‘Rozzers?’ Dot’s tone was puzzled.
‘Coppers. Policemen I s’pose you’d call them.’
Dot laughed. ‘Scuffers, you mean,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to learn to talk proper if you’re going to stay in Liverpool for long.’
The two grinned at one another. Already Dot felt that they were friends as the boy produced a battered tin mug and a bottle of water from a shelf at the back of the shed. ‘Want a drink before you start talkin’? And there’s some apples ’n’ all. Are you hungry?’
Dot accepted the drink of water gratefully, but refused an apple. ‘It’s a long story. It started back in March when some pals and meself were playing relievio and I decided to hide in old Butcher Rathbone’s dustbin . . .’
She told the story quickly and well, though she had to stop several times to explain herself more fully, for she had realised as soon as this boy opened his mouth that he was not a Scouser. When he had queried what she meant by relievio and she had explained, he told her that in London, where he came from, the game was known as Rescue.
At the end of her recital, her companion was round-eyed. ‘What a bleedin’ adventure,’ he breathed. ‘An’ that’s the very necklace – the one that would give it all away if the coppers got their hands on it? Let’s have another butcher’s then.’
‘Butcher’s?’
The boy laughed. ‘It’s Cockney rhyming slang – butcher’s hook – look,’ he said laconically. ‘I mean, can I have another look at the necklace, please?’
He said it in an ultra-posh voice to make her laugh, and Dot could not help doing so as she produced the necklace and handed it to him. He held it up; it looked brilliant in the candlelight, the faceted green stones reflecting a million points of light, the gold links gleaming and the diamonds set between each green stone sparkling with all the colours of the rainbow when they caught the light.
‘It’s bleedin’ beautiful,’ the boy said reverently, handing the necklace back and watching as Dot wrapped it carefully in a clean piece of rag. ‘It oughtn’t to be buried; can’t you think of somewhere to hide it where you can take a look at it every now and then?’
Dot shook her head. ‘Too dangerous,’ she said decidedly. ‘Can you think of a good hiding place? Because we’re going to have to hide it before daylight. I told you I thought one of the men had recognised me, but I didn’t tell you I thought someone had tried to push me in front of a train. Me pal said it were just the crowd surging forward, but – but I’m not so sure.’
As she spoke she realised how completely she trusted this boy whose name she did not even know.
‘We’ll think of somewhere safe,’ the boy said, and, as though he had read her thoughts, he added: ‘My name’s John Cochrane, but everyone calls me Corky, and some while ago I ran away from the Redwood Grange Orphanage for Boys in the East End of London. And my story is damn nearly as strange as yours, ’cos you ain’t the only one what fell in with thieves . . . an’ mine’s a long story an’ all, so pin back your lugs and listen hard, young . . . what’s your name?’
‘I’m Dorothy McCann, but everyone calls me Dot,’ Dot said. She held out a hand. ‘How d’you do, Corky? D’you know, I’m real glad I met you. I’ve never dared tell a soul about the necklace and what happened that night, but now I’ve told you I feel . . . I feel lighter, somehow, and not nearly as frightened.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Corky said. ‘I’ve not spoke to a soul since I arrived in Liverpool, ’cept to buy things. It’s grand to have a pal, someone I can really trust. Now listen, ’cos I’m goin’ to start right at the beginning when this here reporter chap came to Redwood Grange, ’cos he were writing a series of articles for some big paper – the
Herald
, or the
News Chronicle
, I think it was – about how orphanages were run in different parts of the country. I can’t remember his name . . . but he were ever such a nice feller.’
Corky’s story had Dot staring at him, round-eyed. ‘Ain’t that the oddest coincidence?’ she breathed, when Corky had reached the end of his tale. ‘You and me both getting tangled up wi’ crooks, without doing anything wrong ourselves. But at least you’ve left your troubles behind you, Corky. I wonder – I wonder if I ought to run away an’ all? Only I don’t know how I’d go on ’cos I’m too young to work an’ though me uncle hates me, Aunt Myrtle does her best. I do have a roof over me head an’ grub on the table once or twice a day. An’ I tell myself that if I keep me head down I’ll be all right. But where should we hide the necklace?’
