Suddenly, the Princess plucked my sleeve and I was aware, as was she, of someone standing in the shadows, quite still and reluctant to be seen. She was eager to be lifted out of the carriage and I did so, putting her very gently upon the boards. She tottered to the centre of the stage, calling out like a baby bird, 'Barney mio, will you come? Do not be afraid. I am here, Princess Tiny.'
Who could mistake her poor, thin voice calling like a bird's into the darkness of that place? It was very affecting and no empty performance, either. When the boy stumbled out from behind the scenery and dropped to his knees at her feet like the convict son in Ben Brown, the Shepherd's Lad; or Whistle o'er the Downs, that picture could have done good service as an act two tableau - the one where the errant daughter (or son) returns to the crofter's lowly cottage, and begs his (or her) mother's forgiveness. I was moved, and wiped a tear, and coughed. Then his face was caught suddenly lit up (the theatre door must have been opened), and I was surprised to see it was that boy. It took me by the throat, for certain sure, and brought back unpleasant memories.
Did I, then, stride out upon the boards and firmly take the boy by the collar, deaf to his protests and ignoring his kicks and threats? Did I show a little slack, perhaps, and offer to set him upon the right road at Mr Fishburn's Ragged School and Industrial Farm, where boys in his situation might be 'saved' before they were 'spent'? Or did I clout him soundly about the head and introduce my shoemaker to his tailor on the way to the door?
Not in these boots!
I quickly tiptoed from the stage to seek out Mint, for if there was going to be trouble - and the boy seemed to be brother chip with it -1 wanted seconds. He was not in his box, so I poked my head out of the theatre door.
'Mr Bob Chapman,' said the Nasty Man. 'A pleasure - indeed, a pleasure. And Brutus and Nero, no doubt? Handsome fellows all!'
I tried to shut the door, but he was there already. And how was he there? If he had followed the Princess and me through the early street, then he was uncommonly careful, for I swear I never saw him, and my boys, pressing close against my legs now, had given no sign that they knew he was near. But here he was, with an elegantly booted foot in the door and wiping his mouth with his terrible red handkerchief.
'Now then, sir, I am come to ask you "Any news?"' he said, so amiably that I might have smiled back. 'Not to beat about the bush, as the magistrate said to the pretty girl.'
This cat-and-mouse game evidently gave him much pleasure, for he struggled to hold back his laughter.
'I wonder, do you have the packet? No? Oh dear. That is, as you theatricals say, a tragedy. Really it is.'
I gave the door another shove, but he was already halfway in. He licked his fat lips.
'We should go in, my dear. No sense shivering in the cold. Shall we join them? The boy and the tiny creature?' He giggled. 'Ah! I know her well. Mia cara?' And he mewed the Princess's little endearment like a cat. 'Oh naughty, naughty! She didn't tell you we are acquainted? Oh shame! Oh, silly creature!'
His smile was, as before, as mild as a priest's.
'Shall we go and find them? But don't alarm the boy, will you? I have business with him.'
Through the mist of his silky words, I was still wondering how I could keep him away from the Princess and although blood did not rush to my head, nor courage to its sticking place, I thought once more of Mr Mint, the Cerberus of the stage door, and a man who would allow no one through it with whom he was not acquainted. If he could be summoned, he would certainly bar this creature from his theatre. But even now, the Nasty Man was ahead of me.
'And Mr Mint - ah - excellent man! Shall we apply to him? Oh look, my dear, he has run away! Like little Freddy Forskyn. Naughty Freddy tight in lamb-skin / Cook him up a good lamb pie! / Give everyone a slice of Freddy / Good and rare and toby-red . . . Know that song, sir? A naughty song? Oh yes, sir. Very.'
He must be mad, I thought, for he had pushed the door wide open and was dancing on the very edge of his toes with delight and relish, humming and reciting the vile rhyme over and over. Whilst he was so distracted, here was my opportunity to summon Mint and have him marched away. But his cubbyhole was locked and dark, and pinned to it was a note.
'Called away. Back soon. P.M.,' chanted the Nasty Man, without looking at it. 'Peter Mint. Brave soldier, stalwart chappie, but now the castle's unguarded - and pity the poor Princess and her young prince!'
