Page 6 of The Demons of Wychwood

THE SPECIAL DELIVERY

I was one of hundreds of clerks responsible for sorting incoming mailbags at the General Post Office warehouse in St Paul’s. I specifically dealt with mail for the Western Central district of London—a residential enclave for the well-to-do. So that meant I sorted mail for nobs—the Lords and Ladies, Princes and Princesses, Foreign ambassadors, and their households in areas around Bloomsbury, Holborn, Russell Square, Kensington, and Chelsea.

Three years ago, I’d been in battle. I knew I was to have returned from the war with all of my arms, legs and my noggin on straight, cos others weren’t so lucky. When we returned to England, the commander of our battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Ashbury proved himself to be a rare man of honour. Initially, Ashbury hadn’t even known my name; I was one of a thousand men he was in charge of. But during a skirmish I’d seen he was in trouble and I’d pulled him out of the range of an enemy’s sword. I’d saved his life and that was something neither of us could forget. I knew by then that the army was not for me. I couldn’t do twenty-one years of this, my daily life ranging from boredom to hell. I decided I’d resign and forgo my pension when I got back to England. Ashbury said he owed me; he’d put in a good word with one of his friends to ensure I got a civilian job, and he was true to his word. The friend in question happened to be a high-up at the GPO.

Being a sorting clerk for the mail of high society was a big responsibility. The days were long and repetitive, which is why it was a nice change to have a job on the side once in a while.

Traveling Post Office trains arrived at Paddington Station each morning carrying correspondence from all over the country. By the time the mailbags reached London, letters had been sorted, ready to be distributed to the clerks for each sub-division. When me and the lads got our mail sacks, we categorized letters by street, and then delivery boys picked up their bags and set out to make their rounds.

I had a keen eye; swift reflexes and I didn’t mess up. This made me a well-liked, reliable worker. A clerk who keeps messing up slows down the whole process, making the deliveries late, and then the nobs complain that they ain’t got their mail to read with their breakfast kippers! If that ever happens the Superintendent is on our backs, and no one wants that!

Witnessing young aristocrat’s attempted suicide at Wychwood had knocked me for six and left me out of sorts. Elowen noticed that I wasn’t myself, and even though I told her I was just tired, I could never get one over on my sister! I didn’t tell her the in’s and out’s, just that a young fellow I knew tried to top himself and I’d found him and helped him.

Each morning on the way to work and each night on the way home I’d sit on an omnibus and look out the window. I saw people living hand to mouth, begging on street corners, clothed in rags, and rummaging through scraps the shop keepers left out at the end of the day. None of them was giving up and lying down to die. They were fighting to survive. Part of me was bloody furious that this indulgent rich bloke thought it was fine and dandy to give up so easily when most of us make do with nuffin’. Other times, I hated myself for being such a nosy bugger and for not being able to stop thinking about 27. I couldn’t tell no one the truth of what had happened but keeping it to myself was gonna send me to the nuthouse.

“Are you coming dahhn wiv somefin’ Lazarus?” A reedy sneering voice asked as I was swatted across the head with a letter and pulled out of my daze.

“This is for ‘ampstead, an; you’ve gone an’ put it in the pile for my round in Covent Garden!” Jim Briggs, one of the postmen for the Western Central District complained.

“Oh Gods. Sorry Jim. I don’t know where my heads at these days!” I said chagrined and flustered. I prided myself in having the strictest of standards and rarely made mistakes.

“Well, I won’t be traipsing halfway across town to deliver one stinking letter that isn’t even on my round, you hear?” The postman grumbled. Jim collected his pile of letters, stuffed them in his delivery bag and then brightened,

“Hey ‘arold. You’re doin’ ‘ampstead, yeah? This one should be in your bag!” Briggs hollered to another postman as he was heading towards the door.

