‘But mightn’t he throw you out for insulting his friend?’ I asked.
‘He might,’ said Johnny with a shrug as he ushered me out of the room, ‘but that’s a chance I am prepared to take. Hurry now. The deadline’s already passed. Mr Humphrey’s waiting to let his etchers loose on it.’
Pausing this time to wrap up warmly, I emerged on to Russell Street to find the world had changed. A steady fall of snow had covered the street with a purifying shroud, hiding the mud and mire that lay just beneath. London was muffled, the snow quelling the evil and violence for a few brief hours, lifting spirits for a holiday of innocence and beauty. I knew it would be all too brief an interval. The white blanket would be quickly sullied by the passage of heavy boots, hooves and wheels. When night fell, the benign-seeming snow would become a menace to those with no roof over their heads, freezing to death the vagrants sheltering in doorways. But for the moment, I wanted to enjoy the spectacle.
Slipping my way to the market, I found Syd’s boys engaged in a furious snowball fight, Pedro among them. The snow-covered houses looked like iced cakes in the confectioner’s window: each sugar-frosted rooftop and window ledge good enough to eat.
‘Here, catch!’ Nick cried as he sent a large ball in my direction. I parried it with the tube of paper I carried, then cursed, remembering the value of the contents.
‘Not fair!’ I called over. ‘I’m on an errand. I’ll get you when I come back!’
Nick laughed and Pedro sent another snowball sailing towards me. I did not duck in time and it hit the side of my cheek, leaving icy water dripping down my neck.
‘You wait!’ I cried, but Pedro and Nick scampered away, turning their attention to other targets.
Once out of Covent Garden, my holiday mood faded. An uneasy feeling crept over me; I felt as if I was being followed. It may have just been a shadow in my imagination cast by the events of the previous night but I could not help but look over my shoulder several times. Everyone was muffled up against the cold. It was hard to tell if I was being shadowed. I thought I saw the same grey scarf twice, but when I looked again, it had gone. The posters offering a reward for information leading to the apprehension of Captain Sparkler flapped on the brick walls of many a street corner as if trying to snag my attention. I saw one lying in the gutter, ripped in half. Someone had scrawled on it ‘Down with kings!’, leading doubtless to its disposal in the sewer by an angry royalist. Was Johnny really in danger of being hanged, drawn and quartered? This was a barbaric punishment not seen in our modern enlightened times, where the felon was cut down from the noose before he was dead and disembowelled before his own living eyes. They wouldn’t do it now, surely? Not to Johnny! But then, I reminded myself with a shudder, you could still see the heads of the rebels of 1745 on the spikes at the entrance to London Bridge . . . stuck up there like black, boiled sweetmeats for the crows. We had entered a new and fearful age: the revolution in France had made the rich fear for themselves. As for the poor, some sought the rights granted to our French cousins; others, it must be admitted, did not want the Froggies to show us how to live. Which would win out? I wondered. The rights of man or John Bull? Since meeting Johnny, I had only just woken up to understand that the answer to this would decide my future too.
Beset by dark imaginings of Johnny passing through these same streets on his way to the scaffold, I was relieved when I finally reached Gerrard Street. Set in a well-to-do area, home to a mixture of comfortable lodging houses and shops, Gerrard Street did not let my grim fantasy survive long. It was the kind of place I would like to live in one day if I had enough money, a place where I need not fear dark alleyways and thugs like Billy Shepherd, where there would be neighbours and friends looking out for you. I found Mr Humphrey’s easily: it was marked by a gaggle of onlookers outside the window ogling the latest productions of the press on display. Sharp-nosed ladies jostled with fleshy-cheeked men, all craning their necks to be up to date with the latest political gossip without having to fork out any money to do so. A ragged boy slipped between their legs, no doubt relieving them of the coins they had been so reluctant to spend.
The bell clattered about the door as I entered.
‘Is Mr Humphrey here?’ I enquired of a handsome woman with rosy cheeks behind the counter.
‘My brother’s out, I’m afraid, miss. Can I help?’
