It fell flat when Lady Marshall said, ‘Yes, Dickie, and why not?’
Irving rescued the Earl from embarrassment by asking for more details of Archer’s proposal, and the viscount guided the conversation effortlessly back to the work of the charity. It continued as the plates were taken, the used wine glasses removed, and the next course was brought to the sideboard.
By the time the fourth course was being served, Irving had heard enough and was persuaded to Archer’s cause.
‘Up to you,’ he said across the table to Stoker. ‘Sounds like a simple one-off event to me. Easy to pencil in between performances, or when we’re dark for a day or so. Could bring extra publicity, not that we need it. I’ll let you decide if we’re going to do this. Have a think on it, but I say we go ahead with caution. Don’t want to send the wrong signals.’
‘The gala last year was held at the Opera House,’ Roxton said, winking at Archer. ‘I am sure the Lyceum could do better than they did.’
‘Damn right, Sir,’ Irving agreed fiercely, the ridge of his eyebrows raising before they came crashing together above his imposing nose. ‘Over to you, Bram.’
Archer had done what he could, and to force their interest would be to overplay his hand.
‘I would like to take a short break,’ he said, between the courses. ‘I have a treat for our guests newly returned from America.’ He nodded to Irving and then Stoker before turning to Thomas. ‘Payne, would you?’
This was Archer’s moment, the jewel in the crown, the serving of one of the rarest wines available, and one from Carpathia to honour Irving and Stoker and clinch his deal. Assured and proud, Thomas strode to the sideboard and, under the quizzical gaze of His Lordship’s guests, reached for the decanter.
Saddle gripped his wrist. The under-butler was paler than ever, and his glove was wet with sweat.
Glaring, Thomas struggled to free himself. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed, but Saddle only held him more tightly.
‘This isn’t in any way a bribe,’ Archer, behind him, was saying, ‘but hearing of your success with your play about the Szekely people last year, Mr Irving, I thought I might indulge you.’
‘Let go.’ Thomas’ words were spat through clenched teeth.
Saddle said nothing, his eyes were wide, but his mouth firmly closed.
‘It wasn’t actually mine.’ Irving’s naturally powerful voice covered the sound of Thomas’ struggle. ‘Stoker should have the credit for the writing. It was more an introduction to his work on “The Un-Dead.” Am I right, Abraham?’
‘You are, and thank you for the credit.’
Seeing the altercation, Barnaby positioned himself at Thomas’ other side and removed a glove. He was attempting to silently prise Saddle’s fingers, when the viscount asked, ‘Everything alright, Payne?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
Barnaby’s dug his fingernails into Saddle’s flesh until he drew blood and Thomas was freed.
‘We will have words, Saddle.’ Furious, he composed himself and took the decanter across to the table under the expectant eyes of the entire party.
‘What’s this?’ Irving asked, intrigued.
The wine was placed before the viscount, and Thomas stood back, ready to pour when called upon.
‘We will all taste it,’ the viscount said. ‘But if my other friends would indulge me, I would like Mr Irving and Mr Stoker to try it first. I think you will find it of particular interest, Stoker, as it hails from the region of Transylvania in which you are so interested.’
‘Another one?’ Stoker said, his beard rising with his smile. ‘The Purcari was fair-fine enough, Sir, but you intend to spoil us further?’
‘Of course, and with one of the last remaining bottles of Golden Mediasch.’
‘Good Lord!’ Irving gasped. ‘Lord Clearwater, I have already agreed to back your charity, there really is no need.’
‘As I said, Henry, it is not a bribe. My grandfather laid down several crates in the cellar, and because you were both returning from what I knew would be a triumphant tour of your Romanian play, I simply thought it appropriate. Payne, would you pour?’
‘My Lord.’
Thomas lifted the decanter aware that Saddle was whispering to Barnaby. With the viscount’s glass filled, he walked to the far end of the table to serve Lady Marshall, as was the etiquette, and glared at Barnaby. Understanding, the footman carefully pushed Saddle away, ignored him, and faced the room.
