The Diamond of Drury Lane

  ‘I’m not. Go! You’re on!’

  With that, Johnny clapped a black beaked mask over my face and gave me a firm shove in the shoulder blades. I staggered on to the stage. Pedro had just come to the end of the first fast and furious rendition of the hornpipe and was taking a bow. He had not yet realised he was missing a vital ingredient for the next part of his act. A few people in the boxes began to titter, seeing a confused Harlequin dithering by the side of the stage. I had no choice now: I had to do something other than stand here like a fool. Clutching the violin and bow under one arm, I took a short run and turned my one-handed cartwheel. I’d never performed it before others and was gratified to find it brought a wave of applause from the audience. I landed neatly at Pedro’s side and presented him with the violin. Pedro looked shocked for a brief second, then recovered himself. He began to mime, making it clear to the audience that I had brought a challenge to do the dance again while playing. I nodded vigorously.

  ‘Go on, prince!’ shouted someone in the audience.

  ‘You can do it!’ called another.

  Pedro gave me a deep bow, accepting the challenge. I was about to run off but he gestured to me to sit on the anchor that dressed the stage. I was surprised: I had thought that Pedro Hawkins was only interested in having the stage to himself. As it would have looked strange if I had refused, I sat down. All these years of living in the theatre, I’d never been on the boards with a full audience in front of me. I felt heady with excitement.

  Pedro composed himself to play. Signor Angelini raised his baton and signalled for his protégé to start. Pedro then began the most extraordinary dance I had ever seen. With legs stamping like in an Irish jig, upper body still, he began to play a hornpipe. Sitting so close to him, I could see the beads of sweat flying from his brow, but all the time he kept an impassive expression on his face. From a distance, it would look as if he was having to make no effort. The audience began to clap in time to the music. He went faster and faster. I thought that it must be impossible for him to carry on playing without losing step or fluffing a note, but no. It was almost as if he had found freedom in the dance and would take flight if it did not end soon. I could see him do it: he’d fly out of the theatre, out of the smoke of London, into the blue sky and home to his land of hot sun and friendly faces. But before his wings had a chance to sprout, he brought the hornpipe to an end with a flourish.

  The applause was immense. It rolled towards the stage like a barrage of thunder. Pedro bowed three times, perspiration dripping off the end of his nose and falling on to the boards. He then turned to me.

  ‘How about it, Cat? Run off with a cartwheel together?’

  He was testing me, I thought, paying me back for my earlier doubts about him and seeing if I could repeat my performance. I nodded, accepting the challenge.

  He took my hand. ‘Go!’

  We ran towards the wings in step.

  ‘Now!’ he shouted, dropping my hand. With perfect timing, we cartwheeled off the stage, landing neatly by Johnny’s seat.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ Johnny said, laughing as he slipped the mask off my face. ‘Who would’ve guessed you could do that? If you’re not careful, Mr Kemble will give you the part. Cat the clown. Has rather a ring to it, don’t you think?’

  Pedro slapped me on the back. ‘You saved my skin out there, Cat. I owe you one.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not likely to let you forget,’ I said with a wry smile.

  SCENE 2 . . . PAWNBROKER

  Early the next morning, I slipped out of the theatre and headed down towards the Strand and the pawnbroker’s shop that many of the actors and musicians used. I’d been there before for Peter Dodsley, the first violin. When he had been going through a particularly lean patch, he had pawned his watch on a Saturday and redeemed it after being paid on a Monday. He’d explained at the time that as he spent most of Sunday resting in bed, he did not need to know the time, but he did need a few creature comforts, such as a bottle of fine French wine. I had always thought this a poor way of managing his money, but he was by no means the only one to use the services of the broker.

  As I arrived outside the shop, who should come up behind me but Jonas Miller, the hog-grubber clerk who was more usually to be seen causing trouble in the Pit.

  ‘Out of my way, girl,’ he said rudely, pushing me aside. He was in a fearful hurry to get into the shop. I wondered why. I probably would have followed him in to find out even if I had not had an errand myself.

