Thirty

A hard mattress and a firm hand. The feel of a pillow and the sweet, tarry smell of carbolic. Aching bones and a dull thud in his head. An unfamiliar material against his skin and the distant sound of shoes clicking on stone. Gunshots, screams, images like pieces of a broken mirror cascading into the bottomless pit of memory, thoughts shattered by the pain in his shoulder where powerful fingers dug into his flesh.

He opened his eyes to see a face staring back at him. Ashen and drawn with a black eye and a cut lip, it was framed by a parted curtain of blond hair revealing an expression of intent bewilderment.

‘You look shit.’

A thick accent that made no sense until the man spoke again.

‘Drink this. It is also shit.’

A glass was pressed to his mouth, and the liquid burned his throat when he was made to sip. A hand stronger than his helped him, giving no room for refusal. Brandy trickled its heat to his chest and made him cough. The cough became a retch which in turn became a stream of vomit that poured from him into a bowl held steady until there was nothing left to eject but pain.

He gasped for air and fell back against the pillow.

The bed sank as the man sat beside him. ‘Tastes as shit as you look,’ he said.

Archer wiped his eyes, and the face was clearer.

‘Andrej?’

He tried to sit up, but Fecker held him down. ‘You stay still.’ He spoke gently but left no room for debate.

‘Silas?’ He was all Archer could think of.

‘He is good,’ Fecker said. ‘Always in trouble without me.’

‘Where is he?’

The Ukrainian shrugged. ‘Riding horses,’ he said.

Archer had no strength to inquire further. The deep well of sleep was calling, and he fell into it gratefully.

When he next awoke, it was to the sound of clattering plates and the murmuring of voices. Andrej was gone, and Archer thought he had dreamt him. He pulled himself to sit up, his body complaining against the movement, and tasted the acid tang of bile in his mouth. He was in a long room with a vaulted ceiling. Both sides of the room were lined with beds where men and women lay moaning or sleeping as women in white and black fussed over them. People clustered at the door, peering in and behind them, a man was wheeled past on a trolley, screaming, his face burnt beyond recognition.

The last thing Archer remembered was falling with Benji Quill beneath him, laughing, his knife maniacally slashing the smoke. He had a vivid picture of Quill’s body hitting the water first and then there was nothing until the half-remembered face of Andrej and the man’s firm grip.

A woman appeared at his side. Diminutive and clad in black, she wore a white apron, and her head was wrapped in a wimple. Her non-committal expression was at his eye level, and she had the faintest tuft of a moustache on her top lip.

‘Name?’ she demanded.

‘What?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Where am I?’

‘Name?’ She prodded him with a pencil.

‘What time is it?’

‘Name?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Lord Clearwater.’

She looked at him in surprise before laughing and walking away.

‘Oi!’ The man in the next bed called to no-one in particular. ‘Got one here says ’e’s Lord fucking Clearwater.’

‘Put ’im the bedlam and shut the fuck up,’ someone complained.

A scream halted the exchange as, further along, the ward, a man in a black tailcoat ripped the bandages off a woman’s face revealing torn flesh.

‘Maybe he is Clearwater, maybe he ain’t, but his suffering’s as good as anyone’s.’ A familiar voice and a reassuring, powerful figure pushed through the bustle at the door. ‘Move aside. Let me through.’

Complaints of ‘La-di-da,’ ‘Who’s he think he is?’ and worse added to the mix of unfamiliar sounds as Thomas forced his way to the bedside. His copper hair was neatly combed, and he wore his Sunday suit, looking every inch a country gentleman.

‘Thomas?’

‘Good afternoon,’ Thomas said. He leant in to whisper, ‘Sir.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Saint Mary’s. We haven’t told anyone who you are. We thought it safest not to while you were unconscious.’

‘We? Silas?’

‘He’s upstairs with his Russian friend.’

‘Is he harmed?’

‘No, My…’ Thomas looked nervously around the ward.

‘It’s fine, Tom,’ Archer said, his spirits buoyed by his footman’s presence. ‘This is definitely one of those times. What happened?’

‘Silas is well,’ Thomas said. ‘I’ll find him for you shortly.’

He appeared to be looking for somewhere to sit, and Archer patted the bed, an offer Thomas accepted.

‘He was more shocked than physically harmed, but he’s recovering. You, on the other hand…’

‘I’m alright.’ Thoughts of Silas and the knowledge that he was safe were the only medicine Archer needed. ‘Are you?’

‘Apparently so.’ Thomas smiled. ‘But don’t ask me how.’