‘If I might indulge you, Sir,’ Stoker said. ‘Perhaps I might make a toast when the time is right.’
‘Of course,’ Archer replied.
Thomas returned to fill Irving’s glass next, as he was the guest of honour, and then attended to the Earl and Countess, working around the table in order of seniority until every glass was filled.
When he was done, Stoker rose to his feet. An imposing figure, he bore down on the table with his intelligent features composed and serious. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘After a gruelling tour of America and a storm at sea, what more could a man ask than hospitality such as this? I have only been at Larkspur a few hours, but already I find it a place of tranquillity, beauty and most of all, generosity such as I have never known. I am honoured, Sir.’ He tipped his head to Archer. ‘To be invited, me, an immigrant myself from the shores of Ireland to be accepted among such company… Well, a privilege. I also find myself swayed to your cause to assist the unfortunates of our capital city, not by the work or because it’s a charity, but because a man in your position has considered such kindness in the first place. It is a rare thing indeed to find in our higher classes the compassion needed to help those less fortunate, and I find it in all those present this evening. That said, I would like us to raise our glasses to our host, a man whose nobility and compassion outshines us all through his dedication to those in need.’
Stoker lifted his glass, and the men stood.
‘Let us drink a toast,’ Stoker concluded. ‘To a collaboration between the Lyceum Theatre and the Clearwater Foundation, and to the mastermind behind it, Lord…’
The double doors crashed open, and mayhem ensued.
Twenty-Six
A figure dressed entirely in black stumbled into the room and took stock of the scene. Seeing Stoker lifting his glass to his lips, the intruder yelled ‘No!’, and threw himself at the author. The countess screamed, the Earl swore, and Tennyson fell back into his chair. Luckily, Thomas had just replaced the decanter, had he not, it would have fallen from his hand in shock as the scene unfolded in shards of images and snatches of sound, much as it had done when the railway carriage rolled over.
The intruder flew through the air and connected with Stoker, knocking his glass from his hand as he fell sideways with the impact.
‘What the blazes?’ Archer leapt one way while Irving jumped back, tripped on his chair and stumbled.
Another glass smashed, Thomas’ heart pounded, and he dashed forward to put himself between the viscount and the assailant. A mass of pitch-black clothing writhed on the floor amid grunts and swearwords before the assassin rolled from Stoker and scrambled towards the sideboard. Thomas intercepted him, kicked the back of his knees and brought the man to the ground. Grabbing the filthy coat, he spun him around.
‘Don’t drink the wine!’
Thomas realised with horror, it was Silas.
Letting him go, he turned to face to the bemused guests. ‘My Lord…’ he began, an apology leaping instinctively to his throat.
‘What the hell are you doing, Hawkins?’ Archer roared.
‘Don’t touch the wine,’ Silas yelled again, as he clambered to his feet.
Those guests holding a glass immediately put them on the table, and Barnaby helped Stoker to stand.
‘I’m alright,’ the author complaine
d. ‘Who is this banshee?’
Had it not been for his voice, it would have been impossible to recognise Silas. His face was black, making his teeth and eyes shine wildly, and his clothes were similarly covered. Clouds of soot rose as he brushed himself down with filthy hands.
‘You had better explain yourself,’ Archer barked before addressing his guests. ‘My abject apologies, I have no idea…’
‘It’s poisoned,’ Silas gasped, wiping some of the sweaty soot from his face. ‘Your Golden wine stuff, Smith’s poisoned it.’
A moment of stunned silence allowed him time to whip out a handkerchief and reveal more of his skin. Beneath the coal black, it glowed red as if he had run a mile.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Archer was the first to recover. ‘Get out, Hawkins. We will discuss this later.’
‘You and your staff, Clearwater,’ the Earl muttered, as he comforted his wife.
‘You were right’, Silas pointed at Thomas. ‘We found it. I sent a message. Is that it?’
Silas was clearly drunk or had been driven mad, but he had drawn Thomas into his madness, and all eyes were now turning to the butler.
‘Is that the wine?’ Silas insisted.
‘What wine?’ Thomas stammered.
