He shelved the thought as they left the leafy borough of Riverside, the driver taking them around the top of the busy West End to avoid traffic.
‘Even smells different,’ Silas said, gazing out at the women in long, black dresses, the men ducking beneath their wide-brimmed hats as they passed, doffing their own bowlers and caps.
‘You can thank Bazalgette for that,’ Archer said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not where,’ Archer smirked. ‘Who. Sir Joseph. A friend of my mother, some say an old affair, but I prefer not to think about such things where Her Ladyship is concerned. He designed the new sewer system.’
‘Nice.’ Silas grimaced.
‘There are miles of tunnels beneath us,’ Archer said. ‘Some large enough for a steam engine and bigger than the new circular underground railway. Fascinating what we can do these days.’
‘Yeah, well, your man needs to pop down to Greychurch and start digging.’
‘The East End also benefits.’
Silas laughed. ‘Sorry, Archie,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t. Not much. Why d’you think Markland told you to watch out for cholera after you fell in the river?’
‘Good point.’
Archer squeezed his hand and resisted the temptation to kiss him. The drive could only have been improved had they been allowed to lean against each other, or if he could tuck Silas beneath his arm. He brushed his leg against his lover instead.
The Hansom trundled unhindered along the Great East Road until it delivered them to North Cross station where Silas paid the cabbie as Archer considered the best way forward.
‘I think,’ he said as they stood facing the grand frontage of the city’s busiest terminus, ‘that you seek out the station master and tell him I would like an audience. I’ll play the nobility card, but it’s best you deal the hand.’
‘As you say, Boss.’ Silas tipped his hat with a wink. ‘What shall I say is your business?’
‘A general enquiry to start with, but also a personally urgent matter.’
They entered the concourse and threaded through passengers to the over-grand Café De Paris, an ornately fronted building set within the high arches facing the tracks. Above, the glass and iron roof echoed with the sounds of whistles, voices and rumbling luggage as porters dragged carts, people called farewells, and pigeons flapped, their wings clattering as they escaped the unwanted advances of small children. All life was here, it seemed, from the staff to the nobility, and from country folk in for the afternoon to suited men going about their business.
‘Railways stations are worlds within worlds,’ Archer mused as they parted company. ‘I shall wait inside this one.’
Silas followed a sign directing him to station’s offices while Archer entered the humid warmth of the café. It too was busy with middle-class passengers queuing for tea at a counter, segregated by a velvet rope from those travelling first-class. He found a table close to the window from where he watched the outside-inside world go by until Silas returned ten minutes later.
‘So,’ he said, as he slipped into the opposite chair. ‘The man’s name is Burrows, and he’s more than happy to see you. I told him that I didn’t know your exact business, but that you were very keen to have him help with a matter of great personal interest. I hope that was alright?’
‘Perfect,’ Archer said, collecting his top hat. ‘Lead on, Mr Hawkins.’
He followed Silas at two paces, close enough to show the gap in status. It was a gap he hated, but there was no way he could be seen to treat his secretary as an equal, not in public. In reality, he and Silas were equal in many ways although Silas knew more about sex than Archer. At the bottom line, they were both criminals, and everything they did together in private was punishable. That was enough to draw the viscount emotionally closer to the man he could no longer bear to be apart from, and it was the nobility of love that helped him keep his head high as he walked.
His impassive stare drew attention, but he ignored those around him unless he gave a polite nod of the head in deference to a person of equal standing. Their route led them past the outer track and an impressive locomotive waiting for departure, its funnel pumping smoke into the industrial atmosphere. The smell of oil and steam pervaded the air as they approached a door marked ‘Station Head Office.’ He had formulated his plan and was not at all nervous, certain that his visit would not arouse suspicion.
Silas confidently entered the offices as if he worked there and held the door for his master. Archer was met by a startlingly attractive man in a blue uniform who he at first mistook for a doorman.
‘Lord Clearwater?’ the man said, bowing politely. ‘I am Stamp, clerk to Mr Burrows who is expecting you. If you would care to follow me.’
The greeting was conducted according to convention, despite the noise and mess around them. Men worked at desks in lines facing away from the office’s glass frontage as if they were not allowed to look on the marvels their employment sustained, and each one was busy at a desk writing in ledgers beneath oil lamps. Their sleeves rolled up, they wore visors to shield their eyes and concentrated on their work.
‘What office is this?’ Archer enquired of the clerk.
‘Accountancy, Sir,’ he replied. ‘And through there we have scheduling, and beyond, maintenance offices and secretarial.’
‘I never knew so much went on.’
‘We are a hive of activity,’ Stamp said, raising his voice above the sound of pistons, whistles and trundling trucks that echoed beneath the vaulted, glass ceiling. ‘There are a few stairs I’m afraid.’
He led them to a spiral staircase at the back of the building. The fancy metalwork was ornate for an office but in keeping with the rest of the wrought iron that held the station together. At the first landing, Stamp opened a door to allow the guests to pass through and, as soon as he closed it, the outside hubbub was silenced. Archer’s ears rang with the sudden drop in volume, and he was still adjusting a moment later when Stamp knocked on a second door. He didn’t wait for a response before entering the station master’s office and announcing, ‘The Viscount Clearwater’, in a tone that would not have been out of place in any stately home.