Archer had a barrage of questions, but as he started on them, Thomas insisted that he rest. He explained that the physician would be visiting before long, he had paid for his special attention and, all being well, he would release the viscount into the care of his staff. The talk of doctors brought back the image of Quill and with it, another onslaught of nausea.

‘Archer, go slowly.’ Thomas’ voice was reassuring and tinted with the slightest hint of his country accent. ‘Let’s have you out of here and home. You have been here long enough.’

‘How long?’

‘Two days.’

Archer was shocked. There was nothing between the fall and seeing Andrej’s face, and nothing between then and now except the scrambled fragments of memory which he fought to arrange in order.

‘Tripp will be demented,’ Archer said.

‘I have told the household that you were called away on unexpected business and left it at that.’

‘What did Tripp say?’

Thomas took a breath and, it seemed, persuaded a smile to soften his worried face. ‘Don’t concern yourself with Mr Tripp,’ he said.

‘And Quill? Has he been caught?’

‘In time, Archie,’ Thomas insisted. ‘Please, for your sake, calm yourself and appear well and in your right mind. The man who runs this hell hole won’t let you leave otherwise.’

‘He will when he knows who I am.’

‘Leave the talking to me,’ Thomas advised. ‘This may be an uncomfortable experience for you, but bear in mind that many people are here because they have no choice, and most of them have nowhere to return to when they are thrown out, yet these are the lucky ones.’

Thomas’ words were levelling, and Archer was suitably admonished. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘And I am so grateful.’ He took Thomas’ hand. ‘To you. I will think of a way to repay you when we get home.’

‘There is no need for that.’

‘You look worried, Tom. Is everything alright?’

Thomas sighed. ‘Many things need explaining,’ he said. ‘But first, we need to convince that doctor that you can leave.’ A young man with a bushy moustache was approaching the bed, flustered and ill at ease. ‘Allow me,’ Thomas said. ‘I have the measure of this man.’

He stood and waited by his master’s side as the doctor arrived.

‘This is the one who thinks he’s a lord, isn’t it?’ the doctor asked. He spoke as if he’d heard a hundred similar claims that day.

‘He is The Viscount Clearwater,’ Thomas replied.

‘And you are?’

‘He’s my friend,’ Archer said before Thomas had the chance to speak. ‘Who are you?’

‘Markland.’ He took Archer’s wrist and held it, sitting side-saddle on the bed and examining his face. ‘Nothing wrong with you,’ he declared. ‘Nothing that rest and a good bath won’t cure. I can’t say for certain that you won’t have caught something from the river, but you’re not showing a fever. Any pains?’

‘All over. I’ve had worse.’

‘Slight scratch under the chin… I see you’ve had similar before. Any burns?’ the doctor enquired, more interested in his fob watch than his patient.

‘You tell me.’

‘Good. You can leave. There are more important cases, and I don’t appreciate men passing themselves off as nobility just to get my attention.’

He stood, and Thomas squared up to him.

‘You are addressing a Lord of the House,’ he threatened. ‘I suggest you show more respect.’

‘Thomas…’

‘Maybe you are unaware of your own patron?’ Thomas’ indignation was not to be quelled. ‘Or perhaps you, like me, are honoured to know The Lady Clearwater?’ He spoke pointedly, but not rudely. ‘I should hope you are, for without His Lordship’s family…’

‘Yes, alright Tom.’ Archer patted his arm. ‘Doctor.’ He addressed the man politely and even offered a smile. ‘I don’t expect you to recognise me, and I am rather glad you don’t, but if you say I may leave, I won’t be in your way any longer. Thank you for your attention. I will see you receive recompense both personally and for your hospital.’

Markland shuffled his feet nervously. He eyed Thomas with suspicion, but Thomas turned his attention to Archer.

‘He has been paid. I have the trap outside My Lord,’ he said. ‘We should have you home before dusk.’

‘Do I have clothes?’

‘I brought you some of mine. I thought it best to maintain the disguise for your own safety.’ Thomas glanced at the doctor who was still hovering and listening. ‘I wondered if you wanted me to call on Lady Marshall, Sir. She was asking after you.’

Now convinced, Markland stepped back to the bed. ‘My Lord,’ he said. ‘You would be better cared for in my rooms. I can have you moved there.’ He attracted the attention of the diminutive nurse.

‘That won’t be necessary, Markland.’ Archer extracted himself from the rough blanket that covered him. ‘The Lady Clearwater, as you will know, patronises St Mary’s on the understanding that it treats the patient no matter their position. If your public beds are good enough for these poor wretches, then they are good enough for her son. However, in light of your…’ he took in the crowded ward once more, ‘popularity, and given the fact I appear to be in one piece, my own bed would benefit us both.’

