Seventeen

The morning brought with it a sense of relief. Although his dreams had been troubled, they had the good grace to leave Archer as he woke. They faded into a mild headache which, along with the acidic taste in his mouth, brought back the excess of whisky and soul-baring he had indulged in the previous evening. He was left with only fond memories of Thomas’ kindness, his open ear, his unjudgmental expression and his calming words.

Archer vividly remembered the events of the night up until his second glass. Then, as Thomas sat opposite exuding calm understanding, the memories blurred. They had talked about their pasts, how they were brought up together and yet apart, separated by convention in later years. His footman reminded him of incidents long forgotten. Mild misdemeanours long since blanketed beneath education, both intellectual and social, and it had been uplifting to be reminded of them. Their discussion had turned to talk of Silas, and Archer had gladly bared his soul. He needed to. The past few days had caused such uproar in his world he was at a crossroads with choices to make.

The path directly ahead was mapped and planned. It was his life, his title, and what was expected of him. That was the easy road, one where he would take a wife, have a society wedding, attend functions with her and leave the running of his house and life to women.

The crossroads, however, offered him an unexplored route, and one that was intriguing and magnetic, as if he had no choice but to walk it. Along it lay traps and pitfalls, because he could walk it with Silas.

At least, that was the dream. To have the man live with him, or, to be clearer, to be alive with the man. To be seen to live in such a way would set off the traps and cages, bring down the bars of authority and convention, and the road would end in disgrace for him and worse for Silas.

Thomas listened to his ramblings until late night became early morning and he said, ‘Archer, Mr Tripp will be about soon. You should sleep.’

Archer wailed that he would never sleep again, not until Silas was with him, at which point Thomas had pointed out that he was spiralling into self-pity again and it was not becoming. The remark sobered him enough for him to agree, but he spoke with Thomas a few minutes more. Even when inebriated and emotional, Archer could still draw battle plans.

‘Thomas,’ he said as they helped each other to stand. ‘Whether you like it or not, you are my friend.’

‘I don’t mind it, Sir,’ Thomas said. He had only had two short measures, but was not accustomed to alcohol or late nights. ‘I’ve always been your friend in ways you don’t see.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘I’ll just damp the fire.’

The footman lurched towards the grate and would have gone head first into it had Archer not caught him. He pulled the man back, Thomas turned, and their bodies became tangled. It wasn’t quite a hug, they held each other for support more than anything, but it was a warm enough embrace.

‘Feels odd,’ Archer said, not letting go.

Odd, mainly because he felt no sexual attraction to Thomas. Until a few days ago, he could only dream of doing this, and when he did, sex always followed. Now, all he could think of was how it would be to embrace Silas.

‘Imagine Tripp’s face if he walked in,’ Thomas whispered.

They sniggered.

‘I understand you now, Tom,’ Archer said, holding him tighter. ‘The ways I don’t see. You make me laugh. You let me get away with things like tonight. You’re just… Well, you’re just Thomas, and that’s enough.’

‘I meant things like…’ Thomas giggled. ‘Move your glass safely away from your first edition Dickens, or put your house key where you always find it, which is rarely where you left it, but thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me, Tom. Call me Archie.’

Thomas carefully separated himself from the viscount. ‘The hour has passed,’ he said trying to be Tripp, but slurring badly. ‘You are now His Lordship, and the behaviour of your feetman has been most irreg’lar.’

‘Stop it,’ Archer chuckled. ‘Feetmem?’

Thomas was correct, of course. Archer could play with the boundaries of his life, but his footman could not. He had to go to bed, but there was one thing more he needed to say.

‘Tom?’ He took Thomas’ face in his hands as he had done with Silas. ‘I ask a great deal of you, but I must test your discretion one more time.’ He pulled Thomas to him and kissed his forehead. Still holding his face, now decorated with a docile smile, he said, ‘I’ve always loved my boyhood friend as a friend, and that’s what you will always be. But, sadly, you and your antique boss are correct.’

He let Thomas go, and their faces fell serious.

‘The hour is late, Sir.’

