The Diamond of Drury Lane (15 page)

As for Johnny, he was in the theatre, but ‘busy’. A sign had appeared on his door: ‘Do not disturb’, it read in Johnny’s elegant curling script. I pressed my ear to the door and, sure enough, I could hear him inside. From the sounds of the scratching pen, I guessed he was drawing. I could well imagine the reason he did not want any callers: seeing a half-finished
drawing by Captain Sparkler on his desk would be as good a way of revealing his identity as running through the streets shouting the secret to the heavens. I waited outside for a time, sitting on a large wooden anchor used to dress the stage for the pieces with a nautical theme, but my watch was barren. Giving up, I trailed back to the Sparrow’s Nest and asked Mrs Reid if she had anything for me to do.

‘Lord, girl, look at your face!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve not seen you this miserable since Mr Salter boxed your ears.’ She threw me a bundle of darning. ‘See what you can make of that. Small stitches, mind . . . none of your fishing nets!’

I picked up my needle and sucked the end of some grey wool to thread it. ‘Where is Mr Salter?’ I asked. ‘I’ve not seen him for ages.’

‘Oh, he’s gone,’ she said, her brow creased into a worried frown. My heart leapt . . . at last a piece of good news! ‘Mr Sheridan was kind enough to send him off to Bristol the day after his play failed. He said he had an errand for him there, but it’s been over a week now and we’ve not heard from him. I
thought the change of scene would do him good, but now I’m very worried about him.’ Mrs Reid’s eyes, grown short-sighted after years of close sewing, now seemed to be staring at nothing. Her glasses slipped from her bony nose and dangled from their ribbon on her chest. As a widow, it was widely known backstage that she had set her cap at Mr Salter, the most eligible bachelor to appear in Drury Lane for many years. She had a fair bit set by for a rainy day, it was said: what with her money and his pretensions to gentility, it was an advantageous match on both sides. But I couldn’t imagine it myself. Anyone marrying that dry old stick of a playwright, even if he was the second cousin to a lord over Norwich way, must need their head examining.

‘Perhaps he’s not coming back?’ I asked hopefully. ‘Perhaps his cousin has decided to stop him ruining the family reputation with his plays and has offered him employment.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mrs Reid waspishly, coming to herself and stabbing her velvet pincushion with a pin. ‘The Earl of Ranworth does not think
anything of the sort. In fact, from what Mr Salter says, it’s the Earl of Ranworth’s own son that cause, the sleepless nights, not his cousin.’

‘Oh?’ I said, intrigued. This sounded like good material for a story: dissension in high places, wayward sons and worried fathers. It would certainly serve to pass the tedious time of sewing.

Mrs Reid was flattered by my interest . . . I knew how to coax her to be indiscreet. She loved passing on gossip and, from the sly expression on her face, I could tell that this was a piece of news she had been sworn not to relate. That made it all the more tempting, of course. She probably excused herself by the thought that I hardly counted.

‘Apparently,’ she said, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, ‘the Earl of Ranworth’s son has run away. He got himself into some kind of trouble and cleared off without so much as a change of clothes.’ She pinched her glasses back on to her nose and picked up her needle. ‘Fell out with his father over plans for his future, Mr Salter says. He’d be disinherited if it wasn’t for the entail.’

‘The entail?’

‘The Ranworth estates are legally tied to the next male heir. The poor Earl of Ranworth has no power over his son.’

Lucky son, I thought. He could afford to be rebellious.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ she went on though from her face, I could tell she was enjoying speaking so freely before me, ‘but Mr Sheridan has been helping to find the young man. He sent Mr Salter, who knows what he looks like, you see, thanks to the family connection, to search the docks at Bristol. There was a rumour that he was heading abroad from there.’

I hid a smile, imagining the prim Mr Salter poking his nose into the rough and ready dealings of Bristol docks. I could understand now why Mrs Reid was concerned: if Mr Salter wasn’t picked up by the press gang and thrown on board one of His Majesty ships, he could easily be done over by a party of drunken sailors. He would stand out as rich pickings for any troublemaker.

‘Oh, I’m sure Mr Salter will be all right,’ I lied to comfort her. ‘He’ll be back soon, probably
bringing the young lord with him, having had a splendid adventure.’

‘And it might give him something worth writing about,’ I added under my breath.