I sat at my station in the huge sorting room, with postal clerks working around me like bees. With the second delivery sorted and sent out I felt drained to my very bones. I slumped in my chair and I rested my head in my hands. I noted the scent of paper and smoke on my fingers. I hadn’t slept properly in days cos every time I closed my eyes, I saw 27 sleeping and remembered how his skin felt to my fingertips. I shouldn’t know what it felt like to touch a man of his station in such an intimate way, but the feeling of his skin, the memory of his mouth, they were sinful gifts I couldn’t forget. I knew then that I was most certainly heading for the nuthouse! I should have collected my next sack of mail to sort, but instead I looked up and sat staring into the dark empty pigeon holes ahead and blocked out the sounds of the industry around me. I fell back into remembrance, of winding a dark silky curl around my finger.

A tap on my shoulder made me jump. I turned and stiffened when I saw Superintendent Stockton standing erect with his hands behind his back in a military stance. Fear flooded through me, this meant trouble.

“Is paid employment keeping you from your sleep, Mr. Lazarus?” Stockton said with his regular waspish deadpan sarcasm?

“Uh… n…no sir,”

“It’s been duly noted that you are not performing to the standard required by the General Post Office of Great Britain,” Stockton said succinctly.

Oh, bugger, I knew the lads around the sorting room were listening in to my humiliation. We all did it with a kind of macabre fascination every time Stockton went off on one! I sent a quick side glance to Billy, the clerk who worked at the sorting station beside me, and saw my old mate wince and continue rapidly sorting letters into their corresponding pigeonholes.

“You need to buck up your ideas, Lazarus because there are hundreds of bright, keen young men ready to step into your shoes, do you hear. You. Are. Expendable.” He stabbed a chubby sausage finger at me reinforcing his reprimand. “You are very lucky to be employed by the General Post Office and don’t you forget it.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir. I will endeavour to meet your exemplary standards, sir.”

Stockton seemed reassured by my turn of phrase.

“Yes, yes, very well then, continue,” he ordered. The superintendent was about to move off and find his next tardy victim, but he glanced at his feet, and I saw what he saw at the same time. My superior’s face turned beetroot red. Stockton bent down and scooped an ivory envelope from beneath my chair. Oh gawd, I’m done for now , I thought. This was a disaster, and I’d be lucky if I wasn’t fired on the spot.

“There it is! I was looking for that!” I said as I whipped the errant letter from his fingers. “I do apologize for the oversight, sir. I’ll deliver this letter myself during my break.” I simpered before Stockton’s red face exploded with rage. I couldn’t sit there a second longer and wait to get shouted at in front of my mates.

“Don’t you worry sir!” I said, groping for my flat cap. “I won’t take a lunch break. This will be delivered on time, I assure you.”

“Yes, you see to it. And mark my words, Lazarus; I’ll be keeping an eye on you!” Stockton barked before marching down the line to find the next clerk with a hair out of place.

I grimaced as the midday bells of St Paul’s Cathedral rang out.

“Blimey, Felix, you’re sly fox. I thought you woz for the high jump then!” Billy laughed as he continued to sort his mail.

“You and me both, mate, you and me both!” I dragged my coat from the back of the chair, shrugged into it, then wound the woollen scarf around my neck that Elowen had knitted for me.

“I’ll get a hot potato from the stall for you, yeah?” Billy suggested. I was relieved to hear it because I’d have no time to stop and eat.

“Thanks, mate, I owe you one,” I said with a nod. Clutching the letter, I rushed to the exit. I clocked out and would need to clock in again by twelve-thirty or my afternoon wages would get docked.

By the time I walked through the corridors at the GPO and onto the street the bells of St Paul’s had stopped ringing, and the sounds of the city wrapped around me. Horse-drawn carriages, omnibuses, carts and a throng of people swarmed this part of the metropolis. I suddenly paused realizing that I hadn’t even looked at the address on the front of the letter. “ Oi!” I roared as I was buffeted by a passerby.

“Don’t stand in the path then, you bleedin’ numbskull!” The stranger shouted back. I scowled and put my back to the wall as I glanced at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to;

Lord Christopher Havelock

Duke of Penhelligan,

20 St James’ Square,

London .

