by KJ Charles
We stood in silence. Miss Kay finished the second verse. There was a tiny pause. Mr. Parker opened his mouth to speak, and she began the tune once more.
“Do you intend to continue whistling indefinitely, madam?” enquired Mr. Parker coldly.
Miss Kay gave him a startlingly unpleasant smile. “Would you like me to sing the words?”
This time the silence was longer. Mr. Parker’s face was expressionless but his eyes were calculating, running odds and probabilities.
“We will speak,” Simon told him. “You may choose who hears what we have to say.”
Mr. Parker considered that. Then he rose, took the duke by the arm, and steered the young man out, murmuring in a placatory manner. He closed the door on the ducal back and turned to Simon. “You have some claim to make. Get it out and have done.”
Simon glanced at Miss Kay, who was examining her long gleaming fingernails, apparently lost in thought, and back at Mr. Parker.
“The architect who built this house, Glasport, murdered children.” His voice was deep and even. The wailing had diminished as we spoke, but now I had a sudden sense of attention, as though something other had its eyes on me. “He killed them, mixed their blood with mortar and laid the foundation stone of this building with it.”
The shriek was deafening. It was that most unrestrained sound of rage, the scream of a furious child, and it cut through the air so savagely that we all except Miss Kay flinched in different degrees. Which is to say that Dr. Berry’s face worked slightly, Simon frowned, Mr. Parker jolted in his chair, and I ducked to the floor with both arms over my head.
“He murdered them to protect this house,” Simon said loudly. “And afterwards, he hanged, as murderers should.”
“Then what is your concern?” demanded Parker as another spectral shriek swept through the room.
“To tell their story,” Simon said, and the noise dropped away on the instant, leaving a yawning sense of attentiveness. Something was listening. “To say aloud that their unlived lives were snatched for the benefit of others. To say that was wrong.”
“We all make sacrifices, Mr. Feximal.” Dr. Berry’s smile was bland, malicious. “Do we not?”
“The architect sacrificed children,” I put in angrily, since Simon did not answer. “Not himself.”
“Oh, but he did,” Mr. Parker said. “As Mr. Feximal reminds us, he hanged. He paid.”
“And their graces of Sarum?” I demanded. “Two children died to assure the safety of their home!”
“You don’t believe that the royal family should be safe?” Mr. Parker raised a brow.
“Not at the expense of innocent lives. Not at the expense of—”
“Betty Marks and her baby brother Toby.” Miss Kay spoke dreamily. She was swaying slightly, eyes fixed on her fingernails. “Born to poverty. Sold to blood. Ignored, lost, forgotten.”
“What a very great deal of fuss about two beggars,” said Dr. Berry.
“Two children.” I felt as though I were choking on the words. Simon remained silent. “Two children who had nothing but their lives, and even those were taken from them for the benefit of a palace?”
“You are blasphemous, Mr. Caldwell.” Dr. Berry was smiling still. “Is it not written, ‘For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance: but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath’?”
“The architect was a madman,” Mr. Parker said, as I stared, speechless. “He committed a crime and paid the price. What more is there?”
“Justice,” I said furiously. “You knew about this. I don’t know who you are but you knew. Someone sent that man to kill me when I found out about the architect. Someone knew about this and hid it. Was it you?”
“Robert.” Simon’s voice rumbled, low and strained. I ignored him. The spectral tension was closing in around me, like a note too high or low to hear.
“Was this the first time?” I demanded, glaring at Mr. Parker’s impassive features even as Dr. Berry took a menacing step towards me. “Are other great houses protected like this? If we asked around Balmoral—”
The children cried out. Not in pain or anguish, this time, just two startled voices. Simon gasped with effort, and Miss Kay staggered back. Dr. Berry gave a cry of fury, and there was a gurgle of laughter at the very edge of my senses as the presence in the air fled.
“There.” Simon sounded a little raw. “The haunting is lifted.”
“The infestation,” Dr. Berry snarled. He looked thwarted.