She grumbled something in denial of my optimistic words and we returned to our sewing. I was making a hash of mine as usual, doubly so because of my unsettled mood. I tried to hide the evidence from the eagle eye of Mrs Reid by covering the worst with my apron. I had enough experience of her temper to know that if she was fretting about her lost beau she might take it out on me with her birch measuring rod. My hands still bore the scars of her last bad day.

It came to me as I sat there that since I had first heard about the diamond, everything had turned strange. It was as if the stone stood between me and all the usual things of my life, fracturing and distorting them from their true shape. I wasn’t the only one hiding things under my apron. No one was as they seemed. Mr Sheridan, who claimed not to have enough money to pay for candles, had a valuable diamond somewhere in the theatre,
probably not so very far from where I was sitting.

Then there was Johnny. At first glance he seemed an innocent young man making his own way in the world, when in truth he was branded a traitor by the government and was hiding from the law. Not only that, he continued to disguise the fact that he was still drawing his treasonous cartoons by shutting himself away from us all.

And did it bother me that we had a criminal in our midst? I must admit it didn’t. I just thought that the government lacked a sense of humour if they took offence at his drawings. Some of the things he told me, like equality for men and women, for black and white, made a lot of sense. As for the ‘dung-heap of history’, you may be shocked, Reader, to know that I wasn’t too concerned what happened to our monarchy hidden away in their palaces of marble and gold.
If the people decided to get rid of the king, good luck to them
,
¹
it was unlikely to make much difference to me stuck here at the bottom of
society. But I couldn’t see it happening in my lifetime, not least because we wouldn’t want the Froggies to think we were copying them.

And then there was Pedro. He had been deceiving me. Since he had rescued me from the balloon, I’d taken him on trust as a friend and introduced him to my own circle, but now I thought that he’d really only ever been thinking about cheating on me. From the very first day, he had taken advantage of my indiscretion in telling him about the diamond and intended to steal from my patron. The belief that Pedro had used me hurt deeply. You see, Reader, I liked Pedro: he was talented and brave, he had a self-composure that I could never aspire to . . . he had the bearing of a little king. No wonder Syd and the others called him ‘Prince’. I had wanted to be Pedro’s friend and had hoped that he had begun to like me too, but it appeared I had been mistaken. I’d just been a rung on the ladder he was climbing to riches. Now I didn’t know who I could trust.

Except Syd. Yes, I thought with a smile, he was straightforward. If he didn’t like something, he told
you to your face and that was that. There were no surprises with him. At least, I hoped not. Recently I had begun to fear that maybe he . . . No, I didn’t even want to entertain the idea that he had feelings for me. That would make them more real somehow and complicate everything horribly. Syd was Syd. I’d leave it at that.

Monday was a quiet night for the theatre. After the play finished, the crowds dispersed quickly and we were ready to close up by ten-thirty. I stood at the stage door with Caleb watching Mrs Siddons, our leading actress, sign autographs for her admirers before she retired for the night. She was a stately lady with a mass of elegantly arranged hair and a good taste in gowns. She shared her brother’s mesmerising dark eyes . . . eyes which were now bent to speak to a young admirer . . . but on stage she could rivet thousands to their seats by the power of her presence. Under her spell, they groaned when she groaned, wept when she wept. To see her play Lady Macbeth was to experience true horror.

‘Fine lady that,’ muttered Caleb appreciatively. ‘Famed throughout the land but still remembers me by name and gives me a penny for my baccy now and then.’

I murmured my agreement and thought him very lucky. Mrs Siddons moved in circles far above mine. She rarely spoke to me . . . perhaps only to thank me for doing some small errand for her . . . but I idolised her. She was the queen of British theatre and I her most loyal subject.

‘Here, Caleb, can I have a word?’ It was Johnny. He had waited for the crowds of Mrs Siddons’ admirers to disperse before collaring the porter. ‘Can you find someone to deliver this for me?’

I peered with interest at the long thin package wrapped and sealed with red wax. It took no great brains to guess that it was the cartoon he had been working on all afternoon. Johnny saw me looking and frowned.

There was no time to dwell on this, for a ragged boy ran into the little courtyard by the stage door, his face the very picture of terror, and bounded straight up to me.

‘You Cat?’

‘Yes. What is it?’ I didn’t recognise him . . . his clothes were hanging on by threads and he was crusted with dirt.

