Den of Thieves

I paused. Could I really go? I’d said it a few times but could I bear to watch him and Lizzie starting their married life together? I loved them both: wouldn’t it sour all that if I tagged along, an unwanted third in their nest?

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If I go to America, it’ll be because I want to, not because Billy Shepherd has driven me away.’ The words surprised me but as I said them I knew I meant it. ‘I’ll get the better of him, just you wait and see.’

  Johnny refrained from commenting. We had more immediate problems to worry about than Shepherd but we would return to the subject later, I had no doubt.

  The coach clattered to a halt. Johnny poked his head out of the window.

  ‘Here we are. Now let’s see if I can talk our way in. I suggest you remain silent.’ He’d clearly forgotten what I was like if he thought I was going to leave so important a matter to him. ‘I’ll tell them you’re my sister if anyone asks.’

  I looked up at the building looming in front of us. It was nothing like I expected: this wasn’t a prison, it was a palace – many storeys high with a steeply pitched roof outlined against the night sky and two towers facing the river. Faint lights glimmered in the windows. Only the heavily armed guards and frequent patrols across the forecourt signalled the building’s more sinister use.

  ‘Do you think you can get us in?’ I asked. The Conciergerie gave me the creeps – all that fine stonework used to imprison people. I preferred my gaols to declare their purpose straight out, show themselves to be brutal and ugly, like Newgate.

  Johnny scratched his chin thoughtfully. If he had been a cracksman, I’d swear he was looking for a way to break into the place. ‘Well, I have a vague diplomatic status as I’m attached to the American delegation. They might let us in on the strength of that.’

  I’d forgotten how innocent he was to the ways of the world.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Johnny. Haven’t you learnt anything yet? Papers will help to get you in the front door, but you’ll have to bribe them.’

  He patted his pocket. ‘I’ve come prepared.’

  ‘But it seems to me that we also need a good story.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Look, why don’t you tell them that I’m a friend of Lizzie – that I’ve been badgering you witless all day to bring me here so I can see for myself that she is all right.’ I tapped the basket of food we had brought with us. ‘I insisted on bringing her something to eat as she’s only just recovered from . . . from the flu. Tell them she’s delicate – they don’t want their star prisoners to fall ill on them, do they?’

  Johnny nodded to show he’d got all that and offered me his arm.

  ‘I’ll play it young and innocent,’ I whispered, continuing with my stage directions. ‘Don’t forget, we must look as if we think we have every right to be here – don’t let them see our doubt.’

  We approached the sentry on duty.

  ‘Yes, monsieur?’ the guard said coldly.

  ‘We would like to see the prison governor, if it is not too much trouble,’ said Johnny politely.

  The man frowned. ‘He’s busy.’

  I trod on Johnny’s toe. ‘Demand,’ I hissed.

  Johnny cleared his throat. ‘Not too busy to see me, I’m sure. I demand to see him.’ He thrust his papers at the guard – a good move for I doubted the man could read.

  The guard’s expression changed as he saw the official seals at the bottom. ‘Follow me,’ he grunted.

  We crossed the courtyard and were shown into a dimly lit office. A corpulent man was sitting at the desk with his feet up, chin on his chest as he snoozed. Busy indeed!

  ‘Monsieur le Concierge!’ barked the guard in a voice designed to carry across a parade ground.

  The governor sat up with a jerk, dislodging a stack of papers so that they crashed to the floor.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Johnny, bowing.

  ‘Sacré bleu?,’ asked the governor, his chubby face flushed. He stood up and straightened his rumpled uniform.

  ‘I apologize for disturbing you. I will not keep you long. I’m with the American delegation to Paris.’ Johnny presented his papers with a flourish.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re with the Archbishop of Paris. What are you doing here?’

  The governor’s eyes slid to me. I curtseyed and then smiled what I hope was my most charming smile, hiding behind Johnny as if shy. I tugged his jacket, like a child trying to get her parent’s attention. My friend leant over and I whispered in his ear. Johnny stood up straight.

