by Joan Aiken
She looked at the wall again. Were they dead leaves – or were they hairy, wicked-looking spiders, beginning to scurry silently in her direction?
She stared and stared – so hard that she did not notice the shadow in the doorway, or hear the patter of paws on the stone floor, until Mrs Lubbage suddenly let out a wild screech of terror, which was echoed an instant later by Sannie. The two old women sprang away from Dido and bolted for the door, jibbering and wailing – struggled in the entrance a moment, each trying to get out first – then Sannie slipped ahead, Mrs Lubbage followed her, and they were gone.
‘Well!’ Dido muttered, trying to get her breath – and the spiders were only dead leaves – ‘That was sudden, but I won’t say it warn’t a welcome riddance. What ever put the old besoms in sich a fright, though?’
Whatever it was had gone round to the back of her: she could hear a snuffling close behind, and feel warmth on her hands tied to the metal post. With some difficulty she worked her head sideways against the pillar, so as to peer out of the corner of her eye, and saw quite a large tiger, all black-and-yellow stripes, with a head the size of a cider barrel, and eyes that blazed like marigolds.
‘Oops!’ said Dido.
‘Yan,’ Tobit asked, as the crew of the Gentlemen’s Relish sat in the galley eating supper (brown bread and fried duck eggs), ‘why ever did the ducks kick up such a row last night? They were quacking away for over an hour. What was the trouble?’
‘Well, I don’t rightly know,’ said Yan. ‘I was in a rare puzzle myself about it. When I heard them kick up all the ruckus I thought there must be Bush officers a-tracking us, but Pimp and I had a good sharp look-around, up the cut and down the cut, and there wasn’t a soul for miles. Then it seemed as if the paddlequacks was a-fussing about summat on the boat, so we had a look-see all around the cargo, in case anyone had got down there that shouldn’t.’
‘Yes,’ Cris said softly. ‘I thought it was something down in the hold that was upsetting them. I had Lady Webb and her children with me in my bunk, and they all acted the way chickens do when there’s a rat in the nesting-box, stealing the eggs.’
‘Oh well,’ Yan said, ‘maybe it was a rat. Rats never yet took to eating orris-root and eau de cologne and corkscrews, not as I heard of. A rat aboard won’t do us much harm.’
10
DIDO WAS STILL gazing over her shoulder at the tiger, and the tiger was still sniffing thoughtfully at the back of her neck, when a huge grey shadow obscured the door and four windows of the octagonal room, as if a battleship had berthed outside.
Dido heard a kind of scuffling slither, a gentle voice said, ‘Stand, if you please, Rachel,’ and a gentleman entered the room.
‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘Sunflower, come here.’
The tiger – Sunflower was its name, apparently – padded round, rubbed its head against the gentleman very lovingly, and sat down beside him. Dido studied him with interest. He really was a gentleman, she decided – as opposed to a Gentleman. He wore black small-clothes, white silk stockings, black shoes with silver buckles, a black velvet jacket and a snowy white stock, beautifully tied. His hair – what little there was of it – was also snowy, like very clean thistledown. His face looked as if he sat indoors a good deal, reading, but the eyes behind gold-rimmed pince-nez were a very clear bright blue. On one hand he wore a silver ring with a large pink stone in it.
‘Dear me,’ he said again. ‘That waygoing fellow gave me to understand that there were picnickers, and he was quite right, evidently. When will the public learn that this is private property? Not that I mind in principle, you understand – they do little real damage beyond leaving orange-peel and bits of marrowbone pie on the ground – but it is frightening for the animals to have strangers about. But people will do it – they come up the river in boats – ’
Shaking his head he crossed to Dido, absently surveyed the rope that tied her to the pillar and drew from his pocket first an ink-horn, then a snuff-box, finally a small silver penknife with which he cut the cord.
‘– eat their lunch in my gazebo, play ring-o’-roses in my park, and then go on without saying so much as good afternoon or thank you,’ he continued sadly.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Dido. ‘I didn’t come here a-purpose. I was fetched.’
She rubbed her wrists to get the stiffness out of them, then her face. There were no cobwebs on it. ‘My name’s Dido Twite,’ she added.
