An Almond for a Parrot

by Dray Wray

  She waved my apology aside. ‘What do you wish for?’ she asked.

  It was such a surprising question that I didn’t have an answer ready. ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Do not waste a wish on nothing,’ she said as I looked at the entrance of the tent again. ‘What do you wish for?’

  I wasn’t in the mood for games. ‘Are you sure he won’t find me here?’ I asked.

  ‘Quite sure. Now tell me. I am curious to know: what does a young girl dressed as a boy wish for?’

  To stop her asking any more questions I said, ‘I wish to be my own mistress. But really, I cannot concentrate on this – I think I am in danger.’

  She looked at my palm again. ‘You are Mr Crease’s apprentice,’ she said.

  That took my breath away. ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  She laughed. ‘Do you not recognise me, young lady?’ She placed the wig on her head.

  ‘Mrs Coker!’ I said, amazed. ‘I never supposed my elocution teacher to be an actress.’

  ‘And I never supposed I’d see my pupil dressed as a boy. We have managed to surprise one another. Come now, play the game. I will grant you your wish. It will help you make your fortune.’

  ‘But I haven’t wished for anything.’

  ‘You have been wishing since the day you were born. A pearl hand is what I will give you.’

  ‘What’s a pearl hand?’ I asked, my eyes still on the tent flap.

  ‘If you do not find out for yourself, come and see me again,’ she said, ‘and I will tell you.’ With that she turned her attention to the mirror and powdered her nose. ‘Beware of Captain Spiggot, for he is no friend of yours.’

  ‘I don’t know any such captain,’ I said.

  ‘You will do,’ she said.

  A dwarf wearing a jester’s cap entered the tent.

  Mrs Coker stood up as tall as I remembered her. Somewhere outside a band began to play. The dwarf preceded her through a flap at the far end of the tent and up steps that led to a stage.

  Mrs Coker whispered, ‘Now, go home as quickly as you can.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pike in the Form of a Dolphin

  When the fish is gutted and scalded make a few incisions on the back and sides; rub it over with salt and coarse pepper, marinate it in oil with parsley, shallots, one clove of garlic, and two laurel leaves. Tie it on a skewer in the form of a dolphin, bake it in the oven, basting now and then with some of the marinade. When done, drain it off and serve with whatever sauce you please.

  I pushed a little way through the crowd but then glanced back as the dwarf banged a drum to silence the audience. He announced that the play they were about to see was called The Fairy Godmother’s Wish and the leading role was to be performed by Mrs Coker. Instead of going home as quickly as I could, I stood there as if hammered into the ground and watched as Mrs Coker slowly floated into the air.

  ‘It’s not very polite to run away without a thank you.’

  The gentleman from the blue chamber was suddenly beside me and had hold of my wrist.

  ‘Sir, let go,’ I said, trying to pull free. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  He wasn’t losing me a second time. Desperately I looked around, hoping that Pretty Poppet might once more come to my rescue, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘A lovers’ tiff,’ said someone in the crowd.

  ‘No,’ I said and before I could say a word more the wretch had picked me up and thrown me over his shoulder as if I were a sack of corn. This tickled the onlookers no end.

  ‘Taking her to the Piepowder Court?’ said one man. ‘Let the magistrate decide your case.’

  ‘Out of my way,’ said the gentleman. ‘I need no judge – I know the verdict in this case. The only way to deal with women is to give them a good hiding.’

  He slapped me hard on the backside. My outrage was great as was my embarrassment at finding myself thrown over his shoulder and hanging upside down. The only view I had was of the muddy ground below me and the sight of shoes, boots and slippers that parted in twos to let us through.

  ‘Help me,’ I called out above the din of the fair. ‘I’m being kidnapped. Please help me.’

  No one took any notice of my predicament and all the while the gentleman held me maddeningly fast with one hand and with the other greeted all the ladies he passed, wishing them a good day with a great flourish of his hat.

