately.’
‘I reckon we need to take you to Archer,’ Silas said.
Roxton groaned, his head fell, and he closed his eyes. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
Silas was thinking, biting the cuticle of a nail, his mouth taut. His head moved from side to side as he decided his next course of action. It was one James didn’t expect.
‘You eejit!’ He exploded, grabbing Roxton’s lapels and yanking him forward. ‘What the feck were you thinking? If that had been the police, you’d have fucked everything, you half-wit shitten-prick.’
‘Silas.’ James tried to separate them.
‘Some fecking friend you are.’ Silas shoved Roxton back into his seat, and he yelped in pain. ‘Yeah, well you fecking earned that. It was you I saw before wasn’t it? How long you been going to that house? How long you been slapping boys for sport?’
‘Silas, please.’ James reached over the sobbing man and gripped Silas’ arm. The touch distracted him. ‘Remember who you are.’
Silas glared, his anger boosted by the interruption, but James spoke calmly.
‘You’re not going to help His Lordship like this.’
Silas growled, knowing James was right. He sniffed and ran the back of his hand across his nose before spitting into the street.
James turned his attention to Roxton. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Chuck him out and let him walk,’ Silas grumbled.
‘Where are you staying?’
Roxton was comforted by James’ tone and, after looking nervously at Silas, said, ‘With my aunt.’
‘Oh, well that’s easy.’ James told Fecker to take them directly to Bucks Avenue. ‘And it gives us some time to talk calmly.’ He emphasised the last word, fixing Silas with narrow eyes. ‘Okay with you?’
‘Do what you want,’ Silas grunted in disgruntled agreement.
‘Let me get this right.’ James spoke directly to Roxton using what he thought was a consolatory tone. ‘You were drugged, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘How would I know? Who are you people?’ Roxton was recovering and had stopped crying.
‘That’s charming,’ Silas said. ‘I only had dinner with you last night and he…’
‘Yeah, alright, Silas. Easy, mate.’
Silas swallowed as if ridding his mouth of an unsavoury lump of gristle. Still angry, he turned his head to watch the poorly lit shopfronts.
‘What do you remember,’ James persisted. ‘The last thing?’
Shivering, Roxton pulled the coat tighter by the lapels. ‘I was due to meet Clearwater at eight,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘The Garrick Club. I left rehearsal at six… Went to The Golden Lion for a drink.’
‘Dean Street?’
The West End pub was known for its discreet, higher-class renters. Foppish boys who dressed well, behaved appropriately, and to everyone else, appeared to be well-off customers like the rest. James had never been, but other messengers had spoken of it in the past.
‘Then what?’
‘I took wine and sat at the window while I waited.’
‘You were going to meet Archer there?’ Silas’ outrage was back, and James held up a hand to contain it.
‘No,’ Roxton said. ‘We were meeting at the club directly he finished his meetings.’
‘The Garrick Club is a short walk,’ James explained, still doubtful. ‘But the two places have nothing to do with each other.’
‘You sure of that?’ Silas was dubious.
‘As far as I know.’
‘Yes.’ Roxton was finding his confidence. ‘Clearwater would never use The Golden Lion. I only stopped because it was convenient.’
James knew full well that Roxton would have crossed Garrick Street to reach Dean Street from the opera house, and there were any number of respectable pubs closer to the club. He didn’t want to inflame Silas with the information and kept it to himself for Roxton’s sake.
‘Yeah, convenient for picking up boys and giving them a flogging…’
‘Silas!’ His anger was wearing off on James. ‘Just hold it, yeah?’
Maybe it was his city accent, perhaps it was the direct way he spoke, but Silas took the hint. He folded his arms and sulked. It might take him hours to come around, but at least he was quiet for now.
‘Did you speak with anyone?’ James continued to question Roxton, aware that they had left Cambridge Street and had only another couple of miles to travel.
‘I spoke to one man,’ Roxton admitted. ‘Didn’t know him, but he was legitimate.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Means he didn’t smell like rent and had nice manners,’ Silas mumbled. ‘Same shit, different wrapping.’
James ignored him. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘No.’
‘A name?’
‘No.’
‘Anything?’
‘No!’ Roxton burst into tears again, embarrassing James and making Silas laugh with derision.
‘So, the last thing you remember is talking to this stranger. And then what?’
‘Then I’m tied to a bed,’ Roxton moaned. ‘And some tart is whipping me.’
‘And asking you how you like it, you gobshite maggot.’
‘Yeah, alright, Silas. Point made.’ James said. ‘Did you see who it was?’
‘No,’ Silas admitted grudgingly. ‘Heard his voice is all. Voices. Girl one minute, boy the next, stupid-sweet then nasty. A real pro, ask me.’
‘Get a name?’
‘Stella. The one I was looking for.’
‘Why?’ Roxton moaned. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Proving myself right, you fecking nob.’
‘Silas, mate.’ James held back his annoyance. ‘Why don’t you sit up front with Fecker?’
‘No chance. I’m not turning my back on this thick hoor.’
‘Insulting His Lordship’s friend is not going to help.’
Silas returned to his sulk, his way of showing acceptance, and James was left to continue his questioning.
‘Why?’ James asked, but Roxton didn’t understand. ‘Why would anyone want to knock you out, take you there and do that to you? And I’m asking Mr Roxton, Silas.’
Silas huffed and buried himself in his coat.
‘I don’t know. Where are we?’
‘We’re taking you home,’ James said. ‘Before we get there, I want to know who might have something against you. You say you’ve not been to Cleaver Street before?’
Roxton shook his head vehemently. ‘Is that where I was? Certainly not.’
‘But you’ve used The Golden Lion?’
‘They have a good port.’
‘Do you remember leaving the pub?’
‘No.’
‘Did you recognise anyone at the house?’
‘I didn’t see anyone apart from this foul-mouthed…’
‘Yeah, alright. Don’t make it worse.’ James had never spoken to a gentleman this way, but these were unusual circumstances, and his directness was producing results. ‘So,
you were drugged, kidnapped, held against your will and beaten, all for no reason.’
‘Yes! Now shut up and get me home.’
It was too much for Silas. He twisted in his seat and drew back his fist in one shocking flash of anger.
‘You don’t give a shite what’ll happen to Archer when this gets out,’ he shouted. ‘You lying, toe-rag of a…’
The trap lurched to a sudden stop, sending Silas staggering backwards. His arms flailed, and he let go of Roxton who was shunted to his knees in the well. Before James could react, Fecker had Silas around his chest and hauled him, legs kicking, onto the front seat. He manhandled him to face front, trapped him beneath one arm and rooted him there. He calmly clicked his tongue, and the trap moved on.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Roxton swore as he fumbled back to his seat. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ James said. ‘And you’ve got to be honest with us.’
‘I have been.’
‘You have no idea why those people would want to harm you?’
‘How many times do I have to say it?’
‘Instructions,’ Silas yelled. ‘Ask him about his instructions.’
Fecker hugged him more tightly.
‘Go on.’ James prompted when Roxton said nothing.
‘There was something…’
To James, it looked like he was genuinely trying to remember, and unlike Silas, he was prepared to give the man the benefit of the doubt.
‘He said something about instructions. Said I had them.’
‘What instructions?’
Roxton shrugged.
‘Was that it?’
‘“You’ve already got your instructions, and you’ll follow them right down to the letter”,’ Silas quoted, apparently calming in Fecker’s grip. ‘That’s what he told you, word for word.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 14