‘I am Ukraine, Banyak,’ he said. ‘That shit is foreign.’
Able to remember the phrase exactly, he could think of nowhere else in the city to find a translation than among the immigrants of Greychurch. More specifically, at the Cheap Street Mission where, if he was lucky, he would find Doctor Markland in attendance and someone who spoke both English and Romanian.
The street was exactly as he remembered it, but now that he walked it with confidence wearing a tailored suit and a bowler hat, he didn’t fear it. The looks he received from the match-seller girls and hawkers came with a deferential nod of the head or touch of a peaked cap not, as before, with scorn or a thumb-to-lips curse. The barrow boys stepped out of his way, their boots splashed with mud from the gutters where he had once searched for dropped coins, and it was he who stepped over piles of rags rather than being the unfortunate beneath them. Policemen paid him no attention, and he no longer needed to fear them. Silas was one of the lucky ones, unlike the renter boys gathered at the entrances to rat runs, their eyes darting to potential customers as the gentlemen passed by.
As he neared the mission building, regret swelled in his heart, pushing tears to the corners of his eyes. Not because he missed his life on the street, nothing good had come from it apart from meeting Fecker and being found by Archer, but because nothing had changed. Boys and women still sold their bodies, children still begged, injured men rattled tin cups, and the wealthy ignored it all. He hadn’t decided to walk because of any feeling of nostalgia, he realised, but because he wanted to remind himself of how his life could have been, and the more he saw, the more he appreciated his good fortune. Silas was lucky, but impotent against the depravity and desperation. There was nothing he could do for these people, no amount of money would end their struggle. That could only come with time and determined change from those above, those like Viscount Clearwater whose name was carved in stone above the entrance to the warehouse he had reached.
Silas looked up the forbidding red-brick walls, beyond the iron-framed windows to the gutter. One above to catch the rain, one at his feet to sweep away the detritus of street living, and between them, four floors of help and charity. He had found this building, he had worked with the local traders and authorities, under Archer’s guidance, to secure and repair the property. As an advisor and campaigner, he had done something, he had made a difference, but all the same, his eyes still pricked with tears, and he longed to do much more.
‘Help you, Sir?’
The voice brought him to his senses and, sniffing, he pulled himself together. A uniformed man stood in the doorway, guarding it against the drunks and the illiterate unable to read the sign, “A mission for destitute men from the street.”
‘Yes, hello,’ Silas replied, pulling a business card from his pocket. ‘Silas Hawkins. Is Doctor Markland here?’
The doorkeeper took the card and read it aloud as if he was used to being tricked by charlatans wanting a free bed and a decent meal. ‘Private secretary to Viscount… Oh! My apologies, Sir.’ The man stepped aside. ‘The Superintendent is in his office. I’ll direct you.’
‘No need,’ Silas said whipping back the card. ‘I designed the place.’
That was not exactly true, but he had suggested what the Mission should have within its walls, and he knew the layout.
Entering the hall, the first thing that struck him was the smell. Unlike Molly’s dosshouse less than one hundred yards away where the entrance stank of piss and sweat, the air held the tang of antiseptic. The floor tiles were clean, the paint on the walls was as fresh as when it was applied, and the lighting lent warmth. The corridor to Markland’s office was no less meticulous and was being swept and mopped by a pair of boys no older than fifteen.
‘Afternoon, lads,’ Silas chirped as he passed, his heels clicking on the tiles. ‘Good work.’
They thanked him with beaming, clean faces, while Silas shut out thoughts of what their lives would have been like before they were rescued. Instead, he turned his thoughts to his purpose, and on reaching the superintendent’s office, found the door open.
Markland sat behind his desk, his head down, his sleeves rolled and his pen scribbling furiously over paperwork.
Silas knocked and received a gruff, ‘Yes?’ but no visual acknowledgement. That gave him an idea, and he stepped back into the passage out of sight. Clearing his throat and trying not to snigger, he projected his imitation of Archer’s voice loudly enough for Markland and the boys to hear.
‘Damn it, Philip! There’s a tart here saying you owe her five guineas.’
One of the boys dropped his mop, the other gasped but both covered their mouths when Silas winked and placed a finger on his lips.
Markland was at the door in a flash, his moustached face red, his eyes darting. ‘Lord Clearwater?’ he blustered searching the passage but finding only Silas. Realisation dawned. ‘Oh, very funny, Hawkins.’ The complaint came through a smile and an offered hand which Silas shook. ‘I didn’t know you were coming. Are you alone? Come in, come in.’
‘Didn’t have time to warn you,’ Silas said, following the doctor into his office. ‘And I’m not staying long. How’s it going?’
‘Oh, fine, fine.’ Markland busied himself at a cabinet, opening and closing drawers, fruitlessly searching for something. ‘Clearwater with you?’
‘No, just me. You look busy, sorry.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’ Markland was still rummaging, crouching now to reach into the back of a bottom drawer, and Silas watched with amusement.
‘All the beds full?’