Blimey! This was one of the most exclusive addresses in London. And I knew that name, Penhelligan! My hackles rose and my protective urges came to the fore. A wrong had been done to my family by those at a Devonshire country estate named Penhelligan Hall. Could this Duke and the hall be connected? I wanted to find out, but I needed to do it in such a way that I didn’t lose my job. I didn’t wear a uniform, and it was clear that I wasn’t a mail delivery boy. I’d not only need to deliver the letter quickly but hope that this Lord Penhelligan didn’t reprimand me for the unusual method of delivery or cause a fuss, as nobs are prone to do!

Unless I suddenly grew wings there was no way I could make it all the way to St James’s and then back to St Paul’s in thirty minutes. I wondered if I could just pretend I’d made the delivery and slip the letter into the next mail round, but Superintendent Stockton had seen the address, and he was notoriously a nosey bugger. I wouldn’t put it past the man to check. My shoulders sagged and I resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be a costly error. I’d have to pay for a hack and hope the midday traffic across town wasn’t too bad. It was near the end of the week and money was tight until payday. I rarely touched the money I earned at Wychwood. Elowen and I relied on my weekly earnings from the GPO and the coin she made from doing embroidery piecework at home. I thrust my hand into my trouser pocket, and on pulling it out and opening my palm, I saw I only had three shillings and sixpence. At sixpence per mile, the coins would get me a cab across town, but I’d need to run like the devil was at my arse to make it back to St Paul’s in time for my afternoon shift.

It was always easy to hire a hack around St Paul’s as London’s full of sinners seeking absolution and they visit the grand cathedral thinking they’ll find it! The journey to St James’ took ten minutes. I sat in the hack with its worn leather banquette seat, the driver standing on his perch behind me shouting curses at every cove who dared cross the road in front of his old nag. I held the envelope between my fingers and stared at the flowing feminine script of the address. I sniffed the paper and detected the faint scent of lavender. I wondered if this was a letter from a sweetheart, or something else. Was Lord Penhelligan young and courting a lady, or was he one of the fussy old codgers who spent his days in gentleman’s clubs instead of at the House of Lords? Was this Lord responsible for the betrayal of my blood?

The hackney came to a halt, and I saw a flock of unwashed street urchins running into the road, as the traffic around us halted to a standstill. I called up to the driver, “Oi! What’s the holdup?”

He opened the hatch in the roof, “Looks like a cart lost a wheel, there’s apples all over the road. A swarm of beggars is nickin’ ‘em and a fight broke out.”

I then heard the high-pitched peel of a police whistle. “We ain’t movin’ for a while guv’nor, not until the carts gone from the road.” The driver grumbled. We couldn’t go backwards and turn around to find a clear route and we weren’t moving forward. Frustration bubbled in my chest. I had no time to waste sitting in a hack waiting for a clear road.

“Okay mate, I’ll walk from here,” I called. I passed the fair to the driver through the roof hatch, eased the letter into my pocket as I stepped out of the cab and onto the cobbles. I hurried to the nearest street corner to get my bearings, weaving between the carts and hacks stuck in the hold up. I was at the junction where Pall Mall met Waterloo Place, so didn’t have far to go. Determined to complete my task and get Superintendent Stockton off my back, I ran the rest of the way to St James’ Square.

By the time I arrived at the square my legs were shaky with the effort of running on such a cold day. Luckily fog hadn’t swallowed the city today, but my throat was dry and my lungs felt tight from breathing in the stinking icy air. I paused at the black wrought iron railings of the garden square to catch a breath and then I crossed the road to check the house numbers and locate number twenty. A black liveried carriage drew up to the curb and before the carriage wheels had stopped rolling the door was flung open and the bulky silhouette of a man stepped out. Fine leather booted feet adorned with sparkling silver spurs met the pavement while he bellowed,

“Bloody peasants shouldn’t be allowed on Pall Mall. I’m going to demand that Lord Palmerston does something about this!” The man barreled toward me, swatting me out of the way as if I was a gnat on a hot Indian summer’s day. I didn’t have a second to dodge as I was knocked off my feet and straight onto my arse. The angry nobleman didn’t pause or even apologize, but bullishly marched up the steps to one of the houses on St James Square.

“Kit, come along, we’ve wasted enough damnable time today!” he shouted as he walked.

