After the drizzle of the previous evening, Thursday offered the city a fine spring day as Silas stood sipping coffee at the window. Jake was sprawled on the bed, still asleep, though to watch him you would never know it. Silas had been kept awake most of the night by the young man’s fidgeting and mumbling. Jake kicked and turned as he suffered unsettled dreams, and at one point, called out indecipherable words. Silas was forced to cross the passage to Archer’s room, but it was cold and musty, the bed unmade and the furniture, covered in white sheets, loomed over him in the moonlight like spectres waiting to pounce. Instead, he returned to his suite, threw coats on his dressing room floor and slept there.
Not only did Jake sleep as though he was running a foot race, he also slept for hours, and Silas envied him his ability not to wake at his own snoring and physical activity.
The poor man had been exhausted, and Silas knew all too well the stress and labour of sleeping rough. He sympathised with Jake’s plight and admired him for enduring it, and during the night, resolved to do everything he could to help the younger man. The attraction was not physical, but he had liked Jake since he met him at the Opera House the previous year, and something less tangible than physical attraction drew him to Jake’s character rather than his looks. It was something he couldn’t explain and yet was undeniably present. Sometimes when Silas met a person for the first time, he knew not to trust them, or in a similarly mysterious way, took against them, as he had with Smith. With Jake, it was the opposite, but his magnetic quality aside, he had slept for twelve hours, and there was much to do that day. Silas woke him just after ten and rang for Mrs Norwood to bring more coffee.
She had just left, when Jake appeared from the bathroom wearing one of Silas’ suits and smelling of Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet, one of his more expensive scents.
‘First thing we’ve got to do,’ Silas said, ‘is get you a haircut and some clothes that fit.’
‘I can alter these.’
‘I’m sure you can, mate, but we haven’t got time for you to start doing all that. We’ll go out and buy some. I’ve got to get some gear anyway.’
‘Gear?’ Jake hitched up the trousers and sat in the armchair to pour himself coffee. Mrs Norwood had thoughtfully provided bread rolls with jam, the first of which he devoured in two mouthfuls.
‘You gave me a lot of detail last night, Jake,’ Silas said, sitting in the opposite chair ‘And if what you said is accurate, we’re going to need a few bits and pieces. I’m good with most locks, but we don’t know what we’re up against until we get to Irving’s offices.’
‘If they’re like the Opera House, they’ll be heavy locks with long keys. But like I said, if there’s a night-watchman on, then the clerks get careless with locking rooms inside the building, ’cos no-one can get in. I expect the Lyceum’s the same.’
‘Yeah, but we don’t know, so I need to be prepared. And you’re sure about the tunnel?’
‘More than sure, I’ve been in it.’
‘And it leads to the Lyceum?’
‘Trust me, mate,’ Jake said slurping his coffee. ‘Them tunnels lead everywhere, even into the sewers, and you can tell that from the stink. I know me way around the opera, and I know me way around theatres, especially them put up by Mr Beazley. I ain’t been to school, but I know theatres.’
‘Alright, Jake, don’t get funny about it. Drink up, and we’ll go into town.’
‘We’ve got all day. The House won’t close up until midnight.’
‘You said, but I want to get everything sorted and send a message to Larkspur to keep Jimmy and Tom up to date, then get back and have a kip. It’s going to be a long night.’
‘I ain’t got any money for clothes, though.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got an account at Simpsons where they sell things ready-made. While you’re being fitted and kitted, I can call into Chubbs for the stuff I need. Oh, and remind me to get a couple of black jumpers and hats too.’
The rest of the day went according to Silas’ plan, and he didn’t care about the cost. True to his word, Archer had invested the money Silas was awarded for his false imprisonment and turned it into an impressive quarterly income. That was on top of the wage Silas was paid by the Clearwater Foundation which, Archer had said, was not only useful to put against his taxable income for a reason Silas didn’t understand, but also misdirected prying eyes away from the true nature of their relationship for a reason Silas understood only too well.
