‘The man you love, I know,’ Silas said. He winked, but Thomas could see it was tainted with sadness. ‘Happy to share his love, Tommy. As long as you’re not coming from the same direction as me, I’m not stepping in the way. Now, shift your arse, and put on your poshest buttle, or whatever it is you do. You got a few minutes to get ’round the other side. Oh, one last thing. Don’t blame Jimmy for any of this. It’s all down to me.’
‘What is?’ Thomas asked, placing his hand on the finger plate.
‘Whatever comes next.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Tommy, mate,’ Silas sighed. ‘That’s what I’ve got ten minutes to work out.’
Twenty-Two
James had been left with his head spinning and his pulse racing. The backstage door led to a lobby hidden from the auditorium by a weighty, black curtain, and once through that, he found himself at the end of a curved passage with more drapes masking the boxes to one side. He easily found the box reserved for the viscount’s original party as it was the one closest to the stage, and there, he stepped into a small room and a huge, new world. If he had been amazed by what he had seen backstage, he was mesmerised by what he saw in the auditorium.
Four dazzling horseshoes curved above the stalls, ablaze with lamps and gradually filling as the audience arrived. Above them all, the ceiling appeared to be made of daylight as if he was looking through the roof directly into the sun that shone on a world of red and gold. Ladies in fine clothes, furs and jewels, inched their way along rows clutching programmes, and James noticed there was one on each of the six chairs in his box.
He collected one as he stood at the balcony and looked down over the heads of the orchestra, their chairs and music stands spread beneath the stage and out of sight. Musicians tuned their instruments as an oboe played a single consistent note. Over their heads hung the biggest pair of curtains James had seen, and he realised with a shock, that Silas was soon going to stand there, unannounced and alone in his attempt to foil Stella’s plan.
It was the first time he had felt nervous all day, and he took a deep breath to settle himself.
‘That’s only a delay tactic’, he said, scanning the audience. ‘Let’s them know we’re onto them, gets them off guard, but there’s still the how and when.’ He recalled what Archer had suspected was a clue, Death will come da capo, suddenly silent, and you will not hear your final applause.
It made little sense apart from when ‘Da capo’ was translated. The word ‘Suddenly’ was logical if the assassin was planning to use a gun, but in that case, the word ‘Silently’ didn’t add up. James knew how loud a gunshot was, and anyone drawing a pistol would also draw attention.
He looked to the top tier where the seats sloped sharply to the roof. It wouldn’t be possible for a shot from so far back to its a target accurately, if at all. Coming down the levels, he reasoned that the only sure way to shoot someone in the head was from close proximity. A box, one like his, close to the singers. Such a place would allow cover and, as he’d seen, an easy escape backstage.
‘Then again,’ he said, facing the stage. ‘A shot from the wings would do it.’ He looked into the orchestra pit. There was no way anyone down there could see the stage well enough except the conductor, a highly unlikely suspect.
People were arriving at other boxes, and he heard voices in the corridor.
‘What if it’s not a gun?’ he asked himself, and considered how someone might be killed ‘from the head’ suddenly, and silently. Strangulation was slow, slitting a throat was too intimate, clubbing the victim’s skull was possible. There were many ways, and the killing didn’t have to happen on the stage.
‘No, it does,’ he said, picking up a small pair of binoculars. ‘The whole point is to blame and shame. No point in Roxton snuffing it in his dressing room.’ The theatre would cover it up, and Archer would get more sympathy than hatred.
He scanned the balconies and saw Mrs Flintwich taking her seat. Her husband and Lucy were with her among other smartly dressed servants from Delamere, but Fecker had not yet arrived.
Movement lower down and opposite drew his attention. The drapes at the Royal Box were being drawn back and tied. He noticed that the ones at the back of the box were open, and thinking he should do the same, had just tied them when a man in a red and gold costume hurried from backstage.
James was about to ignore him when he saw it was Thomas.
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘You look smart.’
‘Do I? Will it do?’ Thomas was gasping for breath and sweating.
‘Tom, calm down.’ James pulled him into the box by his shoulders. ‘Take a deep breath. Take two. Three S’s remember? Stop, take Stock…’
Thomas nodded, and his shoulders relaxed. ‘Thanks,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Do you know what to do?’
‘Just stand here and wait for the Marks comedy duo. Do you?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Look, Tom.’ James made sure there was no-one near but was aware that people were approaching. ‘If it helps,’ he whispered. ‘I’m mentally hugging and kissing you right now. You’re only over there. I can see you plain, better with the glasses, don’t worry about me. But look, can you tell His Lordship that… Well, Silas is going to make Roxton’s speech.’
He expected outrage, but Thomas already knew. ‘And he explained his reason,’ he added. ‘I honestly can’t think of anything else we can do.’
‘You make sure Archer’s alright,’ James said. ‘Leave the rest to us.’ He gave Thomas a lingering look of admiration. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘In every way. Now, get to work.’
Thomas tapped his heart twice, and James knew what he meant. His body filled with warmth as his confidence came flooding back.
Becoming the butler, Thomas left sedately and with a smile, leaving James to stand to attention as the Marks couple advanced.