I hesitated. Johnny had told me to put his work into the hands of William Humphrey alone.
‘Will he be long?’
She shook her head and pointed me to a high stool by the counter.
‘No. If you’d like to wait, you may sit there.’
I sat in my corner watching Miss Humphrey deal with the steady flow of customers. It soon became apparent she did more than just serve at the counter: she was well versed in all aspects of the business and had her own firm views on what to sell to her customers.
‘No, you won’t like those,’ she said confidently to one elderly gentleman in a clerical hat. ‘At least, Mrs Buchet will disapprove, if I know her. How about this new batch by Mr Gillray?’
‘Ah, Miss Humphrey, I swear you can read my mind sometimes,’ said the elderly gentleman, handing over some coins. ‘I’ll tell my wife you recommended them.’
The doorbell clanged again as he left, letting in a new customer.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked Miss Humphrey affably.
‘Perhaps. I’m looking for the most recent cartoon by Captain Sparkler . . . the one with the chamber pot.’
What terrible luck! It was Marzi-pain Marchmont, the boy who had been so eager to pry into Johnny’s affairs. I hid the roll of paper in my skirts and kept my head down.
‘Indeed I know it, sir. But unfortunately, we’ve sold out and are expecting a reprint. My brother should be back soon with the new stock. Would you care to wait? This young lady is already waiting for him. I’m sure he won’t be long now.’
Marchmont glanced carelessly in my direction, then, seeing who it was, he stopped and turned back.
‘Miss Royal! Well, this is a most unexpected pleasure,’ he said with a smile of suppressed triumph. He gave a shallow bow. ‘Quite a coincidence.’
I rose to curtsey and the roll of paper clattered to the floor. I bent to pick it up but he was quicker.
‘Allow me,’ he said, scooping it from the floor. He held it out to me. ‘A little something of your own or by your friend, I wonder?’
I took it back and shoved it out of sight.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said quickly.
‘I very much doubt that,’ he said, meeting my eyes. His gaze was unnerving: he seemed to be staring straight through me, trying to extract the truth like a surgeon removing a gallstone. I shivered.
‘So, what brings you here?’ I asked to change the subject.
‘I live near here . . . just a few doors away.’ I quickly abandoned my wish to live in Gerrard Street. ‘And you?’
Damn! He’d turned the tables again.
‘I’m on an errand. For Mr Kemble.’
Miss Humphrey had innocently been listening in on our conversation.
‘You’re from Drury Lane, my dear? Would you mind very much taking something back for me? I’ve got a parcel here for the theatre.’ She reached under the counter and pulled out a small package. I could see even upside down that it was addressed to Jonathan Smith Esq. My hand shot out to relieve her of it before Marchmont could note it and I tucked it away in my apron pocket.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘On second thoughts, I’d better run. Can you see your brother gets this?’ I handed over the rolled cartoon. It seemed better to flee before Mr Humphrey returned in case anything more incriminating was said in Marchmont’s hearing.
‘That I will,’ she said, smiling at us both. ‘Take care now: it’s getting dark.’
Marchmont and I both turned to look out of the window: indeed, it was already very grey and some of the houses had candles in their windows, making the twilight seem even gloomier by contrast.
&
nbsp; ‘Miss Royal, I cannot allow you to cross half of London unescorted at this time of day. Allow me to accompany you. I’ll get our man, James, to come with us. He’s waiting just outside.’
‘Now, isn’t that handsome of the young gentleman!’ said Miss Humphrey, beaming at him.
‘No, really, Mr Marchmont. That’s quite unnecessary,’ I began.
‘No, no, I insist.’ He took my arm and propelled me to the door. ‘I think it is time we had a few words in private,’ he said in a lower tone.
James, a burly footman armed with a stout cudgel, was indeed waiting for his master outside.
‘James, change of plan,’ said Marchmont briskly. ‘We’re to walk this young lady back to Drury Lane.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ said the footman, not showing much interest in me or the destination. It seemed that he was used to his master’s brusque ways.
