He reread the name, ‘Reverend Dan Stony.’
It was an unusual name. Surely a vicar, or curate or whatever he was, would use the Biblical version of his name, Daniel? Either it was laziness on the part of the newspaper, which he doubted due to the thoroughness of the journalist’s details concerning the case of precedent, or it was the man’s preferred name. It was possible, but all the same, it niggled Thomas for a reason he couldn’t understand.
It wasn’t just the man’s name that suggested duplicity. Although that refused to lie down, it was Quill’s modus operandi that stood up to be counted. He murdered renters to divert the police while setting clues only His Lordship would understand, but coded his communications in a way that was not completely watertight, ensuring that even an amateur detective could understand them.
‘This must be deflection,’ he said. ‘Quill has sent His Lordship on a false trail which I am pursuing, to distract his concentration from the court case.’ Again, it was possible, but was it probable?
The carriage rolled on, tipping and dipping, stopping now and then to exchange mail. The other passenger left and two more clambered in. Thomas was grateful for the footwarmers they brought, but not for their conversation and, feigning tiredness, pretended to sleep.
The pretence almost became reality as unconnected images played through his mind. The precursors of dreams brought him Silas smiling, Archer running down the stairs and skidding through the hall, his father’s dairy farm and a Kentish summer breeze. Next came a jumble of letters which at first made no sense, but a music hall magician turned their shapes, and they spelt the word ‘James.’
Thomas’ eyes were open in a flash and his heart picked up the cantering rhythm of before, beating wildly as he unfolded the newspaper.
“Rev. Dan Stony.”
The magician worked his magic and the name became clear.
Tony Danvers.
This had nothing to do with Quill, but everything to do with the men behind the Cleaver Street brothel.
The sun was low on the horizon as Thomas entered Exeter hospital. Unlike Saint Mary’s in Greychurch, it was a place of calm and cleanliness, run by nuns who were grateful ‘The young gentleman’ had called to see his ailing godfather. Unaware of Thomas’ deceit, an orderly directed him to Hawley’s ward, a stone room housing six beds in regimental order with a nurses’ station at one end and a ceramic heater in the centre. Unlike Saint Mary’s, the ward smelt of antiseptic and the floor was unsoiled. The nurse, when Thomas approached, wore an impeccably clean apron and an inquisitive smile. She greeted him, and after he had introduced himself as Mr Hawley’s godson, allowed him to visit.
‘He has only a few hours left,’ the nurse confided as if she were a close relative. ‘He would appreciate just the holding of his hand. The chaplain has been.’
‘What is the cause?’ Thomas asked in the manner of one resigned to the passing of the elderly.
‘A combination, the doctors say, Sir. A weak heart that suffered a massive shock, and made weaker by a loss of blood internally.’
‘How so?’
‘A fall? A blow? Mr Hawley hasn’t said. Sadly, it makes no difference as the flow cannot be stopped.’ She walked with him to one of the beds. ‘Here he is.’
At first, Thomas thought Hawley was already dead. His skin was grey, his eyes half-closed and his hands, resting on the blanket, resembled the branches of a hawthorn tree in winter, twisted and brittle.
Thomas thanked the nurse and waited until she was back at her desk before drawing a chair to the bedside. The other men in the ward were sleeping, and he would not be overheard. All the same, he spoke quietly, touching the man’s skeletal arm to rouse him. A yellowing eye opened, closed and opened again, bringing the other with it. The man was an appalling sight. Not more than five years older than Thomas, he looked eighty at least.
‘Doctor?’ Hawley whispered. His lips were dry and cracking.
‘A friend of Lord Clearwater,’ Thomas said.
He took a water jug from the nearby locker, poured a glass and held it to the man’s lips. Hawley parted them but had no strength to sip until Thomas angled the glass. Some water ran down his chin, but he took what he could.
‘Clearwater’s dead,’ Hawley said.
‘True, Sir, but his son is now elevated to viscount.’
