Artful Deception Read online

  ‘Well, I think it’s simple,’ the policeman said. ‘Turn out your pockets, lad.’

  After further complaints, the youth gave in and turned his pockets inside out, revealing nothing but a used handkerchief.

  ‘Probably stashed it,’ the student muttered. ‘Search his drawers.’

  ‘Er, I’d rather not, Sir.’ The officer was shocked at the suggestion.

  ‘I seen it done. These thieves, they put their stash down their drawers, that’s why they calls ’em knickers.’

  The policeman stifled a laugh. ‘I’m not groping around in a young man’s underclothes. My missus would have a fit if she found out I’d done that again.’

  Again?

  Beddington didn’t ask for an explanation.

  ‘Constable,’ he said, trying to use a tone somewhere between helpful and impatient. ‘I should be back at my station.’

  The constable regarded the student, and when he didn’t return his stare, poked him with his pencil. ‘Do you want to check his underclothes, Sir?’ he said. ‘It’s your wallet.’

  The student finally tore his eyes from the foyer. Looking back at the officer, he blinked and seemed surprised, as if he’d forgotten what was happening.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, patting his leg. ‘I must ’ave…’ Delving into his pocket, he found his missing wallet. ‘All clear, Constable,’ he added, and smiled as if nothing had happened. ‘My mistake. Reckon you can go now.’

  ‘See?’ the youth said aghast. ‘I told you I didn’t thieve nothing. Now what about this bump on me ’ead?’

  ‘And what about my black eye?’ the student retaliated, pointing accusingly at Beddington.

  ‘I did no such thing!’

  ‘You assaulted this young man, did you, Sir?’

  ‘No, officer. I was giving chase to this one.’

  ‘I only ran ’cos I was scared.’

  The debate began again and quickly escalated. It was drawing the attention of those in the hall when the officer intervened.

  ‘Right!’ he yapped, and his echoing voice brought a hush to the foyer. ‘This isn’t doing anyone any good. You two, outside with me. We’ll finish this at the station.’ There were complaints, but he ignored them, and to Beddington, he said, ‘Thank you for your help, Sir. I’ll take them away, and if we can’t settle it on the street like gentlemen, I’ll run them in.’

  ‘Thank you, officer,’ the concierge grovelled. ‘This has never happened in the National Gallery. I am grateful you were on hand.’

  ‘Men on the beat, Sir.’ The constable gravely put away his notebook. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Right then. Are you two going to come quietly, or do I need to whistle for my colleague?’

  The student and urchin glared at each other, but they nodded to the policeman who led them to the exit where the student collected his easel. Beddington followed to ensure they left and watched from the doors until they were out of sight, and his pulse had calmed. After brushing himself down and fixing an apologetic smile, he returned to Her Ladyship and her nephew still waiting at the counter.

  Countess Woodside had helped herself to his chair, but stood when he approached. The nephew lounged behind her, yawning, his satchel at his feet.

  ‘Your Ladyship. Sir,’ Beddington said. ‘Thank you for your patience. I apologise for that interruption. Most unusual.’

  Her Ladyship waved it away. ‘We would have left had we not enjoyed the spectacle, and my feet been weary. But now our mission is unsuccessful, we will leave. My nephew just suggested we message Mr Redmond’s home and see if he will see us there, and that is what I have decided we will do. Come along, William.’

  The young man collected his satchel and took Her Ladyship’s arm. They nodded to Beddington and joined the other visitors coming and going from what was once again, the most orderly and reverential foyer in the city.

  Outside, the world turned as it did on any other summer’s day. Beneath a cloud-free sky of faint blue, gentlemen escorted their ladies towards the better eating establishments and parks while barrow boys pushed their carts along St Martin’s Lane towards the markets. Flower-sellers stood on their corners, and match girls wandered among the throng along with the pickpockets and shoppers. Cabbies waited for fares, carriages trundled, and innkeepers watered their hanging baskets. The air was clean, though the smog would descend later if the wind blew from the east, and through it came the sound of conversation, church bells on the hour, Big Ben on the quarter, and the chugging of locomotives at Charing Cross.