  ‘Sorry about that, monsieur. My sister here was just asking me if you were a general. She said she’d never seen so impressive a man before.’

  The governor smiled despite himself.

  ‘No, no, I’m not a general, mademoiselle. Just a humble steward – the Concierge of the Conciergerie.’ He came round the table and handed me into a chair. ‘Now, what was I asking? Oh yes, would you please state your business?’

  ‘It concerns a prisoner who was brought here today,’ said Johnny.

  The governor stiffened.

  ‘Are you a family man, sir?’ Johnny asked quickly. ‘Maybe you have daughters? If you do, you’ll know what loyal friends little girls are to each other. My sister here is a close companion of the English girl who was brought here this morning. She gave me no rest until we came here to see that Lady Elizabeth was well looked after.’

  ‘But meeting you, sir, I’m sure she must be,’ I lisped, looking up at the man with wide, trusting eyes.

  ‘According to my sister, her friend has been ill and Catherine fears she’ll have a relapse without proper food and warm clothes. We took the liberty of packing a basket and wondered if we could be granted a few moments to take it to her.’

  I presented the basket with another curtsey (thank goodness for my ballet lessons – at least now I could pretend to be elegant), lifting the cloth to show its contents.’

  ‘Catherine’s really devoted to Lady Elizabeth. It would mean everything to her if you’d let her see her friend.’

  ‘Well.’ The governor scratched his chin, looking down at me. Poking a finger in my eye, I raised a tear-filled gaze to him and let one droplet escape – I hadn’t lived all those years among actresses without learning a trick or two. ‘I’m ordered to keep the prisoners isolated until they’ve been questioned, but I suppose I could make an exception. It’s not as if the little girl is an English spy or anything!’ he joked.

  ‘Then we can see her?’ asked Johnny eagerly.

  ‘Not you, monsieur – I cannot bend the rules that far. No, just the little one. I’ll send for a guard to take her up.’

  Johnny hid his disappointment. ‘Thank you, monsieur. You are very kind.’

  My escort took me into the prison by a side entrance. We emerged into a huge vaulted chamber with four fireplaces, one on each wall. I did not need a history lesson to know that this room must date from many centuries before our modern age. Whatever noble use it had once, however, had been superseded by present requirements. The stone floor was muddied by the continual passage of boots; the sconces hosted cheap tallow candles, staining the ceiling with smudgy soot marks.

  The guard led me from this vast chamber into the maze of passages where the prisoners lived. The lower floors were occupied by the poor who slept on straw like beasts, three or more to a cell. One man gazed at me hopefully through the bars on the door, hand outstretched as I passed.

  ‘Mademoiselle, for the love of Saint Geneviève, have pity!’

  I looked down at my feet, embarrassed that I could offer no relief. The guard batted the man’s arms away with his rifle butt. We mounted a stone staircase. The upper floors had been given over to those who could afford to pay for the privilege of a private room, bed and furniture. Though it was night, it was still stuffy and airless up there; it must have felt like an oven during the summer day. You could not ignore the smell of too many bodies cramped together with no other sanitary arrangements than a bucket. Lizzie wasn’t built to withstand these conditions. We had to g
et her out quickly.

  ‘Voilà, mademoiselle,’ said the guard, pausing outside a door on his left. A sheet had been tacked to it, listing the occupants – the duke, duchess and Lizzie. ‘Monsieur the Concierge said to give you fifteen minutes. I will wait outside.’ He passed me a lantern.

  ‘Merci.’ I bobbed him a curtsey and waited for him to unlock and let me in. The door shut smartly behind me and the key turned.

  ‘Who is it? What do you want?’ demanded the duke. It was very dark in the cell and the light I was carrying must have blinded them for an instant.

  ‘Your grace, it’s only me – Catherine Royal.’

  ‘Cat!’ Lizzie leapt from her bed and threw herself on me. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were even in Paris.’

  ‘My dear!’ The duchess enfolded me in a hug. ‘Don’t say they’ve locked you up too?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not my turn this time,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No, Johnny brought me.’

  ‘He’s here?’ Lizzie looked over my shoulder, expecting to see him at the door.

