Black Hearts in Battersea

by Joan Aiken

  ‘I daresay Buckle knows nothing about this ceremony?’ Dr Field said at last, hopefully.

  ‘Pshaw, my dear fellow, he has made all the arrangements for years. Besides which, I wrote him by carrier pigeon last week, reminding him to have the mince-pies baked in good time.’

  ‘This complicates matters,’ said Dr Field, scratching his head. ‘As your Grace has pointed out, we must get going at once. We shall need plenty of food, charcoal, telescopes, a weapon or two –’

  ‘Dominoes, playing-cards, spillikins, billiard-balls,’ noted Sophie, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘Thank goodness, at least we need not fear wolves in a balloon – ’

  ‘But suppose there should be eagles!’ cried the Duchess fearfully. ‘Oh, William! Need we really travel in this dreadful apparatus? I shall be unwell. I know I shall be unwell!’

  ‘Smelling-salts, hartshorn, spirits of wine,’ Sophie noted down.

  ‘And, Sophie, my dear, whatever else you put in, pray do not forget your Aunt Henrietta’s embroidery!’

  16

  FOUR DAYS LATER, on Christmas Eve, the great rose-coloured balloon was drifting over the wooded heights of Hampstead.

  Sophie, paying little attention to the snow-covered landscape as it passed slowly by beneath, was busily engaged with making a Court dress for the Duchess to wear at the mince-pie ceremony; she sat in a whirlpool of apricot-coloured velvet, which she was embroidering with topazes. Sometimes the Duke raised his head from the chessboard to say with a chuckle:

  ‘Bless me, Sophie, m’dear, it’s fortunate that I built the car as big as I did; any smaller and, with all that stuff of yours some of the passengers would have had to hang over the side!’

  In fact, the wicker, galleon-shaped car, with its high-decked ends and low waist, was excellently adapted to their needs. Dr Field and the Duke played chess at the forecastle end, Simon steered on the poop, directing the balloon’s progress, when necessary, by means of a pair of dangling ropes, while Sophie with her dressmaking and the Duchess with her Patience occupied the central portion.

  One night, when all the others were sleeping, snug under furs and sheepskin rugs, Simon had told Sophie the whole sad story of Dido’s end, and his own grief and remorse that he had not been awake to stop her from trying to swim to shore.

  ‘For I am sure that is what happened, and I should have saved her, Sophie.’

  ‘You must not think in that way, Simon dear, for it is wrong,’ Sophie said, affectionately clasping his hands. ‘You could do no more than you did – Mrs Buckle has told me how ill you were. And – do you know? – somehow I cannot be sure that Dido is drowned. Somehow I believe that she is not.’

  ‘Why, Sophie, what else could have happened?’

  ‘Oh, I do not know – perhaps a ship could have rescued her. I feel in my bones that we shall hear of her again. So do not grieve too much. You did all you could for her and were a deal kinder to her, I am sure, than any of her miserable family.’

  This talk with Sophie cheered Simon a great deal.

  It was decided that when they reached London Simon should instantly repair to Chelsea Barracks, to enlist the help of the Yeomanry against the conspirators, while Dr Field escorted the Duke and Duchess to Battersea Castle.

  ‘For Buckle will scarcely try any of his villainy so long as he remains uncertain of Justin’s whereabouts,’ he pointed out.

  Justin had been offered a ride to London in the balloon, but had refused with horror; a sea-voyage was quite bad enough, he declared. He was to remain at Loose Chippings with his mother, who would only come to London if it was needful to give evidence against her infamous husband.

  ‘I will tell Dr Furneaux and the students that we are back, also,’ Simon suggested. ‘They are all good fellows who enjoy a fight and, being so close to the Castle, they will be handy in case of trouble.’

  ‘You could arm them,’ Sophie observed, biting off a thread. She had completed the Duchess’s gown and was now finishing one for herself: white tissue with gold ribbons. ‘If Uncle William has a spare key to the Castle vaults on him, they could let themselves in and take some of the Hanoverians’ Pictclobbers.’

  This sensible plan won instant approval and the spare key was handed to Simon.

  The travellers were fortunate in the timing of their arrival over London. Snow had been falling all day, but towards dusk the clouds dispersed, drawing away westwards in great high-piled crimson masses across which the balloon drifted south, inconspicuous against such a flaming background.

