‘Aye,’ the man said, staring blankly. ‘So?’
‘I’d like to see it, so I can forewarn His Lordship with information and thus enable the two men to discuss, intelligently, the great actor’s work.’ He was repeating, more or less, what Thomas had suggested he say, and doing it in Archer’s public-school voice was impressing the doorkeeper who now nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t, however, helping Silas progress any further towards his goal.
‘Quite understand, Sir,’ the man replied ‘And I’d be more than ’appy to assist, but I can’t let you into Mr Irving’s office without either ’is say so or that of Mr Stoker, and as Mr Stoker be with Mr Irving and the company in America…’ He referred to a calendar hung on the wall beside him. ‘Or, more rightly, aboard the SS Britannic on the way back, there be not a lot I can do for you. Can you come back next week?’
‘No,’ Silas sighed with apparent helplessness. ‘Their meeting is this weekend, and Lord Clearwater is rather embarrassed that, although he is a member of the Garrick Club, the same as Mr Irving, this will be their first chance for an in-depth discussion of the work of your great theatre…’ Having gone off the script Thomas had outlined, he was starting to lose himself. ‘You see my problem?’
Thankfully, the doorkeeper did and was keen to help. ‘What is it exactly you was looking for, Sir? Perhaps I know something about it.’
‘In particular, any papers he has regarding the Szekely people. His research on the subject of the Romanians, and the play he performed here last year.’
‘Oh, that.’ The man obviously wasn’t a fan of that particular piece because he screwed up his nose. ‘No disrespect to Mr Irving,’ he said. ‘A great man, very great, but that wasn’t my favourite of his plays. You should see him as Shylock, Sir, incredible. And his Macbeth! Well, now there’s a play where the blood and witchery made sense, unlike…’ He leant forward to whisper. ‘Last year’s production. Mad foreigners devouring children, throwing babies to wolves, biting flesh and…’ He shivered. ‘Not me cup of tea.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ Silas said, impatient to move the discussion along. ‘But do you know where Mr Irving kept his background work? I would only need half an hour to make some notes for His Lordship.’
‘House be dark, offices locked up, even the carpenters are taking an Easter break, Sir. You can’t get no further into the theatre than ’ere. No-one goes in when the ’ouse be dark.’
‘But there are notes and things here?’ Silas indicated the theatre generally when, in fact, he was making a mental note of how many doors and whether they had locks.
‘Books, mainly,’ the doorkeeper said. ‘And copies of the draft script, but they be top floor in the offices. Mr Irving, whether he directs or just appears in, always does his research, and Mr Stoker is very keen to keep all his notes. There were a great load of them Mr Stoker found, so the clerk told me. Always coming in and out through ’ere carrying another new set of papers on the Szekely play. Mind you, that were nothing compared to The Merchant.’
‘Had to carry all this paperwork a long way, did he? The clerk, I mean?’
‘That ’e did, Sir. Six floors up to Mr Stoker’s office where it all be kept. I’d like to ’elp you, Sir, but the doors be locked and I ain’t able to leave me post anyway. Sorry.’
‘No, no, I understand,’ Silas played at being reasonable while his mind worked on other theories. ‘One last thing, though. As you are so knowledgeable, would you know where this work, the research on the Romanians, came from? I mean, would I be able to find it elsewhere?’
‘I wouldn’t know that, Sir,’ the man said, scratching his nose with a pencil. ‘Libraries I expect, that’s where Mr Stoker gets his from.’
Silas was getting nowhere. It was a spurious notion of Thomas’ that he would find out how the assassin might operate by seeing the background reading of an actor, and the doorkeeper’s suggestion of a library made much more sense.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ he said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Welcome, Sir. Always willing to pass the time of day, not a lot else ’appens round ’ere when the theatre be dark. If you’d close the door on your way out. I be off ’ome soon.’
Silas left him and stood outside in the alcove to consider his options. Somewhere among the mass of resources the capital offered was the answer he was looking for, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to head to Paddington and take the first train to Cornwall. He needed to be with Archer. He was alone in his house and potentially in danger, and Silas should have been by his side. Someone with more intelligence, Thomas perhaps, or James, should have been doing this. They were educated, they’d been to school and would know where to look.
