Seven

Silas spent the afternoon at the public baths where religious fanatics offered cold showers and crusts of bread in return for a lecture on the sins of the flesh. The mention of flesh increased Silas’ resolve to find some, and Fecks complained that if they were going to talk about temptation and gin, they should at least give out some free samples so he could see what the fuss was about.

They kept their positive spirits alive by bathing in their clothes, as time and clean water were limited, and stayed to sing a hymn with their hosts, mouthing rude words as they scoured the congregation for potential tricks. They found none and left the baths slightly cleaner, less hungry, but still as spiritually unfulfilled.

Later in the day, the drizzle stopped, and the temperature warmed, bringing with it a fog that thickened across the East End as if trying to hide its depravity. It failed. Debauchery simply moved inside the brothels and molly houses where only those with money could attend. This left the likes of Silas and Fecker outside in the murky dusk at the mercy of the unseen Ripper and his knife.

The alley seemed darker as they cut through to Cheap Street, and the lanes were unnaturally subdued. The eerie quiet wasn’t out of respect for the lame and the dying. The wealthy passed by hurriedly in pairs. The barrow boys carted their unsolds efficiently, but without song, and there were fewer beggars to be seen. Shopkeepers boarded their window against the talk of unrest. In Saddle Square, where until recently Silas would have found the recesses and hidden doorways safe places for business, he now saw gaping voids. Where they had offered frolic and florin, tonight they promised a free ticket to the morgue’s marble slab.

‘There’s something in the air,’ he said as they walked through Greychurch to The Ten Bells. ‘It’s like the lull before the storm.’

Fecker’s opinion was expressed in a grunt and a shrug.

It was noisier at the pub. They arrived as the Christ’s Church clock struck six, and saw the smart, half-hooded trap on the far side of the street, its lanterns glowing fiercely against the gathering gloom. Two figures sat huddled in the driver’s seat; the older man shrunk into his cloak and the younger fighting off the attentions of whores.

‘This is them?’ Fecker asked, holding Silas back.

‘That’s them,’ Silas replied, moisture dripping from the end of his nose. ‘Talk about standing out like a spare prick at a tart’s wedding.’

‘I do talking.’

‘Well, you could, mate,’ Silas laughed. ‘But we’d be here all night.’

‘Is good. Is safer.’

‘Oh, come on you old grandma, stop fussing.’

Silas crossed over with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. His ideal would be for him and Fecks to ride in the trap, be delivered to a grand house in the west, given dinner, warmth and money while discovering what this charade was about, and then being allowed to spend the night in a proper bed with the redhead waiting on them in more ways than one. He suspected that all Fecks was interested in was the food, money and the possibility of a good fight if things turned ugly.

As they approached the carriage, the older man, Tripp, peeked out at them and, oddly, his wizened face alleviated any fears Silas had that he was being led into danger. Tripp was clearly not ecstatic to be there and scowled disapprovingly at Fecks, but he was every inch a man’s man and had about him an air of watchful experience.

The sight of Thomas stepping expertly down from the trap stirred the more accustomed quiver of sexual tension, but Silas reminded himself he was not being invited for work. He was attending a gentleman who only wanted to talk. It didn’t matter either way. The chance to travel in such a carriage was a break in his routine and one that only twenty-four hours ago he would never have dreamt possible.

‘Who’s this?’ Thomas asked as the tails of his Inverness coat slithered down the steps behind him.

‘My best mate, Andrej,’ Silas replied, using Feck’s real name as it seemed more appropriate. ‘He wants to come with me.’

Thomas’ head snapped back to Silas. ‘You are to come alone.’

‘I come, or Banyak don’t,’ Feck grunted.

‘I’m sorry?’ Thomas looked at Silas for a translation.

‘He wants to come with me,’ he repeated. ‘For protection.’

‘Against what?’

‘How we know your trap is not trap?’ Fecks said, stepping closer to Thomas and threatening him back a pace.

