The shop was dark by contrast to the sunny street and it took my eyes several moments to adjust. It appeared deserted: rows of dusty books lined the walls as though untouched for many years.
‘Yes, miss?’ A thin man with a limp cravat and lank white hair popped up from behind the counter, making me start.
‘Um, sorry to bother you, Mr . . .?’ I began.
‘Tweadle, miss, the Mr Tweadle.’ He rubbed his hands together and smiled at me without showing his teeth.
‘Mr Tweadle, I have some stories that I wondered if you might be interested in publishing.’ I pushed them over the counter towards him, anticipating his ‘no’ before it came. He pawed at the manuscripts with his broken nails but said nothing, looking at me curiously from under his sparse white eyebrows.
‘They’re not the usual thing one expects from the female pen, I know, but they have been read and enjoyed by some of this country’s noblest families. I have a character reference here.’
I placed my final card on the table: a letter from Mr Sheridan vouching for my years of faithful service at Drury Lane.
Mr Tweadle flicked at the letter with a paper-knife. ‘Sheridan,’ he read out. ‘You know him?’
What was this? A chink of light? Some interest at last?
‘Yes, sir. He was my patron – until a few days ago.’
Mr Tweadle’s eyes were running over the first page of my story. An eyebrow shot up.
‘You wrote this?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I wasn’t sure how to take that question: was he shocked, surprised, disgusted? I looked down at my shoes.
He picked up the letter again. ‘This says you served as a maid-of-all-work backstage. It says nothing about writing.’
‘I know. But I did write them, I swear.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Tweadle was now tapping his teeth with the paperknife. ‘Out of work, are you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not got a place to stay by the looks of you.’
I blushed. Was it that obvious?
‘No, sir.’
‘Any family to speak of?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Who’s looking after you then.’
‘Me, sir.’
‘Hmm.’
There was a pause in which I heard the bells of St Paul’s toll the hour with funereal solemnity.
‘I don’t think these will do,’ Mr Tweadle pronounced at last.
‘Oh, of course.’ I reached out to take them but he snatched them from me.
‘But I’ll give the matter more consideration. There may be something I could use.’
I was reluctant to be parted from my manuscripts: they were all I had now. ‘But I must –’
He cut me off. ‘I do however need a maid. The last one left at short notice and things have been rather neglected since then with just me and my assistant to manage on our own.’
‘You want me to be your maid?’
‘Of course. I’m hardly going to ask you to serve at the counter while I cook the supper, am I?’ He gave me a strangely humourless smile.
‘I see.’ My mind was whirring. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was better than nothing. And there was his promise to give my work more thought. ‘Thank you, I accept.’
‘There are conditions, of course.’
‘Yes?’ I wasn’t in a situation to demand much.
‘If I take you into my household, you’ll work in exchange for bed and board.’
I’d been here before, but I suppose I could look on it as a start. Maybe I’d get some money if he published something of mine?
‘I wish to take proper care of you so you are not to leave home without my express permission. Nokes – that’s my assistant – will continue to go to the market so there should be no need for you to wander.’
I must have looked doubtful for he added, ‘I don’t want a gadabout maid, miss. I have my good name to consider – and yours. I stand in loco parentis to my household, so I expect you to behave as a daughter to a father.’ He smirked. ‘I don’t suppose you know what that means, do you, miss?’
I was liking this Mr Tweadle less and less. ‘Oh, but I do. In place of the parent, sir.’
This took him by surprise. ‘My word, you are a clever girl! Where did you learn Latin?’
‘It’s a long story.’
He waved this aside. ‘What other languages do you speak?’
‘French – a bit of Italian.’
‘Hmm.’
That ‘hmm’ again. I was learning to recognize it as a sign of him scheming.
‘Perhaps when you’ve done your duties as maid, I may be able to make use of you with cataloguing the foreign books.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Good. That brings me to the last condition. If you work here, you are not to set foot in the shop, do you understand? If you wish to speak to me, you knock on the door between here and the rest of the house and wait for me to answer.’
