‘I do, mate’, James smiled back. ‘You know he would have told you before he went if he could have done. I reckon that’s all it is, and we have nothing to worry about. We’ll finish packing up the house, hand it over to the Norwoods and get the night train.’
Not completely convinced, Silas managed a weak smile.
‘And,’ James went on, rolling his enthusiasm like a snowball gathering momentum. ‘If the railway’s still fucked up, we can spend the cash in a posh hotel until we can get there. Hey!’ He put down his cup and pushed his smile to its capacity. ‘I’ll bet you one of these white fivers that Archer’s at Larkspur before us, yeah?’
It pained James to see Silas’ face fall to sadness again before its smooth features descended into confusion.
‘Thanks, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I know you’re trying to be helpful, but there’s still something I don’t get.’
‘Try me,’ James beamed. ‘I bet it’s nothing.’
‘Don’t think so, mate,’ Silas replied, and again, his eyes became glassy. ‘There’s a bit that I didn’t tell you.’
James’ heart sank along with his hopes of a happy ending. ‘What?’
‘He said he had to take Fecker.’
‘Oh well, that’s understandable. He couldn’t have taken me as his servant, who would finish packing?’
‘No,’ Silas moaned. ‘He said he had to take him for protection.’
Three
Keen to distract Silas, James asked him to help prepare the house for their departure. Silas, still morose, finished his coffee and trudged upstairs to pack. The trunks and boxes had gone ahead with Thomas, and all he needed to take was whatever he wanted for the overnight journey. The job wouldn’t take him long, but after it, James suggested he might like to cover the library furniture with dust sheets.
As soon as Silas was out of sight, James whipped the letter from his pocket, and in case Silas came back, leant against the viscount’s desk facing the doors. Archer’s old rule about no-one being allowed in his study without permission had been forgotten of late, and Archer didn’t mention it when he found James or Thomas borrowing his books. Today, with His Lordship’s mysterious departure made more unusual because he had taken Fecker, the study seemed the best place to read whatever instructions he had been given.
He unfolded the letter.
If Silas is with you, tell him this letter says only that you are to take care of him. Read the rest when you are alone and don’t show him its contents.
Jimmy
I will explain this in due course, for now, I need you to do two things.
Firstly; please dispatch the following message to Thomas at Larkspur immediately and without alteration.
“Tom. DBQ arisen. Investigate Haverton Hawley. Hall will cope. CH when done. BFA.”
Secondly; The Queen’s poet 92 - where you borrowed Breese
My apologies for being abstruse. ALT will explain all.
Do NOT concern Silas.
Yours
A
James stared at the paper, read the message again and felt the first nag of a headache behind his eyes. The most obvious instruction in the garble of words was that Silas was not to know anything, and James was to act behind his back. That was not an easy thing for an honest man to do to his best friend, but it was made easier because the instructions came from his master and mentor. Mentor for many reasons, but, of late, because Archer had encouraged James’ interest in Morse code, and the reference to its inventor was there on the page.
Glancing to the fireside bookcase, he spied the gap left by a borrowed book he had not yet returned. “A Discussion of the Use of Signal Communication (with reference to semaphore and a complete alphabet)” was its ungainly title, and the tome was authored by Samuel Finley Breese Morse. As Archer was intent on keeping his intentions from Silas, it made sense to code his letter in a way only James would understand. When he had asked to borrow the book, to improve his understanding of the code used by telegraph operators, the viscount had told him he should also learn semaphore, and that it would ‘Be a breeze,’ making a word play on Samuel Morse’s middle name. When James pointed out that semaphore was invented by a Frenchman called Chappe, Archer had countered with, ‘Yes, well you’re a decent chap too,’ or similar, and they had laughed.
The Morse book was in James’ room, but it wasn’t where Archer was directing him. The Queen’s poet 92 was the part of the sentence that made no sense, but whatever it referred to, it had something to do with a book near the empty space on the shelf.
Curious to the point of excitement, James was tempted to explore the volumes, but they were not what he needed to look at first.
Immediately and without alteration were the instructions and, folding the letter back into his pocket, he left the study to find Silas. He took the main stairs to the first floor and found him in his room among a pile of clothes trying to decide what to wear.
‘I must run an errand,’ James said, standing at the door and surveying the scene as if there was nothing wrong. ‘I shan’t be long.’
‘Can I do it?’ Silas asked, holding a brown suit jacket in one hand and a blue one in the other. ‘Sick of this already.’
‘It’s a quick dash into Riverside,’ James said. ‘It’s thick with snow out there, you better stay at home, Sir. I will be no more than an hour.’
‘Everything alright?’
‘Mrs Flintwich meant to cancel the milk order so Mrs Norwood can arrange her own preference, but it’s not been done.’ James was disturbed at how easily the lies came, but discussing domestic arrangements was a sure way of putting Silas to sleep.
‘You’re right,’ the Irishman said. ‘I’ll stay here.’
‘We’re not expecting visitors. I shan’t be long. Oh,’ James added on the way out. ‘The blue jacket will keep out the cold better.’
