‘Then who is?’
‘Bram Stoker.’
At Paddington Station that morning, Silas’ message had been expertly translated into a series of dots and dashes by a man fluent in Morse code. After eight years working the Cooke and Wheatstone transmitter, the operator was so accustomed to converting letters to signals that his mind didn’t need to absorb the words, it instinctively knew how many taps of the key represented each letter. Had he been reading Silas’ message, he might have wondered at words such as Protectori and Szekely. If he had a mind to be inquisitive, he might have become concerned at certain phrases, in particular, Definitely assassin, Contain Smith, and Take the boy and kill the father, and if he had been interested in celebrity business, he might have picked up on Henry Irving’s name. He was none of those things, simply a well-trained man doing his job and doing it efficiently before the telegraph office closed early for Easter Friday.
Each press of the key caused the attached metal stylus to complete an electrical circuit producing a charge which pulsed through the copper wire. The dots and dashes followed each other along the cable overtaking locomotives steaming through towns and cities, and arrived in Cornwall a few seconds later. There, the code woke an electromagnet, shocking it into action and compelling it to jolt a small lever into life. The lever was pulled down for the brief lifetime of either a dot or a dash, and as its other end rose, an inked wheel made contact with a strip of paper which automatically rolled out when the Paddington machine connected to the Larkspur receiver two hundred and twelve miles away.
The paper tape flowed until the message was complete, and was torn from the reel by the postmaster’s eldest son, a barrel of a man who was due to be married in a month. Noting that the message was marked as urgent and that it was for Larkspur Hall, he swung his legs from the fireside stool and heaved himself upright to set about translating the code and writing it on the delivery slip. Had it been for anyone else, he would have finished his tea first, but His Lordship had personally pulled the man’s fiancée from the wreckage of the Plymouth train, and in doing so, had saved her life. The postmaster’s son was so grateful to the viscount that he didn’t dwell on the message or search for gossip, and instead, sealed it in an envelope and bellowed the name of his younger brother, instantly and professionally forgetting what he had just read.
The brother, summoned from his reading of ‘The Primrose Path’ in the parlour, sauntered into the room, stretching. A minute later, he was furiously pedalling the two miles to the Hall.
Arriving out of breath and sweating, he rang the back doorbell and, as soon as the maid appeared, flustered and backed by a cloud of steam, passed the envelope across. The messenger waited, hoping for an invitation to rest with a glass of beer, but the crashing of pans and chopping of cleavers told him the kitchen was busy and he didn’t stand a chance.
The kitchen-maid closed the door on the pushy lad from the village, and bustled her way through the vapours and fervour of the kitchen, along the passage, through the servants’ hall and down the corridor to the under-butler’s pantry. There, she found the door open and Mr Saddle nervously examining a pocket watch.
‘Another message for Mr Payne,’ she announced.
She had lost count of how many had been delivered and passed to the under-butler in the last two days. With Mr Payne managing the dinner and guest arrangements, it was currently Saddle’s job to filter the post, and so the proof of impending murder was placed in Saddle’s hand, and he dismissed the maid. As soon as she had left, he hid the message in his inside pocket with the other unopened communications Mr Smith had bribed him not to deliver, and still believing this was part of some humorous prank that would humiliate Mr Payne, he returned to readying the decanters for the evening wine.
Twenty-Three
Easter Friday morning had dawned over Newquay with a westerly breeze that cleared the last of the storm clouds from the north coast and left a pale sky. It brought with it the smell of the sea and the sound of waves lapping at the quay. James woke late to hear sails flapping and men calling as the fishermen left on the tide, while seagulls squawked overhead in irregular counterpoint. His limbs ached from yesterday’s exertions, and the pleasant numbness told him he had slept well and long.
Refreshed, he sat up in bed and blinked against the sunlight. Jerry lay curled in the other cot, and Fecker, wrapped in his new coat and lying on extra blankets supplied by the motherly landlady, snored lightly across the door, a precaution in case Jerry decided to run away, or Smith returned. Neither had happened, and that gave James hope that the day ahead would be a simple one. Checking the time, he found it was ten o’clock and decided to put his thoughts in order before waking the others.
As well as hearing Jerry’s story the previous evening, he had also learnt his proper name, or rather, names. His father had christened him Irving, after his friend and colleague, Henry Irving, but, Jerry said, he was known by his second name, Noel, so as not to cause confusion at home. He was also named after his uncle Thornley, and although he had no objections to that, he thought to have three first names was, ‘Perhaps something of a confusion.’
‘You should ask Mr Andrej his full name,’ James had said, and Jerry did.
‘Andrej Borysko Yakiv Kolisnychenko.’ The words rolled proudly in Fecker’s native accent, as they did when he added his title, ‘Master of the Horse.’
Jerry looked at him curiously. ‘I would say, that in English, you would be Andrew Boris Jacob,’ he said. ‘Fine and noble names, Sir. I am pleased to properly make your acquaintance.’
