‘What?’ Confusion replaced anger. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I can’t talk about it,’ Roxton wailed. ‘Go away or do it now. I don’t care. I am resigned.’
‘You ain’t dead yet.’
Maybe it was his choice of words, maybe it was because Silas reverted to his natural accent, but Roxton was shocked. He sniffed, and dragged his head to stare Silas in the eye. They held each other’s gaze until Roxton gave in.
‘When are you going to kill me?’ he asked, weak and wretched.
‘Me? I ain’t going to do nothing, not to you.’
Roxton stared helplessly. ‘You work with them,’ he said. ‘I saw you there.’
‘I pulled you out of the place,’ Silas reminded him.
‘No, before.’ Roxton was beginning to calm. ‘It was hot. I came back to see my throat doctor… It was you.’
‘Ah, yeah,’ Silas admitted. ‘I was there that night, and I saw you.’ Judging it safe, he lowered himself onto the couch beside the snivelling man. ‘I recognised your coat when you came to dinner. I was at Cleaver Street the other night to find out for sure.’
‘They drugged me.’
‘I know. But they didn’t before, did they? When you called to find yourself a renter you could… do whatever you do with. You went ’cos you wanted to, and from what I heard, you went there regular. They even looked after your personal belts.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Roxton complained. ‘You’ve made your point, Hawkins.’
‘How’s your back?’
It was more of a taunt than a question, and Roxton wasn’t in the mood for answers. ‘What do you want?’
‘Why didn’t you listen to Archer?’ Silas asked. ‘Why didn’t you let him help you?’
‘It’s ridiculous.’ Seeing that Silas meant him no harm, the singer reached for a towel. Drying his eyes, he said, ‘I considered it a joke at first. Some kind of elaborate jest as we used to play on each other at school.’
‘You thought it was Archer?
‘Yes, of course. The letter wasn’t in my pocket when I arrived at Clearwater. I’d just had the coat cleaned. The first I knew of it was when Archer waved it at me. I told him to grow up. We had a bit of a row, but, well… I thought it bad taste, and told him to go away.’
He brushed his hand forlornly towards a water jug and Silas, considering sympathy might produce answers, poured him a glass.
‘Then,’ Roxton went on. ‘I started to think that perhaps it was serious. Someone had drugged me, and that was too much even for one of Clearwater’s pranks. I thought, maybe the boy had the wherewithal to mean it, but then I thought, how could he get away with it? It wasn’t possible, didn’t make sense.’ He threw the towel across the room and pulled off his wig. Beneath, his hair was flattened by a net, and with that and his makeup, he looked like a worthless puppet, discarded and no longer loved. ‘Then,’ he continued. ‘Yesterday, it began preying on my mind. Of course it wasn’t Archer. I remembered what the letter said, and I knew what they planned, and when. It was all in there. I had to make a choice, Hawkins.’ He regarded Silas as if he could smell his scepticism. ‘It’s not easy to be noble when one’s life is in danger, you know. I could cancel the performance and dent Archer’s good name. Or I could carry on as if I didn’t care. As if I didn’t know. Despite what you might think, I am a decent actor, and it was easy to pretend I had never seen the threat.’
‘As easy as it was to pretend you never went to Cleaver Street and smacked the lads around.’
‘Please, it’s not like that.’
Silas laughed scornfully.
‘It was consensual.’
‘You mean a teenage opium addict asked you to scar his flesh?’
‘Don’t judge me so, Hawkins. That “boy” is no boy. Stella, or whatever his name is, is a professional con man well into his thirties and has spent half his life aboard ship. Don’t ask me how someone with such feminine looks and ability got away without being keelhauled, but that man is as masculine as you or I. The world is full of duplicity masquerading as actors.’
Silas had to admit Roxton was also an excellent actor. He was aware of the threat against him, but covered his concern and chose to take a risk rather than discredit Archer. He couldn’t bring himself to admire the man’s devotion to the viscount, but the news made Silas’ job easier.
