Black Hearts in Battersea (8 page)

Sophie protested that it was putting the Cobbs to a deal too much trouble but as the sky was indeed very threatening they finally accepted, and in return offered to mind Miss Libby Cobb while her mother slipped around the corner to buy two pounds of Best Fresh and a gallon jar of pickled onions.

Young Miss Cobb proved remarkably easy to amuse; she and the kitten chased one another till both were exhausted, and when that happened Simon or Sophie had only to imitate the noise of some animal to put her in fits of laughter. Meanwhile Sophie told Simon all that had happened to her since Simon had run away from Gloober's Poor Farm.

"I was lucky," she said. "You remember I always liked
needlework and Mrs. Gloober used to get me to do her mending? Then she began buying fashion magazines and bringing them home for me to make up her dresses. One time I was at work on a blue
peau de chameau
ball dress with Vandykes of lace and plush roses when her Grace the Duchess came in to inspect the Poor Farm and saw the dress. Next day a pony trap came over from Chippings Castle: the Duchess's compliments and she'd take the little girl who was so clever with her needle to be a sewing maid. Mrs. Gloober was very angry but she didn't dare refuse because the Duchess was on the Board. But she packed me off without a thing to wear. Since then her Grace has been
so
kind to me, and now I'm her lady's maid; when their Graces came up to London for the summer I came with them."

Then Simon in turn told his story, finishing with the mysterious disappearance of Dr. Field and the odd and suspicious behavior of the Twite family.

Meanwhile Miss Libby Cobb had again started in pursuit of the kitten. At this moment she caught her foot in a thick rag rug, the pride of Mrs. Cobb's heart, tripped, and fell against the door opening onto the stairhead. Not firmly latched, it flew open, and there was a thump and a shout. Sophie sprang to catch Libby before she could tumble downstairs, and exclaimed, "Why, it's Jem! What ever are you doing there, Jem?"

Jem indeed it was, but in no condition to answer. He must have been just outside the door when Libby fell against it, and the unexpected push had sent him down the
stairs. He lay groaning at the bottom.

"We'd best get the poor fellow up here," Simon proposed, but before they could do so Mrs. Cobb returned from her shopping and let out a shriek of dismay.

"Eh, Jem my man, never tell me you're in the wars again, just when I'd set you right with a tar poultice! What happened?" she asked, as she and Simon between them supported the unlucky Jem up the stairs.

"The door flew open and knocked me down," he muttered.

"And what was you doing then—listening at the keyhold?" Jem turned pale. "Nay, only my joke, lad, never heed it. I do believe all the ill-luck in Battersea falls on your poor head. Come you in and lie down on Libby's bed while I put a bit o' vinegar on it."

While Mrs. Cobb ministered to the afflicted Jem, Sophie flew about very capably and set to cooking the Best Fresh, and Simon made a monstrous heap of toast and extracted the stopper of the pickled-onion jar. Soon they sat down to a very cheerful meal with the Cobbs.

Sophie and Mrs. Cobb had a fine time exchanging gossip, for Mrs. Cobb, it appeared, had been a parlormaid at Chippings Castle before she got married.

"Ah, you're in clover working for her Grace," she declared. "As sweet a lady you'll not find this side of Ticklepenny Corner, poor thing. It's a shame she never had no little ones of her own; if she'd 'a had, I'll be bound they'd be worth twenty of that puny little whey-faced lad they call Lord Bakerloo. He's the Duke's nevvy, you see,"
she went on (like all old retainers, she loved talking about the Family). "The Duke's younger brother, Henry, he married his own cousin, and they had Justin, that was born abroad in Hanoverian parts and sent back to England as a babby when both his parents died. Deary dear, it was a sad end, poor young things, and a sad beginning too—there was aplenty trouble when they married."

"Why?" asked Sophie.

"Because they were cousins, and she was half French, and a wild one! Her ma was Lady Helen Bayswater, that's the present Duke's aunt—she fell in love with a French painter escaped from France in the revolution they had, and married him in the teeth of her family as you might say. Famous, he was, but not grand family."

"Was his name Marius Rivière?" asked Simon.

