James’ imaginary runaway engine had reached the points earlier than expected, and it was time to pull the brake. ‘You said all the right things.’ James took his shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘I will be here tomorrow by ten,’ he said. ‘I promise. Creswell will look after you meantime. Anything you need, tell him.’
‘Alright, calm down.’
James was breathing as fast as the wheels in his mind were turning, only now they were spinning backwards as everything came screeching to a halt.
‘Love you, mate,’ he said and kissed Silas on the forehead.
He was out of the door and reaching for his watch before he could hear Silas repeat the words.
Using the barrister’s card and a lot of long words he wasn’t sure meant what he wanted to say, James demanded and fussed in the foyer until he was let into the barristers’ quarters. There, he found Creswell drinking tea with a colleague in a private office.
‘So sorry to interrupt,’ he said as he walked straight in. ‘Sir Easterly, may I have a word?’
‘It’s Easterby,’ Creswell corrected. ‘Has he spoken?’
Silas had said a great deal, much of it without realising its meaning.
‘No, Sir.’ James flushed with embarrassment. He had been calling him Easterly in his head because the man dashed about as if blown by the wind. ‘I really am very sorry…’ He nodded to the other barrister. Dressed in flowing, black silks and reclining on a sofa, he looked like Sarah Bernhardt advertising her latest melodrama. ‘Sir Easterby, I have to go. Mr Hawkins still refuses to speak, and I think it is for the better.’
‘Oh, do you?’ Creswell exchanged a look with his colleague.
‘For now, yes.’ James ignored their shared laugh. ‘But, Sir, can you give me the full name of the man who brought the charges?’
‘No, he can’t,’ Sarah Bernhardt drawled. ‘Who is this… ghoul?’
‘I am Sir Easterby’s clerk,’ James said, only then realising he was still wearing his cap. He pulled it free. ‘And I think I know what is behind this made-up charge.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, what.’ James gave up using titles, there wasn’t enough time.
‘No, what, as in… What the bloody hell are you playing at?’ Creswell bellowed the words in James’ face, and although his hair moved, the rest of him remained resolute.
‘Trying to see justice done,’ he barked. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Jesus, Creswell. Give the boy a thrashing.’
‘I mean no offence,’ James said and controlled his temper. ‘But I am pushed for time. You want Clearwater on the witness stand? Then I have to go, but first I need the name and full details of the man or men who brought the charges.’
‘And I tell you, you can’t have them, you little oik.’ The colleague had floated up from the couch and was approaching with an outstretched arm. His face was so taut he looked like a skeleton; death in silk.
‘It’s the only way to win the case.’
‘Bloody upstart…’
‘But I can’t tell you how until tomorrow.’
Creswell turned away.
‘You won’t stand for this, Creswell, surely? You should have the boy deported.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ James yelled. ‘It’s not your best mate going to the gallows.’
‘I shall have you whipped for this…’
The skeleton seethed closer, but James stood his ground and put himself in the man’s face. ‘Yeah, while you flounce about at the Wig and Pen congratulating yourself on doing fuck all for real people.’
‘Oh, just clear off, you jumped-up little turd.’
‘Jump this, Bernhardt…’
‘Don’t!’
Creswell ended the fracas with one roar and just in time to stop James’ fist, at that point in mid-air and heading towards an outraged man of the law.
‘Here.’ Creswell took James’ hand, unbaled it, crammed in a piece of paper and lowered his arm. ‘Listen, Wright,’ he said, distracting James with his calmness. ‘I have listed Lord Clearwater as a witness. Without him, we have nothing. You understand?’ He pulled James away from his colleague’s personal space. ‘Do you understand, James? No Clearwater, no hope.’
James nodded, his heart racing and his breath coming in snatched gasps.
‘Fine. Then do whatever you have to do, but be back here no later than ten tomorrow morning. The earlier, the better so I can prepare Lord Clearwater.’ He put his arm around James and took him to the door, whispering, ‘Bloody impressive show, young man. Told you I’d make a barrister out of you.’
He hadn’t, but it was praise enough for James to know there would be no repercussion for his heart-driven actions.
‘Sorry about that, Sir,’ he panted.
‘Don’t be. But do tell me, where are you going?’
James broke away and backed from the room waving the name of Silas’ accuser. ‘I am going, Sir, to the place where the wild cataract leaps in glory.’
Seventeen
James’ first stop was Clearwater House. It was a little after two in the afternoon, and the sky was again threatening snow by the time the Hansom dropped him in the mews. What he had in mind seemed like an impossible task, but it was the only way he could think of to save Silas from hell, and he needed to collect several items before he set off. Letting himself in through the back door, he hurried into the servants’ hall to find Mr and Mrs Norwood taking tea at the table.
‘Good, you’re here,’ he said, removing his cloak. ‘Listen, I have to go away. You will be alone in the house tonight, and I shall be out of contact until I return.’ He unbuttoned his coat and threw it over a chair. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Mrs Norwood was on her feet. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Yes, fine,’ James insisted. ‘I’m just in a hurry…’ He was at the door when an idea occurred. ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, Mrs Norwood, could you put together something for a long journey? You know, supplies?’
