The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  ‘Mr Winterton, Mrs Winterton, are you there?’

  Slowly easing the door open she held her candle high and walked into the room.

  ◆◆◆

  Sam was certain he’d walked into the right room. He quickly went over it inside his head. Top floor, turn left, halfway down the landing. That was what he’d done, he was sure of it. But he wasn’t in the right room now; that was clear enough.

  The old lady facing him was well built, even muscular he might have said and dressed in a wide apple white gown that brushed the floor around her. She had a white, powdered face with a beauty spot above her full, crimson lips, and a high wig so powdered it gave the effect that she stood under her own snow cloud. Behind her stood a young footman coughing on the fumes coming from the wig and pulling hard on the strings of the lady’s gown.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon ma’am,’ Sam bobbed. ‘Do excuse my intrusion.’ He turned to go, red-faced, but only got as far as the stairs when a gruff voice stopped him going any further.

  ‘Come back in boy,’ it said. ‘You’ve got the right room.’

  Sam cautiously peered back round the door frame and looked at the two guests standing in front of a long mirror, looking right back at him. The old lady had a most unladylike, wide stance and her arms were folded in front of her considerable bosom. The pale lad next to her was looking him up and down as he too folded his arms. Sam looked at them again, harder this time.

  ‘Mr…er…Mr Versatile?’ he tried.

  ‘Got it in one,’ said the lady in her low, altogether masculine voice, pushing a stray hair away from her face and into her large wig.

  ‘And…er…that would mean…’

  ‘What?’ beckoned the boy, in a particularly feminine voice.

  ‘Miss Versatile?’

  ‘There we are then,’ said Rosie, brushing her hands down her waistcoat and breeches. ‘That’s the new introductions out of the way. We’ve got an awful lot to do so…’

  ‘Here!’ cried Sam, pointing a finger at the footman. ‘I recognise those. You’re wearing my clothes!’

  ‘Indeed I am Master Steadfast,’ replied Rosie, giving him a bow. ‘Do you not remember loaning them to me? You’re so very generous.’

  Sam huffed and scratched his head and paced up and down the room once, twice, three times until he came to rest and lifted his arms out wide. Rosie and Henry patiently waited for him to finish.

  ‘Would you like to tell me…erm…why?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘What do you mean “why what?” Why are you dressed in my clothes and why (no offence meant sir) are you dressed like a rich old lady who’s had one too many puddings?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No I can’t!’ He stamped his feet.

  ‘Very well Master Steadfast, there’s no need for that,’ said Henry. ‘It is simple enough. We are going to the theatre this evening incognito.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In disguise Sam,’ sighed Rosie. ‘It’s only a precaution, but it might give us more freedom to keep our ears to the ground.’

  ‘Oh. Then why the long face?’

  Rosie huffed. ‘I had a beautiful gown picked out for the evening. I’ll never get a chance to wear it now and I so wanted to go to the ball. The most estimable and, if I may say so, dashing Justice Brash was saving a dance for me…’

  ‘Brash? That dandy? I’d watch out for him miss,’ said Sam, his mouth going dry. ‘He’s as slippery as wet cobbles.’

  ‘Well there’s no need to worry about me Master Steadfast, because I shan’t be there, instead I’ll be Rob Curtis for the evening.’ She pushed her thumbs down the waist of her breeches and adopted a suitably low voice. ‘I shall be keeping seats warm for the gentry, and Mrs Bloomsdale here, widow to late Mr Bloomsdale, shall be defending herself against aged suitors after her fortune and enjoying the evening’s entertainment.’

  Henry flicked open a fan and fluttered it in front of his face.

  ‘You two are bonkers,’ said Sam, dropping his arms to his side. ‘Just thought you aught to know.’

  ‘Thank you Master Steadfast, how kind of you to point it out, but I see that you too have come dressed for the occasion,’ said Henry, flicking his fan Sam’s way.