A burly man rose from behind a partner’s desk, framed by the glass frontage of his domain. Behind and below, station life busied itself in silence while nothing in the office moved apart from Burrows buttoning his jacket and coming around his desk to welcome the unexpected visitors.
‘An honour, My Lord,’ he said, observing etiquette and waiting for Archer to approach, should he want to shake hands.
Archer did. Many men in his position wouldn’t have bothered, but he wanted this meeting to be friendly. He intended to extract as much information from this man as he could.
‘I must offer my apologies, Station Master,’ he said, gushing somewhat. ‘Not to have telegraphed ahead was amiss of me. I hope I am not an inconvenience.’
‘Not at all, Sir.’ The man seemed genuinely happy to be interrupted. ‘May I offer you refreshment?’
‘No, thank you,’ Archer smiled back. ‘We shan’t keep you any longer than we must.’
‘Thank you, Stamp.’ Burrows nodded, and the clerk left the room. ‘Will you sit, My Lord?’
‘I will.’
Archer took the seat he was offered, and when Burrows suggested Silas might prefer to wait outside, he dismissed the idea, saying, ‘I need my man with me.’ It gave him a secret thrill to utter the words. Silas was his secretary, but he was also his man in every other sense. ‘Mr Hawkins will make notes if he may?’
‘Of course.’
Silas sat behind Archer and produced a notebook and pencil. Archer knew his handwriting was not the best and had told him to pretend to use a form of shorthand to cover the fact. It was an act; Archer would remember anything important that might be said.
Once they had observed the formalities, Burrows asked how he could help.
Archer opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the loud clanging of the station clock which vibrated rather than sounded through the office.
‘One becomes accustomed,’ Burrows said, passing it off.
‘I hear from your accent that you are from the northern counties,’ Archer observed.
‘I am, Sir. Lancashire by birth.’
‘One of our great industrial areas?’
‘Carnforth, actually, rural but not far from the cities and, of course, now joined to this great metropolis by the wonder of the railways.’
‘Indeed.’ Archer thought it time he got to the point. ‘But it is with the eastern line that I have an interest,’ he said. ‘And I wonder if you might give me some information about the Highland Express. Sleeper service.’
‘Certainly.’ Burrows beamed, apparently ready to impart all and any knowledge. ‘We are very proud of that service.’
‘And rightly so, I am sure.’ Archer’s compliment was well received, and the man was warming to him. He wanted to make sure he warmed further and said, ‘I would have sought the advice of a driver or engineer, but I always think it’s best to speak with an expert, and I am sure there is no-one better than yourself.’
‘I am honoured you think so.’
‘Quite right.’ Archer was somewhat patronising, but he suspected Burrows was used to that. ‘Also, this is rather a delicate matter, and Mr Hawkins…’ he indicated Silas, ‘has heard of your reputation as a man of discretion.’ He didn’t explain how, because he couldn’t, he’d just made it up, but Burrows shined more brightly.
The flattery now seen to, Archer turned to the meat of the meeting.
‘I have two requests, Mr Burrows,’ he said. ‘Firstly, are you able to furnish me with details of the route taken regularly by the Highland Express?’
‘I can provide you with a route map if that would suffice.’
‘It won’t, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh?’
Archer smiled inwardly when Burrows become intrigued.
‘That is, Sir, it will partly fulfil my needs. What I would be most interested in is the more technical details of the route.’
‘Technical?’
‘Yes, as in, the speed of the locomotive as it passes stations, crosses bridges, viaducts and so forth. I, and my colleagues in the House are fascinated by your new technology.’
‘As we all should be, Sir.’ Burrows agreed. ‘It is the way forward.’
‘Quite. Tell me, are such things recorded and available to the public?’
‘Yes and no, to be honest with you, Sir. Yes, I can have Stamp find the reports, but no, we would not usually allow the public to see them.’
Silas coughed pointedly, and Burrows caught his meaning.
‘As you are not the general public but a member of the House of Lords, I see no harm in providing you with such information. In fact, I should say that the Great Northern and Eastern Railway Company would be honoured to encourage whatever interest your Lordship has in us.’
‘Oh, it is purely personal,’ Archer clarified. ‘But also invaluable. I shall, of course, recompense you for any trouble or additional work my request involves.’
‘It’s a simple, matter of sending Stamp to the basement.’ Burrows rang a handbell that tinkled so quietly Archer could barely hear it.
Stamp, on the other hand, must have been tuned to it as he appeared at the door a second later as keen as a hunting dog. He was instructed to fetch the speed trial and running records of the express train’s journey and vanished in a swish of eager subservience.
‘I am indebted, Mr Burrows,’ Archer continued. ‘And now, the second matter. Are you able to furnish me with passenger information? Now, before you throw up your hands in horror at betraying the confidence of your customers, a reaction I would fully understand, allow me to be more specific.’
