Nine

Archer fell into a state of ecstatic confusion the moment he saw the street boy waiting in the servant’s hall. His attire was what he had expected. Boots without laces and the sole of one flapping at the toe when he moved his feet. Trousers threadbare at the knees and a roughly-made, woollen coat long in the arms. Beneath this, he wore a black scarf tucked in at the lapels. The costume gave him bulk and a stocky appearance, but the jutting cheekbones and the scrawniness of his neck indicated that this man had no fat on him.

‘Viscount Clearwater.’ He offered his hand, wanting to demonstrate from the outset that he was amiably disposed to his guest, but the hand was ignored. The man appeared lost in some thought, no doubt bewildered by his surroundings. The hiatus in the formality should have been impolite, but instead, Archer was amused, and the pause allowed him a moment to study the face.

The likeness to his sketch was remarkable. The dark hair, voluminous and to his shoulders, was understandably not well cared for and parted on one side. It was tucked behind a pair of elfish ears, virtually pointed and at right angles to his face. His eyes were blue, where Archer had imagined green, but the mouth had just the right amount of upturn to match the drawing. His posture and his countenance warned he was no fool, but the overall impression was of vulnerability. He was, in a word, perfect.

‘You may step forward,’ Thomas whispered.

Archer’s hand was shaken by a smaller, rougher one than his own but with a strength that returned his enthusiasm. His body made an unexpected connection between the skin of the man’s palm and the front of Archer’s breeches. The rush of adrenaline caused him to grip more firmly, and he swallowed, aware that his knees had weakened.

He reminded himself of the etiquette expected and greeted his guest before explaining to Thomas the absence of Tripp. The normality of talking to a servant was reassuring in an otherwise extraordinary situation, and he was grateful for the footman’s presence.

Archer intended this meeting to be informal, but that didn’t stop him being polite. After he had seen to Thomas’ scrape and heard the outrageous story of the incident in Greychurch, and even after the shock of the six-foot Russian, to whom he took an instant liking, Archer treated them as if they were above-stairs guests. He was well-bred, a fact of which he reminded himself each time his eyes lingered too long on Silas, captivated by the man’s positive energy.

By the time he had seated them and offered wine, he had an insane desire to take his guests upstairs, have them washed and clothed and, afterwards, treat them as he would any other visitor of his own status. A ridiculous notion for the security aspect alone.

As soon as he saw the street boy, he longed to be allowed to know Silas more intimately, both cerebrally and physically. Silas was his perfect match and, perversely, to know him physically would have been easy and almost acceptable. Plenty of men in society were homosexual, one only had to ask their wives, and to engage the services of a male prostitute, although illegal, was less of a sin than a gentleman being seen to generally associate with someone of a lower class as if that person was his equal.

Class, social standing, education, finance, location, there were so many reasons the two were expected not to mix, but the division came down to one uncontrollable fact true of all humanity; the randomness of birth. Were it not for the chance of a myriad of ancestral couplings, Archer could have been standing in Silas’ boots. Why, then, was it so wrong for the viscount to want to help the man?

That was a debate for another day. Tonight, he must concentrate on the outward purpose of this unusual meeting, his charity. By doing so, he might be able to ignore his churning emotions and stirring breeches when he looked upon Silas’ alluring features. He must see the man as a professional, there to be interviewed.

With that in mind, he set the wine before them and poured.

‘I’d rather not, My Lord,’ his footman said.

‘Oh, come on, Thomas. You’re not in your livery,’ Archer cajoled. He was hoping for a smile and to see Thomas relax, but the footman was in a complex mood. ‘Are you in shock from your earlier trouble? If so, a drink will help.’

‘No, Sir.’

Thomas shifted in his seat, his arms folded tightly against his chest, his eyes darting to Silas beneath furrowed brows. Archer assumed it was because he didn’t approve of the street boy’s presence.

‘Thomas,’ he said. ‘I insist. Consider it an order that you take a drink with our guests, and that you remember our conversation of last night. We are not viscount and footman right now. We are hosts, entertaining two gentlemen who can be of use to me. No matter our circumstances, Thomas, I hope we remain men of manners.’

