An Unseen Attraction Page 9

  Clem put his hand over his eyes. He didn’t want to go into the arrangement, and in any case he couldn’t because of the arrangement, and even if he did, what would that achieve? Rowley would be bound to misunderstand or misinterpret it if he didn’t know how much Edmund had done for Clem, just as Polly had when Clem had explained it to her. Everyone always took against Edmund.

  “My brother has nothing to do with murders,” he said instead. “Nothing, and I won’t have anyone say so. I’ve told him about poor Mr. Lugtrout and if there is anything—which there won’t be—he’ll make sure the police know. But I’m not going to cause him trouble for no reason.”

  “No reason!”

  “You don’t know my brother. I’m as worried about this as you are, but I’m not going to waste the police’s time and make Edmund angry when this is all probably because Mr. Lugtrout lost money at dice to the wrong man or some such, and I don’t see why—”

  “Because I’m frightened!” Rowley shouted. “Because I know what it takes to chop through joints, or break a skull, and that’s on dead animals. Do you know what kind of man does that, cuts and chops and breaks living things, living people? Do you know what it means to find that easy? But someone did it to Mr. Lugtrout while he was tied up and screaming, on the same evening someone was in my shop. Not just on your doorstep; in my shop. So I’m sorry if you don’t want your brother mildly inconvenienced by speaking to the police, but forgive me for being bloody terrified last night’s character is going to come back for his billy club!”

  “I’m sorry you’re scared,” Clem said. “But I don’t think panicking is going to help.”

  “I am not panicking,” Rowley said through his teeth. “I am trying to think of answers.”

  “You’re clutching at straws. I don’t know what happened last night, but we both know it’s nothing to do with either of us. Don’t we?”

  “I know it’s nothing to do with me.”

  Clem wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he was absolutely sure it meant something, and he was exhausted and utterly drained, and trying very hard not to be afraid too. “Well, it’s nothing to do with me either, or my brother, and I’ve work to do. You know, because one of my lodgers was murdered last night, so I have to deal with the actual consequences. I’ll see you later.”

  —

  Rowley didn’t come for tea that Sunday night, instead slipping upstairs. Clem felt guilty, but also perhaps a little relieved. He hadn’t liked that argument, and in any case, with the whole house still stunned by the morning’s horrors, any sort of socialising would seem inappropriate.

  Rowley was quiet as usual at breakfast on Monday, and Clem didn’t quite want to catch his eye, in case whatever was on his own face was too easy for others to read. He’d been planning to attend the next lecture on Tennyson at the Institute that night, and though it crossed his mind to skip it in favour of a conversation with Rowley, he rejected the idea. Rowley knew he intended to go; if he stayed at home in the hope of Rowley coming for a cup of tea, how would that look? Then Tuesday’s breakfast was the same story as Monday, and Rowley went to work. By Tuesday evening it felt like months since they’d spoken.

  Clem had no idea what to do. He’d never had anything like what had seemed to be developing with Rowley. He’d had a fair few encounters at the Jack, with men who were already friends or became friends after, but that wasn’t like the impossible domesticity of having a lover in one’s own house. Sitting by the fireside as other people did, drinking tea, in simple, lawful intercourse. This felt like…like the first quarrel of a courting couple, he supposed, and he didn’t know how to make it right, or if he should. If there were unwritten rules, or rules that everyone else knew, that said men didn’t give each other second chances, or make demands, or apologise. He wasn’t even quite sure what he wanted to apologise for.

  He decided he would wait for Rowley on Tuesday evening. Ask him to come in, and say…oh, something useful, something to mend the gaping hole that had opened up between them. But in the event, Mr. Rillington came down to complain about Mr. Power, who had been late again on Monday, thus making it even more likely they would all be murdered in their beds, and Mr. Power also felt it necessary to put his case. Clem even heard the front door open at some point in the nerve-scraping half hour that followed, but there was no being rid of the brangling pair, and Clem had to give Mr. Power a reminder that turned into an ultimatum, which didn’t go down well at all. Rowley had long gone up to bed before Clem was finally left alone.

  And then, on Wednesday, Edmund arrived.