The merriment was over and he pressed me towards the stage, his breath hot and sweet upon my neck. I wanted nothing so much as for him not to touch me, and the thought of those fat fingers and fleshy lips was quite terrible. In the dark regions of the stage with the swaying canvases and a labyrinth of passages, I had a fleeting notion that I could escape him, but it was a desperate thought and a forlorn hope for, as we approached, I could hear the Princess's tiny voice and the boy's urgent tones. They were where I had left them, only he had fetched a chair for the Princess - in fact, had dragged out the property throne - and was sat at her feet with her tiny hand in his. At any other time, it would be a touching scene, but not now. I waited for the grampus to make a dash at him and grab the boy by the collar, the advantage of surprise being all on his side. But he didn't. He stood at my shoulder, his breath coming in short whistles, breathing through those baby teeth.
The Nasty Man was listening.
His head was cocked as he strained to hear what they were saying and he leaned forward, putting his hand upon my shoulder. I flinched and, whether we made a noise or he sensed we were there, the boy suddenly sprang to his feet with a terrible cry and was across the stage and had shinned up a rope as high as the battens before anyone moved.
'You!' he cried, hanging like a monkey above the stage. 'You shan't get me, you devil! And I shall serve you out! For my father's sake!'
His voice rang out across the blackness of the theatre, but the Nasty Man was undeterred. Laughed, indeed, at the boy's boldness with a childish giggle, which he tried to hide with the back of his hand.
'Serve me out, will you?' he taunted. 'Son of George Kevill, the murderer, the thief! And filthy dog, so I've heard!'
The boy cried out again, slipping a foot or so down the swaying rope, but recovering enough to wrap his thin legs around it when his chorus began again. 'My Pa done nothing wrong, you villain! I'll serve you out, see if I don't!'
'Oh, Barney, take care!' cried the Princess.
'Barney, is it?' said the Nasty Man. 'Better come down here then, Barney Gallows-bird, and look after your little friend.'
'Don't you touch the Princess,' cried Barney.
'She's my friend,' mimicked the grampus in a high and childish voice, and wobbled his head. 'Oh, Pa! Oh, Pa! I'll serve him out!' and he laughed until I thought he would burst, but then suddenly turned off that wild laughter like a tap, and his face was set and terrible.
'Serve me out, will you?' he spat. 'And how will you do that, Jack Ketch's bait? I want the pictures your Pa gave you. You know where they are. Or did you give the packet away for someone else to keep? To this dog's-face, perhaps? Which is it?'
'What pictures? I don't know about any pictures!' cried Barney.
The Nasty Man took half a step and raised his cane. Nero, braveheart that he is, growled.
'You, dog-man,' said he, 'keep your curs by your side, sir, or I'll knock their brains into their arses and you can lick 'em clean! Heard that one?' Then he rapped the ebony cane upon the boards, and fixed me with that half-smile upon his face. 'Where are they, then? Pictures? And a letter perhaps? You know what I want. Give them here!'
He raised the cane once more, and as he did so, a door slammed behind me.
It was only when, some time later, I replayed these events, did I wonder how it came to be that the person who did that slamming and clattered onto the stage, and greeted Brutus and Nero with a cheery whistle, was Will Lovegrove, elegant as ever in a rusty Benjamin and old slouch hat. Nor did I ask myself why he should be at the Pavilion Theatre at this early hour. I could only guess t
hat he had not been home, and certainly from the dark rings beneath his eyes, he had not slept.
'Bob!' he cried, hanging his arm about my shoulders. 'Here's luck! Now, join me at Garraway's if you and your boys have not breakfasted, for I had the devil's own fortune last night and - Hello!'
What did he make of the extraordinary scene? The boy hanging from the rope? Princess Tiny trembling upon the massy gilt throne? The Nasty Man, forcing an amiable smile, politely saluting him and extending a gloved hand?
'My dear sir, may I shake your hand? I do not believe I have had the pleasure?'
Will's face was impassive, and he kept his arm about my shoulder.
'Not yet introduced,' effused the grampus, retreating only slightly. 'Quite understand. Not done. Precipitate upon my part. Am merely trying to recapture myyoung-er-apprentice, here, who will keep running away, sir.' He raised the cane. 'Naughty boy. Needs a thorough dry-beating, eh? You and I, sir? We might - enjoy - giving him a shirtful of sore bones?'
