James stood with his back pressed to the front door. Its wood, solid and supportive, was all he had. He had no master and no guidance, only anger churned up by loss and compressed by frustration. Left in charge of Archer’s home and lover, he had failed both. As in his youth, he had allowed bullies to trample him. Back then it had been into the dirt, now it was into submission.
Pain welled from deep inside, and he fought it back. It could stay down there with the hate he harboured for those who had beaten him in the playground and on the streets. The men who had pushed him around in the restrooms, and the older boys who tried to grope. Men who didn’t take no for an answer until James was forced to punch, receiving a worse blow in reply. The memories festered, and no matter how much he told himself he was not going to let them defeat him, they bubbled and rose as overwhelming anguish took control and manifested itself through his eyes.
Crossing his arms over his head, James sank to the floor in a ball and cried.
He too, had given in.
Six
We have his sisters. Involve your catamite, and they will die before the shortest day. The last line of the letter could not have been clearer. If the threat was to be believed, Silas’ twin sisters had been taken and would be killed in four days. Convinced that the letter had come from Quill, Archer re-read the note looking for clues that would prove him correct.
A dish is served albeit cold; revenge on he who took my love and life, a reference to Quill’s belief that Archer stole Simon Harrington from him. Will take no Christian wife; referring to Archer loving men. To meet midwinter eve; the same kind of call to arms Quill had used to draw Archer to an endgame in Yorkshire. It had all the hallmarks, and yet only half was obvious.
That was expected. Quill played a twisted game, offering unambiguous bait in one half of a sentence and threadbare connections in the other, but this was no game. Nor was the final, direct sentence Quill’s style. If he could be sure Quill was dead, he would know the communication came from someone else. Archer vividly recalled him falling into the wreckage that flamed and boiled in the river, but had not been heard of since.
Before that, he had seen him fall from the wharf gantry. They had hit the water together, and had it not been for sheer luck, Archer would have perished that night. He survived, and so did Quill. It was possible he had escaped the train wreck, used it as a diversion, and crept away to lick his wounds and let his hatred fester.
Whether this was Quill’s work or not, it was explicit in its final line, and with the winter solstice approaching, there was no time to lose.
Silas and James had gone up, but the fire was still alight and the study warm. Archer couldn’t leave this business until the morning and yet he needed help. That clearly could not come from Silas, and with Thomas away, it only left James. Although he hadn’t realised it yet, the footman had a brilliant mind. The way he had dissected the plot against Cadwell Roxton had proved his intelligence. Archer liked to pride himself that he had seen it the moment James came to interview, but that credit had to go to Thomas. He could have done with Tom now. His mind was analytical and logical, whereas Archer’s was driven by emotion, and he usually reacted before he thought.
There was no currency in emotion; there were two lives at stake. With the storm buffeting the house and the snow piling up in the street, he was trapped. The obvious place to start was Westerpool where the sisters lived. How he was to get there was a matter for the weather. It was only a few hours by train, but if the blizzard kept up and the snow worsened, there would be none running, possibly for days.
He couldn’t let this wait until morning, he had to leave immediately.
‘Slow down,’ he told himself as he rose. ‘Think what you have and what you need.’
What he needed was to get a message to Thomas. He would have insisted Archer prove that this was Quill’s business before acting, and the only way to be sure of that was to locate the madman. Not an easy job considering he had not been seen for so long, if indeed he was still living. Archer knew where he wasn’t; he wasn’t with Crispin in the Netherlands, and he wasn’t in the public eye. He didn’t know if he was alive, and could only think of one person who might, though what good it would do to find that man and force him to confess his knowledge, if he had any, was another question.
‘Slower,’ he said, poking the fire.
He remained on his haunches mesmerised by the flames. Their flickering and dancing distracted him, allowing the conundrums to evaporate and be replaced by a calm and empty space for new and clear thoughts to occupy. By the time his legs were aching, and he stood to let the blood return, he had formulated the first part of a strategy.
At the fireside bookcase, he reached for his volume of Tennyson. The verse was in the threat letter for a reason which was not immediately apparent. Other than it being one of Archer’s favourites — a fact that Quill knew well as he had bought him this edition some years before — it bore no relation to the promise to murder two innocent girls. The verse, one of three interjected as a song, came from “The Princess” which was close enough to have resonance although “Princesses” plural would have been more accurate, and it spoke of a magical place in a fantasy land. Where better for Quill to inhabit?
At his desk, he found the poem and left the book open while he considered James. The simplest thing to do would be to leave him a note explaining all, but the most dangerous thing he could do was arouse Silas’ suspicion. The two had grown close since the business at the opera house, to the point that Archer considered them close in the way Thomas was his dearest friend. Tom was more than that, of course, he was his butler and his valet, but he was also Archer’s closest platonic companion. James acted as footman to the house and valet to Silas, and the pair spent much time together. If Archer left James clear instructions, there was a good chance Silas might see and understand. It had to be something only a mind like James’ would comprehend. Perhaps waking him wasn’t such a bad idea.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Let him rest, he’s going to need it.’
