‘I’m afraid I can’t.’ James pulled a long frown, clown-like and exaggerated. ‘Only the ladies are allowed up here.’ Leaning in conspiratorially, he whispered, ‘I had to get special permission.’
‘I’m not a lady.’ The lad’s cheerfulness had returned.
‘I know.’ James returned the smile. ‘But that’s how it is. When Lucy comes back, I will go, but I’ll come back in the morning, and we’ll see what’s what. How does that sound?’
‘Will you read to me?’
James’ heart was warmed and wrenched at the same time. On the one hand, the boy’s trust was touching, but on the other, the request was pathetic, as if it was a desperate plea not to be left alone.
‘What were you reading?’ he asked, reaching for the book by the boy’s side.
‘The nice lady leant it to me.’
‘Oh, “Kidnapped”?’ James read the cover. ‘I read this one last year. Are you enjoying it?’
‘I’ve only done the first bit. There are lots of long words in it, but I am trying.’
‘Good lad.’ Not knowing how long Lucy intended to be, James opened the book. ‘Just until the nice lady comes back,’ he said and prepared to read.
‘James?’
James looked up from the page. It was the first time the boy had said his name, and the use of it endeared him to the lad.
Apparently, the endearment ran both ways, because Jerry patted the bed and shifted over, saying, ‘Sit here?’
The boy had been through a hideous experience, and had possibly lost his family; it would be churlish not to agree. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, but only because such a thing was new to him, James did as he was asked and rested against the headboard, his legs stretched over the covers with Jerry beside him.
By the time Lucy returned, Jerry was asleep beneath James’ arm, and the valet was engrossed in chapter three.
‘He’s taken to you, Mr Wright,’ Lucy whispered, as together they Jerry down and tucked him in.
‘Poor little mite,’ James said. ‘Doesn’t remember much. Keep an eye on him, will you?’
‘I will.’
As Lucy turned down the gas, and James tip-toed to the door, he spied a pile of clothes on a chair and asked, ‘Are these his?’
‘They are. I meant to throw them away. They’re ruined. Oh, he had some money in the pocket, so I put it by his bed.’
‘Okay. I’ll get rid of these,’ James whispered as he collected the clothes and left.
Passing through to the gentlemen’s passage and taking the backstairs down to check on Thomas, he examined the articles to ensure nothing had been missed and none of the boy’s personal possessions, if he had any, would be thrown out. There was nothing in the pockets, not even a railway ticket, and the trousers, jacket and shirt were ripped and unwearable. Pausing on the stairs, he tucked the clothes under one arm, and out of a valet’s habit, began folding the garments to make a neat bundle. It didn’t matter they were to be discarded, clothes should always be treated with respect. He held the jacket open and shook it, only then noticing what was inside the collar; four letters stitched in needlework by hand. They were not a tailor’s label, nor were they a brand or a shop.
‘If his name’s Jerry O’Sullivan?’ James mused. ‘Why does his jacket belong to someone with the initials INTS?’
Eight
For the second night in a row, Silas was woken just before dawn. Again, he was alone in a bed, but this time it wasn’t Archer’s absence that stirred his sleep, it was the sound of an unfamiliar voice.
It took him a moment to remember where he was, and when he did, his first thought was that Thomas needed him, and he had thrown back the covers before he realised the voice was not that of the butler, but was coming from the other room. Apparently, Mr Smith was awake and talking.
Putting a dressing gown over his pyjamas, he collected the candle from the dresser and padded barefoot across the carpet to the door. Holding the flame towards Thomas’ room confirmed that Tom was asleep, so Silas approached Smith’s room, protecting the flame with his hand so it didn’t throw too much light. There, he stood with his back to the wall, and his head cocked to the darkness beyond the doorway. If Smith was with someone, they were not replying. Silas heard only one voice, and it was muffled as it rose and fell in volume and uneven rhythm. The words formed a pattern of sorts, and he realised that Smith was repeating lines as if he was trying to memorise a verse. Intrigued, Silas placed the candle on the floor and peeked around the corner.
