Barnaby nodded once and slipped away through the servery.
‘You suspect Saddle?’ Archer asked, his brows raised.
‘Strange behaviour all day, Sir. Constantly inspecting a pocket watch I have never seen before. He was fiddling with the decanters when he should have been lighting the candles. Of course, I had no reason to think…’
‘No one is blaming you, Payne,’ Stoker reassured him. ‘Mr Hawkins has his facts correct, and that’s something which interests me greatly.’ He fixed his intense stare on Silas with all the authority his powerful frame possessed. ‘Young man it took me weeks in the British Museum Library to research for last year’s production, and a great many more to research the Szekely for my novel, and there is yet more to do. How did you come by this information so rapidly?’
Silas and Jake exchanged uneasy glances before Silas held his head high and answered.
‘I went to London on the suggestion of my friends, Sir,’ he began, his eyes darting to Thomas. ‘He reasoned that your play, Mr Irving, was based on fact. The critic, Mr Shaw, had said so in the newspaper, so Mr Payne thought you must have had information.’
‘And you were quite right, Payne,’ Stoker said with a sideways glance at the butler. ‘It’s in my office.’ Returning his suspicious attention to Silas, he said, ‘So how…?’
‘Cabinet two, wasn’t it, Jake?’
‘That’s right, Mr Silas, Sir.’
‘The theatre is dark. Who let you in?’
‘Um, that would be me, Sir,’ Jake said.
‘Now I am confused.’ It was Irving’s turn to be drawn further into the mystery. ‘You said you work at the Opera House.’
‘I did, Sir, yes.’
‘And I don’t know you from the Lyceum. He’s not one of ours, is he, Stoker?’
Stoker shook his head, but as he thought, a smile began to grow between his beard and his moustache.
‘You may have seen him outside it, though.’ Silas had a hint of annoyance in his voice. ‘Begging by the stage door after the opera fired him when his granddad died.’
‘Oh, you poor child,’ Lady Marshall sympathised. ‘Clearwater, we must help this young man.’
‘My fault.’ Silas looked directly at Archer. ‘I was meant to ask Lady Marshall if she had a place for young Jake in her fashion house. He’s excellent at sewing, Your Ladyship. Studies costume and fashion, and was a great help to me during last year’s gala. I felt I owed him a returned favour, but failed to act on it.’
Thomas knew the full story. It was Archer who had promised to help Jake, not Silas. The fault was his, but Silas had again rescued the viscount from embarrassment.
‘I’ve got it!’ Stoker clapped his hands and pointed to Jake. ‘Casby’s Worldwide Emporium?’
‘’Fraid so, Sir,’ Jake said, unable to hold back a grin. Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out Stoker’s rolled up notes and handed them over. ‘We took nothing else, honest, and without them, you might not be here now. Sorry about the soot and stuff.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I will explain later, Irving,’ Stoker said. ‘You know, Lord Clearwater, when your man flew at me just now, I was in a good mind to tell you what to do with your Foundation, excuse my manners, ladies. But these boys have shown such ingenuity…’ The man was trembling as the enormity of what might have happened dawned on him.
Thomas was about to offer him more water when the sounds of a scuffle turned heads to the doors.
‘I say, Clearwater,’ Irving laughed. ‘Now a highwayman to boot. This evening is turning into a Molière.’
Fecker had appeared at the door dressed in his new trench coat and tricorn hat. Oleg stood tall and stoic beside him, and between them, Saddle writhed in their iron grip. Barnaby appeared from behind, out of breath.
‘Allow me to see if I was right.’ Silas marched up to the under-butler and removed his pocket watch. Returning to the table, he handed it to Archer.
‘If I am correct,’ Stoker said. ‘One press of the pin releases the cover, a second pops open the face, and behind it… No, Sir!’ He gripped Archer’s arm. ‘It is obviously corrosive. Don’t do it over your lap.’
Archer followed the instructions, and when the face opened, a small amount of white powder trickled onto his plate before he snapped the watch closed.
‘How horribly ingenious,’ he said, raising his eyes accusingly to Saddle. ‘Well? What have you to say for yourself?’