‘Lord Sope,’ said the gentleman.
‘Soop?’
‘You spell it s-o-p-e and pronounce it “soup” – confusing, I agree. What can I do for you, Miss Twite?’
‘I suppose there ain’t a dapple-grey horse outside?’ she said hopefully.
He looked out, and drew his head in again to say, ‘Not a horse, not at present. You have lost a horse?’
‘I was supposed to be taking an urgent message, you see, to some chaps a-going up to London. But I was stopped and tied up in here, and I s’pose that mardy lot have gone off with my Dapple. D’you reckon I could hire a nag at the White Hart, sir? Mister? Lord?’
‘You need a horse? I could accommodate you with one I imagine – I am almost certain I have a horse.’
Dido stood up, and nearly fell down again from weakness. It suddenly seemed a terribly long time since her last bowl of soup at The Fighting Cocks. Yesterday? The day before?
‘You are a little enfeebled,’ said Lord Sope. ‘Allow me.’ He took her arm and piloted her from the gazebo, the tiger padding behind them. Just outside stood an elephant, with a kind of opera-box on its back, from which dangled a rope-ladder made of red silk cord.
‘After you, Miss Twite.’
Rather shakily, Dido climbed the rope-ladder and sat on one of the red velvet chairs. Lord Sope followed and took his place beside her.
‘Home, if you please, Rachel,’ he said. The elephant started, at a deceptively smooth stroll which carried them rapidly across an open grassy park to a handsome grey stone mansion. On the way Dido observed a couple of giraffes, a small group of zebra, and a lynx rolling about on its back and playing with some dead leaves, watched in a vaguely puzzled manner by a flock of sheep.
‘Doesn’t some of ’em chase the others?’ asked Dido.
‘I teach them not to, of course,’ Lord Sope replied.
The elephant reached the house by climbing on to a terrace.
‘Just wait outside here a short time if you please, Rachel,’ Lord Sope instructed it, and politely assisted Dido down the ladder.
Passing through a pair of french windows into a library, he took down a speaking-tube from a hook on the wall, said into it, ‘Lunch, if you please, Diggens,’ and replaced it.
‘Pray sit down,’ he said to Dido, ‘and excuse me one moment.’
Left alone in the library, Dido gazed rather blankly at the leather and gilt volumes, and the numerous paintings of wild animals that covered the walls. She felt tired, and hungry, and sad. Too much had been happening; she was suddenly shaken by a small, dry sob.
I wisht Pa hadn’t gone off like that and left me, she thought.
Lord Sope returned, followed almost immediately by a footman in a beautifully powdered wig, who arranged dishes on two small tables beside Dido and his master, and then withdrew.
‘Frumenty,’ said Lord Sope. ‘And I think this note must be for you: the waygoing character who told me about the picnickers left it.’
The note, simply addressed to DIDO, said:
Dear Daughter, maybe you were right. Things is somewhat Sticky, so I am going to Cut and Run. If I was you, I would do Similar. But I reckon you will be Alright – you always was a Clever Chick. See you some Turpentine Sunday. Your loving Pa.
Frumenty seemed to be a kind of porridge made with wine and spice; after two spoonfuls Dido felt wonderfully better. It was followed by apple pie, with cheese, and a jam-lined omelet, which was very good but difficult to eat politely.
‘Now – you say you require to go to London quite fast?’ said
Lord Sope, removing his jammy stock, throwing it into the fire, and receiving a clean one from the footman who had come back to clear away the dishes.
‘Yes. It’s to do with the coronation. An urgent message may have gone astray,’ Dido explained, licking a blob of jam off her elbow.
‘In that case, without a doubt, the best thing I can do is to put Rachel at your disposal. She is quicker than any horse, and very reliable. Also, she is well acquainted with the route, for I nearly always take her when I go up to my Club.’
‘Croopus. I mean – that’s ever so kind of you, mister – Lord. Will she go for me, d’you reckon?’
‘She is particularly partial to being ridden by a young female.’
‘I need to call at three pubs on the way – the Rose, the Ring o’ Bells and the Rising Sun.’
