“We have all been summoned to a conclave,” announced Cropper once they were all gathered in the study.
Brolly looked anywhere but at his lover and mentor. If their eyes met, he was certain Cropper would read the guilt and fear there. He hadn’t meant anything by the letter, not really. Certainly not any lasting harm. He’d simply wanted Cropper to take him back and do something about those two dastardly boys before they sucked all the life from his friend. How was he to know that Cropper would turn them over to Brutus and everything would go back to normal, and that once more Brolly would be the centre of Cropper’s world.
“What’s a conclave?” Elijah asked, his brow furrowed with confusion. He looked to Brutus, rather than Cropper for his answer, a detail that didn’t slip past Brolly.
Brutus, on the other hand, glanced over for Cropper’s permission before replying.
“Remember I explained about the brotherhood, the wolf, the ram and the hart?” Elijah nodded. “A conclave is a formal meeting of the senior members. It’s held at the meeting house in Westminster and usually…”
Brutus’ voice drifted off and Cropper concluded, “Typically it is held once a year in November. For a conclave to be called without its customary time suggests there is something amiss.”
“Is it us?” Elijah asked the question Brolly was dreading. What if they questioned him? Demanded to know everything he knew? Could he lie to Cropper and look him in the eye at the same time? Brolly doubted it. Cropper had a way of seeing beneath every falsehood, extracting the truth whatever the cost.
Cropper’s fingers traced the edges of the paper as he pondered the question. Finally, he laid his hands flat on the desk and said, “No. There is nothing happening here to necessitate an extraordinary meeting. It is far more likely that the conclave has been called for some other purpose and the High Master has simply decided use the opportunity to meet our newest members.”
The relief was a living thing, rushing hotly through Brolly’s body. For a moment he felt light-headed, nauseous, and then Cropper spoke again.
“Of course that leaves us with another problem.”
“William,” Brutus muttered.
“Precisely,” Cropper said, nodding. “How on earth do we explain the absence of our newest wolf to the High Master of the brotherhood?”
*
For long minutes William found himself incapable of speech, his mind awash with images of Cropper and Bonny.
Brothers? How could that be when the two boys were so different? And how could Bonny be the bastard when Cropper was so obviously the debauched one. Everything William had ever learnt told him that it was those born out of wedlock who carried that stigma and perpetuated it into future generations.
A picture of identical green eyes finally over wrote his confusion and, now informed, William had to admit that the physical resemblance between the boys was striking. The same arch to the eyebrows, the same generous mouth. Even their manner could be similar at times.
All the while he was thinking, Moore sat passively beside him, sipping at his beer and watching the tapboy as he scuttled around the room righting furniture in time for the afternoon stage.
Finally William found his voice and, after taking a large gulp of his own drink, said, “I believe you.”
“Course you do,” Moore said. “I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.”
“I didn’t – I wouldn’t,” William blustered and then grinned when he noticed the teasing look in Moore’s eyes. The other boy had an odd sense of humour and half the time William didn’t know whether he was being ribbed or not.
He took a few seconds to recover his composure and then said, “But that doesn’t explain how Osborne manages to protect Spencer. In fact, his being on the illegitimate side of the family makes it less likely he could exert such an influence.”
“Didn’t I mention?” Moore said, once again the personification of the casual gossip. “That’d be because Cropper’s father’s in the dark about his son and heir being the biggest shithead since Cromwell himself. And, needless to say, if Cropper came after Bonny and his friends, Bonny wouldn’t hesitate in getting his grandda to publish everything. Course, that would mean his antecedence being dragged out into the light which Bonny’s not really wanting.”
Moore shrugged, sipped and continued, “Neither’ll back down. Both have enough dirt on the other to ruin ‘em for life. So it’s a nice neat stalemate. Except for those caught in the crossfire, that is. Like yerself and young Price.”
Well that explained that, a little too neatly in William’s eyes. He’d like to think that if he had such information on Cropper, he would use it for the greater good despite the personal cost to himself. He said as much to Moore, who regarded him with sceptical eyes.
“So why don’t you? I’ve told yer everything I know and I’d bet you could get someone to listen. There’s those in Belgravia would love to see the Member for Knaresborough brought down a peg or three.”
William stared at him, hope uncurling in his belly. This was the alternative plan he’d been searching for, the substance he needed to bolster his determination. If he could get to London and use the money to buy his way into the right circles, he could tell people – even the police perhaps – and they would come to the school and boys like Spencer and Forster and Salomon would talk. And Cropper would be taken away and so would Brutus, and Brolly, and… himself.
What would happen to him? William hesitated. He was as guilty as the other boys in regards to Jones at least. And when the story became public, what would his mother say? She’d be horrified. It would find her in India with her new husband and… William swallowed heavily. His new stepfather was related to Cropper. Anything William said or did to ruin Cropper would bring equal ruin on his own family.
Realising the depth of his quandary was as painful as a punch to the gut. William felt stripped raw. How could he have been so stupid, so gullible, as to believe anything Cropper had said to him? Guilt crashed in, drowning the faint flickers of hope and, as though he had read William’s mind, Moore put an arm around him and said, “Don’t fret, lad. Better than you’s been dragged into their games. And the fact that you even tried says you’re a good fella.”
William was too lost to answer. Did that mean he had to return? Like a whipped puppy with his tail between his legs and dance attendance on Cropper for the rest of his life? The mere idea made William sick to his stomach. He couldn’t do it. He had to find some way of breaking Cropper’s hold over himself and his family, and that meant he had to go to London. He didn’t know why the capital held the answers, but he felt sure it did. Somewhere in the twists and turns of society he would find what he needed to bring Cropper low and cleanse himself of the older boy’s influence.
With renewed determination, William straightened his shoulders and looked Moore
full in the face. “I need to catch the afternoon stage,” he said.
“Will you help me?”