‘The Golden… Whatever.’
‘Yes.’
‘Has anyone drunk it?’
‘We haven’t had a bloody chance.’ Archer’s face was red and his fists were clenched. He took two strides towards Silas, reaching for his lapels, intent on hurling him from the room.
‘Hold on, Clearwater.’ It was Stoker’s voice, and it drew Archer up short. ‘You had better take a look at this.’
Attention focused on the broken glass. The rug was smoking and silently disintegrating where the wine had been spilt.
‘Good Lord,’ Irving said, looking to where his glass had landed. ‘And here.’
Thinking quickly, Thomas took the water pitcher from the sideboard and tipped it onto the steaming mess where it hissed as if dousing a fire. Across the room, Barnaby did the same to the other spillage.
‘I warned you,’ Silas said as the guests looked on in stunned silence. ‘Why did you serve it? I sent a telegram.’
‘We have had no telegrams,’ Thomas replied, the anger in his voice obvious. ‘May I suggest,’ he added with great restraint, ‘that I take you to your rooms, and we make you more presentable.’
‘No,’ Irving cut him off as he took long strides around the table, bearing down on the viscount’s secretary. ‘I think I would like Mr Hawkins to explain the meaning of this display.’
‘I would also be fascinated,’ Tennyson said, with interest more than shock. ‘A dramatic entertainment, Clearwater, but certainly one that needs clarification.’
‘Well…’ Archer couldn’t find his words. ‘Of course…’
‘Mr Stoker, are you harmed?’ Thomas took over.
‘Takes a lot more than a rugby tackle to harm me,’ Stoker said, brushing black dust from his dinner jacket. ‘I’m fine, Payne.’
‘Your Ladyship?’
‘I think the countess is sufficiently recovered for an explanation,’ Lady Marshall said, and the countess nodded. ‘But some water would be appreciated.’
‘Just don’t drink the wine,’ Silas repeated, dropping his coat over the damaged rug.
‘Barnaby, serve Their Ladyships with water,’ Thomas instructed. ‘And Mr Saddle…? Where’s Mr Saddle?’
‘Said he had to go below stairs, Mr Payne,’ Barnaby replied.
‘Never mind him,’ Archer fumed, red in the face with angry embarrassment. ‘Barnaby, water. Everyone else sit, and we will get to the bottom of this. Hawkins, why are you covered in soot?’
‘Been playing Othello?’ Irving quipped. It may have been a release of tension, or he might have had a dark sense of humour, but it lightened the mood.
‘Aye, well I’ll explain, Sir,’ Silas said. ‘And I’ll apologise for my appearance and what just happened, but first, if you don’t mind, I’ll get these glasses safely away.’ He began collecting them from the table. ‘Just in case anyone forgets and takes a mouthful.’
‘By God, yes,’ Sullivan said. ‘One touch of that, and we’d all have been screaming in agony if not dead.’
‘I’d never have sung again,’ Roxton wailed, pale and trembling.
Silas was right. If the wine was poisoned with something so corrosive, it was dangerous to leave it anywhere, and Thomas helped him move the glasses and decanter to the sideboard while the guests adjusted their clothing and accepted water from Barnaby.
‘No wonder the Golden Mediasch is so rare,’ Lady Marshall joked. ‘One can only wonder how it is aged. In iron barrels, I assume.’
Surprisingly, the other guests thought it a witty remark; unsurprisingly, Archer did not. He had not yet taken his seat. Still angry, his eyes remained fixed on Silas, and it was difficult to know what he would say or do next.
Thomas held the viscount’s chair saying, ‘Sir?’ with an expression that made it clear Archer should sit and be patient.
Clearing his throat with a growl, Archer sat and instinctively reached for a glass. It was halfway to his lips when he realised what he was doing. Luckily it was empty.
‘This is safe,’ My Lord.’ Barnaby filled the glass with water. ‘I tested it.’
‘It would have only been in the wine,’ Silas said, glaring at Archer. ‘I won’t sit, Sir, if you don’t mind, on account of the state of my clothes. I’ll change when I’ve explained myself, and then if you think it necessary, will pack myself off to somewhere else and cause you no further embarrassment.’ Matching Archer’s glower, he added, ‘My Lord.’
