‘Explain.’
‘Well, you see…’ Again, James had lost the script, but he thought quickly and carefully, not wanting to give too much away for Archer’s sake. ‘My master is, at present, where I believe Elfland to be. I sent him there because I thought I was right. I need to reach him with grave news. With him is another man, noble and strong, he is your real Sir Lancelot.’ He was babbling and trying too hard to impress. ‘There are two lives at stake, possibly three, and if my master is in the wrong place, the other man may still have time to save two, while we try and save the third, but I need to be sure of the location.’
He grimaced, hoping that what he had said made sense, but unsure he understood it himself.
Tennyson had no such trouble. He nodded, thinking, and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘What is your Holy Grail?’ he asked.
Unsure of his meaning, James floundered. ‘I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t understand.’
‘What do you seek?’
‘Confirmation.’
‘Yes, but we will come to that. What are you really looking for?’
Even repeated, the question still baffled James. He sought help from the possessions in the room, as if a clue would be found among the books and papers, the statues and the grandfather clock, which reminded him with a jolt, that time was of the essence.
‘I am looking for a friend’s sisters,’ he said because that was the heart of the matter.
Tennyson nodded, accepting the answer but waited, wanting more.
‘And I am looking for a way to help that friend.’
Another nod, but when James said no more, the poet gave him a prompt. ‘From life, young man. What are you looking for from life?’
What did that have to do with anything? All James needed to know was that he was on the right track. If Long Light was the wrong location, Fecker might have time to reach the correct one and save the girls while James brought Archer back to court. There was no time to reach Long Light only to discover he was wrong.
‘From life, Sir?’ he said. The only way he was going to get his answer was by playing the man’s game. ‘My mother taught me not to expect too much,’ he said. ‘All I have ever wanted from life is to be happy.’
‘And how does one find happiness? Is there such a thing?’
‘Yes, Sir. There is, and I know that to be true.’
‘Why so sure?’
The grandfather clock struck the quarter-to at exactly the moment reality struck James. He was sitting by a fire with the Poet Laureate. Until that moment, he only had thoughts for his journey and the time. Now, the greatest poet of the day was asking him how he had found happiness, and the only thing he could think of was to tell the truth. He guarded it as much as he could.
‘I found happiness in friendship,’ he said.
‘Ah.’ The poet smiled as he nodded approvingly. ‘The rare flower that turns the desert into an oasis. The first sip of water after the drought.’ He shuffled to the edge of his seat, so their knees almost touched. ‘Tell me, James-Joseph,’ he said, his brow furrowing. ‘Does this friendship complete your life?’
His eyes were hypnotic, his words softly spoken as if he was luring James into a dream.
‘Not alone, Sir,’ James replied. ‘But with others, which I have.’
‘And it is because of this treasure, this friendship, that you seek my guidance.’ It wasn’t a question, it was the truth. ‘Delightfully intriguing.’
‘Once again,’ James said. ‘I humbly apologise for intruding, but it is a matter of…’
‘Life and death, you said, and, by the way you keep looking at the hour, I suspect time plays its unstoppable part, flowing as a river to the cataract.’
‘It does.’
Judging by the way the poet’s beard moved, he was grinning beneath it. His eyes twinkled in the firelight. ‘I was once young as you are now,’ he said, and despite his smiling eyes, it was said with sadness. ‘My quest then was to find love, to understand it, to pick apart its thorns and discover what drives our souls. I am still striving to find that answer, for friendship is as fickle as the babbling brook, as perplexing as a woman, yet as necessary and natural as breathing. You, I believe, are not Lancelot after all.’
‘Sir?’ James couldn’t help but glance at the time once more.
‘You, James-Joseph, are Sir Galahad for you have found the Holy Grail.’
James wished he would get on with it and give him the answer he came for.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, not understanding the man’s meaning. ‘Very kind of you, but I’m just a working lad from South Riverside who’s trying to do the right thing for his master and save his friend from unfair imprisonment.’
‘No.’ Tennyson held a long finger before James’ face. ‘You are more than that, I can see it. You don’t hold with “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.” Am I right?’
‘It’s a very fine work, Sir, of course, and yes, you are right. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have barged in on you, but you are the only man who can tell me, for certain, what I need to know before I set off to help my friends. Because of that, no, I’m not going to reason why and I’m not going to sit at Clearwater House waiting for my best mate to be sent down while there’s something I can do about it.’ His impatience was turning into annoyance, and he struggled not to let it show. ‘As you wrote, I am being “Stormed at with shot and shell”, not literally, but it feels like it. I just need to know if I am right, Sir, and I will be on my way.’
‘And if you are wrong?’
‘Then I will have time enough to make other plans, and Fecker can save the girls…’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘Sorry, Mr Andrej can try and save them, and I can, with luck and your assistance, save Silas.’ Tennyson wouldn’t know who he was talking about, but James was not going to refer to Silas as His Lordship’s lover. This man might write romantic verse, but James doubted he would find that kind of love acceptable.
