Peaches and the Queen

by Edith Layton

  “Tomorrow will tell,” she said softly. “She’s been gone three days, Theo.”

  He fell still. Three days gone in this part of London was almost all gone. But his sister was right, there was nothing he could do now but wait until morning—and think of some better ideas of what he could do then.

  * * *

  The fog wasn’t so thick that the kennel master couldn’t see what was glaring at him malevolently from under the gardener’s arm. He raised his lamp.

  “This animal was found where?” he asked, eyeing the ragged-eared cat, its eyes glowing green as a demon’s in the lamplight.

  “On the grounds,” the gardener said, shifting the glowering bundle under his arm. “It was kind of skulking-like near the east wall. It looks like death warmed over,” he added, because the cat’s fur was crusted with dirt. “But that’s only nachtural, right? It ain’t used to fending for itself no more, right?”

  “True,” the kennel master said slowly. “And you are sure hit his orange?”

  “Aye. Under all the dirt. It rained last night, prolly dint get a chance to lick itself clean yet,” another gardener put in, and then quenched all the kennel master’s doubts by adding innocently, “So we gets the reward? And mebbe a chance to see the Queen too?”

  “Hi shall take the animal to her,” the kennel master said quickly. “After hi clean hit up. Then we shall see hif you get any reward, my good fellow.”

  He put down his lamp, donned a long pair of gloves, and took the ginger cat from the gardener. It struggled, but he tucked it firmly under his arm, picked up his lamp again, and walked to the kennels. So he didn’t see the gardeners faces as they trailed along behind him—or the other outdoor staff that had appeared in order to watch his progress with interest.

  They weren’t the only ones watching.

  As the kennel master approached his domain the dogs—the terriers, beagles, corgis and wolfhounds that were out in the runs—saw the cat at the same time the cat saw them. All they could do was try to climb the screening to get at the cat. But the cat, seeing them, had something it could climb, and it did.

  “This is a rare treat,” the gardener remarked to his underling.

  “I’ll tell my grandchildren,” the other vowed.

  “Should we try to separate him from the cat, do you think?” a groundskeeper asked as he watched in awe.

  “Not yet,” the oldest gardener said, taking his pipe from his mouth and pointing with it. “’Cause if we does, we’ll take his scalp with it. Let it settle down a bit, then we’ll give it a go. “Hif,” he added with a small smile, “we got to a’tall, because since he’s a kennel master he ought to know about animals, don’t you think?”

  “Enough to have made sure the cat liked dogs, like this Moggie’s s’posed to, afore he brought it to see them,” another agreed.

  There was a general murmur of agreement, which was hard to hear since the yowls and screeches from both the cat and the kennel master almost drowned out the clamor of the rioting dogs. But it ended before it attracted more attention. The collection of servants saw the cat, after one last frantic rake of his claws, leap from the kennel master’s head and run off. The unfortunate man who’d been wearing him like a hat ran in the opposite direction.

  “Got his reward, at least,” an under gardener said with satisfaction before they all drifted away from the scene.

  * * *

  The evening was so cold and filled with fog that even the barracks felt warm by comparison. Nevertheless the men wasted no time as they changed from their street clothes.

  “Seven cats so far, and nary a one the one they’re looking for,” one commented to a friend as he pulled his shirt over his head.

  “We’re looking for,” his friend corrected him.

  The other man smiled. Trust Augustus to get that right. Tall, muscular and bright-haired, his honest open face lit by wide blue eyes, gallant Sergeant Augustus Quimby looked like a robust young farmer rather than a guard at Her Majesty’s Palace. That wasn’t too surprising since his father and grandfather had been farmers, and so he might have been all his life if it weren’t for his assignment to the service of Her Majesty. Perhaps other palace positions were reserved for those with birth and fortune, but Augustus had earned his, as he was also the youngest hero to be decorated for extreme valor in the late wars.

  “I hear she asked again this evening,” another guard commented.