This seemed so unreasonable. What was wrong with me? I didn’t have two heads, did I?
‘But why?’
‘I will not have my kitchen maid, even a clever one, interfering with my customers. You stay out of sight, do you understand?’
Bed and board versus the pleasure of telling him to get stuffed. Guess which won out.
‘Yes, sir.’
He gave me another of his insincere smiles. ‘Then you can start right away. What’s your name?’
‘Catherine Royal.’
‘Well then, Cathy. Come this side of the counter and I’ll show you where you are to live.’
Stepping through the gap, I shed my status as ‘Miss’ and became just ‘Cathy’. I thought to say that my friends called me ‘Cat’ but realized at once that I didn’t want Mr Tweadle addressing me on those terms. Cathy was a stranger I was sharing my life with for a few weeks until I could get myself out of here. She wasn’t me – not really.
Mr Tweadle led me down a dark passage to the back of the house. It didn’t take long to work out why the last maid had left. Mr Tweadle and his assistant had the eating and sleeping habits of pigs – though perhaps, Reader, I am slandering those worthy porkers whose only fault is that they like to roll in a little mud. The kitchen was filthy – not a clean utensil anywhere, rotting food in the cupboards and an inch of muck on the floor. Even a rat would have turned his nose up at dining here. Mr Tweadle thrust a cap and apron in my hand, pointed to the pump in the yard and turned to go.
‘Where am I to sleep, sir?’ I asked, thinking that I’d like to get that clean before I bedded down for the night.
‘Here of course. This is your kingdom now, Cathy. You’ll find your bedchamber behind that door.’ He crunched his way out over the grit that had accumulated on the flagstones. ‘I’ll have my dinner at five, supper at ten. I’ll send Nokes in with the necessaries when he gets back. I’ve an urgent errand for him.’
He left, roaring the name of his assistant. I heard the thunder of feet down the stairs and a hurried conversation in whispers before a door slammed.
How had I come to this? I wondered, looking at my sordid surroundings. It was only a week ago that I had been sipping sherbet in Grosvenor Square; now I was to scrape every foul thing known to mankind off the floor of a windowless kitchen. My bedroom was no more than a cupboard with a straw mattress. I propped the door open to let in some fresh air. The backyard went nowhere – just a square of bricks barricaded by high walls. You could look up to the heavens to see some colour and movement, but everything else was sooty and barren. It felt like a prison exercise ground with me as the only inmate.
Well, I was here by choice. I could walk out if I wished. My job was to make the best of it as so many had had to do before me. I rolled up my sleeves and started working the pump handle.
After several hours of work I felt quite pleased by the impact I had made on the kitchen. You could now at least see the flagstones on the floor and the table was scrubbed clean. I had lit a fire in the old stove and was just
contemplating making myself a cup of tea when the door from the passageway burst open and a young man with a crop of greasy mud-brown hair clattered into the room carrying a basket.
‘’Ere you go, skivvy,’ he said, dumping it on to the floor. I could tell at a glance that he was a poor shopper: the vegetables were old, the meat scraggy and tough. He then parked his bony bottom on my clean table and stared at me.
‘What you looking at?’ I asked sharply, quelling the urge to poke him off with a toasting fork applied to his rear.
‘Pleased to meet you too, Copperknob.’ He put his big dusty boots on the chair, elbows on his knees, and continued to gaze at me. ‘’Ope you’re a better cook than the last one. She nearly poisoned us, she did, buying off-meat so she could keep the change.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ Little chance of that if I wasn’t allowed out to market.
‘I’m Nokes.’
‘I would never have guessed.’ I began sorting through his purchases.
‘Friendly soul, ain’t you?’
I said nothing.
‘Well, wise up, Copperknob, I’m either yer best friend in this ’ouse, or yer worst enemy. Treat me nice and I’ll be nice to you; go all superior on me and you’ll regret it. Just ’cause you can read and write don’t mean you’re better than me.’