Having had his hair cut, Jake followed him into Simpsons looking like a circus clown with his sleeves hanging and his shoes flapping at the toes, and left the shop an hour later as a respectable, middle-class gentleman. Silas’ man, as they told Mr Simpson, was the assistant to Lord Clearwater’s private secretary. Archer didn’t have an account with Simpsons, he only wore tailormade clothes and even bought his underwear in the Row, but the shop owner lived in hope that one day the viscount would patronise his emporium of “Off the peg suits, shirts and collars for the discerning gentlemen of average means”, as his signage described the Regent’s Street shop. He was always happy to have Mr Hawkins’ purchases delivered to Clearwater House, and usually included a pair of free cufflinks or a spare collar as an incentive for Silas to recommend him to His Lordship. Silas never did, because Archer wouldn’t be interested, but he thanked Mr Simpson on His Lordship’s behalf, adding, ‘He sends his best wishes,’ and making the man’s sagging eyes light up with pound signs.
Silas left Jake at Sparkes-Hall to try on boots and shoes while he called into two haberdashery shops, Chubbs, the locksmith, and Kingston’s, the glove makers. The items he bought couldn’t be delivered to the house, not because he didn’t want them to be, but because he wanted no suspicion to fall that way should they be caught.
‘That’d be caught breaking into not one theatre but two,’ he mumbled as he crossed Piccadilly avoiding the carriages and horse shit. ‘You’re outdoing yourself, Banyak.’
Having met Jake back at Sparkes-Hall where he approved of and paid for the footwear, he took him back to Piccadilly.
‘What now?’ Jake asked as they stood at the junction.
‘Lunch.’
‘Back at your house?’
‘No, Jake. I think we can do better than that, but first, you’ve got to tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.’ He stepped away from the noise of the traffic and throng of pedestrians to find privacy beneath the arches, and Jake dutifully followed.
‘What can I tell you?’ Jake asked with concern tainting his voice. ‘You know I ain’t got no family, not now granddad’s dead. I think I told you I was from the West End, seventeen last October and they used to call me Tricky. What else is there?’
‘For a start,’ Silas replied glancing across the junction. ‘Your surname?’
‘Oh.’ Jake was taken aback. ‘Didn’t you know it?’
‘No,’ Silas admitted. ‘When we first met you told me everything there was to know about the Opera House and the way it worked, you gave me your thoughts on life and said how lucky you were to live there, and you rabbited on about all kinds of costume stuff, but you never told me your full name. Mind you, mate, I probably didn’t have a chance to get a word in.’
Jake pulled a face. ‘Sorry if I talk on. I know I goes too fast as well, but that’s because Mr Keys never let me speak much, and when I were backstage, I had to stay silent, so when I get the chance…’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Silas chuckled. ‘Slow it down. I know Keys isn’t your last name like Tricky isn’t your first.
‘Happy to tell you of course, but why d’you need to know?’
‘Because we are going to lunch over there.’ Silas pointed across the busy intersection to the opposite building, and when Jake understood his intentions, his mouth fell open.
‘The Criterion? You’re flipping
joking, ain’t you?’
‘No, Mr Tricky, I’m not. Now, listen. I’m fine with it. I’ve been with Archer long enough to know how to behave, and I’m good at mimicking how posh people talk, but if you’re going to be my assistant, you’ll have to play-act a bit. Can you do that?’
‘I can play-act, for sure. Not so confident about keeping quiet.’
‘Yeah, I guessed that. So…’ Silas put down his shopping and adjusted his tie. ‘You think you can pass off as a gent now you’re dressed like one.’
‘Will they let us in?’
‘Why not? We’re old enough, we’re dressed well, we’re just a man and his assistant taking a rest from shopping, and I have my business cards on me. I’ll put it on Lord Clearwater’s account as an expense. We’ll take a private banquette away from everyone else so we can talk through the details of tonight’s break-in, and afterwards, full up and laughing at how we duped the waiters into thinking we’re respectable, we can rest until after nightfall. But, to get past the Maître d’, we’ve got to be convincing, and that means I have to know your surname if they ask.’