Hawley struggled to sit, but didn’t have the strength. His mouth opened in horror revealing a black tongue as he spluttered, ‘Not Crispin?’
Thomas eased him down by his shoulders. ‘No, Mr Hawley,’ he said. ‘Archer.’
‘Lieutenant Riddington?’
‘That’s right, Sir.’
Hawley attempted a laugh, but it caused him pain. ‘Good for him,’ he said.
‘Indeed.’ Time was moving on and, the pleasantries dispensed with, Thomas rushed ahead. ‘He sends you his warmest wishes,’ he said. ‘He is sorry he is unable to be here, but he has charged me with asking you a question of vital importance.’
‘Archie Riddington?’
‘Yes, Sir. Lord Clearwater.’
‘Here…’ Hawley beckoned Thomas closer with a twitch of a finger, and Thomas leant in. ‘He always was a romantic young fool,’ he said. ‘Tell him I forgive him.’
‘Forgive him, Sir?’
Hawley let out a long sigh, and the air around the bed turned rancid. Thomas sat away a little.
‘We were young,’ Hawley said. ‘At sea. Things happen, but not with me. Not those things.’
Thomas couldn’t think what he meant, but to dwell on the mysterious comment would be another distraction he could ill afford.
‘I will be certain to pass the message,’ he said. ‘But I must press you, Sir. You see, His Lordship is concerned for the whereabouts of his old friend and your comrade, Benjamin Quill, and I said, while I was passing Exeter, I would call in and…’
A cold hand gripped his, the man’s bones crushing Thomas’ flesh with surprising force.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No!’ He shook his head so violently he began coughing, and the movement caused him to release Thomas and clutch his stomach. He continued to shake his head as the pain subsided and he fell to his pillow.
Thomas looked to check that the nurse had not been disturbed. She hadn’t heard and remained at her desk. ‘Please,’ he said turning back to Hawley. ‘Try not to distress yourself, but His Lordship is very concerned for the doctor’s safety.’
Hawley stared at the ceiling. ‘Thank you for coming, Sir,’ he said with as much politeness as his condition allowed. ‘But I would like to die with the image of my ship and my youth in my mind, not the image of… that.’
That?
‘Can you tell me where he is?’
‘In hell, Sir. It’s where he will always be.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Goodbye, Sir.’ Hawley closed his eyes. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Mr Hawley, please.’
Thomas pleaded once more, but received only silence. The man’s chest rose and fell, and while there was still breath in him, Thomas was determined to have an answer. Pleading wouldn’t elicit one and nor, he suspected, would honesty or anger. He opted for a different game and pulled the chair closer.
‘Archer told me a story once,’ he said, his mouth to Hawley’s ear. ‘We grew up together, you see. Him upstairs, me below. The Honourable Archer Riddington was the playmate of Tommy Payne, a country boy whose father sent him into service. We became friends, like you and he did, only for me, it was among the crags and moors around Larkspur Hall, not the cannon and cutlasses of the Black Sea. He told me a story last summer. We were by the frog pond. We had escaped there to relive a little of the freedom we had shared as children. He told me about Quill, how they had become friends, inseparable cadets, cabin mates, conspirators against bro
ther Crispin and his tyranny. You were in the story, Sir. “That best of friends, Lieutenant Hawley”, he called you. He said Commander Riddington used to make you swab decks until your fingers bled, but Archer took your duties, added them to his own. Quill did the same. They had great affection for you.’ Apart from the last sentence, it was the most truth Thomas had spoken all day.
Hawley was smiling, proof at least, that he was listening.
‘He cares as much now as he did then,’ Thomas continued. ‘About the pair of you, and when I return to him with your distressing news, he will want to mourn with Doctor Quill. I am sure you understand.’
Hawley’s head rolled onto its side, and his eyes opened. He regarded Thomas with sadness.
‘Tommy Payne?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Thomas Payne, the footman?’