The darkness was oppressive, as was the loneliness that crushed as he watched flames flicker in the grimy streetlamps all the way to Covent Garden. They formed parallel lines that met as one diffused glow at their vanishing point, murky in the mist that had started to cloud the street. He wished he’d worn a cloak over his topcoat to keep out the cold that crept in with the oncoming rain, and a lonely evening by the fire in Archer’s study was all he had to look forward to. Perhaps the library at Clearwater House would offer him the chance to discover more about the Protectori. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t.
‘It’s all fecking ridiculous,’ he muttered, pulling his bowler tighter over his head and scanning the street for a cab.
‘Got any change, Sir?’
The clatter of a tin mug on the pavement reminded him of his self-promise, and he searched his pocket to find a shilling. Taking two, he crouched to drop them into the cup.
‘I know what it’s like, mate,’ he said to the bowed head. ‘Good luck to you.’
The head rose slowly and turned to him at eye level. It was a young face, unshaven, grubby and gaunt, with eyes that sagged through exhaustion. Silas knew how the lad felt; he’d hardly slept for the last two days, but at least he had a home to go back to.
‘Mr Silas?’
It took a moment, but when Silas realised who had spoken, he couldn’t help but swear.
‘Feck me! What are you doing here?’
‘Hoping to beg something to eat, Sir.’
Silas gawped at the youth, unable to comprehend the chance meeting. The man was in the wrong place, and he wasn’t dashing from here to there carrying props and announcing calls.
‘Jake?’
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘What…? I don’t understand.’
Silas looked back towards Covent Garden where he had last seen Jake at the opera house. The young man had played his part in saving Cadwell Roxton and protecting Archer’s reputation. Then, he had been active and cheeky, fast and loyal, and yet here he was begging for his supper on a pavement in the drizzle.
‘What happened to you, Jake?’ he asked, lowering himself to sit beside the teenager.
‘Bad fortune. How have you been, Mr Silas, Sir?’
‘Fine, fine, yes… But you? Why aren’t you at the opera house?’
‘Ah, granddad died, Sir. Just after Christmas last. Sudden like. Bad heart, they said. Course, they got another doorman in, and I had to go. It was granddad who kept me in work and lodgings. Still, Mr Bursnall did pay for his funeral, so I was grateful for that.’
‘Jake, I’m sorry, man.’ Silas gripped his shoulder. ‘And you’ve been on the street since?’
‘I have, Sir. All I could do. I tried getting other work, but there’s none about, not for someone no-skilled like me. I sit here in the hope the Lyceum might find a use for me. It used to be the opera house, did you know that, Sir? Long time ago mind, and before the fire, but all I know is the inside of a theatre, and one’s very much like another. Anyway, thanks for the shillings, I’ll push on over to Southwark. I can get a room there with sixpence, and a pound of sausage with the rest.’
‘No you bloody won’t,’ Silas said, standing. ‘Get up. Can you stand? Sorry, let me help you.’
‘I’m alright, Sir,’ Jake said. ‘Bit hungry, maybe, but…’ He heaved himself to his feet and stood on thin legs, the filthy blanket hanging from him like a shroud. ‘Good to see you again.’ He started to walk away.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Southwark.’
Silas was not going to let that happen and made it clear by hailing a hansom. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, and despite the protestations of the cabbie, bundled the homeless man into the back. ‘Bucks Row,’ he barked. ‘Clearwater House. Front door.’
For the first time that day, Mrs Norwood was speechless when she answered the bell and saw the collection of rags Mr Hawkins had brought home. Her shocked silence gave Silas the opportunity to slip by her while giving his orders.
‘My friend needs a hot bath, warm food and some decent clothes,’ he said, leading Jake towards the staircase. ‘He can stay in my suite with me, save you making up another room. I’ll see to his bath if you could make us both supper. And thank you!’
