Bitter Bloodline

by Jackson Marsh

  ‘No. I was also travelling alone.’

  ‘No doubt all will be revealed in the fullness of time.’ Saddle came around the bed to top up the man’s water glass.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘What else, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Robert. What else do I need to know?’

  Being addressed by his Christian name increased Saddle’s hopes of a tip at the end of the man’s stay.

  ‘Only that you should stay at rest until Doctor Penhale has seen you. I believe he will be first with the boy, but you shouldn’t have to wait long. Do you need anything in the meantime?’

  ‘My clothes,’ Smith said, looking around the room. ‘Are they here?’

  Saddle had already noticed and disapproved of the pile of filthy garments the valet had left hanging over the back of a chair.

  ‘They are, Sir,’ he said, reaching for them. ‘Was there anything in particular?’

  ‘My watch? My jacket?’

  Saddle lifted the jacket, ripped and stained with oil among other less discernible things, and held it out by his fingertips. ‘I fear it has suffered worse than you.’

  Smith laughed. ‘I like your attitude, Robert. I could do with a few amusements right now. May I have it?’

  Saddle passed it over.

  ‘Sit, if you want.’

  ‘I shan’t, Sir, if you don’t mind.’ That would have been completely against etiquette, tempting though it was to breed familiarity.

  Smith examined the gold fob watch closely. Pressing the winder, the cover popped open to reveal the face. ‘Still working,’ he said. ‘Still has all the necessary parts.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’

  Smith dropped the watch into his pyjama jacket. ‘Whose nightclothes am I wearing?’

  ‘They belong to His Lordship’s secretary,’ Saddle informed him, shuddering at the thought of having to wear an Irishman’s pyjamas. ‘He being of a similar build to yourself, the housekeeper thought they would make a reasonable fit.’

  ‘I must thank him.’ Smith turned his jacket inside out and examined the lining. ‘That’s still intact,’ he said. ‘More good news.’

  ‘Still intact?’ Saddle asked before had had a chance to check himself. It was unusual enough for a man to examine the stitching of his suit, let alone be concerned for its condition following such a violent accident.

  By way of explanation, Smith showed him the inside, and leaning closer, Saddle saw that it contained a hidden pocket fastened by a camouflaged button. From it, Smith produced a bundle of notes, and Saddle’s dry heart leapt as much as his interest.

  ‘It’s all I have,’ Smith said. ‘I am so glad the valet didn’t throw these away. Will you tell him I am thankful? I’ll give him a tip.’

  The growl of jealousy as the back of Saddle’s throat only went unheard because he covered it with a sycophantic, ‘Certainly, Sir.’

  ‘Now then,’ Smith said, putting the jacket on the bed beside him. ‘Tell me more about this boy. What age is he?’

  ‘Age? I think Mr Wright said he was nine. His name is Jerry O’Sullivan. Does that mean anything to you?’

  Smith shook his head defensively. ‘Why should it? What does he look like?’

  Saddle was keen to know why Smith was taking such an interest, and thinking the man might identify the child, told him all he knew. ‘Dark, red-brown hair as they have in Ireland,’ he said. ‘Speaks as though well educated, or so Mr Wright tells me. Wary of everyone apart from the valet who he thinks rescued him, which is understandable, and likes to read books. Apart from that, nothing.’

  Smith considered the information, rubbing the bridge of his steep nose with the back of his finger.

  ‘He still rings no bells for you, Sir?’

  ‘No, Robert,’ Smith admitted. ‘Will he be staying long?’

  ‘That, I imagine, will be up to the doctor and His Lordship,’ Saddle replied, unable to think why Smith was unnaturally interested in the lad. If the boy was related to him or in his charge, it would make sense, but he had hardly asked about Mr Payne, who had, by all accounts, pulled him from the wreck just in time to save his life. Why should he be more interested in a stray child?

  ‘Clearwater said I might stay, but he has someone special happening this week?’ Smith probed. ‘I must be out of his way by then.’