He hurried from the room before Silas could say anything else and took the backstairs to his floor where he changed from his morning uniform into his own suit. Not only was it warmer, but it would be easier to clean when he returned. Sitting on the edge of his bed to tie his boots, he spied the viscount’s Morse code book on the dresser.
‘Queen’s poet ninety-two,’ he said as he took the letter and money from one trouser pocket and put it in another. At the dresser, he opened the book to page ninety-two, but found no reference of Her Majesty nor any other queen. The text was a discussion of how Morse’s original code had altered to an internationally used modern standard. That was not what Archer had intended him to find, but the number probably referred to a page in another book.
There was no time to dwell on the idea, and he set that mystery aside to consider the message to Thomas.
He left the house a few minutes later wrapped in the thickest cloak he could find, his newsboy cap pulled tightly and his scarf around his face. With his gloved hands deep in his pockets and his head down, he waded through the snow to the yard gate and out into the mews alley, turning right to tramp the familiar streets towards the telegraph office.
As he walked, seeing very few other pedestrians, but noticing that carriages were using the roads, he pondered on the message to be sent. He was used to remembering short, disjointed notes, eleven years as a messenger did that, and running the words again helped take his mind off his wet feet and cold legs.
‘DBQ,’ he mumbled into his scarf. ‘Do be quick? Don’t be quick?’ For all he knew it could stand for Don’t Be Queer, and the thought made him laugh. The idea of Tom not being queer was inconceivable, and it brought back a memory that heated him from the inside out.
It was the night of the Clearwater Foundation gala. The party returned from the opera house, the events of the evening were explained to the viscount, and the mystery put to rest. The hour was late when James and Thomas finished clearing the
table and were able to lock the house and retire to their rooms. Despite everything that had happened, or maybe because of it, he didn’t want to be alone and told Thomas so.
‘I hoped you’d say that,’ Thomas said. ‘Come, there’s something I want to do.’
Thomas led him to the bathroom where he drew a bath, adding a mixture to it that caused the water to cloud and give off a heady perfume. They undressed as the tub filled, saying nothing but watching each other as if they were stripping for the other’s pleasure. They had done this before, and the sight of Thomas slowly revealing his slender body brought James’s cock to straining erection before he removed his underclothes. It was erotic enough to see Tom’s slim waist diving in a firm V towards his groin and the straining bulge in his drawers, but when he removed them, erotic became lustful.
It took Tom longer for his cock to harden, probably because there was so much of it, but by the time they were naked, they were both rampant. Tom’s inches stood proud above his weighty sack, and James’ shorter, but just as powerful length was at right angles to his compact, smooth balls. Where Tom’s cock was framed by a flash of deep red hair, James’ was set against a barely detectable bush of light blond. Where Tom’s skin was pale and dotted here and there with freckles like stars at daybreak, James’ was darker and less hairy. Both were toned, and their muscles outlined, but where Thomas was long and lean, James was broad and powerful.
They drank in the sight and smiled at what they knew came next. Thomas invited James to sit between his legs in the bath so he could massage his back, and as he did so, he told him how proud he was, how much he admired James’ action, and how happy he had been since James first delivered that telegram to Clearwater house.
In return, James spoke of love and how, since meeting Tom, his life had been complete. ‘But only to a point,’ he said when Tom rested his chin on his shoulder, and his hands wandered to hold James between the legs.
‘Complete only to a point wouldn’t be complete,’ Thomas said in his playfully pedantic fashion. ‘What’s missing?’
James rested back, his flesh pressing against the pulsing stiffness of Tom’s mighty shaft. The pain in his head somehow sent its shards to the tingling in his groin, intensifying every touch of Tom’s long fingers as they gently played. The warm water and the massage soothed some of his aches, and wrapped in Tom’s arms, he was safe, and yet nervous.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ he said, his voice a whisper, his pulse beating at his chest.
‘Anything for my golden boy.’
Tom had started to call him that not long after they met. It wasn’t just a play on James’ hair colour. He explained that gold was the most precious metal, and so James was his most precious find. ‘Something to treasure,’ he had said.
James was unable to believe, then, that someone could find him attractive, but now it was proved as Tom kissed his neck.
A kiss from Tom always sent pleasure scurrying around James’ body seeking every possible outlet and jangling every pore, but that night it took a new direction. Every spark rushed to his groin, bypassed it and dived beneath.
‘I want you to fuck me,’ he said.
He heard Tom gasp and sensed his joy. It would be their first time. Until that night, Tom had been worried that he would hurt his lover, and James was concerned that he wouldn’t know what to do, but then, with adrenaline pumping through his quickening heart, the time was right.
‘Are you sure?’
James separated himself from their embrace and stood, offering his back view, his round cheeks and their fine coating of downy blond. He stepped from the bath and held out his hand.
‘Yes.’
It had taken them a while, and it nearly didn’t happen. Back in James’ room and unable to keep themselves from each other, they fell into what had become their usual progression of kissing and stroking, sucking and swapping pleasures, and James had to force Tom’s mouth from his cock before he came too soon.