‘I meant no disrespect, Sir,’ the doctor replied. ‘But you can imagine what we have to contend with.’

The man was doing his best, Archer decided, and he did have many cases on his hands. He wouldn’t like to be doing his job.

‘I imagine you have to put up with disease, injuries and death,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘And who suffers from them makes no difference. I hope. Wasn’t that your oath?’

‘Your Lordship is correct, of course.’ Markland, put in his place, turned to Thomas. ‘I suggest His Lordship…’

‘Please!’ Archer hissed. ‘Don’t cause any more fuss. In a place such as this, call me Mr Riddington. I am a patient like any other.’

‘But not for much longer,’ Thomas said, helping Archer to his feet before addressing Markland. ‘I assume you have somewhere private for Mr Riddington to dress? Or are all your patients subjected to the humiliation of nudity as well as distrust?’

‘Thomas,’ Archer admonished with a grin. ‘You’re sounding like Tripp again.’

‘My office,’ the doctor replied. ‘If you would follow me?’

Archer’s legs were weak, which he put down to lack of food, and every muscle in his body ached, but nothing pained him more than the thought that his friend, Benji Quill had been the Ripper and that he had drawn Silas and Thomas into danger. He shuffled on Thomas’ arm, dressed in an itchy cotton shift and exposed to the glare and derision of those around him as they followed Markland from the ward.

‘Are you usually this busy?’ he asked as they entered a corridor lined with more unfortunates wailing and bleeding.

‘More or less,’ Markland said, adding, ‘Sir,’ as an afterthought. ‘The fire at Limedock has brought a swell in numbers, and we are hard-pressed to attend everyone.’

‘You need more staff?’

‘We need more of everything. Medicines, linen, sanitation… Many who come to us have nowhere to return to and bring nothing with them. We provide what we can, but…’

‘I will speak with Lady Clearwater at the earliest opportunity,’ Archer said. ‘But believe me, doctor, you already provide what very few in this stinking city can. You provide hope.’

The words affected the doctor, Archer could see it in his face. He was thankful for the comment, and the viscount assumed he didn’t hear it often enough.

‘You must come for dinner,’ Archer said. ‘When I am recovered and if you have time. I would be interested to know more. I am myself involved in a charity. One to assist a certain section of the society in the East End and your medical knowledge would be invaluable.’

‘I am flattered, Sir,’ Markland replied. He stopped at a glass panelled door and opened it. ‘And I should be very honoured, not to mention interested. Here are my rooms. Please, make them yours.’

Archer entered on Thomas’ arm and thanked him. It was a small, cramped office with one high window and a stone floor. More of a monk’s cell than a doctor’s surgery.

‘May I ask who your charity supports?’ the doctor inquired.

‘What you’d probably call street-rats,’ Archer replied, falling into a chair. ‘Renters. You know, young men who have no recourse to funds other than offering their bodies. Does that shock you, Doctor?’

‘Not at all, Sir.’ Apparently, it didn’t, because Markland said, ‘It’s about time someone did something.’ He changed his tone immediately. ‘Shall I bring you anything?’

‘No, thank you.’ Archer liked the man, and his offer of dinner had been genuine. He understood his initial scepticism, he had seen his working conditions and now, he thought, saw that he possessed more dedication to his calling than time to answer it. ‘You have more important needs to attend to, please, I have all the care I need in Thomas.’

‘Then I will leave you,’ Markland said. ‘Take your time.’ He raised his dark eyebrows to Thomas and, in lifting them, revealed eyes the colour of chestnuts. ‘Mr…?’

‘Payne, appropriately enough,’ Thomas quipped.

Markland gave a brief laugh. ‘Indeed. Mr Payne, see that His Lordship drinks plenty of water, It helps to stay hydrated. If he shows any signs of illness, call a physician. I am sure you know how filthy the river is. Watch out for looseness of the bowls, vomiting, fever…’

‘Cholera,’ Archer said.

‘Quite.’

Thomas promised that Archer would be well taken care of, they thanked Markland again, and he left.

‘I like him,’ Archer said as soon as the door was closed. ‘But, Tom, I’ve got so many questions. Is Silas really safe? Are you…?’

‘In time, Archer,’ Thomas replied. He handed him a battered suitcase. ‘Sorry, this is all I have, but change and I will find Silas.’

‘See if you can bring Andrej too,’ Archer said, catching his arm as Thomas left. ‘I won’t see him on the street.’

Thomas nodded and left the room.