He raised his hands to applaud. But just as he did so, someone threw something from the right-hand box where, up to now, only shapes had moved in the shadows. A piece of orange peel hit the kneeling youth in the forehead. He jerked back, his mouth opening and closing. Someone laughed, then someone else and, very distinctly, Jack heard one word emerge from the box.
‘Now.’
Lady Jane, in a harsh whisper, said, ‘A claque, John. It seems your enemies have found you.’
Jack had been around enough with his mother to recognize the term. Theatre, like cricket, drew partisan support and one player succeeding meant less acclaim for another. There were two other new playwrights on that night’s bill aside from the more established Lady Jane. One of those novitiate’s patrons – for as in cricket, nobles sponsored their favourites – had organized a claque to ruin Burgoyne’s debut. The peel chucker opposite, no doubt.
One of the youths on stage – an especially pimply-faced, unkempt fellow – had obviously taken the thrown peel as a signal. ‘I’ve paid a florin for this,’ he shouted, ‘And it’s not worth a farthing.’ One of his hands was thrust out toward the audience in appeal, the other was engaged in trying to reach under the dress of the actress who, frozen by the interruption, now thawed to slap the hand away.
A few in the audience concurred, hooting their derision, while several others yelled, ‘Sit down, ye dog!’
Burgoyne, who’d risen, looked as if he were about to climb up and intervene. Yet it was Jack, with the alacrity of youth, who beat him to it. Perhaps it was that a friend of his mother’s was being gravely insulted; perhaps the ale working within him; or perhaps the feeling that it was his Clothilde under threat by the groping drunk. Whatever it was, Jack was on the stage in a moment.
‘Hello, cocky,’ he said, advancing to the youth and seizing his arm, ‘fancy a spin?’ He grabbed, pulled the fellow tight to him. He was slighter than Jack, for all the peacock puffery of his clothes.
‘Unhand me, sir,’ cried the youth, trying to slip from the hold. ‘What the Devil are you about?’
‘This,’ said Jack. Dipping the fellow towards the musicians, he said, ‘Strike me up a jig.’ Though startled, they did, Jack taking the man’s feet entirely off the stage and three-stepping him over to the wings. Burgoyne meantime had begun to clap in rhythm, as did Jane, and soon almost the entire audience had joined in, drowning out the appeal of the second youth who yet attempted to disrupt the play. Out of sight, against the wall of the theatre, Jack still held the squirming bravo in his grip. ‘Now you …’ he whispered. ‘Behave!’ And on the word he tapped him with some force, forehead to nose. Not enough to break, just enough to bring water to the eyes. He released him and turned back to the stage where the other was now waving at the clapping audience, trying to command silence. When it wouldn’t come, and Jack approached, he hung his head and darted to the opposite wings.
The clapping changed at the song’s end into pure applause, the players took up their positions to recommence and Jack slipped down the side of the stage and retook his place on the bench, several backslaps accompanying his journey.
‘A hero, your Jack,’ said Burgoyne to Lady Jane, seizing Jack’s hand and pumping it, ‘and every inch his father’s son.’ Turning, he said, ‘I am in your debt, lad, and will consider myself under obligation until I can repay it.’
‘T’was, nothing, sir. I … I was enjoying your piece, is all, and …’
‘Well, you have gained a friend by it. And, I fear, an enemy.’ Burgoyne nodded at the box opposite. ‘I wonder who the leader of their claque is. If only he’d emerge from the damn shado … oh. Oh, of course. Well, it seems my noble Lord’s dislike of my politics now extends to my plays.’
Jack turned now to see of whom he was speaking. The man in the shadows of the box had indeed leaned forward but he wasn’t looking at Burgoyne, he was looking at Jack. And as he met Lord Melbury’s gaze, for the second time in a day, he saw His Lordship mouth, quite distinctly, three words:
‘You. Are. Dead.’
