The Diamond of Drury Lane

  ‘Pedro!’ I shouted over my shoulder. ‘Fetch Lizzie!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Cat, I will!’ Pedro called back, overtaking us as he ran off to Grosvenor Square.

  ‘You’ve been having a rare old time, haven’t you, young woman?’ said the constable, giving me a shake as he nodded down at my fine clothes. ‘First you pop up as a maid, then as a lady going about in a fine carriage. That’s what I can’t abide: little vicious tricksters who take the soft-hearted for a ride, rob them and run off laughing. Well, my girl, it’s just as well we caught you young and can put an end to your criminal activities. Nip evil in the bud is my motto.’

  I let him ramble on. My mind was in a whirl. It was not hard to guess his informant. Billy Boil would be singing like a blackbird to get himself let off. But surely the mistake would all be cleared up once Lady Elizabeth vouched for me? I comforted myself with the thought that I was certain to be allowed back home before the day was out. As long as Johnny was kept out of it, all would be well. I was mindful that, with the wind in the east, he would not yet have sailed and was still within reach of the law.

  The runner took me through a side door of Bow Street Magistrate’s Court into the sparsely furnished office used by the patrol.

  ‘Sit there,’ he said, pointing to a wooden bench. ‘Don’t try nothing clever or it’ll be the worse for you. We don’t normally put nippers like you in irons, but that can change. The clerk will take down your particulars.’ He nodded over to an old man who was hunched over a writing desk. ‘Real little vixen this one, Amos. Head of a gang of thieves at her age, would you believe it!’

  Amos peered at me short-sightedly over the top of the desk, quill in hand. His thin white hair shone like a halo around his balding crown.

  ‘Ah, a little Moll Flanders in the making, eh what!’ he said. ‘Hard to credit it when you see them so young. They look so innocent.’

  ‘Maybe, but this one’s heart is as rotten as a six month-old egg,’ said the runner, straightening his uniform in the glass-panelled door leading into the court.

  ‘No, it’s not!’ I could no longer contain my indignation. To hear him speak I was the most hardened of criminals.

  ‘Name?’ said Amos, cutting across my protest.

  ‘Catherine Royal,’ I muttered, blushing despite myself as two runners marched through the office and gave me a curious look. I must appear very out of place, dressed like a lady but being treated like the lowest of the low.

  ‘Residence?’

  ‘Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.’

  Amos raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Parents’ names?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You’re an orphan?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Guardian then?’

  ‘No one.’ I was feeling increasingly desperate as his questions drove home the fact that I had no close family to defend me.

  ‘No parents, no guardian. So, to whom do you belong, child? I suppose I could put down “abandoned” or “vagrant” maybe,’ he mused, sucking the end of his quill.

  ‘I’m no vagrant,’ I said hotly. ‘I belong to Mr Sheridan’s household.’ That’s if he did not disown me for ending up in so disgraceful a situation.

  Amos gave me another of his bleary looks and scratched Mr Sheridan’s name down on my record.

  ‘Charge?’

  ‘Theft,’ interjected the runner.

  ‘With a value of how much?’

  ‘Jewels with a value in excess of forty pounds.’

  ‘Ah! A capital crime then,’ said the clerk with a weary shake of his head. ‘Another one for the hangman.’

  I thought I was going to be sick. This was like some nightmare! Surely I would wake up any moment and find it was all a dream?

  The runner came over to me. ‘Turn out your pockets, miss.’

  I got up unsteadily and emptied every last penny and scrap of paper I had in my possession on the counter. The runner poked the pile with distaste and fished out the crumpled pawnbroker’s ticket.

  ‘I thought as much. I was told you’d have the proof upon you.’

  ‘But I never pawned anything stolen!’ I exclaimed staring at my signature on the piece of paper he was waving before me.

