‘What am I looking for?’ He knew full well what it was, but he did what Thomas would have done, “The three S’s on entering a room”, he called it: Stop, take Stock, and Start again.
‘I’m looking for someone who isn’t there,’ he said, an idea forming. ‘He’s not going to be in the society pages, because he wasn’t in the country. If he had been, Archer would have known. Archer thinks he was on tour in…’ He conferred with the notes Thomas had made in his perfectly neat handwriting. ‘Paris for three appearances between the seventeenth and twenty-third. Before that, he was in Italy and Germany.’
The answer lay between those dates, and he reviewed his information.
The hottest period of August had run between 17th and 24th, coinciding with Roxton’s appearances in Paris, and Silas’ sighting of him at Cleaver Street. He drew a rough diary on his paper.
‘You have your timeframe,’ he whispered, tapping the pen against his teeth. ‘What are you looking for now?’
The answer was simple. He was still trying to find reports of a man who wasn’t there.
‘Not wasn’t there. Wasn’t here!’ The thought hit him out of the blue and with it came an image of Thomas grinning in that way he did when they’d just had sex. He looked like a hunting dog that had brought back a pheasant; huge eyes, panting hard, looking for a reward.
‘Concentrate! He wasn’t here…’ He clicked his fingers. He almost had it. ‘Because he was… Overseas.’
He knew where to look, and he had a good idea when.
‘The best possible dates to slip away would have been between performances,’ he reasoned, double checking the dates. ‘But that’s only one day off in between. There’s no time to get from Paris to the city and back in twenty-four hours. He arrived in Paris on the seventeenth…’ He was flicking through newspapers for the August twenty-fourth edition. It was after the hot week, but news travelled slowly from France, and events that happened on one day were rarely reported in the city papers until a few days later.
‘Overseas Arts,’ he read. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ A headline caught his eye.
The Times, Wednesday 24th August, 1888
A Fearful Time for Bruch
Had he been living, Austro-German born composer, Johann Bruch, might have wondered what fate would befall the revival of his acclaimed opera, “Aeneas and Dido”. He would have been interested to be among the audience at the Opéra Populaire for the appearance of famed countertenor, Mr Cadwell Roxton, a performance that did not go completely to plan.
Bruch, a contemporary of Wagner, studied counterpoint and harmony under Weinlig at St Thomas’ School, Leipzig, and his scores are praised for their use of compassionate…
James skipped ahead a paragraph.
How unsettling then it must have been for the company to learn of Mr Roxton’s illness. Although the performance went ahead, his tone was noticeably underplayed and his projection not quite of the expected standard. Our correspondent tells us that the critics and commentators were benevolent, concerned for Mr Roxton’s voice rather than critical of his performance. “I would suggest no vocal work for at least four days,” Maestro Lamoureux, conducting, said.
There was no more, but after glancing at his diary, James searched the newspapers for August 26th, opened that day’s edition to the same page and quickly found what he was looking for.
He slapped the air in triumph but wasted no time. He tore the page from the paper and piled the rest onto a bottom bookshelf partially hidden by the piano. He would dispose of them later, for now, he needed the viscount’s railway guide.
Back at the table, he arranged the atlas to its double-page spread of northern Europe to one side, his paper in the centre and the railway guide to the other. The Times had reported, days after the event, that Cadwell Roxton had taken his composer’s advice and bowed out of his second performance. He had been replaced by his understudy (who had done a remarkable job, apparently, but who had choked when drinking from the chalice, whatever that meant). Roxton had plenty of time between his first and third appearances, four days apart, to travel from Paris to the city and back. Silas had mentioned the man’s voice had sounded croaky; that made sense. What didn’t add up was why he should travel all that way just to find a boy. Surely Paris was overrun with corruption and whores. That’s what the popular press said.
‘Not important’, he told himself. ‘Give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he has a doctor here and came to see him. He really was ill, came to see the quack, gave a boy a slap and slipped back before curtain up four days later… Ah.’
He had located the Paris section of the guidebook and from there the railway timetables. There was no way of telling if this was how Roxton had travelled, but it made sense that he took the fastest route. Somewhere, there would be a record of him making the channel crossing, but there was no time to find that. He had the newspaper report of his cancelled appearance and the proof that the journey was not only possible but now, thanks to his illness, probable, particularly if that illness was to do with his instrument, his voice.
It would be good enough for Silas. What the viscount would make of it was another matter.
‘All I need to prove is that it was possible.’ James reassured himself as he drew his pen down the list of train departures.
There were more than Roxton would have needed. He could have left directly after the first show and reached Cleaver Street with a day and a night to spare before heading back. Or, he could have left on the Thursday morning and still returned in good time for the following Tuesday.
There was no doubt. Roxton could quite easily have been the man Silas saw at Cleaver Street.
That didn’t mean it was him, but it was all James had. They were blackmailing Roxton to see him fall, and the person behind it was without a doubt Stella, the boy he had repeatedly flogged. The rest of the people involved in the brothel must have feared him to let him so dangerously risk bringing their operation to light, and James decided he never wanted to meet the man.