‘Somewhere where no one don’t go,’ Corky said, without hesitation. ‘The church, if you’re right and no one visits no more. There’s bound to be a loose stone or a bit of a cupboard, or somewhere where we could stow it away and know we could find it immediately if we wanted to. Diggin’ around in the graves is all very well, but you leave traces, you can’t help it.’
‘Ye-es, but the church really is dangerous,’ Dot pointed out dubiously. ‘Some of them big arch things have fallen down, an’ there’s beams an’ rubble an’ stuff all over. Wouldn’t this shed be safer?’
Corky laughed. ‘No it wouldn’t, ’cos if a tramp spotted it he’d come in, same as I did, an’ make himself at home,’ he pointed out. ‘As for the church being dangerous, that makes it the best hiding place of all. No one won’t go poking about in there in case it comes down on their heads. Besides, I’ve another idea which may mean we only need to hide the necklace for a bit. Want to hear it? The other idea, I mean.’
‘Course I does,’ Dot said eagerly. ‘Fire away, Corky.’
Corky, however, said he thought they ought to hide the necklace first, so the two of them walked, cat quiet, across to the ruined church. Dot felt horribly nervous and soon realised that there were unexpected snags to Corky’s suggestion. Inside the shelter of the ruined walls – the roof had long gone and the windows gaped, empty of even a trace of glass – brambles and nettles had grown up until it was just about impossible to push through them. What was more, had they done so, they could not have failed to leave a pathway showing exactly where they had gone. However, whilst she was still staring in dismay, Corky cautiously lifted a great curtain of ivy and pointed to one of the stones, smaller than the rest. ‘I’ll wiggle that half out – well, right out, really – and we’ll push the necklace inside, as far as it will go, then we’ll replace the stone,’ he said. ‘No one will think of lifting the ivy, far less moving a stone, so it’ll be safe enough. Is that all right by you?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Dot said, rather doubtfully. ‘I wish we could have found somewhere – somewhere easier, so I could have got it out from time to time to – to make sure it was safe, like. Still, I reckon you’re right. It’s best that it’s well hidden and I’m sure no one would dream of coming even this far inside the church, it’s too perishin’ dangerous.’
‘You hold the ivy up whilst I get the stone out,’ Corky said, and in fact it proved to be the work of a moment to do just that. Dot watched sadly as the necklace slithered to the back of the crevice and Corky pushed the stone into its original position. As he did so, Dot became aware of a creepy sort of feeling between her shoulder blades. Suddenly convinced that someone was watching them, she swung round but could see nothing except the ivy and creeper-clad walls of the church, and the masses of brambles and nettles which grew in their shelter. She opened her mouth to share her fears with Corky, then noticed a shape perched high in an empty window embrasure and let her breath go – she had not realised she was holding it – in a long sigh of relief. It was an owl, or some other night bird, watching her with huge curious eyes whilst it turned its head from side to side, the better to see what they were about.
Gently, Dot touched Corky’s arm. ‘We’re being watched,’ she whispered. ‘Is it an owl, Corky?’
Corky followed the direction of her pointing finger, but even as he looked the bird took off on silent wings and disappeared into the churchyard. Corky smiled; she could see the flash of his teeth, even in the dark. ‘You didn’t half give me a fright,’ he said reproachfully. ‘But yes, you was right, it were an owl. Don’t you go scaring me like that again, young Dot.’
Dot, glancing uneasily around her as she dropped the curtain of ivy back into position, promised that she would not. And because of her promise, she did not mention that the feeling of being watched persisted. But as she told Corky, she really did think they had the ideal hiding place. The stone was triangular – obviously at some stage a corner had been knocked off one of the big square blocks from which the church had been constructed – and fitted back into place exactly, as though there were nothing behind it at all. The two grinned at one another. ‘That’s all right,’ Corky said, brushing the stone dust off his hand and moving out of the ruined church. ‘And now I’ll tell you my idea; well I will when we’re back in the shed, at any rate.’
They were entering the shed again when Dot glanced up at the sky and gave a gasp. The stars were no longer visible, and towards the east there was a line of brightness along the horizon. It was pretty clear that morning was about to arrive and she had no desire to be seen entering the house by some early worker or, worse, by a member of the Brewster family. She jerked Corky’s arm and pointed to the east. ‘Corky, it’s nearly morning! I’ve gorra go . . . how about you coming with me part of the way? I’ll show you where I live an’ we can talk as we go.’