  ‘Yes, but he wasn’t allowed to see you. I’m not supposed to be here either but I convinced the governor I wouldn’t sleep without visiting you. He seems to think I’m about five, the way he’s treating me.’

  Lizzie took the lantern and placed it on a table. ‘I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, did you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, eyes round and innocent.

  The duke stepped forward, took my hand and said in a whisper, ‘We are very glad to see you, Miss Royal, but you should know that it is dangerous for you. If they arrested us, they must think any foreigner is under suspicion. You’re not safe.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, your grace. Don’t worry about me. Is there anything you need? I’ve got a basket here with some basic supplies.’

  ‘Thank you. That is very thoughtful.’ The duke sighed and moved back to the tiny window that let in only a faint breath of air. ‘I can hardly believe this has happened to us. I thought my rank . . . well, it seems not. I assume that your friend downstairs has alerted the English representative?’

  ‘Yes, sir – and I wrote to Mr Sheridan. I’m sure you won’t be kept here long. They’ll find out that it was all a mistake.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The duke sounded sceptical.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Lizzie led me to a seat beside her on the bed. ‘We only wish we knew what our cousin, the Comte de Plessis, has been up to the last few days. He did take delivery of a large carriage the day before yesterday in our name – he said it was for touring, but it appears this was not the case.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And he is a close friend of Count Fersen.’

  Fersen? The name was familiar. Where had I heard it before?

  ‘From what we can gather, Count Fersen is a particular friend of the queen and was involved in arranging their departure. The carriage was used by the royal family in their escape.’

  ‘I see.’ This didn’t look good for anyone who’d been within a mile of that coach. ‘It sounds as if you need a lawyer.’

  ‘Correct, Miss Royal,’ interjected the duke. ‘Would you ask Lord Jonathan to arrange one?’

  ‘You should call him just Mr Fitzroy, your grace. It’s better if the people here think he’s American. I’ll ask him right away.’

  There was a lull in the conversation and I had a chance to observe my friends more closely. Lizzie was pale, but otherwise calm. The duke’s nose was swollen and there was blood on his shirt front. The duchess had a distinctly rumpled look, with bruises on her wrists. It looked as if she had not adapted well to the indignity of imprisonment. Perhaps a few words of advice might not come amiss? After all, I’d been in their shoes once.

  ‘Have you thought, your grace,’ I began tentatively to the duchess, ‘that they may treat you better if they understood that you are not really a – forgive the term – a stuck-up aristocrat?’

  The duchess turned her imperious eyes to me. ‘I have laboured for years to be treated with respect. I thought you of all people would understand that.’

  ‘I do understand, but this isn’t England. As I learnt today, they look on rank very differently here.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? Renounce the title I assumed on marriage?’ She was bristling with indignation.

  ‘Of course not. I just thought that maybe you . . . you could sing for them, you know.’

  The duchess had met her husband some twenty years ago when she was plain Maria Rivers, an ordinary girl whose talent earned her the title ‘The Bristol Nightingale’ and made her a star of the London stage.

  ‘Sing?’ said the duchess coldly. If looks could kill, I would be in my coffin.

  ‘It’s just a suggestion, but I think they’d feel more favourable towards you all if they knew that your husband had the good judgement to marry a commoner. At the moment, they’re just convinced you’re like all the other blood-sucking aristocrats – saving your grace’s presence,’ I added quickly, casting an apologetic look at the duke.

  ‘Well! Of all the –’ muttered the duchess.

  ‘Listen to Cat, Mama,’ Lizzie interrupted. ‘I think she’s right. Since you hit those two guards this morning they’ve given us the worst possible food and denied us even a candle. It can’t do any harm, can it, if you were to try to charm them?’

  The duke went to his wife and kissed her hand. ‘You certainly charmed me, my dove, when I first heard you.’

  The duchess touched his cheek gently, biting her lip as she saw his battered nose. ‘Perhaps you would have been better off with a true lady, Sam – someone who wouldn’t have done that to you.’