What happened next came in brief snatches. Archer wrote a note at the desk and gave it to Thomas, telling him to leave it outside Mr Tripp’s door. It instructed the butler not to wake either of them. The viscount would ring when he was needed, and Thomas was to have the day off. They supported each other to the main stairs where Thomas tried to veer to the left and the baize door. Archer wouldn’t let him. They somehow made it to the top of the stairs where Thomas weaved along the passage, bumped into the servants’ door and clawed his way through.

The next thing Archer remembered was undressing and falling into a cold bed.

Now he was awake and had caught up, knew where he was and what had happened, the events in the East End flooded back, bringing a pain far worse than his headache.

Silas could not love him.

He groaned and dragged himself upright. ‘You’ve only known him two days,’ he said and shook his head.

Tripp knocked on the door three minutes after Archer rang for him, and the moment the butler appeared in the room, his head jolted, and he sniffed.

‘Good morning, My Lord,’ he said, recovering with a small bow before placing a tray of coffee and a newspaper beside the bed. He processed to the drapes and threw them apart with a flourish.

‘Slowly, Tripp,’ Archer complained. ‘I have a touch of the Scotsman’s revenge.’

‘As the air would confirm, Sir,’ Tripp sighed. ‘I will open a window once Lucy has made up your fire.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’m getting up. There’s much to do.’

‘As you wish.’

Waking up to Tripp was like coming round during a funeral and realising you were the one in the coffin.

‘What time is it?’

‘Beyond eleven o’clock, Sir.’

‘Really? Is Thomas awake?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You got my note then?’

‘I was left a hieroglyph, My Lord, which I was able to decipher.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Archer needed no more wittily-wrapped sarcasm. ‘Ask Thomas to come and find me when he wakes, would you? I’ll be in my study.’

‘You commanded he take a day off, Sir. At all costs.’

‘Then he needn’t wear his livery.’

Tripp was astounded. ‘In the house, Sir?’

‘He can come in his pyjamas as far as I’m concerned, Tripp. Just have him come.’

‘As you wish, Sir. Breakfast?’

‘Send something in on a tray.’

Archer swung his legs out of bed, and it was only when Tripp turned away that he remembered he was naked. He slipped back beneath the covers.

‘I’ll dress myself today, Tripp. That will be all.’

Tripp, facing the window, bowed and backed towards the door, only turning to face it when he thought safe to do so.

‘Today’s news may be of interest to Your Lordship,’ he said before he slid from the room.

Archer needed to plan what to do about Silas. He would be back for his money, Thomas had been right, but what then?

He also needed to think carefully and deeply about the other matter, the street names, the coincidences or clues. His past, the Ripper, the drawing, Silas, they were connected through Archer.

They were also matters that would have to wait until his coffee was drunk and his headache had subsided. He turned to the newspaper intending to clear his mind with dull reading, the House business of the day, what the Commons was up to, what wrong the Prime Minister had done. He unfolded the recently ironed print across his legs and read the headline.

“Ripper Hacks Two More to Death.”

It made no sense at first, because it was unexpected, but then it sank in. Two more? In one night? That was out of sequence. He speedread the columns searching for locations and found the first, Cornfield Yard. He repeated the name over and over, but it rang no bells. He read on and came to a mention of Bishop’s Square. This time, when said the name aloud, it made perfect sense. Not only that, it also left him no room to manoeuvre.

He knew without a doubt who the Ripper was and felt sick at the thought of what it meant. He was sicker still when he reread the headline, and its full implications sank in.

‘Two boys killed?’

Everything shut down as clammy realisation washed over him, and bile churned in his gut. He dived from the bed and vomited in the wash bowl. As he stood shivering, he forced his mind to think logically. He needed facts before he let his imagination free, but it was already chomping at the bit and ready to gallop to the worse possible finish line.

He dressed hurriedly, bent over the bed to read the report in full.

The first body was found at four… The second only twenty minutes later… The Ripper might have been disturbed…

Supposition. No-one could know. A paper’s job was to sell papers. He searched for more details, dreading the names of the victims.

First youth… No name yet but known in the area for prostitution… Tall… Silas was shorter than Archer and he would not be classed as tall, more like medium. The body was slashed from… He didn’t need to know those details. He read on.

