He removed his boots. The air was freezing, and the water would be worse, but he had been colder. The Carpathian Mountains in winter had been an unforgiving training ground.
James had taken the viscount’s saddlebag, but Fecker had the pistol. Checking it was loaded, he put it in his pocket. His knife would stay in his hand. Having tied back his hair and cracked his knuckles, he rose to his full height and bent his back to free the stiffness. That done, he sighed in the manner of a man who doesn’t particularly want to go to work, but knows he must, and set off down the slope to the beach.
His eyes flicked between the doorway and the lamplight until it fell out of sight behind the rocks, and from then on, he looked straight ahead and walked through the receding water to the tower as if he was an expected guest. There was no sound other than the sea and the turning of the mechanism, and he tuned them out to leave his hearing free to pick up on any other noises.
He wasn’t expecting trouble. The men who had clambered out of the boat like clowns would not be a threat. A threat would have been the viscount giving orders, plotting and planning and complicating everything when all that was needed were surprise and strength. Archer was led by his heart, and a clear head was needed for this task.
No Viscount, no Silas. Nothing to distract.
In, slice, dead, out.
The thought focused Fecker’s mind as he stood at the top of the stairs and listened.
Metal, noise. Stay at the edge. Gun ready, khanjali in hand. Shaska would have been better. No voices. Step careful. Listen.
For once, his height was against him, and he crouched as he descended stealthily, ducking beneath floor level to see what lay below.
Light from underneath. One beam, one door.
The mechanism turned, the shaft ran through the floor and down into the darkness, and when it stopped moving, he heard water churning. The stairs circled the wall, and so did he, his back to it, keeping low, his eyes on the door as it came into view. The churning became louder. Each turn of the shaft was followed by the swirl of the sea and, in the pauses between, drips echoed as they would at the bottom of a well. He drew opposite the door and leant over the bannister. There was nothing down there but an undulating blackness, rising and falling as the waves came and went. The suction drove the mechanism that worked the shaft that turned the cogs that once worked the light.
Clever.
He waited for the next turn of the machine and timed his descent to coincide. Waiting when it was still and moving with the sound, he reached the open door and listened.
No voices. What’s that? Snoring?
The machine moved. He put his head around the door jamb, glanced in, took in the sight and backed out.
Tall one sleeping. Fat one standing at window smoking. Back to me. Girls on floor. Asleep?
He hadn’t seen.
See me, scream, wake other. Might have gun. Check.
He flashed his head around the door and came face to face with the kidnapper.
The man’s cigarette fell from his mouth as he yelled in surprise.
Slice. Dead.
The kidnapper crumpled to his knees, blood gushing from his throat as he fell forwards. Fecker caught him before he hit the walkway and held him until the body stopped twitching when he lay it silently on the ground. Back at the door, he crouched and looked in. One of the girls was awake, blinking and concerned. She saw Fecker and her mouth opened, her eyes wide. She drew in a breath.
No scream.
His finger was at his lips, his stare so intense the girl was shocked into silence. He put his hands to the side of his face to mime sleep, but the knife glinted in the lamplight, and she was unable to hold back a piercing shriek of panic that drowned the turning of the mechanism.
You let her see knife. Now who’s idiot?
The second kidnapper was on his feet in a heartbeat and fumbling for a weapon.
Tall. Face of craters. Ugly. I know this bastard.
Fecker burst into the room, launched himself and grabbed the man’s arm as he pulled a revolver from his pocket. The kidnapper crashed onto his back with the Ukrainian’s full weight on top as Fecker used him as a cushion, driving the wind from him and breaking ribs. The man’s head hit stone, and the gun scuttled across the floor.
Fecker’s knife was at his throat before he had a chance to draw breath.
‘Who are you?’ Fecker demanded, pressing the blade to his flesh. ‘Name.’
‘Please…’ The blade pressed harder. ‘Please!’
Don’t cut. This diversion. Not Quill. Who?
‘Name.’
‘Eddie Lovemount. I’m only doing what I was paid for.’
‘Why here?’
‘Please,’ Lovemount begged. ‘I don’t know. Just doing as I was told.’
Snivelling prick-sticker.
‘You hurt girls?’
‘No. Get off me.’
‘Girls?’ Fecker bellowed. ‘You hurt?’
There was no reply. He glanced. Huddled against the wall, their hands and feet were tied, but they were not injured.
He took Lovemount by the throat and dragged him to his feet before slamming him into the wall. The man yelled in pain, Fecker butted him in the head, and he collapsed in a heap.
‘Girls,’ Fecker said, watching Lovemount to make sure he wasn’t getting up. ‘Iona, Karan. I help you.’
They shrank from him as he approached, and he lowered the knife before squatting.
‘I am Andrej,’ he said. ‘Silas is my friend.’
Their identical eyes flickered in recognition. Their faces were dirty, cheeks streaked with dried tears. They were trembling and poorly clothed.
