Fallen Splendour
The Clearwater Mysteries Book four
by
Jackson Marsh
First published in Great Britain in 2019
Copyright © Jackson Marsh 2019
The right of Jackson Marsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Proofread by Ann Attwood
Cover Design by Andjela K
Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com company.
ISBN- 9781071152768
Available from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other retail outlets. Available on Kindle and other devices.
Also by Jackson Marsh
Other People’s Dreams
In School and Out
The Blake Inheritance
The Stoker Connection
Curious Moonlight
The Mentor of Wildhill Farm
The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge
The Mentor of Lonemarsh House
The Mentor of Lostwood Hall
The Clearwater Mysteries
Deviant Desire
Twisted Tracks
Unspeakable Acts
Fallen Splendour
One
On the night of December 17th, 1888, a stinging north wind buffeted the city forcing all but the bravest to stay in their homes. Whether that home was a dosshouse in the East End or a villa abutting Saint Matthew’s Park, whatever protection could be found from shutters and curtains was employed to keep back the icy blasts. The day dawned with a silvery sky, but the weak winter sun stood no chance against the mass of heavy cloud that rolled in from the north to swamp the entire country before delivering, in parts, blankets of snow and ice. By the evening, livestock had frozen in their stables, the mainline railways became impassable, and in the darker, unwanted parts of the city, thirty-two deaths occurred before nightfall “From ill weather”.
As the day shifted imperceptibly from the gunmetal grey of dusk to the funereal black of night, lamplighters risked their rounds, bringing warm light, but little hope to the city streets. Match sellers and flower girls, from necessity, sold from their corners until the pain in their limbs compelled them to return with empty purses and bellies to their crowded rooms. There, they found a suspicion of warmth among fellow unfortunates, a piece of coal to share between all, a ripped blanket, and the air dripping with exhaled breath.
The braziers of the night-watchmen did little but tint gloves and wool coats with feeble flames, while the wharves they watched stood stoically over the river, its banks a scree of jumbled ice. Few ships left the docks, the roads were abandoned, and the city prepared itself for sixteen dark hours of bitter desolation.
Inside Clearwater House, the scene could not have been more different.
The fire crackled in the grate, throwing flickering warmth over the two men nestled on the couch. Archer lay, a book in one hand, with Silas curled into him, their bodies entwined as the fire sucked the air from the room and replaced it with balmy heat. The viscount gently stroked his lover’s hair which he kissed each time he turned a page, a gesture returned by the soft touch of Silas’ lips on his arm and a murmur of satisfaction. It had been two weeks since the gala night and the backstage tragedy, an event that, thanks to Lady Marshall’s involvement with the newspapers, had mainly been kept from the general public. That incident and the trials that came before it were the furthest thoughts from Archer’s mind as he read, passing the evening in blissful peace. The tranquillity was marred only by the howling chimney and the thought that tomorrow, somehow, they were to journey to Larkspur Hall.
Thomas had set off a few days before, taking Lucy with him and missing the sudden downturn in the weather. James had been left to run the house, which he had done admirably, showing a flair for organisation and practical thinking. Thomas’ extensive instructions no doubt helped, and with Mrs Flintwich guiding him below stairs, the footman excelled in his duties as much as he did in his loyalty.
Archer had, by luck rather than design, assembled a team of devoted men, his crew as he thought of them. They were more than servants, they were more than friends, but he had not yet found the exact expression to convey what they meant to him. He had resorted to bastardising Shakespeare and thought of them as his “Happy breed of men” in his own little world. Maybe he would think of the correct term one day, but for now, they were safe and warm. Thomas had arrived at Larkspur without difficulty, dispatching news of his arrival before the weather hit, and James, with Silas and Archer’s help, had secured Clearwater House ready for Archer’s retainers to occupy and guard when the others left the following evening, assuming the railways were able to operate. If they weren’t, the party would have to wait, but whatever happened, Archer had promised Silas Christmas at Larkspur, and although the celebration was only eight days away, the house was three-hundred miles distant.
‘Oi. Go on.’
Archer’s mind had been wandering, but a nudge from Silas returned his attention to his reading.
‘Sorry,’ he said and lifted the book, holding it at arm’s length to see more clearly. ‘Where was I…? Ah, yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘“Cannon to right of them, Cannon to the left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volley’d and thunder’d;”’ He accentuated words and instilled in the lines a rhythm of charging horses. ‘“Storm’d at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.”’
‘Did that really happen?’
‘Shush, I haven’t finished. “Flash’d all their sabres bare…”’ He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and, sighing, let the book fall. There was no need to leap to his feet and feign discretion, it could only be James. ‘Come!’ he called.
The footman entered the study with a blast of cold air before quickly closing the doors.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Your Lordship, Mr Hawkins, but you asked me to inform you when Mr Andrej was back.’
‘Quite right, James,’ Archer said, heaving himself up to rest on one arm of the couch.