  Sam looked down at himself and the black livery he was wearing; black shirt, black frock coat and black breeches.

  ‘Oh, yes…I…er…I thought I should play the part if I’m to…you know…snoop around.’ He pulled out a strip of black material from a pocket and threw it round his head, puffing his chest out as he did so. There were two holes left for his eyes but otherwise the mask covered half his face and he tied it sharply round the back of his head.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ chuckled Rosie. ‘You look like Dick Turpin himself. I’m sure ladies would quake in their shoes should they see you in a dark alley.’

  Sam blushed again, destroying any roguish effect his disguise had given him, and Henry walked over to the window and looked out.

  ‘Our post-chaise carriage will be arriving shortly Master Steadfast, so if you’ll excuse my haste, we must be brief.’

  Sam nodded as the old man (or old woman he should say) pulled a plain silver chain from out of the front of his dress.

  ‘You are to leave this somewhere clearly visible on the street in front of the theatre, somewhere where one of those guards can see it.’ He passed Sam the chain. ‘Then all you have to do is follow that chain wherever it goes.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to go backstage in the theatre.’

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘Call it a hunch, but if Rosie’s necklace was stolen maybe this will be too. Maybe there’s a pick-pocket in the town and that’s the end of it, but maybe the chain might lead us to where our strange friend here has come from.’

  Sam looked over at the black man still in a deep sleep in the corner of the room and clenched the thin chain of silver in his closed fist. It all felt suddenly very real and very dangerous, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it as the sound of horses came from outside.

  ‘There’s our ride,’ said Henry. ‘All the best Master Steadfast, keep to the shadows and I’m sure you’ll do fine. We meet in the Crossroads on the stroke of eleven.’

  The old woman curtsied and hurried out of the room to the coach. Rosie quickly checked her hair was tied back well enough before walking over to Sam and brushing her hand gently down his arm, making him feel a little warm and dizzy.

  ‘Good luck Sam. It shouldn’t be too tricky. You look splendid by the way,’ she smiled, looking him in the eyes, and holding his gaze. ‘A real mystery.’

  ‘That’s what it is for sure Miss Simp…Miss Versatile, a mystery. Makes me rather nervous, my stomach’s full of snakes.’

  ‘They’ll pass, I assure you. Soon it will all feel very natural.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not. For the wondrous and strange to appear everyday and humdrum would be a sad thing indeed.’

  Rosie smiled again, a smile that Sam felt sure was just for him, and left the room for the coach into town, calling up to him from the stairs. ‘See you at the Crossroads Master Mystery!’

  Sam saw himself in the long mirror, clad all in back, and struck a menacing pose at his reflection.

  ‘Yes, I like that. Master Mystery.’

  The coach took Rosie and Henry (or Rob Curtis and Mrs Bloomsdale) the long way down Hope Hill and back towards the town proper. They had to get out and walk the final half a mile, so busy was the traffic of carriages and horses, and Rosie was forced to endure the unending complaints coming from her grandfather over the intolerable pain of his shoes.

  Their path was lined with flaming torches all the way through the town, casting the whole of Hope into a swelling and hellish glow. Cheering and shouting came from all around them as everyone made their way in one giant mass towards the theatre and Rosie held onto her grandfather as they were pushed onwards. Faces loomed in and out of the light, some were masked and some wer
e smiling madly in the orange light from the torches. Rosie was at once full of a rush of excitement as well as an unfamiliar dread; she assumed it came from the uncommon feeling of being herded along like cattle with the rest of the gathered folk.

  With Ash Street coming up on the right of them, Rosie’s attention was caught by a cluster of the now familiar red and black uniforms of the town’s guardsmen collected outside a tavern. The sign swinging in the breeze said The Hop Inn. Why did that name strike a chord with her?

  She squeezed her grandfather’s arm and pointed down to what she saw. The old man immediately veered towards the street and wasn’t shy when it came to pushing people out of the way.