‘That would be appreciated, My Lord.’
This was the part where fact and fiction would have to mingle, and Archer chose his words carefully.
‘A very dear friend of mine took the Highland Express on Wednesday last,’ he said. ‘And he has caused me some confusion. I thought, as I was indulging myself with this visit about the engineering specifications, I might ask you to clarify this matter and put my mind at rest.’
‘With pleasure, Sir, if I can.’
‘You see, my friend promised to send me one of those picture postcards from his destination which was Invermoor.’
‘The train terminates at Averness, Sir,’ Burrows corrected as Archer knew he would. ‘It is the only stop.’
‘The only stop?’
‘Apart from the Barrenmoor depot where it halts to re-water and fuel, and where the post is exchanged.’
‘Then I stand pleasantly corrected,’ Archer said. ‘You see, I thought my Doctor friend told me he would contact me from Invermoor, and I received a card from Averness, unsigned, so that clears my confusion, and all is well. It must be from someone else.’
‘Would this be Doctor Quill?’
Archer tried not to show his surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’
Burrows twiddled his fingers nervously as if he was about to ask something extremely delicate. ‘No reason,’ he said, but clearly there was. ‘I know he has many society patients, and he came to see me before boarding the train. I’ve suffered from a bad chest, you see, and he wanted to enquire after my health even though he was in a hurry. I thought it very good of him and not out of the ordinary until…’ He searched the room for a suitable cover story, and Archer was prepared to wait until he found one. ‘Another gentleman enquired after him regards the same journey. It makes no matter, but I am glad to hear he arrived safely.’
‘You saw Doctor Quill board the night train?’ Archer asked it as innocently as he could. ‘I didn’t know he was taking the trip.’
‘Oh. Then the man of interest to you is not Doctor Quill?’
‘No, Mr Burrows, another man entirely. But who was asking after Doctor Quill? Perhaps I could assist.’
‘I am sure it’s nothing to worry yourself over, Sir.’
If he guarded his trains as effectively as he guarded his secrets, then his passengers would be treated with the utmost discretion.
‘And I am sure you are correct, Mr Burrows.’
It was obvious that he was trying to avoid mentioning Inspector Adelaide, and Archer was not going to press the point. The man’s bluster was proof enough that he was the witness the inspector spoke of and, by the sound of it, not one paid by Quill to provide an alibi.
‘I have used up enough of your valuable time,’ Archer said. ‘I should leave you to your good works.’
He stood, and Burrows’ chair scraped as he did the same.
‘The pleasure and honour have been mine,’ the man said. ‘Ah, here is Stamp.’
His clerk sailed into the room slightly out of breath. ‘As you requested, Your Lordship,’ he said, offering an envelope. ‘It is a copy, so there is no need to return it. If you would like me to explain any of the more technical aspects…’
‘Thank you, Stamp,’ Burrows interrupted. ‘That will be all.’
Stamp left, and Burrows made the same offer. Archer assured him that he would be in touch if any explanation was needed, and passed the papers to Silas.
‘Mr Burrows,’ the viscount said as Silas handed him his hat from the stand. ‘Once again, thank you for your time. My apologies for the inconvenience, and may I say congratulations on your station. It is something of a marvel.’
‘A new age is upon us, My Lord,’ Burrows said. ‘We must embrace it.’
‘Quite, quite. Hawkins?’
Silas left the office ahead of him,
and Archer thanked the station master once more and with a deference which the man soaked up like a dry sponge.
Downstairs, they left the industrious hum of the accounting office and entered the melee of the concourse, soon to be lost among the luggage and travellers, the steam and smell of hot metal.
‘What a charming man,’ Archer said as they sought a Hansom on the street.
‘Bit of a creep if you ask me,’ Silas mumbled. ‘Stamp was cute enough. Nice arse.’
Archer repressed a smile. ‘Apparently, it’s a new age,’ he said. ‘But, I don’t think the likes of Mr Stamp are quite ready for that kind of observation. I, on the other hand, am.’
‘Eh?’
He nudged Silas and winked. ‘I have a friend who is suffering a riding injury that needs my attention,’ he said as if discussing the weather. ‘I’ve heard a massage, gently but deeply penetrating, is the best cure when saddle-sore. Ah, a cab.’
Twelve
The evening saw Archer and Silas take a quiet dinner served by Lucy and Thomas during which nothing was said of their business. Instead, they discussed Silas’ riding lesson and the founding of Archer’s East End charity, the details of which they didn’t go into when the maid was present. Afterwards, they retired to the study and Archer asked Thomas to send the housekeeper.
‘Mrs Baker,’ Archer greeted her cheerfully and beckoned her closer when she bustled into the room. He collected a letter from his desk as he sat. ‘I know the city is not your favourite place in the world and you much prefer Larkspur, and this past couple of weeks have seen an upheaval in the usual routine of the house. You must all be quite exhausted.’
‘Not really, My Lord,’ she said. Her beady eyes flashed to Silas reading at the table and then back to Archer.
Twisted Tracks (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 2) Page 12