‘Have you seen Stella here tonight?’ he asked. Roxton shook his head. ‘But you knew what was going to happen to you and you still went ahead?’
‘Yes, Hawkins,’ he sighed. ‘I made my choice, because contrary to what you might think of me, I love my friend.’
‘And you agreed to help his Foundation ’cos it made your guilt easier.’
‘What?’
‘If anyone found out you used Stella as your personal whipping boy you could say, “Look at me! I support the Clearwater Foundation, how could I be a man who does that?”’
‘You’re sick.’
Silas laughed. He could tell from the shame behind the makeup that he was right. He felt no satisfaction in being proved correct; the performance was still in jeopardy.
‘Okay,’ he said, putting his personal feelings aside. ‘Tell me what you know, and I’ll find a way out of this mess.’
Roxton regarded him dubiously. ‘Why would you do that?’
It was an easy question to answer, but time was against him. ‘I’m not doing it for you,’ Silas said. ‘Tell me what the message meant to you.’
Roxton shook his head, his eyes closing briefly, and shuddered. ‘If someone is going to kill me, they are going to do it on my final note. That’s why I am sitting here blubbing like a baby. Not because I know I’m going to die, but because of the stress. I am trying to give Archer the performance of his and my life while holding at bay the knowledge that it will be my last. I would rather be shot in the head than stand there admitting my sins and bringing his good name, and the name of this opera house, into disrepute.’
Silas had misjudged the man, but he wasn’t about to apologise. ‘What do you mean about being shot?’
‘Da capo,’ Roxton sniffed. He cleared his throat and looked at a watch. ‘Not long now.’
‘And why will they do it on your last note? Because it says you won’t hear your final applause?’
‘That’s part of it,’ Roxton admitted. His hands were shaking as he picked up a book and dropped it on the couch between them. ‘Last page.’
Silas opened the cover. Unlike the stage manager’s score, music was printed on every page. He turned to the last one, but as before, nothing made sense.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘That stave.’ Roxton pointed to a line of music buried among black dots, some with tails, some massed together, others far apart. It was like reading code. ‘That string of notes is my last sustain. After it…’
He tapped some words written where the note ended, and Silas read them aloud. ‘D. C. All Fine?’ he queried. It sounded oddly reassuring.
Annoyed, Roxton slapped his finger on an empty section of music. ‘Da capo, al Fine,’ he corrected in Italian. ‘To the beginning and repeat to the end. The direction sends the orchestra around in a circle. It’s a musical joke by the composer. He did it, he said, to give the players some humour after the hero’s death. Complete tosh.’
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘There is no music.’ Roxton explained, indicating an empty bar. ‘All that direction does is send the reader back to the beginning of that bar of nothing. It’s pointless.’
‘So what’s the joke?’
‘The joke, Hawkins, is that after the final notes, everyone is already subito tacet.’
‘Which means suddenly silent.’
‘Exactly. Pointless humour from a genius, but used by my assassin as a message. This is when he,
or she, intends to strike.’ He balled his fists, infuriated that Silas had still not understood. ‘The empty bar repeats ad infinitum because Aeneas enters everlasting peace. Death is endless. Only, in this case, it is me who will be locked in an endless loop of sudden silence. For real.’
‘If you’d listened to Archer… If I’d known this before…’ Silas’ swallowed his anger. Frustration was not going to help his cause. ‘Never mind. What we’ve got to do now, Mr Roxton is make sure it doesn’t happen.’
‘No,’ Roxton said, taking away the score. ‘Let it happen. I deserve it.’
‘Oh, please,’ Silas dismissed his self-pity. ‘I probably agree with you, and I wouldn’t be much bothered, to be honest, but Archer would be. Why didn’t you report this to the police?’