  ‘No? I’ve been watching you since yesterday, my girl. Not long after our first meeting in Drury Lane, I had a witness here who had come to answer questions about a missing inkwell. He was very eager to be obliging and volunteered the information that he saw you giving a very large amount of jewellery to a broker two days ago . . . jewellery that you admitted to him was not yours,’ the runner said triumphantly. ‘So how did you come by it if you did not steal it? Did it drop from the sky into your lap or did you find it lying in the road? No, no, miss; your best hope now is to admit everything and pray that the magistrate is in a merciful mood. If you talk, he might think a spell in the new penal colony in Botany Bay punishment enough. If he’s not feeling so lenient and you refuse to admit your wrongdoing, it’ll be the noose for you or my name’s King George.’

  Amos began to laugh like a pair of wheezy bellows at his colleague’s wit. ‘That it certainly is not, constable.’

  Constable Lennox gave him a tolerant smile. ‘Have you finished, Amos? Can I lock her up now?’

  ‘All done,’ confirmed Amos, tucking the quill behind his ear.

  ‘Follow me, miss,’ said the runner, taking a key from a chain at his belt and going over to a heavy iron door behind the clerk’s counter.

  I had no choice. I followed him and for the first time in my life found myself in gaol. Never in my darkest dreams had I imagined I would end up here.

  SCENE 3 . . . GAOL

  The constable led me down a narrow flight of stairs to the brick-lined basement of the magistrate’s house. Once used for storing fine wines, the cellars had been converted into holding cells for unfortunates like me. The only daylight came in through gratings set in the pavement above. You could see the flicker of shadows of the people passing by, oblivious to the captives below their feet. My resolve to keep a brave front in face of adversity was crumbling and I wished I had someone on whose shoulder I could weep and be comforted. I wished I had a mother. I felt very young and very alone.

  Before I had a chance to break down, the constable opened the door to the cell. There, sitting against the wall on the far side, was Billy Boil. No way was I going to let him see me cry.

  ‘’Ello, Cat! I thought I’d be seeing you sooner or later,’ said Billy. ‘Welcome to my mansion.’ He threw out a grubby arm to point at the delights of his new abode.

  The cell, about ten feet square, smelt worse than the foulest privy. Mouldering straw covered the brick floor. A single bucket for the use of the prisoners stood in one corner . . . I did not look too closely for it appeared to be full. Grey cobwebs festooned the flaking mortar, home to some disturbingly large spiders, and four rough-hewn benches flanked the walls. Billy was the only occupant for the present bar the rat that had just scuttled out of sight.

  ‘Glad to see you’ve found somewhere to your taste, Billy,’ I said, making light of the horror.

  He laughed and stretched out on the bench, taking a bite from a wrinkled apple he held in his fist.

  ‘You can jest, Cat,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of pulp, ‘but don’t forget: you’re in ’ere too. What does that say for your taste?’

  ‘It says that it was tragically bad taste ever to have anything to do with you, you lying ball of cat sick. It’s your lies that’ve brought me here.’

  ‘Now, now, that’s enough,’ said the runner, pushing me into the cell. ‘I’d advise you, miss, to keep a civil tongue in your head, or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  ‘You’re not leaving me in here alone with him?’ I asked desperately, grabbing hold of the runner’s jacket.

  He shook me off. ‘Naturally. There’s only one holding cell and you’re looking at it. If you’re lucky, you won’t be in here long . . . ju
st a day or two.’

  ‘A day or two!’

  ‘Until the magistrate can spare the time to hear your case. Then you’ll be moved to a proper prison, of course.’

  ‘But if you leave me here with him, he’ll kill me!’

  ‘Ha!’ barked Constable Lennox. ‘Serves you right, don’t it? You should’ve thought of that before you got mixed up in this game.’

  With that, he shut the door behind him and turned the key. I moved to the bench on the opposite side of the room from Billy and sat down, head bowed, hands in my lap, wondering when my enemy would make his move. There was silence for a few moments, punctuated only by the sound of him chewing on his apple. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘May I say, Pussycat, that you’re looking remarkably swell today. I’d almost take you for a fine lady. Pity there’s only me and the rats to appreciate it.’

  I said nothing but stared at my hands resting in the green silk of my lap.

  ‘It’s good to ’ave some company. Shame your pistol friend couldn’t make it. Run off with the diamond and left you in the lurch, ’as ’e? You should’ve stuck with me, girl. None of this would’ve ’appened if you’d done that. But don’t you fret, Kitten: if we blame the ’ole thing on ’im, we might just squeak out of this one. You tell the Beak where ’e is and we’re laughin’.’

