‘You wanted to see me, My Lord?’ Thomas asked, coming to a stop in the centre of the room.
James watched the butler, but from the corner of his eye, saw the viscount glance over his shoulder.
‘Yes, Payne,’ he said, returning immediately to his book. ‘Did Mrs Baker get off alright?’
‘She is leaving shortly, Sir. Her and Sally both.’
‘Good, good.’ The viscount was preoccupied. ‘And James?’
Thomas gave a polite cough with enough meaning to draw the man from his work, and, behind his back, signalled James to approach. He took a few paces into the room and waited.
The viscount turned, a pen in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He seemed surprised to see James, but his expression soon changed.
‘Well, I say.’ A charming smile lit his face. ‘You cut a fine figure. Don’t you think so, Payne?’
‘I do.’
‘Come, stand nearer the window,’ the viscount said. It wasn’t an order and yet there was no way to refuse.
Thomas nodded permission, and James approached the table. Unsure where he should look, he kept his eyes on the atlas.
‘Lady Marshall certainly has a flair for colour.’ The viscount appraised James in much the same way as Mr Hawkins had done.
‘The other uniforms will be here by tomorrow,’ Thomas said. ‘But we had to improvise with the shirt.’
‘How are you, James?’ The viscount offered his hand. ‘Welcome to Clearwater. I hope you will be happy here.’
James didn’t move.
‘If His Lordship offers his hand,’ Thomas said. ‘You may take it.’
James did, and the handshake was firm but brief. It gave him an excuse to look the man in the eye, and he was calmed by the expression returned.
‘How did you get on?’ the viscount asked. ‘Did you have any luck?’
Hesitating in his reply, James again looked at Thomas for permission to speak. Lord Clearwater caught the moment, and the next thing James knew, had slapped a hand on his shoulder and was leading him towards the fireplace at the far end of the room.
‘No need to be nervous, James,’ he said as if they were friends. ‘I know this is not what you are used to, so don’t worry about getting anything wrong. Thomas… Mr Payne, speaks highly of you after only knowing you a few days, and I intend to learn why.’ He stopped and again stood back to look James over. ‘Apologies for inspecting you as though you were a lot at auction,’ he said, grinning. ‘Old habit from navy days. I want you to feel relaxed in your duties and around me. Thomas has explained my most important house rule, I hope?’
Thomas coughed, this time with mild annoyance.
‘Sorry. Mr Payne.’ The viscount emphasised the name. ‘Actually, would you do me a favour, Payne, and fetch my diary? I left it in my sitting room.’
Thomas nodded once and left.
‘Maybe you will feel more talkative if we have a moment alone,’ the viscount smiled knowingly.
James was too nervous to talk. The idea of becoming a footman in a grand house had excited him up until the moment he walked into this room. Now it was frighteningly real. Yesterday, he was Jimmy Wright the messenger. Today he was James the footman, a completely different person in an unfamiliar role.
‘I’m… That is…’ The words didn’t come, and he faltered.
Far from being angry as James expected anyone to be with his ineptitude, the viscount fell into an armchair, saying, ‘I hate this as much as you do.’
‘I’m sorry?’ He regretted it immediately, he should have said something else but couldn’t for the life of him remember what.
‘This standing on ceremony business,’ the viscount explained. ‘But it must be done. James, please, remember the golden rule of Clearwater House, and you shall be fine.’
James had to say something and opened his mouth in the hope that the right words came out, but a voice at the door interrupted him.
‘Ah, leave him be, Archie.’ Mr Hawkins was back and lounging against the doorjamb. ‘I can see he’s trustworthy.’ He pushed himself upright and sauntered to the couch. ‘The first rule in this man’s life, Jimmy, is honesty.’ He winked.
‘Quite right. So, James. Tell me, honestly, how did you get on yesterday?’
He was back on familiar ground talking about his job — his previous job, he reminded himself — and this time, the words flowed.