  ‘We shall be able to take Buckle by surprise,’ Dr Field said with satisfaction. ‘Good heavens,’ he added, looking down at the snow-covered city of London sprawling beneath them, pink in the sunset glow, ‘wolves in Hyde Park already – before Christmas! I fear it is going to be a hard winter. Best prime your pistols, Simon; if they have reached Hyde Park they may have reached Battersea Park; you may have to dash for it.’

  Soon they saw the Thames: a shining ribbon of ice that curled its way between Chelsea and Lambeth.

  ‘There’s Chelsea Hospital,’ Sophie said.

  ‘Dear me! I had best reduce the pressure.’ The Duke gave a tug to the string which released the valve; some air escaped, and the balloon’s silken globe sank, crinkling and quivering, until they were barely above the rooftops.

  ‘Oh, William! Pray take care!’

  ‘I know what I am about, my dear,’ his Grace said testily.

  In fact the Duke had misjudged his landing a little, but this turned out to be just as well, for he had proposed to alight in Battersea Park, which was full of wolves. Instead, the balloon came to rest in Mr Cobb’s yard, where the proprietor was alone, greasing the runners of a high-perch phaeton sleigh.

  ‘Weel I’ll be drawed sideways!’ he exclaimed. ‘If that ain’t the neatest rig I ever did see! Simon, me boy! Well I am pleased to see you! We’d given you up for lost, indeed we had – thought the wolves must ’a got you. And his Grace! And her Grace! And little Miss Sophie! Floss!’ he bawled up the stairs, ‘here’s our boy Simon back, safe and stout, wi’ all the Castle gentry! It be a proud day when your Graces sets foot in my yard!’

  He helped the Duke and Duchess down, while Mrs Cobb and Libby with the kitten in her arms came marvelling out to gaze at the great rose-coloured bubble that had settled by their front steps.

  ‘Thank’ee, thank’ee, Cobb, my man,’ the Duke said. ‘We should be greatly obliged if you could let us have a conveyance to take us to the Castle.’

  ‘Why, your Graces can have thisyer phaeton sleigh. It’s as sweet a little goer as ever slid, and I’ve a beautiful pair o’ match greys, won’t take but a moment to put them to. But that balloon! Dang me if that don’t beat cock-fighting, that do! I’ll soon be in a new line o’ business if sich things gets to be all the crack!’

  He fetched a pair of horses and harnessed them to the sleigh, while Dr Field helped the Duke and Duchess to their high-perched seats.

  ‘Mr Cobb,’ asked Sophie, climbing up behind them, ‘did the Bow Street Runners find anything when they raided Rose Alley?’

  ‘Nay, lass, the birds had flown. Someone must ’a peached, for never a soul was there, not so much as a grain of gunpowder. There, your Grace, that’s all right and tight. Watch for the wolves in the park, sir, they be fair audacious. But these horses can show them a clean pair of heels. Is this gentleman a-going to drive?’

  He handed the reins to Dr Field.

  ‘Much obliged, Cobb, thank’ee. Now, can you do us one more kindness? Can you ride like the wind to Bow Street and ask them to send some brisk, stout officers to the Castle – we are expecting trouble, and His Majesty may arrive at any moment. Dear me, yes,’ the Duke said, inspecting his timepiece, ‘we must hasten. I hope Buckle has everything in readiness; it was unfortunate that we were blown off course for two days. However, I daresay all will be well – Buckle is such a capable fellow – in his way. Simon, my dear boy, we shall hope to see you at the Castle directly you have informed
Dr Furneaux and the Yeomanry.’

  With a creak and a jingle the sleigh sped away.

  Mr Cobb offered Simon a horse, or his own donkey, but he said that he could go faster on foot. He raced down to the Academy where, most fortunately, Dr Furneaux was outside, superintending a snow-fight between a dozen of his students on the frozen river, while the rest of them sat on the bank attempting with numb fingers to sketch the scene.

  Dr Furneaux let out a cry of joy at sight of Simon, which, to anybody who did not know him, would have sounded more like a roar of fury.

  ‘Ah, scélérat, coquin, misérable! Méchant gars! Espèce d’espèce! How do you dare to show your face, after being absent so many days and giving your poor old teacher so much worry! I will bastinado you, I will escallope you, I will use your head for a doorknob!’ He hugged Simon and shook him with equal ferocity.

