by Jo Macauley
“I said, PAY ATTENTION, TURNER!”
John came to his senses with such a start that he only just managed to catch the edge of his desk to stop himself falling off his chair. Thomas Rutherford, the sour-faced Chief of Clerks, stood over him.
“Sir?”
“The accounts for the provisioning of the Lion. Are they ready yet? Mister Jones wishes to see them.”
“Very nearly, sir. I’m working on them right now.”
Rutherford peered down at John’s desk. “That looks more like a playbill to me, lad.”
John hastily covered Beth’s leaflet with some more official documents. “Uh, no sir. The figures will be ready in ten minutes!”
Once he was alone again, John pulled the playbill back out. He realized that while he he’d been daydreaming, he had scrawled the name Doodgaan next to the engraving of Beth Johnson in full costume. What did the word mean, in any case? Where was it from? And what would Beth think of him if she knew he had left his friend alone on that horrible, ghostly ship? Had Arthur Jones even done anything about it yet? John chewed his lip. It had been hours since he had gone to see his senior officer and yet there was still no word of Will. A girl like Beth would only be impressed by a man of action – and that’s exactly what John was. Or could be, if he put his mind to it.
He made his decision. He would go back to Mr Jones and ask – no, demand – that something be done immediately to rescue his friend. After hurriedly completing the paperwork for the Lion, he took it over to Rutherford’s desk.
“I’ll take the accounts up to Mister Jones’s office, shall I, sir? Save you the trouble.”
“You will? Oh, very well,” Rutherford replied curtly. “And quick about it. We’ve already kept him waiting long enough.”
Clutching the accounts, John made his way back up to the top floor of the building. His nerve faltered somewhat as he stood before that great oak door again, but he was boosted by imagining Beth was watching him, impressed by his bold move. He knocked firmly. There was no reply, but the door had not been closed properly and it swung open as soon as his knuckles made contact, revealing an apparently empty office. John pulled back for a moment and checked that the corridor was clear, trying all the time to bring his nerves under control. He would leave the accounts on Jones’s desk and come back again later to enquire about Will. He took a cautious step inside, then a couple more.
The sight that met his eyes stopped him dead in his tracks.
Arthur Jones’s chair lay on the floor on its side. Papers from his desk were strewn around it, splashed with black ink from an upturned inkpot and red ink from ... John felt his heart begin to thump against his ribs. He walked over to the desk and took a closer look at the papers. That wasn’t red ink. It was blood! It was splattered all over the table and the papers, forming a trail across the floor. John dropped his accounts down onto the desk.
What on earth had happened here?
The bloody trail led to a door at the back of the room. He had no idea what – or who – was on the other side, but he knew that he ought to investigate. Something very bad had surely happened here and he couldn’t just walk away and do nothing, however much he might want to. John followed the blood trail right to the door and turned the handle. It opened onto a narrow, dimly lit passageway. Taking a deep breath, he set off into the shadowy corridor, where he could just make out the trail of vivid red splats going all the way along the passageway and round a corner. They looked like circular warning signs surrounded by crimson exclamation marks that spoke of danger. It was only when the trail came to an end that John looked up.
What he saw made his heart stop.
The blood traces had brought him back out onto the furthest end of the main corridor on the top floor; to an area of the Navy Board offices that John had seen from a distance many times, but never dared set foot in. He was right outside the huge double doors to the office of the Navy Commissioner, Sir Roger Fortescue himself. John studied the floor to make sure he hadn’t been mistaken. But the trail of blood continued underneath the doors and into the commissioner’s office. He glanced anxiously back along the corridor. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but from within the room he heard the soft low murmur of voices. As carefully as he could, John crouched down, leaned against the door and squinted through the keyhole, trying to ignore the loud thud of his own heart.
It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the narrow view, but once he pressed it closer he could just make out the portly figure of the Commissioner. “It has all been taken care of,” John heard him saying, with his usual unhealthy wheeze.
