Bitter Bloodline

by Jackson Marsh

  Silas removed the bible from the shelf. It was large and weighty, bound in a solid cover with brass corners and deeply engraved with a cross beneath the crest and name, ‘Riddington’ in gold letters.

  ‘Thanks, Barney.’ Silas dropped it into his lap where it pressed uncomfortably on his thighs. ‘I’ll have a look here if you could carry on searching for the Rasnov information.’

  ‘Aye, Sir.’

  Barnaby returned to his search as Silas undid the brass clasp and lifted the cover. The spine creaked as he opened the book as if unhappy at being disturbed. The pages smelt of age and damp, and yet had been in the cabinet, suggesting that the book had not been used for some time. He turned through the publisher’s pages and the first plates, guarded by tissue paper until he came to what he was looking for.

  Except it wasn’t what he wanted.

  For anyone researching Archer’s family tree, it would have been the perfect find; a chart of the parents and grandparents stretching back for generations across several pages, with information written in various colours of unfaded ink, but the only information was names and dates. Silas read the various surnames, which included Rasnov in one branch, and many others in other lines, and the tree ended, or began, with Archer Camoys Riddington and his date of birth, March 26th, 1859, and his older brother, Crispin Henry Riddington, October 25th, 1857.

  ‘Camoys?’ Silas said through a grin. ‘He kept that quiet.’

  Interesting though it was, it was of no help in his search for the history of the Rasnov assassins or Mr Smith and his possible connection. The pressure of the book on his legs was aching them, and he stood, heaving the bible, still open, intending to replace it.

  As he rose, the pages rolled back into place, fanning him and ejecting a sheet of thin paper. It spiralled to the rug, coming to rest by his feet, and with the bible back in its place, he picked it up.

  The page was a single portfolio from somewhere else, either left by accident or put with the family tree for a reason. Finding it blank, he turned it over to see what might be on the other side.

  What he read brought him crashing back into his chair, his mouth open and his mind whirling.

  The words were confused and confusing, but within them, he was certain, lay a clue to Mr Smith’s intentions. The events of the last twenty-four hours shunted back into place like the cars of a freight train in a siding. There was only one person who could throw any light on the writing.

  Archer.

  September 13th 1886

  He comes at night on silent wings of betrayal, this father of mine that strips away what was promised. What was once an assured future is now to be denied. I know it. I feel it. And for what? And for who? Not for me as with generations past. Not for me the law of primogeniture. Denied, instead to keep the name of the fraudulent family whose mask he wears. To keep it there in face but not in noble mind.

  Stripped, I am. Deprived, misunderstood. It is coming. I anticipate it tonight. I have prepared.

  He who is so worthy. He the leader, the King Henry on the eve of my day who rallies his troops with words of dignity signifying nothing. Me, the man-of-war who carried the pennant, tattered now by his cheating. Me, left to carry all I have remaining; anger, revenge, knowledge.

  I use all three. Anger to drive my revenge which is itself fuelled by knowledge, knowledge from contacts — but the truth might not be found when I am chained and bound. Lest the madness takes me.

  And when time is right, we righteous shall have our revenge. The battle plan is laid. The instructions given. Time will play its part, and I shall learn, one day, of his great falling. Not through the ease of death, but through the birth of shame.

  He will be given the family name, but he is nothing but dishonour personified, and there will be nothing but shame until his humiliation is complete.

  Dorjan is watching. Dorjan is prepared, and my faithful are watching him, staying close, as duplicitous as a father who no longer cares. Time will bring the pieces together when time is right, and the family will be protected. Rasnov will be mine again, and I will return triumphant protected by my Dorjan.

  Archer handed back the piece of paper and said, ‘Standard Crispin nonsense. Ramblings of a troubled mind, and, looking at the date, written just before my father had him incarcerated and stripped of his titles.’

  ‘But don’t you see a connection?’ Silas asked, folding the paper.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Smith.’ He lowered his voice. They were in Archer’s private sitting room across the corridor from where Smith was housed, but Silas was not taking any chances.