So he knew about my writing, did he?
‘I don’t think I’m better than you,’ I said quietly, wishing he would leave me in peace.
Nokes picked his nose and ate the contents with relish. ‘Too right, girl. You’re not better than anyone now, are yer? Old Tweadie said your “patron” was Mr La-di-dah Sheridan – we all know what that means, don’t we? ’Ad flash friends once, ’e says.’
His thin face was lit up by a malicious smile. In my anger, I snapped a carrot in two – but at least it wasn’t his neck – you should give me some credit for that, Reader.
‘But you’re ’ere now – and don’t you forget it. At our beck an’ call.’
I didn’t think this speech deserved an answer so I took out a knife and began vigorously chopping vegetables for a stew.
‘You know what?’ he said loudly.
I shook my head.
‘I don’t think I like you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said sardonically, throwing some meat in the pot. ‘See, your cruel words have made me weep.’ Tears caused by chopping onions were trickling down my face. ‘I am devastated by your penetrating character assessment and will forever be labouring under the burden of your displeasure.’
Nokes scratched the back of his head, confused by this last speech. ‘You talk funny, you know that?’
I shrugged. It was his problem if he didn’t understand the king’s English.
‘See you at dinner then – make sure it’s good or I’ll box your ears.’ And with that parting endearment, Nokes clumped out of the kitchen.
My ‘kingdom’, as Mr Tweadle had called it, returned to my sole charge, I took cook’s privilege and tested the stew frequently while it was on the stove. It was as well that I did for my new master and his assistant ate it all without leaving any for me, scraping the pot clean. I gathered they had not eaten properly for weeks either.
‘Not bad,’ commented Mr Tweadle. ‘Bit more salt next time, Cathy.’
Nokes belched and patted his stomach. ‘I take back wot I said earlier, skivvy. You might turn out all right after all.’
Mr Tweadle took a keen look at his assistant and then at me. ‘You,’ he said to Nokes, emphasizing each word with a wave of his knife, ‘are not to touch her, you understand?’
‘Me? Touch a skinny little bag of bones like ’er? As if I would!’
‘Hmm. Remember, I stand in loco parentis to you both.’ This was obviously a favourite phrase with him – possibly his only Latin. ‘She has proved very useful and I don’t want that spoiled.’
Nokes scowled but dared not say anything before his master. Mr Tweadle got up to go. ‘Leave a tray of supper in the passage for me before you go to bed, Cathy. You’ve made a good start. I think you and I will get along splendidly.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’ Still not liking him much, I recognized that Mr Tweadle was the closest thing I had to a protector in this house. He at least was trying to be welcoming.
‘Come along, Nokes. I want you to fetch those . . . er . . . things from the printers for me.’
Nokes took a while to leave, making a great show of tying a bootlace. When Mr Tweadle had disappeared back into the shop, the assistant pounced on me, backing me up against the stove. ‘Listen, Copperknob, you may’ve made a friend of the old man, but you don’t tell ’im nothink about me, all right? If I knock you about a bit, that’s our business, all right?’
I wasn’t standing for this.
‘Shove off!’ I was used to dealing with bullies like him and kicked at his shins. My shoe made a satisfyingly complete connection with the bone.
‘Ouch!’ He hopped away, cursing me, obviously not accustomed to maids who hit back. ‘You’ll regret that, you little witch!’
‘Listen carefully, Mr Nokes. I will do my job, cook and clean, but that’s it. If you want to punch someone, go pick a fight with a man your own size. I know a few that’d be delighted to give you a good pasting. Now get out of my kitchen, you flea on a rat’s bum, before I turn nasty.’ I picked up the toasting fork and gave a significant look at the area of his body in which I was contemplating planting it. He took the hint and left hurriedly, his tail between his legs.
