‘I fear you’ve picked up my homeland’s favourite card game with ease,’ Smith said. ‘But I would welcome a chance to claw back my losses.’
‘We are expecting your visitor presently, Sir,’ Saddle said. ‘Perhaps we should continue in the morning.’
‘You have had, what? Ten pounds off me?’ Smith said, impressed rather than outraged. ‘At least give me a chance to reclaim that before we finish. Shall we say, one hand, double or die?’
Twenty pounds would pay off Saddle’s debt, but should he, by some unexpected catastrophe, lose, he would owe Smith nearly a whole year’s wages, and the same again was already owed to the unfriendly fishermen of Padstow.
‘I really think that the morning would be…’
‘One five-card round with no danger of a draw.’
‘Tomorrow would be…’
‘No, Mr Saddle. We play now.’
Up until then, the room had been a place of warm bonhomie and equality. Two card players enjoying the gentlemanly thrill of a harmless gamble, and Smith’s tone throughout had been congratulatory. Suddenly, there was a sharper, menacing edge to his voice, and his eyes, previously wide in admiration, were now narrow. His mood had swung from pleasant to threatening in six words.
Saddle swallowed, his heart picking up its pace. It was his turn to deal, and all he needed to do was a reverse shuffle, slip and float, and lay out five cards each. This, he could do beneath the level of the bed where Smith couldn’t see; he had been successfully leading the game that way for nearly the last hour.
‘As you wish,’ he said, his throat dry but his palms slippery.
Watching the cards closely, he shuffled them before raising his head and smiling as though intent on not seeing the pack. Smith also smiled, but this time his lips drew back, revealing the edges of his teeth, and his eyes were none the narrower.
Smith dealt, and the play began.
‘There’s something else I should have said about Septica as it is played in my homeland,’ Smith said, placing a card and losing the first trick. ‘It’s a word we borrowed from the Hungarians some six centuries ago.’
‘How interesting,’ Saddle replied, wondering where this was going while he played his next card. ‘Why was that?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ Smith said as he considered his hand. ‘Tribes at war, the conquests of lands, one side coming in with its own customs and language and demanding those they left alive adopt them. There was, and still is, much of that in my part of the world.’ He placed his card and played straight into Saddle’s hands, again losing the trick. One more, and Saddle would win. ‘Us Szekelys are very proud. That’s my original race from within Romania, you understand.’
‘How fascinating,’ Saddle’s disquiet was worsening. There was intent behind Smith’s words, and he was sure it was not pleasant.
His unease increased further when Smith won the next trick.
‘More interesting is that the word Septica derives through a route of death and torture from the Hungarian word, zsirozas.’
Saddle played his penultimate card.
‘An interesting choice,’ Smith said without looking at it. ‘And it leaves you only the king of hearts.’
Smith played, and won his second trick.
‘And the word, zsirozas, means what?’ Robert dared ask, his nervousness apparent in his voice as he laid his final card.
‘Literally translated,’ Smith said, his teeth glistening through his crooked grin. ‘It means “greased”. Which is exactly what you have been doing to me since we began.’ Putting down the ace of trumps without even looking at what Saddle had played, he added, ‘As have I to you.’
Saddle’s skin dripped with cold sweat as the realisation landed in his gut like a fallen lead weight.
‘I believe your debt is twenty pounds, Mr Saddle,’ Smith said with a sigh. ‘I shall give you until I leave to pay up, else I will have to ask it from His Lordship.’
At first, Saddle thought the knocking was his heart against his hollow ribcage, but on the third strike, he realised it was someone at the door. Instinct took over, he swept up the cards and had just pocketed the deck and stood, when the door opened, and Mr Wright’s boyish face appeared.
‘I hope we’re not late,’ James beamed, stepping into the room.
‘Not at all.’ Smith was instantly jovial as if he hadn’t just ruined Saddle’s life, let alone threatened it. ‘Where is the poor chap who, like me, owes his survival to the good grace of faithful servants?’
James opened the door further, and looking behind, saw he was alone. ‘Jerry,’ he said with a sigh that suggested the lad had wandered off more than once. ‘Stop gawping and come in. Mr Smith is keen to see you.’
The child entered, his head raised to the ceiling, his eyes wide in awe of the mouldings and chandeliers before they fell on the gilt picture frames and furniture.
‘Come in, boy,’ Smith said, pushing himself up against his pillows. ‘Let us celebrate our luck and get to know each other.’
Jerry was too interested in his surroundings until James yanked his hand gently. ‘Jerry,’ he said. ‘Mr Smith is from Romania.’
The boy’s head turned to the bed, but the smile he had placed there lasted only a second. On seeing Smith, it faded, his mouth dropped as wide as his eyes, the colour left his cheeks, and he froze.
‘Don’t be like that,’ James said, crouching to the lad. ‘Go and say hello.’
Jerry had other ideas. He wrenched his hand free, turned and fled the room, leaving the three men to gawp at each other in stunned silence.
James reacted first. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. We’ll try again tomorrow,’ he mumbled before hurrying after the boy.
