Bitter Bloodline

by Jackson Marsh

  Bitter Bloodline

  The Clearwater Mysteries Book five

  by

  Jackson Marsh

  First published in Great Britain in 2019

  Copyright © Jackson Marsh 2019

  The right of Jackson Marsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proofread by Ann Attwood

  Cover Design by Andjela K

  Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com company.

  ISBN- 9781704638393

  Available from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other retail outlets. Available on Kindle and other devices.

  Also by Jackson Marsh

  Other People’s Dreams

  In School and Out

  The Blake Inheritance

  The Stoker Connection

  Curious Moonlight

  The Mentor of Wildhill Farm

  The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge

  The Mentor of Lonemarsh House

  The Mentor of Lostwood Hall

  The Clearwater Mysteries

  Deviant Desire

  Twisted Tracks

  Unspeakable Acts

  Fallen Splendour

  Bitter Bloodline

  One

  Folkestone Harbour, April 1889

  Doctor Benjamin Quill squinted at the society pages of the national newspaper with his one good eye and smiled at the opportunity the viscount had unwittingly presented. Comparing today’s announcement to the same one made three months previously, confirmed that the viscount’s plans remained unchanged. In announcing an audacious reformation of his family’s traditions with a gathering of aesthetes rather than clergy, he had opened his inaugural society event at Larkspur Hall to the scrutiny of the public. It was a bold gambit, and one intended to curry favour with the rich and famous of the Garrick Club, while thrusting his Foundation and his cause into the limelight.

  It was the viscount’s first mistake.

  ‘Our game is not yet at an end,’ Quill chuckled.

  They were his words to Clearwater before he took the stand to save the man from ruin and his lover from the cells. In saving the person he had sworn to destroy, Quill had brought their first game to an end, and having placed himself in a position of power, of indebtedness, had confused Clearwater’s defences.

  The second game had begun just after New Year when the viscount played a bold opening gambit; the announcement of his Easter Dinner with a guest list that gave Quill plenty of opportunity for attack. Not a fatal attack, not on Clearwater at least, not yet. The endgame was far distant, but in the meantime, the taking of pieces and the gradual chipping away at defences was game enough for the doctor.

  Clearwater had begun, albeit unknowingly, with a classic Slav Defence, and after a break for further recuperation, the time was right for the doctor to play his next move. If he was to use the analogy of chess, Quill was to shift his knight towards Clearwater’s rook, but to complete the move and secure his advantage, a piece must be sacrificed. Quill’s knight would make the move that brought into play a pawn ignorant of the tactic, and this man would be the one to take out the rook. The knight already knew the strategy, but the move would only become clear to the pawn, and more importantly, to Clearwater, when the rook fell, and that would happen during the much-publicised Larkspur Easter dinner.

  The second game would be won.

  Satisfied, Quill threw down the newspaper, sighed contentedly, and closed his eye to picture the humiliation. Beyond the window, seagulls cawed, tugs chugged, and an arriving steamer sounded its shrill whistle. The smell of the sea pervaded his room, bringing with it the sound of the South Eastern Railway delivering passengers to the cross-channel steamer. The ship was scheduled to depart on the night-time tide at an hour when Quill’s misshapen appearance would cause less alarm to fellow passengers, and when he could slip into his berth without being recognised; not an easy feat for a man described in court reports as, ‘Of a monstrous appearance.’

  The hate and derision would be behind him once he reached France, and by the time he arrived in Rotterdam, everything about England would be forgotten; everything apart from Clearwater and their game.

  He laughed excitedly, but as if the hotel didn’t allow jollity, was immediately silenced by a knock at the door.

  ‘Wait!’ he called.

  Sucking back saliva, he adjusted his pigskin mask to cover the most obvious of his facial disfigurements, righted himself in the chair, and called for his visitor to enter.

  The man was as Quill remembered him; elegant, dark and with eyes that mesmerised. If he was to add a cape and top hat, he could well pass for a stage magician, but Quill had not contacted him to perform a parlour trick. His knight was far more skilled, and far too important for that.

  ‘Dorjan,’ he said, making the pretence of trying to stand.

  ‘No, please, Doctor, stay as you are,’ the man replied as he approached. ‘No need for such formalities between friends.’

  ‘Colleagues,’ Quill corrected. ‘I have no friends. Sit.’

  Throwing his coat over the back of a chair, Dorjan did as instructed.

  ‘May I say that you have improved since last we met, Doctor?’ Dorjan said.

  ‘You may, but it would not be true. Although I admit, some scars are healing both physically and within.’ Quill reached for the decanter on the nearby table. ‘But such things as pouring wine must still be done with care… No! There is no need to assist me. Not with this simple task.’

  He filled two crystal glasses and having replaced the decanter with a trembling hand, cautiously lifted a glass and passed it to the man opposite.

  Dorjan thanked him, and having swirled the liquid and sniffed its bouquet, they clinked their glasses before sipping. The flavour of the blood-red liquid brought a smile of admiration to the visitor’s face.

  ‘You found a Golden Mediasch,’ he said, impressed.