  Clem was working at his books when there was a nervous little knock at the door. It was pushed open to reveal Elsie, the tweeny, who announced in a thread of a voice, “Visitor, Mr. Talleyfer,” and was unceremoniously put out of the way by Edmund’s firm hand.

  Clem jumped to his feet, though his heart didn’t feel like it rose with the rest of him. Edmund looked furious. He was twenty years older than Clem, nearly fifty now, and a very imposing man. Mostly bald but with a moustache to make up for it; well dressed with a glittering watch chain decorating his yellow silk waistcoat and well-cut suit; still hale and fit for his age.

  “Edmund, g-good—good morning.” Clem clenched a fist. He always stuttered in his imposing brother’s presence. Edmund loathed it when he stuttered, and that knowledge made Clem nervous, which made him stutter. It didn’t seem entirely fair.

  “What the devil is going on, Clement?” Edmund demanded without preamble.

  “W-what?”

  “What do you mean, what? Murder, you imbecile! Mr. Lugtrout, murdered!”

  “But that wasn’t my fault!” Clem protested.

  “Your fault? I should damned well hope not. Did I accuse you? Can I not bring a simple question to you and have it answered without nonsense?”

  Clem desperately tried to remember what the question had been. “I don’t know about, about Mr. Lugtrout. He went out on Friday morning and his body was left here on Sunday morning. I don’t know anything.”

  “Vanished on Friday? A man I told you was of great concern to me, whose well-being was a matter of importance, vanished, and what did you do about it?”

  “We went looking for him,” Clem returned, thanking heaven he could say so. “We went to every one of his usual haunts we could think of on Saturday. I was going to go to the police on Sunday, but—”

  “We. Who is we?”

  “Mr. Green and myself. He’s one of the lodgers, a preserver. He has the shop next door.”

  “The stuffer,” Edmund said, like an accusation. “And why did you involve him in my private business?”

  “I didn’t!” Clem protested. “He simply came to, to, to help me talk to people in the public houses and find, find—”

  “Yes, yes.” Edmund waved the end of the sentence away. “I cannot like it. This house was intended to provide lodgings for skilled artisans.”

  “Mr. Green is very skilled.” Clem’s nails were biting into his palm now. If Edmund had it in mind to throw Rowley out…“He pays his rent on time, he’s very quiet and helpful. And he tried to help me find Mr. Lugtrout.”

  Edmund took an impatient turn about the room, hissing with irritation at a pile of papers Clem knew he should have put away. The room that seemed so homelike with Rowley in it looked very small and shabby around Edmund. “This man, Green, he knew where to look for Mr. Lugtrout. Had he been ingratiating himself, currying favour?”

  “No,” Clem said, bewildered. “Polly and Elsie and I put our heads together to come up with places he’d mentioned going, and Mr. Green came with me to help me ask questions. Why do you want to know about him?”

  “I don’t like his trade, and I don’t like the sound of this fellow. You’re too trusting, Clement, I have told you that. Naive to a fault, and easily taken advantage of.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Green is doing that,” Clem said as calmly as he could. Had he? They’d pleasured each other with equal generosity; Rowley had never asked
for anything. Except—“Edmund, why did you want Mr. Lugtrout here?”

  “That is my business, and none of yours.”

  “The police were asking questions about him,” Clem persisted. “And, and I didn’t say anything about him or how he came to lodge here, but they seemed to think the man who killed him, uh, tortured him first. To punish him or to find something out.”

  “Nonsense,” Edmund said. “Arrant nonsense. He was a clergyman. He had his moral failing in the matter of drink, he was sadly afflicted, but torture? That cannot be right. You must have mistaken them.”

  “It’s what Inspector Ellis said,” Clem persisted. “And Mr. Green’s shop was broken into the same night—”

  “This Green again. His shop? Where was this man on the night of the tragic event?”

  “Well, he dined with me, and then he went to bed,” Clem said, baffled. “Why?”

  Edmund made an exasperated noise in his throat. “You really are an idiot. I’m disappointed in you, Clement. I gave you this place, a secure home, a living, and asked of you only that you offer a home to an unfortunate dependent—”

  “I did.”