‘Everything’s full,’ Markland said. ‘Completely oversubscribed, but it’s working. We’ve had a good run of successful cases. Found a boy a kitchen position in a decent household only yesterday. Completely back on his feet, free of disease and keen to make a fresh start. Four more last week, five the… Ah!’ He stood clutching a bottle of rum, and holding the cabinet while his blood found its natural course. ‘Will you?’
‘Won’t say no.’
As the doctor carried out another foray, this time into a cupboard to locate glasses, Silas admired the office. Despite Markland’s apparent absentmindedness — something which had increased since his run-in with Quill’s brother, the murdering Miss Arnold — his office showed him to be organised. One wall was papered with charts listing names, dates and the progress of his clients, another held basic medical records. Not intimate details but a checklist of who had been treated successfully, as if Markland worked his way through every unfortunate man, giving them a thorough check for everything from lice to V.D., two things from which Silas had never suffered, he was pleased to note. The wall behind the desk was a window that looked onto what had once been the warehouse floor but was now a dormitory. Four rows of beds, separated by low walls, but otherwise open, were neatly lined and made. Youths rested on some while others swept and tidied around them. There was no noise, none of the shouted threats Silas had experienced in Molly’s rope room, and no-one was marauding with a blade, robbing or attacking.
The harsh memories were pushed from his mind when he was offered a measuring beaker.
‘It usually holds a solution of iodine and hydrogen peroxide,’ Markland announced. ‘But it’s been washed.’
Silas took the rum and swilled it in the beaker, sniffing it and finding only the smell of alcohol. ‘Cheers,’ he said, thrusting it towards Markland’s glass.
The doctor pulled his away sharply. ‘Better not, dear chap, he said. ‘These specimen jars are damned delicate.’ He retook his seat behind his desk. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Mr Hawkins?’
‘Call me Silas, for a start,’ Silas said. He sipped his drink, and the liquid burned the back of his throat. ‘You sure this is safe?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Markland waved the concern away with a laugh. ‘I can’t vouch for the rum, mind you. So,
what do you need?’
Markland was keen on coming to the point, and understandably so. With over sixty homeless men in his care, plus his staff, the building and his role on the charity’s committee, his time was always limited. Silas appreciated that and also came straight to the point.
‘I want a Romanian,’ he said. ‘Preferably one who speaks English. Got any?’
‘You make us sound like a knocking shop,’ Markland said, his bushy moustache twitching.
‘Sorry. Are any of our residents Romanian, do you know?’
‘I can easily find out.’ The doctor rose, and Silas feared there would be another expedition into a cabinet or cupboard, but he walked to the wall displaying the largest chart. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Need some words translated.’
‘Ah, of course,’ Markland said, tapping a name on his chart. ‘Young Mr Popescu. Been with us three weeks, already turned himself around, cleaned up and now…’ He traced a line across the chart, tapped there, and turned to the door. ‘Conveniently sweeping the ground floor. Dragos!’
The clatter of a bucket and the scurrying of feet heralded the arrival of one of the lads who had been cleaning the corridor. He skidded to a halt in the doorway, brushing the front of his apron and standing to attention.
‘Come in, would you, Dragos?’ Markland returned to his desk while Silas stood to greet the young man. ‘This is Mr Hawkins. He works for Lord Clearwater and has something to ask you.’
‘Yes, Sir?’
Perhaps he was still smiling because of Silas’ practical joke, or maybe he was simply pleased to be called to assist, but the youth’s face was a picture of enthusiasm. His features were not unlike those of Mr Smith; dark hair, deep brown eyes beneath bushy, black eyebrows and a long, narrow nose. His mouth, when the smile faded to seriousness, was thin, and his brow set with concentration.
‘Mr Popescu,’ Silas began, returning the smile to the boy’s face with the respect in his voice. ‘I have a strange request, but the doctor thinks you can help. You speak Romanian, I understand.’
The lad rattled off a sentence which could have been any language, but Dragos was so keen to please, Silas doubted deception was involved.
‘Good. I heard something the other day and was interested to know what it meant. If I repeat it, will you be able to overlook my bad accent and tell me it’s meaning?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Thank you. There were two things actually. First, what does Am eșuat mean?’
‘Easy, Sir. I failed, or I have failed.’
Archer had been correct. At the moment Smith thought he was going to die in the train wreck, he said that he had failed, presumably in his duty to assassinate Henry Irving. Silas hoped his sleep-talking words would offer more clues.
‘The second thing was longer,’ he said. Closing his eyes for a moment to aid his memory, he pictured Smith standing in the moonlight, recalled his accent, and repeated the words.
Dragos’ expression changed. His brow knitted further and he dropped his chin to stare at Silas with eyes that now pierced.
‘I did warn you about my accent,’ Silas apologised.
‘It’s not that, Sir. Your accent is very good. Are you sure of the words?’
‘As sure as I can be. Why? What do they mean?’
The youth looked from Silas to Markland, who nodded permission for him to speak. ‘Go on, Dragos, he encouraged. ‘You shan’t offend either of us if it’s rude.’
‘It ain’t rude, Doctor,’ Dragos said, returning his glare to Silas. ‘But it’s not very nice.’
‘Go on, mate,’ Silas said. ‘You’ll be doing myself and His Lordship a great service.’
‘It’s the Szekely dialect, Sir. Not much used, but good enough known.’