  ‘You’ve got this thing about Smith,’ Archer said, returning to the letter he was writing. ‘You need to let it go. He’s a perfectly amiable chap fallen on a difficult time. I’ve told him he can stay for the dinner if he wants to.’

  ‘But this,’ Silas persisted, waving the page. ‘It’s a threat against you. It’s your brother saying he is going to get revenge, and it mentions Rasnov, and Crispin being protected by someone called Dorjan.’

  ‘My brother was, and still is, mad. He would write rubbish like that all the time and rip them from his diary to leave them where I would find them. Intimidation that’s all.’

  ‘How many times have you looked in your family bible?’

  Archer growled. ‘Alright, so I wouldn’t never have found it there. But I found similar things inside other books, under my pillows, he even wrote to me when I was in Stonehouse recovering from the slicing he gave me. Actually…’ He took the page and reread the date before handing it back. ‘I was in hospital when he wrote this. It was just before his worst episode. My parents confronted him about what he had done to me, my father tried to flog him — ridiculous as Crispin was thirty years old — and Crispin attacked him. If it hadn’t been for Thomas and Tripp pulling him off, he’d have been hanged for murder. My father disinherited him, had him locked away, passed the titles to me by Lord’s Statute, and that was the end of the matter. Except, Doctor Penhale thought that Crispin’s behaviour contributed to my father’s early death from heart failure, so in a way, he did get his revenge. Now, that’s that, and I must get on with this.’

  ‘Don’t you see it?’ Silas showed him the name, running his thumbnails beneath it. ‘Dorjan. It doesn’t take much to work out that’s one of Jimmy’s wordplays on dragon.’

  ‘There is no J in dragon. You are being fanciful. I must finish this letter to my mother, and you must put that away and stop worrying about Mr Smith.’

  ‘All right then, the thing he was talking about in his sleep. The family name, dishonour, shame. In Smith’s late-night muttering, and in your brother’s twisted diary. There’s a connection, Archie.’

  ‘There’s a coincidence.’

  ‘”Rasnov will be mine again”,’ Silas quoted. ‘The name, the title. It’s Crispin writing himself a note, promising himself he’ll get his title back.’ He rested on Archer’s desk, facing him, and causing the viscount to sigh and put own his pen. ‘”My faithful are watching him.” Quill? That other man Thomas saw. Hawley?’

  ‘Hawley was a friend of mine.’

  ‘So was Quill.’

  ‘Hawley is dead.’

  ‘And Quill isn’t.’

  ‘And you want me to believe that a man Thomas happened to meet on a train here in Cornwall, is working for Crispin in the Netherlands, via Quill, to cause me harm so that my insane brother who…’ With a rustle of papers, he produced an invoice. ‘Who is still safely and expensively incarcerated in The Rotterdam Institute, and has no chance of reclaiming his title even if he wasn’t criminally insane, has engineered a plot…?’ He threw the invoice down. ‘Silas, I know you care about me. I know you’re bored, but really, you are imagining things.’

  ‘I have a feeling…’

  ‘Why?’ Archer stood.
‘Why not just send someone to slit my throat in the night,’ he said, pacing. ‘If Crispin wants me dead, and I don’t deny I wouldn’t put it past him…’

  ‘You thought he was the Ripper.’

  ‘I did, but we know that’s not the case.’

  ‘No, the Ripper is still out there, biding his time and dreaming up who-knows-what. Against you.’

  ‘Mr Smith is an accident victim like the boy. Like Tom. That’s all there is to it.’

  Silas wasn’t going to let the matter lie. The twisting in his stomach was so strong, he was convinced Smith was on the train for a reason; probably heading to Larkspur village to wait for the ideal time to visit the Hall and carry out Crispin’s wishes to murder Archer.

