by Ann Turnbull
For my black cat, Harley
First published 2014 by A & C Black
an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP UK
1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA
www.bloomsbury.com
Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 2014 A & C Black
Text copyright © 2014 Ann Turnbull
Illustrations copyright © 2014 Akbar Ali
The rights of Ann Turnbull and Akbar Ali to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
eISBN 978-1-4729-0849-0
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.
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Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
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Contents
1 A Letter for Eliza
2 Black Cat and Coal Dust
3 A Stranger
4 Following John Johnson
5 A Knock at the Door
6 On Mouser’s Trail
7 In the Cellar
8 A Midnight Raid
9 Mouser’s Secret
1
A Letter for Eliza
“Nothing ever happens in London,” sighed Eliza.
She put down her needlework and looked out of the window at the wet, wind-shaken garden, where yellow leaves were swirling.
“You’re missing your cousin, aren’t you?” her governess, Mistress Perks, said. She frowned at Eliza’s crossed threads. “Unpick that and do it again.”
Eliza began pulling out stitches. She thought of Warwickshire, where her cousin Lucy lived, and where Eliza and her family had been visiting only a few months ago, in the summer. Eliza lived in a town house in Westminster, next to the House of Lords, but Lucy’s home was a big country house that had its own deer park.
“I loved seeing the hunters ride out,” Eliza said. “And having dancing lessons with Lucy. Oh, and meeting the Lady Elizabeth!”
To their great excitement, the girls had been presented to King James’s daughter, Princess Elizabeth, who lived at Coombe Abbey, near Coventry. The princess was only nine years old, like Eliza and Lucy, yet she lived with her own household, far away from her parents and family.
Thinking about this now, Eliza asked, “Why do the royal children not live with the King and Queen?”
“Because of their rank,” said Mistress Perks, “and for their safety – and the safety of the realm.”
The safety of the realm. That sounded important. Eliza was about to ask more, but from somewhere in the house she heard a door opening, and voices – one of them her father’s. A moment later her father came into the room. He was holding a letter, and Eliza immediately recognised the deer’s head on its wax seal and knew it was from his cousin – Lucy’s father.
Mistress Perks and Eliza both rose and curtseyed.
“Forgive this interruption, Mistress Perks,” Eliza’s father said, with a smile, “but I have a letter for Eliza, and I know she will be eager to see it.”
From inside his own letter he drew another, and handed it to his daughter. It was a single folded sheet of paper, sealed with a blob of wax and marked, ‘For Eliza Fenton. Most secret.’
“Oh!” exclaimed Eliza. “From Lucy!”
Her father left, and Eliza looked beseechingly at her governess. She longed to be alone to open the letter, but could not leave the room without permission.
Mistress Perks gave in. “You may go to your chamber now, Eliza.”
Eliza hurried upstairs. In the small chilly bedchamber she broke the seal and opened the piece of paper.
It was blank.
Eliza smiled. She went to the fireplace and blew on the embers of last night’s fire until little flames sprang up and began to give off heat. She held the letter above the fire. Would it be hot enough? Yes! Reddish-yellow marks appeared on the paper. As the heat increased she began to see words. It was another of Lucy’s secret letters, written in orange juice, and dated 26th October 1605.
‘Sweet cousin,’ wrote Lucy, ‘Our enemies are everywhere. Burn this after reading it.’ Lucy always said that. Sometimes the two of them wrote in secret code, but they liked invisible ink better. ‘My father is to attend the State Opening of Parliament in London on the fifth of November,’ Lucy continued, ‘and the good news is that he will bring me with him, to your house. Mother has gone to Leicester to see Aunt Warren, who has been ill. I did fear someone had poisoned my aunt, but Mother says no, it is only her bad knee.’ The next words were paler as the orange juice ran out: ‘…must watch for danger at every…trust no one…’ And then there was a faint signature: ‘Lucy Fenton’.
All Eliza’s boredom vanished in a moment. The fifth of November was less than a week away. Perhaps Lucy and her father had already left Warwickshire. They could be here any day.
Lucy will share my room, Eliza thought. It will be such fun!
2
Black Cat and Coal Dust
“Sir Stephen Chelwall and his wife were caught with two priests hidden in their house,” whispered Lucy, as the girls lay in bed on the evening of Lucy’s arrival. “The priests were in a secret space under the floorboards.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”
“I heard Father and Mother talking.”
Eliza felt scared, yet excited. Her family was careful never to speak of such things. Her father was a courtier – always ready at any time to attend upon the King – and both her parents regularly went to church and called themselves Protestants. But now that she was older Eliza understood that they, like Lucy’s parents, were Catholics at heart. And that was dangerous. It was not against the law to be a Catholic, but hearing Catholic mass was forbidden, and there were heavy fines for hiding priests.
“The priests will be executed,” whispered Lucy. They both knew this would be done in the most horrible way.
“We must not talk about it,” said Eliza, with a shudder.