‘I not hurt you,’ he said. ‘I cut ropes. Don’t worry.’ He smiled at the first girl. ‘Who are you? Karan?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Iona. I cut ropes. No worry. Understand?’
She nodded meekly, and he raised her arms. Placing the blade between her hands, he cut towards himself, and after a moment of sawing, her hands were free. She shuffled back to offer her feet, and that rope gave easily.
‘Karan,’ he said, moving crab-like to her. ‘I do same…’
Karan screamed.
Prick-sticker not stay down.
He was up and spinning at Lovemount when the revolver fired. The report was deafening and hurt his ears, but the bullet was wide of its mark.
Fecker ran at him. He was not going to give the man a second chance, but Lovemount took a second shot. A spark flared as the bullet ricocheted off the knife and the blade spun from his hand.
No more chances.
Fecker planted his foot in the man’s gut, doubling him over and brought the side of his hand down onto Lovemount’s wrist. The gun clattered to the ground but, undeterred, Lovemount fought back. Screaming wildly, he charged into Fecker headfirst, winding him and forcing him back, off balance, through the open doorway, across the walkway and over the rail.
He fell through blackness fumbling with his attacker, turning him and landing on him as they slammed into rock. He heard Lovemount’s bones break. Their heads met, jolting Fecker’s teeth painfully, and he bit his tongue.
Idiot boy. Is dead?
The machine groaned, somewhere nearby a cog clanked into place, and Fecker was swamped by a wall of freezing water. It washed over him, he gasped, and the water ran off.
‘Iona!’ he yelled. ‘Bring me light.’
Is boy dead?
Tightening his hands around Lovemount’s throat, he squeezed.
This not murder. This saving family. Banyak has no other. I have no other.
The body fell limp in his grip, and he pushed it away.
For what you do to Banyak. For what you do to family.
/> Another wash of water as the waves drove the wheels that turned the shaft that moved the cogs that wound the spring, and when it had passed, the chamber glowed lighter. He looked up to see the girl holding the lantern over the railing, her sister beside her.
He had fallen ten feet, but the walls, though wet and slimy, looked easy to climb. Reaching for a handhold in the gloom, he found a niche, evenly cut and cold, and gripped it with his fingers.
Looking to his feet to find a foothold, he glanced at Lovemount’s body. It was just a narrow shape in the dark, wallowing in seawater as the waves were sucked and pushed, swaying him with his arms open like a drunkard in a dance.
Fecker spat. A wave washed over him, and he prepared to climb.
Agonising pain brought a roar that outdid even the heavy scrape of the machine. The niche was not meant for fingers, it was meant for the cogs that rolled when the light moved. Two of his fingers were crushed, and instantly, the cog became stuck.
Swearing, he took the weight on his other hand as his feet slipped for purchase on the grime, and the water lapped at his waist.
‘Iona!’ he shouted, holding back the agony. ‘The light!’
She leant over as far as she dared, but the lantern didn’t throw enough glow for him to see a way to free his fingers. He found a foothold and was trying to force the cog free when another wave rolled in. The machine crushed with more force but didn’t release him. Worse, with the mechanism disabled, the water couldn’t be released. It was up to his chest.
This not so good.
The pain was unbearable. Another turn of the shaft and he would pass out.
Banyak. Think of Banyak. He needs family.
A wave. Blinding torture in his hand and a scream cut short as seawater poured into his mouth. He thrashed. It didn’t help, and when the water receded, it was up to his chin.
‘Girls,’ he called between splutters. ‘Tell Silas I loved him.’
Is no good. Here the journey ends. I come find you Vladyslav, Alina. We play again in the fields. You meet Banyak one day.
Another wave. He held his breath.
This will be easy.
The pain had gone, and he was at peace. Like the viscount, he had tried.
The water cleared from his eyes and through the blur, a young girl reached for him, her hand outstretched like a welcoming angel offering him his only possession, his grandfather’s khanjali.
Twenty-One
Cold, exhausted and fuming, James led Archer to the railway station, arriving with five minutes to spare. Dismounting, he passed his horse to the livery boy before helping Archer from his saddle. It was hard to say who was more furious; the viscount for the way he had been treated, or James with himself for what he had done. At that moment, however, there was no time for debate.
‘Where is your horse from?’ he asked, leading it quickly to the stable.
Archer told him the company name, and he passed the animal over with the information, offering the stable lad the correct amount of money to ensure the horse was returned. He was amazed how clearly his mind was working on so little sleep and too much stress, but thought to straighten his clothes and calm his anger as he returned to the viscount.
‘We must hurry, Sir,’ he said. ‘Through here.’
The viscount had no option but to follow him onto the platform.
‘Good Lord, what have you done?’ he said seeing the cream and brown Pullman car. It bore the royal coat of arms and was one of only two cars behind a Rover class locomotive appropriately enough called Courier. The engine, fitted with a snow plough, was impatiently releasing steam while a smartly uniformed guard patiently studied his watch.