‘The trap is… What?’ Thomas glanced up to Tripp who shook his head vehemently. ‘This is no trap,’ Thomas continued and opened the door.

‘Oh, that’s plush.’ A woman in poorly applied lip colour said as she nosed inside.

‘Madam, please remove yourself,’ Tripp barked from above. ‘All of you. We are not interested in you.’

‘Get ’im!’ the working girl cackled, appealing to her comrades for support. ‘Come over ’ere from up west in their fancy carriage. An arse is an arse, you bloody shitten-prick.’ She aimed that at a horrified Tripp.

‘Oi, Ruby, you dryshite,’ Silas shouted in his strongest Irish accent. ‘Get a your fecking gin and keep your snout out-a me business.’

‘Ain’t no toff going a find much to sport with on you, you scut,’ the girl spat back. ‘Don’t see the point of a cock on a lickarse pup as yerself.’

‘Ah, go feck yourself you culchie luder, you don’t even know a gent when he sits a your face.’

‘Feckin’ want some a this you piss-head ponce?’

Fecker grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and threw her away from Silas, who turned to Thomas, smiling pleasantly.

‘You have my apologies, Tommy,’ he said as if nothing had happened. ‘I shan’t address your master in such a fashion. Now, are we taking my mate here? Or are we leaving you and Tripp to the mercy of these…’ He rounded on the woman now being held at arms-length by a grimacing Fecks. ‘Diseased-addled pot-boilers?’

‘I think we should leave,’ Tripp squeaked from the safety of the driving bench. ‘Thomas? At once.’

‘Not without my mate,’ Silas insisted.

‘His Lordship was adamant…’

‘Oh, now it’s His Lordship!’ The Irish girl, having been dropped in an ungainly heap by Fecks, was scrambling to her feet, her inebriated condition numbing her body, but fuelling her tongue. ‘Fecking waste of space, sitting in their fine ’ouses while we go dying in the shit.’

A gang of street boys, attracted to the diversion being caused by several angry whores, brought beer bottles, and punters heading for The Ten Bells took an interest.

The sense of simmering tension that Silas had breathed in Greychurch during the day was fast approaching boiling, and from the corner of his eye, he saw two bobbies approaching cautiously, batons at the ready.

‘We need to go, Tommy,’ he warned. ‘This is going to get ugly very fast. Let Andrej come, he can always wait outside.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Thomas said, relieved that a decision had been made. ‘You there, Russian lad, get in.’

‘What are you doing, Payne?’ Tripp yapped, his fear causing him to forget himself and use Thomas’ surname, thereby elevating him to an almost equal status.

‘Saving our arses by the looks of it,’ Thomas whispered to Silas as he ushered Fecker into the trap.

‘And what a fine arse I bet yours is.’ Silas winked, and couldn’t help but relish the blanched look of confusion on the footman’s face.

The carriage rocked under Fecker’s weight as he clambered aboard. The crowd pressed closer, making their anger plain in threats and complaints that the rich used their streets as a playground, but, ‘Do sod all about the Ripper.’ Someone grabbed at Thomas’ coat as he mounted the step, yanking him to the ground.

The gang of youths closed in on him. One smashed a bottle on the carriage wheel, inspiring the rest.

‘Slash the bastard.’

‘Cut that pretty face into a doily,’ a woman encouraged.

‘I’ll fuck his arse with it,’ the youth sneered, gripping the bottle tighter. ‘See how he likes it.’

Thomas screamed as a sea of angry faces rained hate. He tried to stand, but a filthy boot pinned him to the stones.

‘Get your fucking bootshoes off a me master’s coat,’ he shouted, but it only made the boys laugh louder.

Silas was half out of the carriage and kicking away the closest of the mob when the trap rocked. Fecker clambered into the front seat, grabbed the whip from Tripp’s hand and standing high over the crowd, flailed it, cracking it across the face of the boy wielding the broken bottle. The lad screamed, dropped his weapon and lurched away, blood spurting from his cheek.