‘I ran into some problems,’ he said, forgetting to call the man Sir or My Lord or whatever. ‘The messages had been delivered to Mount Pleasant in the usual Thursday roundup but had not been collated. I had to go through each office’s batches day by day, but at least they were in alphabetical order. It took me a few hours.’
‘Did you get in trouble from the post office?’ the viscount asked, concerned. ‘Anyone ask questions?’
‘No, Sir.’ He was pleased with the way he had managed the task. ‘I explained my absence to Mr Hicks, my old boss, this morning, and your letter really helped. Thank you for that.’
The viscount waved it away.
‘And no questions were asked at the records office,’ James continued. ‘I came away with one message. I have it in my suitcase if you want to see it. It’s a copy, of course, I was unable to take the original, but it was the only one sent by Doctor Quill.’
The viscount sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands on his cheeks, staring intently at James.
‘He sent just one?’ he queried, his voice faint. He glanced at Mr Hawkins before giving James his attention. ‘Do you remember what it says? When was it sent and to whom?’
‘If I may, Your… Sir. I would rather fetch it, so you can read it word for word.’
‘Fly like the wind,’ Mr Hawkins laughed.
‘Yes, alright, Silas.’ The viscount nodded enthusiastically to James. ‘Would you, please?’
James remembered enough to bow before leaving. He crossed the drawing room to the hall and started on the stairs two at a time only to meet Thomas coming down.
‘What the hell…? No, James, up the backstairs. What are you doing?’
‘His mastership wants to see the message I found,’ James explained, breathless.
Luckily, Thomas burst out laughing. ‘Just this once then,’ he said. ‘Be quick and come back down the backstairs. You only use these if attending the first floor and only then if you must. And for God’s sake, get the word mastership out of your head, whatever it is. Hurry.’
James ran to the next floor and only then realised that the main stairs went no higher. He opened a door on the landing thinking it led to the backstairs but instead found a cupboard full of hat boxes. A second door led to a large green-papered bedroom where clothes were heaped on every chair in disorder, and another to a neatly ordered sitting room. He remembered the door at the end of the passage and took the stairs two at a time. Beneath the eaves, he found his room, unearthed the message from his case and ran back the way he had come. This time, he passed the first floor looking for a way into the hall only to find himself outside the butler’s pantry in the basement. He stumbled from there, his heart racing and, in a panic, walked into a boot room where the blond coachman appeared to be wrestling with something in the corner. The sight drew James up short.
‘Sorry,’ he flustered.
Mr Andrej leapt away from whatever he was doing as if caught in the act of robbery and James realised that he had been canoodling with the maid. She, flaming red in the face and adjusting her hair, scarpered, leaving the massive blond as surprised as the footman.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ James said, not knowing which way to turn. ‘I was on an errand.’
‘Hey!’ The man took two strides and was in James’ face before he could flee. ‘You say nothing, or I kill you.’
If the size of the man wasn’t threat enoug
h, the tone was unmistakable, and the weight of the hand that crushed James’ arm left no room for doubt. James was by no means weedy, but Andrej could have broken his neck with a twitch of his fingers.
‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I won’t tell anyone. Honest.’
‘Mr Andrej?’ The woman in black was calling his from the corridor, but the coachman took no notice.
James was drilled by a pair of fierce blue eyes and frozen under the man’s glare until the face suddenly cracked into a laugh. The force of it was enough to move James’ hair from his brow.
‘You good man,’ the coachman announced and tapped James’ cheek. It was more like a slap, but with the laugh and the change of expression, it was not meant as one. ‘You shut mouth, we be friends. Where you go?’
‘Er, the study?’
Before he knew what was happening, the coachman was carting him by the elbow to the stairs. ‘Up, green door,’ he said. ‘You James? Da?’
‘James, da… What?’
‘Fecker. Silence or death.’
With that cryptic remark, James was set free.