  ‘I am a man who keeps his promises, Dorjan.’ Quill swirled the wine once more. ‘I promised you this as I promised you your revenge, and as I promise you again, no-one will suspect. That is, as long as you are still prepared to follow my instructions to the letter.’

  Dorjan put down his glass. ‘Not wanting to appear sceptical,’ he said, ‘I must ask you to swear me my security once more. I am sure you understand.’

  Quill nodded carefully, a gesture which involved moving his left shoulder as well as his head as the two were fused by a hideous burn.

  ‘You said you had concerns, and I appreciate you taking the time to travel down to see me before I leave,’ Quill said. ‘As you know, mobility is no longer my forte. I will need all my strength for the journey ahead, as you will need to summon your deepest resolve to play your part.’

  ‘I am more than resolved to see this through for my bloodline and my own satisfaction.’

  ‘And yet you are anxious.’ Quill shifted in his seat, grimacing. He suffered little pain, and his mobility was as good as it was ever going to be, but the pretence h
ad to be maintained if he wanted to keep Dorjan’s sympathy. ‘Tell me, what troubles you?’

  The man took another sip of wine, it was too good to leave aside for long. ‘It leaves a bitter, but not unpleasant sting on the tongue. Will it taste exactly like this when served?’

  ‘I am certain of that,’ the doctor replied. ‘I am a man of science. You are still in possession of the watch?’

  Dorjan tapped the base of his glass against the fob chain hanging from his waistcoat, and Quill nodded. ‘Next?’

  ‘The man I will meet,’ Dorjan said. ‘You remain sure of his loyalty?’

  ‘If correctly bought, yes. The purchase is down to you. I have told you his weakness, and I have done my research. The timing is right, and a great deal of money is owed. Once a man starts on the path to gambling, there is no leaving it, and certainly not for a man like him. I have known him for a few years, I have witnessed him at the tables, and I have never seen a man so skilled in trickery lose so habitually. He, like your victim, can see no further than his own vanity.’

  Reassured, Dorjan took another sip. ‘Victim.’ The word rolled from his tongue on a carpet of Romanian accent, the second syllable tumbling as it fell. ‘It has a delicious ring to it.’

  ‘As does revenge, and you shall have yours.’

  ‘I demand mine,’ Dorjan’s tone changed. His lips drew back, displaying straight, sharp teeth as he seethed. ‘For what he plans to write and say about my people, for what he has already written and said, there is no other outcome possible.’

  ‘I see the fire in your eyes, colleague, but dampen it,’ Quill warned. ‘You must keep your head level, no matter what comes, and you must stay married to the plan. Be calm, but be cautious. There will be others there who have enquiring minds. Clearwater has drawn men to him who are unknown to me. Men of courage and loyalty. Trust none of them but the one I have mentioned.’

  ‘I understand, Doctor, but…’ The visitor paused, anger quelled by lingering anxiety.

  ‘The boy?’

  ‘The boy,’ Dorjan agreed. ‘Necessary?’

  ‘An insurance against the unforeseen.’ Quill again shifted in his seat, this time to check the time on the mantle clock. ‘I must prepare,’ he said. ‘But before we part, yes, the boy is important. Should the gambler fail you, you will have a second stab at revenge, but he will not fail, and nor will you. This matter is too deeply driven into your heart to allow it. I am wrong?’

  ‘You are not, Sir.’

  ‘Then it will come to pass as we have arranged. Trust in me, Dorjan. Your duty will be fulfilled and your oath as Protectori ai Szekely will remain untainted. More, you will revel in its glory, having prevented the unthinkable. I am correct?’

  ‘Always, Doctor. The Protectori and I thank you.’

  ‘You can save your thanks until we meet in Rotterdam. Take the boy, put the man in play, and attend our meeting. There will be no need to stay and see the deed done, not once our pawn is aligned. Now, if you have no other concerns, we should toast our trust, and prepare for our journeys and our vengeance.’

  The tapping of their glasses rang out like the most delicate of death knells.

  ‘To trust and vengeance,’ Quill said. ‘Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal.’

  ‘I shall do just that.’ Dorjan grinned, before draining his glass and crushing it in his hand.

  Two

  Even in his sleep, Silas knew something was wrong. Whatever dream he had been having scuttled to the darker recesses of his mind, scared away by the knowledge that he was alone, and the man who should have been beside him was no longer there.

  He opened his eyes to the silvery glow of the mirror above the fireplace, and below it in the grate, a pile of grey embers behind the guard. The air was scented with woodsmoke and clean linen, thinly veiling traces of his lover. He reached behind to find Archer’s hand, intending to pull his arm around his chest, to nestle into the security of his presence and be comforted back to sleep.

  There was no hand and no lover, just a crumpled, warm sheet and a disrupted eiderdown.

  When he rolled to face where Archer should have been, he saw only the clock by the light of the faltering candle. Four in the morning. The darkest hour.