Silas leapt from the step, aiming his foot at the man standing on Thomas. He sent him flying, grabbed Thomas’ lapels, and hauled him to his feet. Another crack of the whip snapped over their heads, and he bundled the trembling man into the back and shouted, ‘Go!’

The horse reared and whinnied, its front legs blasting away those caught in its path. Panicked, it lurched forward, throwing Silas and Thomas to the floor. Fecker cracked the whip above its head, and the animal shuddered into a canter nearly overturning the carriage as it took the corner.

Silas had landed uncomfortably on Thomas who was struggling to right himself.

‘There ain’t room… Hang on.’ Silas contained Thomas’ flapping arms and pinned them over his head.

At being held, Thomas’ panic dissolved, and he realised where he was. He looked at Silas pressing down on him, and it took a moment to understand what position they were in.

‘Release me,’ he ordered, but his voice cracked, and he squeaked like a mouse.

Silas sniggered.

‘This is not funny.’

‘You’ve got to laugh, man.’

He shifted his legs, only a little, but enough to snuggle his crotch directly over Thomas’. Even through the overcoat and their trousers, his cock reacted.

Thomas must have felt it, or imagined it, either way, he apparently dreaded it. He began fighting back.

‘If His Lordship’s carriage is damaged…’ he complained, but stopped when he discovered the only way to push against Silas was with his hips, and that was what the street boy wanted. ‘I was only meant to bring you.’

‘Well, now we can have a cosy foursome, can’t we?’ Silas grinned.

‘You’re disgusting. Get off me.’

Thomas rolled onto his front when Silas released his wrists, but found the position worse. Somehow Silas had slipped between his legs and would have been buggering him were it not for his master’s coat. Silas sniggered in his ear, but pushed himself to his knees, and with a little more jostling, they separated and sat.

‘This is most irregular!’ Tripp bellowed from the front.

He twisted in his seat, holding his hat against the wind and backed by fast-moving streams of mist coming and going beneath the streetlamps.

‘Boy, tell this foreigner to slow the horse.’

Silas was impressed with Tripp’s forcefulness and, panting from the recent excitement, shouted up to Fecker.

‘Oi, Fecks! Slower, mate.’

Fecker whooped with exhilaration and whipped the horse into a faster frenzy.

‘He’s still learning English,’ Silas apologised through his cheeky grin. Fecker had been brought up with horses and when he fled his homeland, had ridden all the way.

Tripp crossed himself and turned to face front where, unless he was flapping at Fecker to slow down, he maintained a firm grip of the front rail for the next few miles.

This left Silas alone in the back, semi-covered by the carriage hood, and pressed close to the handsome footman. Thomas had his hands splayed over his lap like a portcullis protecting the crown jewels and stared ahead at Tripp’s back. With each sway of a corner, or jolt of a hoof-scraping stop, Silas found an opportunity to press against Thomas, or reach out and grab his knee for support. On each occasion, Thomas pushed him away, returning his hands to his lap and tightening his coat.

Silas had had enough fun and thought it was time to stop teasing the man. The trap slowed as they passed through the cleaner, better-lit streets of the west and the steady rhythm of a gentle trot lulled its passengers. Fecker soon tired of the monotony and handed the reins to Tripp who accepted them graciously. Now in charge, he straightened his back and scrutinised the road ahead. He was only ruffled when Fecker hung his legs over the handrail and slouched in the seat, but soon found it a game to pull the horse to a halt without warning, thus sending the tall blond slipping from the bench and into the well, his legs upright.

The further they travelled, the more Silas’ apprehension returned. The trouble at the Bells, which he thought of as an every-day nothing, and the speed at which Fecks had made their escape had been enjoyable, because it diverted his mind from the possibilities ahead. He was either on his way to good earnings, or he was being led to the slaughterhouse.

The fog thickened, dulling the sound of the horse’s hooves and Tripp’s voice when he announced they were nearly at their destination and should address their appearance. Silas watched the grand house as they passed. Wide steps led up to a porched entrance of grey stone where a brass knocker clung to sturdy doors. Beyond them lay warmth and comfort, wealth and safety, and Silas wondered if he would find any of those things tonight.

