‘What now?’
‘Now we get these back to Tom and Jimmy as quick as we can, and hope they can make sense of them before Smith kills Henry Irving.’
Twenty-Two
Having cadged a ride on the back of a milk cart from Covent Garden to South Riverside, Silas and Jake crept into Clearwater House in the early hours and headed straight for bed. After a few hours of unsettled sleep, they washed and changed, packed a case and were back on the streets, leaving a note for the Norwoods to let them know they were gone.
The sun had just risen by the time they arrived at Paddington Station where Silas secured two tickets on the Flying Dutchman while Jake searched out the telegraph office to send a dispatch Silas had prepared.
They met outside the café, where Silas paced, chewing the edge of a fingernail.
‘Send it okay?’ he asked as Jake hurried towards him.
‘Yeah. Got an odd look from the man at the counter. I didn’t think they were meant to read your messages, only count the words. Still, it was sent, and they said it would get to His Lordship pronto.’
‘That’s the good news,’ Silas said as he collected his case. ‘You want the next bit?’
Jake was distracted by the arching roof and the scale of the railway station, tipping back his head and gawping.
‘Oi, Jake!’ Silas nudged him with his luggage. ‘You want the next bit of good news?’
‘Blimey, I thought the Opera was big. Sorry, what?’
‘You not been here before?’
‘Never been on a train. Is it safe?’
Silas laughed. ‘You can ask Thomas that when you meet him,’ he said. ‘Yes, Jake, it’s as safe as it can be. But you’ve never been on a train?’
‘No. Never been able to afford it. Will you look at that!’
He was pointing, still agape, at a first-class Pullman carriage being coupled to another. The cream and brown paintwork gleamed beneath electric lights, and the lettering of ‘First Class’ was painted in gold. Inside, a steward polished the picture windows being careful not to disturb the lamps on the linen-covered tablecloths.
‘That’s the next bit of good news,’ Silas said, enjoying the younger man’s wonder. ‘You’re riding in it.’
‘Get out of here!’ Jake wasn’t sure if Silas was joking. ‘And you can eat in it?’
‘The bloke at the ticket office said they’ve only been doing it a week, trying out this American idea. Says it won’t catch on, but sounded too good to miss to me. I got us special tickets so we can stuff our faces all the way to Cornwall if we want.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yeah, whatever next, eh? Now, you want the bad news?’
Jake’s face fell. ‘What?’
‘It doesn’t leave until a quarter-on-twelve, which means we won’t get to Plymouth until a quarter-on-six. Only a fifteen-minute wait for the connection, but it’s another hour from there to Bodmin and that one don’t stop at Larkspur. Assuming we can get a cab at Bodmin, we won’t get to the Hall until around half seven when I’m expected to be turned out smart and talking to toffs.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ Jake enthused. ‘We’ll get there in the end, and after they get your message, someone will sort things out, and everything’ll come right. You’ve stopped Irving from being murdered, you said so.’
‘No, I’ve confirmed he’s in danger, but we suspected that. They still don’t know how or when he’s going to do it.’
‘We’ll figure it out while we’re eating posh,’ Jake beamed. ‘Good ideas always follow a hearty meal.’
The young man’s eyes had gone from wide and wondering to kind and smiling, and Silas couldn’t help but grin.
‘That’s what I like about you, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re always so cheerful.’
‘The way I see it, you get one chance on this earth, so there’s no point not making the most of it. Like my granddad used to say, you only go around once, and then you get tucked in with a spade. What we doing until the train leaves?’
Silas threw his arm around Jake’s shoulder and turned him to the etched glass and fancy brass lamps of the café. ‘Eating posh?’
‘Nice,’ Jake said. ‘I could do with the practice.’
Jake had been amazed by the size of the station, he was awestruck by the café, but later, when he stepped into the dining car and took a seat opposite Silas, it took him until Ealing before he could speak.
