by Jane Kerr
Mr. Jameson looked thoughtful. “I’m listenin’. Tell me more.”
“The painting would be of the utmost taste. And I can assure you of my qualifications, sir. My work has been exhibited by the Royal Academy. The Queen herself has admired it.”
“The Royal Academy, you say?” Mr. Jameson’s excitement was growing. “The Queen?”
“Yes, indeed. I believe this scene would be the perfect addition to my other work on this trip. I’m considering calling it The Disputed Toll. I’m sure it will prove most popular. If I could be a little immodest, I do have quite a following.”
Danny might have guessed Mrs. Jameson would be more practical. “How long would it take?” she asked. The worry lines had appeared on her forehead again.
“Not long at all, madam. I’ve already completed a sketch. I would like to do a small watercolor now. But I can do the bigger canvas at my studio in London.”
There was never any doubt that Mr. Jameson would say yes. Danny knew it and so did Mrs. Jameson.
“Very well.” She sighed. “I’ll give you an hour, Mr. Hardy. But not a minute longer. We can’t afford any more delays.”
“Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous.”
Mr. Hardy set up his easel a few hundred yards from the tollhouse. No one seemed to think it was a good idea to get much closer. Danny could see Peppershank prowling outside, inspecting the damage to his gate and gesturing angrily to every passerby.
Within minutes, a small crowd of travelers had surrounded the painter. Danny heard one man introduce himself as Alfred Kibble of the Hawick Express, sent to cover the Elephant Race for the local newspaper. Once again it looked like Mr. Jameson’s publicity machine was working.
And so, Danny sat while Maharajah posed and Mr. Hardy painted. It should have been a welcome rest from the journey, but something was gnawing away at the back of Danny’s mind. A puzzle waiting to be solved. Below him, Sandev whistled to Maharajah to raise his trunk, and in that instant he knew what it was.
This afternoon it had been Sandev who’d told the elephant to break down the tollgate; all he needed was the right instruction from the right person. So if Maharajah could do that, then it would be very easy to order him to destroy a rail carriage—a carriage exactly like the one at Waverley Station.
On that morning, Sandev had disappeared just before Maharajah smashed up his carriage. And when the mahout reappeared, he’d been standing inside the wreckage. Which meant he’d been there with the elephant all along, whistling instructions.
If Danny was right, the entire journey was nothing but a con trick. There had never been any need to walk to Belle Vue, because Maharajah would have stood calmly in the train all the way to Manchester.
This was a hullabaloo entirely created by one person. And Danny strongly suspected that person wasn’t Sandev but James Fredrick Henry Jameson. The man who wanted the world to know about Belle Vue.
Heavy footsteps stopped the track of his thoughts, and Danny flinched as a large figure loomed behind Mr. Hardy.
“I’ve just been wonderin’,” Peppershank said, pointing to the artist’s easel. “Could I be in that painting too?”
The girl standing at Hawick Station had hair the color of marzipan—the pale gold sort that Danny had seen through bakers’ windows but never tasted. He thought they were probably around the same age, but it was difficult to tell. Everything about her was spotless. She looked more like a china doll than a real person.
Briefly, he wondered who she was. The train was about to steam out of the station and, aside from the mountain of cases and hatboxes at her feet, she seemed quite alone.
“Danny!”
He turned, and promptly forgot all about the girl. Mr. Jameson was striding along the platform.
“Stop daydreamin’, lad. I found your new clothes in the parcel office. The tailor must have sent them down on an earlier train. But there’s still no sign of Saddleworth.”
Impatiently, the train pulsed out another cloud of smoke, and a passenger emerged from the final carriage, tugging a large traveling case. He was probably of average height, but compared to Mr. Jameson he looked much taller, and he had the ruddy skin of someone who spent most of his time outdoors.
“There you are! Good heavens, man. You’re cuttin’ it fine. You nearly went off with the train.” Mr. Jameson nodded towards Danny. “Prince Dandip of Delhi. This is Mr. William Saddleworth, Belle Vue’s new animal doctor.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Your Highness. You’ve caused quite a sensation in Edinburgh.” Mr. Saddleworth smiled briefly and offered a polite handshake, but Danny noticed he didn’t bow. Instead, his clever blue eyes slid from Danny’s turban to the tips of the new leather slippers. For the first time since Edinburgh, Danny wondered if his disguise was quite good enough.