Only Thomas noticed the look that passed from one to the other, but in it, he saw the conflict between their love and Silas’ behaviour, between the stately way Archer needed to be seen by the world and Silas’ hot-headedness; the difference in their classes. The distance between them was huge, a gaping chasm forged by education, privilege and background. If Archer remained angry and said, ‘Yes, go,’ Silas would leave, and for the viscount’s sake, never return, he loved the man that much. The chasm, however, could be bridged if Archer was able to see beyond his upbringing. If he was secure in his love for Silas, he would tell him to stay.
The viscount sighed deeply and swallowed.
‘Your leaving won’t be necessary, Hawkins,’ he said. ‘We can plainly see what might have happened had you not made your enthusiastic entrance, but what we need to know, is why was it necessary?’
‘Heavens! Who on earth are you?’
Attention was suddenly drawn to Lady Marshall and another black-clad young man hovering in the doorway. The figure turned a bowler hat in his hands, and his feet shuffled from side to side beside a suitcase. Like Silas, he was dripping with sweat, and his face was streaked with lines of filth.
‘Are you here to beg?’ Lady Marshall asked, fixing lorgnettes to the bridge of her nose and giving the man a thorough inspection.
‘I’ve done my share of begging, Your Ladyship,’ the man said. ‘But no.’
‘He’s with me.’ Silas beckoned Jake into the room. ‘Actually, it was Jake who figured out most of this.’
‘Don’t I know you?’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Roxton, Sir!’ Jake smiled, showing uneven teeth and the sparkling whites of his eyes picked out from the grime. ‘Pleasure to see you again. It’s Jake, Sir. You probably knew me as Tricky. Runner from the Opera House.’ His offered hand caused Roxton to withdraw in horror.
‘We’ll get to that,’ Silas said, leading Jake to stand with him at the head of the table. ‘If you’d rather, My Lord, we can wash up and explain ourselves later.’
‘Now.’ Archer’s anger was calming, but he was still not the mild-mannered host he had been.
‘And quickly.’
Silas related his story as succinctly as possible. He told the party how he had suspected Mr Smith was not to be trusted, how he had gone to the city to find more information and while there, discovered that he was right. Mr Smith was, in fact, Protectori. What he wasn’t sure about was why he should be at Larkspur, but when he uncovered more information, he realised with horror that Mr Stoker was the target because of a novel he was planning to publish. A message was sent to warn the viscount, he said, and Jake was of great help, but they were delayed on their return. It was only while on the train and out of communication that the penny dropped, and he knew how Mr Smith was to carry out the murder.
‘By poisoning the wine?’ Archer clarified.
‘Yes, Sir,’ Jake put in. ‘Because that’s how they used to do it in the past.’
‘But Mr Smith left us days ago,’ Archer countered. ‘He is not here, and Payne only opened the bottle this evening.’
Silas continued his story and told them how the Protectori duped a follower, usually a servant, into doing their bidding.
‘Unthinkable,’ Archer said. ‘A fantastic story, Mr Hawkins. Clearly, something was put in the wine at some point, but if you are casting aspersions on Payne…’
‘I’m not, Sir,’ Silas said, holding Thomas’ worried gaze. ‘Because I know Mr Payne is nothing but loyal to you and your house. Nor would I imagine Barnaby had anything to do with it as he helped me track down some information before I left.’
‘One moment,’ Irving interrupted. ‘I am fascinated by all of this, but I have questions. Means, yes, by the involvement of a tricked fool, but motive? Opportunity? That is to say, how would anyone get poison into the wine, and why Mr Stoker?’
‘For a reason we didn’t discover,’ Silas said, ‘they usually did it by a watch or ring. Something that could contain the substance and not look suspicious.’
‘A watch?’ Thomas couldn’t help but speak up. ‘Barnaby, fetch Mr Saddle immediately and bring him here. Have Oleg help you if necessary. Quickly.’
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