‘Hall boy at first, later footman, now butler. You know of me?’
Hawley lifted a gaunt arm and brushed Thomas’ face with the back of his hand. Thomas fought not to show disgust; it was like being touched by a corpse.
‘He was right,’ Hawley said.
‘I don’t understand, Sir.’
‘He said you had the face of an angel and hair the colour of a summer sunset.’
‘That was kind,’ Thomas stammered. Until then he was unaware that Archer had spoken about him in such terms to anyone. It was a moving but confusing thought that would have to wait until later. ‘But maybe now you can see why I must press you and ask if you know the location of Doctor Quill.’
The withered arm fell to the sheets exhausted, and Hawley closed his eyes. ‘Saint Michael’s churchyard, Honiton,’ he said. ‘And may God show him mercy. And you.’
His head fell to the other side, but his chest continued to rise and fall.
Thomas left him to sleep, but whispered his thanks before he left.
Outside, the chill of the day was turning to the freeze of a wintery dusk, but he still had a way to travel. He had a destination but, after enquiring at the coaching station, no transport other than to wait until the mail train at midnight. He hired a horse.
The journey took him just over four hours. The roads were clear but unlit except for lanterns outside inns and the occasional shrine by the wayside. The moon, when the cloud cover allowed, was bright, but dying to its third quarter. It gave Thomas just enough light to see by. He had spent many nights on the farm assisting his father when a beast was calving down, and the shadows and shifting shapes of trees gave him no cause for concern. He was at home in the fragile air, among the peace and mystery of the night, but inside, his mind tumbled the puzzle as a new piece was added.
How had Quill come to be buried in Devon when he had died in Yorkshire?
He could only assume that, following the train wreck, he had survived in enough of a healthy condition to travel to his old friend, seek refuge with Hawley, and stay there until dying from his injuries. He concluded this for two reasons. Firstly, the woman at Hawley’s home had called him a twisted thing, suggesting injuries clearly fatal, and secondly, he was now in his coffin.
All Thomas could think of to do was find the grave so he could give Archer first-hand proof that Quill was dead.
That also gave weight to his theory that Danvers, the owner of the Cleaver Street brothel was behind Silas’ arrest. In any case, it could not be Doctor Quill.
He entered the village of Honiton from the west just after ten that night. Stopping at the first inn he came to, and after making enquiries, he stabled the horse and took a room. Having warmed himself with the fire and a hot meal, he borrowed a lamp from the innkeeper explaining that he was in the habit of a nightly walk for his health, and reassuring the man that he was quite used to the cold.
Following directions from the innkeeper’s wife, he crossed the High Street and made his way south up a slowly inclining hill. The walk did much to preserve his body heat, and he was grateful for the lantern. The moon had once again succumbed to heavy cloud, and like the occupants of Saint Michaels’ graveyard, was buried by the time he arrived at the lichgate.
All around was silence and stillness. His breath clouded in the lantern spill and hung in the air as if finding its bearings before dissipating. With only his footsteps for company, he took the winding path to the church and the first row of graves. There were many, but if he had to stay all night, he would. He had to be sure Quill was in the ground.
Working in silence, his mind continued to churn and tumble. He found himself asking the dead why Cleaver Street would attack Archer again so soon? They had not long failed in their attempt to discredit him and the Foundation. That attempt had led to the death of Quill’s half-brother and the connection was not lost on him.
What was more difficult to understand was how the men at Cleaver Street knew so much about Archer. Someone called Lovemount had tried to have Silas work there, but he had refused. Perhaps that was something else that had angered Danvers. Thomas had no doubt that the man had engineered the arrest, an audacious move to make by someone who himself could easily be charged with crimes worse than those he had brought.
Was there another connection? Was there something Thomas was missing?
