Their lamps refuelled, and with the eastern horizon showing a slice of grey through the black, they continued towards the village, reaching it with enough dawn light to extinguish their lanterns and let them cool before packing them away.
Archer stopped, overlooking the grey stone village below, and took a telescope from Silas’ knapsack.
‘We are bird-watchers after all,’ he said. He wasn’t looking for birds, he was figuring the best way to enter the village. ‘Down and through that copse to the road,’ he decided. ‘If anyone asks how we arrived and why so early in the day, we tell them we are watching for owls, spending our nights on the moors and our days asleep. That should do it.’
No-one did ask, in fact, they saw no villagers only animals as they slipped and skidded down the hill and weaved through the thicket. At its edge, Archer checked them over and declared they looked like expert ornithologists.
‘But.’ He added a note of caution. ‘If someone engages you in conversation, it’s best to say little, unless you know the difference between a chaffinch and a sparrow hawk.’
‘Well, a chaffinch is a finch, and a sparrow hawk is a hawk, Archie. Ain’t no mystery there.’
‘Yes, alright, Silas, you know what I mean.’
Their footsteps changed tone when they reached the road, a rough track of mud hardened in some places but claggy in others. They followed it to the main street, a collection of limestone cottages where lights appeared behind the netted windows as people started on their day.
They reached the inn, raised the owner and, as they gathered in the lobby, discussed the weather and how cold it had been on the moors all night.
‘Which is why we are in need of a bath and beds,’ Archer said.
The landlord was not impressed that he had been called from his rooms at seven in the morning, but adding up the income from five paying guests in October, he put on a brave face. It wasn’t a pretty one, James thought, saggy and pale, with grey stubble showing through, but the man was the gatekeeper to hot water and sleep, and that was all that interested him.
‘It were a bit short notice.’ The landlord’s northern accent was thick and his voice deep. ‘Some of me rooms be empty this time a year, and it takes time to get ’em up to scratch. Still, I’ll have the little woman set up the attic room for you. Two beds, bathroom on the landing, a fire you may light, five-pence extra a day, mind. I thought as you were all acquainted, you’d not mind sharing. Hope that be right.’
‘That’ll do fine,’ Archer said. ‘I shall pay for us all in advance. Include the fire and food if you will. I think we may be away by the early evening, so will you require payment for two nights?’
The landlord’s sallow eyes came alive. ‘If that’s convenient, Sir,’ he beamed. ‘I can see you’re a gentleman of breeding.’
Silas pushed through. ‘Aye, mate,’ he said. ‘We all be that, but we’re also all of us in ’urry, so take your money and give us key.’
James nearly laughed. He had copied the man’s accent perfectly.
‘Right away, lad,’ the man replied, producing a ledger. ‘If you’d put your names.’
‘Allow me.’ Archer took the book.
‘You’re from over past Barrenmoor if I’m not mistaken.’ The landlord nodded at Silas before turning to unhook the key from a rack.
‘Aye, you’d be right.’
‘What place?’
Silas pulled a panicked face, and James pictured the map on Archer’s wall. It seemed like days ago since he had seen it.
‘Westington, isn’t it?’ he said and glanced at the register. ‘Mr Dorrit?’
Surprised, but impressed, Silas did the same and said, ‘That I am, Mr… Rudge.’
‘Can’t say it’s a village I know well.’ The landlord put the key on the counter. ‘But welcome to our side a the moor.’ Archer had completed the register, and the innkeeper turned it. ‘And thank you very much, Mr Copperfield.’
As he paid the man, Archer caught James’ eye with a mischievous twitch of his brows. ‘Would you be so kind as to bring us some breakfast?’ he asked, adding a yawn. ‘After that, I think we will stay in the room until nightfall. We are planning to catch sight of a nocturnal Canadian goose.’
Thomas coughed loudly.
‘Do I not mean that, Mr Drood?’ Archer asked, suddenly out of his depth.