He had employed a tone borrowed from the captain of his training ship. “The man had a way of charming one while metaphorically kicking one in the scrotum,” Benji Quill had remarked of him only last week, and it was an accurate description. It was also a device which worked on Thomas, and although he continued to glance untrustingly at Silas, he did accept his drink and, along with the street boy, sipped politely when Archer did.

‘Za zdorovja!’ The tall blond, however, downed his in one and slammed down the glass.

Archer produced a notebook and a pencil from his waistcoat and arranged them on the table.

‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘My reason for inviting you here is quite simple and above board. Let me get to the point. I am in the process of creating a trust, a charitable body to help a particular section of society. To the alarm of many, but the approval of enough, I have chosen…’ He faltered.

In meetings and letters, he had referred to those he wanted to assist as street-rats, which was a far kinder term than others in use by his peers, but one he had, only today, spoken against. He had been thinking he would be meeting a street boy, but Silas looked older than his nineteen years, and the Ukrainian was far from a boy. Male prostitutes was too clinical a term, and mollies too “gutter”.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘How do you refer to yourselves?’

Fecker didn’t understand the question, but Silas was astute. ‘Billy and Fecks,’ he said.

Was that quick-wittedness or insolence?

‘I meant, what is the title of your profession?’

‘Ah, I see.’ Silas grinned. ‘Fecker’s a labourer when there’s work, but I’m a renter all day and night.’

Again, Archer found the man’s directness refreshing. The only other person he knew to be so forthright was Lady Marshall, and he had always found her a welcome antidote to the dullest of social occasions.

‘So you call yourselves renters, do you?’ he asked. ‘When working the streets?’

‘No,’ Silas replied. ‘I call myself Billy, least until I get to trust a man, then I let him know my real name.’

‘And what does it take you to trust a man?’

‘At least a two-shilling wank and a reciprocated sucking.’

Archer had been taking notes, but his pencil refused to write after ‘Two-shilling’, and he thought it best not to jot every word.

‘Reciprocated?’ he queried with as much calm as he could muster. The image of Silas sucking his cock flashed before his eyes. ‘Did you mean something else?’

‘I’ve has some schooling,’ Silas said and winked.

It was not insolence, Archer decided, simply the way the man was.

‘I don’t mean to patronise,’ he said. ‘As I explained, your life is not something I understand. To rectify that, as I must if I am to assist you and other… renters, I need you to tell me of your experiences.’

Thomas sucked in air which, as Archer shot him a look, became a stifled yawn followed by an apology.

‘In as much detail as possible,’ Archer emphasised. ‘Despite Thomas’ veiled protestations.’

‘I’ll be as honest as you want me to be, Sir,’ Silas said. ‘But first I’d like to know what you got planned for us.’

‘Planned?’

‘Yeah. As in, are we just going to chatter, then you put us back on the street with this glass of grape as payment? Or is our visit to be a regular thing? ’Cos it’s going to take me a fair few hours to give you all the details of last month on the street, let alone four years.’

‘Four years? Since you were sixteen?’

‘Been longer for Fecks, but different circumstances. He wanted to make money on top of his job ’cos they don’t pay labourers much, especially when they’re fourteen like he was.’

‘You mean he does it for fun?’ Archer was wide-eyed.

‘No. I do it for fun,’ Silas clarified. ‘Sort of. Fecks does it ’cos he can. He’s got sought-after… equipment and he doesn’t care where he puts it. Though he’d prefer a woman’s… front than a man’s arse, he’s not bothered if there’s money in it. Me? I’m one-way only. Man-to-man at work or at leisure.’

The terminology reminded Archer of his early days at prep school, but the admission of homosexuality was alien.

‘And you make this publicly known?’ he asked, shocked but intrigued.

‘If anyone asks. Don’t you?’

‘That’s enough!’ Thomas shot to his feet. ‘How dare you accuse His Lordship of being a…’

‘Oh, do sit down, Tripp,’ Archer moaned. ‘I mean Thomas, sorry. Just sit.’