"That's it! I never can get my tongue round those Frenchy names! He married Lady Helen and they had the one daughter—what was
her
name? It'll come to me in a minute—and for some time they was at daggers drawn with the old Duke. They say Rivière had been great friends with all the family before, and painted pictures of 'em, but the marriage broke it up. Then Lady Helen's daughter met her cousin, his present Grace's younger brother, and they fell in love, and the trouble began all over. They ran off to Hanover, where his regiment was, and got married. And that was the last that was heard, till word was sent they was dead, and Mr. Buckle fetched back the poor babby. By that the old Duke was dead, and his present Grace had always been fond of his brother, and stood by
him, so he brought up Justin."

"It's rather sad," Sophie said. "Poor Justin. You can understand why he always seems so miserable. Specially if he has been looked after by that sour Mr. Buckle all his life."

"Do you know," exclaimed Mrs. Cobb, who had been scrutinizing Simon and Sophie as they sat side by side in the window seat, "you two are as alike as two chicks in a nest! I declare, you might be brother and sister. Are you related?"

They stared at one another in astonishment. Such an idea had never occurred to them. How strange it would be if they were!

"We don't know, ma'am," Sophie said at length. "We came to the Poor Farm at different times, you see. I was brought up by a kind old man, a charcoal burner in the forest, till I was seven, and then the parish overseer came and took me away and said I must be with the other orphans. But the old man was not my father, I know. I can remember when he first found me."

"Who looked after you before that, then, child?"

"An otter in the forest," Sophie explained. "I can still recall how difficult it was to learn human language, and how strange it seemed to eat anything but fish."

"An
otter!
Merciful gracious!" Mrs. Cobb flung up her hands. "An otter and then a charcoal burner! It's a wonder you grew up such a beauty, my dear! I'd 'a thought you'd have had webbed feet at the very least!"

"They were both very kind to me," Sophie said, laughing. "I was dreadfully sad when the overseer came and took me to Gloober's."

"I don't wonder, my dear, from what I've heard of the place."

"If Simon hadn't taken care of me there I don't know how I'd have got on for the first few years. Later it wasn't so bad, when I learned dressmaking, and Mrs. Gloober found I could be useful to her."

"But you like it better with her Grace?"

"Oh yes, a thousand times! Her Grace is so kind! Sometimes she seems more like an aunt or a godmother than a mistress! Mercy!" Sophie suddenly cried, jumping up as the solemn notes of the Chelsea Church clock boomed out the hour. "Ten o'clock already! It's time I was getting back to make her Grace's hot posset. She always likes it soon after ten."

"I'll see you home," Simon said. They bade good-by to the kindly Cobbs, who invited them to come again whenever they had an hour to spare. Halfway down the stairs they were halted by a hoarse shout from above, and turned to see Jem looking through the bedroom doorway, his hair all in spikes and his eyes staring with sleep.

"Soph ... please..." he mumbled. "Could ... give ... note ... Mr. Buckle?" He thrust a piece of crumpled paper into Sophie's hand.

"He's half asleep. It's the poppy syrup I gave him," said Mrs. Cobb concernedly, and steered him back to bed.

"I'll deliver your note!" Sophie called, but Jem was already unconscious again. Sophie tried to straighten out
the paper, which appeared to be a sugar bag. The large sprawling script on it covered both sides:

MISTER BUKKLE. SUM ONE CUMS FROM U NO
WHERE. JEM.

"Oh dear," Sophie said, "Now I've read it, but I didn't mean to. In any case I haven't the least notion what it means. I hope Mr. Buckle will understand it."

"By the way," Simon said, "I had a queer invitation after I saw you last. You remember that odd-spoken old gentleman who was slung up in the top of the tunnel and spoke so sharply to Midwink? When I was on my way back he invited me to go and play chess with him one evening next week. Should I take the invitation seriously or is he a bit cracked? Who is he, anyway?"

Sophie turned to look at him incredulously.

"Don't you know?"

"Of course I don't know." Simon gave her a good-humored pat on the shoulder. "Don't forget I've only just arrived in London. I'm not such an almanac as you, my bright girl. Who is he, then?"

Sophie burst into a fit of laughter which lasted her as far as the servants' entrance to Battersea Castle. "Why," she gasped, wiping the tears of merriment from her eyes, "he's the Duke of Battersea, that's all! Certainly you must keep the appointment—his feelings would be hurt if you didn't."

She gave Simon a quick goodnight hug, and he heard her laughing again as she ran down the tunnel and out of sight.

