‘Is there,’ Fecker said as Archer dew up beside him. He pointed to a ground floor window, its glass cracked, its curtain a veil of ripped cloth. Beside it was painted the number five.
Fecker rode over to the window and leaning, banged on it. When there was no reply, he slipped from his saddle and looked along the row.
‘You!’ he shouted at two men loitering in the tenement entrance and beckoned them over.
‘What d’you want?’ One called back before spitting and folding his arms defiantly.
Fecker drew out one of the banknotes, and Archer was about to dissuade him when the men came running.
‘You hold horses,’ Fecker ordered, passing the reins. He waved the note in their faces — five pounds, Archer noticed with horror — before putting it back in his pocket.
The men grinned half-toothed smiles at each other, and one winked. They had no intention of guarding anything, and Archer feared for the animals.
‘Andrej…’
Fecker ignored him. ‘If no horses, no money.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Andrej.’ Archer dismounted and rested his hand on his saddlebag. His pistol lay beneath the flap.
‘Nyet.’ Fecker saw his intention. ‘Horses safe or…’ He had his knife to the man’s throat. Neither Archer nor the startled men saw it get there.
The man nodded nervously, but his companion made a move to grab the blade. It was a foolish mistake, and he found himself gripped by the neck and forced to his knees by Fecker’s left arm. The knife, however, stayed exactly where it was.
The victims stammered their surrender, but Archer slipped his pistol beneath his cloak just in case.
‘Come, Geroy.’ Fecker walked away.
Archer remembered Culver’s advice to allow his men to make mistakes, and after a brief hesitation, followed.
The tenement entrance stank of urine, and the door to number five was stained with it. Fecker thumped it, and when no answer came, pushed it open. The smell of decay rolled out to greet them, and coughing, they entered a small, dark room. The only light came from beyond the ragged, threadbare curtaining that had once been a bedsheet. Straw mattresses took up most of the floor space, a small stove, another part, and what was left was black with grime.
If Archer hadn’t been gagging, he would have wept. Was Silas born on one of these mattresses? He had slept here, cried, perhaps laughed, eaten, grown, learnt, but most of all, he had survived. Archer didn’t believe in God, but there was no denying some greater power had destined that a boy born in this slum was, at that moment, a man standing in awe of the great house that was Larkspur Hall. The only thought that warmed his heart was that Silas was safe, free of this and, with another intervention from that unseen power, he would soon be joined by his sisters.
‘Fuck,’ Fecker mumbled. ‘Stay there.’
Archer had no intentions of venturing any further into the room and covered his mouth as Fecker approached one of the mattresses. He was in shadow, but Archer saw him lift the corner of a blanket, draw in a breath, and lower it slowly.
‘Who are you?’
Archer spun to the voice behind and blinked in shock when he encountered a woman no older than himself. She was respectfully dressed and, unlike the men holding the horses, attractive and clean.
‘What happened here?’ Fecker was at his side, nudging him out of the way.
The woman stepped back and, lifting her skirt, curtseyed. ‘Sorry to alarm you, Sir,’ she said, apparently nonplussed to have Fecker bearing down on her. ‘I can’t let this room right now if that’s what you’re looking for.’
‘Nyet. What happened?’
‘Are you police, Sirs? ’Cos you’re days late. They’ve all gone.’
‘Who has?’ Archer asked.
‘The others what shared with the Irish,’ she said, taking in Archer’s fine overcoat with questioning eyes. ‘Moved across to number eight if you want them.’
‘What happened to Iona and Karan?’
When Archer asked it, Fecker looked at him sharply, and Archer wasn’t sure if it was because he was impressed the viscount had remembered the names, or angry that he had spoken. He had no time to think about it as the woman explained.
‘It was terrible, Sir,’ she said. ‘Middle of the night, Sheila said. She used to live here. A man, short but strong, no-one knows who he was. He come in banging about and shouting, waving knives. We’re used to that around here, but he was calling for the girls, making the littluns scream, making the women curse in their tongues. Rose, that’s the girl’s’ cousin, she tried to protect them, but…’ She crossed herself. ‘Knife right across her throat.’
Archer closed his eyes against the image. ‘Where did he take them?’
‘Don’t know, Sir. No-one’s saying anything for fear of being next.’
‘Who are you?’ Fecker demanded.
‘I look after the buildings as best I can, Sir,’ she said. ‘Put here by the church to do what I can for the wretches.’
Fecker took out Archer’s money, put back the five pounds he had promised the men, and crumpled the rest into the woman’s hand.
‘You take,’ he said. ‘You bury body.’
Appalled, Archer glanced at what he had taken as nothing more than a pile of rags, and his stomach turned.
‘You will do this?’
‘Oh, I will, Sir. Thank you. The church was trying to raise the money, but… Thank you.’ She took Fecker’s hand and kissed it, but as she did so, he flicked his over and trapped hers.
‘You will do this.’
That time it was not a question, but Archer could see from the woman’s relief that she would do something. Probably pay to have the body taken away and dumped, he thought. He should have asked Culver to see to it as soon as he learnt of the death. Again, Fecker had shown him up for a dolt.