Thomas sat, visibly trembling, and Archer thought it best not to answer the renter’s question. He might appear trustworthy, but during his years on the streets he would have learned many tricks, and deception was probably the first.

‘Let’s talk about those experiences,’ he said, pouring Thomas more wine. ‘What can you tell me of your life as a young working man? Start with where you operate.’

Silas told his story with generous detail which at times, turned Archer’s stomach. This was when he described his living conditions and the sanitary arrangements of those around him. He was keen to point out that he was not a vagrant and had only slept beneath bridges and arches on the rarest of occasions. These were times when he had not ‘pulled a trick’ or ‘found an interesting gentleman,’ and Archer gained the impression that the man worked methodically. He took opportunity when it came his way, but otherwise he was the kind of person Mrs Baker could have tutored in bookkeeping. It wasn’t always possible, but Silas tried to ensure he had his rent money first, anything from a few coppers for a night on the rope — which sounded monstrous — or a shilling or more for a decent shared room. His next income was saved for sustenance, and anything after that was for luxuries such as an hour at the baths, or a drink in a public house. He also made it clear that whatever he made was shared with Fecker.

‘You make an hour at the bathhouse and a drink in a pub sound pleasant enough,’ Archer said. ‘I imagine, however, it is the opposite.’

‘Not always,’ Silas admitted. He sipped his wine in a civil manner whereas Fecker was tapping his fingers on his empty glass and keeping his eyes fixed on the bottle. ‘It’s like everything else, Sir. When it’s busy the water gets dirty really quick and stinks, but then you get to see a lot more cock and there’s more chance of pulling a trick. When it’s quiet, it’s the only place I feel clean, but I spend more on the wash than I make out of the other bathers, if you get what I mean. As for the pub, it’s the same thing. The likes of me, Sir, we don’t go to The Ten Bells or the Lamb and Compass to make hoity conversation or mates like some do. We go to look for trade, scrounge a drink and learn the backtalk, the gossip. It’s a good way of finding out where the bobbies are plodding, or what brothel’s been raided, who’s out for your blood and who’s paying for arse, get me?’

The conversation continued in this honest, rough fashion and Archer found himself adjusting to the language to the point of acceptance. By the time Silas had told him about the places he had sex, he was almost nonchalant about the details, a fact that surprised and delighted the viscount.

After an hour, when Fecker’s growling stomach became too much of a distraction, Archer waited for Silas to finish a tale, and rose from his chair.

‘I think we should rest there,’ he said. ‘For a while. I would very much like to talk about my plans, so that you may give me your opinion on them, but first, I believe Cook left us some supper, er, Thomas?’

‘Indeed, Sir.’ Thomas scrambled to his feet.

‘Slowly, man,’ Archer laughed. ‘Just tell me where it is, and I’ll bring it.’

‘I am sorry, Sir.’ Thomas blanched. ‘But I will not have His Lordship waiting on me in the servants’ hall.’

‘Will not, Thomas?’ Archer affected a stern expression, but underneath he was touched by the footman’s loyalty.

‘Yes, Sir. Will not.’ Thomas stood his ground. ‘Unless you order me to do so, in which case, of course, I shall oblige. I only inform you of my view because you have invited me to be honest.’

‘And because you want to?’ Archer probed. ‘ I assume you don’t often get the chance to voice your opinions down here.’

‘I do not, Sir, and that is how it should be.’

‘But do you not find it refreshing?’

Thomas wavered for a moment before summoning his nerve. ‘I do, Sir, and I thank you for the opportunity, unusual though it is.’

‘And do you not also find it liberating?’ Archer persisted. He could tell from the footman’s expression that he did. ‘Then come and talk with me in the pantry while we dig for whatever buried treasure has been left for us there.’

‘Perhaps the… guests would feel more comfortable eating in the kitchen,’ Thomas suggested.