The arrogance of the man stole my words. My pride was wounded, and my flat cap was on the dusty pavement. I was bloody furious to have been treated in such a way by a stranger. I wanted nothing more than to get up and kick that bugger right in the fork and see how he liked it! A red leather-gloved hand appeared in front of my face.

“I’m so sorry. Please, let me help you up,” a soft, cultured voice said. “We got stuck behind an upended cart and I’m afraid it was the last straw for him today.” I automatically gripped the stranger’s hand. The helper was strong and pulled me to stand as if I was as light as a feather. I brushed road dust off myself then I bent down and picked up my flat cap, dusted it off, and set it on my blond-haired head. It was only then that looked up at the face of the man who had assisted me. Kind brown eyes that reminded me of warm sweet coffee gazed at me like I was some kind of exotic curiosity at a travelling fair.

“T—t—twenty-seven!” The words left my lips before my noggin registered what I’d said. And then, those kind eyes hardened.

“I’m sorry, w—what did you say?” 27 asked suspiciously .

“Nuffin’, nuffin’ sir, I do beg your pardon.” The last time I saw the man now standing before me, he was drunk and suicidal. Secretly, I was delighted to see 27 alive and well, pleased that he hadn’t had another go at topping himself. Nothing in his countenance gave away that he’d been at his lowest ebb a few weeks ago.

Nervous words fell out of my stupid mouth and tumbled over one another as I plucked the letter from my pocket and brandished it as proof that I wasn’t a liar. “I’ve got this…this letter…to deliver to a gentleman. I work for the GPO, see, and the letter missed the mailbag. The superintendent was ever so cross and so here I am delivering it myself. If you’d be so kind as to direct me to number twenty, I’d be much obliged, sir.” Not only was my backside smarting, but my cheeks burned like boiled beetroots as I heard my pathetic self ramble.

The man’s look of suspicion softened, and he gestured towards the front door that the bullish man had entered. “This is number twenty,” he smiled, and for a split second, I was entranced by his beautiful, heavenly mouth.

With my limbs feeling like that of a marionette I turned, and for the first time, I looked at the house. Again, my old Pa’s training came in handy, cos he taught me about posh houses—how they were put together and where it was best to break in and get out. This particular house was a grand four-storey affair made of Portland stone. The ground floor had three arched recesses, one for the front door and the other two for dressed windows. Four Corinthian pilasters rose from the basement to the first and second floors. They’d be good handholds if a thief had to risk an escape through an upper floor window. A lovely carved stone stairway led up to the front door, painted in glossy black with an intricate stained-glass fanlight above. Wrought iron railings with Prince of Wales plumed heads outlined the house, and through the windows, I could see luxurious drapes and the lit crystal chandelier. No expense had been spared and in a garden square of Georgian red brick houses; this grey Portland stone house stood out like a jewel.

I wondered now if this Lord Penhelligan fellow was the cur who knocked me on my arse. I knew my place and understood that my place meant serving my betters, but the man wore military spurs, so he was connected to the army in some way. I’d dealt with too many arrogant shits when billeted in India—nobs who’d purchased their rank to please pa-pahh . I knew men like that were spineless bastards who cared only for pomp and status. They were happy to send the likes of me, and Frank, and Eric into battle while they sat back, drank port, and sucked on fat cigars. If that was the type of man this Lord Penhelligan was, I wished I hadn’t bothered my arse using my lunchtime to deliver a letter to this undeserving blaggard.

I nervously turned the ivory envelope in my fingers, stood straighter, and announced,

“Thank you for your kindness, sir. I’ll deliver this letter to Lord Penhelligan and be on my way.” I doffed my cap, my innards twisting with embarrassment. I’d made a complete fool of myself, and I longed to turn around and run. But 27 was once again giving me a curious foxy look. His eyes sparkled with mirth as if I’d just told him a joke. Was he mocking me?

“You’d better give it here, then.” He held out his red leather-clad hand to me.

I found I was quite affronted that he was laughing at me; after all, I’d saved this bugger’s life. “I don’t think so, sir. While I’m much obliged for your help, as an employee of the General Post Office it’s my duty to ensure the safe arrival of correspondence to the correct recipient.” I nodded respectfully and then rushed up the steps to the door for number twenty St James’ Square.