  The constable escorted his feuding couple to the steps, and once they were away from the entrance, released the youth, allowing him to walk ahead. By the time they reached the corner, the lad had fallen back and stopped to slouch against the wall, looking to where they had come while the officer and the student continued, leaving him there and turning left.

  A minute later, Countess Woodside and The Honourable William Wicklow left the gallery arm in arm and followed the constable. Seeing them approach, the urchin elbowed himself from the wall and walked towards them. As he passed, the honourable young gentleman slipped the satchel from his shoulder and held it in his left hand a few inches from his body allowing the street rat to take it without missing a step before continuing to the next street where he turned north and ran.

  Unperturbed, the countess and her nephew took a left into St Martin’s Lane, and a few paces along stopped beside a parked coach guarded by its coachman.

  ‘Are you completely sure you don’t want me to come back with you, Mr Hawkins?’ the countess asked while admiring Fecker, stoic in his livery.

  ‘No, you’re alright, Mrs Norwood,’ Silas said. ‘You’ve got things to do. We’ll see you later. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘It was an amusement.’ Mrs Norwood peered into the carriage. ‘You are a fine actor, Mr Payne,’ she grinned. ‘You too, Mr Wright, and that uniform suits you. I always knew you would do well for yourself.’

  ‘It’s a costume, but thank you.’ James was slipping out of the policeman’s jacket as Thomas hid his easel beneath the seat.

  ‘I shan’t ask where Mr O’Hara is going, nor why he is taking your satchel, Mr Hawkins, but I assume you know what you are doing?’

  ‘We do,’ Silas said. ‘Sorry we can’t tell you what that was all about, but it’s for the best.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins,’ Mrs Norwood replied, ‘I don’t know what you men have been up to, but as with most things at Clearwater House, I’ve learned that it is best not to ask. Just be assured that nothing will be said.’ Regarding the young men in the coach and smiling like a schoolteacher impressed with her pupils’ mischievousness, she tutted. ‘You boys. Always having adventures,’ and nodded graciously as she left.

  ‘Did you get it?’ James asked as Silas slipped in beside him.

  ‘We’ll know when Jake gets back,’ Silas replied and banged the ceiling. ‘Home, Fecker, and don’t draw attention.’

  Two

  Kingsclere House, Hampshire

  Two days earlier

  Archer considered the view while the horses grazed. Before him, the land rolled gracefully downhill to a stream peppered with drifting swans and spanned by an arched stone bridge. The mirrored surface reflected the cloudless sky and the reeds along its banks as it meandered elegantly across the scene, joining the woods on one side to an ornamental garden on the other, behind which the Hampshire countryside swelled and rolled to the horizon. Beyond the stream, where the grass was kept immaculately tended, the grounds rose in a series of sculptured terraces to the rear elevation of Kingsclere House, an Elizabethan building that boasted mullioned windows on its two gabled towers, pinnacled chimneys and a fascia of Cotswold stone. The late afternoon light painted the stonework with a wash of coral, giving the property the appearance of a lavish birthday cake, topped by the fl
ag of the Kingsclere family at full mast. It was decorated with glittering gems that were windowpanes catching the setting sun. Above, in the poplar trees, birds began their evening chorus, and a crow cawed distantly, its croak answered by the ghostly scream of a peacock somewhere out of sight.

  It should have been a calming spectacle, particularly as Archer was enjoying time away from the house party with his valet and had spent an afternoon being himself rather than having to play the role of Viscount Clearwater. The sun warmed his back, the sounds of the country drifted in and out on the waves of a lazy breeze, the view was perfect, he was still chuckling at one of Mr Wright’s bawdier jokes, and yet he was unsettled.