‘You mean you don’t trust them to be left alone in here? Thomas, you sound more like Tripp as the minutes pass.’ Archer turned to Silas and Fecker. ‘Thomas is actually quite right,’ he apologised. ‘Please don’t take it as a sign of mistrust on our part, it’s the way things have to be done.’

Silas’ chair scraped on the tiles as he stood. ‘Your Lordship,’ he said. ‘You’ve already shown us more trust on first meeting than any other man, and we are not in a position to refuse.’

He spoke so eloquently, Archer imagined he had been in service himself. He asked the question, but received a negative reply to which Silas added, ‘I’m just a good mimic, Sir. In speaking as well as behaving. It helps, see?’

‘Helps?’

Silas explained. ‘Say if I’m meeting a proper gent, I put on manners like whores put on rouge.’ He slipped into an East End accent. ‘Unless a gent’s after a dirty gutter-oik to treat ’im rough the way ’e likes it, Mister.’ He switched to an innocent, pathetic voice, batted his eyes and said, ‘Or unless Sir decides I am a lazy pupil who deserves the headmaster’s cane.’ Before Archer could react, he was a cheeky Irishman. ‘Excepting when I be straight off the boat and in need of a fatherly hand in your fair city, there.’ Returning to the voice Archer was accustomed to, he completed his performance with, ‘But most of the time, I’m a lad who’s out for your loose change, and I’ll be anything you want, seeing as that’s the only way I get to eat. So, Sir, no, I’ve not been in service, but I admire men like Thomas who are.’ The statement caused Thomas to appear the most shocked he had all evening. ‘But I wouldn’t want to live in his shoes, not unless I was employed by a kind gentleman such as yourself.’

‘Thank you for your entertainment and flattery,’ Archer said, impressed. ‘Now, let us eat, and over supper, perhaps you can tell me what you think a charitable organisation might offer. Something that is sorely needed, but specifically for men like you. After that, I want you to tell me everything you know about certain locations in which I have a particular interest.’

‘What’s he say?’ Fecker followed as the small party moved through into the kitchen.

‘Wants to know the best brothels,’ Silas translated, and Archer laughed aloud.

Supper consisted of a sumptuous pork pie and potatoes kept warm in the range, tomatoes, bread, cheese and an overwhelming pear tart to follow. Archer couldn’t help but see the dessert as a subliminal message from his housekeeper that read, “This is what we could have been eating, but instead we have a cold tray in our rooms. Yours, with a hint of arsenic, Mrs Baker.” He smiled at the thought, and at the sight of Thomas heating hot chocolate in a pan, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled.

The viscount’s guests told him what they thought of his charitable idea as they devoured the meal in the manner of starving vultures. ‘Very good of you, Sir. I’d need to think,’ and ‘Do you mean I can suggest anything?’ had been Silas’ first questions jabbered between mouthfuls of pie and swigs of beer. He had followed with, ‘A lot of the boys ain’t clean like me, don’t know about washing after a shafting,’ at which point Thomas had dropped his fork. The more his appetite was satisfied, the slower and more considered Silas’ answers became until he rounded off by telling Archer that something medical for men would, in his opinion, be of most use.

It was a mature and enlightened idea, and Archer said so, regretting it instantly for the way it showed he was still judging Silas. The man was nearly twenty. At that age Archer was a lieutenant on the Britannia and expected to make life or death decisions, why should he not expect the same amount of maturity from Silas? The man knew more hardships than Archer, he’d probably seen more danger. He had no right to judge him and resolved not to thereafter.

‘The problem might be,’ he said, having considered Silas’ suggestion, ‘how do we ensure it is used solely for renting boys? I mean,’ he corrected himself. ‘For boys who rent?’