“Well, now that you’re here, we can start makin’ plans. I’ve booked rooms in the local inn. Grab your trunk and let’s get going.”
“But what about Henrietta?”
“Henrietta?”
“My daughter.” Mr. Saddleworth gestured along the platform. The girl with the golden curls was gliding towards them, a red velvet cape swirling gracefully from her shoulders and a jaunty hat tilted over one ear.
“I didn’t realize you were bringin’ anyone.” Danny was sure Mr. Jameson’s eyebrows had risen a full half inch.
“I sent a message ahead. I assumed you already knew.”
“No. I got no message. But I thought I’d made it clear. This isn’t a pleasure trip. It’s probably best if Miss Henrietta goes back to Edinburgh. At least until we reach Belle Vue. You can send for her then.”
“I’m sorry. It’s too late. She has to come with me.”
“You do realize that time is tight? We can’t hang about—even if somethin’ goes wrong. It’ll be dirty and tirin’. It’s really no trip for someone so young and—”
“But, Mr. Jameson. He’s here.” The interruption came from Henrietta. She’d hooked a hand into her father’s arm and was staring at Danny as though he was a specimen in an apothecary jar—foreign, mysterious and slightly disturbing. It made him want to bare his teeth and growl.
“Yes. Well …” Mr. Jameson spluttered. “Of course, what I meant to say is … this isn’t a journey for a gently raised young woman, Miss Henrietta. Like yourself. It’s different for Danny. He’s a—a …”
“A prince of royal blood? The son of an Indian princess?” She wrinkled her small, freckled nose. “A BOY?”
“Er … that’s right. Yes.”
Henrietta’s eyes flared. For a brief moment, she reminded Danny of Mrs. Jameson when he’d first seen her in Edinburgh—as though she was spitting mad, and ready to draw blood. A part of him was impressed.
“Just because I’m a girl, Mr. Jameson, doesn’t mean I’ll hold you back. And I won’t get in the way. I promise. I simply don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed to come.”
“Maybe. But it still won’t work. There’s no room in the wagon for all your cases and hats and whatnot. We’ve already got Maharajah’s equipment in there. There’s no space for more.”
“Well, that’s easily solved.” Henrietta glanced at the pile of luggage behind her, then lifted her chin. The angle was defiant. “I’ll leave them behind.”
“Oh … very well.” Mr. Jameson must have realized the fight wasn’t worth it. “I suppose we can manage. You can be company for Danny here. Maybe teach him some proper English manners.”
“Thank you. You won’t regret it.”
A sly smile flickered over Henrietta’s face so quickly that it was almost never there. No one except Danny seemed to notice. He clenched his teeth against a grimace. She was going to be trouble.
The first two days of the Elephant Race had not gone exactly to plan. So in the dining room of the Bridge Hotel in Hawick, the next five days were arranged with meticulous care. Danny listened attentively. He wanted to make certain he knew every detail.
The Jamesons were to travel as far
as Langholm, and then take the train to Manchester, leaving Mr. Saddleworth in charge. His job was to make sure Maharajah covered at least thirty miles a day; anything less could risk them losing the bet.
Back at Belle Vue, Mr. Jameson would begin organizing the welcome reception for their arrival. It was set to be the biggest event Manchester had ever seen, and just the thought made Danny’s heart flutter.
“But while we’re gone, I want the papers to carry on followin’ the race,” Mr. Jameson said, waving his cigar around so wildly that Danny had to duck. “Everyone’s already talkin’ about us. So let’s give ’em some stories.”
“True enough. The whole world seems to know about Maharajah.” Mr. Saddleworth sipped his ale. He’d spread out a map, marked with their route, on the dinner table. “But you’ve got to be careful, you can’t always control publicity.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing that could damage Belle Vue now. It doesn’t matter what the story is—good or bad—as long as they’re talkin’ about us. And when they talk about us, they’ll want to see for themselves. And when they come to see, we’ve got ’em. Hook. Line. And sinker.” Mr. Jameson banged the table between each word so hard that the glasses bounced.