We stood in silence, as the Nasty Man looked from Barney to Will.
'He is party to the business, also,' the grampus said finally, pointing at me. 'I hope he is not a friend of yours, sir. The boy gave stolen property to him. Outside this very theatre. I saw it. He should give back what doesn't belong to him.'
Will glanced up at Barney, still dangling from the rigging, and addressed the Princess. 'A runaway, eh? An apprentice, he says. And a thief to boot,' he said. 'That would make him an apprentice thief. What do you think, madam? He certainly looks like a pincher. If that is so, I must assume that, as his master, you, sir, are an adept yourself.' He wheeled upon the puffing grampus. 'What would you recommend, Bob? Shall I call the constable to arrest the boy for absconding and this master for procuring? Or shall I simply knock seven bells out of him myself and save the bluebottles the trouble? What do you say, sir?'
And with a sudden flourish, he struck the Nasty Man a glancing blow upon his shoulder that sent that black stick clattering across the stage. It was surprising to see Will Lovegrove angry, and he clearly was. His face was pale and his eyes flashed, and he seemed six inches taller, whereas the Nasty Man was reduced to grovelling for his cane and squeaking threats.
'You have no notion, sir, who you trifle with!'
'Trifle, eh?' Will cried, advancing upon him. 'Let us review that when I've given you a regular good kicking, sir!'
The Nasty Man backed away, filling the air with threats and vile curses.
Then there was the slamming of the theatre door, and he was gone.
Will's only concern was for the Princess though she, shaken and trembling, expressed herself 'perfectly well, thank you, Mr Lovegrove' and even managed a smile as my handsome friend knelt and took her hand. Barney, who quickly let himself down the rope, professed himself 'fit as a trout, Princess, no worms'.
What a strange group we must have made for any ghost of a spectator sitting, that morning, in the pit of the Pavilion Theatre. Handsome Will Lovegrove, with his long, curling hair and actorly dress, and the boy Barney, begrimed and ragged. Then the tiny Princess, elegant in her dark-green walking outfit and a miniature hat perched upon her bird-like head. And, me, Bob Chapman, wrapped in my one good coat (a little out at the elbows, but still serviceable for another winter if I am careful with it) standing apart with Brutus and Nero, and taking in the scene as if it were one of Trim's dramas.
Will took charge, asking no questions (though he must have been consumed with curiosity!), and insisting that the Princess was returned, post-haste, to the Aquarium.
'Roll out my lady's carriage, Chapman!' he cried and, in stately procession, we went back to the Aquarium, Barney pushing the Princess's chair, Will walking by her side and my dogs and I keeping rear-guard. The Nasty Man was nowhere about, but when we arrived at the Aquarium, Mrs Gifford was in the hall to greet us, looking more pinched and unhappy than I have ever seen her, and anxious to remind one and all that the Princess was delicate and should not be 'traipsing the streets in the early morning or be thrown about like a sack of sugar'. Taking the Princess's hand and hurrying her through the waxworks chamber to the back stairs, she announced, with an imperiousness that set my teeth upon edge, that 'Princess Tiny will be resting for the duration, but she'll work as usual that evening, conscious as ever of her devoted public and the respect they hold for her.'
Aye, I thought bitterly, and the sixpences they drop you for extra favours, I shouldn't wonder.
I set up my platform quickly, and, with shaking hands and a sweating brow, brewed my first pot of the day. Almost before the kettle could sing, the salon door opened and my boys were on their feet in readiness for our customers. But Nero, poking his head around the screen, began to wag and that is a sign for the arrival of a friend rather than a customer. Two friends, in fact. Will and Barney, the latter with a scrubbed face and hands, courtesy of the Princess, and a clean shirt and breeches, courtesy of the waxworks wardrobe, hence their fashion of some distant century. We sat cosily behind the screen, and I put another two spoons of tea in the pot. Will was thoughtful.
'Here's a nice kettle of fish, Bob, and young Barney here is the sprat caught in it. From what he has told me, and those details which our Princess has added, it is clear to me that Barney is the victim of a misunderstanding.' Will laid a friendly hand upon my arm. 'And that you, my friend, have been drawn into the business also.'
Barney nodded and rubbed an already red eye.