  Pushing the door open, I entered the darkened room. It had the secretive atmosphere of a Catholic confessional: little cubicles separated the customers from each other so they could admit their monetary failings in privacy. Behind an iron grille, Mr Vaughan and his assistants heard their clients’ troubles and offered a temporary cure. The items put up for pawn were displayed in locked cases, tempting their owners with a knowing twinkle and glitter to claim them back . . . if they had the money, that is, and they rarely did. Amongst the snuff boxes and rings, I noticed with a shudder of disgust that someone had even pawned their porcelain false teeth: it was hard to imagine what depths of despair had pushed them to that extreme. The teeth grinned back at me from their red velvet cushion in a smile like the rictus of death.

  ‘Ah, Mr Miller, I have your silver inkstand waiting for you,’ said Mr Vaughan loudly. Perhaps he had not noticed someone else coming in for he was speaking more openly than usual. ‘Have you the money?’

  ‘That’s all I have.’ Jonas pushed a bag of coins over to him.

  Mr Vaughan pulled the bag under the grille and carefully counted out the silver and coppers. ‘Hmm, not enough, sir, not enough,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head.

  Jonas ran his fingers through his dirty hair in desperation.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to have it back. There’ll be hell to pay if I don’t. You see, it’s . . . it’s not exactly mine.’

  Mr Vaughan frowned. ‘I don’t deal in stolen goods, sir,’ he said sharply, hand hovering over a bell to summon his assistant.

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand me,’ said Jonas. ‘It’s borrowed . . . from a friend.’

  A friend? All my eye! That was nonsense. I recognised that inkwell: it was the one from Jonas’s desk in the lawyer’s office where he worked. I’d seen it hundreds of times when I’d passed by his window. Jonas was now fingering his pocket watch nervously.

  ‘Perhaps we could come to some arrangement, Mr Vaughan,’ he pleaded, placing his watch on the counter.

  I did not see the conclusion to this transaction for Mr Vaughan’s assistant, a pale youth with a high forehead like the dome of St Paul’s, glided out of the backroom.

  ‘Yes, miss, can I help you?’ he asked, spying me waiting on the hard bench.

  Jonas turned round and his eyes widened with consternation. I could tell that the presence of someone who knew him was most unwelcome. Come to think of it, I’d prefer not to be seen by anyone I knew either. I hurried over to the vacant cubicle and pushed the package of jewels under the grille.

  ‘How much can you offer me for these?’ I asked in a low voice.

  With a bored expression, the assistant unfolded the handkerchief. The boredom stopped there: on to the counter fell a jumble of glittering gemstones and gold chains. His eyes lit up.

  ‘Are these real, miss?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Giving me a sceptical look, he screwed a jeweller’s eyeglass into his socket and began to examine each piece. One by one he gave a little nod and put them reverently aside. Finally, he put down the eyeglass and gave me a searching stare as if willing me to reveal where I had come by such riches.

  ‘Mr Vaughan, Mr Vaughan, I need your advice on something!’ he called to his employer.

  Mr Vaughan was still arguing with Jonas Miller.

  ‘A moment, sir,’ he told Jonas and moved across to the patch of grille in front of me.

  ‘All real?’ he asked his assistance.

  ‘The genuine article, sir.’


  Mr Vaughan pawed the jewels lovingly. I could see he hungered to have them in his possession, if only for a short time, but he was worried how I came by them.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of a lady,’ I explained as he surveyed me. ‘I’m her confidential agent in this transaction.’

  ‘Hmm. I can offer you five pounds for them,’ he said.

  As an opening bid it was laughable. We both knew it.

  ‘Fifty,’ I said firmly.

  He smiled. ‘What do you take me for, miss? A charity?’

  ‘Then I’ll take my jewels elsewhere.’

  ‘Thirty,’ he snapped.

  ‘Forty-five’

  ‘Forty.’

  ‘Done.’ Forty was not a bad amount. Far more than any of my friends could hope to earn in a year. But the sum was still far short of the true value of the jewels: if Lady Elizabeth failed to redeem them, Mr Vaughan would make a handsome profit.