And they said no more. They blew out the candle and went to sleep.
But next morning, as soon as their lessons with Mistress Perks were over, they began their favourite game of spies – just as they had when Eliza visited Lucy’s home. Lucy had confided in Eliza that it was her ambition to be a spy. “Ladies are excellent at watching and reporting,” she said. “My mother says so.”
They could not go out. The wind flung great drops of rain against the windows and the cobbles outside were shining wet. Instead, Lucy took out a little notebook from the pocket under her gown and passed it to Eliza. “We must make a list of all the people in the house,” she said. “Anyone could be an enemy.”
Eliza wrote down all the names, from her parents, her governess and the maids and manservant, down to the kitchen folk:
‘Mistress Rowley, cook.
Walter Bennett, handyman.
Anne and Bessy, kitchen maids.
Mouser, cat.’
“I don’t think any of those are enemies,” she said, “though Mistress Rowley says Mouser is not living up to his name and keeps disappearing.”
Eliza saw a spark of interest brighten her cousin’s face.
“I wonder where he goes?” said Lucy. And she wrote down:
‘Mouser – suspect.’
“Can we meet him?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Eliza. “And if we go now, Mistress Rowley might give us sweetmeats. I can smell baking.”
They hurried downstairs, taking their notes with them. The kitchen was a busy place, the fire hot, the table laden with pastry and stuffings and chopped meat, the maidservants scurrying around – all in honour of the visitors.
Mistress Rowley, her face rosy from the fire, curtseyed as she brushed floury hands on her apron.
“What a clever pair you are, with all your reading and writing!” she said, glancing at the notebook in Lucy’s hand. “But I expect you’d like a cinnamon bun each – same as any other little girls?”
“Yes, please!”
She handed them one each, and the girls were quiet as they enjoyed the warm, crumbly buns.
The black cat, Mouser, sidled into the kitchen.
“Now, where have you been, Mouser?” demanded Mistress Rowley. “Look at the cobwebs on his whiskers! He’s been on the prowl somewhere.”
The girls knelt to stroke him.
“He’s all dirty!” exclaimed Eliza, giggling. “My hand is black!”
“So is mine.”
Lucy got up and moved towards the corner that Mouser had emerged from – but Mistress Rowley stood in her way.
“No you don’t, young mistress – not in your silk gown and pretty slippers! That doorway leads to the storeroom and the coal hole.”
Lucy stepped back, and Eliza saw her examining her hands.
“Coal dust,” said Lucy.
“At least we have a coal store now, and don’t have to rent it,” Mistress Rowley said, turning back to her pastry-making. “There’s Mistress Bright across the way complaining that she’s lost hers since Master Whynniard let the big cellar to some gentleman or other. Though why any gentleman would need a cellar that size all to himself, goodness knows. Goes all the way under the House of Lords, that one does. There’s a door in our storeroom that used to connect to it. Well, now, young mistresses, I have work to do.”
She shooed them out.
Eliza and Lucy were not much interested in who rented the big cellar or where the entrances were – though back upstairs they made notes, as any good spy would. But then Eliza looked out of the window and said, “It’s stopped raining. We can go out this afternoon.”
3
A Stranger
“I must make a visit to the haberdasher’s and buy some sewing silks,” said Mistress Perks. “You girls can accompany me.”
Eliza wished she and Lucy could go out alone, but that would never be allowed. As young gentlewomen they were always accompanied and supervised.
The governess led them out through the cloisters to the open area of shops and market stalls. Here, all was noise and bustle. They saw squawking chickens hung up by their feet, a dairymaid leading a cow, women selling bread and fragrant herbs, an apothecary’s shop, and a milliner’s.
Eliza watched her cousin looking about, interested in everything.
“There are so many little shops!” Lucy exclaimed. “You are lucky to have them so close to home, Eliza.”
Some of the shops and houses were tiny, squeezed into corners. All the old buildings seemed to be joined at some point, with floors on different levels, and extra rooms and windows added bit by bit over hundreds of years.
“That hall up there is called the Prince’s Chamber,” Eliza told her cousin. “Father says they use it as a robing room for the Lords when they assemble.”
Beneath the Prince’s Chamber was a row of houses and shops.
As they turned to enter the haberdasher’s, a man came out of the house next door. His doublet was dirty, and he wore a battered high-crowned hat with the brim tilted to shade his face, but Eliza noticed his red-brown hair and beard and his bold gaze, and the way he held himself – straight and tall, like a soldier.
He is dressed as a working man, she thought, and yet he has the bearing of a gentleman.
The man saw Eliza looking at him and glared at her. He turned away swiftly, disappearing around the corner into Parliament Place.
Mistress Perks drew the girls with her into the shop.
As the governess hesitated over different coloured threads, Eliza whispered to Lucy, “Did you see that man?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Eliza shook her head.
“He looks like an enemy,” said Lucy.