  For all my screaming I was royally ignored. We pushed against the sea of people who found the sight of me being carried upside down most amusing, as if we were a part of the entertainment. This scoundrel, whoever he was, knew where he was taking me. For all his swagger, he walked with a purpose. I caught a glimpse of carriage wheels and thought the game was up.

  The carriage door opened and from within the voice of a young gentleman said to my abductor, ‘What detained you?’

  ‘She is a wanton baggage this one,’ he said, trying to throw me onto the carriage floor. The man inside did his best to take hold of me but I had no intention of giving in so easily. I kicked and punched and fought like a she-cat, roaring at the top of my voice.

  I was half in the coach, half out when the young gentleman said sharply, ‘Keep quiet, you little whore,’ and hit me hard across the face with his leather-gloved hand.

  The gentleman who had carried me there said, ‘Deal with her – we don’t have time for this nonsense.’

  It was then I heard Mr Crease’s voice.

  ‘Put her down,’ he said.

  Mr Crease was pointing a pistol at the gentleman inside the coach. He instantly let go of me and slammed the carriage door.

  ‘Just bit of harmless fun – chasing a whore round the fair,’ said the gentleman from the blue chamber.

  There was a snorting of horses and before anyone could think to stop it the carriage began to move away. Seeing his means of escape fast disappearing, my abductor dropped me unceremoniously onto the muddy ground and vanished into the crowd.

  I arrived at the fairy house decidedly giddy with all that had befallen me. Mr Crease left me to Hope’s care.

  She, seeing the state of me, covered with mud and worse, said, ‘Oh, Tully, we have had a morning of such anxiety.’ She backed away for I was no nosegay. ‘There were reports that you too had been murdered.’

  ‘“Too”?’ I said in a stew of confusion. ‘What do you mean by “too?”’

  ‘All that matters is that you are home safe,’ said Hope.

  ‘Home’ is a word that had never held any meaning for me. Milk Street was more a prison than anything. How strange that the fairy house should feel like home.

  ‘Home,’ I repeated for the novelty of it.

  Hope put her clean white hand on my mud-caked face. ‘That eye is going to be a very pretty picture unless something is done.’ She rang a bell and told the footman to bring up a steak.

  ‘I can’t eat, not now,’ I said.

  ‘No, you ninny-not – it’s to go on your eye. It will make the bruising go down.’

  Mercy brought the steak. She swore she would dash the brains out of the villains who had done this to me. Hope calmly suggested that before anyone bashed anyone’s brains out, I should have a bath and rest.

  A bath was most necessary but, as for the rest, I felt there was no need. I wanted to tell Hope and Mercy what had happened but after the bath I was exhausted and, reluctantly lay down. Hope, with all the care of a nurse, placed the steak on my eye and to my astonishment I slept the best part of the day.

  I woke at dusk, washed my face and dressed myself. Downstairs all seemed very quiet but then I heard raised voices coming from the rookery. I nervously knocked on the door.

  A few minutes went by and I was on the point of leaving when the door flew open.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Crease, ‘come in. I was about to send a servant to fetch you.’

  Queenie kissed me and said, ‘I could not have lived with myself if anything had happened to you.’ She took me to the light to examine my face and I saw there
were tears in her eyes. ‘This will never do. You must see Doctor Ross.’

  She rang a bell and gave instructions to the footman for the doctor to be sent for.

  ‘It’s not at all necessary,’ I said. ‘The steak improved it mightily.’ But neither Queenie nor Mr Crease were remotely interested in the healing powers of steak. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you all.’

  I was far from used to being the centre of their attention.

  Mr Crease was standing in front of the unlit fire staring at me. ‘Was it he?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Was it the gentleman who called on your father the day of the wedding?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, disgusted at my earlier passion for him.

  ‘Had you ever seen him before that day?’

  ‘No – never.’

  ‘Have you heard of the name Spiggot?’ asked Queenie. ‘Captain Ralph Spiggot?’