‘Hell, you’re thick. Because there would be a scandal. They would want to know why. Stella would tell them about the house, I would have to explain…’
‘Yeah, I get it. Blimey. Calm down, mate.’ Silas was fed up with sympathy, and there wasn’t time to challenge him for calling him thick. He let it go, but Roxton’s behaviour fired so many emotions, he didn’t know what to think of the man. ‘If what you say is right, we’ve got the second half to watch, think, and stop it happening. James doesn’t think you’ll get shot. There’s too much security guarding the King, and my speech robbed old Stella of her chance to do the public a favour.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Stella could have claimed that he killed you to prevent embarrassment to Archer,’ Silas reasoned. ‘Or the ladies present. You get me?’ Roxton didn’t, so Silas put on an imitation of Stella’s soft, West Country voice. ‘”You see, Your Honour, he was talking about homosexuals in front of decent ladies and gentlemen. I had to do something out of common decency.”’
He imitated her so well, Roxton moved away.
‘Sorry,’ Silas said in his own voice. ‘But you see what I’m getting at?’
‘Yes. I suppose I should thank you for what you did.’
‘Later.’ Silas stood. ‘At least we know the timing,’ he said. ‘Just got to think of a way to stop your murder without knowing how it’s going to be done.’
‘Mr Hawkins.’ The singer rose and, slightly more composed, offered his hand. ‘Please do nothing that disrupts the evening. Archer is a beloved friend. I won’t do anything to harm his good work.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s a bit late for that.’ Silas ignored his hand. ‘Good luck.’ He turned and was at the door when Roxton stopped him.
‘My life is in your hands, Sir,’ he said, as calmly as a greeting. ‘But I am prepared to die.’
‘Hm,’ Silas huffed. ‘And I reckon I’m inclined to let you.’
He slammed the door as he left.
Twenty-Five
Ignoring the dresser now nipping from a hipflask, Silas ran to the end of the corridor and turned onto the stairs. Down one level, he hurried to the stage entrance and burst through the door to find himself face to face with the King of the Netherlands. Archer was beside him, and they were examining his tourmaline ring. Surrounded by an entourage of the viscount’s guests, royal bodyguards and members of theatre staff, the party was enjoying a backstage tour, directed by Mr Bursnall.
Silas skidded to a halt, clocked Archer’s look of horror and, behind him, Thomas, equally shocked. On seeing him, Thomas snapped to attention, indicating that Silas should do the same. He also mouthed the word, ‘Bow’, showed Silas what to do and held a finger to his mouth for silence.
‘Ah,’ Archer said as if he was expecting the interruption. ‘Sir, may I introduce my private secretary, Mr Hawkins.’
Having bowed, shaking all other thoughts from his cluttered head and leaving only mild panic, Silas stood with his hands behind his back. Thomas’ finger remained at his lips.
‘Hoe gaat het met u?’
His Majesty’s language was unintelligible, but Silas got the gist. The King offered a handshake, Thomas nodded, and Archer’s eyes stretched wide. He surreptitiously showed his ring finger, watching in horror as Silas lifted his hand and accepted the greeting.
Silas had already removed his ring. Identical to Archer’s, it would have drawn the King’s interest, and not taken him long to realise it was a love token. He shook the King’s hand once and firmly, saying, ‘Your Majesty.’
Thomas approved, and Archer relaxed.
The King was supported by his younger companion, a lady Silas put in her thirties. His Majesty was at least seventy, had trouble standing, and held a faraway look in his eyes as if he didn’t know where he was. Despite that imperfection, he was not only surrounded by uniformed staff, but by an aura of grandeur that demanded respect.
‘It was Mr Hawkins who made the speech,’ the viscount said directly into the King’s ear.
‘Ah!’ His Majesty focused on Silas. He squinted, and his bushy moustache turned down in a serious frown. ‘Je hebt goed gesproken,’ he said.
Thomas mouthed, ‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Er… Vell done.’
Thomas tipped his head graciously, and Silas copied.
‘Gefelicteerd.’
Thomas was helpless with that one, and Silas bowed to cover a nervous laugh.