He understood how someone so used and discarded might want to take revenge. He had contemplated all manner of ways to get his own back on the classmates who bullied and beat him in his youth, but why bring down a benevolent man such as Archer and a Foundation as worthy as his? If it was for money, there were far richer public figures than an opera singer. What was the point?
His heart was beating too fast. He had allowed anger to seep in, and if he let it take control, he would do something rash. Taking deep breaths, he reminded himself that he was working for Silas, and concentrated on collecting facts. That done, and his pulse running less urgently, he folded his evidence into his pocket with the blackmail letter, tidied the library table and returned the railway guide to the study.
By the time the others returned, no further forward on the possible murder attempt, the uniforms were brushed and laid out, the fires lit in both suites, and his own, more formal dinner livery, ready for inspection.
He had just hung it when he heard the trap sweep into the yard, and looking from his garret window, saw only Fecker. Descending to the basement, he met Thomas coming from above stairs, his face a map of frowns and creases.
‘Anything?’ he asked, helping Tom off with his coat.
‘No,’ was the worried reply. ‘Silas’ friend says it’s hard to keep a check on who’s backstage during a staging, no matter how many staff there are to see to security. There’s a chorus of over fifty, the principals have their entourages, Signora Campanelli alone has thirteen in her party, the carpenters are often still at work, the list goes on. Meanwhile, out front, there are so many curtains and doors, lanterns and seats to hide behind that the only time anyone would be aware of a firearm was when it was fired.’
That was the long, purging answer, and once Thomas had vented his frustration, James was about to ask Mr Hawkins’ whereabouts, when Sila
s appeared on the stairs one floor above.
‘James?’ he called. ‘Can I borrow you up here?’
‘Right away, Sir,’ James called up. ‘Mr Payne,’ he said, adopting his footman’s voice. ‘His Lordship’s uniform is ready, but I would appreciate it if you have time to check it, as it’s my first time. Mr Hawkins’ clothes are also prepared. The fires are lit, and my uniform is hanging for when you want to inspect it.’
‘Well done, James,’ Thomas said, still distracted. ‘We’ve decided to eat at six. When you’ve seen to Mr Hawkins, you can lay the breakfast room. It’s informal.’
‘Of course, Mr Payne.’
He left Thomas heading for his pantry and was in Silas’ suite a minute later.
Silas was shirtless at the washstand. ‘No time for a bath,’ he explained. ‘How did you get on?’
‘You were right,’ James said, as soon as he had closed the door. ‘At least, it’s possible.’
He explained what he had found, and showed Silas the newspaper articles. The first described Roxton’s difficult appearance, and the later one his disappearance. He had also found a third that confirmed Roxton was in his role for the last of the three performances.
‘Possible, probable and definitely happened,’ Silas said, as James passed a towel.
‘Will you tell His Lordship?’
‘Ah, Jimmy,’ Silas gave him a smile and patted his cheek. ‘Now there’s the dilemma, eh? Do we tell Archer his old friend has lied to him and everyone else, and that he was using Cleaver Street, and that’s Stella’s motive? Or do we say nothing and let him dream on?’
‘I’m guessing,’ James said, as he followed Silas across the room. ‘That you’re in favour of saying nothing.’
‘I am, Jimmy,’ Silas replied with a sigh. He removed his trousers and James looked away, as Thomas had told him to do. ‘There’s no point him knowing now, it would only spoil his night. Either way, we’re in the shit if we can’t figure out how and when the man’s going be killed. If Roxton finds out we know, maybe he’ll do as they want to save his life. He might do that anyway. Once he gets on that stage, he’s got the audience in the palm of his greasy little hand. There’ll be nothing we can do.’
‘There’s something we can do before that, though.’ James turned to Silas and found him completely naked. Mr Hawkins was unbothered, even when James stumbled in his role and ogled for too long.
‘It’s not a lot, Jimmy,’ Silas laughed at his expression. ‘But it’s got me this far.’ He began searching for clean underwear.
‘Sorry,’ James stammered. ‘Just wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Get away with you, man.’ Silas maintained his cheerful attitude unbothered. ‘Tell me what you were going to say. What can we do?’
James swallowed and took a deep breath hoping it would take the heat from his cheeks.
‘We can stop him from making any kind of speech at all.’
Silas, bending to pull on his long johns, inadvertently presented James with his bare backside. He hopped on one leg, turning and pulling up his drawers.
‘Brilliant,’ he said, beaming.
‘The question is, how?’
‘And the answer is easy.’ Silas tucked in his cock which had popped through the fly. ‘We need Roxton to go back in time.’
‘No-one can go back in time. It’s impossible.’ James didn’t understand.
‘It’ll be tricky,’ Silas grinned. ‘But luckily I know someone with just the right name.’
Twenty
Bucks Avenue was alight with lanterns. Outside Delamere and Clearwater House, burning torches fought the drizzle and won. Their flames danced elegantly against the backdrop of the fallen night and were supplemented by the warm glow of gaslight through netted windows. Across the street, drapes were drawn back to allow residents to see the fine display of warmth, and those neighbours not invited to the gala gathered to watch the arrival and departure of carriages.
