by Cate Cain
“Peg, lass. Pass me out a handful of the bills.”
A skinny hand appeared through the flap, thrusting a sheaf of papers at him.
The man leaned over again and handed the children a sheet each.
It was a playbill:
“What do you think of that then, my lady?”
Ann smiled broadly. “I think it shows that your well-deserved fame has spread far and wide – even to the very highest persons in society.” She laughed, adding, “So, you are to perform before the king himself?”
Gabriel nodded. “But not until the first weekend of September, mind. We’ve been asked to perform at His Majesty’s end-of-summer revels, no less. Before that we thought we’d set up camp in the fields just beyond the northern wall. Reckon we can make a pretty penny from the city folk in the long evenings.”
He pointed with his whip to a dozen or so brightly painted covered wagons halted in a long line behind him, blocking the road. Behind them came of row of heavy flat carts carrying huge rectangular boxes covered with oil skins.
“And how did the king come to hear of you?” Ann asked.
Gabriel shifted his large frame on the narrow seat. “Well, that’s something of a long story. Let’s just say that one of my young actresses has done rather well for herself and is now in a position to do me a bit of good. You might call it a very… personal recommendation.”
Ann grinned and clapped her hands. “Bravo! The king will love you, I know it!” There was a wistful note to her voice as she continued, “It’s wonderful to see you.”
The man’s eyes crinkled with affection, but then a shadow crossed his face. “And you, little one? How goes it? After your mother and grandmother…” He stopped and then continued, quieter this time. “We looked everywhere for you. Asked in all the towns and villages from Colchester to Norwich and no one knew where you were. It was as if you’d been spirited away.”
Ann looked at her feet. When she looked up again her eyes were brimming with tears. “That’s a long story too, Gabriel. Not one for the street.”
The man nodded and bent to put a hand to her shoulder. “In your own time, my love,” he said. “You come and find us at the Spital Fields and we’ll speak. You’ll find some familiar faces here, lass.”
He looked at Jem and Tolly properly for the first time. “These your friends then?”
At that moment Cleo stuck her nose out of Tolly’s shirt. She sniffed the air suspiciously and looked down the road at the wagons and carts before leaping deftly onto the boy’s head, where she balanced delicately, craning her neck for a better look at the procession.
Gabriel gave a huge laugh of surprise. “A moor and a monkey? Well, I never. There’s always a place for you two in my troupe, lad – just you remember that.”
The city church bells began to ring out. It was six. Gabriel frowned and looked back at the wagons, before turning to Ann again. “We’d best be off, lass. They close the Bishop’s Gate at seven, and we’ll be fined if we end up locked inside the city. You come and find us.”
It was definitely time to move on. The odd procession was blocking the road and angry voices could be heard calling out in complaint from the rear.
The man cracked his whip and the cart rumbled forward.
“Wait! Wait!” Ann ran until she was level with him again. “Take us with you.”
Jem and Tolly exchanged astonished glances.
Gabriel reined back the horses and Ann continued in a rush. “You said there was a place for Tolly and Cleo here in your troupe?”
The big man nodded. “He’s a fine-looking lad and the monkey is a little beauty. We could work them into the act with no trouble. And you don’t need to ask for yourself – your mother was a dear friend, it’s the least I can do, to look out for her beloved daughter.”
Ann turned excitedly to Tolly, her eyes were sparkling. “Don’t you see? We don’t have to go back to Malfurneaux Place at all, Tolly. Jericho will give us a home. We will become players and we will be safe among friends. Cazalon won’t ever be able to experiment on you or Cleo, or… well, you know…” She rubbed at her arm before continuing, “and with Jem’s help we can still stop the plot against the city.”
Tolly looked confused. “But what about your things, your mother’s books? Perhaps we should collect them and then…”
“There’s no need,” Ann smiled. “Everything I’ve ever cared for in that hideous house is here on the street with me now. We can be free at last and we can make a new home with Gabriel here.” She grinned shyly up at the man on the wagon. “It’s… it’s all right, isn’t it?” she asked.