‘Now, Miss Royal, about those drawings,’ said Marchmont as we dodged our way across St Martin’s Lane, his arm firmly clamped on mine. ‘You do know that there is a reward promised for information leading to the capture of Captain Sparkler?’
‘Really?’ I said in what I hoped was an unruffled tone.
‘A girl like you could do with a few guineas, I dare say.’
I said nothing. He knew nothing about girls like me.
‘In my opinion, it’s not the reward that should tempt a person, it’s the satisfaction of putting out of business one of the most wicked traitors this country has ever known.’
‘You won’t do that by buying his cartoons,’ I replied, hopping over a pile of manure which I noted with pleasure Marchmont was too preoccupied to avoid.
‘Dammit!’ he cursed on noticing. ‘That purchase was research. I have a theory, but I needed a specimen of the man’s work. I wouldn’t touch the stuff otherwise, believe me. I’d also like another look at your manuscript, if you would be so obliging.’
I knew what he suspected but he had also revealed that he didn’t have the proof. No way was I going to give it to him. I said nothing.
‘Miss Royal, you are no fool. You know why I’m so interested in your circle. If one of your fellows, some self-taught scribbler with pretensions to higher things, has taken it into his head to insult his betters in this low fashion, it’s your duty to stop it going any further. We’re living in dangerous times. Just look at France!’ Marchmont’s eyes were blazing with a mad enthusiasm; he thumped his fist in his other hand to give emphasis to his words. ‘Heads will roll if this is not stopped!’
‘And what about the Englishman’s right to free speech?’ I asked, growing more and more alarmed at the boy’s high-handed tone towards me. Who was he to talk about my friends and me in this style? He had worked himself up so much that he was scaring me with his passion on the subject. I was rather glad to have the neutral presence of James within call.
‘Free speech? Pah! Englishmen who attack the very institutions which give us our freedom resign their right to claim this.’
‘Your father doesn’t think this . . . or so Lord Francis said,’ I hurriedly covered my mistake, remembering I should claim no acquaintance with that gentleman.
‘My father! I despise him.’ He must have seen my shocked expression . . . I’d never heard a son speak so ill of his father before. ‘I assure you the feeling is mutual. All my father cares about is his own political advancement. He sees Captain Sparkler as serving his cause.’
‘And you? What’s your cause?’
We were approaching the market and I was beginning to feel safer now we were on my home turf.
‘I’m amazed you have to ask, Miss Royal. King and country, of course!’
‘And nothing to do with spiting your father?’
He bent towards me. ‘Once someone can prove where Captain Sparkler is skulking,’ he hissed, ‘expect a visit from the magistrate. It’s not far from there to the lock-up in Bow Street . . . but someone may find that that short walk is his last. And as for those protecting him, they should also expect to feel the heavy displeasure of the law.’
He was right. I hadn’t thought about the penalty that would be incurred by those of us who knew who Johnny really was if we were caught hiding him. Not that this changed anything of course . . . I knew where my loyalties lay.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I said lightly.
Flump! A snowball sailed out of the twilight and hit Marchmont on the side of the face.
‘What the devil!’ he exclaimed.
‘Come on, Cat, come and get me!’ jeered Pedro. A snowball flew in my direction but I ducked in time and it hit James squarely in the chest.
‘The little beggar!’ laughed James, stooping to grab a handful of snow to retaliate.
Another snowball hit Marchmont, this time full in the face so that his flat nose and watery eyes were crusted with ice. He looked at me furiously for an explanation.
I shrugged. ‘Just some friends, sir, having fun, if you know what that is.’ I dodged behind James, leaving the big footman open to two more hits. James was laughing uproariously, sending back missiles with great gusto. I aimed carefully at Pedro as he poked his head out from behind a grocer’s stall and scored a hit with my first attempt. It was then that I noticed the sooty figure beside him who seemed to be sending all his throws in the direction of Marchmont. I hit Lord Francis with my second attempt.
All this while, Marchmont had been standing paralysed with cold fury, not heeding the many snowballs that had splattered upon him.
‘James, stop that!’ he barked.
