‘What are you doing?’ Thomas was amused when he saw him. He found a dressing gown that was far too big for James and poured them each a small glass of wine. They stood at the window looking out across the city. Streets were picked out as rows of dotted lights, coming together in the distance to form one dull, yellow glow, while above, scattered clouds gave way to stars and hung in uneven shapes.
‘Well? Thomas said. ‘Did Her Ladyship say anything of interest?’
‘She was very flattering,’ James replied. ‘Told me her door was always open, which I thought was strange seeing as she doesn’t know me.’
‘We all get that talk at some point.’ Thomas said. ‘She’s part of the family, or part of the furniture. It’s good that she’s taken to you.’ He yawned.
‘I should let you get to bed.’ James downed his drink. His body ached, but his mind was picking over the events of the day, and he wanted to stay where he was.
‘Aye, we should sleep. Tomorrow will be an even longer day, but His Lordship isn’t receiving visitors, so I’ll have more time to show you what else we do and at a slower pace.’
‘That’d be good.’
He was waiting for Thomas to make a move and return to their conversation of earlier in the hall, but he doubted that even if he was invited to stay the night, he would be able to do anything. Apart from being exhausted, he was nervous. His apprehension increased when Thomas lay on his bed in his stockinged feet and invited James to join him, ‘Just for a moment.’
James sat next to him, leaning against the headboard and wondering what he should do with his hands.
‘Lie down,’ Thomas said. ‘We’ve shared a bed before.’
‘Feels different now, though.’
‘I know. Very strange,’ Thomas admitted. ‘I’ve never had a man in my room, let alone like this.’
He was making no move, and, in a way, James was grateful. He had been unsure about Thomas’ previous advances and was hesitant, but aroused. Now, he was certain what he wanted, but didn’t know where to start. It was as if the moment was too planned. Perhaps that’s why Thomas was staring at the ceiling, waiting for James to make the first move.
He mustered his courage. ‘Can I do this?’ he asked and rested his head on Thomas’ chest. It was awkward with his arms by his side pressed against the man’s hips.
‘Come here, you loon,’ Thomas cajoled.
He put an arm around James’ shoulders, and, the ice broken, they fumbled their way into a position where James was cradled against him, one leg over Thomas’, an arm beneath him and their faces close.
‘Feels nice,’ James whispered.
They stroked each other’s hair. Thomas’ was thick and lightly oiled. He smelt of spices and soap, and his body was warm. James could hear his heartbeat, steady and slow.
‘It’s like all my birthdays at once,’ he said. ‘I could do this all night. And more.’
By way of a reply, Thomas squeezed him gently. ‘One step at a time.’
James felt the touch of his lips on his hair and repaid the gesture with a murmur of pleasure, holding the man tighter and kissing his cheek.
He had never known such contentment, but it was still not complete. After all James had heard and learnt today, after the way he had been treated and valued, there was no way he could carry out Tripp’s wishes, but the man was still at the back of his mind, eating away at his happiness and stirring up dissent.
It was something to be thought about in daylight. Tonight, with the gas low and Thomas breathing so close, he was safe. He remembered Thomas’ words from earlier when James had asked what love felt like. ‘A little like this,’ he had said, and James now understood what he meant.
The mantle clock ticked, the church bell rang midnight, and the scattered clouds gradually merged into one black and brooding mass as the pair drifted into sleep innocently cradled in each other’s arms.
Sixteen
Thomas woke alone. James had returned to his own room at some point during the night, but had left his impression. Not on the bed, but in Thomas’ thoughts. He instantly remembered the feel of the man, the softness of his hair, the sound of his breathing and the heat of his solid body. They were enough for now, and as he swung himself from the bed, not even the sound of rain on the roof and the whistle of wind about the eaves dampened his enthusiasm for the day ahead. Archer’s business was less of an attractive thought. There were many unanswered questions, and with everything else that happened yesterday, he hadn’t had time to apply his mind to the mystery of the postcard, the telegram and the other matters yet unresolved.
He woke James with two loud raps on his door before taking a quick bath and dressing. They met in the passage just before seven, washed and presentable in their morning uniforms.
‘You look very smart,’ Thomas said, seeing that everything was in order.
‘Thank you, Mr Payne.’
‘Not yet,’ Thomas grinned. He pulled James to him. The joy on the man’s face was as obvious as his own. They kissed and when they finally broke apart, Thomas said, ‘Strangely, that didn’t feel as odd as I thought it would.’
‘Odd?’ James protested.
‘As in, kissing a handsome man inside His Lordship’s house. Actually, holding you like this and kissing you feels perfectly natural, but it will take me time to adjust.’
‘I fell asleep,’ James said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry for. It was perfect.’ He kissed him again, lightly this time. ‘But now, we must leave all this until later and turn our minds to work.’
‘Fair enough.’ James smiled, and when he did, his cheeks swelled, and his eyes lit with interest. ‘What do I do now?’
Thomas cleared his throat, ridding his mind of affectionate thoughts and replacing them with the day’s duties in a logical order.
‘Did you sleep well, James?’ he asked in his butler’s voice.
