‘Dusting, sir,’ I said, holding up my cloth as evidence.
‘Hmm,’ Mr Sheridan said sceptically. ‘You always seem to be cropping up in the most inconvenient places, don’t you?’
There was a bold knock on the open door. We all looked round. In the corridor stood a man wearing a blue coat with brass buttons and a leather hat, armed with a cutlass, pistol and truncheon: unmistakeably a Bow Street runner.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir,’ he said deferentially to Mr Sheridan, ‘but I’m following up a report that there may be a wanted man on the premises.’
The Earl of Ranworth looked up abruptly and gave Mr Sheridan an astonished stare. He was no fool. At least for him, the penny seemed to have dropped. Mr Sheridan gave him a quelling look.
‘Indeed, Constable . . .?’ Mr Sheridan said lightly.
‘Lennox, sir.’
‘Constable Lennox. And what is this to me?’
‘Well, sir,’ said the runner awkwardly, ‘the old man on the door said I had to ask your permission before I can carry out a thorough search.’
‘You have no warrant from the magistrate then?’
‘No.’ The runner coughed. ‘I, er, I thought the report, an anonymous letter, was not sufficient grounds to disturb him.’
I bet the letter came from the greasy paw of Marzi-pain Marchmont! I called him as many colourful names as I could think of under my breath.
Mr Sheridan strode across the room. ‘But you thought it grounds enough to make havoc in my theatre?’
‘I intended nothing of the sort, sir! I . . . ’
‘You are already interrupting the work of my maid here. Run along, Cat; I’m sure there is something very important you should be doing.’ Mr Sheridan shooed me to the door. As he knew I would, I sprinted as fast as I could to Johnny’s office. Ignoring the sign, I burst in upon him, the surprise making him spill ink across the picture he was working on.
‘For heaven’s sake, Cat, look what you’ve done!’ he exclaimed in exasperation.
‘Forget that!’ I said, stuffing a cap on his head and hauling him from the table. ‘A constable’s here . . . so’s your father.’
‘My father brought the runners for me?’ he said incredulously, getting quite the wrong end of the stick.
‘No, you fool, they came separately. But you’d better run for it.’
Johnny made a grab for his drawing things.
‘Leave them . . . I’ll deal with that. You can’t get caught with these on you.’
‘Where can I go?’ he asked wildly, pulling his jacket on.
‘Go to the butcher’s in Bow Street. Ask for Syd. Tell him you’re my friend. I’ll send a message when it’s all clear.’
‘Bow Street? But that’s nearer danger!’
‘Exactly . . . the last place they’ll look for you. Now hurry!’ I pushed Johnny out of the door and watched him bolt off down the corridor, colliding with Mr Bishop half-way.
‘What’s got into him?’ Mr Bishop asked me in confusion.
‘Urgent errand. Uncle on the point of death, asking for him,’ I invented.
Mr Bishop shook his head sadly. ‘Reminds me of my old girl. Didn’t get there in time, but she was asking for me after the baby was born. Never did see the child . . .’
‘Sorry, Mr Bishop,’ I interrupted him, not having time for family reminiscences, ‘I’ve got to tidy up in here for Johnny.’
‘That’s right, Cat, you do what you can to make him comfortable.’ With that, Mr Bishop plodded away, his mind fortunately on the wife he had lost many years ago rather than on the strange behaviour of the prompt.
I shut the door and began to sweep away the evidence of Johnny’s employment. Roughs of his cartoons littered the floor and I threw them higgledy-piggledy into the grate. Voices could be heard in the corridor outside.
‘Why here first, constable? What’s my prompt to do with this business?’
‘Nothing, I hope, sir. It’s just that my informant said he’d been here himself and suggested I start with Mr Smith.’
They were upon me. I grabbed the proof Johnny had been working on and stuffed it into my bodice. The door opened.
‘What are you doing here, girl?’ asked the runner suspiciously when he saw me kneeling by the burning grate.
I got up. ‘Just laying the fire, sir,’ I said, bobbing a curtsey.
‘As I told you,’ said Mr Sheridan coldly, ‘my staff have their jobs to do.’
The runner, however, was no half-wit. He strode over to the fire and pulled out a singed piece of paper. Faintly, you could make out the bulbous nose of a cartoon head.