  ‘Perhaps the doctor will have found room for you at the hospital,’ Saddle suggested. ‘Again, we will have to wait and see, but I am sure His lordship will be happy for you to rest here for as long as necessary.’

  ‘That’s kind of him.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was said without emotion, apart from perhaps annoyance, because Saddle considered the viscount charitable to the point of weakness.

  ‘What’s the big event?’

  ‘Big…? Oh, the Holy Week dinner.’

  ‘Which is…?’

  Remembering Smith’s other clothes, Saddle attended to them, holding them up to see if the man wanted them. Apparently, now he had his watch and his money, he wasn’t worried about anything else, and he shook his head at each garment.

  ‘The Larkspur Holy Week dinner,’ Saddle said, ‘was inaugurated by the late viscount some years ago. It was his way of entertaining friends who, like him, were of a devout Christian disposition, the dinner taking place on Good Friday. This year, under the new viscount, the dinner has been arranged by His Lordship for some of his acquaintances from…’ He swallowed a little bile. ‘The Garrick Club.’

  It was unusual to discuss Hall business in this manner, but the man was a guest with money. Saddle had gambling debts to pay in Padstow, and his creditors had, of late, grown impatient. The more he could do for Smith, the more chance he stood of paying those debts, and he had seen the potential in the man’s pocket.

  Smith was waiting for a further explanation and Saddle was happy to provide it.

  ‘The guests are arriving on Friday afternoon, he said. ‘They will stay until Sunday evening when, I believe, Mr Irving has arranged a private railway carriage for those returning to the city.’

  ‘Mr Irving? You’ll have to slow down, Robert. My head is not settled, and there is a lot for me to take in.’

  ‘My apologies, Sir.’

  ‘Go on, but slowly. A private carriage? Mr Irving? He must be very special. Who is he?’

  ‘Our guest of honour.’ Despite himself, Saddle managed a smile. He wasn’t a great lover of the arts, but when the country’s leading Shakespearean actor saw fit to grace the county, let alone the corridors of Larkspur Hall, even he succumbed to enthusiasm. ‘Henry Irving,’ he said. ‘You may have heard of him. A great actor and more. He is what they are calling an actor-manager because he not only performs, but also directs and runs the Lyceum Theatre, presenting productions as never before seen.’ His words were directly copied from a recent edition of The Times, but he doubted Smith would know. ‘There is talk, I understand, that Her Majesty, being so enamoured with the great man, may see fit to award him a knighthood. If so, he will be the first actor to receive one.’

  ‘Really?’ Smith was impressed. ‘I can see why he is to be a guest of honour.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir. He is currently on his way back from America and is breaking his journey here for a few days. We are all determined to give him a memorable stay.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Smith said, reaching for his glass of water. ‘Who else is coming?’

  The two were establishing a bond, and Saddle did all he could to encourage it. He had never spoken to a guest in this way, but then he had never been in a position to be so intimate with one. The man was intriguing, and not only because of his accent and his looks, which Saddle though rather Eastern European (he had seen pictures in The Illustrated Police News), but also because of his finances.

  ‘The others wi
ll include our Poet Laureate, Lord Tennyson,’ he said proudly.

  Smith was enthralled. ‘Clearwater knows some important people.’

  ‘His Lordship does.’

  Saddle let the lack of title pass. At that point, he would have allowed Smith anything, he was sipping water with one hand and holding open his pyjama pocket with the other. Saddle had so far counted seven five-pound notes. ‘Also in attendance will be Earl Romney and the great composer, Mr Sullivan,’ he added. ‘Of the Savoy Operas, although I prefer his more serious works.’

  ‘Their wives?’

  ‘No, Sir, I believe not, save for Countess Romney. Mr Sullivan is unmarried. Mr Irving will be attending with his business manager.’

  Smith raised his thin eyebrows above the rim of his glass, a prompt for even more information, and Saddle wondered if he was going too far.

  Apparently, he wasn’t. Smith wanted him to go further and was intentionally tapping the money in his pocket, suggesting without subtlety, that he was willing to reward Saddle for the information.