Archer, meanwhile, had caused much discussion below stairs, firstly by appearing in the servants’ hall, and secondly by informing Mrs Baker that the maids, the cook and the housekeeper herself were to take the evening off. Mrs Baker, as always, was dressed in black, her grey hair pulled savagely back from her powdered face. Despite being caught off guard with her feet up before the kitchen fire, the housekeeper was impeccably calm about the order.

‘No-one is in trouble, Mrs Baker,’ Archer said standing in the doorway, marvelling at the amount of work being undertaken by the servants in order to make his dinner. ‘And I don’t mean to upset your routine, Cook, but if you can find your way home, or to your rooms, ladies, or to anywhere, by six, I would greatly appreciate it.

‘Certainly, My Lord,’ Mrs Baker agreed, immediately turning her attention to a contingency plan. ‘Are you dining out? If so, Cook can easily hold tonight’s preparations over for tomorrow.’

Cook was not happy at this decision, and her angular face said so. Open-mouthed, she brushed a wooden spoon over the table, a battleground of pastry, vegetables and a skinned rabbit.

‘That’s kind, Mrs Baker,’ Archer said. ‘And once again, apologies, Mrs Flintwich.’ He avoided the cook’s eye. He had always been wary of her. She was his mother’s appointment from years ago when his father had said it was unwise to hire a thin cook because they obviously never tasted what they made.

‘On your stomach be it, Sir,’ the cook drawled in her northern accent, and set about organising Lucy to clear the kitchen.

Archer took Mrs Baker aside and explained there would likely be disruption to the house routine that evening. Glad of some free time, the housekeeper eventually retired to her rooms at the front of the basement, reminding him that she would be available if required. He had time for Mrs Baker, she was rarely flustered, always professional and yet had something maternal about her. She was a far cry from Tripp, but their chalk and cheese characters worked efficiently, and that was what mattered.

Archer was in his study turning the pages in his portfolio when he heard a carriage in the street. Parting the drapes, he saw his trap swirling fog at its wheels as it turned into the side alley that led to the mews. It was a fleeting glimpse and seen through a misty haze, but he was sure Tripp was at the reins and that the man beside him was not Thomas.

His pulse quickened as he fiddled with his clothes. There had been two shapes in the back. One of them was Thomas and the other wearing the same kind of peaked cap. This had to be a street boy, perhaps even two brought here and agreeable to his interview. Even if these boys did not resemble his drawing, as long as they had experience of life in the East End, he would derive benefit from the visit.

As the Honourable Archer Riddington, he had faced naval skirmishes, dignitaries and tribesmen from the Indies. He had led strategy debates at Greenwich, run cannon drill at Dartmouth and stood before Admirals in defence of his crewmen. His experience of meeting lords, politicians and royalty dated back to his days in the nursery, and on all of these occasions, he had not been as nervous as he was now. He drained his wine glass and tidied his waistcoat. The fire was burning, and the table lamps created patches of warm light that glinted on the gold lettering of many books. The desk was angled to face the double doors, and he had at first, thought that he should be behind it when his boy was brought to him; it would remind the lad of his station. Later, he remembered how he had felt when called to the headmaster’s study at prep school, and changed his mind. He wanted this boy to trust him and to subject him to that kind of belittling introduction was not likely to win his favour.

‘All in good time,’ he said checking his collar in the mirror. ‘Patience captures all.’

He passed through the drawing room to the hall and stood on his side of the green baize door. It, like the hall’s panelling, was oak. The baize was on the servants’ side. Once again, he was crossing a line but this time, in more ways than one. He imagined Lady Marshall egging him on while his father growled threats and warnings from heaven above, or more likely, hell below.

He glanced to a dark and sombre portrait on the stairs. ‘I have no choice, Father,’ he said. ‘If lives are to be saved, lives are to be changed.’

With that, he swung open the door and stepped over the threshold.