  ‘Only today when I hid in Mrs Coker’s tent. She read my palm and told me to beware of Captain Spiggot. I haven’t a fig of an idea who he is. Why do you ask?’ I didn’t like the silence that followed and had a sudden thought. Perhaps Mrs Coker was another shadow? ‘Please don’t tell me Mrs Coker is dead and I saw her ghost?’

  ‘No, you saw no ghost,’ said Mr Crease. ‘I heard that Mrs Coker was at the fair this year, performing as the fairy godmother.’

  ‘What is all this about?’ I asked.

  I wanted to say ‘nonsense’ – what is all this nonsense about? But Mr Crease had his painted eyes firmly fixed upon my face. I felt unsteady and my complexion turned bright red. Queenie took my hands.

  ‘You must be brave, Tully,’ she said. ‘I received some terrible news this morning – quite shocking. Mr Truegood has been murdered at the Fleet Prison.’

  Perhaps a cow could jump over the moon after all. The idea of Mr Truegood being murdered was just as inconceivable.

  ‘Wh…why?’ was all I could stutter.

  ‘A good question,’ said Mr Crease. ‘There was nothing of value left to steal. Mr Truegood had only some papers.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Yesterday. The turnkey found him with his throat slit at about six in the evening.’

  I was too stunned to speak.

  ‘It seems that the last person to see Mr Truegood alive – apart from his murderer – was Martha,’ said Queenie.

  ‘His cook,’ said Mr Crease, as if I might have forgotten that Cook had a name.

  ‘Where is Cook now?’ I asked.

  ‘She has disappeared,’ said Queenie. She paused then continued. ‘Before I left Milk Street, Crease and I tried to find out who you had been married to. Mr Truegood told me it was his business and his business alone. I was furious that your prospects had been so recklessly thrown away. I demanded to know the name of your husband so that a court might free you – after all, the marriage has not been consummated.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘and it never will be.’

  Queenie handed me a piece of paper. ‘This was found among Mr Truegood’s papers.’

  The script was elaborate, as if written by a spider with quills for legs.

  Dear Mr Truegood,

  Please forgive the abrupt nature of this letter. I have been in the navy too long and, deprived of the finer manners of polite society, become more accustomed to a Man-of-War than the drawing room.

  Let me come straight to the point. I have long felt that it is nothing short of my duty to discover the name of my bride that my uncle in his undoubted wisdom had me married to when I was sixteen and she a child of twelve years. She being too young and too innocent to take up the duties of a wife it was thought expedient that I should make my way in the world and then return to claim my prize. My uncle, alas, becoming ill and his mind unmoored from reason, shortly before his death held a bonfire of all his correspondence and documents, including those relating to my marriage.

  I recently have returned to England with the sole purpose of finding my bride and with the help of my associate, Mr Victor Wrattan, I have had some modicum of success. I now believe that your daughter, Miss Truegood, is the young woman I have the honour to call my wife.

  I would dearly like the opportunity to meet with you and discuss the matter as I am sure that you are loath to part with a beloved child and I am equally loath…

  ‘This is utter tosh,’ I said, my insides tumbling. ‘Surely this man cannot really be my husband?’

  ‘Read on,’ said Mr Crease.

  . . . equally loath that she should be deprived of the role for which she was educated. To that end an amicable agreement which is beneficial to both of us can be reached. I assure you, sir, that I have no desire to have the marriage dissolved.

  I am, sir, your humble servant,

  Captain Ralph Spiggot

  I was so stunned that I stared at the name until the spidery writing wobbled off the page.

  ‘He can’t be,’ I said. ‘He can’t be the despicable man who tried to kidnap me at the fair.’

  ‘The gentleman you first met at Milk Street? No, that was Victor Wrattan,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Mofty’s husband.’

  The horror of it slowly dawned on me.

  ‘You mean… the young gentleman in the carriage – who slapped me across the face and called me a whore – he is my husband?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Newgate Prison

  ‘You are to be moved,’ Hope said, when she next came to visit.

  ‘You look better,’ I told her.

  ‘You, my ninny-not, look ill.’

