Black Hearts in Battersea (9 page)

"Now you must try to sleep," he ordered when the mug was empty.

"You've got to stay with me till I go off," she countered. She looked hot-cheeked and heavy-eyed, ready to fall asleep at any moment.

"Very well," said Simon. "I'll blow out the candle."

"No, don't do that. Put it over on that cupboard where it won't shine in my eyes."

"Lie down, then." She curled up, sighing, with her back to him, and he placed the candle on the cupboard. As he did so his attention was caught by a small drawing pinned on the wall. He held the light close and saw that it was a sketch portrait of Dido, done roughly but full of life and animation. She was sitting on the front steps, eating a piece of bread and jam. Simon let out an exclamation under his breath and studied the picture intently. The style of drawing was unmistakable: it could be by no other hand than that of Gabriel Field. He looked at the lower right-hand corner where the doctor always signed with his initials, but saw that the whole corner of the paper had been neatly removed by somebody's thumbnail.

He put the candle down and returned to Dido, intending to question her, but she was so drowsy he had not the heart. "Kind," she whispered hoarsely. "Nobody else..." Her voice died out. She took a firm hold of Simon's hand and sank into sleep. In any case, what would be the use of questioning her? She would only tell lies about it. Best to mention it to Mr. Twite in the morning—it offered complete proof that Dr. Field had been in the house and seen Dido.

Had Dr. Field stumbled on some evidence of the Hanoverian plot and been put out of the way?

Dido stirred and suddenly opened her eyes.

"Where's your kitty?" she muttered.

"I've lent it to a lady called Mrs. Cobb."

"Why?"

"To catch mice for her."

Dido lay silent. Presently a large tear rolled out from under her closed eyelid.

"What's the matter?"

"First the donkey went—then the kitty went—next
you'll
go. I don't have anyone nice to play with—they allus leaves."

"I shan't leave," Simon soothed her. "You go back to sleep." But as the words left him it suddenly occurred to him to wonder what would happen if the Twites realized that he had seen the arms in the cellar. Would he, like Dr. Field, mysteriously disappear?

Dido's eyelids flickered open, then shut once more. Her breathing slowly became deep and even, her clutch on his hand loosened. Fifteen minutes went by and then he judged it safe to slip his hand free and stand up. As he did so she moved and muttered in her sleep, "Can't tell, you see. Pa would larrup me."

"Never mind," said Simon softly, "I think I know." And he tiptoed from the room.

Simon took a long time to go to sleep. He lay awake worrying, and woke next day with his problem still unsolved. His first impulse had been to inquire his way to the office of the Bow Street constabulary and put the whole matter before them. What would happen then? There would be commotion, uproar, publicity—the Twites would be arrested, no doubt, the guns and ammunition removed, but would he be any nearer discovering what had happened to Dr. Field? He doubted it. After much
pondering he decided to keep his own counsel a bit longer, and to watch the Twites even more closely.

To this end, when, as he ate his breakfast, he heard a violent quarrel break out on the stairs, he went quietly onto the landing and stood listening by the banisters out of sight.

"I'll teach you to leave keys in doors!" Mrs. Twite was crying angrily. "Didn't I tell you to see to the fire and lock the cellar before we set out? Oh, you nasty little minx, you! I'll wager you never even fetched the coal. Oh, you hussy, you! All you cared about was prinking and powdering and sticking on beauty spots!"

Simon heard what sounded like a hearty box on the ear followed by an angry shriek from Penelope.

"Leave me be, Ma! Pa, make her leave me be or I declare I'll leave home. I won't stay here to be abused!"

"Best leave her be, then, Ella my dove."

"Hold your tongue, Abednego!"

There followed the sound of a door slamming. Simon waited a moment or two, then ran quietly downstairs.

By the front door he came face to face with Mr. Twite.

"Ah, it's our distinguished young Raphael, our Leonardo-to-be," said Mr. Twite with a wide smile which seemed almost to meet around the back of his head while leaving the upper half of his face quite undisturbed. "I trust you are rejoicing in the pursuit of your studies? Art, art, a hard but rewarding taskmaster!" Evidently rather pleased with the sound of these last words, he repeated them over to himself, shutting his eyes and opening his
mouth very wide at each syllable, pronouncing "rewarding" like "guarding." Meanwhile Simon waited for an opportunity to ask about the sketch.