‘I get you…’ Jake coughed. ‘I mean, I quite understand, Sir.’ His city accent was still present, but along with the more considered words came a change in his posture as he pulled back his shoulders and lifted his head. ‘My surname, Sir, is O’Hara.’
‘Get out of here!’
The sea-blue eyes, black hair, the similar nose to Silas’ sisters which bore a strong resemblance to Silas’ own, the short stature…
‘O’Hara. Why? What’s wrong with that?’
‘Was your dad Irish?’
‘He was born there, outside Dublin. Came over to Westerpool when he was eighteen. Left his brother behind. Twins, they were. He moved down to the city, met my mum, had me, both died of cholera when I was little… You do look pale, Mr Silas, Sir.’
Silas’ legs were suddenly weak, and his heart was racing.
‘Was he a dockworker before he came over?’ he asked, dreading the answer but too intrigued to leave the subject alone.
‘Well, he worked in the Harland and Wolff yards as a lad, then the Westerpool dock. That’s how he got work at the city river wharves.’
‘His first name?’
‘You and your names,’ Jake laughed. ‘William, why?’
‘And his brother? Your uncle?’
‘Martin, I think. Don’t know what happened to him,’ Jake said, frowning. ‘All I know is what Granddad told me, and he was my mum’s dad, so not totally sure, but my dad’s name was William. Mind you, they all called him Billy.’
‘Billy O’Hara?’
‘That’s it. Why? Blimey, Silas, you ain’t half looking ill.’
‘I need to sit down,’ Silas said. ‘If I can pull myself together by the time we get to the Criterion, you and me have a lot more to talk about than the simple job of breaking into the Opera House.’
At first light, James and Fecker set out to ride inland to the main road between Lostwithiel and Newquay. There, they made their way west and coastwards, stopping at each farm and settlement to ask after Jerry, always, as the day before, receiving the same answer. No-one had seen him, and prospects for finding Jerry, like the weather, worsened through the day.
At the time Silas was successfully blagging his way into a swanky, West End café and securing a private banquette in gilded surroundings, James and Fecker were saddle sore, wet with drizzle, and panting after a hard morning’s ride. The incoming storm blackened the western skies and turned the sea to a seething mass of grey and white, jabbed at by lightning and frothing against the rocky coast. The rising gale bit at their ears as they surveyed the scene from the brow of the hill above Newquay.
‘He’s got to be down there somewhere,’ James shouted over the wind.
‘Da. If he not dead in ditch.’
‘Thanks, Fecks,’ James muttered, and urged his horse onwards.
The irony of their horses’ names was not lost on him. Fecker rode Thunder, and James was on Lightning, two elements of the bad weather evident in the near distance. The thought played on his mind as they descended towards the port, but as it came closer, he was only able to think about Jerry. He was a determined lad, that was for sure. The boy had run away from school, stowed away on the train, survived a horrific crash and fled Larkspur all while keeping his identity a secret. Why did he fear for his father’s safety if he knew he was aboard the St Merrynporth sailing to meet the SS Britannic?
The more he considered the facts, the more the questions piled up. Would a crew member on a tender be able to afford a public school for his son? What danger was the man in? Not the storm, no-one could predict when that might have hit, and presumably, the father had been to sea before, so Jerry wasn’t rushing to save him from the weather. Then there was his reaction to Mr Smith. Perhaps the sight of the man had brought back memories of the accident, and Jerry had run from him, so he didn’t have to face them. If that was the case, James would have expected him to burst into tears or show some other signs of trauma, when all he had done was run to his room and demand another story before falling straight to sleep. Or at least, pretending to.