Mrs Marks, looking as dowdy as before, but with a string of pearls to lessen the blow, was taking her time. Stopping at every other guest, she bowed her upper body as if showing them her cleavage, clutched her pearls to draw attention to them, and threw back her head, laughing. Her husband walked a pace behind his mechanical wife, admiring every inch of the wallpaper in an attempt to distance himself. As they drew nearer, James was able to hear her stark voice.
‘Buona sera, buona sera,’ she yapped, and as she rustled into the box, smiled sympathetically at him and said, ‘That’s Italian to you,’ as if she’d just won an honorary degree in the language. ‘To match this theatre’s design.’
Italian? The word seemed important.
‘Good evening, young James,’ Mr Marks was more congenial and less condescending than his wife and having reached the safety of the private enclosure, relaxed. ‘A glass of something?’
‘Certainly, Sir,’ James replied, bowing.
The viscount had ordered champagne, and two bottles stood on ice at the back of the box. It was after he had served the couple and there was nothing more to do but wait that the word Italian dropped back into his head.
‘Da capo!’
‘What’s that, son?’
He hadn’t realised he had said it aloud.
‘My apologies, Sir. I said, da capo.’
‘It’s a musical term,’ Mrs Marks preened, fanning herself with the programme. ‘Do you read music?’
‘No, Ma’am,’ James admitted.
‘Yes, I would have been surprised if you did.’
James wanted to slap her, but replied politely, ‘There were no decent teachers in South Riverside, Ma’am.’
‘Quite understandable,’ she said, mistaking his sarcasm for truth. ‘But I thought you might have read it on the score.’
She peered through the opera glasses and leant over the balustrade to examine the orchestra. James hoped she
might tumble and be impaled on a double bass.
He controlled his imagination. ‘The score, Ma’am?’
‘Yes, on the music.’ She waved grandly at someone.
‘Get down, woman,’ Marks complained and tugged her into her chair. ‘We’re in these seats so everyone gets a good look at us. We’re representing Clearwater, so act like it.’
Opposite, Thomas had arrived at the Royal Box and was talking to another butler, similarly dressed. He couldn’t hear their words, there was too much distance and hubbub as the final rows filled, but whatever they said, their conversation ended with an agreement, and they shook hands. They took their places either side of the entrance, hands behind backs, looking directly ahead. James could see why Thomas had wanted to change his livery. Both men matched the colour scheme of the box’s furniture and the decor of the auditorium. Had Tom been wearing the uniform designed by Lady Marshall he would have stood out like a Christmas cracker.
‘Take a chair if you want, lad,’ Mr Marks offered.
‘Husband, really?’ His wife slapped his arm with her fan. ‘It’s bad enough we are unable to sit with Archer, but… must you?’
‘Never mind her,’ Marks said, rolling his eyes. ‘Have a decent seat if you want, I’m sure Mr Hawkins won’t mind.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ James replied, not sure of the etiquette. ‘Perhaps when the performance starts.’
‘Won’t be long. Where is Hawkins anyhow?’
‘I believe he had some business behind the scenes, Sir,’ James said, as vaguely as possible. ‘I’m sure he will be with us shortly.’
Marks nodded and returned to his programme.
As the audience swelled, so the temperature rose, and the air became heavy with the scent of perfumes and smoke. Behind that was the smell of the gas lamps, intensifying as the humidity climbed. James was wondering if Mr Marks’ generosity extended to allowing him to strip shirtless and drink from the ice bucket when a fanfare brought the audience to silence and to their feet. The Marks couple stood, and not sure what to do, James remained motionless.
Thomas and his colleague snapped to attention, and the gas lamps began to dim as the fanfare continued. A white-haired man entered the Royal Box with a younger woman on his arm. He wore a military uniform, weighted with medals, and a swathe of a blue sash, while his companion, like many below her, shimmered in silver and jewels. Just behind them came Lord Clearwater, his bicorn hat under one perfectly crooked arm, Lady Marshall on his other, and behind them Doctor Markland and his partner, confident and upright as if they did this kind of thing every day. James was impressed, particularly with Markland’s girlfriend. At the dinner, she hadn’t struck him as a woman used to being among society, let alone royalty. She had said little at the party, but gawped endlessly at Roxton during the meal as if she had never seen an actor before. He was relieved that she knew how to behave; it would make things easier for the viscount.
His Majesty came to the edge of the box with Lord Clearwater. They waved, and the audience applauded politely. Some in the gallery whistled inappropriately, but that was the only sign of rowdiness, and the Dutch King seemed to approve. They were joined by their female companions, and the orchestra played the National Anthem.
When it was over, more applause was followed by the further dimming of the lights and the sound of two-thousand people arranging themselves in their seats.
‘Such a stirring tune,’ Mrs Marks said, fanning herself. ‘It quite takes…’
She was interrupted by the orchestra and the sound of two thousand people standing.
The orchestra played the Dutch anthem. It dragged on, and when it finally ended, Mrs Marks drained her glass and retook her seat with a loud sigh.
‘Thank the lord that’s over,’ she mumbled, arranging her copious skirt.
