The Elephant Thief

by Jane Kerr

  Mrs. Jameson rose to her feet and glanced at the pile.

  “Burn these,” she said to the maid. “All of them. And throw away the boots. Then bring a plate of bread and cheese, maybe a little ham.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl left hurriedly, holding a hand to her nose and the clothing at arm’s length.

  “Well, get in, lad. You’re not going to get clean just by looking at it.”

  Gingerly, Boy stepped into the tub and lowered his body into the water. He knew some of the other slum children would have run screaming from the idea of a bath, but he had a fierce desire to be clean. He was sick of stinking like the Cowgate alleys.

  “Mr. Jameson said you weren’t a great talker, but do you know what this is?” Mrs. Jameson held out a cake of soap. Boy nodded, a little insulted to be asked. “Then use it. I want you smelling like a spring garden by the time you’re finished.”

  Warily, Boy took the soap. He still couldn’t quite believe his good fortune. At any moment, someone was bound to burst in and say it had all been a terrible mistake. That all this was not for him but for another, more deserving child.

  He kept his eyes on Mrs. Jameson as she moved around the room, warming the towels by the fire and lighting the oil lamp. She began to sing softly: “ ‘… the lilies so pale. And the roses so fair …’ ” Her voice was surprisingly sweet. A whisper of a memory drifted into Boy’s head and then disappeared.

  He sat back in the tub. The soap bubbled up between his wet fingers. He spread it over his skin and the dirt ran in streaks down his arms. The bathwater clouded.

  Closing his eyes, Boy held his breath and sank beneath the surface. He lay there, feeling cocooned and safe. When he sat up again, his muscles were as soft as butter. He rubbed soap into his scalp and scrubbed so hard he couldn’t believe any grime could possibly remain.

  “Come on, up you get.”

  Mrs. Jameson held out a towel. Boy stood and wrapped it around his middle. He watched the water stream off his body. Now that he was clean, his skin seemed even darker. The color of a copper penny, Mrs. Sweets had once said, not altogether unkindly.

  But that wasn’t the only reason he looked different.

  Underneath the layers of dirt, there was clear evidence of the life he was leaving behind. And it wasn’t pretty.

  Scars dotted his skin, some old, some new. Most of them had been earned in fights with other thieves. He’d been lucky to survive one knife wound that ran the length of his shoulder. But by far the worst were the marks on one wrist, so deep they would probably never fade. Boy blocked out that memory. He didn’t want to think about Scatcherd now.

  For several moments, Mrs. Jameson’s gaze moved over his injuries. Boy waited for the revulsion. He was surprised—and beyond grateful—when her expression didn’t change. He’d hate to be pitied.

  “Your food’s over there by the hearth,” she said at last. Her voice sounded rougher than before, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “I want to see a good bit eaten by the time I come back. I’ll go and get you something to wear.”

  By the time Mrs. Jameson returned, Boy had already stuffed down most of his supper. He pulled the plate close to his chest, worried that she might take the rest away. But instead, another twist of bread dropped into his lap.

  “For you,” she said. “It looks like you need it. And I’ve brought one of Mr. Jameson’s shirts. It’ll do for now. Some of your new clothes will arrive in the morning.”

  Awkwardly, Boy tugged on the nightshirt. The hem hung below his knees. He sat on the bed and pushed the rest of the food into his mouth. Mrs. Jameson watched until the last scrap disappeared.

  “Now into bed with you, lad.”

  The sheets on the mattress had been drawn back, and Boy slid between them.

  To his surprise, Mrs. Jameson smoothed the covers carefully around him before reaching to brush his forehead. Instinctively, Boy pulled back. A soft sigh touched his cheek.

  “Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  She left with a bustling sweep of skirts. The room grew dark, and Boy’s eyes drifted shut. Much later, he heard Sandev slipping into the room, and then there was nothing but the comfort of sleep.

  Boy stood in front of the mirror and stared. The stranger was like him, but not like him. He had the same dark eyes and brown skin. The same hair with the cowlick curl that refused to lie flat. But still, he couldn’t quite believe it.

  Like Sandev, he was wearing trousers that were loose at the knee and gathered at the ankle. A green waistcoat covered a white silk shirt, and on his feet were matching leather slippers that curled up at the ends.