‘Perhaps he too doesn’t like foreigners,’ Smith said, and the threatening tone returned to his voice. ‘Close the door, Saddle,’ he added, reaching for his pocket watch. ‘I have a proposition for you.’
Saddle willed his limbs to cooperate as he did as instructed with the distinct impression that he was sealing his fate along with the room, and when he turned back to the bed to find Smith dangling his watch as if about to hypnotise him, he knew that the Romanian had seen straight through him from the start.
‘Sit,’ Smith ordered. ‘Sit and listen as I have listened to you. You have told me of your difficulty,’ he continued when Saddle had lowered himself fearfully into the chair. ‘And I have added to it. However, you are not the only man in a predicament, as I, too, need assistance. Give it, and your debt to me shall be forgotten.’
Optimism glimmered in Saddle’s tight chest.
‘Give it without question and do exactly as I request,’ Smith added, lowering his voice, ‘and I shall also see to your other debt. Do you agree?’
Hope grew but was tempered by mistrust. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Simply this, Robert…’ Smith adjusted his posture again and spun the watch on its chain until it landed in the palm of his hand. He showed it to Saddle. ‘I am offering you this watch for a reason. If you take it, you are binding yourself to an agreement that cannot be broken on pain of a very painful demise. You must do exactly as I say, else, as our proverb says, “One man’s breath is another’s death”.’
The message could not have been clearer.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Saddle was done with politeness. The foreigner had trapped and tricked him into servitude, but the stakes of refusal were too high. Even so, he was not a man to accept a promise blindly.
‘Take the watch, bind yourself to the promise, and I will tell you,’ Smith said with more than a hint of finality.
Saddle shook his head. ‘Not without knowing what it is you want.’
Smith’s thin mouth once again twisted into a grin. ‘I can see I am dealing with a man of principle,’ he said. ‘Which, in this case, is a good
thing. I believe that I can trust you, Mr Saddle, and if it turns out that I can’t, then… Well, you understand the consequences. I shall tell you what I want you to do, and you will see when I have finished, that you will not suffer in any way for doing it. But first, let me reassure you with another proverb from my homeland. It will absolve you of guilt.’
‘You will pay my debts?’
‘And write off the one you just accrued.’ Smith added temptation to his voice.
Left with no choice, Saddle nodded. Whatever the man wanted, he would do it, and in doing so, ensure his financial worries would be over.
‘What’s this other proverb?’ he scowled.
‘Chiar is tacerea este un raspuns.’
It was said like an enchantment, and sent a shiver through Saddle’s body.
‘Which means?’
‘It means, “Even silence is an answer.”’
Smith dangled the watch as he told Saddle exactly what he was to do.
The under-butler listened with no outward sign of emotion, but inside, his heart churned, and his stomach tightened. What Smith wanted was not impossible, but it was unusual. What the man offered in return was irresistible, and what Saddle stood to lose from carrying out his wishes was nothing compared to the reward.
When Smith had finished, Saddle answered with silence and accepted the watch.
Fourteen
The journey from Liskeard to the city lasted an eternity and Silas couldn’t rest. The sleeper car was comfortable enough, and he had a berth to himself, but his mind refused to let go of suspicions. The tattoo, Mr Smith’s presence at Larkspur, the link to Archer’s ancestry and the gut feeling that everything was connected played inside his head like music from a steam fair calliope. The image of the dragon returned with relentless regularity like the thumping of a bass drum while the words of Smith’s night-time mutterings clattered repetitively in strict rhythm until they became one with the rattle of the coach.
Sometimes sitting up and resting his head on the glass to see nothing but the reflection of his tired face, and sometimes lying down to stare at the dark ceiling, he imagined what lay ahead. In his vision of the days to come, he played a leading role in securing the safety of the viscount: returning to Larkspur to find everything in order and his concerns misplaced, with Archer forgiving him for leaving him alone during such an important week. As he turned to seek sleep by facing the wall, he imagined James’ face and heard him speaking encouragement, supporting Silas’ belief that Mr Smith was not who he pretended to be. A traveller with no luggage, singling out Thomas, asking about the Hall, the note from Archer’s demented brother, Dorjan, his protector, the Protectori, too many coincidences, too many possible connections but no proof…
It wasn’t until he woke that he realised he had slept, but even while sleeping, his mind had soldiered on and yet still found no answers among fractured dreams. After washing and dressing, he packed his bag and climbed from the carriage just after eleven the following morning to be greeted by air far colder than that which had seen him off from Cornwall. It went some way to revitalising his tired eyes, but his bag was heavy, and his limbs ached as he trudged through the steam and oil-smelling concourse of Paddington Station to hail a cab. On the street, he hoped he would feel more awake after a decent lunch at Clearwater House. He would need his strength to see him through the task he envisaged and the places he had to go, but right then, at the start of a long day after an endless night, not even the sight of clear sky, fogless air and the noisy bustle of the city could lift his spirits.
That job fell to a woman.