The door was ajar, and I could see that the butler lingered in the foyer. I rapped my knuckles on the door. The butler stepped forward and opened it .

“Can I help you?”

“I’ve a letter here for a Lord Penhelligan. Is that your master?”

The butler looked at me all odd and perplexed. His eyes questioned me and then moved over my shoulder.

“Well of course Lord Kit is my master!” The elderly man sounded a little outraged.

“Very good.” I handed the letter over, gave a nod, and turned to discover 27 standing behind me. This time the man was chuckling, his red gloved hand over his mouth trying to keep his laugher in. I was confused for a moment before the butler said,

“A letter arrived for you, milord,” and passed the ivory envelope to 27.

I felt like an utter fool. “Oh gawd, milord, I’m sorry I —”

The nobleman laughed out loud then, and the bright, joyful sound was one I had not heard him make before. I couldn’t help but be drawn into the ridiculousness of the situation. 27s name was Christopher Havelock, but people called him Kit, and he was the bleedin’ Duke of Penhelligan. Something was not right here...not right at all…or maybe it was perfectly right? I knew this man’s taste in the bedroom was for other fellows and so he could not be the Penhelligan who had wronged my family. I let out a sigh of tension I’d been holding. Finally, I had a name for my mystery man and my god, that fact made butterflies dance in my belly. Pushing aside all of the la-de-dah titles in my head, I settled on Kit. Kit was a nice name, it suited him, but even nicer was looking at the man’s wide smile and hearing his boyish laughter. His brown eyes were trained on me. For the first time, I was seen by the man who had the starring role in my filthiest imaginings.

“Forgive me for the misunderstanding, milord. I must get back to work or my wages’ll get docked,” I stuttered self-consciously as I excused myself and tried to step past. A red gloved hand landed on my shoulder and stopped me in my tracks. I froze. He was touching me, not skin to skin, but his hand was touching my shoulder. My heart began to beat rapidly.

“You’re at St Martin’s Le Grand, yes?”

“Indeed sir. I’m a sorting clerk. I’m responsible for your letter missing the post bag. I gave up my break to bring it to you.”

Kit gave me a measuring look, “That was very kind of you. I wouldn’t want you to lose your wages over this silly letter from my sister. There’s a carriage at your disposal should you wish it.” Lord Penhelligan turned and gestured to the driver.

“I… I couldn’t—”

“I insist, come,” Kit turned and made his way back down the steps and onto the street. I followed, trying to not let my eyes greedily consume how finely formed this man was, or how well cut his britches were, or of how the scent of citrus pomade in his soft black hair made me think of warm summer days. I’d admired Kit Havelock from afar, but my god, being close to him again I remembered that he was even more handsome at close quarters. A day’s stubble growth on his chin gave him a rakish look and he appeared a little tired. That makes two of us mate. I can’t get a bloody wink of sleep without thinking about you.

“Hawkes, take…I’m sorry, your name?” Lord Penhelligan requested.

I’d never felt so nervous, not even before going into battle against insurgents in Delhi. I didn’t know what to do with my hands or where to look so I let my gaze settle on the man’s fine leather boots. “Fu… Fu…Felix, milord, Felix Lazarus”.

“Hawkes, take Mr. Lazarus to the GPO, quick as you can,” Lord Penhelligan ordered as he opened the carriage door and ushered me inside. It felt peculiar, but I did as I was told, climbing into the luxurious silk-lined carriage. I could smell sandalwood and a distinct note of citrus that I recognized as belonging to Christopher Havelock himself. I sat back on the well-sprung banquette seat, and without another word the carriage door clicked shut and the vehicle set off.

I turned in my seat and glanced out of the window. I saw the object of my affection had remained standing on the curb absently turning the letter over in his hand, all the while watching as the carriage rounded the square and headed for a side road that avoided the hold up on Pall Mall. The man appeared deep in thought, and worried, yeah, he definitely looked worried, and I didn’t know what to make of that.

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