  For a moment, he felt a surge of discomfort. Was it wise to go along with Mr. Jameson’s plans? To play at dressing up? But the feeling lasted only for a moment. Because if wearing this costume was his only way to freedom, he would seize it.

  The clothes had arrived promptly at seven o’clock this morning. Boy had tugged them on in the small dressing chamber next to the Jamesons’ hotel room and then turned to face the mirror. Five minutes later, he was still trying to get over the shock. He reached out again and touched the glass. His reflection did the same.

  “Danny.” He mouthed the name experimentally, watching his lips move. It was strange but not awkward. From now on, this is who he was. He had a real name. A real identity. He wasn’t Boy any longer.

  He was Danny from Belle Vue.

  Behind him the door cracked open. “Come on, Danny,” Mr. Jameson shouted. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  Four faces turned as Danny stepped into the next room. He heard Mrs. Jameson gasp, and saw Sandev’s eyes widen. But Crimple was the first one to speak. “Bleedin’ Nora! I’d never have recognized him.”

  Mr. Jameson just grinned. “Splendid. Absolutely splendid. We’ll have everyone eatin’ out of the palms of our hands.” He stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “So now that we’re all here, let’s start plannin’ a hullaballoo.”

  Danny had no idea what a hullaballoo was, but he knew it was likely to be big. The Elephant Race was due to begin in two hours, and nerves were already taking hold of his stomach. He lined up beside the others and waited.

  “Now listen carefully, because I’m countin’ on each one of you.” Mr. Jameson had begun marching up and down the room like an army general. “You’ve all got jobs to do. Sandev’s joinin’ us from here until Belle Vue. And on the way, he’s goin’ to teach Danny everythin’ he needs to know about Maharajah.”

  Lightly, he tapped Danny’s arm. “So lad, I want you to listen and learn well. In seven days I’m expectin’ you to have that beast purring like a pet cat. He’s your responsibility. Your job’s to look after that elephant like he’s more precious than the Crown Jewels.”

  Swallowing, Danny nodded. The collar of his new shirt rubbed against his neck, and he reached to tug it back. This wasn’t just about escaping from the slums or from Scatcherd and the Leith Brotherhood. He actually had a job to do. And if he didn’t get it right, he’d be back where he started.

  Mr. Jameson continued pacing. “I’ve managed to get us one of Wormwell’s supply wagons. It was goin’ cheap at the auction. Crimple will be the driver—he’s the muscle. He’ll sort the stuff that needs fixin’. Food, security, broken equipment, that type of thing.”

  He rubbed his hands. “I’m goin’ to work the publicity. I want this story on every front page. ‘Maharajah the Magnificent and the Boy Who Tamed Him.’ Nobody’s ever going to forget seein’ us strollin’ down their high street.”

  The flaw in this plan was obvious. Danny hadn’t tamed anyone or anything—and especially not Maharajah. He swallowed again, throat suddenly dry.

  “We’ll have posters sayin’ we’re comin’ through every town and village. Me and Mrs. Jameson will be travelin’ with you as far as the Borders. After that I’ve a man in mind who’ll help the rest of the way. He’s an animal doctor by the name of Saddleworth. Got lots of zoological experience and
he’s lookin’ for permanent work. He’ll join us in a couple of days.” Mr. Jameson looked around. “So any questions?”

  It was Crimple who asked what Danny had been dreading to hear.

  “It’s like this, Gov.” The keeper shifted his weight from foot to foot and curled his hands into fists. “I can see you’ve got the boy decked out with fancy clothes, and I’ll admit he looks better. But what do we know about him? He can’t even speak; he’s just a dumb mute. And he’s foreign-lookin’. I don’t trust him. He could slit our throats and rob us in our beds.”

  For one angry moment, Danny wanted to take a swing at Crimple’s face. Then the nerves dancing inside his stomach took a swooping dive. This was when everything would be taken away from him. He’d been stupid to believe he could start a new life.

  A hand clasped the back of his neck, and Danny tried not to recoil. Mentally, he measured the distance to the door. He could still escape. It was not too late.