He laughed and simply offered her his huge hand to pull her up beside him. “And you lad, too. Up you come,” he added, shifting on the seat to make extra space for Tolly. “What’s the monkey’s name, then?” he asked as the boy clambered aboard.
“She’s called Cleo,” said Tolly. He frowned for a moment and then asked, “Sir, that smell. Do you… are there any… lions with you?”
Gabriel slapped his thigh and his huge booming laugh echoed across the street.
“Indeed there are, lad. And you’re a sharp one to notice it. I’ve got two of them under wraps in the last wagon there.”
He pointed back with his whip. “But I don’t like to let people see them until they’ve put money in my pocket. How did you know?”
“It was the smell,” Tolly said. “When I was small my father gave me a lion cub as a pet. I recognised the scent, immediately.” Tolly sounded happier than Jem had ever heard him.
More angry yells reminded them all that they were blocking the way. Gabriel twitched the reins and his wagon jolted forward again.
“What about you, young sir? You coming too?” He smiled warmly at Jem.
The boy shook his head sadly. “I can’t. But I’ll come and find you all soon,” he called as the wagons rumbled away.
Ann and Tolly leaned out over the side and looked back. Their faces shone with excitement.
“It’s up to you now, Jem,” Ann called back. “If we can fit all the pieces of this puzzle together, then we’ll see the whole picture. Find out what’s in those boxes…”
She and Tolly waved until the wagons reached the end of the street and turned left in a cloud of dust. The thought that his friends would never again have to face the horrors of Malfurneaux Place made Jem smile. He turned and headed in the opposite direction.
But as he entered the street leading to Ludlow House he didn’t notice the huge white bird that circled overhead. The raven performed another lazy circuit of the sky before flapping its enormous wings and soaring off to the south.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Jem returned to Ludlow House later that evening he tried to sneak up the back stairs to the attic, but Sarah caught him just as he was turning into the passage leading to his room.
“I don’t know what’s got into you,” she said. “I believed you were ill so I made excuses for you. But now I find that you’ve been gadding about for hours on end, going Lord knows where. If I find that you are bringing shame on me, Jem, I’ll… I’ll…”
“What will you do?” Jem was tired and he spoke angrily and thoughtlessly. “I sometimes wonder why you speak so much of shame, mother. It’s not me who has anything to hide.”
Sarah blushed and turned away. Then she spun round again and slapped him across the face. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again! Do you understand, Jem. Never again.”
He brought a hand to his stinging cheek. Sarah had never struck him before. The blow hadn’t been that painful, but the realisation that his careless words had wounded her hurt him a great deal. The pair of them stood in silence for a moment, then Sarah turned and walked away.
“Mother… I…” Jem called out, but Sarah didn’t look back.
She didn’t speak to him again for several days after that. Jem felt as if he’d lost his only ally in Ludlow House, and Wormald, who sensed the rift between them, lost no opportunity to make the boy’s l
ife even more miserable than it was already. As Jem scraped out the servants’ stinking, flyblown middens one sticky afternoon, he gloomily wondered what horrible task the steward might set for him next. He had heard that there were a couple of maggot-riddled sides of pork in the cellar meat locker that would need seeing to. Even though they were salted, the hot weather had made them go bad. Jem shuddered at the thought of handling the slimy, stinking meat. Wormald was clearly saving up all the worst chores for him.
Over the next week, more mysterious boxes from Paris arrived at Ludlow House – all of them were large, all of them were heavy and, as before, all of them were locked away inside the great gallery.
Then, on Sunday, the duke informed the kitchens and the servants that they were to prepare a lavish feast for some special guests. The event would take place in two days’ time and no expense was to be spared.
After producing a list of the wines, tarts, meats and puddings that he required, the duke disappeared alone into the great gallery for hours. Sounds of thumping and banging – and occasional hammering – could be heard from behind the doors, as if heavy objects were being moved about.