* * *
“I can tell you who that is,” said Walter Bennett.
The girls had gone down to the kitchen in the hope of discovering more and had found Walter the handyman there, fixing a broken window catch.
“His name’s John Johnson,” Walter said, “and he’s a servant of Sir Thomas Percy that lives in Gray’s Inn Road. Johnson’s the new tenant at Master Whynniard’s house – moved there in the spring, so I heard.”
Eliza looked at Lucy who frowned, and riffled through the notes they had made after listening to Mistress Rowley. “Sir Thomas Percy? Is he the gentleman who is renting the big cellar?”
Walter Bennett looked at her in surprise. “Yes, that’ll be him! Seems you know as much as I do, almost. I heard this John Johnson is guarding a stock of fuel there for the gentleman. I saw him moving some firewood in a while ago.”
“Doesn’t Sir Thomas Percy have his own cellar at Gray’s Inn Road?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t know, mistress. You don’t ask questions of gentry, do you?”
“I do,” said Lucy. “But then my father is a lord.”
“Of course,” said the handyman, giving a little bow.
“Oh!” exclaimed Eliza. “Here comes Mouser!” She knelt to stroke the cat. “He’s all dusty again.”
As they went back upstairs, Lucy said, “We need to follow that cat. And John Johnson. They could be in league together.”
Eliza smiled. I like this game, she thought. And she remarked, “It will be difficult to get out on our own.”
Lucy agreed. “But my mother says that a lady can always find a way to do what she wants.”
4
Following John Johnson
They found a way the next morning, after church. All the time, while the congregation was gathering for the service, Eliza and Lucy whispered, twisting and turning to see who was coming in, till Eliza’s mother slapped her daughter’s hand and hissed, “Sit still and be quiet! You shame me!”
Eliza tried to obey. But then Lucy nudged her. “He’s here!” And Eliza risked a glance around the edge of the pew and saw the tall stranger, John Johnson, slipping into a seat at the back of the church. He took off his hat and lowered his head as if in silent prayer, but Eliza still felt sure that he was playing a part and was not what he seemed. Perhaps he is privately a Catholic, she thought, like my father. But there was something fierce and secretive about John Johnson that was not like her father at all. She pulled back quickly and lowered her own eyes.
When the service was over Eliza saw John Johnson leave the church ahead of most of the congregation.
“Watch where he goes!” whispered Lucy.
“I am!” Eliza tried to keep an eye on Johnson’s hat as he moved away through the crowd of people. She wanted to hurry after him – but, to her annoyance, the adults paused in the churchyard to talk. Eliza’s mother said she wished to go straight home, but the two men decided they would walk for a while.
Eliza and Lucy hopped about impatiently. They had lost John Johnson now.
“Father…” began Lucy.
And her father said, “Shall we take the girls?”
“That would be a kindness, cousin. Thank you,” said Eliza’s mother.
And to Eliza she whispered, “Now, be good, and behave like a lady. Let us hope the fresh air blows that unbecoming fidgetiness out of you.”
Then Eliza’s mother and her servants turned back towards home, and Eliza and Lucy were left
with their fathers.
The gentlemen led the way, strolling through the streets and down towards the river. They wanted to talk, and took little notice of the girls, who skipped along beside them, feeling the breeze on their faces and gazing out at all the boats coming and going on the river.
Their fathers spoke of the King’s return to London from a hunting expedition, and of the State Opening of Parliament which they would attend in two days’ time.
We’ll be able to watch the procession and see the King arrive, thought Eliza.
“Eliza!” whispered Lucy, catching her arm. “Look!”
John Johnson had reappeared. He had hailed one of the boats that ferried people to and fro across the river from Parliament Stairs to Lambeth. He was now on board, standing up straight and steady in the boat without a hint of a wobble as it moved out into the current.
So he was going to Lambeth. And the same thought came to both of them.
“If he’s away…”
“We could look around near that house he’s renting…”
But there was no chance to do so immediately, so they enjoyed scurrying along the muddy paths until they were pink-cheeked and untidy and the hems of their gowns were splashed with dirt.
* * *
“You are a pair of hoydens!” Eliza’s mother complained when they returned. “Go and find Cecily. She’ll comb your hair and re-pin it. Then you may both come and sew with me and read the Bible.”
But Eliza and Lucy wanted to go out before John Johnson came back across the river. And Cecily, Eliza’s nursemaid, was nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s go now,” said Eliza, surprising herself with her own daring. “If we’re quick, they won’t know.”
It took only moments to sneak out into the Sunday quiet of Westminster and make their way to the little house on the corner of Parliament Place.
Eliza felt both excited and frightened. Was this still a game of spies, she wondered, like the games they had played at Lucy’s home in Warwickshire? Mouser the cat had secrets, as cats do, and it would be fun to discover them. But John Johnson was different. There was something not right about him. Eliza felt sure he was in disguise, and that their game was on the brink of becoming real.