  He took another bite of apple and crunched it loudly.

  ‘Want some?’

  He held out the half-eaten apple to me. I shook my head. I’d let nothing he had touched pass my lips.

  ‘Fine. Suit yourself. But you’ll find them a bit short on the old commons ’ere, Cat . . . not like those flash ’ouses in Grosvenor Square I ’ear you’ve been frequentin’. Is that where you got those togs?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Gawd, Cat! It’s gonna be a long night if you don’t keep me company. We’re both in the same boat now, both facing the drop. Can’t you at least talk to me?’ He took a final bite of the apple and threw the core into the corner, where vermin could be heard fighting over it. ‘I’ve been ’ere since the early ’ours and I can tell you that it’s not nice . . . no, not nice at all. Won’t you need someone to run to when the rats start nibbling at your lace, eh?’

  I looked up at him. He was grinning at me, enjoying every moment of my distress.

  ‘You’d be the last person I’d run to, Billy. I’d go to the rats for help first.’

  His grimace broadened.

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Cat: your sense of ’umour. We’d’ve made a great team. Perhaps there’s still time: if we stand by each other, we might get out of this mess. And when we do that, where’d you go? The respectable folk at the theatre won’t want you back. You could come with me and ’elp me set up my little business in the Rookeries. I’ve got some ideas . . . big ideas.’

  ‘I’m surprised you have any ideas at all.’

  He let this pass. ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. That place is ripe for the pickin’. I’ll start with askin’ the innkeepers for a small consideration for protectin’ their establishments. Move on to ownin’ a few places myself. I’d give a fair price for goods people might come by “inadvertently” like. ’Ave some boys . . . and girls . . . workin’ for me. You’d be a real ’elp, Cat, knowin’ what you do about the ’igh end of the thievin’ line. You’d make a capital fence. You could run the girls, if you like, if you give me a percentage of your take.’

  His picture of our ‘future’ together was laughable. I had to say something.

  ‘Billy, you’ve got me all wrong: I’ve never stolen anything in my life.’

  He gave me a wink. ‘’Course you ain’t, Cat. Nor’ve I. We’re as innocent as a pair of newborn babes, ain’t we? Or that’ll be our story.’

  I almost smiled: he was like some persistent suitor, not taking ‘no’ for an answer. He didn’t know that I had Lady Elizabeth rushing across town even as we spoke to come to my defence.

  ‘Forget it, Billy. When your heels are swinging in the wind, I’ll be free as a bird. You can forget the Rookeries: you’re going to pay for what you did last night and I’ll be in the front row cheering the executioner on.’

  ‘Pay, will I?’ said Billy menacingly. He sat up, his boots thumping on the ground with a dull thud. ‘You may pretend to be Miss Goody Two Shoes, but don’t forget, I know you and your game. If I’m for the nipping-jig, you’ll be swinging up there with me. I’ll make sure I take you.’

  ‘Dream on, Boil!’ I replied, though I had felt a shiver down my spine as he spoke. ‘I’ve got powerful friends. I’ll be out of here.’

  ‘Not before I’ve knocked some sense into you!’ He sprang to his feet, kicking a mug of beer over as he did so. The sour liquid seeped into the straw. ‘Face it, Cat, no respectable friend is goin’ to ’elp you now you’re in ’ere. We’re beyond the reach of all that’s nice and polite. You’ve got to rely on yourself now.’ He ground his fist into his palm in frustration at my obstinacy. ‘Look, if we stick together, tell the same story, we’re both free; if you split, I’m dead meat . . . and I’m not ’avin’ that!’ He made a lurch towards me. I cowered on my bench, face screwed up, having all too good a reason to fear his fists. But no blows fell. I opened my eyes and saw that he couldn’t reach me: like a guard-dog on a chain, his ankle had been manacled to a bolt in the floor. The ridiculous sight of an irate Billy trying to make a grab for me set me off into a peal of hysterical laughter.