Second youth… Bishop’s Square… Seen waiting there as if to meet someone… No name but the worst mutilation so far and the clothes of a foreigner.

‘Could be one of thousands,’ Archer said, reassuring himself as he grabbed the newspaper and flew from the room.

He arrived at his study as Tripp was leaving it.

‘I have placed a tray on the…’

‘Thank you!’ Archer called as he darted into the room and slammed the doors.

His mind worked fast. His panic pushed away the headache, but desperation roiled his stomach. He left the breakfast covered.

‘Map,’ he muttered, rifling through documents on the reading table.

He found what he was looking for and unrolled a detailed map of the East End. The print was small, and many alleys were unnamed, but, using a magnifying lens, he was able to peer close. He found Britannia Street where a tiny black square denoted the place he had last seen Silas, and from there, he spiralled out, checking the street names around it until he found Cornfield Yard. A short distance away was Bishop’s Square. Silas had run to the east, and these murders had happened further west than where they parted. That didn’t mean a thing. Silas could have doubled back.

His mind raced as he considered the timeline. Archer last saw Silas a good couple of hours before the estimated time of death. Deaths, he corrected. Anything could have happened in the meantime. Silas could have been…

Could and what if were not going to help him. One victim was described as tall. Fecker was tall. So were hundreds of other people. Dressed as a foreigner? There were thousands…

A knock at the door would have gone ignored had it not been followed by Lucy’s voice.

‘Your Lordship?’ she called and knocked again.

‘I don’t need the fire,’ Archer shouted, marching to the morning post Tripp had left on his desk. He flicked through the invites and envelopes, searching for the final piece of the puzzle. It had still not arrived, and he cursed.

Another knock and the doors opened without invitation. Archer spun on his heels, his frustration boiling over into anger. ‘For God’s sake, Lucy, what is…?’

Tripp stood in the doorway with Silas slumped in his arms.

An explosion of joy was immediately doused by a rush of cold realisation that Silas was dead. The heart-stopping thought was shunted away when the man groaned.

‘What on earth…?’ Archer had no clue what to say next, but Tripp always had a cool explanation for even the worst calamity.

‘I think the gentleman should be put down,’ he said, as if someone else was carrying Silas. ‘He is not heavy, but he is awkward.’

‘On the settee,’ Archer clicked his fingers.

Tripp obeyed but hovered over the furniture. ‘He is wet, My Lord,’ he announced gravely. ‘And bleeding.’

‘Bleeding?’

‘Both the result of an unfortunate accident. May I suggest…’

‘No, Trip, you mayn’t. Put him down for God’s sake and never mind the state.’ Tripp obeyed. ‘Why is he bleeding? Where was he? Lucy?’ Archer’s training came into play, and he thought logically.

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Please be kind and call on Lady Marshall’s house. Ask Mr Saunders if he would dispatch someone to fetch Doctor Quill as a matter of urgency. He will be at his practice in Harvey Street. I shall pay the cab. Go quickly.’

Lucy curtseyed and left.

‘Tell me the story, Tripp, and then fetch Thomas.’

Archer knelt beside the settee. Silas appeared unconscious or deeply asleep. Blood had oozed from the top of his head, matting his hair in a stream that led to his cheek and on beneath his chin. It had stopped flowing, indicating that it was not a deep cut, and Archer wiped it away with his handkerchief dipped in brandy.

‘All most unusual, Sir,’ Tripp began, towering over the viscount. ‘Lucy went to empty the bucket in the yard having washed the vegetables for…’

‘Just the important parts, Tripp.’

‘The lad was curled up on the back step. She didn’t see him until she was nearly on him and dropped the pail in surprise. Unfortunately, it struck the young man a blow and tipped, hence his brackish soaking and the graze.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘One can only assume, sleeping, Sir.’

Archer couldn’t see any other obvious injuries. He ordered Tripp to send Thomas ‘Naked for all I care,’ a command which raised one of Tripp’s bushy, grey eyebrows.

‘Silas,’ Archer whispered. ‘Silas, can you hear me?’