  “I’ll say this to you loud and clear, Nelson Crimple. I don’t care where this lad came from or about the color of his skin. He’s one of us now. Part of Belle Vue. Besides, he can’t be that dumb.” Mr. Jameson’s voice sharpened. “He’s here with us, isn’t he? And it’s going to be the cleverest choice he’s ever made. You mark me words.”

  A dull flush crept across Crimple’s face. “Once a thief, always a thief, that’s what I say. The boy’s a dipper. We might as well call him Dan the Dip, ’cause that’s what he is.”

  “Dandip. Is it not a good name for an elephant’s thief?”

  The voice was light and musical, each word pronounced so exactly that the overall effect was almost too perfect. And with a start, Danny realized it was the first time he’d heard Sandev speak.

  “Dandip. Dandip … yes, I like it!” Mr. Jameson’s eyes glittered. “It’s got something. We could use it. Let’s see …”

  He gazed into the distance. Danny wasn’t sure what was happening. But everyone else stayed quiet, even Mrs. Jameson. Although she didn’t look happy. Two lines creased her high forehead, and her fingers knotted tightly together.

  “You’re Dandip,” Mr. Jameson said at last, pointing at Danny. “An Indian prince, orphaned as a baby, whose only friend was an elephant cub. But you’re torn apart when he’s brought to England. You follow him and … and you’re reunited at the Wormwell auction. Just as Maharajah’s being sold! It’s a bloomin’ miracle. Now you’re both goin’ to Belle Vue to make your home together.”

  He pulled a cigar from his jacket. “What a story! The newspapers will love it. And so will the payin’ public. It’ll explain everythin’. You’re a foreigner. You’ve got no English. It’s a touch of genius, even if I do say it meself.”

  Danny struggled to think. Surely no one could possibly believe such nonsense. There were so many holes in the story it was difficult to know where to begin.

  Crimple tried. “But nobody’ll believe he’s royal, Gov.”

  “Poppycock! He can be the son of an Indian princess and an English army officer. He was killed in battle, and she died of grief shortly after givin’ birth. All you have to do is tell the story with enough confidence and everyone will believe it. And I’ll tell you why—because everyone will want to believe it.”

  In the whole of his life, Danny didn’t think he’d ever heard such rubbish. He’d never be able to fool anyone into believing he was a prince. But Mr. Jameson stopped any more objections with a sweep of his hand.

  “We can sort the detail later. And I don’t want any of this talk goin’ further than these four walls. Remember that. We keep this private, just between us here. Our job is to entertain the public. And you gotta think big, not small. Because this is not everyday life. It’s an adventure of a lifetime.”

  Once again he gripped Danny’s shoulder. Danny could feel the pressure bite through his skin. He wanted to pull away.

  “So are you in, lad?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, today is the start of a fantastical journey. And one day, you can tell your children and grandchildren that you were here. Right at the beginnin’ of the Elephant Race.”

  Throwing open his arms, Mr. Jameson shouted to the crowds from the top of the steps at Waverley Pavilion. Word must have spread because there were hundreds of people staring up at Danny, Maharajah, and the rest of the Belle Vue party.

  Danny suspected most of them had seen the newspaper stories about yesterday’s drama at the station and were hoping for more excitement. Mr. Jameson had practically bounced with delight when he’d read the headlines aloud over breakfast. “What did I tell you?” he’d said, kissing his wife. “It’s workin’ already.”

  Fidgeting in his new clothes, Danny stood next to the Jamesons. This was his first official outing as Prince Dandip, and no one from his old life would have recognized him today. It was the main reason he’d not made any fuss, even when Mrs. Jameson had used henna paste to dye his hair. Now there was no hint of brown, only a flat, toneless black.

  To complete the disguise, a strip of white cloth had been wrapped around his head so that it matched Sandev’s turban. Three peacock feathers waved from the crown, and a black curl kept falling in his eyes. Danny tried to push it back, but it wouldn’t stay. He felt ridiculous.

  At least Maharajah was also dressed up for the occasion. A jeweled harness covered his head and neck, and a glittering red bead hung from the center. The collar had been designed especially for him, Mr. Jameson explained. On very grand occasions, a plume of ostrich feathers could be fitted to the top.