  ‘My good man,’ he said to the nearest guard, in a rough, high voice that Rosie tried not to find amusing. ‘What seems to have been going on here that there needs to be so many of you military types?’

  ‘Needn’t worry yourself ma’am,’ said the guard. ‘Just some of the town’s business. You run along and enjoy your evening.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that until you enlighten me young man,’ he insisted. ‘You see, I am lodged here for the night, and I do not wish to be disturbed by you ruffians coming and going every minute.’

  The guard had obviously never had to deal with a lady like Mrs Bloomsdale and he hovered awkwardly, lost for anything to say.

  ‘Well?’ asked Henry, pulling his sourest face.

  The guard was saved by four more of his men coming through the front door of the tavern, struggling with two large bags made of heavy sacking between them, and loading the sacks up and onto the back of a waiting carriage.

  ‘All done ma’am,’ said the guard, relieved to be rushing off. ‘You’ll not see us no more. Have yourselves a jolly night.’

  And within a moment they were all gone.

  Henry and Rosie rushed through the front door of the tavern and into the lobby where a lady was sat down consoling a slight, young serving girl. The lady looked up as the two of them entered and Rosie saw that they both had red eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the landlady, ‘but we are full.’

  ‘We’re not looking for lodgings my dear,’ said Henry, producing a handkerchief and passing it to the lady. ‘We were wondering why those men were here?’

  The lady seemed to have to gather herself before she spoke and, when she did, her words were quiet and restrained.

  ‘Two of our guests came to a most terrible fate last night. It seems they died in their sleep and poor Blanch here found them not an hour ago in their bed, quite gone.’ Tears came again and she blew her nose on the handkerchief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Henry. ‘And you my poor girl, you found them?’

  Blanch nodded.

  ‘Do you have any idea of how they died?’ asked Rosie, bending down to face the girl and take her hand. Blanch looked up to her and Rosie saw a ghastly fear in her blood shot eyes that she was beginning to know all to well. She had seen the same look in Mrs Smith’s eyes.

  ‘Their faces,’ the girl whispered. ‘All screwed up they were, like they’d been twisted or something. It looked…it looked like they died of fright.’

  Rosie turned to her grandfather and under his white makeup she could see his expression darken.

  ‘Can you show me where you found them?’ asked Rosie, though she knew what she would find; a room as cold as winter and as burnt as charcoal.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered the girl, rising from her seat. ‘It was upstairs in the Royal Suite.’

  ‘The Royal Suite?’ said Henry. ‘Are you sure? Was not the Royal Suite already booked?’

  ‘It was,’ said the landlady, ‘but the guests never arrived. How could you know…’

  ‘Such a busy time,’ the old man chimed. ‘I presumed every room in your establishment must have been taken.’

  ‘Yes…well, that was certainly the case,’ she said, standing up and leading them to the stairs. ‘If you will follow me I’ll show you to their room. It’s ruined. I do hope word doesn’t get around, it could spoil business something dreadful.’

  ‘Lead the way dear, we’ll be right on your heels.’

  Mrs Pennyfeather and Blanch ascended the stairs and Henry pulled Rosie off to one side, watching them disappear around the corner.

  ‘That was our room,’ he hissed. ‘That was where we were meant to spend the night.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘What do you make of it all?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I wager there’s something here for us.’

  Henry grabbed Rosie by the elbow, urging her over to the counter in the lobby and started quickly riffling through the draws of the desk, throwing papers and old ledgers aside until he pulled out a brown paper envelope and held it up triumphantly.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he exclaimed, waving the thing in front of Rosie’s face.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He broke the red seal and tore open the envelope shaking the contents out onto the desk. There was a letter, two invitations on fine card and a handful of notes, all exactly the same in every detail as the two he had already received.

  ‘This is all too strange,’ said Rosie. ‘What can it mean?’