Tennyson beckoned him closer still, and James shuffled nervously forward until they sat with their faces a few inches apart. The old man still had that glint in his eye, it was almost mischievous.
‘Then tell me, James-Joseph’, he whispered. ‘Where does the splendour fall?’
‘It falls across Llanwyth Lake. The splendour is the light from Long Light rock that warns shipping, and the cataract is Llanwythan falls. Sir.’
James’ heart raced as he waited for an answer, but stopped beating when it came.
‘Wrong.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to swear, but James held it back. ‘Please, Sir,’ he begged. ‘Can you tell me where it is? Because that’s where my friend’s sisters are being held, and they are to be killed if we can’t find them by tomorrow afternoon. I beg you, Sir. My life depends on it.’
‘Oh? Yours does too now?’ Tennyson was amused.
‘Yes, Sir.’ James was not. ‘Because if my friend is sent down, it will be the death of him, and without that friendship, I will have no soul.’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘As you wrote, Sir, “Our echoes roll from soul to soul.” For me, those echoes are not our deeds or words as I believe you intended, but they are our friendships. Without friends, what is the point of a soul?’
Another glance at the clock and James sighed. His situation was become more hopeless by the minute. He was distracted when a hand took his.
‘Answer me one more thing,’ the poet said. ‘And I shall give you your answer.’
‘Anything, Sir.’
‘Is it love?’
‘The platonic love of my companions, Sir, yes.’
‘I see that, James-Joseph. But your quest, your Holy Grail, your friend. Is it also love in a more unconventional form?’
His meaning was perfectly clear, and James answered with one unashamed
word.
‘Yes.’
Tennyson released him and sat back. For one minute, James thought he was going to ring for his man and have him dragged away to be thrown to the authorities for his confession, but the beard widened as a smile grew beneath.
‘The long light did shake across Llanwyth Lake,’ the man said. ‘It was doing so as I stood there atop the northern cliffs at dusk. The watchtower beam caught the water, but the sun captured the cataract and far below, the horn was faintly blowing.’ He gazed at the fire, returning himself to the moment inspiration had struck. ‘There exists a causeway. It runs from land to islet, and before the fortress was abandoned, the watchmen would sound the horn to warn of the turn of the tide. The mechanics within the tower are fascinating. As the tide rises and falls, so it drives the mechanism that winds the spring that works the light, cogs turning, wheels rolling, echoing. But as the sea ebbs and flows, it floods the lower chambers, the dungeon, as was, and so the watchmen sounded their horn as a warning to all below. The imagined sound of Elfland horns distantly blowing.’ He returned his gaze to James. ‘Thus, James-Joseph, you were partially accurate, but where you said the splendour is the beam from Long Light, you employed an incorrect tense, that is all. Sir Galahad is indeed correct.’
The relief was palpable. It flooded through James, and he could have kissed the man.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, rising. ‘I am so grateful, you have no idea. Thank you.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I must run.’ The backpack was already in his hand. ‘The trains, I have a long way to go…’
‘Wait!’
The order stopped James in his tracks, and he feigned a polite smile as he turned back to the poet.
Tennyson beckoned him to the chair and, not caring if it was obvious, James glared at the clock before sitting.
Tennyson studied his features until James had to look away. The stare was more intense than Creswell’s, and his eyes bore deeper.
‘You are a fascination, young man,’ the poet said. ‘You have found the location which I always thought was pretty damn obvious, but unlike others, you have found it for the right reason. For love. Not only that, but you have also livened my evening no end. Now…’ Again, he shuffled forward, and this time he was smiling broadly. James could see his teeth through the forest of beard. ‘Tell me exactly what it is you have to do to rescue the damsels and save your friend, for even brave Sir Galahad needed assistance to find the Grail. For your insight and honesty, I shall give what I can.’
‘Sir,’ James said as the minute hand marched relentlessly onward, ‘I must get to Long Light, collect Lord Clearwater, and be back in the city in sixteen hours.’
Tennyson’s eyes widened with his smile like a child seeing the tree on Christmas Day.
‘Such a quest,’ he enthused. ‘But such a distance. I fear it will be impossible.’
‘It is better to have tried and lost than never to have tried at all.’
Tennyson roared with laughter and slapped James’ knee.
‘And I believe you have what it takes, James-Joseph,’ the great man said. ‘But…’ He raised a warning finger and quoted one of his own verses, ‘”So pass I hostel, hall and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale…”
‘”All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.”’
James completed the stanza, and the poet couldn’t have liked him more.
‘You will need a very special train,’ he said. ‘And I will need to call in a favour. I had better ring for Battersby.’ Chuckling, Tennyson reached for the bell-pull.
Eighteen
Thomas had read the short report six times and each time he read it differently. The first time, he skimmed through, hoping the piece ended with good news. It didn’t. The second time he read more slowly and with mounting horror, and the third with incredulity. By the time he reached the end of the sixth reading, his initial shock had passed, and he was able to think about the story with clarity. His heart pounded through every reading, and his hands had only just stopped shaking. At first it was with fear, but that soon became anger which, later, gave way to calmer, practical thought.