‘I did, thank you, Mr Payne,’ the footman replied. ‘And I am refreshed and ready for the day. My mind is uncluttered, but between you and me, my heart is a mess of excitement and happiness.’
‘You sound like His Lordship,’ Thomas joked. ‘On which note. Breakfast.’
As they descended to the basement, he explained what James had to do. It was a long list. Cleaning boots, shoes and cutlery, trimming lamps, brushing the furniture, sweeping the hall, checking the flower arrangements, laying the breakfast room table, and then cleaning himself up before attending to Mr Hawkins.
‘Mr Hawkins prefers to dress himself,’ Thomas explained as he ironed the daily newspaper to fix the print. ‘If he’s not already awake, knock twice, wait and if called in, ask if he needs you.’
‘I’ve still not got the measure of him,’ James admitted. ‘He keeps winking at me.’
‘It’s just his way. You’ll get used to it,’ Thomas said. ‘Once he’s done with you, come back down here and help Mrs Flintwich with breakfast. Will you be alright?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Don’t panic,’ Thomas reassured him. ‘Mr Hawkins is as unused to living in a grand house as you are.’
‘Do I say anything about last night’s conversation?’ James asked, worried. ‘The dinner thing and being… you know.’
‘Only if asked, in which case, the simplest thing is to adopt the first rule of the house.’
‘Got it.’
They stood outside the respective bedrooms, shared one last friendly smile and then set about their responsibilities.
‘Morning, Tom.’ The viscount was up and washed when Thomas entered. He was at the window examining the grey scenery beyond.
‘Good morning, My Lord,’ Thomas replied. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Not at all, Tom.’
Thomas had all but given up reminding him that he
should be called Payne.
‘Sorry to hear that, Sir.’
‘All I could think about was that bloody message and what it means. It even pervaded my dreams. It’s raining.’
‘So I understand.’
Archer turned to him, dressed in only his underclothes. A fine figure and an attractive one, he always caused Thomas’ heart to skip, but today, for the first time, it only did it the once. Not because the viscount’s attractiveness was waning, but because Thomas’ hunger for love was now fed by someone else.
He focused on his work. ‘Are you at home today, My Lord?’
‘I am Thomas. And I’d like you and Silas with me in the study. We have a troubling puzzle to consider and much to do. Last night’s dinner rather took the steam from the engine, as it were. I think we should sit down and work out what the hell Quill is doing.’
‘As you wish.’
‘How’s James?’
Thomas received two heart-skips at the mention of the name.
‘Ah, I see from your face that you are pleased with him,’ Archer said.
‘Am I that obvious?’
‘I know you well, Tom,’ the viscount said, as he entered his dressing room. ‘I’m happy for you.’
Thomas followed.
‘He did well, I thought.’ Archer was examining a row of shirts. ‘Seems to pick things up quickly. Was he offended at Lady Marshall’s behaviour?’
‘I don’t think so, Sir. If he was, he didn’t say anything to me. In fact…’ He stopped himself. It wasn’t his business to talk about another man’s private life, but it was his duty to report back on his staff.
‘Go on, Tom,’ Archer encouraged, selecting a shirt.
‘He told me that he found the discussion refreshing. I think he was surprised at first, embarrassed perhaps, but he won’t admit that. Then, when he discovered that he was able to talk freely, he found it liberating. I think that was the word he used.’
‘He’s intelligent,’ Archer said. ‘I like that.’
‘And I think we will find him loyal. He is attending to Mr Hawkins.’
‘I hope they get on.’ The viscount held the shirt against himself and stood before a full-length mirror.
‘Cravat and smoking jacket?’
‘The gold floral with the black lapels,’ Archer said. ‘Something to combat the dreary weather.’
‘Brocade or plain? Or with the shawl collar and frog-feet closures?’
‘Frogs,’ Archer said as he put on his shirt. ‘It’s a wet day after all. I’ll breakfast with the morning paper then perhaps you will join me in the study.’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell Mrs Flintwich two for lunch, and a cold supper will do today, it’s her half-day isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘How’s Lucy?’
They chatted about the other servants as Archer dressed, and as was His Lordship’s way, put all the plans for the day in order before they left the bedroom. Lucy was waiting outside with the ash bucket, and Archer greeted her warmly.
‘I hope you are not too lonely without Sally,’ he said. ‘Would you rather be at Larkspur with the others?’
‘I am quite happy here, My Lord,’ Lucy said, with a small curtsy.
‘That’s good to hear, but tell Payne if you change your mind.’
As Thomas followed his master downstairs, he whispered, ‘I think she would rather be wherever Fecker is.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that too,’ Archer said. ‘Well, on their own time is fine, but in the absence of Mrs Baker, you’ll have to have a word with her about pregnancy.’
Thomas nearly missed a step. ‘I will see what I can do,’ he stammered, dreading such a conversation.
‘Ask Mrs Flintwich for advice,’ Archer said. ‘She’s been married a hundred years and never calved down. There must be a trick to staying out of trouble.’
‘I think her looks might play a part.’
‘Tom, don’t be rude,’ the viscount sniggered. ‘Right! Let’s get shipshape.’