  There were several men in various stages of undress, but they all stopped what they were doing to frown at those words. Their role might be largely ceremonial, but they were entrusted with their Queen’s welfare. They took their work seriously. Moreover, they wanted to take care of their aged monarch.

  “Well, Christmas is coming,” one of the men commented, “and she wants everything in its place before she leaves.”

  “Then we’d better look sharp,” another said.

  “We’re keeping our eyes peeled,” his friend protested.

  “An ear to the ground might be worthwhile too,” a voice said.

  The men leapt to attention.

  The tall thin man who limped into the barracks leaned heavily on his walking stick. He wore black, and though he wasn’t yet in his fourth decade, he looked older. His long, clean-shaven face bore lines of pain from war wounds that never gave him peace. But his gray eyes were filled with youthful intelligence and curiosity. That inquisitive nature was only one of the reasons George, Lord Montrose, or “Lord Nose” as he was called behind his back, was head of a group of men in a section of government that had been secretly put into place during the wars. A section of government that, it was rumored, had been growing steadily in power ever since.

  The whispers said that if a thing was going on in the palace, Lord Nose knew of it, was behind it, or was about to stop it.

  “Stand down, stand down,” he told the men.

  A few of them relaxed, marginally.

  “I only meant that at this point our best chance to find the cat may be by listening for it,” he said. “It may have strayed. In that case, my advice is futile. You could listen until next year and you won’t hear anything unless you speak fluent cat,” he added with a slight smile.

  Some of his audience smiled, too, the others looked confused.

  He sighed. “But then, it may be the cat was taken. Now that’s another story altogether. If so, it may have been for the express purpose of upsetting our Queen—or who knows what other despicable reason. It could be a warning or a trap. Remember, there have been five attempts on her life in her lifetime. This may be the start of another such.”

  He looked down at his walking stick, tracing small circles above the floor with it as he spoke. “The perpetrators might only seek to upset her by stealing it, or they might also plan to return the animal in a mutilated condition so as to distress her. That is not to happen,” he said, suddenly fixing them with his brilliant gray stare. “If the cat is found in such a state, the Queen is never to know of it, do you understand?”

  They all nodded.

  Lord Montrose added in a softer voice, “It may have been taken for ransom. Or I may simply be too suspicious. But that’s my job. Yours?” he asked, looking up at the men. “You wonder what you can do for your sovereign? Keep listening. And perhaps, listen in new places.”

  They looked blank.

  “For example,” he said, “you all go to the same taverns every evening after work, as all good Englishmen do. I propose that you try some new haunts to lift your pints in, and whilst you’re there, listen closely to everything being said. Remember, only we know that there’s a cat missing. Or rather,” he said pointedly, “only we should know. If anyone else does, I want to know of it instantly.”

  He waved a hand, turned, and went limping toward the door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to let me know anything you discover. Remember, I’ll be equally interested in any suspicions you may harbor.”

  When he left, the men really rel
axed.

  “Well, there’s sense to that,” one said.

  “Lord Nose always makes sense,” another agreed. “But how does he know about lifting pints? I didn’t know he ever left work long enough to sleep, much less drink.”

  “Aye!” another said ruefully. “They say he sleeps at his desk.”

  Some laughed, but all looked thoughtful as they continued with what they’d been doing before Lord Nose had entered the room.

  “But Lord Montrose had a capital idea,” Augustus finally said, almost to himself.

  “So he did,” an older soldier agreed. “Want to come to a new pub with me this very night, lad?”

  “Thank you, but no,” Augustus said as he lifted his chin and buttoned his collar. “I want to be stealthy, and I can’t do that in company.”

  The older man covered his smile at the thought, no more able to picture Augustus being stealthy than he could one of the Queen’s great bumbling Newfoundland dogs being that. But then he remembered such dogs saved children from fires and drowning. He wished Augustus luck.

  “It will take more than that,” Augustus said.