‘You with us yet, Jake?’ Silas grinned as the express rattled through the station, its whistle blowing.
Jake tore his eyes from the crystal glasses, the silver cutlery and the bone china decorated with ‘GWR’ and fixed Silas with unblinking, sad eyes.
‘A couple of days ago I had no home,’ he said. ‘No family neither. No hope if I’m to be honest, and now look at me.’ He swallowed, and a thin, trembling hand reached across the table to rest on Silas’ arm. ‘I can’t pay you back, ever.’
‘You don’t need to,’ Silas replied. Lowering his glass, he placed his hand on Jake’s. ‘And if you feel you do have to, let me tell you, you already have. Without you, I’d not have got hold of these…’ The stolen notes lay face down on the empty chair beside him. ‘Without them, I wouldn’t have known what’s going to happen at Larkspur tonight, and if I’d not been able to warn Thomas, His Lordship would have suffered a load of scandal and bad-mouthing. A death… No, a murder in his home is unthinkable. His reputation would go down the pan, not to mention his Foundation. Couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Cheers for that,’ Jake said, blushing. ‘But you’re sure the message will get to His Lordship?’
‘For sure. Whatever servant takes the telegrams off the boy gives them to the butler no matter who they’re addressed to, and Tommy’ll know what to do for the best. He’s devoted to Archer. Most of the servants are.’
Jake suddenly pulled his hand free, and Silas was worried he’d been too forward by holding it.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘That’s just how I am. Didn’t mean anything dodgy.’
‘It’s not that. I used to get all kinds of weird attention backstage. Everyone from the baritone to the dressers were at it, but I know where we stand, you and me. No, I just got this feeling…’ His brow furrowed and he peered over the table to papers. ‘You told me something about all this last night, it’s a right queer tale, ask me, and I didn’t take it all in, but…’ Again he broke off, this time sighing before clenching his bottom lip with his top.
‘What is it?’
‘Can I have another look?’
Jake cleared a space while Silas lifted the notes onto the table. They were held together by a string fed through a hole in the top left corner of each one, every page was the same size, the handwriting neat, and the various sections were divided by thin sheets of card. Jake turned the pages to face him, glancing at the other diners in the car to make sure they weren’t being overheard. The other passengers were too interested in the novelty of menus to notice two respectably dressed young men who, to the outside world, appeared to be having a business meeting.
‘Can you go through it again?’ Jake asked, leafing through the various sections. ‘What you said about this Mr Smith character.’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘I don’t know, but I thought I saw something. Can’t explain it. Go on. There was this train crash?’
‘Best not think about that,’ Silas said. They were puffing through the Berkshire countryside, the fields wide and verdant, the afternoon sky clouding and threatening rain. ‘But yeah. Ended up with Archer taking Mr Smith and this lad to the house because the hospital was overrun.’
‘And Smith had a tattoo that made you not trust him?’
‘That’s it. Archer thought it was something to do with his old family who were Rasnovs,
but we looked it up, and it’s not. The drawing on Smith’s back was what they used to ink themselves with if they were protectors of the Szekelys.’
‘”The Szekelys… Their heart’s blood and their swords boast a record like the Hapsburgs, and the Romanovs cannot reach”,’ Jake quoted from a page.
‘Yeah, proud race and all that, I read that bit. So, Smith’s tattoo gave me the creeps, and I didn’t trust him. I did some digging, looking for a book like I said, but Saddle had already found it for Tommy and… What is it you want to know?’
‘Who’s Saddle?’ Jake wasn’t looking at Silas as he asked his questions, he was flicking pages, turning some back and forth, checking one against the other.
‘He’s the under-butler, one down from Thomas.’
‘Loyal?’
‘To Tommy? He has to be if he wasn’t to keep his job.’
‘To Lord Clearwater?’
‘I suppose so. He was put in charge of looking after this Smith character, but it’s difficult to tell anything with Saddle.’
Jake looked up, opened his mouth and returned to his reading. ‘You had this gut feeling?’