“A neat job, Simon,” Miss Kay said with mild approval. “Let us go.”
She turned, and stopped, as Mr. Parker rose slowly. He was looking at me.
“Excuse me.” His voice was level, and I felt a chill at its tone. “Mr. Caldwell made certain allegations just now that must not be repeated. Treasonous allegations that, should they be repeated, will earn Mr. Caldwell a very long spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
“He will not repeat them,” Simon said.
I was young, and outraged, and a man had tried to kill me, but it was the presumption of those words after that cold night alone—in Miss Kay’s house—that pushed me over the edge of all sense. “I damned well shall!” I said. “I shall write this story, sir. I will not be silenced.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Parker. “You will.”
“Enough. No, be quiet, Mr. Caldwell.” Simon took a long stride forward so that he stood close to Mr. Parker. “The acts you order, or hide, or protect, are your acts, sir. You will pay their price in the end. Nothing goes unpaid.”
“How wisely you speak, you who pander to devils. Have you any advice for me?” enquired Dr. Berry. His face was blotched red with anger.
“Stay away from us,” Simon said.
“Your arm, Mr. Caldwell.” Miss Kay looped her hand through the crook of my elbow, and dug her nails into the back of my hand with such force I was hard put not to cry out. “We have finished our task. Let us go.”
I was seething as Simon and Miss Kay more or less frog-marched me down the street, away from that luxurious home, once more made pleasant for its pampered inhabitants. Simon glanced at me. “You may as well speak.”
“How could you?” I demanded. “How could you walk out of there so?”
“The children are free.”
“Parker knew about their murder. I am sure of it.”
“So am I,” Simon said. “He is ruthless, dedicated to his masters’ service, and in a position of great and unaccountable power. You must not cross him.”
I could not believe that a man of Simon’s contained strength, his justice, should accede to this. “Even if he covers up murder? Orders it?”
“If he ordered a murder, it was of the architect,” Simon said.
“Which I for one do not regret,” Miss Kay put in.
“Mr. Parker is a dangerous man but not a stupid one. He will protect the reputation of the throne at all costs.”
“And you will do the same?” I demanded, transported by anger and disappointment that Simon should be willing to take part in the concealment of such a crime. “You will be a party to this conspiracy?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Miss Kay. “Do you imagine you can tell the nation that the royal palaces are built on blood sacrifice? Exhort the populace to rise up against the House of Hanover?”
“I am a loyal servant of the Queen,” I said, stung.
“So is Mr. Parker, in his way,” Simon said. “A wrong was done. The perpetrator is dead. The victims are freed. The story is over, Robert. You must not pursue this.”
“No. It is not over. I shall write it. I shall not let this be concealed. And do not you dare tell me what to do!”
I turned on my heel and walked off. Simon called my name but I would not stop.
My heart was full with righteous anger and disgust for the cowardice that allowed wrongs to go unpunished. My head whirled with words that would inspire pity and outrage in my readers, that should ensure no such crime cou
ld be committed again, even if the storm I caused should shake the very foundations of the House of Hanover. Simon had given the children’s spirits their freedom; I should bring them justice.
And perhaps I would have, but the next day, everything changed.
Silver
“You are dismissing me?” I repeated.
Mr. Lownie scowled. I would have said scowled at me, but he did not quite meet my eyes. He sat at his desk as though to deliver an official reprimand, I standing before him, but his knuckles were white on the pipe he clutched.
It was the seventh of November, the day after I had walked away from Simon. I had returned to the Chronicle to learn that my story had been spiked. That was no matter; it was no longer required. I left a note for Mr. Lownie to inform him that I had a story of far greater import for him, and settled down to write.
Naturally, it was the kind of thing that one should wish to discuss with one’s editor, but he did not return to the office that day. I stayed until it was clear he would not return; went home (an unpleasantly nervous walk, starting at shadows, and an uncomfortable night hearing a murderer’s tread in every creak on the stairs); and had come in to an office of sideways looks, whispers, and an order to present myself in the editor’s private office at once.