As Silas stood to take in the sight and remind himself of how he needed to be more alert and cautious than in the country, he was distracted by the call of his name. More unusually, it was a woman’s voice, and stranger still, she was waving at him from beside a familiar trap led by a very familiar horse. Silas approached, taking in the woman’s riding outfit and her straw hat from which a feather poked at a jaunty angle, and it wasn’t until he was close enough to make out her features that the mystery was explained.
‘Mrs Norwood?’ He greeted her, unsure whether to shake her hand or hand over his luggage. ‘What are you doing driving the trap?’
‘Hello, Mr Hawkins,’ the retainer replied, reaching for his portmanteau. ‘We got your telegram late yesterday evening, but Mr Norwood has to be at the publishing house today, so I thought I would come to collect you.’
‘But, you’re a…’
She had taken his bag and swung it into the back of the trap before he finished stating the obvious.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘And a woman who sees no reason why a lady can’t drive. Why, if I wasn’t teaching most other days, I might even take up being a cabbie. It’s quite thrilling. Here you are.’
She was holding the door open for him, and too dumbfounded to refuse, Silas climbed aboard.
Mrs Norwood ignored the whistles and taunts from the male drivers around her as she climbed deftly into the driving seat, picked up the reins and set Emma in motion with her head held high.
‘You have a good day for it,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘We’re expecting rain tomorrow. Two days you said?’
Silas stood to lean on the rail. He would have preferred to sit up front as he did when Fecker was driving, but standing to chat was good enough.
‘Aye. I must be back at Larkspur by Friday afternoon,’ he said.
‘I hope you’ll have time to tell us how the season has been,’ Mrs Norwood enthused. ‘And when you return, you must tell His Lordship that all is well at the house. Mr Norwood has seen to all the jobs Mr Payne required, and the new lighting has been installed. There are a few redecorations in the servants’ rooms yet to see to, but Isaac will be attending to them in good time. Now, I’ve prepared you a lunch, and while you eat, you can tell me all about Christmas. How is His Lordship…?’
She prattled on, asking questions but never allowing time for a reply, and Silas was reminded that at times, she could be as talkative as her husband. It wasn’t until they pulled into Clearwater Mews that she finally drew a breath and even then, only to halt the vehicle and jump down to open the gate. She led the horse into the yard, shut the gate, announced that she would stable the animal later, and helping Silas with his bag, explained how she had borrowed Emma back from Lady Marshall’s stable where both His Lordship’s horses were being regularly exercised and well cared for. By the time Silas entered the house, he was twice as exhausted as when he had stepped from the train, yet he had hardly said a word.
Walking back into Clearwater House brought a myriad of memories forgotten among the mist and magic of the Bodmin moors. He remembered his first visit, scruffy and stinking, emaciated and intrigued by the invitation, with Fecker towering behind. That had been six months ago, and he had not been in his house for the last three of them. It smelt different, and in places, the walls were not as he remembered them. They were in the same place of course, but where there had been gas sconces, now there were modern brass lanterns with reflectors and strange, round glasses within.
‘The new electricity,’ Mrs Norwood explained proudly as if she had fitted them herself. Silas wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. ‘You get used to them very quickly. Here…’ She demonstrated a switch, and Silas, who had seen larger and more impressive ones at the opera house, feigned ignorance so as not to deflate her ego.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot quieter, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is, Sir, and less smelly. Now, would you like to eat first or take a bath? Your room is ready, and I have heated the water, which, by the way, is still running on gas. After that, if you need taking anywhere, I am free all day, though I should be preparing lessons for after the holiday, and I have Easter Sunday school to think about, and I don’t like to leave the house for too long, but…’
‘Mrs Norwood!’ Silas stopped her with a grand smile but firmly shown palm. ‘Please, don’t trouble yourself. I know my way around well enough. I’ll drop my bags, come down and eat, change and be out of your way in a couple of hours.’
With that, he left her as quickly as he could without appearing rude and scurried up the backstairs to the first floor. Anymore of Mrs Norwood and the last of his strength would be sucked from his bones.
Bones that were decidedly chillier that afternoon as he stepped from a hansom cab and faced Cheap Street Gate and the entrance to Greychurch. He could have taken the cab right to his destination, but something — morbid curiosity perhaps, or nostalgia — compelled him to walk the last half mile. Leaving one area of the city and entering his old stamping ground was as unnerving as leaving Cornwall to return to Clearwater, but both journeys came with a thrill. That of knowing that he was acting to protect his lover, or at least, to allay fears that Archer might be in danger, if not from an assassination, then from the scandal of having one performed in his home.
There were two things for Silas to ascertain, although Thomas had suggested only one. He would act on the butler’s suggestion later and return west to the Lyceum to see what he could discover, but before that, he had his own question in need of an answer.
‘Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal.’ He repeated the words as he had done through the night. They formed the melody against which played another tune, one more easily understood, but far more threatening. ‘He seeks to take the family name. He means dishonour, he means you shame.’
The two expressions had to be connected, but until he knew who the ‘He’ of the English lines meant, the Romanian language could have meant everything or nothing. He’d asked Fecker on the drive to the station last night, but Fecks had simply shrugged.
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