When Simon returned to his lodgings the following evening he saw Miss Dido Twite in her nightgown looking out rather forlornly from the front window into the twilit street. Her face brightened immediately at sight of him and as he entered the house she put her head around her bedroom door.

"Wotcher, my cully" she greeted him hoarsely but joyfully.

"Hallo, brat. What's the matter with you?" Simon inquired. She was flushed, and had a long red stocking wound around her throat.

"I have the quinsy," Dido croaked, "and Ma and Pa and Penny-lope and Aunt Poke and Aunt Tinty and
everybody
has gone off to Theobalds' Fair and I'm
that
put about and blue-deviled. Mean, hateful things they are—I wish they was all dead!" She stamped her bare foot on the floor and her lip quivered. "There was to be a Flaming Lady, too, and a Two-Headed Sheep and Performing Fleas and a G-giant C-carnivorous Crocodile."

"Here, don't you think you ought to be in bed?" said Simon, anxious to avert an explosion of tears which seemed imminent. "I'm sure if you have the quinsy you shouldn't be running about in your nightgown. Come on, I'll tuck you up."

"Will you stay and play cribbage with me?" asked Dido instantly.

"All right—only jump in quickly."

She retired through the doorway to a very untidy groundfloor bedchamber evidently shared by the two sisters, for, as well as Dido's meager collection of playthings, it contained curling tongs, copies of the
Ladies' Magazine,
and a great quantity of frilly garments strewn about in a state of disrepair, which plainly belonged to Penelope.

"Now you sit
there,
" ordered Dido, jumping into a skimpy disheveled bed and patting the coverlet. "Here's the cribbage board. Shall we play for money?"

"No, we certainly shall not," said Simon reprovingly. "Besides, I don't for one moment suppose that you have any."

"No, I haven't a tosser to my kick," Dido said, bursting out laughing. "What a hum it would have been if you'd won! Come on—you can start."

They played for an hour, Dido winning all the time, largely because she was prepared to cheat in the most unabashed manner. Then she began to get restless and peevish, and suggested they change over to loo. Simon, who thought she ought to get some rest, proposed that he should straighten her covers and leave her to try and go to
sleep, but she raised vehement objections.

"I don't
want
to go to sleep! I don't
want
to be left alone! There's too many people come into this house at night, walking about and bumping on the stairs."

"I don't believe there's a soul except us," said Simon. "You're not scared of ghosts, are you?"

"I ain't afeared of
anything,
" said Dido with spirit. "I jist don't like people walking about on the stairs and bumping. They clanks, too, sometimes."

"Shall I get you something to eat or drink?" Simon suggested.

Dido thought she would like a drink of hot milk. "Ma said she'd leave a mug of milk in the kitchen, but I'd sooner you hotted it. My throat feels like someone's been at it with sandpaper." She gave him a pitiful grin, looking more than ever like a small, molting sparrow.

Simon found the Twites' kitchen, a huge gloomy room in the basement. The mug of milk was on the table, but it took some hunting to discover a clean saucepan. The fire in the range was very low and the coal scuttle empty; he returned to Dido and asked where the coal was kept.

"In the cellar. Door's back o' the pantry. Mind how you go down the steps, they're steep," she croaked. "Ma won't let me go down there."

There were some half-used candles on the kitchen dresser. Simon lit one, took the hod, and went down the steep, narrow cellar stairs. There was another door at the foot, which was locked, but the key was in the lock. He opened this and cautiously entered the darkness beyond,
holding his candle high. His foot struck against something metallic which clinked on the stone floor. He lowered the candle and was astonished to see a musket—and another—dozens of them, neatly stacked. And beyond the muskets were barrels of a greyish substance which Simon, by feel and sniff, holding the candle at a safe distance, identified as gunpowder. The room was a regular arsenal!

He found a heap of coal in one corner. Thoughtfully he filled his hod and returned to the kitchen, locking the cellar door behind him again. While he mended the fire and waited for the milk to heat he pondered over this discovery. No wonder Dido heard people bumping and clanking on the stairs! No doubt about it, the Twites must be Hanoverian plotters, bent on removing good King James from the throne, and bringing in the young pretender, Bonnie Prince Georgie from over the water.

The milk came to the boil and, remembering Mrs. Cobb's Special, he shook in some aniseed and took the mug to Dido. She sipped the hot drink gratefully while he beat up her pillows and straightened the blankets with clumsy good will.