  “Kindly don’t interrupt me. These rag manners will not do. It is very evident that Mr. Lugtrout has been the victim of foul play, that he had his confidence abused—confidence that he was unable to place in you, Clement, confidence that he should have been able to place in you, for my sake.” Edmund’s hand was twitching, as though he wanted to thump it on a desk. “I want to know in whom he did place that confidence, to whom he turned when you failed him. I want to know who it was that he could trust here. Or outside the house.”

  “What? How should I know that?”

  “You should have known,” Edmund said heavily. “You should have made his well-being your care, instead of whining to be relieved from the one responsibility I have ever asked you to bear. I wonder at you, Clement. I suggest you make what amends are in your power now. Find out who it is to whom he turned, so I can at least relieve my mind about my poor friend’s last days on this earth. Find out if his confidence was well placed or abused. Do this for me, Clement, because I may say, I am very tired of doing things for you.”

  —

  Clem wasn’t quite sure what he did after that. The awareness of having let Edmund down, after all his forbearance, was sickening, and so was the rebellious sense of injustice that nagged at him. He never asked you to be Lugtrout’s friend, it said, and It’s not your fault the man was murdered, and You should have told him so.

  That was the worst of it. Clem could stand up for himself when he had to, he wasn’t a doormat, but arguments were too fast and loud and confusing, and the counterarguments never seemed apparent until he thought about it later, and then he felt stupid for failing to make them at the time.

  And he couldn’t argue against his brother. Duty to the head of the family had been drilled into Clem since before he could walk. It was instinctive, and with reason. Everything he had was at Edmund’s gift, and it behoved Clem to be grateful.

  In any case, Edmund was right, in that Clem hadn’t done anything more for Lugtrout than house him, endure his disruption, soothe the other lodgers, and put him to bed when drunk. And whether it was reasonable or not for Edmund to have expected more, he held the purse strings. Clem lived by his kindness. This house was his work, his home, and his income, all thanks to Edmund, who had told him often enough that he’d starve without that support, and could take it away whenever he chose.

  It wasn’t a very warming thought, somehow.

  Clem was sitting in his usual chair, staring at the wall, stroking Cat and wondering how on earth he was supposed to find out who a dead man’s friends were, when there was a soft knock at the door.

  “What is it?” he called, feeling too weary for any more drama.

  The door opened. “Clem? It’s me.”

  “Rowley?”

  “Don’t get up.” Rowley came in, shutting the door. “I wouldn’t want you to disturb Cat.”

  Cat promptly hopped off Clem’s lap and went to wrap himself around Rowley’s ankles, purring like a clockwork motor. Clem envied him. “He missed you.”

  Rowley bent and scooped Cat into his arms. “I missed him. Clem, may I have a word with you? I, uh…I don’t feel as though we’ve spoken in a while, and— Are you all right? You look rather distressed.”

  “My brother came over. He wasn’t very pleased, he, uh, he—” To Clem’s dismay, his voice cracked.

  Rowley tossed Cat unceremoniously away and was over at the chair in three strides. “What did he say? What happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. It—”

  “Don’t you dare,” Rowley said. “Don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t matter or I’ll…I’ll fill your room with comical rat mounts.”

  Clem spluttered with unexpected laughter. “You’ll what?”

  “I’m not very good at threats. You might tell me what happened, so I don’t have to think up something more elaborate.” Rowley dropped to his haunches, taking Clem’s hand. “Please?”

  Clem stared at him, then they both moved at once. Rowley’s arms were around him, Rowley’s narrow shoulders in his own embrace, holding on, until Rowley’s mouth came up and Clem’s down, bumping teeth and lips, Clem’s cheekbone knocking Rowley’s spectacles, and then fitting, fitting blissfully back together. Rowley’s mouth was hungry, demanding, moving hard on Clem’s for a moment, then stilling with a little gasp. Clem pulled back to meet his eyes, magnified behind the skewed lenses, wasn’t sure what he saw there except wanting, but moved in to kiss him again, and Rowley’s hands clamped on his shoulders, tugging. Mouths open, tongues tangling, Rowley’s fingers in his hair and on his spine, Clem’s gripping Rowley’s arse and holding on, to a pleasure or a lifeline.