‘Wait!’ Mrs Norwood ordered as she closed the door. Seeing Silas’ shock, she tempered her tone. ‘I am sorry, Sir, school ma’am’s habit. A telegram arrived for you in the early afternoon.’
She handed it to him on a silver salver, which caused Jake to raise his eyebrows and Silas to blush. He took it, thanked her and continued on his way.
Jake was no weight, and Silas had no trouble helping him upstairs. As he had said, he wasn’t unwell but had sat in stunned silence on the ride home as if everything that had happened to him since Christmas had suddenly hit him at once. It wasn’t until Silas showed him into his rooms that he came out of his reverie and realised where he was.
‘I can’t put you out, Mr Silas,’ he said, his voice, once so chirpy, was hushed and tentative.
‘You can, and you’re not,’ Silas said, closing the door. ‘We’ll get you fed soon. Meanwhile, I’ll put water in the bath and find you a dressing gown or something. Looks like Mrs Norwood’s made up the fire, so I’ll light it first.’
‘I can do that,’ Jake offered. ‘I’m really okay, Sir, just hungry. Maybe I can eat and then be on my way.’
‘You ain’t going anywhere apart from the bath, supper tray and bed. You look like something from the knacker’s yard.’
‘Just cold, Sir.’
‘And for fuck’s sake, stop calling me Sir.’ Realising that had come out as if he was telling the man off, Silas said, ‘Sorry, don’t mean to yap like that. I’m just annoyed that they turned you out on the street. Lord Clearwater won’t be happy when I tell him.’ He knelt at the fire and struck a match. ‘You should have come to us. I promised you nothing bad would happen to you after that fuss at the opera.’
Jake hadn’t moved. He stood like a grubby statue in the centre of the room, his hair, long and straggly, falling to his shoulders, his dark eyes the only thing about him with movement.
‘Sit down, mate,’ Silas said once the kindling was alight.
‘I’m dirty.’
‘You’re alright.’ Silas didn’t look nor care as he opened the telegram. ‘Sit on that dust sheet if you’re worried. The house hasn’t been used for a few months, and they’ve not uncovered everything. Just sit, here, near the fire while I sort the bathroom.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
‘Silas.’
‘Okay, Sir Silas.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s…’ Silas laughed. Ever since they had met, Jake hadn’t been able to call him by his first name. He had put up with Mr Silas, but Sir was a step too far. ‘Just Silas, Jake. Can you manage that?’
‘I’ll try, Sir.’
Silas gave up and went to run the bath. He read the message as it was filling.
Jerry O run away. Thinks father in mortal danger. Am with Fecks going north to search. Investigate ‘INTS’ and Smith link if possible. YBM Jimmy.
The telegram raised more questions than Silas was able to cope with. Was Jerry a runaway, or had he run away from Larkspur? Who was his father, and what danger? Why were Jimmy and Fecks going north, and how far north? INTS were the initial’s in the boy’s jacket, but what did that have to do with Smith, and how could he find a link? The only thing Silas understood was the signature, and he smiled. YBM stood for ‘Your Best Mate.’ The thought that he and James were once again working together to protect Archer sent a warm shiver of comradeship that helped dispel the last of his earlier mood of unhappiness.
‘I dunno,’ he tutted. ‘Can’t leave them alone for one day.’
Putting the telegram in his pocket and deciding to ponder it later, he popped back to the bedroom and rifled through his wardrobe. Jake was only a couple of inches shorter, but he was much thinner.
‘I doubt my clothes will fit you,’ he said as he pulled out a dressing gown, trousers and underclothes.
‘I can take them in if you’ve got thread and needles.’
‘That’s right, you wanted to make costumes, didn’t you? Hey…’ A memory returned. ‘Archer was going to have a word with Lady Marshall about hiring you, wasn’t he? Yes, he said he would.’
‘I never heard anything,’ Jake said. ‘And I didn’t like to ask.’
‘We can think about that later.’ Silas handed him the gown. ‘I’ll call you when the bath’s ready. Put this on for now.’