Smith stood at the window in much the same way Archer had done the night before, only he wasn’t looking out across the moor. His head was down, and his hands hung limply by his sides. For a moment, he reminded Silas of a schoolboy being told off and muttering his excuses while staring at his feet in shame, but then, he wondered if Smith was asleep. The voice was low-pitched, and the words growled and spoken from the throat. The syllables were discernible even through the man’s accent, but they were not words he understood.
‘Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal.’
Smith repeated them unaware of Silas’ presence as he stepped silently into the room where the words lay heavily in the gloom.
‘Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal.’
The candle flickered, throwing low light on the carpet, and its shadows danced, giving the appearance that the bed was swaying. A sliver of moonlight fell like a sword-slash across the floor, and broken by the space between the chair and the wall, landed on a painting as a lone, rectangular spotlight. Everything else was darkness, a shroud around the animalistic voice.
‘He seeks to take the family name. He means dishonour, he means you shame. Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal.’
Outside, a fox screamed, marking its territory, but even the chilling suddenness of the noise didn’t deter Smith in his sleep-talking. He repeated the phrase, a mixture of English and some other language, taking a deep, hissed breath after each repetition.
It was best to leave the man alone. Smith had been through a trauma the same as Thomas, and his half-asleep, half-awake state was probably the result. To disturb him might cause too much distress.
Silas crept back the way he had come, and at the dressing-room window, stopped to look to the east where the first grey dash of dawn was fighting for life. Sunlight would soon wake Smith naturally, and it was safest to let it happen that way.
With the man’s voice rumbling incomprehensibly through the wall, Silas lay down and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. Something in the words added to his already creeping unease, a meaning he couldn’t grasp, an intent perhaps. After a few minutes, he rose. Thomas’ room felt safer, and he curled himself in the armchair to doze against troubled dreams.
When he woke, it was to the sound of gentle knocking. His legs were cramped, and he stretched them as he unwound himself from the chair. Thomas had also heard the knock, and after a brief moment of confusion, tried to sit up.
Confusion deepened as Archer appeared carrying a tray in the same way Saddle or Barnaby would attend His Lordship.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ the viscount said, affecting the haughty voice that Tripp had once employed. ‘I do hope you slept well.’ He placed the tray on the bedside table and walked with a straight back to the window, throwing a playful wink at Silas as he passed. ‘The weather appears quite clement this morning, Mr Payne’, he said, drawing the curtains.
James entered carrying another tray and smiled at a dumfounded Thomas. ‘Good morning, Sirs,’ he said sailing through to Smith’s room as if this was an everyday occurrence.
‘What are you two playing at?’ Silas laughed, stretching.
‘I always wondered what it was like for the footmen,’ Archer said before plumping Thomas’ pillows. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Out of place,’ Thomas said.
‘Any pain, Mr Payne?’
‘Very funny. I mean, sorry, My Lord. Just a little.’
‘It’s okay, Tom,’ Archer sat beside him. ‘Honestly, how are you?’
‘Stiff.’
‘Shall I call for Jimmy to help you with that?’ Silas joked, and Thomas tutted.
‘I need to move around,’ he said. ‘I’ll get up and see to the breakfast room.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Archer was adamant. ‘Barnaby is doing that.’
‘I must do something. I am not staying in bed all day.’
Archer lifted the tray and placed it before his butler. ‘Actually, you are,’ he said. ‘Mrs Flintwich has made you coffee and toast. There’s marmalade too, and a leftover cake of some dubious description.’
‘Sir, really, I can’t…’
‘Shut up,’ Archer said flippantly. ‘You eat that, and then, if you are up to it, you may get up and go to your own room to rest.’ He turned to Silas, staring from the window. ‘Any problems?’
‘No,’ Silas replied. ‘Not a sound from Tommy. Mr Smith was sleepwalking, though.’
‘I should go and see him.’
James was back. ‘Your guest is awake, Sir,’ he said. ‘I said you would be in directly.’