  The fact that Silas was back at Clearwater House and not with him had something to do with it. Archer missed him each day more than the one before, and they had only been apart for three. Silas would be waiting for him when he returned to the city, Thomas and Mrs Norwood would have the house in order, and Mr Andrej would be with them and his beloved horses. Larkspur was in the capable hands of Mrs Baker, Lady Clearwater had returned safely from her extended holiday, and the events of Easter were mostly forgotten. Irving and Stoker had signed up for the Foundation’s gala later in the year, and the incident with Mr Smith and Saddle was little more than a confused memory. In the months that had passed, Larkspur had settled into its leisurely routine, and the viscount and Mr Harrow had put the estate in order while improving the lives of the tenant farmers. Fecker’s brother, Danylo, now had his own smallholding by the stables where the two of them lived and had proved to be a capable farmer. Archer had also appointed him assistant gamekeeper ready to take over from Mr Treleven when he retired, and everything at the estate now ran smoothly. Archer’s county duties had been attended to.

  There was nothing more expected of him in Cornwall for the season, and if anything came up, his mother was there to represent the family.

  Archer should have had no cares at all, and yet…

  ‘The dressing gong will be rung in twenty minutes, Sir.’

  James’ voice floated into Archer’s thoughts as though he was being gently woken on a summer morning, and it took him a second to realise who had spoken.

  ‘Sorry, Jimmy. My mind was wandering.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful house, Sir.’

  ‘On the outside, I agree.’

  The property was magnificent, and so were the Countess Kingsclere and her two daughters in both looks and personality. The Earl, on the other hand, was far from appealing, and one of the reasons Archer had taken the afternoon away.

  ‘Is everything alright, Archer?’

  The viscount smiled at his valet, fit and handsome in riding clothes, his flaxen hair neatly parted at the side and slicked back in the latest fashion. James was as solid as a rock, as gentle as a lamb, and as faithful a servant as any man could wish for. Their relationship extended beyond the roles of master and valet. James was also a friend.

  ‘Thank you,’ Archer said.

  ‘Thank you, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy. Thank you. For riding out with me, for being with me, for calling me Archer and reminding me I am a human being, and not one of the landed old duffers who harrumph and bluff the corridors of that place.’

  ‘Well, old duffer you aren’t,’ James laughed. ‘But the gong will sound shortly, and I’d be failing in my duties if I didn’t get you dressed.’

  Archer huffed. ‘What is it tonight?’

  ‘Naval. Frockcoat, epaulettes, swagger and breeches.’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ Archer groaned. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Admiral of the Fleet.’

  ‘Lord Hay? Oh, Christ.’

  Archer imagined another solemn dinner, another evening of listening to old men deriding his liberal values, and accompanied by the greasing of politicians’ palms in clouds of cigar smoke after a tedious meal. There would be no chance of escape, and to make it worse, he had served under Lord Hay on the Black Sea. Not directly, but there were enough connections to cause conversation, and Hay had taken a personal interest in Archer’s older brother. There would be a grilling, and Archer would be expected to answer politely, and with charm, as if he was sorry Crispin was unwell and had lost the title, when in reality, Archer would have liked him shot like a lame horse.

  ‘Your uniform is not fully prepared, Sir,’ James said, hinting they would be late while removing Crispin from Archer’s troubled mind.

  ‘Well done, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I am sure it will look as magnificent as it is uncomfortable.’

  ‘To be honest, Archer, I had to ask one of the footmen to help me with it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Nothing wrong, don’t worry, but I’ve not done the full dinner dress uniform without Tom being around, and the earl’s valet is, well, not exactly helpful.’

  ‘Evans?’

  ‘Yeah. Horrible man. A bully.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ Archer brushed aside James’ concern as he brushed his fringe from his eyes.

  The sun had shifted lower, and fewer windows sparkled, the coral was changing to grey, and where a few moments ago the view had been tranquil, it now took on a sinister atmosphere as if a great shadow was approaching, determined never to leave.

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,’ James sighed. ‘Are you missing Silas?’

  ‘Of course.’ Archer’s eyes remained trained on the house. ‘But it’s not that.’