“I still don’t think …”
The conversation stopped when the food arrived. As honored guests, they were being served by the landlord himself: Mr. Hamish McDonagh. Danny suspected he had good reason to be grateful. His business must be booming thanks to Prince Dandip and his elephant.
All night, people had been lining up to shake Danny’s hand. One woman even grabbed a peacock’s feather from his turban as a souvenir. It had seemed ridiculous to Danny but she’d clutched it as though it were made of gold.
And still, not one person had questioned his identity. Everyone believed he was Prince Dandip of Delhi. He wondered how they would feel if they knew the truth—that he was nothing more than a slum urchin with as much royal blood as the hotel cat.
“Your Highness.” Bowing clumsily, Mr. McDonagh presented Danny with a plate of lamb, gravy, and roasted potatoes, then shuffled backwards. He was bent double by the time he reached the door but managed to pry it open by hopping on one foot.
If Danny hadn’t been so distracted, he would have laughed. But he was too busy with his dinner. For as long as he could remember, food had been the main focus of his life. It had taken four days of regular meals to stop the constant hunger, but he still ate quickly so nothing could be taken away.
Cupping an arm around the plate, Danny pushed as much as possible into his mouth before swallowing. Across the table, Henrietta had cut her meal into small bites and was chewing delicately. She said, “Thank you,” when she was given a glass of water and “Yes, please,” when she was offered bread.
It was obvious to Danny that she’d never gone hungry. He curled his lip. She probably imagined missing breakfast was halfway to starvation. He couldn’t think of anything they would ever have in common. Worst of all, she wouldn’t stop staring.
Abruptly, Danny pushed away his empty plate and jumped up. Perhaps he should check on Maharajah. Crimple seemed unlikely to bother—he was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer and spinning stories for some of the other drinkers. Danny half listened as he brushed past.
“… so I pulled his jaws wide-open and put me fist right in.”
“You never did! So what happened next?”
“Wait up and I’ll tell you. Just let me get another drink.”
But a moment later, a roar erupted, outraged and angry. Danny swiveled to look. Crimple was patting his jacket as noisily as a soldier’s drum.
“That lad. He’s taken me money. The thieving beggar. I knew he was trouble.”
Crimple’s chair crashed to the floor as he stood. “Where are you, boy? You’d better come here, before I find you first.”
Danny didn’t hesitate. He’d been in this situation many times before and he knew what to do. Run.
Instinct and reflexes gave him a head start, but, judging from the shouts, he was already being followed. “I’m going to get you, you good-for-nothin’ little runt.”
Danny bolted through the hotel lounge, jumping over feet and around tables. In the far corner, a door led to the yard. He headed towards it. Behind him, there were crashes and curses. Crimple hadn’t stopped. So neither did Danny.
He plunged through the door, feeling the cold air on his face. His legs had begun to burn, and a cramp was slicing into his chest. He glanced back. Crimple was still pounding across the cobbles, ugly and determined. How long before he gave up? They could be running around in circles all night. To make matters worse, hotel guests had drifted outside to watch. Half of them looked appalled to see a large drunk chasing after the royal guest of honor. The other half were obviously delighted.
Danny had just finished a second lap of the yard when he spotted Henrietta Saddleworth at the front of the crowd. Not that he expected any help from her direction. She might be pretty to look at, but he didn’t imagine she could ever be useful.
Then to his shock, Henrietta did something that changed everything.
She stuck out a dainty foot just as the keeper ran by. It was an old trick, often used in Cowgate’s dark alleys to topple a chasing constable. Simple but effective. And if Danny hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.
Crimple was oblivious to the danger. He tripped, fell, and landed in a sprawl at Maharajah’s feet. Drunkenly, he struggled to rise, but his boots slid on the cobbles. Danny didn’t wait for him to try again.
He pulled the ankus from his belt and whistled. Maharajah obeyed instantly. Curling his trunk around Crimple’s leg, he lifted the keeper into the air so he swung upside down like a clock pendulum. His face turned a vivid purple.