Besides that, Archer had not fully thought through what he needed him to do.
An hour later, as the mantle cock struck half past one, he sealed a message to James, coded in case Silas should find it, but clear enough to the footman to follow, thanks to, of all people, Samuel Morse. His mind was befuddled, the hour was late, and he was fighting sleep, but he copied the letter from Quill with other instructions and slipped them into the volume of poetry, placing it on the shelf where James would find it. Knowing he would not be travelling to Larkspur with them, he added money to the envelopes for the men to use on their journey and left both messages where they would be found in the morning.
That done, he gathered what he needed, guarded the fire and took a last look at his study. Resisting the desire to wake Silas and say goodbye, he stole to his upstairs sitting room. Entering his bedroom that way took him on a circuitous route, but one that didn’t pass Silas’ door, making it slower but silent. He changed his clothes, packed others into a portmanteau to be transferred to saddlebags later, and taking two fur coats, carried the luggage to the basement where he added two oil torches to his burden.
The change in temperature from the study to the house was a shock, but from the brick and stone kitchen to the yard was a greater one. The snow was up to his ankles, but no more had fallen, and the wind had lessened. If he was lucky, they would find the freight trains running on the north-west line from Euston. If not, he would have to ride until the tracks were cleared, leave the horses in stables and continue from wherever he had reached. With luck and a change in the weather, he could be at Westerpool the next evening where Culver would direct him to the girls’ home at Canter Wharf. It was the most obvious place to start.
Before any of that, however, he needed to wake Fecker.
With the horses taken that afternoon to Fecker’s count
erpart next door, the stable was empty and as cold as outside. Fecker often slept with his beloved horses, but tonight there was no sign of him. Leaving his luggage and lighting his way with a torch, Archer climbed to the loft above and let himself in. The rooms were silent, and his boots made little noise on the rough carpeting. The bedroom door was open, and the man was asleep. Wrapped in a heavy covering of eider and blankets, only his blond hair was visible, flowing over the edge of the bed like a waterfall. Archer knelt and, knowing Fecker could be unpredictable, cautiously reached for the man’s shoulder.
He wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or terrified when, in the blink of an eye, he found a dagger an inch from his throat. There had been no rustle, and he’d seen no movement, but steel glinted in the spill from the lamp. Whatever he felt, he was glad Fecker realised who he was.
‘Andrej,’ he whispered. ‘I need you.’
‘Is Banyak?’
Fecker was upright as quickly as he had produced the knife, throwing back the covers and swinging his legs to the floor. The movement made Archer recoil, and he stumbled back onto his arse with a thump.
‘No,’ he stammered. ‘Silas is fine. But…’
Fecker was on his feet, naked and towering, glaring and unbothered by his lack of clothes. Even in the half-light the man was an impressive sight. From his broad shoulders to his muscled legs, he glowed like an illuminated diagram of physical perfection. A stronger, less effeminate David, and one with an outrageously impressive manhood hanging between his legs that caused Archer to gasp and look away.
‘What you want?’ Fecker grunted. He was unhappy at being woken but remembered his place and tacked on, ‘Sir.’
‘Get dressed,’ Archer ordered, scrambling to his feet. ‘Your warmest clothes.’
The Ukrainian nodded and handed Archer the dagger. ‘Hold khanjali,’ he said, before turning and bending to pick up his underclothes.
Archer swallowed at the sight, and again, looked away. Everything about Fecker was larger than life, but there was more to him than his physique. Archer had witnessed his acts of heroism and unquestioning loyalty, he was a master with horses and as strong as any man the viscount had fought alongside in the military, stronger probably. What he didn’t know about him was anything else; how he had come to the country, where he had learnt his skills, and how he could profess to love women and yet support himself, as he had in the past, renting his body to men. The man was a fiercely loyal enigma.
These were all things he could discover at a more appropriate time, for now, the priority was to collect the horses and get on the road. With luck, they would reach Watford by five, early enough for the first freight train, but distant enough from the city to have made progress if the trains were not running.
Fecker was ready. ‘Where we go?’ he asked, putting on his greatcoat.
‘I bought you a fur,’ Archer said. ‘It’ll be warmer.’
Fecker huffed and buttoned his coat anyway. ‘What you need?’
‘We must get to Westerpool as soon as we can,’ Archer said, collecting the torch and leading the way downstairs. ‘I will explain en route.’
The route took them north through the blanketed, silent streets of North Riverside and they rode without speaking, Archer leading the way on Emma, the smaller of the two horses. The animal made no complaints as it was led carefully through the snow, Archer following the rows of streetlights and keeping to the middle of the roads to avoid drains and other unseen obstacles. They made steady progress, the biting breeze keeping him awake and shivering beneath his fur, and passed the Great East Road without seeing a living soul. At Kensal, they crossed the railway embankment by a bridge, and Archer was disappointed to see the tracks covered and no sign of workmen attempting to clear them. This was the western line which he took to reach Larkspur, they would join the north-west line at Watford where, if luck was on his side, less snow might have fallen.
