Barnaby swallowed and nodded. It was hard to tell if he was shocked by Mr Hawkins’ revelation or emboldened by it.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said. ‘I am honoured.’
‘No, I am,’ Silas grinned. ‘So, mate, is there anything you want to ask me about what you just saw?’
Barnaby thought for a second, his eyes flicking from side to side and finally settling on Silas. ‘I can’t think what I’d have to ask about you and His Lordship talking,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be any of my business for a start, but, Sir, if I do have a question, I shan’t hesitate to come and speak to you.’
‘Good man.’ Silas winked, and after hesitating, Barnaby did the same, although not as skilfully. ‘So, mate, what did you want with His Lordship?’
‘What did I…?’ Barnaby was suddenly a footman again. ‘Oh, I came to deliver a message to you, Mr Hawkins,’ he said. ‘Mr Payne wonders if he might have a word in his pantry. He would come up, but he’s been told not to.’
‘Of course he can, Barney. Shall we go?’
They parted at the bottom of the backstairs where Barnaby dutifully went about his business as if nothing had happened, and Silas veered right to the butler’s pantry. Thomas, when he found him, was at his desk poring over a ledger, and James was sitting in an armchair.
‘How you doing there, Mr Payne?’ Silas asked jovially as he swept in, closing the door to the bustle of maids. ‘Hello, Jimmy.’
‘Mr Hawkins.’
Thomas pushed himself painfully to his feet, but Silas told him to stay seated, for which the butler was grateful.
‘To be honest,’ he said. ‘Everything still aches, apart from my head. I am no longer dizzy, but Doctor Penhale says I should stay at my desk if not my bed, and I can’t stay in bed all day, there’s too much to do.’
‘And what can I help you with?’
Thomas glanced to the closed door before offering Silas a seat and telling him to bring it to the side of the desk so the three could talk quietly. Once they were settled, the butler said, ‘Thanks for coming down. I’d have come up to you, but…’
‘Yeah, Tommy, just get on with it. You look worried.’
‘If I am, it’s James’ fault.’
‘It’s the boy,’ James admitted. ‘There’s something he’s not telling me.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Doctor Penhale came up this morning, and I was with him when he checked Jerry over.’
‘That his name?’
‘He says it is. Jerry O’Sullivan, but that’s all he’s telling me, and he won’t speak to Lucy or Mrs Baker at all, apart from please and thank you.’
‘Jerry O’Sullivan? Sounds Irish to me,’ Silas said. ‘Does he sound Irish?’
‘No, not at all. He’s well-spoken and quite literate. If I was a gambling…’
‘Hang on,’ Silas laughed. ‘You mean the Irish don’t speak well and can’t read? You fecking gobshite.’
‘Sorry.’ James blushed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Just joshing with you, Jimmy. Go on.’
‘I was going to say, if I was a gambling man, I’d say he’d run away from a posh school, but that’s only a gut feeling. Anyway, he’s fine, the doctor says, and can get out and about tomorrow. He also said, though, that everyone involved in the crash was accounted for. The police have their names and addresses and have contacted their families, or are trying to. The only ones who haven’t been claimed or identified are Jerry and Mr Smith.’
‘So the kid was travelling alone?’
‘Looks like it,’ James nodded. ‘Sergeant… Who?’
‘Lanyon,’ Thomas reminded him.
‘Thanks. He’s sending messages to the stations back down the line to see if he can find out where young Jerry got on. Meanwhile, as he seems to have taken to me, I’ve been trying to get the information out of him, but he won’t talk about it.’
‘And you want me to try?’ Silas was sceptical. ‘He doesn’t know me.’
‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘If anyone can find out, it’s James.’
‘Okay.’ Silas wasn’t sure why he was there. ‘And?’
‘Then there’s the man in the guest room,’ James said.
‘Yeah? You don’t trust him either?’
‘I’ve told Tom about his inked skin,’ James continued. ‘But it’s more than that. There’s something… I don’t know. It’s just not right. He is not right if you get me.’
Silas was nodding.
‘And you feel the same?’
‘I do, Tommy. In fact, this morning, I was in the library with Barnaby, trying to find out about Mr Smith’s tattoo when I came across this.’
He drew Crispin’s garbled diary entry from his pocket, unfolded it and placed it before the butler. James rose to lean over Thomas’ shoulder and read it as Silas explained his concerns.
‘I showed it to Archer,’ he said when they had finished reading. ‘But he says it’s nothing to worry about.’
‘His Lordship’s brother did write a lot of these things,’ Thomas agreed, sitting back. ‘It was in the latter stages of his illness. We used to find them everywhere. The dining room was a favourite place, and usually just after we had laid it. He would leave them on the guests’ chairs, and Robert and I would have to discretely remove them without upsetting him, but before the guests arrived.’
‘I don’t see how that…’ James indicated the note, ‘could have anything to do with Mr Smith. It was written nearly three years ago.’
‘Two and seven months,’ Thomas muttered rereading the lines. ‘Just a madman’s jottings, but I can see what you might think, Silas.’ He looked up from the desk. ‘But you’re worried about Mr Smith.’