‘I didn’t know, Sir, honestly,’ Saddle snivelled. ‘He told me it was harmless. It’s meant to turn your teeth red. He said it was a joke you would appreciate.’
‘A joke?’ Archer roared. ‘You thought poisoning my guests would be a joke?’
‘I didn’t know, Sir. Please, he made me.’
‘Made you? How?’
‘Promised me a position, Sir, and money. I owe money, and I owed some to Mr Smith by then. If I’d known…’
‘What position?’
‘It’s in my pocket, Sir. Proof that he tricked me. A letter for His Grace.’
‘Oh, I am enjoying this no end,’ Lady Marshall chuckled.
‘Search his pockets, Mr Andrej,’ Archer ordered, ignoring his godmother’s mirth.
Thomas was glad of it. Rather than being outraged, the guests, including Tennyson and the countess, were now finding the scene amusing. The previous outrage and tension were evaporating from everyone apart from Archer who still glowed a deep crimson.
Oleg held Saddle by the elbows while Fecker rummaged in the under-butler’s inside pockets from which he withdrew several letters and unopened telegrams.
‘What position, Saddle, would make you want to turn your back on my house?’ Archer demanded. ‘Have we not been fair to you?’
‘You have, Sir,’ Saddle grovelled. ‘But butler to a Duke, no disrespect… The letter introduced me to the Duke of Wexford. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity. Once in a lifetime, away from those I owe money. I had no choice.’
Thomas collected the envelopes from Fecker and brought them to the table, reading the sender addresses. ‘This would explain your missing telegram, Mr Hawkins,’ he said. ‘And there appear to be one or two from Mr Wright.’
He handed them to Archer, but instead of opening them, the viscount threw them on the table.
‘It’s there, Sir,’ Saddle protested. ‘Proof that he tricked me.’
‘Oh, he tricked you alright,’ Archer said. ‘There is no Duke of Wexford.’
‘I hope you’re writing this down, Stoker,’ Irving whispered through a smile.
‘I am glad you are finding this of interest, Irving,’ Archer said. ‘And I mean that truly because I am so embarrassed by the whole charade I am mortified.’
‘We very nearly all were,’ Irving chuckled, before adopting an expression of seriousness. ‘Sorry. Don’t be embarrassed, Sir,’ he said as if delivering the final speech of a tragedy. ‘Your man has acted admirably to save you and us all. Besides…’ His sincerity transformed back into humour. ‘It is bound to be material for one of Abraham’s stories, or perhaps one of Lord Tennyson’s idylls.’
‘Thank you for your understanding.’ Archer’s words were clipped, but there was a faint hint of amusement behind his eyes. ‘I think the best thing to do is have Mr Saddle put in the hands of Sergeant Lanyon. Payne? Paper and pen, if you would.’
Thomas nodded to Barnaby who hurried away.
‘We shall let the authorities decide what to do with you, Saddle,’ Archer continued. ‘But whatever they decide, you are no longer employed at Larkspur Hall. You agree, Payne?’
‘I do, My Lord.’
‘A shame we are forced to air our domestic laundry before such honoured guests, and once again, I apologise. I hope this shambles has no bearing on your decision to
aid the Foundation, Sirs.’
‘None whatsoever, Clearwater,’ Tennyson said. ‘I am not sure how I can be of use, but you may use my name, for what it be worth.’
‘Mine too,’ Sullivan added. ‘And I expect Gilbert will be chomping at his wit to produce a libretto on the matter when I give him the details. Perhaps I can persuade D’Oyly Carte to give some backing. After all, if your Foundation can take a young man like this one…’ he waved a hand towards Jake, ‘and turn him into a man of life-saving ingenuity such as Mr Hawkins, well… There’s an opera in there somewhere, eh, Roxton?’
Roxton, fanning himself with Countess Romney’s fan, could only nod.
‘Thank you, Arthur,’ Archer bowed his head in deference and finally smiled.
Barnaby returned with headed notepaper and a pen, and gave them to Thomas who passed them on to the viscount.