These were questions that would have to wait, and when James found the boy, he would demand answers, but before then, they had to find him, and Newquay was larger than Padstow. There were hundreds of places Jerry could be hiding if he had, in fact, made it safely to the town.
They slowed their approach as the hillside met a lane. Fecker overtook, pointing ahead to a fence. James understood, and both horses took the jump easily. Once in the lane, they slowed to a trot. The drizzle had turned to rain and was running in rivulets about the horses’ hooves, and the clouds were so dense it was like riding at dusk. The lane became a better-made road with scattered cottages either side which thickened as they made their way into the town.
‘You think the harbour?’ Fecker called across.
‘Seems logical.’
The road narrowed and twisted as it was joined by others and weaved its way downwards. They rode with eyes peeled but not hopeful until they came to the harbour, lined with houses, nets piled outside beside lobster pots, and tackle secured with ropes against the wind. Fishing boats rocked on the sea, the swell reaching in between the harbour arms to crash against the quayside. Few people were out, and as before, James suggested they find an inn, stable the animals and begin their enquiries.
‘First, we get dry,’ Fecker said as they dismounted. ‘I stable horse, you find food.’
‘He could be on the streets, Fecks. In trouble. He needs us right now.’
‘Da. Or he dead on moors, stolen away, or in father’s house being warm. We won’t know if we kill ourselves in shit storm.’
Fecker was a man of few words, but when he spoke, he usual spoke sense, and James took his point.
The inn was warm and quiet, and run by a busty woman in her fifties. She showed no anger as a young man walked into her bar and shook the water from his cape. Instead, she rushed to help.
‘What you been doing out in this, young Sir?’ she asked in an accent lighter than that of the Padstow fisherman yet just as lyrical. ‘Get yourself by that fire.’
She mothered him across the bar and didn’t stop fussing until he insisted he was comfortable, and ordered two tankards of ale.
‘Thirsty ride were it?’ she asked, looking back to the door.
‘My friend is with your stableman,’ James explained.
‘Ah, right y’are.’
She waddled off, returning a while later with two ales and two towels, apologising that they weren’t really suitable but better than nothing, and James, recovering from the journey, asked if anyone had reported a lost child.
‘I expect so,’ she said, folding a towel over the second chair. ‘Children are always running off. Why, have yo
u lost yours, me duck?’
‘In a way. And can I ask you, does the Britannic tender dock near here?’
‘The Merrynporth? Aye, not far, Sir. At the western end of the harbour arm, but it ain’t due until tomorrow.’
‘I know. Are you very friendly with the crew?’
Her chubby face, until then friendly, dropped, and she glared, insulted. Her stubby arms flew to her sides, fists balled, where they were planted heavily against the summit of her hips.
‘I don’t know what you be suggesting, young man, but I run a tavern of repute.’
James tried not to laugh and covered it with remorse. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to imply… I don’t mean in that way. But, I take it you are local and wondered if you knew the crew by name. Particularly a Mr O’Sullivan who has a son called Jerry.’
Accepting the misunderstanding, the landlady dropped her threatening stance. ‘Can’t say I do,’ she said, twisting her mouth as she thought. ‘And I knows most of the men as they be from round ’ere. That name don’t ring no clanger with me. Sorry, you be out a luck with your questions, Sir. Now, will you want some pie with your ale?’
‘That sounds fine. Two, please. Actually, you’d better make that three.’
Mildly confused, she nodded, turned and screamed.
Fecker leapt back in surprise, and James rushed to his feet.
‘He’s with me,’ he exclaimed.
‘Sorry, Sir, you gave me such a fright.’ The landlady turned to James and whispered, ‘Big bugger, ain’t he?’ before returning to Fecker. ‘After work at the dock, are you?’
Fecker shrugged and looked at James for advice.
‘No, we’re not. But we are looking for something to eat,’ he said, smiling sweetly. ‘And a room for the night if you have it.’
‘I do, Sir, but I might not have a big enough bed.’
She shuffled away as Fecker sat.
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