‘You’d need a fair old scope to see a migratory bird at this time of year, Copperfield,’ Thomas joked. ‘You were thinking of a nocturnal Candida Gullerium.’ He whipped the key from the landlord’s hand. ‘He’s an amateur,’ he confided, to which the landlord mouthed, ‘Oh, I see,’ with sympathy.
‘What’s a Candida Gullerium?’ Archer asked as Thomas unlocked the room.
‘I have no idea, but luckily, neither did the innkeeper.’ Thomas rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘And, Archer, really? Copperfield? Drood? What did you call Fecker? Martin Chuzzlewit?’
‘Nicholas Nickleby,’ he said. ‘I thought it sounded the most Russian.’
The room was large. Under the eaves, it ran the full length of the building with two garret windows overlooking the moors. A double bed was pushed against the far wall, with another between the windows. It was well furnished with armchairs and a table, the fire was made up ready to be lit, and it was comfortable enough, being arranged, Archer supposed, for a family.
Maybe that’s what they were, he thought as the others piled in and found themselves somewhere to sit. Not a related family of generations, but a band of brothers, with Thomas being the closest relative and James the newly adopted one. When he considered his relationship with Silas, he decided that brothers was not an appropriate analogy and gave up on the fanciful idea, resolved to consider them as friends. That was warming enough.
‘There’s not a lot of privacy,’ he said, unfastening the chain of his cloak. Thomas was at his side in a second ready to take it. ‘See to yourself, Tom,’ he said. ‘We are all the same here.’
The landlord brought them breakfast on trays, assisted by a short, wide woman who Archer took to be his wife. She said nothing but smiled pleasantly enough and ensured the fire was well alight.
‘What news on our horses?’ he enquired of the landlord.
‘I can ’ave them ready when you like, Mr Copperfield,’ the man said, helping himself to a view from the window. ‘John Farley said he’ll happily rent you three. I have two for the exchange when the coach comes through, so I’ll need them returned come two days. You’ll be back by then I take it?’
‘We will,’ Archer confirmed. ‘We shall return in the morning. I’d like to inspect them, of course, so if you could have them saddled and fed by dusk, that’s when we will leave.’
‘Aye, Sir. I can do that, though decent saddles I can’t promise.’
‘Whatever you can manage.’
The rest of the morning was spent with each man taking his own time in the bathroom, where the water ran cold within minutes. Archer let his men have it, and Thomas and James benefited from what little there was. The temperature of the water made no difference to Silas and Fecker, they were used to it, as was Archer who commented that it reminded him of being aboard ship. They were not particularly happy memories, and he said no more, but he needed his men comfortable and rested, and so put their needs before his own.
At midday, the silent but smiling wife brought bread, cheese and beer for their lunch. After some remonstrations from Fecker, Archer ordered the same again and paid more for a hot stew and potatoes ordering extra portions for the Ukrainian and his bottomless stomach.
The wind died as they ate, and the roof tiles ceased their clatter bringing an eerie calm to the surrounding moors. Fortified and warm, James cleared the plates and put them out on the landing while Archer stood at the window contemplating the lie of the land.
T
he open country undulated lazily to the horizon, a grey and brown quilt with patches edged by ancient hedgerows and gale-weary trees. Stone walls and river channels scarred the landscape towards the east, and he was able to track the winding road from Inglestone towards Ebb Bay and the railway line. On any other day he would have found the view charming, but that afternoon it was marred by the knowledge that somewhere among the rocky outcrops and hidden valleys, Quill was lying in wait.
Shivering the thought from his mind, Archer called his men to order.
‘Gents,’ he said, turning to face the group gathered close to the fireplace. ‘We know our roles, and we know our timing. I suggest we spend the remainder of the day resting.’ He sat beside Silas on one of the beds. ‘Someone will have to take a chair.’ Indicating the second bed, he said, ‘The other two can share that. Don’t look so outraged, Tom.’