The sprawl of cottages thinned at Willesden, and the roads were harder to distinguish, there was less light and no chance of a moon. The lantern swinging from Emma’s saddle threw its beams in a repetitive arc to the steady rhythm of the horse’s tread. It would have been hypnotic and lulled Archer to sleep were it not for the stinging air and the worsening pain in his fingers.
Beyond the scattered houses at Wembley, the suburbs gave way to countryside, and the ground became more treacherous. Emma stumbled on something buried, jolting Archer in his saddle, and he pulled the horse to a standstill.
Fecker drew up beside him. All they could see of each other were their eyes, the rest was covered by scarves and fur, and their Cossack hats were pulled tight to protect their ears.
‘No good,’ Fecker said. Aiming his torch, he highlighted their proximity to the verge, if there was one. ‘Maybe a ditch, maybe a wall. We see nothing.’
‘We have to press on.’
‘You want horse lame or dead?’
‘I am not going back, Andrej.’
‘Here.’ Ignoring his master, Fecker slipped from his saddle and passed the reins. ‘Hold, wait.’
Archer was so cold he didn’t care that he was taking orders from a servant and watched as Fecker carefully trudged onwards, wading through the snow which thickened as the path took him into a gully. He stopped, a silhouette against his lantern, and stamped a foot before moving on, sideways this time, one probing step at a time. After a few paces, when Archer started to worry that he would be swamped by the drift, he began to rise from it. He crested another bank until he was barely a pinprick of light and, a few seconds after that, he vanished completely.
Archer had never felt so alone. Not even during his teenage years when, having accepted that he was different to the other cadets, he lived in a silent world of self-denial. Not even the night before his showdown with his brother, standing watch aboard ship at six bells on a black, unseen sea when the weight of the invisible sky pressed down on him as it did now. Unlike then, there were no lapping waves or creaking ropes, only a deathly silence broken occasionally by Emma’s impatience.
Alien tremors of panic were beginning to stir when the darkness was penetrated by Fecker’s lamp, not from where Archer had last seen him, but closer, to his left. Fecker waded carefully, and, as if the weight of snow padding the hem of his fur made no difference, nimbly remounted.
‘We follow my track,’ he said, swinging his lamp in the direction he had come. ‘Ahead, ditch. Bad. This way, we sleep until light.’
Without waiting for Archer to question him, he took back his reins and directed Shanks to follow his path. Archer fell in behind. Emma knew what was required and stayed close to her companion. The path rose gradually and levelled before turning north. A few paces on, Fecker’s lamp illuminated a building, a shed, or an outhouse, it was hard to tell, but it was shelter.
It was perhaps a shepherd’s hut, uninhabited and offering refuge in one room. Beside it, a lean-to allowed cover for the horses, and, after clearing snow, Fecker discovered a trough and hay.
While his coachman did what he could to stable the animals, Archer investigated the hut. No larger than his dressing room, the floor was planked, and the window shuttered. There were no signs of ingress, the floor, such as it was, seemed solid, and the door closed, leaving only a slight gap. Fecker brought the saddlebags and Archer arranged what he could to make a bed. there was no fireplace, and to light a campfire risked burning the place down. They would have only each other and the furs for warmth.
Fecker had other ideas. He returned with the saddles and laid them on the floor.
‘Your coat,’ he said, snapping his fingers at the viscount’s fur.
‘My coat?’
‘You want dead horse? Coat.’
If Archer had been his father, he would have sacked the man on the spot, but then his father had never thought of anything but his own grandeur. Archer took
off the fur and handed it over. He had a second coat beneath made of wool. That would have to do. Fecker left, returning a few minutes later also without his fur. He scanned the room with his torch and dragged the saddles to the corner behind the door, arranging them like chair backs. That done, he took the saddlebags and, as Archer watched fascinated, set them to form a shambled wall like a child building a fort from scraps.
‘Come,’ he beckoned.
Shivering, Archer joined him, sitting against the saddles, shoulder to shoulder, their knees to their chests.
‘Here,’ Fecker said, ‘if door open, we are hide.’
‘Andrej,’ Archer said through chattering teeth. ‘I know you speak better English than you pretend.’
He felt rather than saw the big man’s head turn. Fecker’s breath clouded across his vision as he laughed.
‘English,’ he said. ‘Why do you use twenty words when four will do?’ His Russian accent stayed strong, but the sentence flowed. ‘I speak as you want. You are Geroy.’ The G was pronounced softly, almost like a Y.
‘And that’s something else. I looked for that word in a Russian dictionary, and it doesn’t exist, yet you say it means honourable.’
‘Da.’
‘How?’
‘Is my village word,’ Fecker explained. ‘In Russian is hero, but Russia took our village nechesno. Not honourably,’ he translated. ‘I don’t know, it means hero to them but with honour to us. You are hero.’
‘I hardly think so.’
‘To me, yes.’
‘Why?’
Archer’s arms were shaking, and his insides were as solid as ice, but his skin was warm. Drowsiness was taking him, and he would have looked at his watch, but it would involve undoing his coat.
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