‘Yeah. Jimmy felt it too.’
‘That’s the footman who went up the fly tower with you and got thumped by a man in a dress?’
‘Yeah,’ Silas said, recalling the incident vividly. ‘But he got up and saved me from falling sixty feet.’
‘Is he loyal too?’
‘Jimmy? He’s everyone’s best mate. Hey, Jake.’ Silas banged his hand on the paper to distract the young man. ‘We’re all good mates, and that includes Archer, but you never call him that. When we get to the Hall, it’s His Lordship, and you don’t discuss our relationship with anyone, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Now, what were you getting at?’
‘You said something about the language Smith was talking in his sleep?’
‘Translated as “Take the boy and kill the father”,’ Silas said. ‘And he was muttering about taking the family name too, dishonour and shame.’
‘That was it!’ Jake turned the papers to Silas and pointed to a section. ‘Read this note.’
Chpt/2; Count’s speech: “For when the good name of the Szekely people is besmirched by the Turk or tainted by the Hungarian, we retaliate with force.”
Note: They killed at even the threat of such insult else allow dishonour upon the family. The Protectori (R1 paragraph 3) never allowed such shame (still do not). Cunning, they tricked a comprimario to unknowingly kill their enemy. (C/04)
‘No idea what it means, mate,’ Silas said. ‘What you saying?’
Jake took back the notes and continued his search as he spoke. ‘These are notes for Mr Irving’s play, right? Background, ideas, some speeches, but they’re all based on truth. It says so here…’ He indicated a reference but had moved on before Silas could read it clearly. ‘That speech basically says that the Romanian assassins are still in existence… Yeah, here.’ He indicated the corner of a page. ‘R one. Research page one, paragraph three. “The Protectori are still active. Ensure Irving knows the risks.” Is that the tattoo?’
Jake’s eyes were darting from line to line as Silas leant in to look at a sketch. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Looking to the left. What are you getting at?’
‘Do you know what a comprimario is?’
‘Not a clue, Jake. But I’m guessing you do.’
‘Only ’cos I worked in the theatre. In Italian opera, the comprimario is like a supporting role, the master’s faithful servant kind of thing. In the orchestra, the musicians call the one who sits behind the leader the same thing. He’s usually a violinist.’
‘Playing second fiddle?’
‘Exactly.’
‘All very interesting, Jake, but still means nothing to me.’
‘Here!’ Jake had turned to a page headed with the letter C. ‘Character ideas. Character number four…’ He followed a list to the fourth name and read the note. ‘”A man, possibly a madman, duped into assisting the Count to carry out his plan. Perhaps greed. Greed for life. Greed for revenge?” Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Silas?’
‘I’m seeing that this train is going slow,’ Silas said, looking at the gloom beyond the window. ‘But I’m not seeing how this is going to help Tommy understand how Smith is going to kill Irving.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Who should be arriving at Larkspur anytime now.’
‘Why Irving?’
‘Because he wrote that play. The one based on those notes. You just said so with that stuff about “Even at the threat of dishonour.” From what I understand, Irving’s play has upset the Szekelys, and they’ve sent their assassin to kill him because he dared write it. Smith was on his way to wait for Irving or meet him off the boat when the accident landed him at Larkspur. Lucky for him, bad for Mr Irving, but at least Tommy now knows for sure and can convince Archer. As for how he’s going to kill Irving, we still don’t know.’
The waiter was taking orders at the next table, and Jake lowered his voice. ‘Do the words Golden Mediasch mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing, why?’
‘I might have this all arse about face,’ Jake whispered. ‘But there’s two things you should know. One, according to these notes, the Protectori send their faithful, but usually tricked servant, their comprimario, to do their dirty work, so they never get caught themselves if the plan goes wrong. Secondly, they do it with something called a Golden Mediasch. If I’m right, that’s what your Mr Smith is going to use for his murder if he hasn’t done it already.’