– EIGHT –
Last Rites
If his mother was surprised when he bolted at the very climax of her play, in the moment before the applause, she did not have time to show it. A squeeze of her shoulder, on the word, ‘Excellent,’ the barest touch of Burgoyne’s hand and he was gone. In the crowds beginning to disgorge from the Assembly Rooms there was the shelter of the herd. For it was now obvious – Lord Melbury was having him followed. Those eyes he’d felt on his back all night, the warning from Harris; men had been hired to dog him down some Soho alley, to thrash him … or worse. His Lordship’s mouthed words could not have been clearer.
Jack was not sure what to do. The only true refuge lay at his school or his home. His boarding house was not expecting him, he and the other Mohocks having contrived a simultaneous two-night exeunt for a variety of reasons, medical, educational, familial. He could return there early; but Mrs Porten’s door was hardly stout and the old retainers unequal to any tough of Melbury’s. He could go home, sneaking in the back way again. But the sneaking irked, while his father’s company and accompanying lectures held little appeal. Besides, there was the Initiation to consider, rites yet unfulfilled, rendezvous to keep. How could he let down his friends?
Fuck Lord Melbury, thought Jack, as he elbowed his way to the entrance. He’d wager he knew the shadowy recesses of Soho better than most. Ever since his father had ordered him there for French classes, Jack had delighted in exploring the maze of alleys and courts. He’d lose any pursuit within it and bide till he could fulfil his mission.
Refuge was found in a hedge tavern, that lowest form of alehouse. There was one that delighted him in Meards Court, where the top floors were a brothel, as indicated by the spread fan above the door, while in the warren of rooms below an illegal still provided powerful spirits to any who craved them. Jack found a suitably dark corner and ordered only ale from a serving wench who desired to offer him much, much more and continued to renew and expand her offers each time she fetched him another tankard.
Politely refusing everything save beer, Jack bided the hour necessary for any pursuit to have been given up. True to his vow, he was moderate in consumption, choosing only porter. Thus he was surprised when he stood up to stagger a little. Must be the smoke, Jack mused, as he pushed his way to the door through clouds of it. He was not a pipeman himself, the inhalation affecting him in a disagreeable way liquor did not. He found the smoke also caused his eyes to misglance for as he moved through the second room he was almost sure he saw again that fellow in the pink jacket who’d snored in the snug at the Shakespeare’s Head. But as he stepped forward to verify, one of the Cats rose from a table and entwined him in her arms. By the time he’d disengaged and gained the street, the figure had disappeared.
St Anne’s Court was but a short stumble along Wardour Street but Jack’s progress was slow down a thoroughfare crowded with revellers, swaying from tavern to coffee house. Vendors competed, with both their shouts and the scents rising from their barrows and trays, and Jack, suddenly realizing that he’d eaten little beyond the bowl of turtle soup, became instantly famished. A hot pudding man offered one for one-and-sixpence but two for half-a-crown, and Jack took the bargain. The first disappeared in an ecstasy of shovelling fingers, the second was wrapped in a broadside, the subject of which Jack saw to be a highwayman’s execution the month before. Tucking it carefully into his satchel – the man had assured him it was near all meat and would not leak – a much fortified Jack moved up the street, certain that no one could have followed him from the hedge tavern, the crowds being too extensive.
His sanguinity lasted until the moment he turned into St Anne’s Court. Whereas on the main thoroughfare at least one in every five householders had observed his civic duty and placed a lamp above his doorway, the denizens of this court had no such scruples, their activities perhaps requiring less light. One lamp spluttered on its last oil at the Wardour Street end but when Jack re
ached the dog-leg halfway down, even that paltry glow vanished and nothing at all shone in from Dean Street to replace it. It was beyond mere night, for the shadows fell like curtains from the roofs almost conjoined above and mist rose to meet them from such slick cobblestones as remained in place. Yet if light had been sucked away, noise had not. It was muted here as befitted the dark, dank mantle laid upon it, but as in the rest of London, sounds never ceased. Something was scratching in a doorway he’d just passed on his left, the regularity of the nails on wood making Jack believe it was an animal … until a voice whispered, ‘Yes, yes, there!’ and another voice groaned. That drove him three steps on, further into the murk, halted by a growl, a high-pitched squeal, a snap. Reaching out till he encountered a doorway, he leaned into its scant protection, raised his stick before him. The crushing sound moved nearer, then went by him and, in the faint spill of light at the building’s corner, he saw a small dog, a terrier, a broken-backed rat still squirming in its mouth. With a final twist and chomp, the writhing ceased, the dog moved on and Jack suddenly felt the chill of the April night he’d previously ignored. Shivering, he considered immediately following the animal and its prey back to light and life. The Mohocks would understand; none would wish him to die in this dark passage. He even took a step away from the doorway until a moment of recognition came. The door he sought was the one he’d taken shelter before.