  * * *

  Theo didn’t make much money the next day, but he didn’t feel too badly about it. A fellow couldn’t earn much when he was coursing through the streets searching for information. He did feel bad about the ha’penny he wasted when he’d had to pay Fred, the red-headed baker’s apprentice, in order to get him to tell the exact location where he swore he’d seen an orange cat sleeping. Theo felt less bad when Fred was pushed into a table full of rising dough, ruining half a day’s baking and earning him a beating from his master. But any fellow mean enough to insist on keeping a coin when all he’d done was point out Old Mrs. Williams’ cat where it was always sunning itself in her front window deserved such treatment. There was no joking about either money or Theodore’s cat. Fred got that bit of wisdom for free.

  But no one had seen Peaches.

  Elizabeth asked too, on her way to work, and again when she wearily made her way home again. Though she ignored the raffish denizens of the streets she had to pass through every day, there were people she spoke with. But neither butcher, baker or maker or seller of candles, soup, gingerbread, butter, hot pasties, cold lemonade, or warm shawls had seen a wandering orange cat.

  The dark came earlier this winter’s night because the sky was overcast. A thin cold snow began to sift down, and Elizabeth shivered as she trudged home. She was worried, and not just for her brother’s sake. She liked the cat, and having the two animals made their grim lodgings seem more like a family home. She wondered if the cat had come to harm, and thinking of any creature lost on such a damp frigid night made it even worse.

  Elizabeth’s heart was heavy, so she was glad to see lamplight streaming from under the door to their room as she approached it. Her step quickened. A lit lamp meant Theo was home; they never left a lamp burning if no one was there. It was a fire hazard, and too expensive as well. Seeing the light also meant Theo had obeyed her and had come home once it got dark. She allowed herself to hope that the cat was back.

  She opened the door, and her heart sank again.

  Theo was sitting on the floor petting Nibs. The dog didn’t stir so much as to open an eye. Elizabeth froze on the doorstep and caught her breath. Was the old dog dead?

  Nibs opened his eyes as she slowly ventured into the room.

  “The cat ain’t back,” Theo said mournfully.

  She felt too sad to correct his grammar.

  “And nobody’s seen her,” he added.

  “Tomorrow is another day,” she said.

  * * *

  “What?” the kennel master asked as he squinted into the morning sunlight. He straightened from his patrol of shrubbery near the west gates.

  He’d put sticking plaster on the worst of his wounds. He still looked like he’d fallen into a patch of briars, and the sticking plaster was holding the rest of his face together.

  “Got it!” the boy outside the gate said merrily, gesturing to the sack at his feet. “Found it in the street near here. Look,” he said, opening the neck of the sack. An infuriated cat’s head popped up before the boy pushed it down and pulled the sack closed again. “It’s orange, right? An’ it’s big. Found it just by the gates over there, trying to get in.”

  The kennel master’s head went up. “And you?” he asked warily. “Who might you be? And why are you bringing hit to me?”

  “Why? You’re here, ain’t you? And I got to hurry,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “There’d be them that might ask me how I got my paws on the cat in the first place… Look,” he said, dancing from one foot to the other. “I gets the gelt or I don’t, ’cause if I don’t, me and the cat’s leavin’, and fast. There’ll be plenty of other buyers hereabouts, I’ll bet.”

  “Now, now, no need to fly up hin the boughs! Here’s a coin, and be off with you! Hi’ll take care of the creature now.”

  The boy hugged the sack close. “A coin?” he sneered. “Need more’n that to get your mitts on the Moggie.”

  The sound of the name the boy used, though a common one for cats, made the kennel master’s eyes gleam—at least what could be seen of them under his bandages. He pulled out his purse and counted out more coins. The boy stood still, watching with interest, but he didn’t offer the sack. The purse dislodged more coins, until finally, with a huff, the kennel master emptied it all into the hand the boy stretched through the bars of the gate.

  “Now, set it down, and go!” the kennel master snarled, forgetting his high-flown accent.

  The boy put the sack down, grinned and was gone.

  The kennel master hurried out the gate, snatched up the sack, came back through, and started for his quarters.