  Mr Vaughan drew out his cashbox and counted out a weighty sack of guineas. He pushed a paper receipt under the grille.

  ‘Tell your “lady” that she has six months to redeem them from me. After that time, I’m at liberty to sell them on.’

  ‘I understand.’

  I pocketed the bag of gold and receipt and turned to go. Jonas Miller was standing at the door waiting for me.

  ‘Here, Cat, lend us some of that, will you?’ he asked with what he evidently thought was an ingratiating smile on his face. ‘It’s all up with me if you don’t help.’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry, it’s not my money. I can’t lend it to you.’

  His smile vanished. ‘They weren’t your jewels neither, were they, Cat? Have you been a naughty girl?’ He took a step towards me. ‘I wager that you wouldn’t want someone to tell the Bow Street runners about that!’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ I said angrily, pushing past him. ‘Just because you filch from your employer doesn’t mean to say everyone else does.’

  I slammed the door behind me and ran as fast as I could back to the theatre. Jonas’s threats did not bother me . . . I knew he was a creeper and a cheat. Lady Elizabeth could be summoned in my defence if he did go blabbing, but if Jonas was going to make trouble with the magistrate’s men, it made it more important than ever to get Johnny out of Drury Lane as quickly as possible.

  ‘You did what?’

  Johnny was pounding to and fro on the hearthrug, the bag of coins glittering on the table between us. As my reader may guess, it wasn’t going well.

  ‘I told you. I happened to mention to Lady Elizabeth that you needed help and . . . ’

  ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ he cut across me. ‘You’ve humiliated me, Cat. You and your friends, acting as if you can snatch me from the frying pan, but instead you’re just dropping me into the fire! Did it not occur to you that I might be quite capable of making my own arrangements? I’ve lost everything, choosing the path I’ve taken . . . my family, my rank, even the woman I love . . . but I thought I had my self-respect intact!’

  He wasn’t going to pull the wool over my eyes with this bluster; he needed our help.

  ‘So, Johnny, what plans had you made?’ I asked coolly.

  ‘I was going to America,’ he said, stopping to slump dejectedly on the mantelpiece.

  ‘With the diamond?’ I asked.

  He gave a bitter smile. ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘And how were you to afford it? Unless Mr Sheridan cashes in this diamond . . . which I doubt he’d do even for you . . . you’ll need money for your ticket. He doesn’t have any from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘No,’ conceded Johnny, ‘Sheridan is short on ready money, that’s true.’

  ‘And you, do you have any?’

  ‘Only several hundred thousands . . . but all in my father’s pocket, I’m afraid.’ He sighed. ‘I thought perhaps Marchmont might help.’

  ‘You’re all abroad there, Johnny; he won’t. I know their sort: penny-pinching lice-hunters who wouldn’t cross the road to help their grandmother. They’re only happy so long as they stand to gain themselves.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Cat.’ Johnny looked defeated, depressed by the weight of anxiety that had descended on him since he was first charged with treason. He was just beginning to find out what the most of us already knew: what it was like to have no money.

  ‘So,’ I said, gesturing to the guineas I had brought back with me, ‘why not take this?’

  ‘Because it’s hers, of course!’ I must have looked puzzled, for he continued, ‘You’re too young to understand, Cat, about . . . about love. How could I look her in the face again if I take advantage of her in this way?’

  I couldn’t believe the man: he was being a downright fool, too scrupulous for his own good.

  ‘Believe me, she’d prefer to look you in the face as you wave goodbye from a deck of ship, holding a ticket that she’s paid for, than watch you go blue in the face as the noose tightens. When you die of a hempen fever, it’ll be no comfort to her then to know that you owe her nothing.’

  He shook his head, still unconvinced. Though many years my senior, he was no better than an infant, completely oblivious to the hard truth of his situation. He made me feel so much older and wiser than him. He couldn’t afford to indulge his romantic notions of honour and pride. If he did, he’d die. I tried another tack.