  Quill was on Crispin’s side, they all knew that. Quill had twice failed to kill Archer, so Crispin called in his ‘protector’, Dorjan, the Romanian in the spare bed with a tattoo of a dragon; an assassin. It made sense to Silas but only to his instinct. If he had asked Thomas for his opinion, he like Archer, would laugh him away. He needed to prove that there was at least cause for concern, and there were only two ways he could think to do it. Beat a confession from Smith, or understand Crispin’s ramblings and show Archer that Smith was Dorjan, the Dragon-Order assassin sworn to protect the family name of Rasnov, a name that should be held by Crispin but was, instead, Archer’s.

  ‘I’m going to look into this whether you like it or not,’ Silas said, unintentionally making it sound like a threat. ‘I’m sure that man is a Romanian assassin sent here to kill you.’

  ‘Well he’s not going to get very far,’ Archer scoffed. ‘Doctor Penhale has ordered him to stay in bed and rest his injured leg, he can’t walk unassisted yet, and all he’s got on him is a pocket watch. What will he do? Count me to death?’ Archer sighed, reining in his annoyance. ‘But, Silas, as it is you, and as you’re so keen to have something to do, then do whatever you want.’

  ‘I will,’ Silas shot back, angry at the way he was being patronised. ‘Because I care about you even if you don’t.’

  Archer’s face didn’t move for a full thirty seconds. His wide, chocolate eyes stared at Silas, his full lips cocked to one side, and an eyebrow raised as if he was caught between outrage and disbelief. The colour drained from his face, and his chest swelled as he drew in a deep, calming breath. Swallowing, his lips reformed into a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching for Silas’ shoulder and pulling him close. ‘I don’t mean to be angry with you. Like one of Thomas’ clocks, my spring is fully wound because of the Easter dinner, the Foundation, Tom… I shouldn’t take it out on you.’

  His kiss went a little way to alleviating Silas’ anger, but the viscount’s next words wrangled him.

  ‘I’ll humour you because it’s so sweet of you to think I am in danger. Again. You don’t know he is Romanian,’ he said. ‘And you don’t know he is an assassin. Just because of his inked skin… I expect there is a reason for that. Why don’t you go and ask him?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘No! Please don’t. It would embarrass me.’

  This time Silas sighed. Archer was nervous about his dinner party and the guests who would attend. Their presence meant a great deal to him, and maybe it was wrong of Silas to burden him with his suspicions.

  That was all they were. Loose connections put together because he didn’t trust a man on sight. He was acting with his heart where his friends would act according to their minds. Perhaps Archer was right. Silas was bored at Larkspur and yearned for the excitement of the city. His way of coping was to look for a distraction, and the dark man in the guest suite was an easy target.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you either, but being honest, that man scares the bejeebers out of me, and I don’t like him. I know!’ He raised his hand to prevent Archer interrupting. ‘No, I don’t know him, but like you, I’ve got this sense when something’s going to go bad, and I reckon there’s something rotten about Smith. But, leave it with me. I’ll do my own thing, and put my own fears to rest.’

  Archer wasn’t sure what he meant, and said so.

  ‘Just let me do my own thing,’ Silas said, an idea forming. ‘I’ll stay out of your way for a couple of days. You don’t need me.’

  ‘The dinner…!’

  ‘Ain’t until Friday, Archie. Tommy will be mended by then. Barnaby’s a great worker, Mrs Baker and Old Ma Flintwich are on top of things. You don’t want me under your feet.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Silas admitted. ‘But I’m not letting this rest until I’ve shown myself that I am being doolally about it. Trust me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then don’t worry about me.’

  Silas turned to leave, but Archer caught his arm, swung him around and braced the two together with a long, lingering kiss. His hands wandered to Silas’ backside, instantly arousing them both.

  ‘You got me all riled up yesterday,’ Archer whispered, his lips brushing Silas’ ear. ‘And we never got to finish that off.’

  ‘You ain’t getting round me that easily.’

  ‘I love you, you do know that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I know I am not always...’