‘I’s told I’d find you ’ere. You’ve gotta come wi’ me. The African boy’s askin’ for you. It’s bad.’

‘What? Pedro? What’s bad?’

‘The fight. ’E’s been ’urt . . . mortal ’urt.’

All my anger at Pedro was swept away on hearing the threat to his life. If he was asking for me at this moment, it must mean that I hadn’t been completely wrong: Pedro did care for me too. What did a silly argument between us matter when he could be dead by tomorrow morning?

‘Where is he?’ I asked, grabbing the boy’s arm.

‘Foller me,’ he said, running back the way he had come.

‘Cat! Where’re you going?’ called Johnny behind me.

I had no time to explain: he’d try to stop me going and every minute might count. I’d never forgive myself if I arrived too late. Too late for what? a voice in my head asked. I didn’t want to
think about that. I dashed after the boy, flakes of snow stinging my cheeks. The boy did not lead me as I had expected towards Covent Garden. Instead, he raced over Long Acre, heading northwest for the narrow streets of St Giles, otherwise known as the Rookeries. I hesitated on the kerb, but fearing to lose him, darted across the slushy street in pursuit. I knew London too well to choose to go into St Giles of my own free will. In normal circumstances, I would have given this district a wide berth. The people who lived there, mostly vagrants, thieves and beggars, were said to strip the possessions of any fool who wandered into their lanes, hair and teeth included. They were a law unto themselves, a patch of wild savagery, a running sore in one of the richest cities in the world.

Plunging into the maze of alleyways, I immediately felt the threatening atmosphere: the houses were so shoddily built they seemed to collapse on to each other across the street, blocking out the sky above. Whispers of smoke seeped out of the crazy chimneypots. The only lights came
from the gin shops and taverns that stank of drink, sweat and sickness. Even the steady fall of pure white snow was sullied by the time it landed on the cesspool that passed as a roadway in these slums.

‘Wait!’ I called after the boy. ‘Where are you taking me?’

The boy paused, shifting from leg to leg nervously as I caught him up. He too felt happier to be on the move rather than standing still waiting to attract trouble.

‘Not much further,’ he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He had a feverish look: his cheeks were flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘’E’s been carried into the King’s ’Ead.’

He set off again and darted down a side street into an even darker courtyard. The stench of overflowing drains was unbearable and I had to force myself to follow him. I shuddered as I nearly stepped on a dead rat lying stiff in the roadway. A mangy cat with one eye and half a tail slunk past, disappearing into a crack in the wall of a boarded-up house. The boy ducked into a low doorway with a creaking sign overhead. A crude painting of
Charles I, holding his severed head under one arm, swung above the entrance, snow resting like a funeral wreath on the picture. I dashed inside. Expecting to see Pedro lying in a pile of bloody rags, perhaps already dead, I found the taproom empty. There was only a small fire in the grate, a table and bench, an untended barrel of beer.

Once across the threshold, I had a very bad feeling about the place. The feverish boy had disappeared. Every instinct was screaming that, Pedro or no Pedro, it was time to run for it. I turned to leave but at that moment a customer stepped into the King’s Head and shut the door firmly behind him, shaking the snow off his hat. Billy Shepherd. My heart sank to my boots. Footsteps came from the back room and Ferret-features, Pox-face and Meatpie Matt lumbered in, all looking mightily pleased with themselves.

‘Delighted you could make it, Cat,’ said Billy with menacing politeness as he gestured for me to take a seat on the bench. I remained standing, snow melting on my shawl and dripping to the floor.

‘Where’s Pedro?’ I asked bleakly. ‘What’ve you done with him?’

‘I’ve no idea where Blackie is, Cat,’ said Billy with a laugh. ‘’E’s probably in Covent Garden waitin’ for the fight . . . the fight they all thought was goin’ to ’appen. You see, I ’ad to think up a little distraction so I could get you out of Drury Lane. It was pretty clever, don’t you think? You all fell for it ’ook, line and sinker.’

I felt sick. It was a trap. There was no Pedro in his death throes, no big fight in the piazza, just stupid old me stuck with my enemy in a place where anything could happen. And I mean anything: they could murder me here and now and no one in St Giles would turn a hair. If I wanted to live, this was no time to annoy Billy. I sat down.