Silas’ chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. He moaned when Archer applied the alcohol to his wound, but his eyes remained shut. His delicate lashes flickered, and Archer hoped he was dreaming peacefully. He wiped a smear of blood with his thumb. Silas’ cheek was lightly stubbled with downy hair, dark, like the rest of him and his lips, usually so pink and large, were sunken in and pale.

Archer’s heart cried for the youth, and his body longed for him, but the only thing the viscount could offer was his care. Carefully, he undid Silas’ jacket and slid his arms from the sleeves. Silas still didn’t stir, not even when Archer lifted him and carried him through the drawing room to the hall. He was so light it was heart-breaking.

He met Tripp on the stairs. ‘Thomas is on his way, My Lord,’ the butler said. ‘What shall I do?’

‘Go ahead and open the green bedroom.’

‘I fear the bed is unmade, Sir.’

‘Then I will give him mine. After that, ask Mrs Baker to come up and have one of the maids bring hot water. Tell Thomas… tell them all, to knock first. Of course, show Doctor Quill up as soon as he arrives.’

They had reached Archer’s rooms, and Tripp opened the door, stepping back to allow him to pass. To his credit, Tripp said and questioned nothing before he hurried away.

Archer lay Silas on his crumpled sheets, resting his head gently on the pillow. The man needed to be warm, but his clothes were soaked. He had suffered more than a pail of water. With no money, he must have walked, and the night had been heavy with drizzle. His flesh was cold as Archer removed his shirt revealing a well-worn, stained vest beneath. The string of his boots was knotted, and Archer was wrestling with one when Thomas knocked, and Archer called him in. He wore the same trousers as the night before, but his dress shirt was clean and pressed, though open at the collar. He wore slippers and a dazed expression.

‘I came at once, My Lord,’ he said, concentrating on standing without swaying. ‘Apologies for my clothes.’

‘Forget it, Thomas,’ Archer said. ‘Can you get these boots off?’

Whether Tripp had explained the situation or not, Thomas set about his duties with dubious dexterity, not once asking a question or passing judgement. Archer found night clothes and returned to the bed as Thomas pulled off the second boot.

‘By Christ!’ Archer said, pulling away from the smell. ‘I suggest we burn everything.’

‘It would seem the charitable thing to do, Sir.’

Another knock, another servant, this time Mrs Baker bustled into the room with towels. She glanced at the half-dressed man on the bed, but paid more attention to Thomas, her hawk-like eyes twitching from his feet to the boot he was holding at arm’s length.

‘The green room will be made ready, My Lord,’ she said, depositing the towels on an armchair. ‘I have asked Mrs Flintwich to make a broth.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Baker,’ Archer said, sitting beside Silas. ‘So sorry to have interrupted your routine.’

‘We are all Christians here, Sir,’ she reminded him as she swished from the room.

‘She wouldn’t say that if she saw us take his trousers off,’ Archer mumbled as he pulled Silas’ vest free.

‘Should I leave, Sir?’

‘No, Thomas, please stay. Not that I want you to witness this, but for the sake of propriety…’

Thomas understood and planted himself on the other side of the bed from where he could stare at the fireplace while Archer worked under his gaze, but not in it.

The trousers practically fell to pieces, and Archer threw them into the pile of discarded clothes along with his socks.

Silas lay like a corpse in long johns, pale and thin. Archer gained no pleasure from the sight and wished he didn’t have to do this. He would much rather have been undressing the man consensually and in the ecstasy of passion, but such thoughts had no place at that moment.

As he hooked his thumbs beneath the top of Silas’ underwear, however, Silas groaned and rolled onto his stomach as if he knew what was taking place. Archer was relieved.

‘That’s for the better, I think,’ he said.

The sight of Silas’ small, round backside being gradually revealed was, if anything, more inappropriately erotic than seeing him from the front. A narrow line of dark hair ended at the base of his spine, but between it and a downy covering on his legs, there was nothing but smooth, white flesh. Archer remembered the feel of it through his clothes, and the desire to touch was overpowering.

He stood and covered Silas with his silk sheets.