The simmering hubbub returned, and James watched Thomas and his accomplice bending gracefully to the guests and, presumably, offering Champagne. Where James’ box had been supplied with fluted glasses and very fine ones at that, the royal party were offered wine from silver goblets.
It was the dimming of the lights which brought home the reality of the danger. Anyone with a pistol could easily hide it in the darkness. Even with some lights left glowing in the boxes, there were so many shadows offering cover to an assassin.
He scouted the crowd as silence fell, but saw no unusual movement. The killer had the whole opera before Roxton’s final applause, it was unlikely he would strike right away. If he was aligning his sights now, expecting to see the singer, he was about to be disappointed.
‘Ah,’ Mrs Marks whispered, leaning back to show off to James. ‘The audience is subito tacet.’
‘I’m sorry, Ma’am?’ James crouched to her, aware that he was being watched. He had seen Archer staring at him intently just before she spoke.
‘More Italian for your elucidation,’ she said. ‘The audience is suddenly silent.’
‘And so should you be. Hush, woman,’ her husband scolded. ‘Mr Roxton’s coming on.’
Footlights cast a stark glow onto the curtains, and from places around the balconies, large lanterns were swung to aim at the centre of the forestage. The house waited in keen anticipation, a few people cleared their throats and rustled programmes, and then even those sounds evaporated as the curtains shivered.
James’ throat was dry, his heart was pounding again, and the viscount’s stare was eating into him. It wasn’t the only cause of his unease; Mrs Marks’ words had triggered a thought.
It was as if he was in the process of firing a gun. He imagined the hammer hitting the bullet subito, suddenly, and expected a loud retort, but none came. The bullet was his thought, an intangible, vital idea that he needed to eject, but it was travelling in painfully slow motion. An answer had been struck, but it refused to be shot from the barrel. Not yet. It wouldn’t come, but it had something to do with the letter, the clue, the only way out.
He was reaching into his pocket for the letter when the audience let out a collective gasp, and Mr Marks said, ‘What the flippin’ blazes…?’
Twenty-Three
Silas hadn’t been this nervous since the day he pulled his first trick. It had been a cold evening in Limedock where Fecker had taken him to show him the safest places and the best hunting ground.
‘You be safe here, Banyak,’ he had said, pointing to a deserted yard. ‘I stand over street.’
Fecker had kept watch, turning down two possible punters of his own to keep vigil, and Silas didn’t have to wait long. He looked his sixteen years in those days, and his was a fresh face on a well-worn path. A pair of merchant ships had docked that day, and after several months at sea, many of its crew were ashore and hungry for company. He was approached by a man he put in his late twenties, dressed in civilian clothes but with a kitbag slung from his shoulder. Silas was fearful, not being sure what he might have to do, or whether he could do it, and a mix of emotions tangled his thoughts and knotted his stomach. He knew he was about to have sex with a man, and he knew that was what he wanted. That was not the problem. His nervousness stemmed from what lay beyond the badly chained gate: shadows, darkness, a stranger inviting him to intimacy, he would be vulnerable. It was only Fecker’s presence, size and strength that saw him through what turned out to be more pleasure than pain, and he came away with a generous two shillings.
His legs then were as weak as they were now as he stood by the props table looking between the flats at the stage. A commotion was taking place on the opposite side where the striking figure of Signora Campanelli had arrived with her entourage. Trying to focus, he used the time to look above to the tower where men at their posts leant on the catwalk rails and stared down. On his side of the stage, a small group of chorus were taking seats, but there was no sign of Roxton.
Jake appeared. He had spent the last ten minutes ru
nning here and there and had given his final call.
‘Do you know what you’re doing, Mr Silas?’ he asked, not even out of breath.
‘To be honest, mate. No. How’s Mr Roxton?’
‘Oblivious,’ Jake said. ‘I told him there was a delay out front and he was happy with that. He likes his own space and silence before going on, he said. He was reading this, though.’ He handed Silas a sheet of paper. ‘Asked me to leave it prompt side for when I call him.’
Silas took the speech. Knowing Marks and Archer had approved it, he read it quickly, but each sentence brought him closer to the moment when he would have to walk through those curtains and face the rich and famous, the public and the viscount.
He suffered doubt as his flesh crept and his hands shook. His idea to prevent Roxton’s speech was intended purely to confuse Stella, or whoever the Cleaver Street men had hired for the job, and he now wondered if he was only going to make things worse. What if he said the wrong thing? He could read the script, but could he make his voice heard?
There was also the possibility that the killer, frustrated at being tricked, might take a shot at him instead.
The orchestra had tuned their instruments. The cast and hands whispered, glancing at Silas as the message was passed along that this youth, the unknown secretary to Lord Clearwater was to take Roxton’s place. Behind that was the sound of a thousand voices beyond the curtains.
Silas swallowed hard. ‘I could do with some of your wise words, Jake,’ he said trying to understand the longer sentences on the page.
‘There ain’t nothing to worry about, Sir,’ the lad said. ‘When you get out there, you won’t be able to see much. Don’t look straight at the lights, especially the new spots, they’ll blind you. Speak a bit louder than normal, but you don’t have to shout.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 22