The church clock struck midnight just as he reached the last row of headstones. He had seen families come and go through birth and death dates, husbands buried with wives, children joining them later, sometimes too soon. He knew the largest families of the village by the number of times the names appeared, and had subconsciously worked out their average age as fifty two. None of which helped him unravel the mystery of how the men at Cleaver Street might have not only concocted a story about Silas, but also persuaded the authorities to hear the case so quickly.
Holding the first stone of the last row and raising the lantern to it as he bent, he passed the light across the prayers and epitaphs, but didn’t find the name he was looking for. Owls complained in the trees behind the graveyard, and night animals rustled in the undergrowth. He moved on.
‘Arthur Scott,’ he read. ‘October thirty-six to December eighty-seven.’ A recent burial gave him hope that Quill’s grave would be among the last.
He had moved onto the next and was stretching his back when it hit him and he returned to the Scott grave.
‘October to December,’ he read.
The dates were another part of the puzzle. If the Reverend Stony had been so distressed by Silas’ alleged behaviour, why wait two months before informing the police? If that wasn’t another obvious flaw in Danver’s plan, Thomas didn’t know what was.
It stank of corruption on the highest level. Adelaide believing the story without question, and making the arrest. A judge pulling a trial date forward, and the process slipping along so quickly made a defence impossible. If Thomas’ theory was correct, the person behind the trial had contacts in high places.
Storing that thought in his mind for the journey to the City in the morning, he moved on.
Four graves later, he reached the end of the row.
‘There’s nothing fresh to rob.’
Thomas turned to the voice so quickly he lost his footing and stumbled on a headstone.
‘Who’s there?’ he called, lifting the lantern high and steadying himself.
There was nothing but its angular shreds of light flashing on the treeline. Something scuttled away, and a bat swooped low, as if investigating the intruder.
‘Who’s there?’ he called again. The voice had sounded directly in his ear and yet…
‘Come a robbing graves, Sir?’
He had been wrong. The voice came from among the trees and a wooden shack in front of which was a shadowed figure draped in a cloak.
‘Certainly not,’ Thomas replied firmly. Gathering his courage, but preparing to run, he took a step towards the voice. ‘Are you lost, Sir?’ he called. ‘May I help?’
‘If not robbing, then I can think of only one other thing you could want.’
‘I was looking for the grave of a friend,’ Thomas lied.
‘In the middle of the night?’
The voice was rasping, and each sentence concluded with the sucking in of saliva, as if the man suffered palsy of the mouth. The village idiot, Thomas assumed. Probably harmless but possibly not. He proceeded with caution.
‘Who are you? If you are the curate, then perhaps you can help me.’
The darkness laughed. ‘I am not the curate,’ it said. ‘But I am the cure.’
‘Well, that’s all very interesting,’ Thomas replied, pretending that he wasn’t shaking in his boots. ‘But I really can’t stay.’
‘Not even to bargain.’
‘Bargain?’ What did that mean? ‘With whom am I speaking? The ghost of Christmas sherry?’ Thomas mocked.
‘Perhaps.’
‘I bid you goodnight, Sir. I shall return in daylight.’
‘By which time I shan’t be here, and neither will you.’
‘What a ridiculous thing to presume of a stranger,’ Thomas clucked. ‘My business is none of yours. I bid you my final goodnight.’
‘Tomorrow,’ the voice drooled, ‘you shall be on the early train to the capital.’
‘You don’t know my business. I am leaving.’
Compelled to stay, he was rooted to the spot as the shadow shifted closer. A foot stepped into the light and a newspaper was thrown onto the grass beside it open to the court report.
‘Tell me,’ the man said. ‘Are you willing to bargain with Clearwater’s future?’
Nineteen
Night fell hours before they reached the hill above Llanwyth Bay, by which time Archer was saddle sore, and his legs ached. The fur and the overcoat had gone some way to keep him warm, but when they rode at speed, the biting wind cut into his knees, and they were stiff when he dismounted. The clouds had parted now and then, giving him some stars to navigate by, but he let Fecker lead when they reached open country, and he proved himself more than capable of finding the route using the North Star as his guide.
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