‘Mr Andrej,’ Archer said as he wrote. ‘Would you and Oleg please escort this man and his timepiece to the police station? I know he stands no chance of wriggling away from you.’
‘Da.’ Fecker said, and after a nudge from Oleg, added, ‘Lord.’
Archer finished his note and handed it and the watch to Thomas to give to Fecker. That done, he ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. ‘Mr Hawkins, take your friend and change. Join us later so we can hear anything else we might need to know. Payne…?’ He broke off. Fecker was still filling the doorway. ‘Yes, Mr Andrej? Was there something else?’
Fecker shrugged. ‘Da, Geroy,’ he said. ‘There’s this.’
Standing aside, he revealed James with Jerry wrapped around him, asleep with his head on James’ shoulder.
‘And there’s more!’ Irving slapped the table in joy as Archer groaned.
‘Mr Stoker,’ Tennyson reached across the table. ‘Will you pass the pen? At least one of us should be taking notes.’
Stoker wasn’t listening, he was rising slowly to his feet in disbelief.
‘Sorry about this, My Lord,’ James said, stepping into the room as Fecker and Oleg dragged away the unfortunate Mr Saddle. ‘It’s been a long ride, and the lad is very tired, but I thought he should be returned to his father immediately.’
‘Father?’ Archer looked at Thomas for an explanation, but he was as dumbfounded as everyone else; everyone apart from Stoker.
‘Noel?’
‘He has been calling himself Jerry,’ James explained as he approached.
Jerry stirred at the mention of his name and lifted his head. ‘Are we there, Uncle Jimmy?’
‘Uncle Jimmy?’
‘Bit of a long story, Sir,’ James said, lifting Jerry to the floor. ‘Your father’s here. You’re safe now.’
‘Noel?’ Stoker repeated, his tone hardening. ‘Why aren’t you in school. What on earth…?’
Jerry burst into tearful apologies which only calmed when James comforted him. ‘Your father won’t be angry when I explain,’ he said, ushering the boy forward.
‘It’s an evening for explanations,’ Silas said, and James noticed his state. ‘Hello, Mr Wright.’
‘Mr Hawkins.’
‘James Joseph, what an honour.’
‘The honour is mine, Your Lordship,’ James said, bowing to Tennyson.
‘Sir Galahad returned from another quest?’
‘”To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield”,’ James quoted, and the poet, beaming, stood to shake his hand.
‘This is all very intriguing,’ Lady Marshall announced. ‘But listen.’ She rose elegantly to her feet. ‘I admit to being as confused as the next man, but also as joyous not to be writhing in agony on the carpet. May I suggest that we forgo the next course and donate it to these young men who have, judging from their appearance, suffered great pains to ensure we didn’t. We could take our dessert in the drawing-room, with or without wine. What do you say, Clearwater? It hasn’t exactly been a conventional evening thus far.’
Archer’s head moved from side to side as he took it all in, his mouth agape, but offering no reply.
‘That’s that then,’ her Ladyship declared. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Countess? Your Lordships?’ When no-one objected, she continued. ‘Would that cause huge domestic upheaval, Payne?’
‘Not at all, Your Ladyship, but I will, with His Lordship’s permission, open a new bottle of Mediasch in your presence, just to be sure.’
‘Yes,’ Archer said, rising and pulling himself together. ‘Good idea, and when you two are clean, and you, Mr Wright, have eaten, join us. We are not people who stand too much on ceremony, and I am keen to hear the details of this… This…’
‘Full-bodied mystery?’ Stoker suggested.
‘Sounds like a splendid idea,’ the Earl enthused to a chorus of approval. ‘Lost me appetite anyway, too much entertainment, but bloody good fun, Clearwater.’
The party rose, each chatting to those nearest, and Lady Marshall led them from the room.
Among the hubbub, a small voice was heard, sleepy but insistent. ‘Father? Can I stay with Uncle Jimmy?’
Thomas chuckled at the name, covering it with a cough as Archer approached.
‘I don’t know what I would do without you, Tom,’ he whispered.