Back in the hall, he recalled Thomas’ advice and paused to catch his breath, straightening his uniform before composing himself and continuing as sedately as his weak legs would allow. The study doors were open, and there were voices within. Was he meant to wait, knock, or do both?
He decided to do both, but as he raised his hand, Thomas waved him in. The viscount and Mr Hawkins stood at the table backed by daylight, and Thomas, on the other side of the desk, held a large diary open in his hands like a minister reading from a psalter.
‘There you are,’ the viscount said, all hint of good humour gone from his voice. ‘James, please, tell me this message was addressed to someone in Yorkshire.’
James was confused. ‘No, Sir, he said, unfolding and offering the paper. ‘Sorry. It was sent express delivery at the highest charge, so utmost urgency.’
‘That’s a blessing. Read it. Quickly, man!’
Thomas nodded permission, and trembling, James read the message.
‘Birthday gift planned. Stop. Be assured. Stop. Matter in hand. Stop. Restoration awaits. Stop. BQ.’
In the silence that followed, three men stared at James is if he was mad.
‘The receipt confirmed that BQ stood for Benjamin Quill,’ he said, hoping it meant something to someone. ‘Oh, and it was sent on Monday morning from the Greychurch office.’
‘Makes sense,’ the Irishman said. ‘Does that mean anything to you, Archie?’
The viscount’s stare remained on James, and he swallowed. Unless James was mistaken, the viscount was suddenly as nervous as his new footman.
‘And the delivery address?’ he asked, his voice wavering.
James read the unfamiliar words to himself twice before speaking them aloud.
‘The Rotterdam Institute, Dordrecht, Sir,’ he said. ‘And it was addressed recipient only, a Mr Crispin Riddington.’
Fourteen
The viscount was the first to break the silence, but it wasn’t with his voice. It was with the sound of his fists slamming onto the table top accompanied by an angry growl. The force of his reaction shocked James, but Thomas discreetly held up his hand for calm, instructing James to remain where he was.
Lord Clearwater took a long, deep breath and straightened his waistcoat. Turning to James, he said, ‘My apologies, James. Gentlemen.’
‘If I may, My Lord.’ Unfazed, Thomas came around the desk. ‘Lunch will be served presently. Perhaps James and I should attend to it.’
The viscount nodded. Thomas took the message from James and handed it to Mr Hawkins before leaving.
Back in the drawing room, he closed the study doors, and James followed him to the hall. He knew better than to ask what the outburst was about and remained silent until Thomas spoke.
‘Take no notice,’ he said. ‘Some bad news is all. Now then. Your first lunch.’
It was an easy introduction to his serving duties, there being only the viscount and his secretary at the table. Neither said very much, but when they did speak, it was about general matters concerning the viscount’s charitable work and fascinating though it sounded, James tried not to listen. Instead, he concentrated on Thomas, watching his every move and copying him. Thomas served His Lordship, and James served Mr Hawkins “from the left and with the left” in silence. The atmosphere was strained to say the least, and James gained the impression that the stilted conversation about buildings and facilities, running water and staffing was more for his benefit, as if the pair had something else they wanted to discuss, but couldn’t. The telegram was no doubt to blame and had a deeper meaning beneath its garbled words. James had been the one to discover it. He had unearthed the mystery they wanted to discuss, and yet he was excluded.
During the afternoon, Thomas formally introduced him to the cook and Lucy the maid before showing him his post-lunch duties which were mainly washing the plates and putting them away. James listened intently to a lesson in cleaning silver and glassware and, by the time the simple two-person lunch was finally dealt with, his feet were aching, and his eyes were sore.
‘We can now sit down and have a cup of tea,’ Thomas announced, and James was surprised to see him make it himself.
‘You want me to do that?’ he offered, but Thomas declined.
‘When we go to Larkspur,’ he said, ‘we have hall boys and all-maids to do his kind of thing, but here with a small staff, we’re expected to pitch in.’