  ‘Hey, Archie, shush. I love you, even when you’re in a bad mood.’

  They kissed again, longer this time, losing themselves in the embrace, hearts racing, cocks stiffening, hands exploring until they were broken apart by a cough.

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ Barnaby said, half in and half out of the room. ‘Shall I come back?’

  Eleven

  Archer, frozen in Silas’ arms, had never looked so terrified. He tried to back away, but Silas took charge. ‘Leave this to me,’ he whispered, still in the embrace, and only releasing Archer’s arms when he had looked him up and down. It was inevitable they would be caught one day, and Silas was grateful it was Barnaby who had stumbled upon them. Trying not to blame himself for leaving the doors open, he took a deep breath, gave Archer a wink intended to comfort, but which only shocked the viscount further, and stood to attention.

  ‘My Lord,’ he said, tipping his head and turning. ‘Ah, Barnaby, come with me, would you?’

  He gave the footman no time to reply, but passed him in the doorway, and waited for him to join him next door.

  ‘Right, Barney’, he said, stepping up to the man and fixing him with a dispassionate look. ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘I just arrived, Sir,’ Barnaby said. ‘The door was open, but I knocked before I entered.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘You and his Lordship talking, as I often do.’

  ‘I want you to be honest with me, Barney,’ Silas challenged, and Barnaby picked up on the mild threat.

  ‘I didn’t see anything that was my business, Sir,’ he said, nervously doing his best to maintain a footman’s composure.

  ‘Tell me,’ Silas said, taking him by the shoulder and leading him through the dressing room to his own suite. ‘Do you have many friends?’

  ‘Friends?

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I get along with Sally and Lucy, and some of the other maids,’ Barnaby said, uncertain if that was the correct answer. ‘Mark and I worked together fine, but we’re not close friends.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Nathan in the stables, but I don’t think he likes me as I like him. I don’t get much time to spend with friends, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. So, no-one close you can confide in, tell your secrets to?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  Silas stopped and turned the footman to face him. Equal in height, they stood eye to eye, blue on brown. ‘Well, you have now, Barney,’ Silas said, adding a
cheeky smile and his rougher accent. ‘You and I ain’t so far apart if you know what I mean.’

  ‘But you’re a gentleman, Mr Hawkins,’ the footman replied, his brow creasing. ‘And I’m just a footman.’

  ‘Yeah, and before that you was a hall boy, washing up after the kitchen staff, shifting boxes, sweeping floors, serving the servants, and now look at you.’ He waved his hands up and down the smart uniform. ‘Tails, collar, tie, shiny shoes, smart hair and all.’

  ‘I shan’t tell anyone what I saw, Sir.’

  ‘I wasn’t threatening you,’ Silas said. ‘How can I? It ain’t my job, get it?’

  Barnaby bit his bottom lip and glanced to the side. ‘Sorry,’ he said when he looked back. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Okay, Barney, then listen to this.’ Silas slouched against the wall and folded his arms. ‘Not many at Larkspur know what I’m going to tell you, and I’m trusting you to keep it that way. I’m the son of an Irish immigrant, born and brought up in the slums of Westerpool where me mam died when I was sixteen. With me two sisters to support, Karan and Iona downstairs, I went up to the city and found work in Greychurch. I worked on the streets, Barney, selling this…’ He opened his arms, showing his body, before folding them again. ‘Did that for four years before His Lordship found me and took me in, gave me a job and a lot more. I’ve broken into places, I’ve nicked stuff, I’ve been a naughty boy in more ways than one. I’ve even been in prison and up in court, but here I am, right before your eyes, telling you that if you want a mate, you’ve got me. I know I ain’t a lot, but I trust you, else I wouldn’t be telling you, and you can trust me. So, if you’ve got anything to ask me about what you just saw, or if there’s something you want to ask and you can’t ask Mr Payne or Saddle or them others, you’ve got me. You following me there, Barney? I’m your mate if you’ll have it.’