“And what of the ship?” another man barked in a harsh, rasping voice.
Taking great care not to make a sound, John shifted his head slightly to try and see the rest of the room. The last speaker, a squat, swarthy man, strode into view. He was wiping a large knife on a cloth that he then threw carelessly to the floor. It was covered with red smears and blotches. John saw that the middle finger on man’s his left hand was missing and he shuddered, trying to keep his breathing under control.
“She has been secured at Tower Wharf. I have seen to it that everyone thinks she is simply a cargo ship adrift from her moorings,” Sir Roger Fortescue replied.
“And the boy who was caught on board?” Coming from somewhere out of John’s sight, this was a different voice, one with a smooth, silky quality of authority.
John tensed. He must be talking about Will!
“Fear not. He shall not vex us any further!” croaked the swarthy man, with a malevolent chuckle that pierced John’s heart.
But the unseen person with the silky voice wasn’t satisfied yet. “Was there not another boy?”
John flinched, and had to force himself not to turn and run.
“Indeed. Jones kindly described him to me before I ... dealt with him!” the swarthy man replied. “His name is John Turner. I shall take care of him next.”
Take care of him? John gulped. What, exactly, might that entail? And what had they done with Will?
Then the shady character with the ugly voice began to walk across the room, and what John saw behind him turned his blood to ice.
The body of Arthur Jones, head flopped forward, skin grey and lifeless, was tied to a chair by the window. The front of his white shirt was crimson with fresh blood, still oozing from a gaping wound to his throat. John instinctively raised a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp, but in doing so caught the doorknob sharply with his knuckles. There was a loud metallic clank and the voices in the room instantly fell silent.
Blind panic flooded his mind and John stood frozen to the spot as the door flew open. For a split second he was face to face with the swarthy man with the missing finger.
“Well, well, well,” the man rasped, an evil smirk playing upon his thin lips. “What have we here?”
John let out a little cry of horror, then spun round and ran for all he was worth. The last thing he heard as he skidded round the corner and flew headlong for the stairs was the pounding of heavy footsteps behind him and the squat man’s evil voice calling out.
“It was him – the Turner boy! I shall have him, by God!”
Chapter Six - Spycraft
Making her way along Fleet Street from the Navy Board back to the Peacock and Pie, Beth stopped abruptly. It looked for all the world as though she was fascinated by a shop selling pewter plates from a counter in its open frontage. Actually, she had absolutely no interest in looking at or buying any plates. This was a test.
Beth suspected she was being followed.
Alan Strange, her spymaster, had taught her well, so she was confident she knew exactly what to do in such a situation. She had noticed a figure strolling along about twenty yards behind her when she had crossed Crutched Friars after leaving John Turner’s offices. The character was still exactly the same distance behind her when she had walked past the Tower, so she’d then deliberately turned into an alleyway off Fenchurch Street and done a full circle round the houses until
she had turned back on herself to resume her journey along Fenchurch Street.
Only someone following her would have done the same pointless thing – and the sneaky so-and-so was still there. She could hear his footsteps on the cobbles, and out of the corner of her eye she kept catching a glimpse of his dark outline. Was that the gleam of an earring she saw in his ear? She restrained herself from turning back to take a proper look. It was all a matter of spycraft – Beth knew you never made it obvious that you suspected you were being followed. But from her surreptitious glances, she could tell that he wasn’t old, and not very tall – perhaps even shorter than she was, although she always felt a little bit awkward about her impressive height.
Always worth noting the suspect’s appearance, she told herself. It was almost fun, actually getting to use her spy skills...
Pausing at the pewter shop was a final experiment, to see whether he would stop too, or keep on walking. Beth began to sort through a few pans and plates as if considering buying something, but all the time, and without turning her head, she was looking back down the street at the edge of her vision, trying to keep her breathing steady. The figure didn’t stop, but kept walking in her direction, and the back of her neck tingled as she heard him pass right behind her. It suddenly struck her that he might not just be someone sent to follow her – but to kill her. It would only take one thrust of a long-bladed knife drawn from under his cloak and she would be finished. Perhaps it wasn’t such fun after all...