  ‘I am troublingly tired.’

  Hope busied herself round the ridiculously small cell as if it were full of furniture, and clothes that needed packing, when there was was just a bed, a table and a pile of ribbon-tied paper.

  ‘Moved where?’ I asked.

  ‘To the prison governor’s house. There, you will be better looked after.’

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. To my surprise, Hope joined in.

  ‘Is this the Duke of H’s doing?’ I asked, for I could think of few others who would have the power and money to buy me out of this cell.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘And it’s not Queenie’s either.’

  ‘Then who? Is it Avery? Tell me, please. Have you heard anything of him?’

  ‘No, not a word,’ she said, adding quickly, ‘It was Sir Henry Slater. It is surprising how much influence he has in unexpected quarters. And you will be glad to know that Mercy is improving. That at least is one grain of good news.’

  ‘Yes. But still nothing from Avery?’

  ‘Leave it, Tully. Pining for him will do you no good.’

  She asked if she could take the manuscript. I had finished writing the first act of my story over a week ago. Now, I cannot write. Not by choice but because I have used all the paper and ink. I worry that I have hidden the truth of myself in the shade of naivety – not that it would matter as long as I was able to write more.

  ‘I have something else to tell you – a solicitor will be coming to see you tomorrow, a Mr Attaway.’

  ‘He was Lord B’s solicitor. Why does he want to see me?’

  ‘He will take over your case and make sure you have a good defence lawyer.’

  ‘There’s nothing to defend,’ I said. ‘I told the coroner that I shot Spiggot. I have no doubt that I will be found guilty.’

  ‘Tully,’ said Hope, ‘only you can save yourself. I strongly advise you to choose to fight – to live.’

  ‘Sadly, Justice, that dear, blind lady, might not give me the option,’ I said.

  Only when she had left did I realise she’d taken the manuscript. An Almond for a Parrot.

  The walls in my cell chatter. It is filled with more voices than there are bricks – previous occupants muttering crumpled prayers to a God they’ve only just remembered.

  That evening the jailer came, not with my dinner but to tell me I was to be moved on account of my pleading the belly.

  ‘There are all sorts of stories about you,’ he said,
rubbing his hands on the sides of his trousers. ‘They say you have a pearl hand that knows well how to rub a man’s cock.’

  I knew where this was taking him – I could see by the bulge in his trousers. He closed the cell door and undid himself. His hard weapon sprang, loaded, ready to shoot. I doubted that it had given any woman much pleasure.

  ‘Now, I was thinking,’ he said, ‘because I’m a thinking kind of man…’

  ‘And with what do you think – your head or your lobcock?’ I asked.

  ‘You do me a little favour and show me this pearl hand of yours, and, in return, I will bring you some nice, pretty things – things you’d like.’

  I felt a wave of nausea as he grabbed hold of my hand – the wrong hand – and put it over his weapon.

  The image of Mr Truegood came to me and suddenly the jailer leapt back to the cell door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he shouted.

  Mr Truegood had, for once, made a welcome appearance. True to his nature, true to his character, he had arrived with all his gore. He was never one to wear the scars of martyrdom lightly. He stood in the corner of the cell weeping. Not for me, for himself and for the injustice of all the ill fortune of his life.

  The sight of the ghost withered the jailer at both ends.

  ‘You’re a bloody witch,’ he said, his face white. ‘A witch, that’s what you are.’

  He slammed the cell door behind him and turned the key. Two constables moved me to the prison governor’s house.

  The governor looked shocked to see the state of me. Perhaps he imagined I would be dressed in all my finery and able to entertain him with illicit stories and sexual scandals. I had been so long without a bath or anything that would own the name of gown or shift that I must have seemed a wild creature indeed. Nevertheless, I was taken upstairs and, to my surprise, there was water to wash with. The clothes laid out for me were not of scratchy fabric but of soft cotton. And that evening the meal was edible. For the first time I slept and dreamed.

  In the morning a box arrived containing paper and ink. There was no one to ask who had brought it.