The only clue seemed to come from the second verse, Tennyson’s romantic, fairy-tale image of a glen, a waterfall and a castle.
The descriptive lines conjured a dramatic image, but that image would be different to every reader, and again, said nothing specific. Archer didn’t know where the great man had written the verses or where he had imagined the narrator to be standing.
The only thing specific about the letter was the threat to kill Silas’ sisters should Archer fail to attend the meeting.
He left the note on the table and sat back, sweeping his fringe from his forehead.
‘No good?’ Fecker asked, turning from the dusky view.
Archer sighed. ‘It’s so near and yet so far. There is clearly an instruction hidden in there, but I’m damned if I can find it.’
‘Maybe is not needed,’ Fecker said, bending to rest his forearms on his knees and lean closer. ‘We arrive, and they are there.’
‘That would be ideal, but that would then make this letter a diversion and the question would be, a diversion from what?’
Daylight was dying beyond the window, casting greying light on one side of Fecker’s face. The other glowed a warm amber from the shaded carriage lamps. His smooth brow was taut with concentration as his eyes pierced the paper between them. When they rose from beneath their dark brows to gracefully land on Archer’s, he gave the appearance of a wolf fixing its victim with the certainty of capture.
‘Is not Quill,’ he said, causing Archer’s heart to jump.
‘What? Why do you say that?’
‘How he know?’
‘Andrej, you’re going to have to add in some of those other words we spoke about.’
Fecker nodded. ‘Okay, Sir.’ He inched to the edge of his seat and tapped the paper. ‘I don’t understand how he knows where the sisters were.’ He spoke as one unfamiliar not with the words, but the order in which to put them. ‘I don’t understand how he came from the wreck, where he has been, or why he does this. But most, I don’t understand how he knows Banyak’s family.’
‘Bloody hell, Fecker,’ Archer gasped, forgetting himself for a moment. ‘That’s a damn good observation.’
‘Is common sense.’
‘Yes…’ Archer’s mind began to turn. James would have seen that anomaly straight away. ‘Yes, you’re right. Quill took Silas that night in Limedock because I put him there, not because he knew who he was. Silas wasn’t involved in the incident on the moors, not on the train, at least. Quill has no idea who Silas is, apart from a man he once treated at my house, so why take his sisters to bait me? Is that what you mean?’
‘Nyet and da.’
‘No and yes? Or was that one word?’
Fecker smiled. ‘In my village, we say nyetida to mean… Almost, you would say. And if you ask me, Sir, you are nyetida there.’
‘Where?’ The man’s smile was contagious. Archer’s lips were rising at Fecker’s expression now becoming playful after so long spent stern or disinterested. He knew something Archer didn’t.
‘You work it out. I go for piss.’
‘Oh, come on, Andrej! That’s not fair,’ Archer laughed.
‘You want I piss on this carpet?’ Fecker stood and half-swayed, half-stomped through the empty carriage. ‘I put it on your account.’
Archer took comfort from the way the man had mellowed since their conversation in the hut. The subject of his family had not yet been discussed because Archer didn’t want another upset. There was a history behind Fecker which he was determined to mine, but there were also times and places to dig, and he was prepared to wait. Fecker had changed after telling some of his story, and now showed more trust, though to think that he yet respected the viscount would have been conceited.
Archer had been brought up according to his father’s rules. “They only respect you if you treat them like animals,” was one of his favourite pieces of advice when referring to the staff. “Give ‘em an inch, they’ll rip the skin off yer back,” usually came next. It was Archer’s place to reply, “Yes, Sir”, and say no more, and each time he did, he hated his father a little more for forcing him to act against his nature.
Crispin, of course, wallowed in his father’s attitude and replied with, “Should be whipped regular, Pater. Keep them in their place.” Sentiments that were too strong even for Father. The thought of anyone gratuitously hurting someone else as a means to keep them in their place was anathema to Archer. He used to have nightmares in which he witnessed Thomas being flogged on a Sunday morning before church just for the sake of it. It didn’t make sense.
Neither did the way his mind was wandering. Archer had not considered what Fecker might have seen and he was coming back, expecting an answer.
‘Da?’ he asked as he sat, more gracefully that Archer had seen him do before. ‘You see?’
‘No, Andrej, I’m sorry. I can’t see what you’re driving at.’
‘Is simple,’ Fecker said, resuming his position, and dragging his armchair closer.
It was disconcerting to watch as the chairs were bolted and meant to be immovable. Archer glanced at the legs, thought, ‘Oh well,’ and fixed his keen stare on the Ukrainian.
‘Go on,’ he said, also leaning in and clasping his hands together. ‘What am I not seeing?’
‘Much, I expect.’ Fecker said. It wasn’t insolence, it was playful cheek copied from Silas. ‘First, I think, is not Quill. How does he know to find Iona and Karan? As you say, he not know Banyak.’
‘Wait, wait. Iona and Karan?’