Laughter erupted from the audience. In the center, Danny spotted Mr. Kibble of the Hawick Express scribbling notes with his pen—this would be another drama for the papers.
Then a clatter sounded as something fell from Crimple’s jacket and coins rolled in every direction.
“You had your money with you all the time, you daft clod,” said one of the bar drinkers, scooping up a loose shilling. “The boy didn’t steal it from you. It’s right here.”
“Och, the man’s too drunk to find the nose on his face.”
“Aye, but someone else’s nose has found him.”
The laughter didn’t stop until Mr. Jameson stalked down the hotel steps. He was smiling, but Danny could see the annoyance in his eyes. He clapped his hands for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed our little performance. The show’s over for tonight, but remember you can see much more at Belle Vue.” He nodded to Danny. “That’s enough, Your Highness. You can let him down now.”
Warily, Danny lowered the ankus and Maharajah dropped the keeper to the floor. But Crimple didn’t get up. Instead, he sat with his head buried in his hands, while the crowd cleared around him.
“I think you owe Prince Dandip an apology for that little misunderstanding,” Mr. Jameson said just loud enough for any remaining guests to hear. Then more quietly, he hissed, “And keep off the drink! You’re watchin’ Maharajah tonight. And I want no more trouble.”
Staggering, Crimple pushed to his feet. Resentment rippled from him in waves. But he did as he was told, barging Danny’s shoulder as he passed. “Get out of me way, boy!”
Danny’s anger simmered. He knew he’d made an enemy, but he didn’t care. Even when he was being honest, people didn’t believe him. So why should he bother trying?
To make matters worse, Henrietta Saddleworth was still staring. Danny glared back, hoping she’d go away. He knew he should be grateful but he just wanted to be left alone. Instead, she stepped so close that Danny could see the smattering of freckles dotting her small nose. For some reason, it made his temper fade.
“You should be thanking me, not scowling. My Aunt Augusta says good manners show good breeding, and there’s no excuse for being without either.” She lif
ted her chin. “Anyway I’ve decided I’m going to be your friend. I think you need one. But don’t ever call me Henrietta. My name’s Hetty.”
“I’ve read about you in the newspapers. What’s it like in India? I imagine it’s similar to Scotland, only hotter and with more elephants.”
Hetty had not stopped talking since breakfast. In fact, Danny couldn’t remember when she’d last paused for breath. She talked as though the sun were drying up words and there would soon be a long and silent drought. Danny had never met anyone quite like her.
The best part was that she didn’t expect him to say anything. She seemed perfectly happy for him to stay quiet while she did the talking. Which meant that in the last few hours he’d learnt more about Henrietta Saddleworth than anyone else he’d ever met.
Her mother had died three years ago, so Hetty had been sent to live with an elderly aunt in Edinburgh.
“The problem is, I don’t think Aunt Augusta really likes children. And she doesn’t approve of ‘frivolous events, frivolous people, or frivolous talk.’ ” Hetty made her voice loud and shrill so she sounded like a haughty old lady. “We didn’t go out much, or meet anyone interesting. Although we did go to church all the time. Every day. And twice on Sundays. So I suppose she must approve of God a great deal.”
From the moment Hetty had been sent away, she’d begged her father to return. Danny wondered how Mr. Saddleworth had managed to hold out for three years. He’d already seen how easily she could win an argument.
“You see, Papa wasn’t able to look after me when Mama died because of all the traveling. He’s extremely clever and goes all over the world to treat sick animals. Paris, Frankfurt, Vienna. Everywhere. But now Papa has promised that I can live with him, and he says we must settle down in one place. That’s why we’re going to Belle Vue.”
Hetty dropped her voice to a whisper. “And I know you and I shall be great friends. I felt it almost straightaway. Although you mustn’t think I like everybody. I study people carefully first, then I make up my mind. And I can tell Crimple has a mean streak. He has watery eyes just like Reverend Hepple. Aunt Augusta once found him lying on the floor in the vicarage with an empty bottle of sherry.”