For a nine-year-old, he was articulate, and he certainly knew his own mind. He declared that his ‘Uncle Jimmy’ and Mr Andrej were fine friends to have, and he formerly thanked them for their assistance, adding that they could call him what they wanted. James decided it would be easier and raise fewer questions locally if they stuck with Jerry for now, aware that after reuniting the lad with his father, he would probably never see him again.
It was a sad thought. He had come to like the boy, despite his precociousness which, James assumed, came from his schooling. That thought had prompted him to discover the name of Jerry’s school, and remembering the name as he yawned, reminded him that there were tasks to see to and a timetable to keep, and he slipped from the bed with the day planned.
It was nearly twelve by the time he and the others had washed, dressed and tidied the room. The landlady prepared them a fine feast as an early lunch, fussed over Jerry a while, and left them alone. They were the only customers in the inn, but they took the table furthest from the door for privacy should anyone else arrive.
‘Right,’ James said, once they were served and eating. ‘I have a couple of messages to send, but there’s nothing else we can do until the boat comes in at…?’
‘Between half-past one and a quarter-to,’ Jerry announced. ‘I had a timetable in my dorm, so I knew when father would be back in the country.’
‘I don’t suppose you had a railway timetable too?’ James asked, and when Jerry told him that he did, he was not in the least surprised.
‘Not in my dorm, but I found one on the floor of the third-class truck when I was hiding. That was when I had to change trains at Plymouth. I was very bored until then, so it was good to have something to read. There are two afternoon trains from Newquay to the line change at Liskeard on a Friday,’ he said. ‘One that leaves before my father arrives, and one that leaves at thirteen minutes past two o’clock. There is an evening train which terminates at Lostwithiel, but only on a Sunday.’ He beamed, pleased with himself.
James ruffled the lad’s hair. ‘Clever chap. So, in order to escort Mr Irving and your father to Larkspur, we must catch the two thirteen.’ Turning to Fecker, he asked, ‘You’ll be able to take both horses back across country, won’t you?’
‘Da.’
‘But before that, I must
send the messages.’
‘Can I come?’ Jerry sat up, eager and smiling.
‘Best not,’ James said, and the boys’ face fell. ‘We don’t know where Mr Smith might be, but we do know he is determined to snatch you away. You must stay here with Mr Andrej.’
‘Da,’ Fecker nodded as he poured tea into a tin mug.
‘But I will be bored,’ Jerry complained, pouting.
‘Nyet. We play clobyosh.’
Jerry giggled. ‘What’s that?’
‘With cards,’ Fecker explained. ‘Good game from Ukraine.’
‘But not for money,’ James warned. ‘Which reminds me, how much have you got on you, Fecks? I’m down to a few shillings.’
Fecker had more in his wallet which he extracted from his socks, making James grimace and Jerry laugh.
‘I have sixpence left over from my shillings,’ Jerry offered. ‘I had to use the rest to get here.’
‘That’s kind of you, Jerry,’ James said. ‘But you keep it.’
Having paid the landlady, there was enough left for a couple of succinct telegrams, train tickets, and some change for Fecker in case he needed to rest on his way overland to Larkspur.
With that matter dealt with, James left to send his messages. Walking along the quay, past women mending lobster pots and old men in their coats playing dominos, sailors’ caps pulled about their ears, it was hard to imagine that the events of last night had taken place. The fishing port was picturesque with its white-painted cottages, swinging tavern signs and window boxes displaying spring flowers. Strangers nodded their heads in greeting, and he replied with a cheerful ‘Good morning’, stopping the first one he met to ask for directions which were willingly and pleasantly given along with good wishes and the hope that he would enjoy his visit in the town.
The pleasantries aside, he was wary and on the lookout for Mr Smith. Jerry had given him no indication of why Smith wanted to kidnap the boy. Presumably as a way of drawing Stoker to him. Why anyone would want to kill a theatre critic and manager, was anyone’s guess. As far as James knew, Stoker had only written a handful of short stories and one novel. ‘The Primrose Path’ was where Jerry had found his name. It wasn’t a book that James knew, and not one that featured on Thomas’ shelves either. James’ lover preferred romantic novels that Archer called mind-numbing, while James had recently been reading the works of Tennyson, having met the man, works which were far more romantic than Thomas’ romances, and far more exciting that Silas’ penny dreadfuls. Considering both Lord Tennyson and Mr Stoker were to be guests at that evening’s dinner, James thought Thomas would have been more interested in the works of those men than ‘Seduce Me At Sunrise.’
His mind was wandering, but at least it was wandering towards Larkspur, and picturing Tom lying next to him in bed, reading and idly stroking James’ thigh, put a smile on his lips. They would be doing that again before long, but in the meantime, he needed to send the good news that Jerry was safe.
Finding the telegraph office, he entered and approached the counter. The office was identical to the one he had worked in until last October, it even smelt of the same floor polish, but the permanent background tang of male sweat that pervaded that Riverside depot wasn’t so pronounced. Fewer boys worked here and, considering the size of the fishing port against the city, that made sense.
The large clock behind the counter read one thirty as James stepped up to the clerk. The man raised his head from where he had been writing, and smiled.
‘Aye, Sir. Help you?’