  The pace ebbed, to something no less hungry but deeper, like the slow thump of a great animal’s heartbeat. Clem sank into that, the feel of Rowley, the certainty of him, here, swamping every other thought, until, after minutes or days, Rowley’s hands slid up and round to Clem’s face. He was still kneeling; Clem was on the edge of the chair. He wanted to push Rowley onto his back on the rug, lie over him, feel that slight body under his own; he wanted never to move from here, staring into Rowley’s dappled hazel-wood eyes.

  “I missed you,” Rowley whispered.

  Clem nodded, having nothing more he could say than that. Rowley’s eyes searched his for a moment longer, then he let go of Clem’s face and sat back on his heels with a sigh. “Oh, Lord. So, what about your brother?”

  “Could we, uh, keep on not talking about him?” Clem suggested hopefully.

  Rowley levered himself off the floor. “Not unless we lock the door and can be very sure nobody will disturb us. I’m sorry, Clem. I’ve been thoroughly foul-tempered these last few days. The fact is, I’m terrified.”

  “Of what? The murder, or is there something particular?”

  “Oh, the general,” Rowley said. “I don’t like shouting, or violence, or threats, and I’m not big enough to brawl with thugs who carry coshes. I told you my father drank, didn’t I? Well, he was not a pleasant man in his cups.”

  “Is that why you have the scars?” Clem asked on a breath. “The…” He mimed a line across Rowley’s chest.

  Rowley gave a single, quick nod. “As I say, not pleasant. I learned my trade because there was a preserver’s shop down the road and I used to spend a deal of time there so as not to be at home.”

  “That was the man who paid for your spectacles?”

  “Mr. Morris. He was a widower with no children of his own. He bought them, and let me sweep up in the shop, and then taught me the work, and I went to live with him after—when I couldn’t live with my father any more. I don’t like anger and I learned early on it was best to run from it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone with this business, considering it’s a great deal worse for you.”

  “It’s not,” Clem said. “I don’t like it, but we just have to get through it, don�
��t we? Not to say it’s easy, but I don’t suppose anyone would find a murder on the doorstep easy.”

  “Probably not.”

  “But I did miss you,” Clem said. “And I shouldn’t have dismissed your concerns. I’m sorry too. Is your father still alive?”

  “No. No, he was, uh, he was hanged, actually. When I was fifteen.”

  “Hanged? For what?”

  Rowley pressed his lips together. Clem felt a sharp stab of guilt. “I’m sorry. I said I didn’t want to talk about my family, and now I’m prying into yours. Don’t tell me if you don’t want.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want, precisely. I’ll tell you if you like. But it’s not a pretty story and I’ve come a long way to leave it behind, if one can leave these things behind. And it’s also not the most important thing right now.”

  “All right, but could you remind me what is?” Clem asked cautiously, and Rowley’s grin lit his unusually sombre face like dawn.

  “Bless you. The important thing now, to my mind, is what on earth your brother said to make you look so distressed, and whether I can be of any help.”

  “Um. That might be important now, but…Will you come for tea this evening? When we can lock the door and not be disturbed?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  Something that had been like a clenched fist relaxed in Clem’s chest. “Good. Well, my brother. Um.” He wanted to pour it all out, to make Rowley understand, but there was the arrangement and Edmund was angry enough as it was. “He owns this house. He gave me this work, he lets me live here. I don’t know what I’d do otherwise.” Rowley’s brows drew together in a questioning frown. “Well, you must see that I’d—that I’m not precisely employable.”

  “No, I don’t see that at all. I’m not suggesting you’d thrive as a clerk, but you work as hard as anyone I’ve met.”

  “Yes,” Clem said. “I have to. This place suits me, it’s all…it all fits, now, and I don’t want to lose it. And that’s the thing. When Edmund set me up here, it must be eight years ago, he made the condition about Mr. Lugtrout. That he should live here as long as he wished, that I wouldn’t ask him for rent. Edmund didn’t say that I was to—to befriend him or take particular care of him, I’m sure he didn’t, or I don’t remember if he did. Only that he was to be made comfortable as a lodger, and I did, I lost four good lodgers because of him, but now Edmund’s furious, and of course he is, his friend or at least his dependent is dead, murdered, and I can’t even tell him who Mr. Lugtrout’s friends are after eight years living here, and—”