‘That wasn’t so bad,’ he said, trying to lighten his mood and failing.

‘What do you suppose happened?’

‘We will find out when he wakes.’

Another knock at the door.

‘Hold!’ Archer called before facing Thomas. ‘There were two more murders last night,’ he said in a whisper.

‘Two?’

‘One after the other, fast.’

Thomas shuddered.

‘I know, Tom,’ Archer said, reading his thoughts. ‘He was lucky, and so were we. I am never sending you back there. Once more, thank you for putting up with me last night. I hate to think what I said.’

‘I’m sure you remember as well as I do,’ Thomas said. ‘Which is just enough. Shall I let in the maid?’

Archer was closer and opened the door to Lucy.

The doctor had been sent for, she reported, but Lady Marshall’s butler was concerned. Was there anything he should know, and could he help?

The message was relayed while another maid brought warm water, and, on the viscount’s instruction, lit the water heater in the adjoining bathroom.

‘What did you tell Saunders, Lucy?’ Archer enquired.

‘I told him there was nothing to be concerned about and there was nothing he needed to know,’ she replied, as if answering the simplest question in the world.

‘Good, thank you.’

The maids averted their eyes as they passed His Lordship’s bed. Although it was their job to make it, to look at it when occupied was not. They left, closing the door quietly.

‘Did you intend to bathe him?’ Thomas asked, leaning to look into the bathroom.

‘I had thought to,’ Archer admitted. ‘But not when he’s out like this. I think we should dress him and leave him until Quill gets here. You could see to the grate.’

They worked together. Thomas made up the fire, breaking off to assist Archer in dressing Silas when needed. They managed to put him in a pair of pyjamas as he lay on his front and then gently rolled him onto his back to fasten the buttons. That done and the fire lit there was nothing more to do but await the arrival of the doctor.

‘You can go back to bed if you want,’ Archer said, sitting beside Silas.

‘I am more than happy to stay with you, Sir, if you want me to.’

‘You sound concerned about the lad,’ Archer said, his wry smile demanding an honest reply.

‘I admit I was uncertain of him at first,’ Thomas replied. ‘And I have the impression he is not that keen on me, but after what I saw last night…’ His voice trailed off. ‘Is it always like that, Sir?’

‘Apparently so. I was as moved as you, Tom. It’s another reason I am determined to help this man.’ Thomas was well aware of the main reason for Archer wanting to help Silas, they had discussed it in their drunken state. ‘Have you ever been in love, Tom?’ he asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a lord in love with a rent boy to question his footman on the subject.

‘I admitted as much last night, I believe,’ Thomas reminded him in a quiet voice.

The memory struck Archer between the eyes and shot him through with shame. ‘You did. Quite right. Sorry.’

Thomas had admitted to being in love with Archer for a short while, but explained it as a crush. He agreed with the viscount that it was a deep friendship, the same as Archer felt for him. The conversation had been natural and meant in the early hours, now it brought crushing embarrassment for them both.

‘And I said we would speak no more about it,’ Archer said. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘Very good, Sir,’ Thomas said, resetting the boundaries. He bowed and left.

Archer stayed in his room, seated in the armchair and facing the bed as he waited for Quill. A little after two o’clock, a carriage drew up outside and, looking from the window, he saw the familiar form of his old friend blundering with his medical bag. The sight was oddly reassuring, but he hoped Quill was sober.

He turned back to the bed.

‘You’re awake!’ he exclaimed. Silas was sitting bolt upright staring ahead. ‘It’s alright.’ Archer rushed to his side. ‘You’re at Clearwater.’

Silas’ eyes remained wide and unfocused as his head turned slowly to face Archer. Only when they were an inch apart and lost in each other’s bewilderment did he blink. His lips parted, and Archer imagined he was about to be drawn into a kiss of remorse.

Silas screamed and tried to thrash free of the bedclothes.

Archer held his arms. ‘Calm, Silas. Be calm. You’re safe.’

It was as if Silas came to and briefly understood where he was. He gripped Archer’s shoulders in return. ‘He got Fecker,’ he wailed, tears pouring from his eyes. ‘The Ripper. He got Fecker.’