  ‘You know, Johnny, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand love. Love is not forced; it gives without expecting anything in return. It drops like the gentle rain from heaven . . . ’

  ‘Upon the place beneath,’ said Johnny, finishing the quotation I had adapted for the occasion. ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘So why can’t you allow her to give you this? You’re denying her the right to put her love into action if you spurn it.’

  ‘But . . . ’

  ‘I’m certain you’d give everything in your power to help someone you love. You’re not treating her as your equal if you reject her assistance.’

  I had finally found an argument that hit home.

  ‘My equal?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, your equal. You mustn’t treat her like some china doll that you admire but are afraid to allow off the shelf. She’s a sensible person: she knows what she’s doing. Anyway, it’s too late: I’ve pawned the jewels and Lord Francis is sorting out your passage. You’re outvoted on this, four to one.’

  Johnny laughed. ‘I regret I taught you about democracy, Cat. It’s come back to haunt me.’

  ‘You won’t regret it when you reach New York. Have you thought what you might do when you get there?’

  Johnny sat down beside me, signalling that he had given in to the inevitable and would let us help him.

  ‘I thought I’d start a community, a place where men and women can live together, dividing their time between honest physical labour and intellectual pursuits . . . an ideal republic.’

  ‘It sounds a load of moonshine to me. What do you know about hard work? Do you know how long it takes to scrub a floor or clean a shirt, let alone plough a field?’

  Johnny looked awkward: he knew he was on dubious ground when he, the nobleman, talked to me, the commoner, about the simple life. ‘No, but I can dream.’

  ‘Carry on dreaming,’ I said briskly. Clearly, someone had to look after him or he was heading for a fall. ‘But in the meantime why don’t you plan for something more substantial than that? Do something you know you know well, like drawing, for example. There must be opportunities for an artist like you even in so uncivilised a place as America.’

  ‘Well, I do have a contact who has set up a newspaper in Philadelphia.’ He laughed. ‘Listen to me. Taking career advice from a . . . how old are you?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘From a young lady then,’ he said with a wink, pocketing the guineas.

  That afternoon Mrs Reid sent me to dust the offices. I had just finished Mr Kemble’s and had made a start on Mr Sheridan’s when the owner came in with a gentlem
an I did not recognise. They did not see me for I was crouched behind the desk . . . if the truth be known, wondering if I could find the infamous diamond and take a peek at it before it went to America with Johnny. From Mr Sheridan’s tone, I could tell that he was trying to get his companion away from the theatre as quickly as possible.

  ‘Look, Ranworth, why not come to the club and talk about it?’

  Ranworth? I peered over the desk and saw the back of a white-haired, portly gentleman dressed in a claret-coloured jacket and shiny black boots. That must be Johnny’s father. Thank goodness Johnny was locked in his room for the afternoon checking over the proofs of his latest cartoon. He had better stay there. Someone had to warn him. But the men were standing between me and the door.

  ‘Is there really no news of my son?’ said the Earl of Ranworth, refusing to budge. I had the impression Mr Sheridan had been avoiding answering his questions and so the earl had come to the theatre to corner him. ‘I’m ashamed of the pup, I admit, but I do have the feelings of the father. I would like to know that he is alive and well. These wanted posters everywhere make my blood run cold! Just imagine what a scandal there’d be if they knew who Captain Sparkler really was!’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Sheridan, patting the old man’s arm. ‘But they won’t find out, will they? Who would suspect such a thing? I’m sure the young rascal has come to no harm.’

  ‘And Salter, you say, has drawn a blank in Bristol?’

  ‘Completely. I’ve asked him to enquire at Plymouth and Portsmouth. I expect news very soon.’

  So Mr Salter was safe and still on his wild goose chase, I noted.

  The Earl of Ranworth took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. With the weary movements of a man exhausted by worry, he slumped into the chair facing the desk. Seeing there was no shifting the man, Mr Sheridan came to the far side to take a seat.

  He stopped, finding me at his feet. ‘Cat! What on earth are you doing here?’

  The earl jumped up from his seat, a look of consternation on his face.