  ‘Rubbish, my darling. I chose you and have never known a moment’s regret. All I ask is that you listen to Miss Royal and Lizzie.’

  I could hear shuffling outside the door – my time was almost up. ‘Sing now. They’re bound to ask me where you learned to do that and I can tell them.’

  The duchess smiled sadly. ‘My first concert in twenty years – a prison in Paris.’ She stood up and composed herself. ‘Well, I think a lullaby would be appropriate for our little visitor here.’

  Taking a deep breath, she began. I had never heard her sing and, even though it had been my suggestion, I was taken aback by the richness of her voice – it poured from her, banishing the dingy cell. At that moment, we could have been anywhere. The key turned in the lock and the guard stood transfixed on the threshold. He had been expecting the virago who had assaulted his colleagues earlier. Now he found an angel.

  When the duchess finished, we were all silent.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said the duke hoarsely. ‘It is too long since I last heard you sing – I had almost forgotten.’ His eyes were shining – I could see that he was falling in love with his wife all over again.

  Lizzie gave her mother a hug.

  ‘That was beautiful, your grace,’ I said, an eye on the guard. ‘Thank you. I’ll sleep better tonight for hearing you sing.’

  The guard gave me a nod. As I rose to go, I remembered I had forgotten to give them a vital piece of news, but I could not risk my escort understanding English. ‘Oh, the chimney sweep from Syd’s gang is here too,’ I said airily, kissing Lizzie on the cheek. She gave a gasp. ‘He’s staying with new friends. Big Jo’s looking after him. Goodbye.’

  And leaving Lizzie to explain my cryptic remarks, I followed the guard out of the cell.

  * For humiliating experience of the Bow Street lock-up, see The Diamond of Drury Lane.

  SCENE 2 – PALAIS ROYAL

  Johnny dropped me back at my lodgings with a promise to call for me the next day. I crept in, anxious not to disturb any of the dancers as I had no desire to answer questions as to where I had been all evening. I have to admit, Reader, that I was shaken. To see one of the highest noblemen in England locked up, with so little ceremony, challenged the world I knew. France had turned everything on its head – peers in prison, kings in flight and the common people
left to sort things out as best they could. I had thought the revolution a tame beast as the old regime rolled over to do the bidding of the masses, but now it seemed the creature had teeth and would savage anyone who stood in its way. I had not forgotten that I had almost been hanged from a lamp post today over a bit of ribbon; I hoped Lizzie and her family would not meet with so rough a judge as I.

  ‘Psst! Mademoiselle Firecracker!’ Renard put his head round the kitchen door. ‘You have some visitors.’

  Who could they be at this hour? I wondered. Messengers from Frank perhaps?

  ‘Thank you, monsieur. Where are they?’

  He jerked his head inside the kitchen. I followed him and found an ill-matched gathering. On one side of the table, looking very much at his ease with his legs crossed and a slice of bacon in his hand, was J-F. Perched on a stool opposite him was a smartly dressed figure, violin case clutched on his knees.

  So Pedro had already worked out that these two rogues would steal anything they could lay their hands on.

  I rushed to Pedro and gave him a hug. ‘It’s so good to see you! When did you arrive?’

  ‘Only today. We stopped in Chartres to give some concerts. Signor Angelini has taken lodgings not far from here. I saw Madame Beaufort at the Opera this evening – she told me where you were.’

  J-F gave an annoyed cough at being ignored and excluded from a conversation carried out in a foreign language. Remembering how much we were relying on his goodwill, I bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘Monsieur le Roi, may I present my good friend, Pedro Amakye?’

  If Pedro was surprised to find I was acquainted with the little thief he did not show it. He stood and bowed.

  ‘He is a friend of yours?’ J-F asked suspiciously.

  ‘Indeed, monsieur.’

  ‘To whom does he belong?’

  ‘I don’t belong to anyone,’ Pedro declared proudly. His French was rudimentary, but he understood the gist of what we were saying.

  ‘Freeman or a runaway?’ asked Renard shrewdly. I could see him swiftly calculating the bounty for returning Pedro to his master.