"I delay you," said Mr. Twite, opening his eyes and giving Simon a very sharp look.

"No, sir. I was going to ask how Dido does this morning."

"Poorly, poorly. A delicate sprite," sighed Mr. Twite. "Dido Twite: a delicate sprite," he chanted, to the air of "Three Blind Mice." "It is the curse of our family, young man, to be afflicted by spirits too strong for our bodies."

Simon thought that if Dido were given rather more food, and warmer clothes, and in general more care and attention, her body would be equal to maintaining its spirit, but he did not say so.

"In point of fact," Mr. Twite confided, "the poor child is quite feverish—my wife has just sent along to the pharmacy for a drop of Tintagel water."

"Is that young Thingummy?" called the sharp voice of Mrs. Twite, and she came out of the kitchen, attired for the morning in plum-colored plush. Directing at Simon a smile as glittering as it was insincere, she exclaimed, "It must have been you, dear boy, who heated up a mug of milk for our little one last night."

"Yes it was, ma'am. She didn't fancy it cold, so I heated it and put in a pinch of aniseed. I hope I did nothing wrong?"

"Not a bit, dear boy.
Not
a bit. It was a truly Samaritan act."

"The Samaritans came in two by two,
And paused to bandage the kangaroo—"

sang Mr. Twite.

"
Will
you be quiet, Abednego! I do hope, Mr. Thingummy," pursued Mrs. Twite, looking at Simon very attentively, "that you weren't put to too much
trouble
about it—I hope you didn't have to mend the fire, or fetch coals, or anything of
that
kind?"

"No trouble, ma'am," Simon said. Luckily Mrs. Twite took this to mean that he had not had to fetch coal. "Penny must have told the truth, then," she murmured, glancing significantly at her husband. "She forgot to take the key, but no harm's done."

"She'd better not forget it again, or she'll have a taste of my hoboy."

Simon seized the chance, when Mrs. Twite had retired, of asking who had drawn the little sketch of Dido that hung in her room.

"Sketch of Dido, my boy?" Mr. Twite looked vague. "Is there such a thing? I confess I do not recall it but surrounded as we are by talent, it may be by any of a dozen friends."

"I'll show it to you," Simon said eagerly.

"Later, later, my dear fellow." Mr. Twite held up a restraining hand. "This evening, perhaps. For here comes the lad with the Tintagel water, and Aesculapius must rule supreme." He gently shoved Simon out of the front door as
the boy Tod came up the steps with a large black bottle.

That evening Simon was washing out his shirt in a pail of water when Tod opened his door without knocking, and remarked, "Young Dido's calling for you and Aunt Twite says, can you sit with her?"

"Very well." Simon left his shirt soaking. Tod muttered, "Can't think why she wants
you...
"

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Thingummy. I declare," exclaimed Mrs. Twite, who looked flushed and irritable, "I'm clean distracted with that child so feverish as she is; keeps trying to get out of bed, and Penelope gone out to goodness knows where, and a meeting of the Glee Society in half an hour. She's been calling for you, dear boy, so if you would just sit with her till she goes off..."

"Of course I will," Simon said.

He found Dido in a high fever, throwing herself restlessly about in her bed, muttering random remarks, singing odd snatches of songs. When he took her hand she quieted somewhat and lay back on the pillow.

"Hallo, brat," said Simon. "Do you want to play cards?"

"Too hot," she muttered. "Tell story."

Mrs. Twite put her head around the door long enough to nod gracious approval, and went quickly back to her Glee Society preparations. Simon racked his brains for a story. Then he hit on the notion of telling his adventures during the years when he had lived in his cave in the forest of Willoughby Chase, playing hide-and-seek with the wolves all winter long. This answered famously. Dido
left off her restless fidgeting and settled down, holding on to his finger, listening in languid content.

"I'd like to go there..." she whispered.

"I expect you will someday."

Her eyes opened in a drowsy flicker. "Will you take me?"

"Yes, very likely, if you are good and go to sleep now."

"Promise?"

"Very well."