‘I’d be happier on the floor,’ Thomas volunteered with a sideways glance at James.
‘Nyet.’ Fecker wouldn’t hear of it and grumbled his disapproval. ‘I sleep on floor. I like it.’
‘As you see fit, Andrej,’ Archer said. He remembered walking into the stables on a recent morning and finding Fecker asleep on the straw beside Shanks, the larger of his two horses. Asking Fecker if there was something wrong, his coachman replied in the negative and explained that after five years sleeping on a rope-house bench, it was difficult for him to adjust to a mattress. It gave him backache to be too comfortable.
‘If you can sleep, do so,’ the viscount advised. ‘We have a short enough ride to Ebb Bay, a little further for Silas and Tom to the junction. We three will find a place to stake out and watch for Quill. If, or when, we see him, we will watch until the time draws near for his necessary departure. Then, I will make my presence known and take the man down. Now then…’
James listened intently to the details which Archer repeated several more times ensuring that each man knew his role, answering questions and addressing concerns until they were fluent in the parts they were to play. As the viscount spoke, James kept his eyes on Tom, but when the sleeping arrangements were discussed, looked away, not wanting to appear too obvious. He was unsettled and harboured a need to put things straight with Thomas one way or the other. How else could he concentrate on what was expected of him? His most pressing matter was not how Archer would take Quill, but how he could make Thomas understand his intentions. When dusk came, they would ride out, and soon after, go separate ways. The only chance James had to be alone with the man was during the afternoon, and even then, other pairs of ears were close by.
He recalled Archer’s advice to be patient, and Silas’ words that Thomas was in love with the viscount. Whichever way he looked at it, he had little chance to make things right. It was a struggle, but he put the thoughts from his mind as he kicked off his boots and lay on the bed watching the room. Archer glanced at him before standing closer to Thomas, speaking inaudibly as he loaded his revolver. They were cleaning the pistols and shotguns and worked together in a practised way that made James envious. They knew each other so well they didn’t need to speak. Archer lifted a gun and inspected the barrel, and Thomas had a cleaning cloth ready to hand to him before he asked. When the viscount loaded a revolver, Thomas passed him the bullets, and he took them without looking, each knowing exactly what the other needed.
It was the sight of the weapons that finally brought home the reality of what they were about to do, and the only way James could quell his nervousness was to look away and picture Thomas’ face. It brought tears of frustration to his eyes. Tom was so near and yet so far away, and James had put him there. The last two days had been filled with excitement, erotic tension and nervousness. He had seen his ambition within his grasp. In fact, he had held it, fallen asleep with it, with Tom. He’d woken in the night knowing that he would be there the next day, and the one after that, and beyond to an endless future.
The future had been brief. Everything was now wrong, and he would do anything to put it right.
He lay on his side facing the wall where he could concentrate on how things might be, imagining fanciful scenarios where he saved Thomas’ life and the man declared everlasting love. The vision only served to worry him more as he imagined Thomas shot or stabbed, dying in his arms.
The tears came more freely to his eyes, and he closed them and thought of home instead. The dimly lit parlour of his youth, his mother sewing by candlelight with her painful fingers, keeping the family together through hardship and the bite of winter. Perhaps he had been wrong to have ambition. He didn’t know how to be a footman, nor how to be a lover. He was a messenger and a son, and that was about as far as his life was meant to go.
Unable to sleep, he fell further into self-doubt until the bed moved. Someone sat beside him, but he didn’t turn. It was probably Fecker after all, he thought. Thomas would have insisted that the big man take the bed as he was the one Archer needed most. Clothes rustled, and he heard breathing, a sigh and a sniff before the mattress came to rest, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
The bed moved again, and the man behind shifted as though he was uncomfortable. He heard a growl of frustration. Whoever it was couldn’t rest either, or was annoyed, but James remained motionless, feigning sleep. There was nothing he wanted to say to Fecker.