James had a similar reaction when he saw the train at Euston. It didn’t feel like seven hours ago, and he couldn’t comprehend how it had brought him halfway across the country so quickly. The answer was simple; money, and a poet with connections.
The guard opened the door and stood back, allowing Archer to board first. James followed, and the door was slammed. A second later, a whistle blew, and the engine huffed into life.
After the freezing temperatures outside, the Pullman was oppressively warm, and James wasted no time taking off the coat and releasing his scarf. He threw his gloves onto a chair and stripped off his jacket. His shirt was wet with sweat, he could hardly feel his fingers, and his eyes had never been so sore. It took the viscount a little longer to realise where he was and discard his overcoat, he was confused and rightly so. James had much explaining to do.
‘Sit down, Sir,’ he said.’
He might have lost his job along with his temper, but neither stopped him from being courteous. His mother would have understood his behaviour, but she would never forgive him for forgetting his manners.
‘I have arranged for a hot supper to be brought once we are up to speed. We shall be in Euston by eight thirty where there will be carriages waiting for us. You must go to Clearwater House, change and be in court by ten, earlier if you can. Please, Sir, sit and let me explain.’
Archer was glaring with eyes that flitted like bats from one thought to another. His mouth opened, but no words came. He touched his jaw.
‘I am truly sorry about that, Sir,’ James said hovering behind His Lordship’s chair. ‘I quite understand that you will dismiss me for it, and I shan’t hold it against you if you report the assault to the authorities, but please, for Silas’ sake, hear what I have to say before you throw me from the carriage.’
The viscount was still not moving. James approached carefully, took his arm and led him to the seat where he helped him gently into it before taking the one opposite. They sat facing each other across the table as the train gathered momentum.
‘What did…?’ Archer began, but stopped and looked away as if to pick the first question from among a hundred. His lost gaze returned to James. ‘What has he done?’
‘Nothing.’
Archer accepted the statement with a nod, his brow wrinkled in thought.
‘When you are recovered,’ James said. ‘I will explain everything. What do you need right now?’
‘Answers.’
‘Fine, but first, you should have my apology. I have borrowed from your safe. I am wearing your clothes. I have used your name for my own purpose, and I have used your house as if it was mine. On top of that, I have punched you in the jaw and dragged you across a Welsh hillside, sworn at you and spoken to you as if you were an East End tosher. For all of that, you have my apologies and my resignation, but before I tell you why, I want you to know that Silas is, for now, safe.’
Feeling better for unloading the only kind of apology he could make, James sat back and waited for the shouting.
It didn’t happen. Archer continued to stare, blinking but doing little else until the porter appeared from the guard’s van bringing a tray of tea.
‘Is now convenient, Mr Wright?’ the man asked.
‘Thank you, Mr Carlton, yes.’
The arrival of normality in the shape of a silver teapot and bone china brought life back to the viscount’s face. He too sat back and let Carlton do his work, which he did expertly. Having worked for the railway for over twenty years, he was accustomed to late night specials and the unusual behaviour of the aristocracy who chartered them.
‘Shall I pour, Sir?’
‘I’ll do it, thanks, Mr Carlton. Can you bring supper in half an hour?’
‘Of course, Sir.’
The porter bowed a retreat, and James poured them both tea. Archer’s hands were trembling when he tried to lift his cup, and it clattered on the saucer, his fingers were too cold to hold it.
‘Here.’ James put the cup down and turned it into Archer’s palm where he wrapped the man’s finger around the bowl. ‘That’s how Silas drinks. It keeps your hands warmer.’
Maybe it was the first sips of hot tea, or maybe it was the name, but Archer appeared slightly more responsive. He was, however, still not talking, and James wasn’t sure how much he had heard.
‘Do you understand why I had to do that, Sir?’ he asked. ‘This is a desperate matter.’ When Archer didn’t respond, James said, ‘Are you listening to me, Archer?’
The use of his Christian name did the trick, as if, before hearing it, he didn’t know who James was talking to. Archer shook his head and cleared his throat, holding the footman’s stare with eyes that were no longer blinking.
‘I heard every word, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘It’s me who needs to apologise. My mind was on Fecker. I have been beastly to him. Of course, I trust the man. I trust you…’ He took James by surprise and clutched his hand. ‘My mind has been so befuddled I have lost my manners, and now, I fear, I have lost Andrej’s friendship if there ever was any. The man is more a warrior than any of us will ever be, and he is more of a man than I. I have treated him badly.’
‘I doubt that, Sir,’ James said, glad that he was finally communicating. ‘Now, are you ready to hear what I have to tell you? I warn you, you will be outraged.’
Archer’s chocolate eyes lifted from where they had been watching his hands, and although bagged and heavy, they appeared sympathetic.
‘I have been struck in the face by a footman wearing my tweeds on a God-forsaken hillside in the middle of the night,’ he said. ‘Nothing could be more outrageous. You have a good right hook, Jimmy.’
Fallen Splendour Page 24