‘There will be no difficulty about that. Rachel is quite accustomed to wait for me outside places of refreshment. In fact she will stop automatically at such places.’
‘Well, I am obliged to you, sir – Lord,’ said Dido. ‘If you really means it, I’d best be on my way directly. Oh – please can you tell me what day it is?’
‘It is Monday, Miss Twite. You do not wish to wait for the two old ladies whom I observed making off at some speed as I approached the gazebo?’
‘No, thank you, Lord. They wasn’t really friends.’ She put Mr Twite’s note in her pocket and went out on to the terrace, where the wigged footman was just descending the red cord ladder after placing a hamper in the box-seat on top.
‘I thought you might be glad of a few provisions on the way’ Lord Sope explained. ‘I usually reckon that it takes nine or ten hours to reach London – with the usual pause for refreshment, of course. Now, Rachel, you are to stop at the Rose, the Ring of Bells and the Rising Sun – and anywhere else the young lady requires, naturally. Is that perfectly clear? Capital. Allow me, Miss Twite.’
He helped her up the ladder.
‘I’m ever so obliged,’ Dido said again. ‘I’ll bring her back directly after the coronation.’
‘Such a lot of extravagant fuss and display,’ sighed Lord Sope. ‘Still, kings have to be crowned, I understand. On your way, Rachel.’
He raised his hand in farewell, Dido settled herself in the red velvet seat, and Rachel rolled off smoothly across the park.
It was plain that when Lord Sope and Rachel went to London, they followed a direct, cross-country route; Rachel ambled through fields and woods, over streams and rivers, by copses and commons, but seldom went near a road. Presently it began to rain; Dido discovered that various capes and covers were provided against this contingency, waterproof on the outside, lined with camel fur. She wrapped herself up snugly and, lulled by Rachel’s smooth-flowing motion, went to sleep.
An hour or so later she woke because Rachel had stopped. Night, she found, had fallen. They were halted outside a small, cheerful-looking public-house situated by a canal lock; its sign, illuminated by a lantern, showed a red rose.
‘Crumble me – thanks, Rachel,’ muttered Dido, yawning and scrambling to her feet. ‘I’d never a woken if you hadn’t stopped. Just hang on a minute, will you, while I pop in and inquire.’
The landlady of the Rose was black-eyed, pink-cheeked and smiling.
‘Well I never!’ she exclaimed, looking past Dido. ‘If that isn’t Lord Sope’s elephant. Aren’t you a lucky young lady! Going to the coronation, then, are you? Is Lord Sope going too? I am surprised!’
‘No, ma’am. He says he can’t abide fuss,’ said Dido, drinking the glass of milk she had ordered.
‘I daresay his elephant’ll be glad of her usual bite,’ said the landlady and went to fetch this, which turned out to be a bagful of buttered buns.
‘Ma’am,’ said Dido as Rachel munched, ‘could you tell me, please, if a barge called the Gentlemen’s Relish has been past yet?’
‘Why yes, dearie, they went by early this morning, afore sun-up. They’ll be a long way up the cut by now.’
Dido thanked her, and tried to pay for the buns, but the landlady refused saying that Lord Sope was an old friend. The refreshment appeared to have been very welcome to Rachel: the minute her passenger was aboard again she started off as if competing in the Calcutta Derby.
Since there was nothing to be seen in the dark wet night, Dido went back to sleep.
Next morning, at grey of dawn, they came to the Ring of Bells, and again Rachel stopped of her own accord. Dido had hoped that, swinging along at Rachel’s more rapid pace, they might have caught up with the barge by now, but the landlord – whom she found dousing his head under a pump in the yard at the back – reported that the Gentlemen’s Relish had passed by early the previous evening.
By now Rachel was beginning to grumble and mutter as she rolled along, and to look back at her rider in a reproachful and significant way, which Dido took to be an intimation that it was time for rest and breakfast. So they halted in a hazel copse near Esher. Rachel, after more buns (provided by the Ring of Bells), had a standing nap, with her huge ears folded tidily over her eyes, while Dido sampled Lord Sope’s hamper. It proved to contain egg salad in a silver bucket, currant wine, cheese straws and a marmalade pie. There was also a pot of frumenty, and instructions for heating it up in a chafing dish to be found under the red velvet seat, but Dido was impatient to press on, ate it cold, and gave the marmalade pie to Rachel as compensation for having to start again after an hour’s nap.
