Billy winced. He did indeed have the misfortune to have a large inflamed spot on the end of his nose. I had not realised that he was so sensitive about it . . . if I had, I would have employed the insult sooner. He shoved me roughly away, on to the cobbles, and called me a name that you do not hear in polite company. He then aimed a kick at me.
‘Run!’ I yelled at Pedro as I picked myself up and made a dash for home. I did not even look round to see if he was following. I had done my best by distracting Billy; Pedro would have to rely on his own wit for the rest. At least in part the trick had worked, for I could hear the thunder of footsteps on my heels: Billy and his boys were after me. I leapfrogged over a grocer’s stall, spilling a crate of apples in my passage through. A boy cursed behind me as he fell to the ground, feet forced from under him by the green ammunition I had let loose.
‘Come back ’ere, you vandal!’ shouted the unfortunate owner of the stall, but I was not fool enough to obey him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pedro running parallel, chased by two of Billy’s thugs. He was outstripping them easily and appeared to stand a better chance of getting home in one piece than I did. I could hear the panting breath of someone hot on my heels. If I didn’t get out of sight, it was all up with me. I took a sharp right, dodging out of view of my pursuers for a few precious seconds, and dived under the cheese-monger’s stall. Mrs Peters was minding the shop . . . a lucky thing for me, for she was known to be a kind-hearted woman.
‘Hide me, please!’ I hissed to her plump ankles.
‘Lawd love us, Cat!’ she muttered. ‘What scrape ’ave you got into now?’
I had no time to reply, for Billy Shepherd had arrived at her stall. I shrank close to a churn, hoping he would not think to look under the table. My hiding place had the sour smell of milk on the turn, but in my present situation I could not afford to be too particular.
‘Oi, missus! Which way she go?’ asked Billy, panting hard.
‘’Oo’s that?’ Mrs Peters replied with forced cheerfulness, though I could see her knuckles were white as she clenched a cloth by her side. All of the stallholders had reason to fear Billy Shepherd. He was a nasty piece of work who would not think twice about wrecking their business if it suited him. They had been appealing to Syd to do something about Billy and we all knew a confrontation was brewing.
‘Don’t be clever with me,’ growled Billy. ‘Cat . . . that red-’aired girl from the theatre. ‘’Oo else d’you think I mean?’
‘Oh, ’er,’ said Mrs Peters as if the daylight of understanding was just dawning in her benighted mind. ‘I saw ’er run off down Russell Street as if the devil ’imself were after ’er.’
Billy swore. ‘I don’t believe you, you old cow. She couldn’t get so far so fast.’
‘If you don’t believe me, search my stall then . . . and ’is . . . and ’ers.’ She waved her cloth at the other stallholders. This was a high-risk strategy on her part. I slid as close as I could to the churn, feeling the metal cold on my cheek. ‘I’ve got nuffink to ’ide from the likes of you.’
‘Watch it, woman, or my boys will be paying you a call one of these nights.’
Mrs Peters fell silent. Would Billy take up her invitation to search the stall? If he did, I was dead. But perhaps the thought of poking around amidst the highly smelling cheeses deterred him. He hesitated just long enough for one of his boys to come running back to him.
‘Billy, Blackie’s been spotted. Over ’ere!’
The hobnailed boots thundered off across the cobbles on the scent of a new quarry. I waited till the din had died away completely and then scrambled out of my hiding place.
‘Thanks, Mrs Peters,’ I said gratefully, gulping breaths of fresh air.
‘Don’t you do that to me again, Cat!’ she said, venting her fury by hacking at a round cheese the size of a cartwheel axle.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and stood looking at me, her hands on her hips. ‘I know, dearie, but you stay out of ’is way, won’t you? Or you’ll be found in the gutter one mornin’ with your throat slit like wot ’appened to poor Nat Perkins.’ She looked around the edge of her stall, checking that the coast was clear. ‘You’d better get out of ’ere while you can.’
I nodded and headed off southwards, intending to circle round and enter the theatre from the Drury Lane side. I just hoped that Pedro had managed to get away too.