‘And what’s this?’ he said severely to me. ‘Why were you lighting the fire with this, girl? Has someone been drawing?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered nervously, twisting my apron in my hands. I could see Mr Sheridan waving urgently behind the runner’s back to stop me saying any more, but I knew what I was doing. ‘I’m afraid it’s me, sir. I’ve been taking drawing lessons, you see, sir, b-but I’m not very good yet and . . .’
He cut through my stammered explanation with a flick of the paper. ‘Drawing lessons? What’s a maid doing taking drawing lessons?’ he exclaimed.
I turned to Mr Sheridan. Now was the time for me to rival Mrs Siddons with my acting ability. I had to be convincingly abject with my apology.
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I said, wiping the corner of my eye with my apron. ‘I’ve been sneaking in here to practise.’ I pulled out the drawing of Caesar I had done from my workbox over at the foot of Johnny’s bed and held it up as proof. ‘Mr Smith’s half-blind, as you know, so he can’t see what I’m up to. You can dock the cost of the paper from my wages, sir, if you like, but, please, please, don’t turn me away for it.’
Wages? Wages would be a fine thing! I never got anything but board and lodging. Mr Sheridan eyed me closely. I could see laughter twinkling in his eyes but he was managing to look suitably stern.
‘And who is this meant to be, young woman?’ he asked.
‘A portrait of Julius Caesar, sir.’ Sniff, artful wipe of the eye with my apron. ‘I made a mess of the nose.’
‘There, Constable Lennox . . . hardly topical political satire,’ said Mr Sheridan, rounding on the runner. ‘Had you better not move on and look for someone whose targets are a little more up to date, by about eighteen hundred years?’ Mr Sheridan rolled up my picture and tucked it in his pocket.
‘Right you are, sir,’ said the runner sheepishly. He could at least regain some dignity by turning on the only victim present. ‘As for you, miss, you keep your hands off your master’s things or I’ll be having words with you down at the courthouse.’
I bent my head, trying to look suitably cowed. ‘That’s enough, man. I’ll deal with my own staff, thank you,’ said Mr Sheridan sharply.
He led the constable out of the room, but the Earl of Ranworth lingered. He was staring at some papers covered in Johnny’s handwriting that I had not had time to burn. He gave the desk a caress with his fingertips then came over to me.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You did well.’ He pressed a sovereign into my hand. ‘And when you see my son, tell him . . . tell him the old man misses him, won’t you?’
SCENE 3 . . . ATTACK
Johnny crept back in after darkness fell and hid himself away in his office. I found him sitting on his bed, his belongings rolled up into a small bundle at his feet, all traces of his work obliterated.
‘Here, I managed to save this,’ I said, producing the proof from my bodice.
Johnny did not even look at it but got to his feet and threw it into the glowing heart of the fire. The paper caught flame and began to curl up, writhing like a spirit in torment as the black touch of fire consumed it.
‘Enough,’ Johnny said grimly, ‘Captain Sparkler is dead. Johnny Smith is bound for pastures new.’
‘You’re really going then?’ I asked, sitting in the place he had vacated. I stared down at the meagre bundle . .
. not much to show for an earl’s son. ‘But I thought that . . . well, it seemed to me that your father was ready to have you back. He was sad. He misses you.’
Johnny sighed. ‘And I miss him. But he has agreed with Sheridan that the best thing now is for me to go abroad for a few years, until this Captain Sparkler business dies down. He thinks the passage of time will mellow my firebrand views.’ Johnny gave a bark of laughter. ‘He thinks I’ll be ready then to take up my duties and responsibilities.’
‘So you intend to go to America at once?’
‘If I can arrange safe passage.’
‘Perhaps Lord Francis will have found out something useful,’ I said, half-hoping for a reprieve to give Johnny time to change his mind. He sounded as if he could be convinced. Though I sympathised with his principles, it still seemed madness to me for him to turn his back on the life of luxury that was his if he remained and accepted his birthright. I wasn’t sure that I’d stand firm if I was facing such a choice.
‘But what can Lord Francis do?’ asked Johnny. He was obviously inclined to look on the gloomy side of everything tonight.
‘You’d be surprised. Lord Francis knows far more about London than you’d expect, thanks to the peculiar education he has been receiving of late.’