‘Da. How he know?’
‘Those are their names?’
Fecker was shocked. ‘You not know this?’
‘No. Silas doesn’t talk about them.’
‘He talk with me all the time.’
Archer suffered a pang of jealousy; Fecker knew more about Silas than he did.
‘Don’t be upset,’ the Ukrainian said, catching Archer’s frown and understanding. ‘Is not because he doesn’t love you. Is because he not want you to worry. Banyak and me, we had many nights and days to do nothing. He talk, I listen. Banyak tells you only what he want you to know, is all.’
‘I’ve never even asked,’ Archer moaned. ‘That’s terrible of me.’
‘Da, is terrible of you to take us from streets and give us home, food, job. Is terrible of you to give Banyak trust and…’ Whatever he was going to say, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. ‘All things you give us.’ Powerful fingers wrapped Archer’s knee and shook his leg. ‘Is not terrible, Geroy’, he said and let go. ‘Banyak understand. But, the girls?’
‘Yes, sorry. I interrupted.’ Archer felt a self-indulgent sulk coming on and pushed it away, focusing on the matter in hand while vowing to consider Silas’ feelings more from then on.
‘You say this is Quill,’ Fecker tapped the letter. ‘I think, no, can’t be. Then I think it can.’
‘You said. But how?’
‘The play.’
‘Play?’
‘Da. Those people screaming love and dying because they are stupid.’
‘Oh, you mean the opera?’
Fecker grimaced. ‘Da. Many people watch. Maybe also Quill. You not notice one man in two thousand, but one man notice Banyak on the stage talking about you. Thanking. It was in his voice. He looks at you. Is obvious.’
‘You’re starting to lose me again.’
‘Okay.’ Fecker huffed a breath, resigned. ‘I am watching with Lucy and Mrs Cook.’
‘Mrs Flintwich,’ Archer corrected.
‘She no witch, she nice lady. We watch Banyak on stage. Lucy say, “Mr Hawkins is in love with someone in the box.” She mean you. I say nothing. Mrs Cook say is as plain as nose on face.’
‘Oh God!’ Archer had hoped that his staff would never suspec
t his secret.
‘Is good,’ Fecker reassured him. ‘They both say, “Ah, bless”, and watch screaming woman in opera. Is nothing. Anyway… But… If they see love, Ripper see love. He knows to use Banyak against you.’
Archer shook his head to shuffle his thoughts into order and separate the personal from the professional, if chasing the Ripper was a profession. What if Fecker was right?
‘So why not just take Silas?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know.’
‘And how did he find out where the sisters live? No-one knows that apart from…’ His heart stopped, took a mighty breath and continued, racing. ‘Apart from Culver.’
The thought was preposterous.
‘This man know Ripper?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Maybe there is connection.’
Fecker had thrown Archer’s suspicions into a flurry. Culver was an upstanding man, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a friend of the family. Their fathers went to the same school, but then so did Quill’s.
‘It’s absurd,’ he said, unable to find a path through the possibility. ‘But you are correct. Culver is the only person apart from us who knows where they live, and I’m the one who told him. But it won’t be him. No, I won’t even entertain the thought.’
‘There is other one,’ Fecker said, engulfed by the amber light now that there was nothing but darkness beyond the window. ‘If is not Ripper, is someone else.’
All the conversation had done was to cause more confusion while taking Archer around in a circle. If Fecker’s reckoning was correct, any one of two thousand people in the audience that night could have registered the link between Silas and Archer and, if they had a mind to, used it to…
There he hit another wall. Used their relationship to do what? Who, other than Quill would think that way and enjoy playing such a twisted game?
His mind was still not settled when, several hours later, Culver’s coachman met them at Westerpool station. Fecker refused to travel until he had inspected the horses. He found them more than acceptably cared for, something which endeared him to the coachman and when he asked to ride up front with the man, Archer didn’t argue.
It was a short journey through the slush, following the river road towards Aigburth, where Culver’s welcome glowed through tall windows. His friend was standing at one, waiting with a smile on his face.
A butler appeared to collect the bags, followed by Culver who took Archer’s hand before the viscount could wish him a good evening. It was then that he realised what he had thought was a smile was, in fact, an expression of concern.
‘I am so happy to see you safely arrived, Your Lordship,’ Culver said. ‘There is a telegram for you in the drawing room. But I fear I have bad news.’
Archer was expecting it. ‘Tell me inside,’ he said. ‘And thank you for letting me put you out like this.’
‘No trouble at all, Sir. Shall I…? Oh!’
Fecker was glaring down from the driver’s seat.
‘This is my man, Andrej,’ Archer said, registering Culver’s shock. ‘Yes, he takes people that way, but his looks are deceptive.’
Fecker was invited Fecker to join him in the house, but the offer was politely refused, and the carriage clattered off towards the back of the building.
Archer didn’t make a fuss and decided that Fecker must have considered he had taken as much equal treatment as he could for one day. Culver was kind to his staff, Fecker would be well looked after, and Archer knew where to find him if he was needed.