  It certainly looked impressive, and Danny had stared at the jewels enviously. His fingers itched to touch, but Crimple had curled his lip.

  “He’s had that harness for years, boy. Wormwell had it made up for parades and such like. But there’s nothin’ for you there. Everythin’s paste and glass, so you can keep your thievin’ hands off.”

  Even if the jewels had been real, Danny wouldn’t have taken the risk. Besides, he already had Mr. Jameson’s sovereign safely tucked into the cuff of one of his new shirts, alongside the bundle of pennies. At the moment, he had no intention of running, but he liked knowing they were there.

  “… a grand and marvelous occasion, ladies and gentlemen. And I can promise you, it’ll be one you’ll never forget.” Mr. Jameson had just finished his speech when Arthur Albright strode up the pavilion steps.

  “I’ll do something you won’t forget if you don’t hurry up.” Albright held up a pocket watch and flag. “You’ve only ten minutes before ten o’clock, and don’t expect any extra time if you’re not ready.”

  “Now, now. Don’t get yourself upset, Arthur.” Danny could tell Mr. Jameson was enjoying himself. Albright’s rudeness seemed to bounce off him as harmlessly as soap bubbles. “Everything’s under control. We were just waitin’ for you. Now that you’re here, we can start.”

  He nodded to Sandev who maneuvered Maharajah forwards. The elephant knelt on the top step. Danny had been warned what to expect, but that had been talk and hot air. This was the reality. And Maharajah was bigger than a mountain.

  Anxiously, Danny brushed his wrist, feeling the scarred tissue beneath his fingers. He stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing. He didn’t have time to be nervous.

  Hooking a slipper on to Maharajah’s bent knee, Danny grasped the wrinkled skin behind one ear. He slid a leg over the elephant’s neck and shuffled to sit just behind his head. Stretching, he gripped the harness. Almost immediately, Maharajah rose.

  It was like riding a wave—there was the sheer terror of going under and the relief of bobbing up again. The strength tossed Danny forwards and back, until finally he came to rest, stiff but upright. He hoped he didn’t look as panicked as he felt.

  At least, the audience seemed to like it; there was a ripple of applause and some gasps. But, to Danny’s relief, Maharajah remained perfectly still. He released a breath. They’d passed the first test. And if anyone deserved thanks, it was Maharajah. Danny suspected it was only the elephant that ha
d stopped them from looking like fools.

  Gathering his courage, Danny looked down. On the ground, Mr. Jameson and Albright were answering questions from the newspapermen.

  “Do you think you can make it in seven days, Mr. Jameson?” one shouted.

  “Of course, young man. And with time to spare.”

  “Mr. Albright, are you confident you can win the bet?” asked another.

  “I have absolutely no doubt that in a week’s time, Maharajah, and the other Belle Vue animals, will be joining us at the Yorkshire Zoological Gardens in Leeds.” Albright’s chest of gold buttons expanded. “In fact, I invite you all to see them there.”

  The boast might have rattled another man, but Danny was sure Mr. Jameson would have a trick up his sleeve. He was right. Puffing on his cigar, the menagerist blew out a long stream of smoke and clapped a hand around the shoulders of the nearest reporter.

  “I believe you’re from the Herald, young fella? Well, you can let your readers be the first to know.”

  He pointed a finger at Danny. “That there boy—he’s an Indian prince. Name’s Dandip. Make sure you spell it right. That’s D-A-N-D-I-P. He followed Maharajah all the way from Delhi and now they’re goin’ to Manchester to make their home at Belle Vue. Tell your readers, they can see them there in a week’s time. We’re open all year round.”

  Danny held his breath. He waited for someone to point out the lie—to say they’d never heard anything so ludicrous. So stupid. But no one did. Instead, Mr. Jameson was immediately surrounded by reporters.

  “How did the Prince travel from India?”

  “Is he planning to stay?”

  “Will he be meeting Her Majesty during his visit?”

  Amazed, Danny watched them scrabble for information. Mr. Jameson had been right; they believed it. And if they believed, surely he was safe? No one could harm Prince Dandip of Delhi. Not even Frank Scatcherd.