I saw little of Nokes and Mr Tweadle after that. They would turn up at mealtimes, say a few words, then leave. Mr Tweadle always made an effort to be complimentary; Nokes just scowled. The shop appeared to be keeping them very occupied. Business had picked up and the bell was forever jingling as customers came and went. That first Monday must not have been typical, I decided. Mr Tweadle must be a bookseller of some repute if he was this busy. It might not be a bad place to launch my literary career if I could persuade him to put me in print.
After a week of being kept indoors I began to go a little crazy with the imprisonment. Though I took my vegetables outside to peel in the yard and spent as much time as I could excuse sweeping the bricks, I still had not been allowed into the shop or out on to the street. Mr Tweadle was taking his desire to keep a respectable household too much to the extreme.
I tackled him about it after seven days of this treatment. I had cooked what I hoped was a passable dinner. Mr Tweadle was in a very good mood: he had ordered in a jug of wine and was treating Nokes and himself to a glass or two.
‘To our customers!’ he crowed, raising his vintage in the direction of the shop. ‘To those who keep us in this delightful style.’ His eyes flicked over to me, standing by the stove. ‘Do you want some, Cathy?’
‘No thank you, sir. But I was wondering if I might go out tomorrow – just for a half hour or so. I know a good butcher’s where I can get much better meat than the poor stuff Mr Nokes has been buying. That last bit of mutton was surely from a sheep that died of old age – you must have noticed how tough it was?’
Mr Tweadle frowned and put down his glass. ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t go wandering.’
‘I promise to go there and come straight back. I won’t talk to anyone.’
‘I said no, Cathy. My word is final.’
I’d had enough of being his slave. I took off my cap and began to untie my apron.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked sharply, all pretence at being friendly abandoned.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t continue like this. I’ll go mad if I can’t get out and about.’
‘You hear that?’ he appealed to Nokes. ‘The ungrateful girl frets over her freedom to roam the streets like some common hussy. You see how right I was to insist she stayed inside?’
‘Very wise, sir,’ Nokes intoned. ‘She’s got to be kept close, this one, or your name will be mud.’
‘I don’t think a walk to a butcher’s shop would place Mr Tweadle’s name in peril, but a
s you both do, I had better take my leave. If I could have my manuscripts back, please?’ I held out my hand.
My employer and Nokes exchanged looks.
‘What manuscripts?’ asked Mr Tweadle coldly.
‘My manuscripts – the ones I showed you last week!’ I felt a rising sense of panic. I had to get them back – I had to!
‘There were no manuscripts.’
‘There were! In a canvas bag. You looked at them in the shop.’
‘Oh, those bits of old paper. I think I put them down somewhere – can’t for the life of me remember what I did with them.’
‘Kindling for the fire, sir?’ suggested Nokes with a malevolent grin at me.
‘Very possibly. If you’re so worried about it, you’d better write some more, girl. I’ll give you pen and paper so you can keep up your little hobby. I like to encourage innocent pursuits. If you’re good, I might be able to remember what I did with them in a few days.’
‘A few days!’ I exclaimed. The slimy cheat was holding my manuscripts hostage to keep a cheap maid about the place.
Mr Tweadle got up. ‘I’ll send Nokes back with the paper for you. I do so want you to be happy while you are staying here, Cathy. You’ll feel so much better if you let your mind rather than your person wander and write a few more stories to pass the time. You won’t mind if I lock you in now, will you? You have to understand it’s for your own good.’
Of course I minded, but they were gone and the bolt clunked into place.
That night, I considered my options. Mr Tweadle couldn’t keep an eye on me forever – I had no fears about that locked door. If the worst came to the worst, I’d simply climb over the back wall and make my escape that way. But he needed no real shackles – my manuscripts were like a ball and chain keeping me here. They were irreplaceable. No one else might have any use for them, but they were everything to me. I’d have to find them, then flee – that was all there was to it.
To lull Mr Tweadle into a false sense of security, I scribbled down a little story that night – something about star-crossed lovers and dutiful daughters. It was poor stuff – but better than many a tale that made it into print. I left it on the table so that Mr Tweadle would see it when he came down for breakfast.
Den of Thieves Page 6