Over the next two days, there never seemed to be a chance for Jem to put his plan into action. Wormald kept finding evermore disgusting tasks for him to do and anyway, Bellingdon was always locked inside the gallery with the boxes.
Usually so conscious of his elegant dress and cleanliness, the duke – when he appeared at all – looked hot and dishevelled. His magnificent, tightly curled golden wig hung in lank, sweaty rats’ tails down his back. He worked non-stop alone in the gallery, and then, on the morning of the feast, the servants awoke to find the hallway filled with splintered wood and broken boxes.
The Duke of Bellingdon had clearly finished his unpacking.
The feast was to be laid out in the antechamber leading to the great gallery. Four places were set at the table and the duke gave orders that everything should be ready for noon. The household had risen early. Throughout the morning, elaborate cold dishes were prepared and Pig Face sweated even more than usual over a side of beef that was turning slowly on a spit set across the largest hearth in the kitchen.
Jem was called to carry the silver service up from the locked vaults beneath the kitchens. As he passed a row of glistening raspberry tarts lined up on a dresser in the antechamber, his stomach rumbled, but not with hunger, with anxiety. He had told Ann that he knew a way to get into the locked room, but now he felt sick at the thought that the time had come to put his plan into action.
Wormald was already in the chamber, busy arranging each polished item in the place settings with the precision of a watchmaker. The dining table stood opposite a pair of locked doors that led directly into the great gallery.
Following the duke’s instructions, no one, not even Wormald, had entered that room since the day when the first boxes arrived from Paris. After lecturing the servants, the steward had taken the gallery key from the great metal ring at his waist and handed it to the duke himself. But, as Jem knew, one other person possessed a copy of every key to every door in Ludlow House…
His mother.
Jem left the goblets on the dresser, then hurried to the kitchen and filled a pitcher of water. He carried it to the duchess’s bedchamber, where he knew the women were together. The duchess hadn’t been seen by anyone but Sarah for days. He knocked twice.
“Enter.”
His mother looked up from the book in her lap. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from a small candle burning on the table beside her. The air was foul. The smell immediately reminded Jem of Cazalon, but here, the stench was almost overpowering. His mother looked pale and strained. “What is it?” she said.
“I– I have brought you both some fresh water. And I– I wanted to apologise,” Jem stammered, feeling guilty as the lie popped out of his mouth. True, he did want to apologise, but that wasn’t why he was here.
Sarah’s expression softened. “I am sorry too, Jem. You’re a good lad, but there are some things I…”
She broke off as a soft moaning noise came from the heavily curtained bed. The duchess was stirring. Sarah took the pitcher from Jem and poured a glass of water. She placed the pitcher by the candle and took the glass over to the bed, pushing back the hangings a little to offer the drink.
“It is the mirror, Sarah.”
Jem heard the duchess speak, but he couldn’t see her. The woman’s voice was hoarse and breathless. “The mirror cannot be right, it must be cracked. The medicine should make me younger… It is not working, I must have more. Make him bring me more.”
“Hush,” Sarah soothed, and just for a second Jem caught sight of the duchess’s hand as she reached for the glass. He blinked and looked again but it was gone. Was it the poor light, or had he really seen something that looked like a scaly claw?
“Jem!” His mother’s voice was sharp. “Fill this again.”
She handed him the glass and he went over to the table where the pitcher stood. Just as he had hoped, Sarah’s ring of keys stood next to the pitcher. Quietly and carefully he picked up the ring and slipped it into his pocket.
“The water, please, Jem.”
He filled the glass and moved towards the bed. Sarah prevented him from coming too close. She smiled sadly. “Thank you. That was a thoughtful thing to do. I think you should go now. The duchess is tired.”
Jem nodded and turned to leave.
“Jemmy,” his mother’s voice was pleading. “Don’t tell anyone how sick she is, please.”