‘Rose can be given a Christian burial now, Sir,’ she said, calmly unwinding Fecker’s fingers. She looked up at him with a mix of adoration and confidence. ‘You have my word on that.’
‘You good woman,’ Fecker grunted and snatched away his hand. ‘We go, you bury. I have your word, you have my trust. God knows you, lady,’ he said and kissed her hand.
‘Something shall be done about this,’ Archer blustered as he followed Fecker to the door. ‘Thank you, Miss… Thank you.’
He stumbled into the daylight where Fecker was paying the men and taking back the horses. They mounted, Fecker turned his steed with a yell and charged off. The suddenness of his actions spurred Archer into life, and the shock that bubbled in his gut released itself in angry, determined pursuit.
Fifteen
A search of the library had uncovered no clues to the history of the Long Light lighthouse, leaving James still unsure if it been a prison or whether he had sent Archer to the right place. Driven by the cold, he spent another night on the study couch where the fire warmed the room. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was a great deal more acceptable than where Silas was spending the night, and he was able to sleep.
He was only just waking when Mrs Norwood knocked and called his name. Rubbing his face, he opened the doors to her, aware that his clothes were a mess and his breath smelt of stale whisky.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ she said, smiling apologetically. ‘Sorry to wake you, but there was a message.’
He was grateful that she hadn’t mentioned his dishevelled state, nor said anything about him sleeping in the study.
‘Oh?’ He yawned. ‘Excuse me.’
‘From a Delamere footman. He just popped in to say Mr Creswell was to collect you at ten, and as it’s half-nine, I thought you would like to know.’
‘Half-nine?’ He counted the hours; he had slept for eight. It might have been wasted time, but he had woken with a clear head, and his mind alre
ady working on what he could do next to help Silas. ‘Thank you, Mrs Norwood,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you could do something for me?’
He gave his old schoolteacher a list of instructions, which she was more than happy to comply with, then dashed to his room. After a quick wash and shave, he sifted through the few clothes he possessed. His suit had been slept in and needed pressing, his shirt was crumpled, and he couldn’t wear his livery to attend Bow Street with Creswell. He respected the man for the way he was helping Silas and didn’t want to embarrass him. Thomas’ trousers were too slim for him, and Silas’ jackets too small. The only clothes that fitted reasonably well belonged to Archer, but did he dare borrow anything from his master without permission?
‘He let me into his safe,’ he muttered later, as he helped himself to a shirt and a suit from the viscount’s dressing room. ‘He’ll understand.’
Suitably dressed, he put a few items into a travel bag, collected the things he had asked Mrs Norwood to prepare and was in the hall as the clock struck ten and a carriage drew up outside.
Today, Creswell was bang on time, and James was ready for him.
‘Good morning, Harrison.’ He greeted the dour-faced coachman with as cheery a smile as he could manage. ‘How is Sir Easterby this morning?’
‘Not as cheerful as you, Sir,’ the man complained, leading James to the carriage door.
They were interrupted by Andrew. The messenger came running along the pavement where the snow was melting, and calling for Mr Wright, nipped past Harrison to present a telegram.
‘Begging pardon, Sirs,’ he said, tapping his cap. ‘Any reply, Sir?’
‘Morning, Andrew.’ James took the envelope, saw it was for him and opened it directly. ‘I won’t be a moment, Harrison.’
‘On your head be it,’ the coachman mumbled and waited by the carriage.
Girls taken. Leaving for Long Light now. Hoping you are right. 33 hours to dead line. A.
Dead line. In splitting the word, the viscount was emphasising that unless James was correct and Long Light was the right place, the girls would be dead by the following sunset. If he was wrong, there was little he could do about it. Archer was now out of communication, and James had done all he could.
Harrison coughed pointedly.
‘No reply, thanks, Andrew,’ James said, handing him a shilling.
‘Not allowed, Sir.’ The boy refused the tip and rushed off.
When James climbed into the coach, he found Creswell animated and affable, despite what he had to say.
‘We have no good news.’ The announcement came with an incongruous smile. ‘But that doesn’t stop us from having a jolly good stab at this. By God, man, what are you today?’
‘Sir?’
Creswell waved a long arm up and down James’ attire. He wore the viscount’s cloak over his topcoat, but it fell open, revealing the suit and a high, white collar around which was tied one of His Lordship’s silk cravats.
‘Are you attending the House?’
‘I didn’t want to disappoint you, Sir,’ James said, honestly. ‘You treated me so respectfully yesterday, I thought I should make more of an effort in your company.’
Creswell smiled, considered the words and nodded. ‘Thank you, James. If I may presume to call you that?’
‘Of course you may, Sir.’
‘Is that for the prisoner?’ He knocked the bag with his foot.
‘Yes, Sir. Something to make him feel better if it is allowed.’
Creswell regarded James as thoughtfully as he had done the day before, considering his worthiness for whatever lay ahead, his motives and his innocent enthusiasm to help his friend.