‘Need to send two urgents,’ James said, slipping easily into telegraph-boy dialect. ‘But I’d like to be sure the receiving offices are open before I leave.’
The clerk turned to the clock, pushing himself by the counter with one hand and gripping his high stool with the other, groaning as if his back pained him.
‘Aye, Sir,’ he said, coming back to James with just as much discomfort. ‘Only open for another hour today, but your messages will be delivered.’
‘Good.’
James had composed the telegrams in his head during the walk, but he stepped aside to write them on the telegraph form. The first was to Thomas and it was as short as he could make it.
Jerry safe. Smith missing. Beware! Stoker is target. Meeting party from boat. Escorting to Larkspur. On schedule.
Thomas would be busy, but would ensure the relevant parts of the message reached Archer. If he telegraphed the viscount directly, the envelope wouldn’t be opened until it was handed to His Lordship who would be distracted by the arrival of guests. Thomas would also inform Archer that James would be returning that afternoon in time to valet His Lordship and any gentlemen who hadn’t brought their own servant.
Having reread the message and handed it to the clerk, he took another form and wrote to Jerry’s headmaster at Summerhill.
Sir. Irving NT Stoker safe/well. Reuniting with father this pm. Explanation on his return. As yet unsure of date/time. Will inform. Irving sends abject apologies.
He signed it, ‘JJ Wright, Assistant to Viscount Clearwater’ because although he wasn’t Archer’s assistant, ‘Valet to’, wouldn’t have carried as much weight.
When the clerk handed the forms back for James to check and agree the price, he reread both, found everything in order and paid. Most customers would have left to go about their business, but it was James’ business to ensure the messages were sent, and he had paid extra for them to be treated as a priority. He waited at the end of the counter, listening for the click of the telegraph machine in the room behind reception, and only left the building once he had heard both receiving agencies accept the messages which, he was pleased to note, had been correctly coded.
The walk back to the inn was only marred by concerns for Thomas. It was the first time Tom would oversee the famous Larkspur Easter dinner. There had been other dinners, but only with local men and then only small parties. Tonight, James would return to find the Hall in all its glory, and a glittering table suitably laid for lords and ladies. Etiquette was paramount, as was discreet and silent service, and he imagined Mr Saddle taking a trembling Barnaby through his role as Thomas looked on. It wasn’t merely a simple case of proper entertaining, Archer also had to impress his guests with flawless hospitality before turning their gratitude into financial reward for his foundation. On top of that there was his reputation as the new Viscount Clearwater, and beyond even that, his own ambition. Where his father had held his Easter dinner as a Christian and political event, Archer wanted to make his mark from the outset by inviting poets, actors and patrons of the arts. The servants knew this, and the only ones James could remember grumbling about the change of tradition were Mrs Baker (but only momentarily because she had enjoyed meeting the wives of bishops), and Mr Saddle who complained about everything.
‘You’ve got it all sorted, Jimmy,’ he told himself as he mounted the steps to the police station. ‘One last thing and you’re done.’
‘Hello again, Sir.’ The constable stood behind a desk sipping a cup of tea.
‘Ah, Constable…’ James slipped back into his refined, working voice. ‘I wondered if there was any news of the abductor?’
‘’Fraid not, Sir.’ The policeman put his cup back in its saucer and dabbed his moustache with his sleeve. ‘Your man, the Russian, saw him off as far as Trencreek, far as I can tell. Ain’t much after that until Burngullow depot. Probably hopped it on the night freight to Plymouth most likely.’
James wasn’t so sure.
‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But whoever he was, he was very determined to do harm to the boy, and we shan’t be leaving here until this afternoon. Will your men keep a lookout for him?’
‘Already doing that, Sir. Got a description of the man going around town.’
‘That’s reassuring, thank you.’
‘Can I ask why he
was chasing the young gentleman?’
‘No idea,’ James lied. ‘But it was with enough menace to force Jerry to flee into a boat in panic.’
‘Aye. Nasty business. One thing’s for sure, he won’t be from ’round these parts.’
‘No, of course not.’ James considered whether he should inform the police of Smith’s real purpose, but decided against it. To bring the Romanian Protectori into the equation would only complicate matters and require more explanation than he was willing to give. As long as the local constabulary was still alert, he doubted Smith would try again. The boat would be arriving soon, there would be a crowd of people, and all he and Fecker needed to do was escort Mr Stoker and his son to the train where they could be easily guarded. If Smith had doubled back to the Hall, Archer and Danylo were expert swordsmen.
‘Thank you, Constable,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it in your hands.’
He left the police station with an air of confidence that covered nervousness brought on by a series of questions. What if there were no crowds at the boat? The town wasn’t that big, and he doubted many people took the tender, so there might not be that many passengers disembarking; Smith could easily single out Stoker. Perhaps the customs officers would be busy and distracted by the arrival. What if Smith was lying in wait, ready to shoot Stoker from a distance? What if there was a crowd and Smith was able to sneak among them, grab Jerry and flee?
Checking the time, he decided to take a look at the landing stage at the far end of the harbour and speak to the customs officials, making it clear that he was concerned for a young boy’s safety, and reinforcing the police’s warning.
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