‘I will make up a parcel,’ she replied, calmly hanging his coat. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘In about ten minutes.’
Sixty seconds later having sprinted up the back stairs, he was in his room, undressing while examining his face in the mirror. His chin was rough to the touch, but the blond hair didn’t show too badly, there was no time for another shave but, bearing in mind where he was going, he made himself slow down and, in the bathroom, took a quick wash and tidied his appearance.
Once again he needed to borrow from the viscount and, in Archer’s dressing room, he selected what he thought most suitable for his needs. A tweed suit for warmth, Oxford half boots that came to his shins but were a size too large, and a crew jumper, tight-fitting over his shirt. The viscount also had a leather backpack with pockets and space enough for a few extra clothes, James’ notebook and Mrs Norwood’s supplies.
A quick check in the mirror and he reckoned he looked presentable enough for the first part of his journey and practical enough for the second.
The study was in darkness and cold when he entered. He dropped the rucksack by the door, turned up the gas and headed directly to the safe. Releasing the Keats, he spun the combination and took a deep breath.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, taking out a pile of notes. ‘Can’t believe I’m doing this.’ He counted out what he thought he would need and put the money in various pockets with some in the bag. He was about to scribble an I.O.U., but on a whim, wrote the note in Morse code. If Archer could leave coded messages, he could do the same. The note replaced the cash he had taken and, as he put it in the safe, he caught sight of Silas’ ring.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to stay locked away, like the man who owns you. But you’ll be reunited tomorrow.’<
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He closed the safe and stood, running his finger along the shelf of books until he found what he needed, “Ward’s Railways Timetable”. It was for the “South and West Region (with the inclusion of scheduled freight and mail), Winter 1888”, but there wasn’t time to read the full title, and it went into the backpack along with Archer’s book of Tennyson poetry.
James stood in the middle of the room with his hand on his forehead, thinking hard.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Something was missing. ‘Come on… Oh, you idiot!’
Back at the books, he grabbed a recent copy of Debrett’s. It was too large a book to carry, and he only needed two pages. He found the first and ripped it out, the second took longer to locate, but that was also torn from the binding, folded and put safely in his pocket.
He apologised to the book as he returned it to the shelf, and grabbing the bag, turned down the gas before sprinting through the drawing room.
‘All ready for you,’ Mrs Norwood said as he ran into the servants’ hall. She was wrapping items in brown paper. ‘You make sure you wear a scarf,’ she added, employing a similar tone to James’ mother.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’ Mr Norwood was clearing the table.
‘Just look after the house, and if anyone comes, we are all away at Larkspur,’ James called as he threw the provisions in the backpack and grabbed his coat and cloak. ‘And thank you!’
He was out of the house and tearing across the yard before either Norwood could reply, and a few seconds later, was in Bucks Avenue hailing a cab.
The Hansom negotiated its way slowly towards Waterloo station, and no matter how often James leant out to encourage the driver to speed up or banged his fingers impatiently on the seat, the cab refused to travel faster. Many roads were still suffering uncleared drifts, and traffic on the clearer thoroughfares was heavy. He used the time to read the timetables, and hoping they were still current and the various routes were operating, calculated his journey.
It was not looking hopeful, and it didn’t start well. The train to Haslemere was running late, but that gave James time to dispatch a quick message. After that, all he could do was pace the platform. When the train did arrive, he was the first to board, but that didn’t make it leave any sooner, and he had a quiet word with himself about ‘Less haste, more speed.’ Time was of the essence, but he wouldn’t achieve his mission by panicking and getting things wrong. There were bound to be other delays, and the best thing he could do was remain calm.
‘Hope for the best, expect the worst, and accept what you’re given,’ he said to his reflection.
The journey was painfully slow, and the worst part was knowing he had to make it in reverse, cross the city and take several more trains before reaching his destination. Before that, however, he faced an even more daunting challenge, and it manifested itself at half past five.
James stood facing a three-arched entrance, Gothic and imposing, but cold in the fading light. The cab from the station had been paid to wait, and the sound of wheels on gravel had alerted the occupants of the house to his arrival. Having read one of the pages torn from Debrett’s to familiarise himself with the man he was about to see, he folded the paper into his pocket and took a deep breath. He wished he had the gift of the gab like Silas, the manners of Thomas and the authority of the viscount. If he could pull those three traits together and bluff his way through this, he might get away with it. The one thing he could not do was behave like Fecker and charge in, guns blazing. Having re-run the main points of what he needed to say, he raised his hand to the bell-pull.
The door opened before he had a chance to ring, and he was confronted by a butler wearing an impeccable uniform and a look of mild annoyance.
‘May I help you?’ the man asked, giving James the once over with sagging, dispassionate eyes.
‘Good afternoon.’ James removed his cap and offered Creswell’s card. ‘I sent a telegram. James Wright to see His Lordship.’