‘I’m worried about who he is, and why he is down here.’
Thomas took a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. ‘I can’t yet see anything except a set of coincidences,’ he said. ‘But James told me about the tattoo, and that made me think more about why Mr Smith was on the train.’
‘I’d be interested to hear what you’ve got to say.’ Silas drew his chair closer until his knees pressed against the side of the desk, and rested his chin in his hands, ready to listen.
‘There was something intriguing about him at first,’ Thomas remembered. ‘He went to great lengths to sit opposite me in the middle of the carriage. At every stop, he went to the window and looked out as if he was watching to see who got on and off. Then he would come back and sit opposite me again and play with his watch or stare at his shoes. Very odd behaviour which might have been designed to draw my attention.’
Thomas had withdrawn a book from his desk and began leafing through it, pausing in his search now and then to look up at Silas to make sure he was still listening. Silas nodded, and Thomas continued.
‘Smith asked questions about Larkspur,’ he said. ‘Intimate questions about life here, who visited and who worked where. At first, I thought it was just general conversation, but he asked especially about Easter, and what we did at the Hall. Without thinking, I told him about the dinner on Friday, and he immediately changed the subject. I was grateful for that as I hadn’t intended to reveal any details of His Lordship’s business. I discussed the wine instead, thinking it innocuous, and he had heard of the Purcari I had been to Plymouth to inspect.’
The page found, he turned the book to face Silas who leant in to look. Among the text was an illustration, large and clear with the words ‘Fig 1’ beneath it.
‘Mr Smith’s tattoo,’ Silas said, when he saw the drawing. ‘Is this the book Archie said he had about the Rasnovs?’ He’d not thought to ask Thomas where to find the books and mentally kicked himself.
‘It’s one of them,’ Thomas replied. ‘Saddle found it for me. It’s about the old families
of Romania, Carpathia, Hungary and so on. Read that.’
Thomas pointed to a section of the text, and James came to stand beside Silas so they could read together.
Fig 1
Engraving shows the Râșnov balaur sacru, the sacred dragon of the family Rasnov. This symbol, used by the Rasnovs, has largely and long thought to be that of the Protectorul Regalității Râșnov, the order of protectors of the once royal Rasnov family of central Carpathia.
Silas pushed the book away. ‘Mr Smith’s tattooed with the assassin’s mark because his ancestors used to protect Archer’s. Is that right?’
‘It’s what His Lordship said,’ Thomas replied. ‘And according to this, that’s the case. At first sight, Smith’s tattoo means he is not an enemy of the Rasnovs, and thus Archer, but is, in fact, a protector, so even if he was an assassin, he’s no threat to us. However…’ He turned a page. ‘Now read this, and look at that.’
Silas did, and saw what at first appeared to be the same illustration, this time marked ‘Fig 2.’
Fig 2
Again, the dragon, but note: the image is reversed - to the left, the west. This similar symbol is that of the Protectori ai Szekely. Unlike the Rasnov balaur sacrcu, this Protectori, an older order, are sworn through their families to protect the Szekelys against whom the Rasnovs fought for land in the 14th century onwards. The Procectori ai Szekely are sworn to destroy anyone who seeks to besmirch their proud, conquering ancestors or the Szekely name.
‘That’s all getting a bit foreign for me,’ Silas said, squeezing his eyes. Reading the text a second time made it no clearer. ‘What are Szekelys? Is that how you pronounce it?’
‘I think so,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s a chapter on their race later in the book, but the long and short of it is, because the dragon is looking left, Mr Smith is a Procectori ai Szekely, and we can assume from his painted skin, a member of an order of fighting men, or assassins if you will, sworn to protect his Szekely heritage.’
‘Two things,’ Silas said, still examining the drawing. ‘Protect it against what? And why in Cornwall? There’s something not right about him. It’s too much of a coincidence he was heading this way, and I’m not going to be satisfied until I find out more about these… Szekelys.’
‘Likewise,’ James agreed. ‘Which is why I came to talk to Tom.’
‘And I first suggested that maybe he had relatives in the area,’ Thomas explained. ‘In which case, you are both overreacting to nothing.’
‘But if not?’ Silas asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘If not,’ James said, ‘our reasoning went like this: If Smith wasn’t travelling to visit family, and he’s clearly not a tourist, and assuming that he’s not here to do harm to Archer because he has no reason…’
‘No reason at all,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘His Lordship is only an Honorary Boyar of the Musat-Rasnovs due to the distance of his lineage, and has never said or done anything against the Szekelys.’
Silas stared at him for a second before rolling his eyes. ‘You’re not helping, Tommy,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Smith’s no threat to Archer, maybe. I got the point. Go on, Jimmy.’
‘We thought that if it’s all innocent and circumstantial,’ James said. ‘Then why was he travelling towards Larkspur village?’
‘And the answer is?’
‘He wasn’t.’ Thomas sat back. ‘He said he was travelling onwards. He should have changed at Bodmin Road, but we steamed straight through. Which means we have a coincidence and nothing more.’