‘Thanks, Jimmy.’ Archer patted Thomas’ leg. ‘Tom, this is an order. You only get out of bed if you feel up to it, otherwise, stay here until you do. Doctor Penhale should be up later, so you really ought to wait until he has seen you…’
Thomas’ hand on his shoulder halted his fussing. ‘Archer…’ He whispered in case a maid was waiting within earshot. ‘I’ll get up in a minute and go to work. Please, it’s what I need to do.’
‘Could be for the best,’ Silas suggested. ‘Be as normal as possible. Might help you forget.’
Archer conceded and left to pay a visit to Mr Smith.
Silas said nothing about the strange sleep-talking, but he remembered the words. They had stayed with him through his dozing, and he could hear them in the man’s accent. Wondering if Fecker might know what they meant — the accent was not dissimilar to his — he left James to help Thomas, and returned to his own room to wash and change.
‘Mr Smith seems remarkably well,’ Archer reported as he joined Silas at the breakfast table a short while later. ‘I insisted he stay upstairs and rest until Penhale gets here, though. Morning, Barnaby.’
The footman greeted him in his usual fashion and immediately set about serving Archer at the table. Silas preferred to help himself, but Archer was a man of routine when it came to breakfast and always had the same thing. Barnaby had quickly learnt his master’s requests, and after pouring his coffee, thick, black and Turkish, arranged a plate of eggs, bread and kidneys.
Silas was still mulling over Smith’s strange words and was keen to speak with Fecker. His friend usually exercised the horses early in the morning with the help of the stable boys. Danylo, also a keen horseman, but not as skilled as Fecker, joined them before starting work on the kitchen garden and smallholding Archer had given him, and there was no point going to the stables until later.
‘What time are you expecting the doctor?’ Silas asked, poking a sausage around his plate.
‘It depends on how busy he is,’ Archer replied. ‘I thought I might go down shortly and see how they are doing. Find out what’s happening to the… To those who didn’t survive. See if there is anything I can do. What about you?’
‘Need to see Mr Andrej. And I thought I might look at that book you talked about.’
‘What book?’
‘The one about the Romanians.’
‘Oh, well good luck with that,’ Archer laughed. ‘It’s just one of about a thousand in the library.’
‘If I might, My Lord,’ Barnaby said, placing the viscount’s plate. ‘It would be one of four thousand two hundred and thirty.’
Archer was aghast, impressed, rather than offended by the correction from his young footman. ‘How do you know that?’
Barnaby blushed and looked at Silas for advice. Silas encouraged him by pointing his fork at the viscount.
‘My grandfather was the librarian at Larkspur until just afore he died, Sir,’ Barnaby said. ‘Sorry, just before he died. Then me father took over in his spare time, when he’s not at the farm.’
‘Your father is Mr Nancarrow?’ Archer was shocked. ‘Why didn’t I know that?’
‘I expect you did,’ Silas said to cover Barnaby’s disappointment and Archer’s embarrassment. ‘But what with the train wreck yesterday, you no doubt forgot.’
‘Yes, quite.’ Archer was the one now blushing. ‘I’m sorry, Barnaby, it completely slipped my mind.’
‘That’s alright, Sir. He don’t come to the house often, and I’ve not been above stairs long, so you and me have not much spoken.’
‘All the same, I’m terribly sorry to have forgotten, old chap. How many did you say?’
Barnaby repeated the number, adding, ‘And that’s without those on the gallery level. Another six hundred up there.’
‘And somewhere among them is a book about the Order of the Rasnov Dragon,’ Silas said. ‘I’ll start looking.’
‘And for me? What am I doing after I’ve seen Penhale?’
Archer glanced across the table at his private secretary who had finally decided to eat the sausage. It was halfway to Silas’ mouth when he was caught, and he put it down gently.