He nodded but didn’t turn back, stepping swiftly and gratefully out of the horrible, clammy room.
As he raced down the back stairs his heart was pounding. He would worry about getting the ring of keys back to Sarah later, but for now he was more concerned about finding the right key for the gallery and getting into the locked room without being seen. Wormald was fiddling with the last touches to the elaborate table decorations when he returned to the antechamber. Two maids and a footman were plumping cushions and arranging the hangings. The buffet table groaned with food and the room looked magnificent.
The steward surveyed the table, nodded to himself and clapped his hands.
“Out!” he called. The bustling stopped and Wormald ushered them all from the room, closing the door behind him. There was less than a quarter of an hour to go before the guests arrived.
As they returned to the servants’ quarters, Jem stopped dead. “Sir! Mr Wormald,” he called out.
The stringy man turned to look at him. “What do you want?”
“I’ve left a tray on the floor, sir, by the table. I brought up the goblets on it and forgot to collect it.”
The grey tufts on the steward’s head quivered and his eyes glinted. Wormald smiled unpleasantly. “Then you had better go and collect it.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ll go now.”
“And to teach you to be more careful in future, you will not be permitted to dine on the leftovers with the rest of the servants this evening.”
Jem nodded sullenly and retraced his steps to the now-empty antechamber. As he crossed the entry hall, the hand of the golden clock showed that it was now perilously close to noon. He closed the antechamber doors behind him, took out Sarah’s ring of keys and crossed to the doors of the great gallery. Bending to the lock, his hands shook as he tried a succession of the keys on the large metal ring. Just as he heard a great booming knock on Ludlow House’s great front doors, a little clicking sound told him that, at last, he had the right one. Turning the handle gently, Jem pushed open the door and crept into the locked room.
He was astonished at what he saw.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The great panelled gallery was filled with model buildings, each constructed from dark shining wood. In all, there were about twenty of them ranged from one end of the room to the other. Elegant town houses, mansions, sweeping terraces, stable blocks, palaces and ornamented archways – the models were exquisitely made and precise in
every detail. The air was golden with motes of dust and the room smelled of wood and varnish.
At the far end stood a model that was much larger than the others, almost as tall as Jem himself. Intrigued, Jem walked towards it, uncertain what it could be.
The dark wood building was shaped like a five-pointed star and was set on a raised platform with steps leading up to it. On every side the star was flanked by rows of severe columns that were topped by carved decorations that reminded Jem of ferns. The fronds fanned out to support a flat roof at the centre of which stood a huge dome made from black glass.
The models reminded him of the ones he had seen on top of the chests at Malfurneaux Place. With its columns and steps, this one looked a little like a Greek temple, but at the same time, it was not like anything he had ever seen in any of the duke’s books. The sound of conversation came from the closed doors to the antechamber behind him. The duke’s guests had obviously assembled. Thinking quickly, Jem tiptoed over to the door, counting along the ring of keys to find the right one as he went and locked the door softly again from his own side. It gave a tiny click, but no one seemed to notice the sound.
The duke was giving final instructions to Wormald. “We are not to be disturbed. On no account is anyone to enter this room. Do you understand? Leave us now.”
Jem heard the sound of a door closing. There was a pause before the duke began again. “Gentlemen, you are all welcome to my house on this most auspicious of days.”
“Well, if everything goes to plan, this won’t be your house for much longer, George.”
The braying voice belonged to the Marquis of Kilheron, and his comment provoked much amusement in the room beyond.
Kilheron continued excitedly, “Indeed, sirs, I believe we shall all soon be living like princes. George, I cannot wait a moment longer, let us see the new London.”
Jem looked again at the strange model with its black polished points, shadowy colonnades and opaque glass dome, and shuddered. He’d suddenly remembered the conversation they’d overhead from the chimney. What had Cazalon said when the young marquis questioned the plans? “We shall be the masters here, free to create whatever we like; to build to the limits of our imagination and beyond.”