By the time Mrs Norwood delivered their dinner, Jake was clean, warm and dressed. He was also on the verge of sleep, and by the time they had eaten, Silas too was fit to drop.
‘Go to bed when you want,’ he said, putting the tray outside.
‘I’ll be fine on the floor, Sir.’
‘No. The bed’s big enough for the two of us.’
Returning, Silas found Jake standing at the foot staring at the headboard. ‘Why are you being so good to me?’ he asked.
Silas thought back to last year, trying to remember what Jake knew of him. Was he worried that there was a dubious motive behind Silas’ actions? How much did he know about the relationship between Archer and Silas, Thomas and James? With everything else cluttering his mind, it was difficult to recall, but it made no difference, Silas had no intentions other than helping a man who had helped him.
‘Nothing to worry about, Jake,’ he said. ‘I’m just passing on kindness that was once shown to me, and you deserve it. You’ll be safe. My side, your side.’
‘Oh!’ Jake understood what the Irishman was insinuating. ‘I wasn’t bothered about that, Sir. I worked around queers all the time.’
It was a mild insult but not meant as one, and at least it told Silas how much Jake knew.
‘No,’ Jake continued. ‘I was wondering what you were doing at the Lyceum and thinking how fortunate it was you were there.’
‘Long story, mate,’ Silas said, sinking into the armchair and picking up the glass of wine Mrs Norwood had brought with his supper. ‘I was trying to get hold of some background on a play Mr Irving did. It was Thomas’ idea, and it’s a bad one if you ask me.’
‘Thomas?’ Jake turned to him. ‘Was that the footman? No, that was Jimmy. The butler I costumed for the gala?’
‘That’s him. You sitting, drinking, sleeping, what?’
Jake sat and lifted his glass. ‘What does he want with Mr Irving?’
Without giving too much away, Silas explained what he was doing in the city, and told Jake that Thomas suspected Irving would have kept notes that could be useful for the viscount.
‘The theatre’s locked up and I can’t get in,’ he concluded. ‘So tomorrow, I’ll take a look at libraries or something. I’ve got to be back by Friday, so I’ve only got one day.’
‘I’ll be out of your way in the morning,’ Jake said.
He raised his glass
to Silas and, as before Silas was struck by the man’s resemblance to his sisters; black hair, bright blue eyes, the same shaped nose. He could well have been a cousin.
‘We’ll deal with tomorrow when it hits us.’ Silas yawned. ‘Cheers.’
Jake fixed him with a look of sadness. It might have been the fire flames flickering in his eyes, or it could have been exhaustion, but they were glassy, as though he was on the verge of tears.
‘Thank you… Silas.’ His pale mouth curved into a smile. ‘You’re a good man.’
‘And so are you, Jake. You deserve better than a life on the streets.’
Jake’s glass was at his lips when he stopped and drew it away, staring at its contents. ‘The blood of the dead,’ he said as if he had just realised what it was.
‘No, just red wine.’
‘The name of Mr Irving’s play. “The Blood of the Dead, or The Mystery of the Szekely.” It wasn’t his biggest success. If it hadn’t been for his manager, he would have lost a fortune. In writing it, Mr Stoker was trying to recreate something like Mr Irving’s first big play, “The Bells.” That’s where he found his fame, as I remember Granddad telling me. If I got this right, that one was based around a thing called “The Polish Jew.” All about a man’s bad deeds coming back to haunt him, and him getting his comeuppance. Irving likes stuff like Faust and all that.’
‘You know your theatre.’ Silas was impressed.
‘It’s been my life. What does Lord Clearwater want to know about that play for anyhow?’
‘Like I said, a long story.’ Silas was impressed with Jake’s memory and enthusiasm for the theatre. He could be a handy ally in the search for knowledge, but he doubted he knew anything about the Protectori and how they killed their victims. ‘I’ll tell you more tomorrow. You must be knackered.’
‘No, I’m alright.’ Jake smiled again, and it was good to see. ‘Does His Lordship want Mr Irving’s play really bad?’
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