‘Right, sir,’ said James, sneaking a final throw at Nick when his master’s back was turned. The footman gave me a wink but his face immediately became impassive when Marchmont next faced us.
‘I bid you goodnight, Miss Royal,’ Marchmont sneered. ‘As you are among friends, I need take no further concern for your safety.’
‘You are very kind, sir,’ I said politely, though we both knew I meant exactly the opposite. He was not kind: he was insufferably interfering, bent only on bringing destruction upon one of his fellow men. I bobbed a curtsey and ran over to Syd’s gang, arms held up to ward off the snowballs they were most ungallantly sending in my direction now I had emerged from the protection of James.
‘Enough!’ I shouted. ‘Unfair!’ I reached Pedro, scooped up the remnants of the last snowball to hit me, and stuffed it down the back of his neck. Pedro gave a squeal.
‘Now who’s unfair?’ he protested.
‘Do you think he recognised me?’ asked Lord Francis as he watched Marchmont’s small upright figure fast disappearing westward.
‘Not a chance,’ I assured him. ‘Good shot!’
He grinned. ‘He deserved every one of them, believe me. By the by, what were you doing with him? I didn’t think you two were friends.’
‘We’re not,’ I said shortly.
My mind was racing as I spoke. There were too many enemies lined up to get Johnny. First, there was his father trying to find him; second, the government men were after Captain Sparkler; third, Marchmont was pursuing him because of some personal grudge to do with revenge on his father. And from the evidence of Johnny’s new cartoon, he was far from being a friend to his own cause as he seemed intent on seeking martyrdom by angering yet more people, including his current protector, almost as if he no longer cared for his own safety. He was like a man sawing off the very branch he was sitting on. Well, if Johnny had become careless about his fate, then I had to help him, but I couldn’t do it on my own. I felt pretty sure of Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth. The only problem was Pedro. Was he trustworthy or would the lure of the reward prove too much? It was best if he was left out of this.
‘Lord Francis . . .?’ I began.
‘Frank . . . it’s Frank, Cat.’
‘Frank, would you and your sister spare me a few minutes? There’s something I need your help with.’
Lord Francis looked surprised. ‘But I already told you my father’s interested in supporting your work.’
I saw that Lord Francis understood what I meant. But Pedro was naturally intrigued.
‘What’s going on, Cat? Which friend’s this?’ he asked scanning our faces.
Lord Francis did not enlighten him. ‘You’d better come home with me now, Cat. Our father will be out and Mother’s still in the country. I should be able to smuggle you in unobserved.’
‘Thank you. Pedro, could you let Johnny know I delivered his parcel safely for him?’
‘Absolutely not, Cat. I’m coming with you. You can’t wander the streets on your own when it’s getting dark,’ said Pedro firmly.
‘I’m not on my own; I’m with Frank.’
‘And what good will he be in a scrape? You need someone who knows their way around.’ Pedro looked at me with a glint of anger in his eyes at my rebuff. I could tell that the bad feelings between us aroused by our recent confrontation in Mr Sheridan’s office were rearing their ugly head again.
‘No, I don’t need your help, Pedro,’ I repeated.
‘But Cat, Pedro’s right: a young lady should not wander the streets on her own and you will need someone to escort you home,’ said Lord Francis, oblivious to the undercurrents passing between Pedro and me.
This was all going wrong. The last thing I wanted was Pedro to hear about Johnny’s real identity. They were both as bad as Marchmont, using the excuse of my sex to force unwanted company on me. ‘I’m not a parcel to be handed between you,’ I protested.
‘Typical Cat! Too proud for her own good,’ said Pedro as if I wasn’t there. ‘Of course I have to come; she knows it really.’
‘Good,’ said Lord Francis, ‘because I won’t be able to slip out again to bring her home.’
‘Will you two stop it!’ I snapped at them, stamping my foot in anger. ‘I was finding my way around London on my own before you’ (I turned to the duke’s son) ‘were breeched and when you’ (I glared at Pedro) ‘were still baking under your hot African sun. I can look after myself.’
The Diamond of Drury Lane Page 14