She felt her shoulders tense as the footsteps faltered for a second right behind her back. All her senses were alert and highly tuned, and she was ready to spring into action in an instant. There was a pause in the youth’s movement, then a scrape and a shuffle close to her back. She quickly put down the plate she was holding, ready to spin round, but it was too soon to show her hand yet. She knew she had to keep her nerve.
Then the footsteps resumed. Beth finally relaxed and let out a long breath, watching the back of the figure as he made his way up Fleet Street. She was right – he did have a big gold earring dangling from his right lobe, and she could see now that he walked with a strange, rolling gait. Either she had been wrong about him following her and it had all been a coincidence, or this young man was very good at his job and realized if he stopped he would give himself away. Beth had a sneaking feeling that this wasn’t the last she would see of the mysterious character.
Exhaling and pulling her cloak round her, she continued her journey quickly now, along wide and busy Cheapside with its many fashionable shops and noisy food market, then past St Paul’s where she had received her latest mission from Alan Strange only hours before. Then finally she was back on Drury Lane and her home at the Peacock and Pie.
“Beth!” cried Maisie upon her arrival, her blue eyes shining out from a cloud of flour dust. “I’m helping Moll to make pies for the King’s bonfire feast tomorrow!”
Beth laughed, finally shaking off the tension of her suspicions of being followed. “So I see!”
“At last, young lady,” said Big Moll as she kneaded a large lump of dough with her great fists. “Methought the food I saved for you was going to spoil. It’s there by the hearth.” She turned to Maisie. “You’ve been very helpful, young ’un, but I can manage this now. You can go and join your friend if you like.”
Beth and Maisie settled down by the gently glowing fire, and while Beth ate, Maisie brushed the flour from her dress and jabbered excitedly about tomorrow’s great feast. It would be her first Fifth of November celebration since she had arrived from America.
“...And they say half of London will be there! Lords and commoners, all manner of people. I think it might be a chance for us to try and find out some news of my father, or at least any of the White family south of the river!”
“We can, Maisie, but don’t build your hopes up too much...”
“But I know there has to be a chance we can find him. I know it seems near impossible but I just ... I can’t explain it, Beth, but I know I shall find him, no matter how long it takes. Mother told me he was a good man, and it was he who chose my name before she was sent away with me inside her.” She looked over at Beth with shining, hopeful eyes. “I am sure of it! We shall meet a man in Southwark who knows a man who knows a woman who knows my uncle, and he shall get a message to my father. And when we finally meet, I shall throw my arms round him and smother him in kisses and he will cry ‘Why, it’s Maisie White!’, and I shall say—”
Beth chuckled and held up her hands, though she feared a little for her friend’s hopefulness. “Maisie! I truly believe we can find him too, but you mustn’t get so carried away or you will be broken-hearted if things don’t work out.”
Maisie smiled and said no more, but Beth could see she was still embracing her father in her daydream.
Finishing the last of her meal, Beth wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Come, Maisie. ’Tis almost time to go to the King’s Theatre for the evening performance. We ought to get changed.”
Maisie’s eyes lit up. “And a brand-new play: new costumes, new scenery, new pretend people! I do so find it exciting, Beth. When I’m not selling oranges I love to watch how it’s done. I don’t know how you remember all those words! But do you think one day I could be in a play?”
Beth grinned at the young girl, thinking again how alike they were. She too had ambitions. William Huntingdon was a fine manager, but she had her own vision of how a theatre could be run – including having far more actresses than anyone did at present.
“I’m sure you could, Maisie!” she said encouragingly.