Now this.
“I do not understand,” I said. “How have I deserved dismissal? My stories—”
Mr. Lownie took refuge in his notebook. “I am informed that you collaborated with two journalists on rival newspapers to bribe the duke of Sarum’s servant. That is gross misconduct.”
“That’s journalism!”
A muscle ticced under his mouth. “The Board of Directors considers it unethical behaviour.”
“The Board?” I repeated. “How is the Board concerned?”
“The duke lodged a complaint.” Mr. Lownie seemed to force the words out.
“And you’re dismissing me for one complaint?” I said incredulously, before the import of his words dawned on me. “Did you say the duke complained? The duke himself? Not Mr. Parker?”
Mr. Lownie met my eyes at that. His were angry and fearful. He spoke in an intense mutter, much more like himself. “I don’t know what you’ve meddled with, Caldwell, but there’s the very devil to pay. I can’t help you. There’s no choice.”
“You’re dismissing me on Mr. Parker’s orders? You, Mr. Lownie?” He had always prided himself on his designation as the most independent-minded editor on Fleet Street. He never backed down. “Damn it, sir, will you at least listen to my story first? Don’t you want to know what I’ve discovered?”
“No!” That was almost a shout. “I will not hear it, I will not print it. I have a wife and family, you damned fool.”
“You’ve been threatened?”
He took a deep breath, staring at the desk, then looked up. “I’m sorry, Caldwell. If you wish to resign, rather than be dismissed—”
“Yes, I do!”
“I accept your resignation. Clear your desk. Don’t speak to your colleagues. You have poisoned your own well, don’t poison theirs.”
I did as bid. I collected my few possessions, snapped a curt, “Resigned,” in response to questioning looks, and left the Chronicle building forever.
But I did not despair. Far from it. Mr. Lownie had been silenced, but other editors would listen. There were other posts at other newspapers. I could write as a free-lance scribe. I have not yet begun to fight, I thought, and my stride was defiant as I headed for home.
Three weeks later, I understood quite how wrong I had been.
No other newspaper would so much as interview me. I wrote to editors and received curt responses by return of post. I contacted friends and had cheerful assurances of help that, the next day, were retracted in shamefaced notes.
I had been blackballed on Fleet Street. Very well, I thought, and wrote to the Manchester Guardian and Glasgow Herald. The refusals came the next morning.
My attempts to find free-lance work bore no more fruit. The most innocuous stories were rejected—rejected, mind, not ignored or left on a desk by harassed editors, but firmly sent back as soon as they arrived. As though editors wanted to prove they had nothing to do with me.
Writing was my sole income. I had no savings, no family left, no means of support but my career. Caldwell Place was a bleak and mouldering mansion on worthless land, mortgaged to the hilt. None of this had concerned me greatly before. I was young, hardworking, without dependants, in good health. I had felt confident in my ability to secure my future, had recklessly spent all my meagre inheritance in the effort to make Caldwell Place more attractive to possible buyers. It had not mattered that my monthly stipend barely covered my expenses when I had a berth at the Chronicle and knew that next month’s pay was forthcoming.
It mattered now.
It is surprising how fast a man can fall when there is nobody to extend a hand to him. I ate frugally, turned my cuffs and collars rather than send out washing, wore all my clothes in my rooms rather than deplete my little store of coals. I pawned my watch for ready money, and calculated my store of coins with a miser’s eye because I was all too aware that the month’s rent would deplete it entirely. I kept hope alive, spending penny after penny on paper and ink and stamps to write my pleas for employment, but after a fortnight I faced the fact. I should have to seek other work—as clerk, if I could find such a place with no experience, as labourer if I must. I would return to journalism when I could but for now, I should put my shoulder to the wheel and survive. I took to my bed that night cold and very hungry but defiant. Let the cards fall how they would, I should not be defeated.