‘Well, if it’s locked,’ Jack muttered, ‘there’s no more I can do.’ Half hoping, he stepped toward it, shoved none too hard. The door gave and, when footsteps suddenly slapped on the cobbles down the alley, Jack stepped inside and pushed it to behind him.
At first he thought the darkness within more complete than that without; but then he perceived light both beneath the doors on either side of the entrance and through their unevenly joined slats, heard a slurred laugh, someone clapping slowly, a whisper. When a floorboard creaked and a footstep approached, Jack quietly climbed to the first landing, just turning the corner as the left door opened. ‘Nothing, I told you. No one,’ a well-bred voice declared. ‘And now, my dear, shall we continue with …’ The conclusion of the proposition was cut off by the door closing. Jack breathed deep, then began to climb cautiously on, hand against the wall, feet reaching carefully, each floor giving him its own variation of sound and seeping light. The top floor, Harris’s list had said, was where the masked actress resided.
So attic-wards Jack went. And when he could go no further, he stopped and felt around him, touch his only sense for no light gave its slight comfort. He found the entranceway, sure enough, traced its outline; yet it was dark and when he tapped lightly upon it, got no response.
Then a door downstairs opened, closed. He knew it was the outside one and not one of the rooms because the opening brought a trace of noise from Wardour Street, instantly cut off. Whoever came in, paused; for there followed a silence so deep that Jack thought his breathing a roar, the floorboards, as his weight shifted, a shriek. When he settled, so did the silence but only for a moment … just until the sound of footsteps began.
There was nowhere to flee whoever ascended. The one window was glassless, boarded tight and the door, tested again, still locked. He could only press himself and hope that the darkness was as engulfing for the climber as for he, that whoever approached would not see him trying to be as small as possible in the corner. Then, as the creaking of steps reached the first floor, he realized that they would indeed see him for one obvious reason – they were looking for him. The man who climbed steadily had followed him all day and into this night, wore a pink coat and had Lord Melbury’s gold in one pocket, a cudgel or a pistol in another. And all Jack could do was press himself against the wall and thrust his stick before him.
The last stairs began their chorus of creaks and Jack could wait no more. ‘Aaah,’ he screamed, swooshing the stick from on high, encountering nothing but air until he reached the floor with a force that jarred his arm. ‘Aaah!’ came an equally forceful cry from below, though this was decidedly female.
Jack held the stick high but didn’t let it fall again. ‘Who’s there?’
Silence for unutterably long seconds. Then a woman’s voice, but in a shriek. ‘Keep away! I’ve a knife.’
‘So have I.’
More silence, except for breaths sucked in. ‘ ’arris?’ the woman said at last. Jack couldn’t think what to say to that, so he didn’t. The voice continued, ‘I’ve promised you the money, ’arris, I’ve got it for you, really I ’ave.’
‘I’m not … ’arris. I’m … a customer.’
‘You’re … what?’ Silence came again, shorter-lived. ‘ ’ow did you get in?’
‘Um … the door was open.’
Another pause. ‘Who are you then?’
‘Jack—’
The voice was sharp. ‘Jack … ’arris?’
‘No, I’ve said. Jack, just Jack!’
‘And you mean me no ’arm?’
‘None, I swear!’
There was a longer silence. Then, ‘Well, Just-Jack, why don’t we get inside and get a light going? Then I can take a look at you.’
‘That would be … yes.’