  Tearing himself away from the building, he found James studying his pocket watch. The valet clicked it shut and dropped it into his jacket when he realised and apologised for his impatience.

  ‘Nonsense, Jimmy,’ Archer flashed him a smile which, once seen, fell into a frown. ‘Jimmy, do you ever get that feeling that something dreadful is about to happen?’

  ‘Can’t say I do. Why?’

  ‘I had it once.’ Archer talked to the line of trees over James’ shoulder where a trick of the light produced a shadow in the higher branches; an eagle waiting to swoop, perhaps, or Banquo’s assassin readying to pounce. ‘That night last December as I picked up a letter at Clearwater House, do you remember?’

  ‘You told me about it.’ James nodded.

  ‘You’d gone to bed, and I stayed up to finish some letters. I held an envelope and instantly knew nothing good would come of it. In fact, I would go so far as to say I knew before I picked it up. Now, as then, I have a dreadful sense of foreboding, and it’s not just dinner with Lord Hay, Earl Kingsclere and the rest.’

  ‘Quill?’

  The name shuddered Archer’s spine, as the poplars shivered in the silent breeze. ‘He has been dormant for some time,’ Archer said. ‘But he is out there, planning my downfall. I fully expect to feel the stab of his metaphoric knife, or again taste the bile of his poison, but I am not sure if Quill is causing this unease.’

  ‘The Cleaver Street lot and Tripp are behind bars for at least the next two years.’ James leant from his horse to take Archer’s arm, and whispered. ‘Is someone else causing you grief, Archie?’

  James had shaved the rough edges from his South Riverside accent, but it was easy to imagine how the question would have sounded eight months ago. The words would have been weighted with a hatchet man’s threat, not against Archer, but against anyone intent on causing him harm. James might as well have grated, in his London accent, ‘Want him taken out, mate? Drop him in the Thames in stone boots if you want, or have Fecker cut him a new windpipe.’

  Archer laughed at the thought. His men were not criminals, although some of their activities had been of a dubious nature, and Silas, technically, had a criminal past, but one born only from necessity.

  ‘Are you going to let me in on it?’ James asked, catching the viscount’s infectious grin.

  ‘I was just imagining… Forget it, Jimmy.’ Archer sat upright in his saddle. �
��I have fallen into a melancholy mood, and it has nothing to do with your presence.’

  ‘But you’re worried that something bad is on its way.’

  ‘Permanently, but I wouldn’t say bad.’

  ‘Evil?’

  ‘More likely.’

  ‘Quill?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Archer pulled the reins, and snorting petulantly, his horse raised its head from the grass. ‘Or perhaps Earl Kingsclere and his machinations. Shall we trot on?’

  They heeled their mounts into a gentle walk, their bodies swaying with the rhythm, and the horses happy to amble.

  ‘Is it to do with his amendment?’ the valet asked.

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I read Tom’s newspaper,’ James said. ‘And he keeps a close eye on your political opponents as we all do on the others.’

  ‘I didn’t know Tom followed politics.’

  ‘Tom follows everything that concerns you, Archie, and very closely. From your cellar to your health, and from your business in the House, to the possible location of Doctor Quill. He says it’s his duty, but even I know the way Tom watches out for you is beyond the call of any man’s butler.’

  ‘The way you all look out for me is beyond the call,’ Archer said, mildly embarrassed. ‘And I mean from Mrs Baker and her mothering ways to Mrs Flintwich and the childhood memories she pulls from her bake oven. From the way Andrej sliced off his fingers to save Silas’ sisters to the way you change your behaviour from valet to friend when I need you to. Not to mention your skill at caring for the sons of famous authors when in peril. What’s more, you do it without question.’

  ‘The devotion works both ways.’

  ‘That’s because I employ you.’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ James drew his horse to a halt, forcing Archer to do the same. ‘You might be in a melancholy mood, My Lord, but there’s no reason to put yourself or us down. Yes, you pay the wages, and your servants work accordingly, but if you think we only care about you because you are our employer, then, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re cracked in the head. Sir.’