Daylight had faded as they left the tavern and set off on the short journey down Drury Lane. The lane itself was broad and neat at one end with many fine houses, but narrowed at the other, with several shady lanes of dubious repute running off it. Beth helped Maisie to carry some of her great load of oranges in a basket, and as they walked she decided to try her lines out on her young friend.
“Thou art an unworthy rapscallion!” Beth declared dramatically.
Maisie frowned. “What’s a ‘rapscallion’?”
“Someone who is naughty and cheeky – like you!”
“I am not! Well, perhaps I can be a little cheeky on occasion...”
“Is thine heart so hard as to deny me my what is rightly mine?” she said, clutching her free hand to her chest.
“Oh, I would never deny you anything, Beth, you know that.”
Beth chuckled. “It’s just acting, Maisie!”
“I know – yet you say it so ... so ... believably,” Maisie said, blushing at being caught out.
“Well, that’s exactly the idea!”
They were in high spirits as they left Drury Lane and turned into the alley leading to the stage door of the theatre.
Soon after they had done so, there was a movement in the shadows behind them. From a darkened doorway, a boy with a golden earring emerged and began to follow them at a safer distance...
Chapter Seven - Pursuit
“A plague on your eyes, you little cur. Wait ’til I gets hold of yer!”
John ran on, ignoring the angry cries of the portly gentleman he had sent tumbling into a pie-man, and barely even registering the curses of the poor street vendor himself, now sprawling on the ground with his tray and his food all around him on the filthy cobbles. John was a well-mannered young man, who would not usually behave in such a way. Then again, he was not usually being chased through the streets by murderous villains like these two, that the man with the missing finger had sent after him. Captain Jack Turner of the Revenge would not let a fat oaf nor a tray of pies get in his way. Captain Jack would not be running away in the first place, come to think of it ... but John decided he could worry about that some other time.
He had been heading towards his house in Shadwell, but as he left the messy scene behind and forced himself on, leg muscles burning and lungs heaving fit to burst, it dawned on him that his pursuers might know – or could easily find out – where he lived.
He knew he must think fast, but where could he go? There were plenty of anonymous lanes and gloomy alleys, but many of them were dead ends where he would be caught like a rat in a trap. He dared to glance back over his shoulder. The bigger of the two henchmen was a long way behind and slowing, red-faced and gasping; but the younger and slimmer one with the evil, rat-like face was gaining on him with every stride.
This was no game – John was certain the man with the missing finger had instructed these two to slit his throat, just as he himself had done with Arthur Jones. John winced at the memory of the ugly, fatal wound to his senior officer’s neck. He desperately needed a place to hide.
But then, just like that, he spotted the solution.
On the side of a derelict house on Jewry Street there was a poster whose design and wording he instantly recognized: it was a larger version of the playbill Beth Johnson had given him. He remembered suddenly that he had in his pocket a personal invitation to the play from London’s leading actress. The King’s Theatre would be his refuge! John fished for it in his pocket ... but it was not there.
Panicking, he dipped into his other pockets as he ran, checking them all twice, three times each. The playbill signed by Beth had gone, along with his chance of being shown backstage to meet her. It must have fallen out during the chase. He cursed to himself, but decided that the theatre would still make a good refuge. John nipped down an alley he knew led out onto Fenchurch Street, and headed west.
He felt a tremendous sense of relief when he saw the theatre ahead of him, but instead of going directly in he veered into an alley and paused for a moment, leaning with his back to the wall while he tried to get his breath back. His legs trembled, and there was a sharp, acid taste in his mouth and throat. After a few seconds, he cautiously peered round the end of the side street, back in the direction he had come. There was no sign of the two villains. He gave it a couple more minutes, straightened out his doublet and cloak, smoothed his windswept, sweat-dampened hair and strolled into the theatre trying to look as casual as possible. Luckily he had enough money for a seat and a bite to eat, so feeling in need of something to replenish his energy he went in search of a fruit-seller as soon as he was inside.