Silas untangled his legs and shifted to sit facing him, lounging against the other. He wore one of Archer’s smoking jackets, a little too big for him, but being velvet, it was warm.
‘All is well, Sir,’ James said. ‘Emma and Shanks are safely stabled with Lady Marshall.’
‘That’s good,’ Archer said. ‘But I assume you mean they are stabled with her horses, not the lady herself. I know she’s unorthodox, but…’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ James laughed, dropping his footman pretence. ‘Fecker’s fine.’
‘Is he upstairs?’
‘I offered him the spare room next to mine,’ James said. ‘But he says he’s happier in the coach house.’
‘Has he eaten?’
‘It’s more a case of what he hasn’t,’ James smiled. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, Jimmy, I’m alright. Silas?’
‘No, fine here too, thanks.’
‘I tell you what you can do, though,’ Archer sai
d, swinging his legs to the floor. ‘Pour us all a tumbler of something and put your feet up for a minute. You’ve been running around like a dervish.’
Archer had never been completely comfortable in his role as master of his men, not unless they were involved in a mission. In that case, he led as he had been trained to do, but when they were alone like this, he needed friends, not footmen.
James was already at the decanters. Knowing what the viscount preferred, he poured him a large Scotch and brought it across with a glass of red wine for Silas. By the time he had helped himself to the same, Archer had dragged an armchair closer to the fire and once James was settled in it, raised his glass in a toast.
‘I won’t stay long unless you need me,’ James said. ‘I’ve got lots to do in the morning and should get an early start.’
Archer nodded. ‘Mr and Mrs Norwood will be here around midday. They’ve been caretaking the house for years, so if you’re not able to have everything packed and covered, they can see to it.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Silas offered. ‘Might as well. Nothing else to do.’
‘Thanks.’ James put down his glass and glanced at the fire as a swoop of wind blew the flames. ‘Do you think the railways will be open?’
‘Hard to say,’ Archer said. ‘This storm has come unannounced and unpredicted. No telling how long it will last. I expect Mr Norwood will bring news, he is something of a weather watcher. We’ll enquire of the station, or there will be a report in The Times. If there’s a problem, we’ll stay here.’
Silas pouted comedically, his full bottom lip turned out and his eyes sad.
‘We’ll get there well before Christmas,’ Archer chuckled. ‘Even if we have to ride. Oh!’ A thought sprung to mind, and he reached across to grip James’ arm. ‘I had another telegram from Tom. All is well, but he is missing you.’
The joy on James’ face brought all the warmth Archer needed. The footman might have been built for the game of rugby, but he had been blessed with the face of an angel. Smooth skin, blond hair and slightly pinked cheeks lent him an air of schoolboy innocence, but like so many of the boys Archer had known at prep school and in the military academy, the veneer hid layers of knowledge most young men didn’t acquire until later in life. The centre of the man, however, was his loyal heart ruled by the mind of a detective.
‘How’s the house?’ Silas asked.
Archer knew what he meant. ‘Tom says there are all kinds of problems,’ he replied. ‘We don’t need to worry about it now, he and Mrs Baker can cope, but I must look closely at the servants when I get there.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Silas tapped his leg with a foot, leering.
‘I mean,’ Archer drawled, ‘I must look at the staffing situation. Not only has mother run off with two maids — not literally, Silas, before your dirty mind takes us down that track — but Robert has put himself above his station, other maids have left to pursue promotions, and many of the rest who grew up with, and worked for, my late father, are nearing retirement age.’
‘How many staff are there?’ James asked, sipping his wine.
‘It’s more a case of how many there should be,’ Archer replied. ‘In my grandfather’s time, there were about seventy…’
James spluttered, and Silas whistled through his teeth.
‘Quite,’ Archer agreed with their surprise. ‘But in those days there were balls, Saturday-to-Mondays and shooting parties every week in the season. There was also a larger family, my Grandfather was in politics, and despite the distance from the City, endured a constant flow of contacts and lobbyists descending at the drop of a white paper. My father, on the other hand, kept a similarly sized staff just because he could. He liked to show off. It didn’t matter to him the family had dwindled to just me and Crispin in the nursery, my grandmother in the dower house and the uncle and aunt calling occasionally. Even when the cousins visited, there was no need for such an army below stairs.’
‘Fascinating,’ James mused. ‘I mean, we read about the country houses, but I never knew… It must cost a fortune.’
In any other noble house, such an impertinent remark from a servant would be cause for rebuke. In Clearwater House, however, where honesty and plain speaking were the only rules, it was welcomed. At least, it was by Archer. James knew not to be informal when there were guests.
‘You don’t know the half of it, Jimmy,’ Archer said. ‘Luckily, Mr Marks keeps my business in order up here in the city, and Mr Harrow does the same down there in the country.’
‘Mr Harrow?’