  Shadows painted the room. From the uneven landscape of the bed to the oak posters that guarded its corners, from the dead fireplace to the spectral glow of the looking glass, everything was dappled with a grey ghostliness. In the shifting candlelight, the corner of the wardrobe became a mountain peak projected onto the bathroom door, itself a four-panelled patchwork of uncertain furrows and highlighted mouldings, while table legs were cast like railway tracks across the floor.

  A more stable light came from beyond the window where Archer stood naked in silhouette looking out across the moor.

  ‘What’s up?’ Silas asked through a yawn.

  He wasn’t sure if he had been woken by the chime of the stable clock or Archer’s absence, but he suspected the latter. It wasn’t uncommon to wake and find the viscount had snuck back to his adjoining bedroom in the early hours to avoid discovery.

  A powerful arm beckoned him to the window, and Silas obeyed. He collected the viscount’s dressing gown on his way, his bare feet sinking into the carpet, warmed by it and reassured. Holding Archer from behind, he delighted in the feel of his broad chest and the press of his naked back, and kissed his neck before offering the dressing gown.

  Archer took it but didn’t put it on. ‘Quill is out there,’ he said. ‘Four months, no word, and now, through a dream, I know he watches us.’

  Silas shivered. ‘Don’t trouble yourself.’

  ‘Listen.’ Archer cocked his head. ‘What do you hear?’

  Silas heard nothing except the beating of their hearts, but reluctantly letting his lover go, he stood beside him and peered into the platinum night.

  ‘I hear Thomas nagging that you’ll catch cold,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought I heard…’ Archer held up a finger as if he was expecting the sound to come again. It didn’t. ‘I thought it came from beyond the tower. Across the moor. Beyond the railway line.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘Screaming. It woke me, or it may have been in my dream. It’s strange…’ He faltered until Silas took his hand. ‘I was expecting it before it came as if someone spoke and told me to wake. I heard first the clock, and a short while after, screams.’ His voice was hushed, as though he was talking from within his dreaming.

  ‘From behind the tower?’ Silas humoured him. ‘Out on the moor?’

  ‘Yes. Faint, very faint. And the bell…’

  Silas took back the gown and hung it over Archer’s shoulders. He put an arm around his waist and held him close, his fingers playing along the half-moon scar that ran from Archer’s chest to his groin.

  ‘What about the bell?’

  His lover’s gaze remained on the silent scene, his sad eyes dark beneath their brows. Wandering in his thoughts, Archer struggled to express a painful memory.

  ‘Becalmed on the Black Sea,’ he said, his voice far away. ‘Coming up to six bells, three in the morning. A night like this with a weakening moon. We had been fog-bound for two days. It was the second night and my watch. Quill was with me, and Hawley, we had midshipmen about, but no-one spoke. Nothing stirred. No rigging hissed, the jack hung limp, the ensign hushed. Not a breath of wind nor sigh of wave.’

  A blink brought back an unsettling image, and he cradled Silas beneath his shoulder.

  ‘When six bells was rung, all of us to a man made a jolt. We had been transfixed by the padding of the fog, it pressed on our chests as if to smother us, and yet we could breathe… The chimes echoed only briefly, the sound dulled by vapour. The ring was… funereal, and as it died, so it left behind a certainty. I knew what was to happen next.�
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  His hand unconsciously moved to Silas’ head where his fingers curled thick, black hair.

  ‘I felt it before we heard it. A vibration from the inside out. My breathing was crushed, but I was suddenly alert. It was wrong, the order of the sounds. The bell, a scream and then a gunshot immediately followed by cannon.’ A shudder, and he was more awake. ‘Sorry,’ he said, his voice more assured. ‘I was drifting. I expect I heard fox in the grounds.’

  ‘Are you feeling alright?’

  Archer took Silas in his arms and pressed their lips together. ‘I was only dreaming.’

  ‘About seeing things before they happen?’

  ‘Feeling them before they happen.’ Archer looked back to the moor, listening. ‘Something’s not right.’

  ‘You want me to ring for James? Get Fecker to go and look?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Just a feeling.’

  ‘Right, well, if you’re sure. It’s cold, and it’s four o’clock in the fecking morning.’

  Silas led him back to bed and pulled the eiderdown tightly around their entwined bodies. Archer fell asleep within seconds, but Silas lay staring at the monochrome ceiling, his thoughts unsettled. Dreaming or not, Archer had been right about one thing. Quill was out there somewhere, and he had left them alone for long enough. While Archer dreamt of the past, Quill would surely be dreaming up something for their future.

  Three months had passed since Silas first set foot in Larkspur. He had arrived on Christmas Eve after a long journey that began the previous October. When he thought about everything that had happened since Thomas walked into The Ten Bells in Greychurch and invited him to meet a viscount, his mind was unable to take it in. At least, not in one continuous thought. Playing each moment separately was the only way of keeping perspective. Flirting with Thomas and then meeting Archer, the world standing still as he realised something deeper than physical attraction drew them together. The business with the Ripper, being held at knife-point, the incident with the runaway train, the opera house, and then his time in gaol, it was too much at times, and he had to shake himself to break free of the past and look forward.