‘Are you asleep?’
It was Thomas whispering in his ear, and James’ heart leapt.
‘No,’ he said.
Thomas made no reply, but he put an arm tentatively over James and shifted his body to press against him, his head nuzzled into James’ neck.
James had a choice, he could do nothing and let Thomas stew in his own juice, or he could show him he was able to forgive his churlishness — not that he needed excusing, it was all James’ fault. Understanding his confusion, he took Thomas’ hand and clutched his arm tightly to his chest relishing the intimacy. A gentle kiss on the back of his head brought hope.
Twenty-Two
Under any other circumstances, it might have been a pleasant ride if a bitterly cold one. Night had fallen and brought with it a clarity of air that seared Archer’s lungs. The horses’ hooves struck the road in a steady though unrhythmic mismatch as the five rode through the village in single file with Archer leading the way. The main street gave way to the country track, which the horses seemed to know well, and before long, cottages and hedgerows were replaced by dry stone walls and open moorland. The ground rolled gracefully, cresting hills and dipping into valleys. Above, the cloudless sky afforded them good light with the rising moon subduing only those stars nearest its glow, and the Milky Way severing the night sky in a scar of light and dark.
Archer was reminded of his own scar; the wound his brother inflicted in their battle when Crispin’s madness boiled over into attempted fratricide. He was unable to make sense of why Quill would want to set Crispin free, or why he should want him restored to the title of viscount. The man he had known and served with, befriended and liked, had decided Archer was not fit to live on this earth. Both Quill and Archer’s brother would see him dead and who knew what else Quill would mastermind should he succeed in freeing Crispin. Two devils would be let loose on the world and the only thing preventing it was Archer and the fellows who followed him on this unknown path.
He twisted in his saddle to talk to Silas riding behind.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
Silas, gripping too tightly with his knees, held the pommel firmly and swayed from side to side. ‘Still upright,’ he said.
Behind him, Thomas sat elegantly on his mount, tall and erect taking in the close scenery before it was lost to distant darkness, and behind him, James rode steadily. Fecker had taken the horse with no saddle, the innkeeper unable to provide more than four, but he was as assured on horseback as he was with everything. Archer didn’t have to worry about the Ukrainian.
Night creatures rustled in the scrub to one side, and bats flitted from a farmhouse on the other. Without a breath of wind, the night was tranquil as they left Inglestone behind and progressed in silence.
The group came together a few miles further on when they arrived at a crossroads.
Archer pulled the map from beneath his cloak and lit his lantern to read as Thomas trotted up beside him.
‘Highcliffe Halt is to the south,’ the viscount said, peering into the silvery gloom. ‘Two miles, Tom, and you should see the track. Cross and follow it. The signal box should be on your left.’
Thomas nodded. ‘We’ll be there in plenty of time,’ he said. ‘No need to panic Silas with a canter.’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ the Irishman replied. ‘I’m getting used to the beast.’
Archer caught his arm as he began to slip from the saddle and righted him. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘She knows what she is doing.’ The horse whinnied in agreement. ‘See? She’ll take care of you.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Silas frowned. ‘But who’s going to look after you?’
‘Me, Banyak,’ Fecker grunted.
‘And I’ll look after him,’ James put in, making Fecker laugh.
‘We must all look out for each other,’ Archer said, his tone grave. ‘We may be riding into a trap, it may be a pointless mission, or we may find ourselves face to face with a man bent on evil. I can’t stress Quill’s unpredictability enough. Just a few weeks ago, he was a gentle, trusted friend, but now? We have seen his work, we have witnessed his dementedness, and we don’t know what he has planned, or why we he has brought us here. But what we do know is, he must be stopped no matter what. You each have your duties, and I know you will carry them out without cowardice, but I can pull rank, and you will not do anything to put yourselves in danger. That is an order. This battle is mine. You are here to support, but I want no heroics.’
Twisted Tracks (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 2) Page 25