‘As long as you don’t ask me to cook,’ James joked, but Thomas, like his master, was not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘Is everything alright?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure how informal he could be. They weren’t above stairs, but they weren’t in their own apartment either.
‘Aye, James,’ Thomas said. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I did search every single record,’ James said. ‘I was there until gone nine, but that really was all I found.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
Thomas sat at the head of the table and, at four o’clock after they had eaten, the coachman joined them. He gave Thomas a simple nod as he entered, but lingered longer over James, staring at him until James felt uncomfortable.
‘Did you meet Mr Andrej?’ Thomas asked, passing the man a cup and saucer as he sat. ‘Andrej is from the Ukraine,’ Thomas explained.
James wasn’t sure where that was and said so.
Thomas’ reply, ‘Russia,’ brought a scoff of derision from Mr Andrej. Apparently he wasn’t keen on being called Russian, and James slipped that nugget of information onto the long list of other things to remember.
‘Natural born horseman,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you ride, James?’
‘I can,’ James admitted. ‘But I am out of practice. I haven’t had much time.’
‘You come riding with me,’ Andrej said as if James had no say in the matter. ‘Banyak is shit.’
James looked at Thomas for a translation.
‘Banyak is Fecker’s nickname for Mr Hawkins,’ he said.
It didn’t help. ‘And Fecker is…?’
‘Sorry.’ Thomas tutted. ‘My mind is elsewhere. Fecker is Andrej’s nickname.’
‘And what’s yours?’
‘Bolshoydick,’ Andrej said, causing Thomas to splutter on his tea.
‘Do you mind!’
James wasn’t sure whether to laugh as Fecker was doing, or pretend he hadn’t heard.
‘Big penis,’ the Ukrainian said.
Thomas leant to James. ‘He’s a fine one to talk,’ he said, raising an eyebrow and a smile. ‘But this conversation never happened.’
He collected a newspaper from the sideboard.
‘No more dead?’ Fecker asked.
Thomas shook his
head. ‘Thank God.’
‘Ripper murders?’ James assumed.
‘Ghastly business.’ Thomas glanced at Fecker who agreed with him, but said nothing. ‘Hopefully now at an end.’ He changed the subject. ‘Oh! I see someone has found a way to make pictures move.’ He showed the article to James. ‘A man in Leeds has discovered a way to put images together like a zoetrope, but project them, so they appear to have motion. Whatever next?’
The conversation continued away from nicknames and murders until Thomas announced that it was time to prepare for the evening.
‘I did warn you that the hours were long,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine, Mr Payne. Didn’t sleep much last night, and my head’s not big enough to hold all the information, but I think I am doing okay. I mean, doing alright.’
‘You are doing splendidly,’ Thomas said. ‘You’re what me old fader would call a spry lierner and not unhandy.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Aye, you be a good’un.’ Thomas grinned. ‘I’m from Kent, but I don’t get to use my dialect much. Being in service is all about playing a role,’ he explained. ‘You speak well for a city boy.’
‘I been playing a role since I joined the post office,’ James said. ‘We all got a-keep ourselves as what folks expect to see.’
‘Then I am even more impressed. Have another progger afore we set about our doings.’
‘Another cup of tea before we get to work?’
‘Aye, nipper, that be it.’
James couldn’t help smiling. Every time Thomas switched his voice, he became more intriguing, and his friendliness set James’ heart turning. Whatever it was that attracted him to the man, it was more than his looks, and if Fecker was to be believed and from what he remembered, what he had in his trousers.
The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing for dinner. The viscount was expecting two guests at seven-thirty for eight. James would not be free of his duties until much later, but the cook prepared an early supper for him and Thomas which helped to refuel his energy. His other uniforms arrived earlier than expected, and, up in his room, he was able to change his clothes including his shirt and shoes. Everything fitted perfectly, and he presented himself to Thomas in the servants’ hall, having found it without getting lost, where he was paid one compliment after another until his head was swelling.
Twisted Tracks (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 2) Page 15