Silas was already in the breakfast room reading the newspaper, following the lines of tightly-fitting print with his finger. James, Thomas was pleased to see, was standing to attention by the sideboard, and seemingly quite at home.
Morning greetings done, the viscount and Silas read while they ate. Thomas and James attended them, and after the meal was over, stayed behind to tidy the room.
‘His Lordship requires me in his study,’ Thomas said as they carried the last of the plates to the kitchen. ‘It often happens. Have something to eat, take a short break and then set about the dining room grate. Ask Lucy to show you. You’ll find overalls in the cloakroom. Listen out for the bells, too.’
With James organised, Thomas was free to attend the viscount. He found him at the reading table opposite Silas. The table had been tidied, the books stacked to one end and the only other things on it were the postcard, the telegram and the atlas.
‘Tom,’ Archer said, as Thomas closed the doors. ‘Time to get your sleeves rolled up. Have a seat.’
‘How’s your boy doing, Tommy?’ Silas asked, swiping his fringe from his face. It fell back again immediately.
‘Settling in.’
‘Getting used to living in a house full of queers?’
‘Silas,’ Archer chided. ‘We’re here to work. Besides, I don’t think Fecker, Mrs Flintwich or Lucy would take kindly to being called queer. I’m not sure I do.’
‘Oops,’ Silas giggled. ‘Right then, let’s go over this again starting with the obvious question. What the fuck is Quill playing at?’
‘We drew a list yesterday.’ Archer extracted a paper from among the books and passed it to Thomas. ‘We’ve been through everything and came up with many questions but few answers.’
‘I think,’ Thomas said as he sat, finding himself at the head of the table, ‘that we should approach this as a mystery which is, after all, what it is.’
‘Er, yeah,’ Silas said. ‘Bit obvious.’
‘Have a look at that list,’ Archer said. ‘See what you can add.’
Thomas read while the other two waited.
‘As you say,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘Many questions, but that’s all. What we need are answers.’
‘You should work for Inspector Adelaide.’ Silas rolled his eyes.
Thomas ignored his sarcasm.
‘To start with,’ Thomas said, and made his own list as he spoke. ‘The most pressing items are the postcard and the telegram. Taking those first, if this is the only communication he made between when we last saw him and when he boarded the train, we have to assume he had no help. The telegram was sent from Greychurch.’
‘So he was hiding there?’
‘Not necessarily, Silas,’ Thomas said. ‘He could have been anywhere and travelled into the East End to send the message. As we know, the place is crawling with people and he would be less likely to be recognised.’
‘Fair point,’ Archer agreed. ‘As I see it, he was biding his time, waiting for the Wednesday night train. Otherwise, he could have left the city at any point. Why didn’t he go on the Sunday, or any other day?’
‘Because the night train only makes the one stop on a Wednesday night,’ Thomas reasoned. ‘It leaves late, passengers retire early, and he more or less has the train to himself. On other nights, it makes several stops, and there’s much coming and going. It’s in your Bradshaw’s, Archer. I looked it up.’
‘Good,’ Archer said. ‘We can be fairly certain he alighted at Barrenmoor. Then what?’
‘When was the telegram sent?’ Silas asked.
‘Monday, it doesn’t say an exact time.’ Archer fetched his diary from the desk. ‘I was thinking about that,’ he said, sitting and finding the monthly pl
anner. ‘He dispatched it to the mental asylum by express. We know from experience that it takes that institution a fair time to respond, but we don’t know how long it took to arrive. I’ve always assumed telegrams were immediate, but what do I know?’
‘Why is that important?’ Silas asked.
Thomas took a clean sheet of paper and began drawing a chart listing the days of the week on one side and known facts on the other.
‘Birthday gift,’ Archer read the message. ‘And Crispin’s birthday is coming up. October twenty-fifth, the anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt.’
Thomas noted it on his plan. ‘Assuming the birthday in question is your brother’s,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘That doesn’t give us long to figure this out.’
‘But it gives Quill time enough to arrange whatever he is planning, assuming the message was delivered promptly,’ Archer said. ‘Listen…’ He reread the telegram. ‘’Birthday gift planned. Stop. Be assured. Stop. Matter in hand. Stop. Restoration awaits.’
‘Phrase by phrase,’ Thomas said. ‘The message was sent to your brother, and you are assuming it’s his birthday that’s being referred to.’
‘Well, it’s not Quill’s.’ Archer turned the pages of his diary. ‘That was two months ago.’ His head shot up. ‘Oh hell.’
He left his chair and hurried to the desk where he wrote a quick message, put it in an envelope and, that done, pulled the bell-pull.
‘Anything I can do?’ Thomas asked, intrigued. He glanced at the mantle clock and noted the time.
‘No, nothing related,’ Archer mumbled as he returned to the reading table. ‘Carry on, Tom.’
‘Birthday gift,’ Thomas said. ‘Quill has a gift for your brother.’
‘Assumption,’ Silas said.
‘As is everything else. “Restoration awaits.” Does that mean anything to you, Archer?’
‘Possibly.’ Archer was concerned. His face was stony with concentration and his down-turned mouth more of a frown than usual. ‘Restoring his title.’
Twisted Tracks (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 2) Page 18