I found him leaning over a water fountain near the stage door. His fine livery was in tatters and he had a bloodied nose and black eye. He looked up as I approached and gave me a nod, his white teeth stained with blood from a cut to his mouth.
‘You got away too then?’ he asked.
‘Better than you, by the looks of it.’
He shrugged. ‘I took a wrong turn but there was only one of them by the time he caught up with me . . . the small one. I soon sorted him out and got away before the others arrived.’
‘Sorted him out?’ I asked incredulously. I’d not put Pedro down as a street-fighter.
‘I can look after myself, you know.’
‘So you didn’t need my help then?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘I wish you’d told me for I’d’ve spared myself a lot of trouble. I s’pose you’d’ve beaten them all single-handed, would you?’
‘Well, I have to admit that it wasn’t looking promising until you showed up.’ He shook the water off his face and dusted down his ruined clothes. ‘Shall we go in?’
He didn’t seem to realise just how close we had come to serious injury. ‘You may have dealt out one beating this morning,’ I told him grumpily, ‘but we both face another when they see what a state you’re in.’
‘Beatings are nothing new. Thank you for coming to help me, Miss Cat.’ He gave me a mocking bow.
I could not help but smile at his flamboyant flourish. He had bowed as if I were a duchess.
‘It’s just Cat, Pedro. You saved me from the balloon; I rescued you from the Boil. So, we’re quits then?’
‘Yes, we’re quits.’
It was only as we reached the safety of the theatre that it really struck me that we hadn’t heard the last of this morning’s escapade. I had made myself a very formidable enemy in Billy ‘Boil’ Shepherd . . . and his enemies had the unfortunate habit of meeting sudden ends down dark alleyways. Not a pleasant thought.
SCENE 3 . . . A TRIUMPH
As I had predicted, we were both soundly beaten for arriving back at the theatre covered in mud and, in Pedro’s case, blood. No one wanted to hear our explanations. As far as Signor Angelini was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that Pedro had missed an hour of rehearsal time and returned having spoilt both his clothes and appearance. As for me, Mrs Reid did not look kindly upon my mud-spattered skirts nor on the part she assumed I had played in ruining her Mogul Prince.
‘It’s all very well for you to cry, missee,’ she scolded as I nursed my hands, raw from the blows she had just inflicted, ‘but you should have thought first before you led the boy off into the streets. If you want to stay at Drury Lane, you have to start acting like a lady, not like a street beggar’s brat.’
‘I didn’t lead him anywhere!’ I protested, outraged by the unfairness of her accusations. ‘I was saving him from being mobbed by the market gangs!’
‘Well, you didn’t do a very good job, did you?’ she replied, stabbing a pin into Pedro’s costume as he stood patiently waiting for her to finish. He had been thrashed by Signor Angelini but I will not tell you where. Suffice to say that the beating will not interfere with his violin playing nor be visible to the public. He winced as she tugged on a red silk sash but then, seeing that I was watching, he gave me a wink when her back was turned.
Sarah Bowers entered carrying an enormous confection on a tray. I looked again: it wasn’t a dessert as I had at first thought but a lavishly decorated turban of pale pink.
‘’Ere you go,’ said Sarah, ramming the h
at on Pedro’s head so that it covered the cut on his right temple. ‘I’ve gone to town with the jools . . . they should take eyes off that there black ’un of yours.’
Indeed the twinkling gemstones were dazzling even in the pale light of the Sparrow’s Nest; it was not hard to imagine them in their full splendour under the chandeliers. But Sarah’s talk of jewels reminded me of another subject I had almost forgotten in today’s adventures.
‘Are those real?’ I asked, stretching up to tap on the big ruby set in the centre of the turban. A white ostrich feather bobbed over Pedro’s head like a swan’s neck dipping into a silken stream.
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Pedro, squinting at himself in the mirror, ‘because then I’ll be on the first boat to France and will live off my riches for the rest of my days.’
Mellowing a little as she admired the effect of the costume over which she had slaved so hard, Mrs Reid laughed. ‘You won’t get far with those, my lad; they are all paste. Gimcrack rubbish the lot of them. The feather’s worth more than they are put together . . . all the way from Africa, would you believe it! So mind you see that no harm comes to it if you don’t want a second beating!’ Her nearsighted eyes glared a warning at him in the mirror as she fixed a single pearl earring in his lobe.