  ‘It was not my fault, sir, I promise you!’ Simon exclaimed, half laughing and half choking as he tried to escape from these signs of affection. ‘I have had such adventures. And, sir, I have found Dr Field! He is back in London. He will come to see you very soon! But I must not stop to tell you now. Sir, his Grace the Duke asks a favour of you. He has just returned to Battersea Castle, where there is a nest of Hanoverians. I am going for the Yeomanry, but meanwhile could some of the students station themselves near the Castle – just to look out for trouble, you know?’

  ‘Entendu, why certainly, nossing could be simpler. Étudiants!’ roared Dr Furneaux, ‘away, all, to Battersea Park, to sketch ze Castle against ze sunset!’

  ‘I say, though, dear old sir,’ pointed out Gus, who stood near by, ‘what about the wolves in the park? Know how it is when you’re sketching – get absorbed – wolf sneaks up behind – poof, snip, snap, swallow! – and all your paint-water’s spilt.’

  ‘Vraiment, zat is a difficulty. Aha! I have it. One student will paint, ze ozzer fight wiss ze wolves.’

  ‘Famous notion! But what does he fight with?’

  ‘We know where there are some weapons,’ Simon interposed, and gave Gus the key to the Castle vaults, explaining that the door led to them from the tunnel. ‘Watch out for Hanoverians, though; they may have somebody on guard.’

  ‘We’ll clobber ’em if they do,’ said Gus joyfully.

  Simon ran off to Chelsea Barracks with a lighter heart; plainly the students would be prompt to the rescue, should trouble arise in the Castle.

  Unfortunately, he encountered great difficulty in carrying out his mission at the Barracks; they appeared to be deserted, and when at length he did discover an officer – engaged in taking a Turkish bath – he was told that half the regiment had been put to sweeping the snow off Parliament Square, while the rest were away on Christmas leave. However, the officer promised that he would try to get fifty men on to Chelsea Bridge in an hour’s time, and with this unsatisfactory arrangement Simon had to be content.

  He himself hurried back towards the Castle, hoping that Mr Cobb had been more successful at Bow Street.

  As he reached the corner of the King’s Road, his ears were assailed by a mournfully familiar music – a sad and breathy tooting which could come, surely, from only one player and one instrument. He looked about, and saw a tall thin man with a luxuriant black beard and moustache standing in the gutter and playing on a hoboy. In front of the man lay a cap, with a few coins in it.

  ‘Mr Twite!’ Simon exclaimed.

  The man started. ‘No, no, my dear young feller,’ he said quickly. ‘Must be mistaken. Somebody else, not that name, Twite? No, no, quite another person.’

  But the tones were unmistakable in spite of the disguising beard.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mr Twite?’

  The musician glanced quickly up and down the street.

  ‘Well, my dear boy, since you have plumbed my incognito – I’ll avail myself of the chance of a word with you. Delighted to see you back, by the way – missed you.’

  Mr Twite spoke in the most amiable, carefree manner, as if his had not been the hand which, at their last meeting, had dealt Simon such a stunning blow. He led Simon into a doorway and went on confidentially:

  ‘A tombstone for my wife I will not ask, for between you and me she was a Thorn –’

  ‘Tombstone? But – I don’t understand.’ Simon was mystified. ‘Is Mrs Twite dead?”

  ‘No,’ replied her husband cryptically. ‘Not yet. But dear little Dido – the last of the House of Twite – the flower of the flock – I should wish that some suitable memorial be erected to her on the island of Inchmore. A simple stone with a simple legend – perhaps Dido Twite, A Delicate Sprite?’

  ‘Yes – yes of course,’ said Simon, somewhat shaken. ‘But – you heard, then?’

  ‘Those two sailors from Dark Dimity whom you so kindly liberated reached London yesterday and told my brother-in-law the whole tale. I’m delighted to hear that my dear young nephew Justin is still in good health.’

  ‘But – good heavens – if Buckle knows that – then the Duke and Duchess are in deadly danger. I must be off to the Castle at once!’