That raised a half-hearted smile. ‘So it would seem, Cat. You’ve led him far astray from the usual path of duke’s sons. I doubt his father would approve if he knew but I think it a very good thing.’ Johnny dug into his breast pocket and took out the money I had given him earlier. ‘Here, take this back. I won’t be needing it. Tell her that I send my heartfelt thanks, but the Ranworth estate is covering the costs of my removal from these shores.’
I took it. ‘Just that?’ The message didn’t live up to my expectations as to what was fitting between two lovers about to say farewell to each other for many years. That certainly wasn’t how it was done on the stage. Clearly, Johnny needed a bit of tutoring in the sweetheart department.
‘What more is there to say?’
‘Shouldn’t you at least ask her to wait for you? Tell her you’ll gaze upon her picture every day at a certain hour so that she can do the same? Send her a token, a lock of hair perhaps, for her to wear in a locket over her heart? Assure her of your unchanging love?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘One of the things you’ll learn as you get older is that we all change, Cat. I wouldn’t ask a girl of sixteen to wait for me: it would not be fair. Who knows what we both might be feeling and thinking in a few years’ time? What kind of home could I offer her?’
He was a hopeless pupil for Cupid. His spirits were too low to rise to the occasion. I couldn’t blame him: he was leaving all the people he loved, setting off to live among strangers, abandoning the old certainties of his life. Added to that, he would be facing the novelty of earning his own keep for the first time. I imagined that, for all his radical, equalising notions, this must be a fairly terrifying prospect for a gentleman raised in privilege. It was one thing to preach, another to practise. Mind you, he had a head start on most of us if only he knew it.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much, Johnny. You’ll get on famously once you make a beginning. You possess an extraordinary talent. I’m sure you’ll be able to offer Lady Elizabeth a good home when you’ve made a name for yourself over there.’ I thought he still stood in need of a little more worldly advice so I lowered my voice. ‘And you know you could always pawn the diamond if things get tight. Mr Sheridan will never know. It could set you up in your own business until you earn enough to redeem it.’
‘That would be more difficult than you suppose.’ He walked over to his desk and got out the two pistols to add to his bundle.
‘Why? If Mr Sheridan wants it back, it’ll take months for the message to reach you in America. You’ll have plenty of time. It wouldn’t be like stealing.’
That made him laugh. ‘No, that’s not what I mean. The diamond isn’t the kind of thing you can pawn.’ He picked up some pens, checking the nibs before slipping them inside his jacket pocket.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, because it’s not exactly a diamond.’
What did he mean? I could tell from the way he was behaving he was concealing something from me. My gaze was drawn to the pen he was examining; it glittered like a jewel in his fingers . . . Then it hit me. I had been a fool. Of course! Johnny was Captain Sparkler. He was the hidden jewel!
‘You’re the diamond, aren’t you, Johnny? There never was a real one, Mr Sheridan was talking about you to Marchmont . . . that was the night you arrived.’ I shook my head in disbelief . . . it had taken me so long to see what appeared so obvious now. It was my imagination that had created the jewel . . . a fantasy that Mr Sheridan had thought useful to continue in order to divert me from the real treasure.
Johnny sat down on the bed beside me and took my hand. ‘I wondered when you would guess, Catkin. There have been many times when I wanted to tell you. I realised that you needed to know the truth when it got you into trouble with the Shepherd gang but it seemed hard to undo the lie once it had got lodged in your head.’
‘I’ve been so blind.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. We encouraged it . . . Sheridan and I. We didn’t know if we could trust you at first. And the price of our lack of trust in you was an injury to your arm and a very frightening night in the Rookeries. At least when I’m gone, you’ll no longer be bothered by my enemies.’
‘But I don’t want you to go, Johnny,’ I blurted out. ‘I’d prefer to spend my life defending you against all those who are after you than never see you again! Stay here. I’ll look after you.’
He ruffled my hair affectionately. ‘In your heart of hearts, you know you can’t do that, Catkin. You can’t keep me safe, even in Drury Lane. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll see each other again, either here or in America. It may take a few years, but it will happen. Perhaps then you’ll be a world-famous writer on a tour of England’s former colonies and I’ll have to queue for your autograph. You’ll see this shabby old man in front of you holding out your bestseller and he’ll remind you of someone you once knew.’