The steps creaked again, a key entered a lock. Jack stayed in his corner until he heard the door opening, took a step. ‘Wait a second, there’s a poppet,’ came the voice. The door was shut, locked. Jack stood in the darkness, debating whether to run. Surely he had dared enough. One rite unfulfilled … then, just as he decided to, the door opened again, light shone out. Standing before the lamp was a woman in a long purple dress and loose bodice of yellow. Covering her eyes and nose was a feathered mask.
‘Come in, dear sir, come in,’ she said, in a voice quite different from the one she’d used on the stairs, richer, deeper, certainly from another class. She stepped aside, her arm descending in a flourish to wave him in. ‘I am Matilda. And you?’
‘Jack … Harris … son! Jack Harrison. Ha!’ He entered. The room was an odd shape, much smaller than he’d expected, little bigger than the bed that occupied most of it. A small table, which held the oil lantern and a porcelain basin, took up most of the rest of the space. He then saw why it was undersized – the walls weren’t walls at all but screens, wooden-framed and paper-panelled, with stays and stockings dangling from their crests. The real walls of cracked plaster and bulging horsehair were just visible above.
The door closed behind him. ‘Your stick, sir. Your hat. Please!’ She gestured and Jack took off his tricorn, placed it on the knob of his stick, leaned both against a screen. When he straightened and faced her again, she had stepped closer to him. She was tall, her nose level with his neck.
‘Now, sir,’ she said, making a little curtsey, her voice still husky, ‘what is it I may do for you?’
Her eyes were hidden beneath the gold and the feathers of her disguise so it was her mouth he looked at. Not so much the lips, which bore some purplish stain, but an exquisite little mole to the left of them. And as he studied it, he realized he had seen it before and that very night and just as he recognized her, her eyes at the very same moment widened. They spoke as one.
‘I know you—’
‘I saw you tonight—’
They both paused. The woman moved back, the eyes still upon him. She went on first. ‘You were the gallant who intervened when those boobies would upset the play.’
He nodded.
‘You were a hero, sir.’
‘Hardly that.’
‘To me you were. And I’m sure also to the author for … wait, were you not sat beside Burgoyne? You are his friend?’
This was not the time to go into why he was there. He’d told the Mohocks that this would be a danger, picking out an actress for him to visit. The last thing he needed was for this story to become theatrical gossip. And get back to his mother.
‘I am.’
Matilda had stepped back closer to him. ‘Colonel Burgoyne is fortunate in his friends indeed. So brave, so handsome.’ She reached up and pulled the mask fr
om her face. ‘No need for that precaution tonight. You know me already.’
The uncovering revealed something slightly different than Jack expected. The maid of the play was not a blushing sixteen but at least ten years older, the face not unblemished perfection, but full of the little lines and signals of a hard life. The paint that had smoothed all under the soothing stage lights looked thick and cracked by lamplight. She was still pretty, or would be were not an underlying tiredness the primary look in her eyes. Nevertheless, Jack said, ‘But a man always desires to be reacquainted with such beauty, madam.’
She clapped her hands, laughed. ‘So gallant. You are not … I have heard that the Colonel has one or two … indiscretions, who usually reside in the country. Are you perhaps …’
‘One of Burgoyne’s country indiscretions? No indeed, madam.’
Jack was rather alarmed to find that he was blushing as he spoke, a colour that deepened when a hand reached up to rest on his face. ‘And you sport the badge of youth,’ she said, laughing again.
Now that he was here, Jack felt two things equally keenly: the first that this encounter, a mere pistol shot from Thrift Street, was hardly worthy of one who loved such an innocent as Clothilde; the second that what had sounded marvellous when concocted as the fifth Mohock Rite at Tothill Fields was ridiculous in the Town. How the rite was performed was up to the individual warrior, but any thought Jack had had of taking what he wanted by sudden surprise or subterfuge had vanished in the mutual recognition.
‘Why the disguise?’ he asked, as she finally removed her hand and reached past him to hang the mask on the screen. Their bodies were very close, she was leaning forward and the loose bodice flopped forward, revealing two rather large but finely shaped breasts. She appeared unaware of the effect the sight had on him, yet took her time leaning back.