Corky agreed, and the two of them scrambled over the wall and set off along the street. Oddly, the street seemed even darker than the churchyard, which was a bonus. Very few people were about, and those that were were intent on their own business and did not give the youngsters more than a passing glance. Presently, Dot nudged her companion. ‘Well? What’s this plan of yours?’ she asked curiously. ‘I hope you ain’t goin’ to suggest we bring in the scuffers or tell someone like a teacher, ’cos I dare not, an’ that’s the truth. Remember, Corky, one o’ them fellers thought nothing of beatin’ an old man over the head, so I reckon he’d do the same to me – and you, if he knew you had anything to do with it – and I aren’t prepared to take the risk.’
Corky grinned indulgently and gave her shoulder the lightest of light punches. ‘I’m not mad, you know,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Rozzers – coppers – scuffers don’t always believe kids and some of them, where I come from at any rate, are pretty quick to pocket anything valuable that comes their way. No, what I want you to do, later in the day, is to take me to that shop, the jewellers, I mean. It hasn’t closed down or anything, has it?’
Dot cast her mind back to when she had last visited Church Street. At the time, she had been far too nervous even to walk on the same side of the street as Mitchell & Grieves, but she had cast a couple of covert glances at the shop as she passed and she was pretty sure it had been open for business. She said as much and Corky nodded in a satisfied way. ‘Good. Hasn’t it occurred to you that the necklace really belongs to whoever now owns that shop? ’Cos it does, you know. You’ve been thinking that in a way it belonged to the thieves and because they chucked it in the bin it’s more or less yours; ain’t that right?’
After a few moments’ hard thought, Dot nodded reluctantly. She realised she had begun to think of the necklace as practically hers; ‘finders keepers’ was a common cry amongst the kids at school, but of course Corky was absolutely right. No matter how you looked at it, the necklace really did belong to Mitchell & Grieves. However, there was one point she would have to make. ‘Only old Mr Grieves is dead, killed by the ’orrible Ollie,’ she pointed out. ‘And Mr Mitchell . . . well, it said in the paper Mr Mitchell started the business back in the 1850s an’ he’s been dead years and years. So where does that leave us?’
‘Dunno. But mebbe there’s a son, or a nephew even. The old feller must have left the shop to someone ’cos if that wasn’t the case – if there were no relatives, I mean – then I’m pretty sure it would have closed down. But anyway, I think we should reconnoitre tomorrow, find out as much as we can. And then, if there is a young Mr Grieves in the shop, we could work out some way of getting the necklace back to him and – and if he seemed an easy sort of fellow to talk to, like, we could go into the shop and you could tell him your story. I reckon he’d be likelier to believe you than the coppers would, especially since you’d have evidence.’
‘Evidence? Oh, you mean the necklace. All right, we’ll do it your way.’ By now, they had reached the entrance to Lavender Court and Dot drew Corky to a halt and lowered her voice. ‘I’m going in now, and you’d best get back to the churchyard before it begins to get really light. But can you meet me here tomorrow morning at, say, eleven o’clock?’
She expected an immediate affirmative but Corky shook his head. ‘No chance. I’m pretty well wore out an’ I reckon I’ll go back to the shed and sleep the clock round. Let’s meet at three in the afternoon; I’ll be meself again by then.’
Dot agreed, rather wistfully; she knew her own chances of snatching more than three or four hours’ sleep were slight indeed and she watched Corky lope off along Heyworth Street with real envy. How she wished she could accompany him, but it would not do. Her aunt must never know she had been out half the night, particularly now that her uncle had grown so friendly with Butcher Rathbone. You could never tell with grown-ups, and if it got to Archie Rathbone’s ears that she was in the habit of prowling the streets after dark, he might put two and two together and her goose would be properly cooked. So Dot went quickly and quietly across the court and in through the door of No. 6. The door swung shut without a sound and she flitted along to the kitchen to find everything exactly as she had left it. She took off her cotton dress, then wriggled on to the sofa, pulling the thin blanket up around her ears, and was soon asleep.