‘And it means?’
The lad swallowed, shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘I can’t imagine where you heard it, Sir, but I suppose you heard it right. Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal. Well, it means…’ He hesitated. ‘It means, Sir, Take the child and kill the father.’
Fifteen
The journey back to the West End was easier to make than the journey into the East End. The cab trundled through Cheap Street Gate and entered the financial area of the city, leaving behind the smells of tanning workshops and sweat factories. Not only did the air become cleaner, so did the people walking the pavements, which gradually became less cluttered. The sight of immigrant workers, slaughterers and labourers was replaced by businessmen, well-dressed ladies and, later as the carriage took him along the river road and through Temple, hurrying members of the legal profession, their gowns flapping.
The scenery transformed along with those ignoring it and heading home in the dusk after their day’s labours. The stark red-brick factories and tenements gave way to classical buildings which were eventually replaced by the varied architecture of the Strand. As the cab crawled in the worsening traffic past King’s College and the magnificent frontage of Somerset House, the cab driver yelled down his apologies for the delay.
‘Should have taken the Aldwych,’ the man called. ‘Sorry about that, Sir. I can put you off here if you don’t mind crossing the road.’
Leaning from the window, Silas told him that here would do fine, he could see the street he needed, and it wasn’t far. He was silently glad they hadn’t taken the Aldwych route as that would have taken him past the bottom of Bow Street, and he had no desire to relive his experiences there.
Paying the man, he weaved through the traffic to reach Wellington Street, a road of five-storey houses, some with shops beneath, that ran north towards Covent Garden, and on the corner stood his next destination in all its grandeur.
The entrance to the Lyceum Theatre was possibly the most impressive theatre he had seen. Behind the porch, the façade rose high into the night sky and curved around the corner to run for many yards. The side of the building was beautifully structured and proportioned, but the front was something else entirely. Six slender columns crowned by intricate swirls supported the portico, its apex gilded and crafted in white stone, embossed with carvings Silas couldn’t make out at that height. Behind the columns, three high arches housed oak and brass doors, their glass glinting in the lanterns that burned either side. Silas didn’t know much about architecture, but he knew that when he stood beneath the entrance, he felt small and yet privileged. Walking through those three doors would transport him into a theatrical world far removed from Greychurch, even from Larkspur Hall, and not wanting to be put off from his cause by the splendour, he took a moment to remind himself of his intentions.
‘Henry Irving’s play about the Szekelys,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Lord Clearwater, entertaining the great actor, needs as much background as he can get, would like me to see his research…’ He broke off, suddenly aware that although the sun had set, and the porch was lit, he was the only person there. Strangers passed by out on the pavement, but no-one was heading towards the entrance and, as he approached, he realised that despite the time of day, the theatre was closed.
‘Well, that’s a fecking good start,’ he mumbled, trying one of the doors. Pressing his face to the glass and shielding it with his hand was no help; all he saw was a dark, empty foyer. Even the box office grilles were down.
Sighing, he retreated to the pavement and followed the building’s curve towards Covent Garden looking for the stage door. Dodging ladies in fine dresses heading for the cafes, and men in suits hurrying for their trains, he weaved through the crowds searching the side of the theatre until he spied a lantern ahead. Its yellow glass threw just enough light for him to read the sign painted on the stonework beneath it, and he approached the stage door only to find his way partly blocked by a bundle of blankets. Beggars were not only to be found in Greychurch, it seemed. This one sat against the wall with his head bowed, his legs out and his
hands clasped around a tin mug. There was nothing in the man’s begging bowl, and Silas resolved to drop a coin or two in it once he had finished his business inside the theatre. The man was the only unfortunate on the street, and although Silas couldn’t help all those he saw in Greychurch, he could at least make himself feel happier by donating a few shillings to this one.
The stage door was set back into the kind of alcove Silas once used to turn tricks in, another reminder of his past and how far he had come thanks to Archer. There was no bell or knocker, but the door was half-open, and a light within gave him hope that people were still at work even if there was no performance taking place. He stepped down into a small room to the left of which was a grilled counter, and behind that, a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He looked up as Silas entered, peered at a pocket watch, and wrote a note in a ledger before addressing the visitor.
‘Help you, Sir?’ he said, his accent unmistakably west country and not unlike the accent Silas heard in Larkspur village.
‘Evening,’ Silas nodded, reaching for his business card. ‘I’ve come on behalf of Lord Clearwater or Riverside and Larkspur.’ He pushed the card through the grille where the doorkeeper was attaching round spectacles to the bridge of his nose. ‘I know that Mr Irving is currently returning from a tour,’ he continued, applying his best impersonation of Archer. ‘However, he is breaking his journey at Larkspur Hall, and His Lordship is keen to make him as welcome as possible. For that reason…’
‘Sorry, Sir,’ the man said, pushing the card back to him. ‘But there’s no-one ’ere abouts ’part from me, and you’ve already talked of things far beyond me understanding. Who is it you be wanting?’
‘More like what,’ Silas said, hope fading fast. ‘His Lordship wants me to access Mr Irving’s work on his plays, and is of the opinion that there would be research here in his offices.’
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