  ‘His business manager? Who’s that?’ the man asked before taking a sip from his glass.

  ‘Mr Irving’s associate is a man by the name of Stoker,’ Saddle said, and Smith spluttered on his drink. ‘A towel, Sir?’

  The offer was brushed away. ‘Sorry, Robert. It went down the wrong way. Stoker? The man who writes those stories?’

  ‘I believe he has published some short stories, yes, and a novel. Apart from that, I know little about him.’

  ‘I must certainly get myself fit and away before then,’ Smith offered. ‘On which note…’ He swung his legs from the bed, and Saddle immediately rushed forward to help. ‘No, no, Robert,’ Smith said, grimacing. ‘Let me see if I can manage.’

  He couldn’t, and nearly crashed to the floor as he put weight on his leg. Swearing, he offered no resistance when Saddle held his arm and assisted him to the bathroom.

  ‘Thank you,’ Smith said. ‘Sincerely, thank you. You’re the first person who has shown an interest in me since I woke up.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Sir,’ Saddle said, both eyes on the man’s pocket. ‘You only need to tell me what I can do for you, and it shall be done.’

  Smith clutched the doorjamb, and limped into the bathroom, saying, ‘I will hold you to that.’

  Ten

  The reason James hadn’t removed the tray from Smith’s room was because he was busy with Mrs Baker and Jerry. Firstly, the doctor had called and asked to see the boy, finally declaring him perfectly fit physically, but advising James to keep a close eye on the boy’s mental stability. Such a trauma, the doctor said, might well manifest itself in the boy’s behaviour rather than his body. With Jerry examined and given permission to leave his bed and be mobile, James’ next job was to search for clothes Jerry could wear, and the hall boy, Mark, was dispatched to Mrs Williams to ask for anything she might have, her youngest child being a slight boy of eleven.

  Meanwhile, Barnaby was unavailable to clear Smith’s tray because Silas had called him to the library to help find any information on the order of Rasnov assassins.

  ‘To be honest with you, Sir,’ Barnaby said as they faced the thousands of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves, ‘I’ve not much been in this room. It’s my father’s job once a month, and I’ve spent my life below stairs.’

  ‘Is your dad available to come and see me?’ Silas asked, also wondering where he might start.

  ‘Sorry, no, Sir. He’s over Marazion way for a few days visiting my uncle.’ Barnaby scratched his head, disturbing his earthy-brown hair. He flattened it back into shape and said, ‘But he does keep a record. An index, I think he calls it. It should be here somewhere.’

  Once Silas realised Barnaby was waiting for permission to find it, he offered him the room with a wave of his hand and followed the footman to the nearest reading table where, opening drawers, they found nothing but writing materials. At the next desk, however, Barnaby found what he was looking for.

  Six large volumes stood in a line on the shelf abutting the desk, and each one was titled, ‘Larkspur Hall Library’ and its volume number. Silas whistled through his teeth when Barnaby opened the first book and showed him the endless lists of titles.

  ‘There be some rare reading in here,’ the footman said. ‘So me father says. Some date back three hundred years. It was the viscount’s great…’ He paused to remember, chewing his lip and closing one eye. ‘His great-great-great-grandfather who started the collection proper.’ Holding the ledger, he swung to make an arc of the room and pointed to a distant bookcase. ‘That there should be the oldest books, under glass, see? Over there…’ Referring to the list, he counted the number of cases in from the door. ‘That’s the old legal collection. I believe the fifteenth Viscount Clearwater was in the legal profession, and over there…’ Another turn and a decisive indication of more shelves. ‘That’s the sixteenth viscount’s collection. From then on, as we get more modern, the books are arranged by subject, then author.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Silas said. ‘I never owned one book, let alone this many.’

  ‘Never had a book, Sir?’ Barnaby asked. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘That’s perfectly true, Barney.’

  ‘How did you learn anything, Sir?’

  It occurred to Silas that the man, no older than himself, although brought up as a servant, had known a great deal more comforts than Silas, a man brought up in the slums of Westerpool, and for a moment he was reminded of his roots. With the library shelves towering over him, the tall windows overlooking the moor, and the wood and leather furniture, marble fireplace and crystal chandeliers of his current home, the shared room in Canter Wharf seemed an impossible place to have come from.