The thought that they were too late chilled Silas, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that his message would, by now, have arrived with Thomas. His friends would know what to do. They were, as Archer insisted, comrades bound together for the common good.
‘So we know the victim,’ Silas said, thinking aloud. ‘Irving. We know when — sometime between this afternoon and Monday, and we suspect Smith won’t do it himself. I can’t think who he might have tricked into doing his dirty work, but then I still don’t know everyone at the Hall. What we don’t know is how. Anything there say what a Golden Mediasch might be?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have that on the menu, Sir.’
Silas looked up sharply to find the steward scribbling on his pad. Jake flipped the notes face down.
‘It’s extremely rare, as I am sure you appreciate.’ The waiter finished writing the table number and smiled. ‘We do have a rather fine claret.’
‘It’s a wine?’
‘Claret? Yes, of course, Sir.’
‘No,’ Silas tutted. ‘Golden, er… The gold one.’
The waiter looked from one man to the other as if he suspected they were stowaways from second-class. ‘Both the claret and the Mediasch are reds, Sir. The Mediasch comes from the Medias region of Transylvania. At least, it did until production was halted. There are very few bottles left in existence. Perhaps if you would care to place an order, I can advise you on the wine?’
Silas stumbled through the menu and placed an order for beef and potatoes, and accepted the wine the waiter suggested. He’d never heard of it but was anxious for the man to go away.
‘So I reckon we know how,’ he said, once the man had gone.
‘Wine? What, poison?’
‘Stella,’ Silas said, staring at Jake. ‘Poisoned chalice. Quill’s brother. Same style?’ His mind was racing, thinking back, picking up ideas from previous events and trying to shuffle them into the current puzzle.
‘You’ll have to explain,’ Jake said.
‘I will, mate, but let me think a minute.’
The train rattled as it sped through a tunnel, the sound of pistons and wheels churning in the background against images of Quill, his twisted form hunched over a bottle
of red wine, grinning as he tipped poison into the neck.
‘No,’ he muttered to his reflection. ‘Thomas decants the wine. Always. He never lets it out of his sight until it reaches the dining room.’
‘Silas.’
‘Tommy wouldn’t do it. Don’t be stupid, man.’
‘Silas?’
‘But it’s left on the sideboard during the dinner. Barnaby? Get away. You trust him.’
‘Oi, Silas?’
Jake was tapping his knee under the table, but Silas ignored it. The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place as the train screamed from the tunnel, the sound fell way, and his reflection was drowned by the sunset.
‘Unless he’s busy,’ he said, turning back to Jake.
‘Who?’
‘Thomas. He’s going to be busy. It’s Archer’s first big event, and Tom’s. He’ll get his under-butler to do stuff, and even if he doesn’t, Saddle’s at the sideboard through dinner.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ Jake said, ‘but you need to see this.’
‘Saddle has spent the last couple of days with Smith. He hates Thomas, but would he agree to put poison in the wine?’
‘If he’s a comprimario, he might not know he was doing it,’ Jake suggested, flicking to the note he had read earlier. ‘If he’s greedy for life, blood or revenge, he might, but there’s something else you need to know.’ He clicked his fingers in Silas’ face to draw his focus.
‘I bet it’s that creep, Saddle.’
‘Yeah, okay, Silas, but look.’ Jake waved the bundle of papers. ‘These notes aren’t just about the play. They refer to chapters, not acts. What’s more, they talk about Mr Irving in the third person. “Ensure Irving knows the risks.” Irving didn’t write this.’
‘It was his play, wasn’t it?’
‘He was in it,’ Jake said. ‘But he didn’t write it.’ He shook his head and offered the last page of notes as his evidence. ‘These are notes for a book about a blood-thirsty Szekely Count that someone else is planning to write. See? It says here, “End of outline chapters”, and it’s dated February this year. After the play was performed. Henry Irving ain’t the author. He ain’t the one to be murdered.’
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