Her eyes closed and she slept. Simon carefully withdrew his hand and tiptoed across the room to re-examine the little sketch. But it was gone. Annoyed at not having anticipated this and showed it to Mr. Twite in the morning, he tried to open the door but found it locked. Since he did not like to knock and risk waking Dido he found himself a prisoner; having searched the room for some occupation and rejected the chance of reading numerous copies of the
Maids' Wives' and Widows' Penny Magazine,
he went philosophically to sleep, curled up on the floor.

He woke to find Mr. Twite shaking him.

"
So
sorry, my dear boy, a most unfortunate oversight. My wife thought you had already retired. No doubt you will wish to do so directly."

"Thank you," said Simon, yawning. Then he recollected the sketch. "Mr. Twite, that little drawing of Dido—the one that hung just there—"

"No, no, dear boy, no picture hung there. You imagined it, I daresay—yes, yes, your fancy is full of pictures, it is most natural."

"But I saw—"

"Ah, we artists," said Mr. Twite, waving him out of the door. "Always at the mercy of our visions. By the way," he added in quite another tone, "have you seen my daughter Penelope by any chance?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Strange—most strange. Where can she have got to? Doubtless she will turn up, but it is vexatious. Ah well, I'll keep you no longer from the arms of Morpheus."

Dido was feverish for several days and Simon sat with her each evening until she was pronounced well enough to get up and lie outside on the patch of thistly grass by the river.

"I shan't be able to sit and tell you stories this evening," said Simon, finding her so placed one morning as he went off.

"Why not?"

"Because I shan't be home till late."

"Why? Where are you going? To a circus?" Dido asked with instant suspicion.

"No, no. When I go to a circus I'll take you too. I'm going to play chess with an old gentleman."

"Stupid stuff," said Dido, her interest waning. "
I
wouldn't care to do so. Did you know Penny had run off? She left a note saying she wouldn't be put upon. You should have heard Ma create."

Simon recollected that he had not seen Penelope for several days. He could not feel any sense of loss at her departure.

"P'raps Ma'll make some togs for me, now," Dido said hopefully, echoing Simon's thought. Then she added, "Where're you playing chess, anyways?"

"At Battersea Castle," Simon called over his shoulder as he walked off. "Good-by, brat. See you tomorrow."

"Mr. Cobb," Simon said that evening as he mended the springs of a lady's perch-phaeton. "What would you do if you thought you had discovered a Hanoverian plot?"

Mr. Cobb lowered the wash leather with which he was polishing the panels and regarded Simon with a very shrewd expression.

"Me boy," he said, "it's all Lombard Street to a China orange that I'd turn a blind eye and do nothing about it. Yes, yes, I know—" raising a quelling hand—"I know the Hanoverians are a crew of fire-breathing traitors who want to turn good King James, bless him, off the throne and bring in some flighty German boy. But, I ask you, what do they actually
do?
Nothing. It's all a lot of talk and moonshine, harmless as a kettle on a guinea pig's tail. Why trouble about them when they trouble nobody?"

Simon wondered whether Mr. Cobb would think them so harmless if he were to see the contents of the Twites' cellar. But, just as he was opening his mouth to speak of this the Chelsea Church clock boomed out the hour of nine and he had to hurry off to Battersea Castle.

He took the main way over Chelsea Bridge and through the great gates beyond it. A tree-bordered avenue led to the castle, which rose like some fabulous pink flower among the encircling gas flares.

"Oo the devil are you and where the devil d'you think you're going?" growled a voice ahead of him. A burly man came out of a porter's lodge halfway along the avenue and halted Simon by pressing a button which caused two crossed lances to rise out of the ground, barring the road.

"The Duke has invited me to play chess with him," Simon said.

"Play chess with a ragged young tyke like you? A likely story," the gatekeeper sneered. As a matter of fact it
was
a likely story, since the Duke made friends with all kinds of odd characters, and this the man knew quite well, but he hoped to wring some gate money out of Simon.

"I'm not ragged and the Duke is expecting me," Simon said calmly. "Let me in, please."

"
Ho,
no! I'm not so green as to let riffraff and flash coves in, to prig whatever they can mill! I'm not lowering that barricade for you, no, not if you was to go down on your benders to me. Not if you was to offer me so much as half a guinea!"

Simon remained silent and the man said angrily, "Not if you was to offer me a
whole
guinea, I wouldn't open it."