When the coach paused in its journey to unload and collect post, he stepped out to stretch his legs and gasp clean air. The countryside was a freshly laundered sheet, the only stains being the mud at the side of the road where the snow had melted as the sun wearily broke though persistent clouds. The sting of the cold and a few moments standing still cleared his mind and, when he retook his seat, he read the report a seventh time objectively.
The Plymouth Herald, December 20th, 1888
Father of the city of Plymouth, Judge R. Galloways is to try a most unpalatable crime. Readers are advised that the following summary be read with caution.
The writ of Crown Vs Hawkins will be heard in curia in Court one of the Central Criminal Court, tomorrow, December 21st, The Learned Judge Galloways presiding. The case, brought unusually quickly but with precedent, is another in a string of such offences which have come to light since the passing of The Criminal Amendment Act of 1885. The charge? Gross indecency.
The plaintiff, Rev. Dan Stony, alleges that on the night of October 11th past, he was salaciously entrapped by the defendant, Mr Silas Hawkins, while attending a reading at the Cheap Street Baths, Greychurch. He was invited to lewd acts by Mr Hawkins, but, of course, refused. Troubled by the man’s persistent depravity, and being a man of the cloth, he remained to observe Mt Hawkins in the hope he could persuade him to deny his sordid urges and find a path to God. Rev. Stony alleges that he witnessed Hawkins in that most base act of the unmentionable kind, and has suffered mental distress since.
On the reporting of the matter, Hawkins was arrested on the evening of December 18th at his place of residence and employment, Clearwater House, City, SW1, and taken directly upon the warrant to Bow Street. The investigator of this matter is none other than Inspector Frederick Adelaide, chief investigator of the recent Ripper murders. The police called for immediate trial and, on hearing the nature of the offence, Judge Galloways allowed expediency.
An accompanying charge of a lesser degree was, in camera, successfully objected by the defence, Sir Easterby Creswell, QC, but it is felt that he has an impossible battle ahead if he is to secure the defendant’s liberty on the greater charge.
The ‘Early-case’ precedent was set by the case of the Crown Vs Maitland of…
The report moved on to discuss precedent and procedure, and Thomas threw the paper aside. As the carriage trundled towards Exeter, and still thinking clearly, he tried to put the pieces together, thinking of the news report as part of a puzzle and approaching it in his usual logical way. If he was to understand what Archer had asked of him, he needed to react to this information with cold detachment. He couldn’t imagine the scene of the arrest, he would become too impassioned, as he would if he pictured the repercussions. Similarly, he couldn’t think of Archer as his closest friend, but only as his master, and any actions Thomas took, were on the viscount’s behalf. He didn’t even allow himself to think of James for more than one minute before turning his mind to the puzzle.
There were two. The arrest, and Archer’s telegram which arrived at Larkspur on the same day.
Quill arisen. It now made sense, and thanks to the timing, Thomas could safely assume the viscount had reason to think Silas’ predicament had something to do with Quill. He also assumed that His Lordship had proof that Quill was still alive, hence the instruction to visit Mr Hawley, the only man likely to know the truth. Having established that Quill was still living, Thomas was to return to Clearwater House to seek further instruction.
That was the viscount’s plan.
Quill was somehow behind the charges against Mr Hawkins and had engineered them so that Viscount Clearwater would be c
alled to give evidence, thus his name would be attached to a scandalous case, and his resilience to Quill given another blasting from the Ripper’s seemingly endless arsenal.
That was the viscount’s reasoning.
It was not, however, how Thomas saw matters.
Wrapping his cloak more tightly, he shifted his weight onto one buttock to relieve the numbness of the other, and read the article for the eighth time. On this reading, he made a mental note of certain facts.
The trial was set for tomorrow, thus, Thomas’ mission was more urgent than he first thought.
The alleged crime took place on October 11th. That was the day Thomas met Mr Wright, opened His Lordship’s private telegram, and was fired by Mr Tripp. It was also the night that Quill captured Hawkins and drew Clearwater into his first bloody confrontation. Thomas was there, and there was no possible way Hawkins could have been anywhere else.
The charges were false.
Mr Hawkins was arrested on Sunday afternoon, but Clearwater’s telegram was dispatched in the morning. The viscount didn’t know of the arrest before he sent the message, therefore he had to have another reason for assuming Quill was alive.
What reason?
Thomas could find no answer to that, the telegram gave no clues, and it made no sense that Lord Clearwater should distract Thomas from his urgent business at Larkspur without good reason. Why divert him away from the issues His Lordship was so keen to have settled before he arrived for Christmas?
‘A diversion,’ Thomas mused. ‘But not for me.’
The only other passenger was sleeping, but Thomas whispered to himself. Hearing his voice outside of his head gave him the impression that someone else was talking to him, and it aided his objectivity.
‘His Lordship believes Quill is behind this,’ he said, his lips barely moving. ‘He wants proof that the man is alive. Why? What does it matter?’ No matter who brought the case, Hawkins was in dire trouble, and the viscount would suffer no matter who the plaintiff.
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