'As I understand it, the story is this. Barney's Pa was a peep-show man. He and Barney travelled the country fairs, where they met our fairy and giant, Princess Tiny and Herr Swann. They come to London from the country to make their fortune but, like many others, find it not so easy. Wherever Barney's Pa puts up his show, someone turns him off. He has to buy a pitch, and pay bullies not drive him out. He has a son to look out for, and not enough coin coming in.'
'It was a good show,' piped up Barney. 'We gave the Battle of Trafalgar and the Parting of the Red Sea, with the best coloured pictures to be had anywhere.'
'Then,' continued Will, 'the show is smashed to flinders by some drunken roughs. How does George Kevill earn a living now?'
'He goes to see the Princess!' said Barney with a smile. 'I thought she lived with the Queen, but Pa said she had an out- of-town residence. He called her our Fairy Princess, who saved our skins and put bread upon our table.' He rubbed his eye. 'She gave Pa some money to buy a photographic concern going cheap. She bought machines and plates and a stock of pictures. My Pa said, "This could be the making of us, Barney!" He said, "By Christmas, we shall be as rich as the Queen herself, and twice as happy!'"
Silence dropped like a stone. The boy rubbed his eye hard with the heel of his hand, and Will looked away and gave Nero's ears a good scratch. Then, half-glancing at the boy, cleared his throat.
'I'm guessing that as soon as your Pa's photographic business started making money, someone else wanted a share. Or perhaps your Pa found that he owed someone else some money.'
Barney nodded his head.
'The Nasty Man. And an uncle.'
'Perhaps the Nasty Man offered your Pa a chance? Do this for me, he said, and I will ask my principal to look again at your debt. Your Pa had no choice. He went along with it, though he didn't like it much. But he had a boy and not enough chink, and London is a wicked place.'
It was quiet in the Aquarium, just the sounds of the animals in the menagerie, the rattle of feet below in the waxwork room, and a murmur of voices.
'My Pa wasn't a thief,' said Barney, suddenly. 'And he wasn't a murderer, like the judge said.'
'I believe you,' said Will. 'But he offended someone, Barney, for they fitted him up most thoroughly.' He frowned. 'What did the Nasty Man want? A packet? Like the one you gave to Bob and I gave it to Trim? Good Lord, that wasn't full of notes, was it? Or coin?'
Barney shook his head.
'It was just the packet your pal dropped when he tripped over me. Nothing in it but paper, so I brought it back.' He gave
me a faint smile. 'I seen you with Mr Trimmer, coming out of the theatre. And the Cheshire Cheese. And I seen you talking to Mr Lovegrove, so I figured you were all pals together.'
Will patted Nero affectionately and raised his eyebrows at me.
'Remind me how Mr Trimmer came to trip over you, Barney.'
'I was in haste, wasn't I? From the Nasty Man. It was the morning when my Pa had been - well, you know. And he came up to me and said he wanted the pictures and if I didn't hand them over, he said he would - well, what he would do to me.' Barney bit his lip. 'He said I could keep the money what my Pa had stole. He just wanted the pictures. But my Pa never stole anything.'
'Of course he didn't. But these pictures? You're sure you don't know where they are?'
Barney shrugged his shoulders.
'I never saw anything.'
'Perhaps he left them with a friend?'
Barney scowled. 'A friend! Don't think much of his friend. He was supposed to send a letter to the Queen about my Pa so she would set him free, but he never.'
Will smiled. 'Sometimes friends are not all they're made out to be, are they?' He looked thoughtful. 'Perhaps your Pa gave this friend the pictures, or the money. Or whatever it is the Nasty Man wants.'
Barney shrugged.
'Perhaps he kept the pictures in his photographic shop? Where was that?
'It's a emporium and I dunno where it is.'
'Certain?'
Barney frowned and looked irritated. 'Why do you want to know? You're as bad as the Nasty Man, you are, with your questions about my Pa. I'll serve him out, you mark me!' he muttered. 'I promised my Pa I would,' and looked mutinously at us both.
'Quite right,' said Will, solemnly. 'Too many questions. My mother always said I was a regular Boy Jones, and too nosy for my own good or anyone else's. But one last poser. Is your Pa's photographic business still there? Where he left it?'
The Newgate Jig Page 10