‘Which is why I said for men,’ Silas grinned back, completely engaged in the conversation. ‘There’s places for women already, and there’s places for both, though you’re better off not going in a Russian social if you’re not a Jew or a Jewish one if you’re Irish. And no-one goes near the church missions excepting pissed up whores and them as should be in the bedlam. But I’m talking about two things.’ He conducted his thoughts with his fork. ‘One, a place where any man who ain’t working can see a quack. Maybe it cost a penny, we can all scrounge that. I don’t know how much a doc charges, of course, but that’d be where your money comes in. Ditto for number two. It ain’t only a place for men to get treated, it’s a place for them to learn. Now, I know you’ll say that what if they don’t want to, or they’ll be too busy working, or that’s what these schools are for and all that, but this is the clever bit. What you’ll find is that most renters won’t be bothered and won’t use it. They’re not ill, why d’they need to know about their health? They’re alive, so there’s no point. That’s how they’ll see it, get me?’ He speared a slice of pear. ‘So, what you’d get would be us renters looking for somewhere to go to keep dry, sleep, eat, have a night off, I don’t know, but while we’re there, someone tells us…’ He was running out of steam. ‘You know, helpful stuff.’ He popped the pear slice in his mouth and smiled broadly as he chewed.

‘You thought of all of that while you were eating a pork pie?’ Thomas asked.

It was hard to tell if he said it with a sneer of doubt or amazement, but then Thomas was an enigma.

By way of reply, Silas carefully probed Thomas about his work and Archer was happy to let them talk, half listening while he reread his notes. He had been aware of the tension between the two as soon as he walked into the servants’ hall, but it was lessening now, perhaps only because of the wine, food and warmth, but it was good to see. As they chatted quietly about a footman’s role in the house, Archer thought it polite to engage the Ukrainian in conversation and put his book aside. The man seemed to understand English well enough, but was apparently not much good at speaking it.

That is until Archer bade him ‘Good morning, young man. What a fine day,’ in Russian, and Fecker upended his chair, springing defensively to his feet.

‘Why the fuck do you tell me that, man? After I’ve had dinner with you and…?’ Fecker realised he had given the game away. He was as fluent in English as anyone else around the table. He shrank back to his seat and sulked.

‘Another master of disguise, eh?’ Archer mused aloud. Rather than being outraged at the deception, he understood its purpose and couldn’t help but admire Fecker more for keeping up the pretence. To survive on the streets, he decided, took a shrewdness few men possessed.

‘Do you know what you just said, mate?’ Fecker asked. He may have been fluent in English, but he was not so slick with his manners.

‘I thought I had wished you a good morning and commented on the weather.’

‘Oh, you said good morning… sort of,’ Fecker explained. ‘But then you wished a slow death. And you called me a girl.’

‘My good man!’ Archer exclaimed. ‘I had no idea. I was taught the greeting by a Ukrainian man in Odessa. I humbly apologise.’

‘Not Ukrainian.’ Fecker wagged a finger. ‘None of my people deceive like that. They were from Georgia.’

‘You are all Russians to me.’

‘Best leave it there, Your Lordship,’ Silas intervened. ‘It’s a touchy subject.’

Archer was inclined to take his advice for fear of losing Fecker’s trust. ‘Once more my apologies,’ he said, offering a hand. ‘I don’t mean to offend, but I am concerned. I made the same greeting to the Russian Ambassador last week.’ He pulled a face. ‘I had best send an explanation.’

Fecker laughed. ‘Nyet, good for you,’ he said before taking the hand, shaking it and folding his arms.

Diplomacy completed, Archer instructed Thomas to bring another bottle of claret from the hall which went some-way to cementing Ukrainian-British relations, and, when all four were once again seated, he prepared himself to move on to the third subject on his agenda.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, adopting a sombre tone for the first time that evening. ‘I would like you to tell me about four specific locations in your area if you would. Contrary to Mr Hawkins’ earlier assessment, my interest has nothing to do with molly houses.’

‘Oh?’ Silas sat up, interested.

‘No. I have no concern for them. I want you to tell me everything you know about the locations of the four Ripper murders that have so far taken place.’

‘Why are you interested?’ Fecker unfolded his arms and clenched his fists as if ready to pounce. ‘And why do you say, so far?’

Archer wondered if he could trust Silas and his man with what he knew.

‘Patience always wins,’ he said and decided he would, for now, only tell them what they needed to know.