‘Without your diary, Sir,’ he said, ‘I can’t be completely certain, but today was set aside for the Easter dinner and guest arrangements. Mrs Flintwich and the menus at three as I remember. Mr Payne and the wine list before lunch, and the table plan at some point. You also wanted to dispatch messages to your guests warning them they may have to take a carriage from further down the line because of the accident, but confirm that your guest of honour is still able to attend.’
‘That sounds right,’ Archer said, nodding. ‘Barnaby?’
‘My Lord?’
‘Would you ask Mrs Flintwich if she is still free this afternoon?’
‘She is.’
The voice came from Thomas, standing in the doorway in his black-and-whites. Archer twisted in his chair, and on seeing his butler, stood.
‘Mr Payne, are you well enough?’
‘I am not unwell, My Lord,’ Thomas said, walking into the room as upright as usual but at a slower pace. ‘Just a little stiff in places.’
‘Not dizzy? Penhale won’t like you being out of bed.’
‘I am perfectly fine, My Lord, thank you. Barnaby, I will take over here.’
‘Very good, Mr Payne.’ Barnaby was unable to hide his disappointment, but he nodded once and smartly to the butler, and then his master, and retreated.
‘Come and sit down, Tom,’ Archer said once the footman had left.
‘No, thank you, Sir. I would rather stand and keep my limbs moving. How is the boy? Do we know?’
‘James has gone up to see him,’ Archer said, watching Thomas closely as he moved to the sideboard to check that everything was in order. ‘The lad seems to have taken a shine to Jimmy.’
‘While you’re both here and we’re alone…’ Silas put down his knife and fork. ‘Has Mr Smith said anything?’
‘Only how grateful he is to be alive,’ Archer told him. ‘And to thank us, ask where he is and apologise for being a burden, which he isn’t. Why?’
‘The thing is,’ Silas went on. ‘He was talking in his sleep last night, or early this morning. Standing at the window and mumbling. I assume he was asleep.’
‘What was he saying?’
‘If I’ve got this right…’ Silas thought back. ‘He said, “He seeks to take the family name. He means dishonour, he means you shame.” And then something in a funny language. Something like “Y’all pay
bayat, o Moira potato.”’
It meant nothing to Archer, but he sought clarification. ‘Take the family name?’
‘Yeah. It was a rhyme, apart from that last bit.’
‘Which, I assume, is Romanian,’ Archer said. ‘But my bunica didn’t teach me that many words.’
‘I thought Fecker might know what it meant.’
‘He’s Ukrainian.’
‘I know that, Archie, but aren’t they the same place?’
Behind him, Thomas coughed.
‘Not quite,’ Archer said, throwing the butler a wide-eyed warning. ‘Completely different really, but it’s worth asking. Why are you so interested?’
‘It’s the tattoo,’ Silas admitted. ‘And the way he’s got nothing on him. A Romanian down here in Cornwall, on his own, no luggage, covered in a dragon and talking in his sleep about stealing and dishonour. Smells fishy.’
‘I expect his luggage was lost in the crash,’ Archer reasoned. ‘We have no cause to be suspicious of a traveller just because he has an accent and talks in his sleep.
‘He didn’t have luggage,’ Thomas said. He dropped the lid on the last cloche and touched the coffee pot to test its warmth. ‘Will you require more coffee, gentlemen?’
Archer refused, but Silas took the last from the pot, asking, ‘How do you know he had no luggage?’
‘I saw him on the platform in Plymouth,’ Thomas explained. ‘In fact, he came from the London down train, crossed the platform and waited not far from me. He was carrying nothing and had no porter, but instead, appeared to be looking for someone.’
‘Did he board with anyone?’ Silas asked.
His intrigue was mounting by the second. There was no reason for it apart from the unusual behaviour during the night, yet he was unable to shake off the feeling that Mr Smith was more than an accident victim.
‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘Maybe whoever he was waiting for didn’t show up, but I could have sworn he was looking. His head kept going from right to left, first-class to third. When our train pulled in, he boarded last. In fact, the guard had to tell him to close the door and be careful because he was leaning out when we moved off.’
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