‘You’re sure about the tattoo?’ Silas asked, trying to remember the image. He could recall words and accents and recreate them without thinking, offering exact replicas of a man’s speech, but images were different, particularly ones smeared with blood.
‘I asked James to valet the man after lunch,’ Thomas said. ‘James had told me of his unease, and I thought a closer look would be in order.’
‘I helped him undress for a bath while the girls changed his sheets,’ James explained. ‘And in the drawing of the Rasnov assassins, figure one, the tattoo faces that way, but Mr Smith’s definitely faces the other way. He’s a Szekely, and only likely to harm someone who tries to hurt his family.’
‘And Archer’s Rasnovs haven’t done that?’
‘No,’ Thomas said with annoyance. ‘I told you. I have never heard it spoken of, and over the years, Archer…. His Lordship has told me all he knows about his past. You have nothing to worry about.’
‘Yet you called me down here.’
Thomas and James exchanged glances. ‘Yes,’ Thomas said, slowly, turning back to Silas. ‘The thing is, if I am to understand it correctly, when Smith thought he was going to die, he said he had failed.’
‘That’s how Archer translated the words,’ James agreed before turning to Silas, enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. ‘Which made us think, failed what? Or who. So, we did a bit more researching.’
The butler looked at his lover, and the valet reached behind for a newspaper. He threw it onto the desk, already open to a page, and Thomas angled it towards Silas.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is a review of a play that was performed in the city late last year.
‘Blimey,’ Silas swore. He was having trouble taking in all the information, and he hadn’t even mentioned Smith’s sleepwalking ramblings. ‘This is getting thicker than me. What’s a play got to do with Smith?’
‘To save you reading it,’ Thomas said, ‘this play was a putting-down of the Szekely people. The villain was a nobleman who went around eating women, or something equally as unpleasant and derogatory. It was morbid, to say the least. The critic, George Bernard Shaw, called it “An uneducated man’s stab at the Gothic, and a direct attack on an ancient people.” Apparently, it was politically charged and very bloody.’
That appeared to be the end of Thomas’ case, and when nothing more was said, Silas was more confused than before.
‘And what has that got to do with Larkspur Hall?’ he asked. ‘Come to that, what’s it got to do with west of here, if that’s where the bloke was going?’
‘Not west of here’, Thomas said. ‘Here, at Easter.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘The dinner.’
‘Keep going.’
‘The guests.’ Thomas leant forward and tapped the newspaper. ‘The theatre.’
Silas read the name. ‘And?’
‘More precisely, the actor-manager of that theatre.’ James rested his arms on the table.
Their faces were close, the three were conspiring, but Silas had been left out of the most valuable information. The answer.
‘And he is?’
Thomas sighed as if about to tell off a child for the third time, and said, ‘His Lordship’s guest of honour on Easter Friday is Henry Irving.’
‘Currently returning from a tour of America, aboard a steamer and out of contact,’ James added. ‘Which means he can’t be warned that there’s a man in the Bosworth suite possibly intent on killing him as soon as he steps ashore.’
‘In Cornwall?’ Silas smirked. ‘I was brought up in Westerpool, mate. I know steamers don’t pull into Cornwall. Not even Plymouth. He’ll get off at Westerpool, or sail around to Southampton.’
‘The liners dock at Westerpool, yes,’ Thomas nodded. ‘But there are tenders which go out to collect passengers and bring them to the west country, to save the long railway journeys from the north.’
‘Which made me think,’ James said, ‘that Mr Smith might be planning to assassinate Irving when he steps ashore. Think about it; it’s quiet here and remote, easier to slip away, and it would take at least a day for the city police to get down and investigate. We’ve seen how inept the local peelers are.’
That made more sense than Silas’ idea that Smith was Crisp
in’s protector and working with Quill, but he still couldn’t accept the idea of a man being killed because he appeared in a play,
‘So, what are you saying we do?’ he asked.
‘Smith’s going to be here all week,’ James said, his hazel eyes twinkling with the thrill of his plan. ‘Irving’s boat isn’t due into Newquay until Friday. Meanwhile, Smith’s got limited mobility and isn’t in a rush to go anywhere, and that’s good for us. We can watch him. I’ll dress him if he does get out of bed. Tom has asked Saddle to report his every move on the pretext that he’s concerned. We thought you could ask your sisters to do the same when they’re in there, but of course, without explaining why.’
‘Meanwhile,’ Thomas said. ‘We need to assume one thing and discover one other.’
‘Which is. What are?’
‘Because of my lack of discretion on the train,’ Thomas frowned, ‘Smith knows that Mr Irving will be here for the dinner, thus, he now has direct, but perhaps more public access to his victim. The train crash was a stroke of good fortune for him. I should have left him trapped.’
James took his lover’s hand and squeezed. ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he said. ‘And it’s not your fault. He would have read about the dinner in the papers.’
Thomas swallowed. ‘Either way, we must assume that he will act on the chance that has fallen into his lap. We don’t know exactly when that is likely to be, but Mr Irving is due on Friday afternoon and will leave on Sunday after lunch. We must be wary of Smith without embarrassing His Lordship.’
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