‘Not yet,’ he said, and rolled onto his front, offering his body for the man to use as he wished.
Their shared inexperience led, at first, to some embarrassing fumbling, and plenty of, ‘Are you sure?’ from Tom, but when James said, ‘Wait! What’s that?’ and Tom said, ‘It’s just a finger,’ they both sniggered, and the release of tension helped James relax.
When it happened, it was more than he had expected or hoped for. Tom cared for him, massaged his shoulders, kissed his back and down his spine and, in a rare moment of recklessness, dived his mouth between James’ cheeks. James cried out and pushed back; he had never felt anything so fulfilling, not until Tom’s mouth was replaced by his cock. Inch by inch, slowly, cautiously and always with a mind to the man beneath him, he entered his lover until James was able to take the full length and accept its girth. Tom took some weight on his elbows, but still his body pressed James to the bed, his arms wrapped beneath. James craned his neck to find his lover’s lips, wanting all of him.
Tom was gentle to start with, but the closer he came to a climax, the faster and harder he drove. James pushed back, greedy for more than Tom was able to give. Each thrust brought him closer to the edge, and when he felt Tom’s warm gush inside, he spent his own into the sheets. His fingers tightened around Tom’s hands, and pulling him closer, the man crushed him as their bodies pumped with pleasure they never knew possible.
It was more than the unusual feeling of penetration, more than their proximity and the strength of Tom’s grip, his kisses, his moans of unbridled pleasure and the mixing of their sweat. It was because Tom was with him, around him, not only smothering him but also inside, and he had left some of himself there.
They had shared as much as two men could. James was complete.
When Tom finally rolled off, leaving James with the sense that he was empty and open, they lay whispering in each other’s arms. Tom offered for James to do the same to him, but he was exhausted.
The next day, the memory of the night and the physical feeling Tom left inside gave James an erection all morning, and try as he might, nothing would deflate his ardour, not even when Silas noticed at breakfast, or when they discovered the identity of the man who had fallen to his death. The events at the opera house were distant even by the following day, because James had very little thought for anyone apart from Tom.
The following night, with James’ aches and black eye healing, they reversed the roles, this time with less fumbling and more experience, and by the time Tom left for Larkspur, their newfound joy was equally shared and unrestricted.
James’ erotic reminiscing ended abruptly when he approached the telegraph office and found it closed. The main streets of Riverside had been cleared of snow, but the minor roads and paths were still ankle deep, and a new fall had begun. Not as heavy or wind-blown as the previous night, but enough to settle.
Unperturbed, he walked to the back yard. The sending office manager, Mr Grey lived only two streets away and, as James suspected, the back door was open, and the man was at work in the telegraph room.
‘Morning, Mr Grey,’ he greeted him as he unwrapped his scarf. The walk had left him cold on the outside but damp with sweat beneath his clothes.
Grey lived up to his name, it was the colour of his hair and the tint of his skin as if he never saw daylight. He sat alone at one of the machines, his head wrapped by earphones and his fingers tapping expertly on the control.
‘Morning, Mr Grey!’ James repeated more loudly.
Grey held up his other hand as his fingers continued to press the lever in what to anyone unused to the telegraph machine would have been a disorganised rhythm. James listened as he waited, deciphering what he could of the message being sent. It concerned a family unable to make a visit and, as was the way with most messages, it was short.
The telegram sent and received, Grey removed his earpiec
es and turned in his chair.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ he said, pleased to see James but also confused. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I need to send an urgent,’ James replied in telegraph shorthand. ‘Can you do it?’
‘You’ll have to wait.’ Grey pointed to a pile of unsent messages. ‘City travel is disrupted. This lot’s left over from yesterday. Everything’s an urgent.’
‘Are you the only one in?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I can do it,’ James volunteered. He knew the code and the machine well enough, but he also knew what Mr Grey’s answer would be.
‘Can’t allow that, lad.’
Archer’s message had suggested secrecy, but it was time to use his title. ‘It’s for Lord Clearwater,’ he said. ‘And there’s no-one else here. No-one will know.’
Grey considered the proposition and the pile of unsent messages. He glanced at the clock and the empty room. ‘Be quick.’
James wasted no time. Mr Grey was known for his leniency, but only towards those who worked hard. Luckily, James had been one of the fastest on his feet, the politest, and had always kept his nose clean. He slipped into a vacant seat and threw the switches on the wall, waiting a minute until an indicator light showed him the machine was powered up and running. By then, Grey was back under his phones and concentrating, and James had located the correct receiving office for Larkspur Hall and its registered location.
Although he knew the code and understood how the machines worked, he also searched a drawer and found the handbook, much thumbed and with some pages torn. It was best to ensure he sent the right combination of dots and dashes, the message was unintelligible enough as it was.
Relieved to find the receiving office operational, he opened his communication in the standard way, not sending until there was someone at the other end to transcribe. Satisfied, he double checked the spelling of Haverton and Hawley and tapped slowly through the text until it was done. Once he heard the received signal, he put the phones away and closed the machine.
Fallen Splendour Page 3