By now they were no great distance from London and houses were more frequent: large, handsome mansions, most of them. Many were gaily decorated with flags and wreaths and coloured bunting in honour of the next day’s event.
Dido had expected to cause some surprise riding through the suburbs on an elephant, the more so as Rachel, cheered by nap and breakfast, was now trumpeting cheerfully to herself as she proceeded. But in fact no one seemed to find their appearance at all remarkable, either because this was Lord Sope’s regular route, or because people took it for granted that Rachel was to form part of the coronation procession.
‘Gee up, Jumbo, you’ll be late for the crowning!’ shouted a cheerful group of boys coming out from morning school in Merton village. They showered Rachel and her passenger with peppermint-drops and Michaelmas-daisies, which Rachel rapidly sorted, swallowing the former and tossing back the latter with a dexterity that filled the boys with admiration.
‘How far to the Rising Sun in Wandsworth?’ Dido called, leaning over the side of her box.
‘Matter o’ five miles, duck. She’ll do it before you can make these into a daisy-chain,’ they called back, bombarding her with the rejected daisies.
Wandsworth was a small, ancient village not unlike Dido’s native Battersea, situated about a mile south of the River Thames, and perhaps eight or nine miles up that winding river from London Bridge. The Rising Sun was evidently not one of the inns where Lord Sope was accustomed to stop for refreshment. There had been a good many of these along the way, and Rachel was beginning to grumble again at being expected to pass them by without her usual fifteen-minute pause outside each. So the companions were pleased to arrive at their third point of inquiry, which proved to be a tiny, gabled public-house in Allfarthing Lane, on the banks of the River Wandle.
‘Has the Gentlemen’s Relish been by yet?’ Dido asked the landlord. He was a thin, sandy-haired, sharp-faced character. He gave here a very searching scrutiny before replying:
‘No, missie. She ain’t. And what’s more she’s powerful late – I’ve been expecting her these three-four hours.’
Dido’s heart sank. What could have happened to delay the barge? Had she better start back along the banks of the Wandle? She was not quite sure where this river was joined by the Gentlemen’s secret canal, but if she followed the towpath she must be sure to find the junction somewhere. But then she would be farther away from London when they met, and would have to bring the Dispatch all the way back again – it was difficult to know what to do for the best. In the end she decided to rem
ain by the Rising Sun for two hours and then, if the Gentlemen’s Relish had not yet arrived, start back.
On the west bank of the Wandle just at this point there was a pleasant little park, so they crossed the river – Rachel preferred to swim, ignoring a perfectly good bridge. Dido, dismounting, sat under a tree and Rachel sank down alongside like a neat and silent avalanche.
They waited. There was no difficulty in telling the hour hereabout. Three churches, just across the Wandle, struck all the quarters, and if they did not agree absolutely to the minute, at least there was a general certainty that time was passing. One o’clock, half past, quarter two, quarter past. And still the Gentlemen’s Relish did not appear.
‘Rachel,’ said Dido at three o’clock, ‘I reckon we’d better go back along the towpath.’
Rachel, who had been asleep, lifted her ears away from her eyes with a movement like a shrug, and began gloomily clambering to her feet.
But just at that moment, far away along the winding Wandle, something came into view that might have been a travelling hedge, or a sliding grove, or a piece of moving moorland.
‘Hang on a minute, Rachel. What’s that?’
The landlord of the Rising Sun had come out of his bar parlour and was standing on the opposite river bank, gazing upstream. He nodded to Dido.
‘That’s the old Relish,’ he called. ‘Dear knows why she’s so late.’
Dido ran across the bridge and Rachel waded through the river.
‘Don’t they worry about Preventives?’ Dido asked. ‘Coming along in the daylight, so bold?’
‘Not in these parts, bless you – we’re all good King’s men round here. Nary a Bush officer’d dare show his face.’
At last the garlanded barge slid alongside. Yan and Tan, who had been riding the two mules, tied them to a lamp-post.