  The laughter quickly turned into hiccupping sobs. Billy glowered at me and retreated to his side of the room. He slipped a knife from his boot and began to pick at the bolt on the crumbling brick floor. My hysterical fit stopped as suddenly as it had come as the cold realisation dawned that he would . . . given time . . . be able to work himself free.

  Scrape, scrape, rattle went the knife on the manacle.

  Neither of us spoke.

  * * *

  ‘Catherine Royal?’

  The runner had returned and was standing by the door, a lantern in his hand. I sat up with a start, having dropped off into an uneasy slumber.

  ‘Yes?’ I said blearily.

  ‘You’re to come with me.’

  I got to my feet eagerly. Billy’s eyes were on me, the knife concealed in the sleeve of his jacket. So had Lady Elizabeth finally arrived? I wondered. I had expected her to be here much sooner, and terrible doubts had begun to undermine my confidence in her, but at least she’d arrived before Billy had had a chance to work himself free of his bonds.

  The runner led me back up the narrow stairs and into the office above. But we were not stopping there: he took my arm and led me through a pair of glass-panelled doors and down a corridor carpeted in a rich dark woollen cloth. We were clearly getting closer to the inner sanctum of the magistrate. The runner paused before a door with a polished brass handle and knocked.

  ‘Come!’ came a man’s deep voice.

  Constable Lennox opened the door to reveal a study lit by two high windows overlooking a pleasant garden at the rear of the house. The walls were lined with books; papers lay scattered in comfortable confusion on the desk and every available surface. In contrast to the chilly cellar the room was very warm, thanks to a fire roaring high in the grate, and in other circumstances it would have struck me as pleasant.

  Though I took in all these details, my attention was mainly occupied by the people in the room who had all turned to watch me enter. An unfamiliar bewigged elderly gentleman dressed in black with a snowy white stock at his neck sat behind a desk, fingers laced together as he surveyed me. On the edge of a chair in front of him perched Lady Elizabeth. Her face was drained of colour and tear-stained. She looked quite wretched to see me in this state. By her side stood Lord Francis. His face was pale also, but it was the paleness brought on by the effort of suppressing great anger. On the far side of the room, looking out of the window at the garden, stood Marzi-pain Marchmont. He turned on my entry and gave me a triumphant smile. I now began to have some inkling of what was happening. Next t
o Marchmont stood the duke. His eyes were directed at me with blazing anger and I felt their force almost as if he had actually lashed out at me. Marchmont whispered something to the duke, who then nodded as if his worst fears had been confirmed.

  ‘Here’s the prisoner, sir,’ said the constable, standing behind me with his arms folded as if I was some dangerous beast that he was here to guard.

  The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘You are Catherine Royal, also known to the criminal fraternity as “The Cat”?’

  ‘It’s just Cat . . . and that’s to friends, not to criminals,’ I said quickly.

  The magistrate surveyed me with disapproval. ‘Answer my questions with yes or no, girl. I don’t want to hear any long speeches from you. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said meekly, my eyes straying to Lady Elizabeth for some clue as to what was happening here. I had half hoped for profuse apologies and instant release. This did not now appear to be on the cards.

  The magistrate turned to the duke and Marchmont.

  ‘Is this the girl . . . the impostor . . . you saw this morning in your house, your grace?’

  The duke gave a curt nod. ‘Yes. I took careful note as the boy here . . .’ he nodded to Marchmont ‘ . . . had warned me only yesterday of the undue influence she seemed to have over my children. And I will swear that those are my daughter’s clothes she is wearing . . . I recognise them. She must have stolen those as well as the jewels.’

  ‘She didn’t steal them!’ burst out Lord Francis, unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘Father, you are a fool to listen to the poison that that toad’s been whispering in your ear! Lizzie gave them to her as we’ve told you already ten thousand times, sir!’

  ‘Silence!’ barked the duke, glaring at his son. ‘I will not have anyone, least of all my own son, call me a fool!’

  ‘Then stop acting like one!’ snapped Lord Francis unwisely.

  ‘I warned you,’ said the duke, his voice menacing, ‘before we came here that you are to say no more on this subject. I am shocked . . . shocked and grieved to find out that a son of mine has allowed his sister to fall into the clutches of so artful a creature. I expected better from you. This means school, sir, school!’