Inside Clearwater, Silas descended the stairs to find the hall dazzling beneath the chandelier. He stopped to admire himself in one of the mirrors and blinked in disbelief. What would his sisters think of him now? His hair was washed, brushed and lightly coated with Macassar oil to keep it in place. The style was shorter, better kept and more fashionable than he had ever managed before, but it was heavy, as if he was wearing a cap. James had dressed him in a black, tailed dinner suit with satin lapels, tailored to contrast his shoulders against his slim hips. Beneath it, he wore a low-cut white waistcoat and a bow tie over a high collar. James, remembering how Silas detested the rigours of a starched collar, had gone easy, and the material was soft enough not to trouble him. With his suit trousers fitting perfectly and a new pair of polished, black dress boots, he felt like a waiter, but looked like a city gent. A far cry from his trousers held up with string and his buttonless coat of two months ago. The only relic of his previous life was in his pocket. The single pebble that Fecker had given him as a friendship token and which Thomas had saved from his rags when Silas was brought, exhausted to Clearwater last October. He had travelled a long way since leaving Westerpool on the mail coach, and his mam would have been proud.
A moment of sadness passed over him. She would never know what her son had achieved. What Archer had let him achieve, he corrected. Without the viscount, he would be scratching gutters for coins and chatting up Molly at the rope-house to get the best bench for the damp night ahead. Now, he was dressed like a toff and about to sit in a box at the City Opera House. It was all thanks to Archer.
Another wave of sadness washed over him. The scene would have been perfect were it not for what he knew about Roxton. The moment passed when he turned his attention to what he had to do. It was not going to be easy. He had to lie to Archer to protect him while finding some way of saving Roxton’s life without drawing attention. Not only that, he and James still had to work out how the murder was to happen and when.
It was six o’clock. Cadwell Roxton was due on stage in ninety minutes where he was expected to sing the praises of the Clearwater Foundation to the glitterati of City society. Or, he was to announce his crimes and implicate Archer. Whatever the man might or might not say, Silas had to stop him from stepping foot on the boards until after the overture, and even then, he had a duty to protect him, not because he cared for the man, he didn’t, but because he cared for Archer.
It was not going to be easy, but when he saw James enter the hall behind him, he knew he had an ally.
‘Look at you like a polished sovereign,’ Silas said, turning.
‘It’s one of Lady Marshall’s designs,’ James said. He was smiling as he approached, but on seeing they were alone, the smile faded and was replaced by a less comfortable expression. ‘To be honest, Mr Hawkins, I feel like I’m in the pantomime.’
‘That’ll be the breeches,’ Silas grinned back.
He examined James from his feet to his face. Highly polished black shoes, tight white stockings to his knees where garters joined them to breeches the colour of autumn leaves that shaped his thighs. He wore a collar and large bowtie, but that was all that could be seen of his shirt, the rest was encased in a brocade waistcoat of rich green and gold, but it was the tailcoat that shone most. To his calves and with wide cuffs, it was tailored in emerald green, intricately patterned with gold thread and its buttons did, indeed, look like gold sovereigns.
‘I’m glad I don’t have to wear a wig,’ James said. ‘Apparently, that’s only for when I have to go with His Lordship to the palace.’
‘I wouldn’t know, mate,’ Silas whispered and drew him to one side. James was pale. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I suppose so. Are you?’
‘We’ve got a lot to do,’ Silas said. ‘And no idea how to do it, apart from this…’
He ran through their strategy once more. They
had discussed the situation while dressing, but their plan was limited.
‘It’s going to be difficult with Archer sitting with us,’ he said. ‘…but I’ll find a way to lose him before the show starts. Your job is to think, Jimmy. When and how, okay?’
The baize door opened with a brush of carpet.
‘I understand, Sir,’ James said, straightening as Thomas appeared. ‘The breakfast room is prepared.’
‘Ah, Mr Hawkins,’ Thomas said. ‘May I say you look resplendent?’
‘You may, Payne, thank you,’ Silas replied with a grin. ‘And may I say that you do and all, assuming what you said means you look like a million guineas.’
Thomas bowed his head gracefully. Where James’ livery was dazzling, Thomas’ was one notch up. Similar colours and design, but, if it was possible, with more opulence. Silas was worried that he might outshine his master, but when they entered the breakfast room, he knew that was not possible.
Silas had seen Archer smartly dressed before, but nothing compared to the sight that met his eyes. His heart missed several skips as he gazed on the man. His man. The man he had fallen in love with and adored more each day. Archer wore his clothes well, unencumbered by them and used to the confines of starched collars and tight breeches, but tonight he was a vision in naval blue and gold. His double-breasted jacket was adorned with tasselled epaulettes and cuffs wider than James’, both stitched with two brocade stripes. The coatee had tails lined with white satin, and his trousers were belted with an ornate gold buckle.
‘Will I do?’ Archer asked, as Silas gawped. ‘There’s a hat somewhere, but it’s hideous.’
‘I don’t have the words, Archie,’ Silas said.
‘Flatterer,’ Archer grinned. ‘But, for tonight, I think it’s best if you call me Your Lordship and all that. People will expect it.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 19