  ‘I most strongly advise you not to.’ Mr Twite laid a detaining hand on his arm. ‘No, indeed, that is the last place I should visit at present. But perhaps you were not aware that Mr Buckle proposed to blow up their Graces and His Majesty shortly by means of dynamite?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Buckle’s somewhat wholesale arrangement is that, at nine o’clock, when he himself, and his followers, will have left the place, a lighted fuse will reach the charge in the vaults. The Duke and Duchess and His Majesty, peacefully unaware of their solitude, will be alone in the Castle preparing to watch from the library a display of fireworks which they have been told will take place as the clock strikes nine. Fireworks! My brother-in-law is seldom humorous, but that strikes me as a neat touch.’

  ‘But if that is so – let me go! I must run. I must warn them! Thank heaven it is only a quarter to five,’ Simon said, as the church clock’s chimes rang out not far away.

  ‘Wait, wait a moment, my rash young friend. To tell the truth,’ said Mr Twite, again looking round cautiously, ‘I have of late become somewhat wearied of my dear wife and her family and their burning political ambitions. I resolved to rid myself of the whole boiling and start afresh, overseas, in a land where musicians are treated with respect. So – in short – I altered the fuse – curtailed it – timing it to explode at five, when my dear wife, brother-in-law, sisters-in-law, and the rest of them will still be inside the Castle. Was not that an ingenious notion? I flatter myself it was,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘Dear Ella, her sisters, Eustace Buckle, Midwink, Jem, Fibbins, Scrimshaw, and that disagreeable fellow who calls himself young Turveytop – yes, indeed, the world will be a more peaceful place without them. Dear me, the boy has not waited! Think, think, my impetuous young friend!’ he called after Simon. ‘Reflect on what you are doing!’

  But Simon, his heart pounding in his chest, was racing at top speed towards Mr Cobb’s yard.

  17

  ‘IS MY CORONET on straight, Sophie? Are my gloves properly buttoned? The diamond buttons stick so –’

  ‘Come on, come on, Hettie, there’s no time to waste. I can hear the cheers! His Majesty will be here at any moment!’

  The Duke took his wife’s arm and fairly ran her down the stairs. Sophie and Dr Field followed, protectively near. As yet, nobody had noticed them. The Castle servants appeared to be in a state of disorganization, all milling about downstairs; neither Midwink nor Fibbins had appeared to help their Graces.

  As they descended, Buckle’s voice could be heard below, giving orders to a large number of people.

  ‘You all know what you have to do – every soul to be out at half past eight. After the fanfare and the dinner – disperse! Each carry something – Midwink take charge of the jewels – Scrimshaw the plate –’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Buckle,’ the Duke said. ‘Are the arrangements for His Majesty’s reception all complete?’

/>   Buckle whipped round. For an instant an ugly expression came over his face, but this was rapidly replaced by his usual pale-eyed, impassive stare.

  ‘Quite ready, your Graces,’ he replied smoothly. ‘I am glad to welcome your Graces back to Battersea.’

  ‘Well you won’t be when you hear our news!’ the Duke snapped. ‘We know that you’re a damned scoundrel, who palmed off your own whey-faced brat in place of my nephew and niece, and tried to murder me three times! But your crimes have caught up with you, and I shall be surprised if you don’t end your days in the Tower, you rogue! The Bow Street men and the Yeomanry are on their way now; we don’t want any unpleasant scenes at present, but as soon as His Majesty has left you’ll be arrested.’

  Mr Buckle’s eyes flashed, but he replied in a low, even tone:

  ‘Your Grace is mistaken. I intend to amend my ways. I see my faults – I am truly sorry – and in future your Grace will have nothing to complain of.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Duke, a little mollified, ‘if you are truly sorry –’

  ‘William!’ exclaimed the scandalized Duchess. ‘Don’t believe a word the hypocrite says! I am sure he has not the least intention—’

  ‘Hark!’ interposed Sophie. ‘Here is His Majesty! I can hear the fanfare, and the students cheering.’

  Indeed, as the Royal sleigh left the frozen Thames, along which it had sped from Hampton Court, and crossed the short snowy stretch of park to the Castle, the assembled students burst into loyal shouts:

  ‘Hooray for Jamie Three!’

  ‘Long live King Jim, good luck to him!’

  ‘Yoicks, your Majesty!’

  The Duke and Duchess, with Sophie behind them, ran down the red-carpeted front steps of the Castle to greet His Majesty, while the students formed a ring and, with snowballs and horse-chestnuts, kept the inquisitive wolves from coming too close.

  ‘Sire, this is a happy day. We are pleased to welcome you to our humble roof –’