  ‘I think it means that this case has just got a little more interesting. I think it means that someone wanted us here tonight, and not the King.’

  Rosie shook her head.

  ‘I’m reeling with confusion grandpa. What do you suggest we do?’

  After a pause, he flicked open his fan and batted his false eyelashes.

  ‘I suggest we go and enjoy our evening,’ he smiled. ‘You know what they say girl; the show must go on.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sam rubbed his hands down his face and blinked several times. He felt dazed and, if he was honest, a little sick. He leant against the wall, hidden in the shadows and looked out at the parade of people passing him on Corin Street. He imagined it was like looking out on some ancient ritual as masked men and women streamed passed him, some wearing traditional masks depicting whole exaggerated faces stuck in wide expressions of comedy or tragedy, some in less traditional fare. There were giant goats heads illuminated by the torch light, and fox heads, faces of cats with long whiskers and owls with huge bottomless eyes, lambs heads on top of women in ball gowns and grotesque crows heads balanced on gentlemen in their finest livery. It was altogether a hideous sight.

  Sam watched them all through bleary eyes. Since stepping back through the doorway from the beach, everything had blurred and dampened, like he was looking at the world through gauze or through water. He rubbed his eyes but it did no good, the definition of things had softened and the world was suddenly muted and frightening. He was afraid he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

  I could leave, he thought, pulling his black cloak tightly round him. I could just run away from Hope and not come back, there’s nothing keeping me here, my father can deal with his own problems and I don’t have to do what that old man tells me to do, I’m no one’s slave.

  But then he thought of Rosie, that intolerable, infuriating young lady. He thought of her pale skin and dark hair, her blue eyes and her smile that he felt as though it was just for him and he sighed…

  ‘‘Scuse me?’ said someone behind him, tapping him on the shoulder.

  He turned to the voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Here’s all the jewels and money I’ve got.’

  A small lady of middling years with a face like a Halloween pumpkin was holding her hands out to him. In her open palms was a collection of gold and silver necklaces, a few rings fixed with various coloured stones and some crumpled up notes of money. She wore a half-mask that Sam thought could be a rabbit, with long, limp ears sticking out sideways, but he was far from certain. She smiled and offered her hands out to him again. Sam looked around, unsure if she was talking to him, but there was sadly no one else near.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ he asked.

  ‘My jewels and my money,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Take the
m, only don’t ravish me.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘All my worldly goods sir, they’re yours. You’re a highwayman after all, I wouldn’t want to rub you up the wrong way.’

  ‘I’m not a highwayman!’

  The lady paused and eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Er…yes.’

  ‘Right, ‘scept if you really were a highwayman you probably wouldn’t tell anyone, ‘cos of the law, which means you must be one!’

  ‘All right then, I am a highwayman!’

  ‘I knew it! Go on take my jewels, they’re all I’ve got.’

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  ‘I don’t want your jewels!’

  ‘Oh go on, I always wanted to be frisked by a highwayman.’

  ‘Please just…’ he searched around inside his head for the right words. ‘Push off!’

  He turned his back on her and focused out on the crowd flowing down the street in front of him. The noise was tremendous. Cheering, hollering and yelling drowned out the dim sounds of trumpets and drums and stamping feet. Amongst the crowd something dashed passed his eye-line and he spotted movement low down. He knelt in the shadow and saw, between all of the walking legs, a boy on his hands and knees, scrabbling about on the cobbles of the street.

  What on earth was he doing? Sam thought. He’ll get himself trampled to death if he’s not careful. But the boy dodged every footfall that came his way and every leg that looked as though it could hit him. He was an erratic little thing, like a rat, and kept low and, from the behaviour of everyone around him, completely out of sight.

  ‘No one never frisked me.’

  Sam ignored the lady behind him and kept his eyes pinned onto the sight of the boy, scuttling about in the dirt. He leaped aside as a wide gown came at him and rolled away as legs came close towards his face. It was mesmerizing.