The next day I received the letter from the bank.
The words swam in front of my eyes as I read. It did not seem possible, a sick, grotesque jest, but there it was, in black ink. The mortgages on Caldwell Place were to be called in. The bank would extend no further period of credit. Since the mortgages outstripped the value of the house, I was personally liable for a sum so impossible that I could barely breathe, and the bank would be grateful for its remittance within a period of twenty-eight days.
I laughed, then. Laughed, because otherwise I should weep. Straightened my dirty cuffs, arranged my necktie to disguise the grime of my collar, and stepped out of the door to go I knew not where, because I had nowhere to go.
As I write, at a distance of two decades spent in Simon’s company, it seems extraordinary that I should not have fled to him. Even then, the temptation came to go to Fetter Lane to draw strength from his firm presence. I would pretend that all was well and speak of other things, I told myself, but I knew that I could not pretend, and so I did not go.
In truth, there was no reason he should help me. We had encountered each other but three times, shared a bed twice. That did not constitute a relationship on which I could call for aid. Worse: our last meeting had ended with me turning my back on him and refusing to accept a warning which my current situation proved to be all too prescient. Simon had tried to tell me, and I had not listened.
And I was ashamed. As a journalist I could hold up my head and call myself his equal. As a shabby, unwashed beggar, a man soon to face proceedings for bankruptcy, I was no man’s equal. The shame of my plight was corrosive. I hated the pity in the eyes of old friends, hated more that men hurried by me on Fleet Street rather than exchange a word. Such is our fear of ill luck, we shun those touched by it in case it proves contagious.
Not that my case was ill luck. It was malice, and cold calculating vengeance, and my own obstinate self-righteous stupidity that had brought this upon me and I could call on nobody to assist me in my distress.
I walked the streets that day, cold and empty, turning possibilities in my head. There were none. My plan to seek other work might have allowed me to keep my rooms or feed myself, but I could never raise the sum demanded on that cursed inheritance.
I did not eat. It was a bitterly cold winter, and I should need every penny I had to pay for a roof over my head next month.
Sleeping in doss-houses was a terrible thought, but I feared the icy streets more than that. Men died of cold in the London nights.
I lay empty that night, in a room I could not afford the coals to heat. When I left the house again, near midday, I was not even surprised when my landlady cast a practised eye over my shabby garb and advised me that she was not a charity, and that the rent was payable on the first of the month and not a day later.
I made her some assurance, I don’t know what. I was dizzy with hunger now, having restricted my purchase of food to the bare minimum for days, but too afraid to spend my dwindling resources. I walked anyway, because although walking in the icy air would make me hungrier, staying any longer in my unheated room without movement would chill me to the bone.
I was so hungry. I was so cold.
As I set off with faltering steps down the streets to nowhere, a voice hailed me. “Mr. Caldwell!”
It was Dr. Berry.
I did not run. I could not have run, in any case, but he looked…different. The pale eyes behind the thick glasses beamed with fatherly concern. His bald head gave him a benevolent aspect, like a kindly friar. He spoke with paternal care to me, his whole being radiating his trustworthiness. And he had sought me out when I felt the loneliest man in London, and spoken to me by name, and for that alone I could have fallen upon him and wept.
I shook his hand instead. His plump fingers were cold and damp against my skin, but that was just the November air.
“My dear sir,” he said, with concern. “You look half-starved. Are you quite well?”
“I have been…a little…”
“Goodness me. You must sit down. Here.”
He grasped my arm and steered me into a little chop house that I had occasionally frequented. The warmth of the room almost overpowered me, and the smell: chops broiling, the savoury scent of meat as it browned on the griddle, that delightfully comforting odour of a steak-and-kidney pudding that promises such richness of gravy, such mouth-filling satisfaction of the suet crust. I could almost taste the glorious greasiness of those smells, and I fell onto the chair he offered me, senses awhirl. He tugged the coat off my shoulders, carefully draping it over the back of my chair.