I didn’t like this picture very much. ‘No, that’s not how it’ll be. I’ll turn up in Philadelphia and they’ll be holding an exhibition in your honour: the man who changed the course of history . . . the man who brought the crowned heads of Europe to their knees! You’ll drive past me in a coach and four and all the crowd will cheer. Next thing you’ll be elected president!’
I had been intending to cheer him up but my words had the opposite effect.
‘Hardly. I don’t think a renegade lord will suit the taste of Americans. They like home-grown heroes.’ He sighed, looking down at his ink-stained fingernails. ‘I don’t fit in anywhere, Catkin . . . not in my father’s house, not here, not in America.’
His melancholy mood was infectious; I felt quite low when I returned to the Sparrow’s Nest to hide the money under my pillow. I did not undress immediately, but sat by the window looking out at the stars and thinking of Johnny’s remark about us all changing with time. Despite what he said, I didn’t need to grow up to learn that there were few constants in life. Those who cared for me never stayed around for very long . . . my mother, my father, the old prompt who taught me so much, and now Johnny. Even this, my little refuge at the top of the theatre, would not last forever. We all had to move on eventually.
A crash on the stairs below made me jump out of my skin.
‘Shut up, Meatpie!’ I heard someone hiss. ‘She’ll ’ear you.’
Billy’s gang had broken in. They were coming for me! Quickly, I threw open the window, swearing under my breath as it rattled, and clambered out on to the roof. This was a bolt-hole I retreated to when Mrs Reid was after me for some misdemeanour or other, but I had never used it on so cold a night, or when the leadings were so treacherously icy.
The door to the Sparrow’s Nest banged open and, from my vantage point crouched beneath the window, I could hear boots th
umping across the floor.
‘She’s not ’ere,’ said Meatpie, tipping up the old couch I slept on.
‘But what’s this?’ said Pox-face gleefully as forty pounds worth of guineas rolled across the floor. I cursed them as I heard them scrabble to collect the money. ‘I didn’t know the pussycat was so rich.’
‘Ha, ha, ha! She’s not now,’ said Meatpie with his stupid slow laugh.
They continued to up-end clothes presses and overturn rails of costumes in their hunt for me.
‘’Ere, Kitty-kitty!’ crowed Pox-face, ‘Come to Daddy. We’ve someone ’oo wants you!’
I crouched low on the ledge, shivering, praying that they would not think to look out of the window.
‘It’s no good. She’s not ’ere,’ said Meatpie at last.
‘But at least the pistol-man didn’t get away,’ said Pox-face. ‘Billy won’t be too cross about losing the minnow now ’e’s caught the fish. Let’s get over there before the fun starts.’
Footsteps retreated down the stairs. I paused, hardly daring to breathe. Silence. I got up slowly, taking care not to lose my footing. They’d come for the diamond. They’d got Johnny and were going to try to make him tell them where the non-existent stone was. But what could I do? Run for help? Who to? Mr Sheridan? He lived too far away. The law? But the runners would arrest Johnny rather than help him. Syd’s gang? Yes, Syd was my best hope.
I climbed back into the room. It looked as if a hurricane had swept through it. Mrs Reid was not going to be pleased. I crept to the door and listened. Nothing. In stockinged feet I padded down the wooden stairs, remembering to jump over the one second from the bottom that always creaked loudly. I could hear my heart thumping, my breath hissing between my teeth, and now the murmur of distant voices. They sounded as if they were coming from Johnny’s room. I had to pass his office to get to the stage door. Keeping to the shadows, I made my way past the Green Room and towards the hubbub. I could see several people crowded by the entrance to Johnny’s office. One turned . . . Pox-face . . . and I ducked behind the anchor propped up in the corridor. I waited a few moments and then poked my head out. They were all intent on the scene in the room. I slid along the wall, wishing I were not wearing skirts that whispered with every step I took. I was right behind Meatpie now and could smell his sweat of excitement. He leant over to say something to Pox-face, revealing Johnny trussed up on his back on the bed. Billy was sitting on the desk, twirling the pistols in his hands. Ferret-features was ransacking every drawer and chest in the place. Even Johnny’s little bundle had been ripped open and strewn across the floor.