‘His Lordship is not receiving visitors.’ The butler smiled as if to say, ‘At least, not visitors like you,’ but James ignored his condescending tone.
‘I know it is unusual,’ he said. ‘But it is a matter of life and death. Literally.’
‘His Lordship is not receiving visitors.’
‘You said, but would you give him my card and tell him I am here on behalf of Viscount Clearwater?’
Elderly eyebrows were raised, and the card was taken with reluctance.
‘Perhaps you will wait inside.’
James was over the first hurdle, but there were many more to go. He accepted the invitation and stepped into the hall. A passage ran directly ahead, with a wide staircase to one side and a vaulted ceiling overhead. It was almost church-like and yet there was something homely about the house. Family portraits hung on the walls, curios filled cabinets along the carpeted passage, and there was a hat stand around which shoes and boots of various sizes were scattered. From the outside, Aldworth House might have looked like a French chateau, but inside it was a family home.
The butler clicked and squeaked across the tiles and thudded over the rugs, knocked gravely on an oak door before entering. A few seconds later, a resounding, ‘No!’ rang through the arches hastily followed by the butler. He took the same route back to James although slower as if intentionally delaying the inevitable, and when he did arrive, handed back the card.
‘His Lordship is unavailable.’
‘Please,’ James said. ‘Did you tell him it was life and death?’
‘I did, Sir.’
‘And did you tell him it’s Lord Clearwater’s business?’
‘I did, Sir.’
This was maddening. James needed an answer, and he was not leaving without it. There was only one man who had that answer, and he was a few feet away but unreachable. The butler opened the front door while James contemplated the passage. It was only twenty feet, and the servant was distracted. Maybe it was time to think like Fecker after all.
Ignoring the protest from behind, he bolted and skidded to a stop at the oak door. The butler was approaching fast, and with no time to knock and wait, James walked straight in.
The room was darker than the hall, gloomy and crowded with curious objects, taxidermy behind glass, oak bookcases, dark wood desks, a lectern, bleak oil paintings in gold frames like a museum. In the centre of it all, startled in a wingback chair, sat the main exhibit. Dressed in black, with a bush of a long white beard, he was writing, a tray on his lap supporting his papers. He looked up in surprise, and James stepped away from the door, expecting the butler’s hand on his collar at any moment.
‘I have no money,’ the man said, cowering.
Now he was there, James’s rehearsed script fell from his mind, and he had no idea what to say. The hesitation gave the manservant time to reach him and sure enough, his hand was at James’ neck.
‘Please,’ James blurted. ‘My Lord, I’m sorry to intrude. I mean you no harm.’
‘My abject apologies, My Lord,’ the butler grovelled as he yanked James away. ‘He slipped through my fingers.’
‘Who is it?’
‘The man with the card, Sir. A solicitor.’
‘I’m not, actually,’ James said. ‘I am a footman.’
He registered the butler’s horror in the gasp that followed, and the grip tightened.
‘But I am also a messenger, Sir,’ he persisted. ‘And I am here on a matter of life and death. You see, Lord…’
‘Out,’ the butler yanked harder. James could have fought him off, but that wouldn’t endear him to the man in the chair, the only one who could tell him if he was doing the right thing.
‘Lord Tennyson,’ he said, struggling. ‘I know where the splendour falls.’
‘Out, boy. Apologies, My Lord.’
‘No,’ Tennyson ordered. ‘Let him be.’
The grip loosened, and James pulled himself free.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said. ‘I really am very sorry to burst in like this, but…’
‘Is it really a matter of life and death?’ the old man asked.
‘I believe it is, Sir.’
Tennyson put his tray aside and after studying James for an inordinate length of time, waved the butler away.
‘Perhaps I should wait, Sir.’
‘You never wait, Battersby, you only linger. Please do it elsewhere. I believe this man means no harm.’
‘None at all, Sir.’
‘You are what?’ Tennyson asked, pulling a tasselled cap from his head to reveal a high forehead that swept back over a bald dome flanked by wild, wispy hair. ‘A solicitor, footman, messenger? Which is it?’
‘My name is James Joseph Wright, My Lord, and right now, I am all of those things and yet none of them. I am here as a friend to a falsely imprisoned man. I am also a great admirer of yours.’
Tennyson gave a short, faint laugh. ‘Too kind.’ He beckoned James closer. ‘Battersby, you remain lingering in false hope like a jilted groom.’
‘Sir.’
A pair of heels clicked, and the door was closed.
James approached the great man, and when Tennyson offered the opposite armchair, he freed himself of his knapsack and sat. The poet’s features came into light as he sat back, studying James with his hands touching before his lips as though in prayer.
‘To strive, to seek, to find,’ Tennyson said, nodding thoughtfully.
‘And not to yield,’ James completed the quote, and his hopes rose when the man smiled.
‘I am intrigued, young Mr Wright,’ he said. ‘You arrive in the manner of Lancelot in his quest, yet you come merely to tell me you have discovered Elfland, as many have tried to do.’
‘I come to ask for your help, Sir,’ James said. ‘I need to know if I am correct.’
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