Pedro nodded, sending the ostrich feather into a swaying dance.
‘Mind you, you rarely see the real thing, Cat,’ added Sarah, arranging the folds of the turban. ‘When the ladies sit in the boxes with ropes of pearls and diamonds around their necks, you know they’re mostly fake. There’s many a duchess with her jools laid up in lavender, if the rumours be true.’
‘Laid up in lavender?’ I asked.
‘At the pawnbrokers, dear,’ explained Mrs Reid, ‘to pay gambling debts usually. So think about that if ever you are tempted to try your luck at the card table.’ She gave Sarah and me a cautionary look over the top of her glasses.
I was very unlikely to face that temptation. No one could possible think I had money to lose in a card game, let alone jewels. But perhaps Mrs Reid could help me with the mystery of Mr Sheridan’s diamond.
‘Mrs Reid,’ I began, passing her the tape measure that had fallen to the floor, ‘if you had a real jewel, where would you keep it for safety?’
‘Locked in a big iron chest in the Tower of London, guards on the door day and night,’ she chuckled. ‘If only . . .’
‘Forget the chest,’ said Sarah, throwing a shovel full of sea-coal on to the fire. ‘Just give me the guards, six foot tall and ’andsome as can be.’ She stood up and mimed flouncing across the hearthrug like a fine lady, swinging a jewel on the end of a chain around her neck.
‘You bold madam!’ laughed Mrs Reid. ‘You’ll come to no good, you will, if you carry on like that. Now, young man, take off your finery and Cat can show you where to get something to eat before the show starts. You’ve not got long.’
Grabbing some small beer, cold meat, bread and sweet wrinkled apples from the table laid out in the Green Room, Pedro and I made our picnic in my favourite hideaway of the manager’s box. Already the early arrivals were taking their seats in the Pit and a number of servants were lounging in the galleries, saving places for their masters and mistresses. The stage was empty . . . the balloon (now repaired) was well hidden in the flies so that it could descend unheralded to the amazement of the crowd. Pedro had a lot to play against if he was to make his mark tonight.
‘I’ll watch you from here if Mr Sheridan lets me,’ I told him. He had gone very quiet and I suspected that nerves were beginning to have an effect on him. ‘Are you nervous?’
Pedro shook his head, the pearl earring that he had not taken off glinting in the candlelight. ‘No, I’m not nervous. I was just thinking about all the other theatres I’ve performed in. This one is undoubtedly the grandest.’ He looked about him, taking in the raked seating capable of accommodating thousands of London’s finest citizens . . . as well as some of her worst. ‘You really live here?’
‘All my life,’ I replied simply. ‘And you?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t remember much about the early years except . . .’ He paused, thinking back, ‘. . . friendly faces and a hot sun.’
‘So how did you get to drizzly, cold London?’ I asked, encouraging this new mood for shared confidences.
Pedro’s face took on a hardened, embittered expression.
‘When I was still an infant, my people were sold by our enemies to the slavers. We were split up. I got lucky, I suppose you would say, for on the voyage to the colonies I caught the eye of a gentleman, a Mr Hawkins. He saw me playing on a sailor’s pipe one day . . . I’d managed to get out of the hell below decks by entertaining the crew. He bought me and spent a few years training me up as a violinist. Then he got some of his money back by sending me on tour of the south-west, performing in theatres and private houses. That lasted for a couple of seasons and then I was sold on to Signor Angelini last month.’
‘Sold? So you are a slave then?’ I asked curiously.
Pedro flashed me a dangerous look. ‘I am no such thing. I am an apprentice musician under articles to Signor Angelini. Once on the shores of your country, I became free . . . as free as you are.’
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, realising I had offended him. ‘So you can leave when you like? You can go home?’
He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Home? Where is that, pray? My family were all sold for slaves. If they are still alive, how could I ever find them? I can’t even remember my proper name.’ He looked at me angrily, as if I was somehow partly to blame for his misfortune. He wasn’t to know that, though describing a very different life, it sounded to me that Pedro and I shared much in common: we had both been thrown out into the world at an early age and were now cut off from our origins. I had often wondered what name my mother had given me. I had vague memories of a woman caring for me . . . I sometimes dreamed of her but no image remained in my waking mind. But at least I knew exactly why I had ended up as Cat.