  ‘I learnt about life in a different way,’ he said. ‘That’s all. So, where d’you think we might find a book about the Rasnov family and their Romanian history?’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Barnaby said, replacing the first volume and selecting another. ‘Because I’m not sure if that would come under travel, geography, general history or family history. The viscount is descended from the Rasnovs of Romania, did you know?’

  ‘I did, Barney.’

  The footman sifted through several pages, grimacing. ‘I’m really not sure, Sir.’

  ‘Would Mr Payne know? I could ask him.’

  ‘He was resting, Sir, so I’d leave him a while now. I’ll help you find what you want.’ Again chewing his lip and thinking, Barnaby eyed the walls, finally deciding on a course of action. ‘How about you start there with family history, and I’ll look over here in general history. The list here says the fifth shelf from the east wall — that’s this one — holds copies of the College of Arms records, and the one between the second and third window holds general. There’s a list of titles.’

  Silas read the list, which was written in a neat, cursive script and perfectly legible. ‘Good idea,’ he said and crossed the room, counting his way to the fifth bookcase. ‘Let me know if you find anything about Rasnov.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  To give Barnaby his credit, he hadn’t asked why he was assisting the secretary in his search instead of being downstairs attending to the silver and polishing the plate, and Silas was grateful for the lack of questions. It suggested instant trust. If the footman had asked, he would have had to tell the truth, and to say that he didn’t trust the viscount’s guest further than he could spit him, was probably not what the man was used to hearing.

  Archer’s words at the window the previous morning came back to him, his story about how he sensed bad things coming as he had done that night on his ship in the Black Sea. Silas felt the same unease, but only since first laying eyes on the mysterious Mr Smith.

  ‘Is anyone from Romania called Smith?’ he muttered, running his fingers along the spines.


  The books were a mixed collection. Taking them down one at a time, he found indexes where the names Riddington, Clearwater, Larkspur and others connected with the family were referenced. Turning to the entries in the texts, he found some were single lines, mentions in court circulars and published events, attendees at coronations and royal funerals, and general mentions of all manner of occasions where Archer’s family happened to play a part, but there was nothing about the Rasnovs.

  After half an hour, and only partly through the first shelf, he was starting to wonder if this was a waste of time when Barnaby called him over to the window.

  ‘Did you find something?’

  ‘No, Sir, but I had an idea.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Barnaby was flicking through his ledger, and when he found the page he wanted, he showed it to Silas.

  ‘Bible,’ he said as if that was the answer to everything.

  ‘Bible?’

  ‘Family bible, Sir. Here, there’s a note from a librarian before my father, probably granddad, and it says…’ Holding the heavy volume to the light, he quoted. ‘”Ancestral records in the Riddington family bibles.” It’s just a note in the margin beside a book about Larkspur Hall, but it’s a place for you to start.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘There’s more than one, Sir.’ With his head still down over his ledger as if it was a map, Barnaby led Silas to a reading table beside a glass cabinet on the far side of the room. ‘In there,’ he said. ‘There are three. May I?’ He pointed to the cabinet, and Silas nodded permission.

  The bottom shelf, half-hidden by the wood surrounding the glass panelling of the doors, held three large bibles. Barnaby crouched to examine them, and Silas dragged over two chairs so they could sit.

  ‘This one,’ the footman said, checking his list and pointing but not daring to touch, ‘is a Geneva Bible. That dates from about fifteen eighty and is probably here as a collector’s curio, rather than a working family bible. That one, the second, that’s a King James from…’ He again checked his notes. ‘Seventeen twenty, so not an original, but it may have a family tree in it, and this one…’ He indicated the third. ‘This is modern. Well, it’s also a King James, so my father’s notes say, but it was acquired only twenty years ago, and it’s one printed with family pages. If you’re looking for His Lordship’s ancestors, that’s a place to start, but I bet there are better records too.’