He gave the man his space and returned his attention to his host.
‘He is a long story,’ he said. ‘But what is this bad news? The girls are not at home?’
‘How did you know?’ Culver led him through the portico and into the hall.
‘That too is a long story.’
Once inside, the butler closed the door and helped Archer out of his fur. He was good at his job and registered no surprise to find another coat beneath.
‘Is that the only news of Iona and Karan?’ Archer asked, taking in the comfort of gas radiators and the silence of electric lighting.
‘Sadly not.’
‘Oh?’
‘A drink first?’
Culver took him into his drawing room, which, like the entrance, was warm and welcoming.
‘As you wish,’ Archer said. ‘But please, what is this other news?’
Culver looked from the viscount to the furniture as though not sure which would take this news better and decided to deliver the telegram. He handed it over and attended to a tray of decanters.
‘The girls’ cousin,’ he said, pouring with a shaking hand. ‘I am sorry to inform you that she is dead.’
Archer didn’t hear him at first, he was too busy opening the envelope. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘The girls’ cousin was killed two days ago,’ Culver explained. ‘So I was informed by some of the other residents.’
‘Killed? How?’
Culver ran his finger across his throat. ‘In the night. No-one heard or saw a thing. Or if they did, they are not saying. Screams assassination to me. She was Irish in England, perhaps a Fenian reprisal?’
‘Police?’
‘A murder in Canter Wharf, Sir? Not interested.’
‘And the girls?’
‘Not seen since that night and no-one admits to seeing them leave, but the neighbours say they had moved to be with another relative or fled in terror. I tend to believe them. You might imagine how life for young, single ladies can be in the docksides of Westerpool.’
‘Two days ago?’
Culver confirmed the fact. It was the same day Archer received the poem. He attended to the telegram as his host offered him a glass.
‘You look unwell, Sir,’ Culver said. ‘Is it bad news?’
‘It’s interesting news from my footman,’ Archer replied, folding away the message.
‘Is there anything I can help you with?’
‘Possibly, George.’ Archer raised his head and noticed the drink. ‘Would you make mine a double?’
Eleven
Unable to face the top floor on his own, James spent the night on the study couch. It was warmer, close to the things he needed, and Silas’ smoking jacket, left there from the day before, helped when the fire died. He wasn’t sure what time he drifted off, it was well after three, but his dreams were full of weird images that troubled him asleep and confounded him when he woke; a jumble of words and places, images of bottomless lakes and unscalable mountains with one common feature to each distorted scene; a hangman’s noose.
Considering the quality of his sleep, he was surprised to wake just after seven, his mind alert and his body rested, laying on his back with Silas’ jacket pulled up to his chin smelling faintly of his Curzon Cologne. Earthy with a tint of biting citrus, it was enough to make him feel his friend was near but also enough to bring back harrowing thoughts of the night Silas would have suffered. It was that thought that caused his mental adrenaline to pick up where it had left off the previous evening, that and the sight of the piles of open books and maps on the reading table, the half-eaten dinner and the list of anagrams on the chalkboard.
An idea had leapt to his mind when he read the word ‘Elfland’, and he had set about jumbling its letters, knowing Quill had used anagrams before, but try as he might, he had found no combination that matched any town, city, village or port he could find in the atlas or gazetteer.
Yet the poem had significance, else why put it there? Not only that, he was sure it was connected to the unusual words in the first verse, gold and gaol.
He pulled on his shoes as he stumbled to the table and sat, reading his notes while he tied the laces. Scanning the gazetteer once more, he concentrated on only those places begin
ning with letters contained in the word Elfland but still found nothing. He turned to the atlas, left open at Westerpool, and attended to his collar while he ran his eyes over the terrain. Without knowing where Silas’ sisters had been kidnapped to, it was logical to start at nearby places. Archer had four days from receiving the letter to the date of execution, the girls could be anywhere by then, even on their way to America, but Quill wanted this showdown, and, thus, it made sense for him to stay close to Westerpool. As with his cryptic postcard from Yorkshire, he pretended to cloak his intentions enough to give Archer a chase but was careful not to make his clues too veiled for fear that they would not be understood in time.
Dressed well enough to make it to his room for a wash, James stood and took a drink of last night’s water with his eyes still brushing across the map. He drained the glass and banged it down on the atlas before wiping his mouth and letting out a long breath.
‘Come on, Jimmy,’ he said, staring at the glass. ‘Just because it’s empty doesn’t mean it can’t be refilled. Just because you’ve not got this yet, doesn’t mean you’re not going to. It’ll come.’
The drawing room was in semi-darkness, only the sconces in the hall threw any light, and he realised Mr Norwood must have lit them. His suspicion was proved correct when he found the man coming down the main stairs with the lamp box.
‘Ah, Mr Wright,’ he said. ‘I was looking for you.’
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