‘So why are you called Pedro?’ I asked.
‘That was the name of my first master’s dog . . . you see how highly he valued me,’ Pedro replied with an ironic smile. ‘My second name is Hawkins after him. But I’m going to make my own name now. I won’t be anyone’s performing monkey any longer. Now I’ve reached London, I’m going to make my name as the best musician in Europe.’ He held his head proudly, glaring down at the audience below as if challenging them to refuse his claim.
‘I can believe it,’ I replied.
He raised his mug of beer to acknowledge my remark and took a swig. Wiping his mouth, he then asked:
‘And what about you? What are you going to do when you are too old to live here?’
I was taken aback. I had never considered a life when I was not living backstage at Drury Lane. But he was right: a day would come when I could no longer bed down on the costumes in the Sparrow’s Nest. I did not want him to think that I was completely without talent, unable to take care of myself.
‘I’m going to be a writer,’ I said on impulse. ‘I’ll write for the stage.’ Pedro gave me a sceptical look. ‘I’ve been taught to read and write by the old prompt. He always told me that there was no better education to be had anywhere in the world. Shakespeare, Dryden, Johnson . . . I’ve read them all. I speak French with the ballerinas . . . and I can read it too.’
‘But you’re a girl,’ he said dismissively. He clearly didn’t think very much of my talents.
It was my turn to get angry. ‘So? Women can make a lot of money from writing. Look at Mrs Radcliffe and Mrs Inchbald.’
He snorted. ‘And what have you got to write about? Have you travelled the world? Have you been to the Indies and the Americas? Have you moved in high society like I have?’
‘No, but at least I wasn’t carrying a tray of drinks at the time!’ I answered angrily.
He laughed. ‘Touché.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Touché . . . a hit. It’s from fencing .
. . a hobby of my old master.’
‘Oh.’ I was feeling quite out of spirits now. Compared to the worldly Pedro, learned in the gentlemanly arts of music and swordplay, I knew nothing. But I still refused to accept defeat. ‘For your information, I’ve got plenty to write about. Like Mr Sheridan’s diamond, for example.’
‘Diamond?’ It was his turn to look impressed but even so I instantly regretted I’d even mentioned it.
‘I shouldn’t have told you that. Forget it.’
‘Of course I can’t forget it! You’d better tell me now . . . or I’ll ask Mr Sheridan himself.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Would!’ His face was determined, ruthless even. I believed him capable of anything at that moment.
‘I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it a secret.’ He nodded, giving me a solemn bow, hand on heart. ‘Well, Mr Sheridan has hidden a treasure in the theatre and I’m looking after it for him.’
‘Where is it?’ he asked eagerly.
I then remembered what Pedro said about running away to France with the jewels from his turban and was therefore thankful to be able to deny all knowledge of its exact location.
‘I don’t know. But I’m to tell him if anyone comes sneaking around to look for it.’
He gave me a queer look, perhaps wondering if I meant him. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It sounds exciting. Perhaps we’ll get a reward if we catch someone after it.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ I looked away to the auditorium and saw that it was almost full. ‘Hadn’t you better get changed? The performance is about to start.’
Pedro brushed the crumbs off his lap and bowed again.
‘Tonight I will play for you, Cat,’ he said gallantly as he left the box.
As I watched him go, I wondered about my new friend, for I supposed that was what he was after all we had been through today. Pedro was the most unusual boy I’d ever met and I wasn’t talking about his skin colour. I couldn’t forget the music that poured from his violin that morning: he seemed to be in touch with something much greater than anything I knew, something almost holy. That was it, I thought with a smile as I realised what image I was feeling my way towards: he was like a priest, a priest of music, superior to the rest of us who had never gone beyond the veil into the Holy of Holies. That was until you mentioned money to him . . . that brought him straight back to earth among the rest of us. I wouldn’t be encouraging him to think any more about the diamond . . . that had been a big mistake.
The Diamond of Drury Lane Page 4