  “Ho! Mr. Howatch, is that the one? Have you got the cat?”

  He turned to see a pair of gardeners who obviously had been watching the transaction from afar. “So hi seem to have,” he said.

  “Lucky man,” one of the gardeners muttered.

  “Not luck,” Mr. Howatch said smugly. “Rather, knowing where to ask.”

  “Cost you a lot though,” another gardener said enviously.

  “Hit will earn me more,” the kennel master said, then added piously, “At least knowing hit’s a job well done. And this time the cat shall be taken nowhere near the dog runs. Hit shall go home with me, and shown to one dog—a small one,” he added, as though to himself. “Then, hif the test his passed, hi will personally clean hit up, then present the cat to Ma’am. She should be most grateful, hi should think.”

  The gardeners nodded, looking much impressed—until the kennel master, nose in the air, sack clutched to his chest, had strode out of sight.

  * * *

  Sergeant Augustus Quimby was not a man who indulged in drink. Three pints a night was his limit. But after he’d put off his uniform he changed to more casual clothing, and then went to five taverns that night and had a pint in each. He talked to many people, because he was naturally an amiable fellow and the brew made him merrier. But when he finally left for his quarters, he only felt morose.

  Though supposedly secret, the word somehow had got out. At least, it had in the lower depths, because the shabbier the tavern, the more cats were produced for him. He wondered gloomily if it were at all possible to keep a secret in London.

  By the time he’d got to the fourth tavern it was ankle deep in cats. Tigers and calicos, black, white and in-between. Though the cat had been said to be orange, it seemed it was a poor specimen of a man who wouldn’t try his luck with whatever stray he could scoop up out of an alley.

  He’d seen orange cats too. Thin ones that obviously subsisted on rats and scraps, not the bounty of a generous queen.

  Oh well, Augustus thought, with a gaping yawn as he approached the palace gate, tomorrow was another night.

  “Hsst!” a small voice hissed. “Mister! You lives here?”

  Augustus looked down to see a trio of boys, little, ragged, but defiant look
ing, staring up at him.

  “Yes,” Augustus said. “I am privileged to be in Her Majesty’s service.”

  There was a silence as the boys looked at each other. Then one of them took a deep breath and asked, “Lookin’ for an orange cat?”

  “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “Well, we know where there is one. A big one,” the boy said. “Nice looking too, if you like cats. See, we…found it and was keeping it, since we figgered it was so good looking it must belong to someone with plenty of the ready. We thought we’d hear when it went missing, and get a reward.”

  “When someone missed it,” another boy corrected the first urgently, giving him an elbow in the ribs. “Not ‘when it went missing.’ How’d we know when that was? We wouldn’t have took no one’s cat,” he exclaimed with outsized innocence.

  The other two nodded vigorously as the boy who was obviously their leader went on, “Then we heard they was looking for a cat at the palace! We come here soon as we did. But no one would let us in to talk to no one,” he said in grieved tones.

  “Surely not!” Augustus said, appalled.

  “Well, see, they wouldn’t believe us,” the littlest one explained. “’Cause we din’t have no cat with us, did we? But we couldn’t bring it, could we? ’Cause if anyone knowed we had it they’d snatch it from us afore we could get here and where would we be? So, if you wants it, you got to come with us.”

  “Alone,” the biggest boy said hastily. “’Cause if a mob of well set-up gents come with us, everyone’ll see, and then soon as you hand over the reward, it’ll be took from us.”

  “I will have to see the cat first, you understand,” Augustus said. “Then, if it’s the one I’m seeking, you may come back with me and I’ll see you amply rewarded.”

  The boy shook his head. “Nah. You can see it. Then if you want it, you bring us the rhino. That’ll be somewheres else. We’ll tell you where to find us when you’re ready, ’cause we moves around a lot. Not that we don’t trust you, but we’re only boys, see, and got to look after ourselves. So if you agree, we find a place to meet. A place that’s safe for us. Then you can take the whole army with you if you wants. But now, you got to come on your own.”