‘Sir,’ Thomas said, stopping the viscount with his tone. ‘It’s not me you should be thanking. And, if you’ll forgive me, you should not only be thanking Mr Hawkins, but also apologising.’
Archer glared for a second, but his anger soon seeped away, replaced by an appreciative smile. ‘You always know what’s best, eh, Tom? Always do right by me.’
‘We all do, Sir. Especially Mr Hawkins.’
Another long sigh. ‘I know,’ Archer nodded and squeezed Thomas’ shoulder. ‘I don’t deserve any of you.’ He changed the subject before Thomas could argue. ‘Make sure Silas and his friend have what they need. Better ask Mrs Baker to prepare two more bedrooms, though perhaps the boy should be with his father tonight, if you can tear him away from Uncle Jimmy.’
They sniggered secretly like schoolboys before adjusting their demeanour, and Archer followed his guests.
‘Mr Hawkins,’ Thomas said, when the others had left. ‘Would you mind changing before you dine? Jake too, if you have anything that will fit him. What on earth are you covered in?’
‘The seven fifteen from Plymouth.’
Silas threw an arm around Jake, producing a cloud, and Thomas groaned as it settled on the nearby furniture.
With Stoker’s blessing, Jerry was allowed to stay and help James who offered to clear the dining room, but Thomas refused.
‘I suggest that you also change your clothes, Mr Wright,’ he said. ‘You look like a lighthouse keeper in need of a shave. Master Stoker can stay in here with me until we go through to explain where you’ve been.’
‘Very well,’ James said glancing over his shoulder to make sure the room was clear before crouching to Jerry. ‘I’ll be back soon. You stay here…’ He winked up at Thomas. ‘With Uncle Tommy.’
Twenty-Seven
The storm that had buffeted the county returned after sweeping a full circle across the West Country, and thunder rolled across the moors on a wind that blew sudden squalls against trees and houses alike. As lightning cracked over rocky crags and ponds boiled with pelting rain, Larkspur Hall stood unmoved by the weather as it had for centuries. A warm glow emanated from its tall windows in defiance of the storm, the light a beacon of safety and comfort.
Inside, the drawing-room had never seen such a gathering as the one witnessed that Easter Friday evening. The poet laureate sat on a sofa beside James, a young, working-class man from South Riverside, who, while discussing poetry, entertained Noel Stoker, the son of a Trinity College author. The country’s most famous actor accepted a glass of brandy from the son of a dairy farmer a
nd held Thomas in conversation about his role in the events leading up to the attempted assassination. In another part of the room, an earl, a countess, a viscountess and a viscount chatted to a teenager from the streets of the West End dressed in borrowed clothes, and listened intently as he described how he intended to alter the sleeves by the shoulder seams. One of the country’s foremost composers discussed arias with one of its foremost countertenors, while the scene was watched by the son of an Irish immigrant who had just explained the connection between a bottle of wine and a runaway child.
Silas had grabbed his audience’s attention with the words, ‘Yia buyatul shi uchideh tatal.’ After a suitable pause, he continued. ‘Those were the words I heard Mr Smith speak in his sleep, and Lord Clearwater said it sounded Romanian. It was them and what he said after that made me not trust him. He repeatedly muttered about taking the family name, dishonour and shame, but Smith said “He means dishonour, he means you shame” obviously talking about someone else. Then there was the thing with the tattoo on his back which His Lordship said was to do with an old organisation of assassins. Of course, you put those kind of weird things together, and you can’t help but be nosey.’
Some of the guests laughed politely while others were too intrigued to do anything but listen.
‘The only thing I was sure of,’ Silas continued, ‘was that Mr Payne and Mr Wright had made a connection between Smith and Mr Irving. That was what they’d found in the newspaper, and it was to do with your play, Sir. We thought that Smith was after you because of what you’d said about his people in your speeches, and Mr Payne suggested that I go and ask if I could see your notes or the script, thinking it would give us an idea of what Smith had planned, and how he was going to do it. He reckoned you must still have them, but as you were out of the country, we couldn’t go directly to you.’
‘And you were right, lad,’ Stoker said. ‘Except it wasn’t Mr Irving who did the work on it, it was me.’
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