Apparently, he liked what he saw, because he said, ‘Bravo. Good man,’ as if James had passed an examination. ‘And so, to the prisoner we must turn. While you have been purloining your master’s clothing…’ He gave a look, which suggested he was impressed with James’ cheek. ‘I have been rummaging through the dusty tomes and battling with precedent in what has turned out to be a vain attempt to have this case quashed, or at least postponed.’
‘And?’
Creswell laughed one short burst of ‘Ha!’ before becoming serious. ‘”And?” was exactly what the Home Secretary said when I crashed his breakfast.’ Seeing James didn’t follow, he explained. ‘I called — we are neighbours — and told him a miscarriage of justice was afoot. I put it to him that the integrity of the courts was at stake, and there was a case being handled in the most outrageous of manners. He said, “And?” as if it happened every day, and returned to his kedgeree. Blithering idiot.’
‘So there is nothing we can do to stop these events?’
‘Nothing. Which leaves us only with one course of action. To put Mr Hawkins on the stand and have him tell his story. Before that, however, we need to know what that story is so we can find witnesses, and we have only one day to achieve that miracle. Thus, I have decided what we must do.’
James was momentarily thrilled by his use of the word “we”, but pride came before a fall, as his mother always said.
‘Unless you can do one of two things, your man is doomed.’
James’ heart sank. ‘What two things?’
‘Firstly, get him to speak to me. What was he doing on that date at that time? Was he there? Even if he is guilty, I can still defend. He must know this. Two…’ He continued before James had a chance to feel guilty. ‘Whether he talks or not, you need to produce Lord Clearwater at least as a character witness.’
‘That will be impossible, I fear.’
‘So you said. Perhaps this will put some lead in your pencil.’
He handed James a document. It was full of legal jargon he didn’t understand but seemed to do nothing more than state the name of the judge who would try the case.
‘Judge Galloways?’ James queried. ‘Is that important?’
Creswell took back the paper and put it away. ‘You may not have read this in your Police Illustrated,’ he said. ‘So let me elucidate. The crime of buggery was a capital offence until the introduction of the Offences Against the Person Act of sixty-one. The Act of eighty-five, as I outlined yesterday, introduced the crime of gross indecency, a term and amendment as vague and insidious as the self-righteous prick who slipped it in at the last minute.’ He coughed. ‘Probably not the best phrase to use.’
James would have laughed, but he was too busy trying to stay upright as the carriage swayed around corners. Accustomed to Harrison’s erratic driving, Creswell let his body go with it.
‘The punishment, should Hawkins be found guilty, will be two years, probably with hard labour. With his looks, he will survive less than a week in Newgate. However, there is yet no precedent for the judge not to sentence as he sees fit. The law may state no more than two years, but I wouldn’t put it past Galloways to hand down a hanging.’
‘Wait, what?’ Outraged and horrified, James didn’t understand. ‘Can he do that?’
Creswell nodded. ‘I fear there is even more behind this than meets the eye. You see, the Right Honourable Henry Matthews is still practising law, and more unfortunately, he is the man I will be up against tomorrow. With Mr Hawkins maintaining his silence, and Judge Galloways knowing he is performing before the Home Secretary, should Matthews call for a tougher sentence, Galloways will leap at the chance to pass it. It may not happen, the law doesn’t allow for it, but if he hands down death, the Home Secretary could well end up with the last word. As he is in favour of reinstating the death penalty for buggery… Well, I shall leave the rest hanging.’
James thought he would pass out.
‘Sorry,’ Creswell said, seeing his pallor. ‘That was also the wrong phrase to employ. But, dear chap, the point behind all this that without anything to go on, with no witnesses and no alibi, your friend is more than doomed
. The judge could not have a more apt name than Galloways.’
Bow Street was as intimidating as it had been the day before, but this time on entering, James did so with more confidence. He walked beside the barrister rather than behind, and when they reached the counter, signed his own name in the book before turning towards the correct entrance.
‘You go ahead,’ Creswell said as they walked. ‘You remember the way?’
‘I do. Where are you going, Sir?’
‘I need to list witnesses,’ the barrister said, ‘and take care of some other formalities. The lad is clearly not going to talk to me, so the duty falls to you to take his story. Find me afterwards. If anyone says anything…’ He handed James a piece of paper and told him to sign it. James obeyed. ‘Well done. You work for me now.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, don’t fret. I shall tear it up after tomorrow, but if you have any problems, you can legally show them this.’ He gave James a card on which was written “James Wright, Barrister’s Clerk” and the address of Creswell’s chambers at Temple. ‘You are my man, even if you are dressed to attend a debate in the House of Lords.’ He swerved left and swished into an office announcing, ‘By your bed, Sparky. I am sorely displeased.’
The door swung shut, leaving James reeling but determined. He flashed the card at the dubious officer at the gaol gate without saying a word, and as Creswell had done, walked straight in. The second guard recognised him and, on seeing he was alone, was at first reluctant to give him access to ‘the criminal.’
‘I believe Sir Easterby made it clear that he was to be addressed as Mr Hawkins until proven otherwise,’ James said, making an officious looking note in his book. It was enough to remind the man of his place.
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