‘If Your Majesty would like to progress this way…’
Luckily, Mr Bursnall was keen to move the party along. The scenery was being flown in, and backstage was not a safe place to loiter. He directed them across the stage behind the backcloth, and His Majesty, with his young wife’s assistance, progressed. Archer threw a look of intense bewilderment as he passed, but there was no time for explanations. Lady Marshall and Miss Arnold followed the party, both engrossed in the flymen and stagehands, and Doctor Markland came last.
‘Bloody well done, Silas,’ he whispered, slapping his shoulder before hurrying on.
It was only a small thing, but it was reassuring. The mystery was unravelling, and Silas was sure he almost had the answer. He stopped Thomas and pulled him to one side.
‘It’s going to happen right at the end,’ he said. ‘Keep watch from your side. You can see off stage, yeah?’
‘Some. How do you…?’
‘Shush. If you can, tell Archer it’s under control, everything’s fine. We don’t want to worry him. But if you see anything strange, you… you…’
‘Exactly!’ Thomas whispered his eyes on the royal party. ‘What can I do?’
‘You can either scream murder or let Roxton get killed,’ Silas said. ‘Don’t feel under pressure, Tommy.’
He slapped him on his gilded shoulder and, slipping the ring back on his finger, left him to his duties.
Silas’ duty now was to protect Archer. If he failed to prevent the murder, the least he could do was prevent it causing outrage on the stage. He remembered the programme notes, that when Aeneas dies, someone came down from the roof, dropping roses before the curtain fell. If he could bring the curtain down before Roxton pretended to stab himself, he could spare the audience the sight of a real and possibly bloody death, or even thwart the assassin. He couldn’t end the performance any earlier without arousing suspicion, but he did at least have a window of opportunity.
The stage manager was not pleased to see him, and by the time Silas had told him what he wanted, the man was outraged.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he roared. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘It’s on His Lordship’s authority,’ Silas lied.
‘I don’t care. There is only one man I take orders from, and that is Herr Director. God orders me to follow the script. Go away.’
‘It is of vital importance.’
‘I shall have you removed.’
‘Look… Whatever your name is, you have no idea what’s going on here…’
‘Mr Cook
son? Fetch Mr Keys and have this man removed.’ The stage manager snapped his fingers and turned his back.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, mate,’ Silas called. ‘It’s going to come down on your head, not mine.’
He glanced into the tower where a hundred and one things could easily come down on someone’s head, Roxton’s included and continued to the auditorium.
James was alone in the box, straightening chairs.
‘Well?’ he asked as Silas entered.
‘I can see how you got your surname,’ Silas said, confusing his friend. ‘You were right, Mr Wright. It’s going to happen at the end.’
He explained what Roxton knew and said, included his encounter with the royal party, and outlined his plan to end the show prematurely.
‘I agree we’re trapped, and it’s the only thing we can try,’ James said, when he’d finished. ‘We can’t inform anyone, we can’t put guards in the tower or behind the scenes, and we don’t know how he’s going to do it.’
‘That’s about the sum of it, Jimmy.’
‘But we can cover the tower ourselves if we’re careful.’
‘You mean sneak back there and watch?’
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘One side each.’
‘I can, but I’m not sure about you.’ He indicated James’ livery. ‘I just need to take off my jacket and tie, and I’m a stagehand. You…? A bit more tricky. But yeah, I was planning to be back there later. Meanwhile, if we can figure out how Stella’s going to do it, we might have a better idea of where he’ll be.’
‘How can we do that?’
The audience were taking their seats, and the curtains of the Royal Box were pulled back as the first of the party returned from their tour.
‘I don’t know,’ Silas admitted. ‘We sit and think.’
They were interrupted as Mrs Marks appeared, much assisted by the wall. James helped her to her seat where she dropped her fan, giggled and fell asleep. Her husband blustered in a moment later, rolled his eyes at no-one in particular, and sat heavily on the chair beside her. He arranged her hands in her lap with the fan, and her head so that it pointed to the stage. That done, he calmly read his programme until the lights dimmed, the conductor returned and the second act began.
Unspeakable Acts Page 25