‘Estate manager. He’s one of my father’s old guard and one of the men nearing retirement age if he hasn’t passed it already. But he is also the one who knows everything about the estate and the running of it. Mrs Baker obviously takes care of the maids, and poor old Tripp used to run the men as if they were the Light Brigade.’ He brushed his slippered foot against Silas whose eyes were drooping.
‘Six hundred,’ Silas said. ‘Cannons everywhere and something about Death Valley.’
‘Valley of Death,’ Archer laughed. ‘Death Valley is in America. Tennyson was writing about an incident in the Crimea. Not far from where Fecker comes from actually,’ he added, addressing James. ‘I was in the Black Sea when I was serving in the navy. It’s where I got the injury that put me out of action and where I discovered Tennyson, my favourite poet.’
‘You get this,’ Silas said with good humour. ‘It’s taken him two hours to read one bloody story. We keep stopping along the way for explanations and information.’
‘It’s Tennyson,’ Archer waved away the complaint with equal good humour. ‘It needs a bit of background. If you’re interested, Jimmy,’ he said nodding towards the fireside bookcase, ‘I have books on the man and his works. You know to help yourself.’
‘Thanks, Sir,’ James said, looking at the book-laden shelves. ‘Maybe when we get back from the country.’
‘As you wish, and it’s Archer in here.’
‘So, Thomas…?’ James was distracted by the absence of his lover. ‘Will he be having a hard time of it down there?’
Archer shrugged. ‘I hope not, but there are several men still loyal to Tripp, and he will have to get them shipshape, particularly the first footman who thought he was Mr Tripp’s understudy and replacement elect. But don’t you worry, Jimmy. Tom knows what he’s doing, and we’re down to something like twenty in the house, so it’s not too bad.’
‘Twenty servants?’ Silas’ eyes were wide.
‘Something like that.’ Both men were staring at Archer in disbelief. ‘It’s quite normal for a house the size of Larkspur. The place must be kept clean. I’m expected to invite guests and all that and… What?’ They were still gawping.
‘It ain’t the number,’ Silas said. ‘It’s the fact you don’t know how many people you’ve got working for you.’
‘It was always meant to be my brother’s job,’ Archer said in his own defence. ‘I’ve only been dealing with it a few months, during which time, I will add, I have been in the city, and it hasn’t exactly been quiet. That’s why I am happy to leave it all to Thomas and Mrs Baker. My main team is in place.’ He drained the last of his glass. ‘Now then…’ and put it on the table with a thump. ‘It’s getting late, and I still have correspondence to see to. You’re welcome to stay by the fire James, read if you want, play cards, whatever.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ James said, standing. ‘But I will get to bed.’
‘Me too.’
Where James had sprung to his feet, Silas slid from the couch yawning.
‘Is your room warm enough?’ Archer asked his footman.
‘It is, Sir, thank you.’
‘Use all the gas you need,’ the viscount offered as he stood over his desk, frowning at the piles of letters yet to be answered. ‘And hot water. If it’s too cold
up there, you’re welcome to use my sitting room. It has a chaise and a larger fire. Or…’
‘Archer,’ James said, and the use of the viscount’s Christian name caused him to raise his head. ‘Stop being so nice.’ It was said through a grin and delivered with gratitude. ‘It’s my job to look after you. And you, Mr Hawkins. My room is better than fine, thank you. But, if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll go to it now.’
‘Sorry,’ Archer said. ‘I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just want you to know how highly I think of you, all of you.’
‘Sentimental old fool,’ Silas tutted. He came to Archer and kissed him while James discreetly cleared away the glasses. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll sleep in my room tonight, so you don’t have to worry about waking me up.’ He indicated the letters. ‘Looks like you’ll be busy a while yet.’
Archer had everything it was possible for a man to want; houses, wealth, status and an income derived from businesses, inherited property and land. Since being elevated to his late father’s title, and in only a few short months, he had also found love and his ‘happy breed’ of faithful friends. He had added to his list the Clearwater Foundation, flourishing in its work in the East End under the guidance of another recently found friend, Philip Markland. The doctor had recovered from his infatuation with Sherman Quill, the lunatic who had fooled the world as Miss Arnold, and the duplicitous half-brother of Archer’s friend turned murderous enemy, Benjamin Quill.
Here he was, one man being attended to by over twenty people (he hadn’t counted the estate staff and others), and yet out there, hundreds were alone, huddled and unsure if they would survive the night.
Archer had rescued Silas from that living hell, but Silas had also been Archer’s saviour, showing him that love was possible despite the laws of the land and the lore of the church. Fecker too was now sleeping as comfortably as he wanted in his own coach house, although without his beloved horses, while at the Cheap Street Mission, many more boys and men were able to find shelter, perhaps even a second chance, but most of all, safety. Archer had helped, it was his duty, but it was also his passion. His only wish was that he could help more.
Fallen Splendour Page 1