Black Hearts in Battersea

  Sophie turned to look at him incredulously.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Of course I don’t know.’ Simon gave her a good-humoured pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t forget I’ve only just arrived in London. I’m not such an almanack as you, my bright girl. Who is he, then?’

  Sophie burst into a fit of laughter which lasted her as far as the servants’ entrance to Battersea Castle. ‘Why,’ she gasped, wiping the tears of merriment from her eyes, ‘he’s the Duke of Battersea, that’s all! Certainly you must keep the appointment – his feelings would be hurt if you didn’t.’

  She gave Simon a quick good-night hug, and he heard her laughing again as she ran down the tunnel and out of sight.

  6

  WHEN SIMON RETURNED to his lodgings the following evening he saw Miss Dido Twite in her nightgown looking out rather forlornly from the front window into the twilit street. Her face brightened immediately at sight of him and as he entered the house she put her head round her bedroom door.

  ‘Wotcher, my cully,’ she greeted him hoarsely but joyfully.

  ‘Hallo, brat. What’s the matter with you?’ Simon inquired. She was flushed, and had a long red stocking wound round her throat.

  ‘I have the quinsy,’ Dido croaked, ‘and Ma and Pa and Penny-lope and Aunt Poke and Aunt Tinty and everybody has gone off to Theobalds’ Fair and I’m that put about and blue-devilled. Mean, hateful things they are – I wish they was all dead!’ She stamped her bare foot on the floor and her lip quivered. ‘There was to be a Flaming Lady, too, and a Two-headed Sheep and Performing Fleas and a G-giant C-carnivorous Crocodile.’

  ‘Here, don’t you think you ought to be in bed?’ said Simon, anxious to avert an explosion of tears which seemed imminent. ‘I’m sure if you have the quinsy you shouldn’t be running about in your nightgown. Come on, I’ll tuck you up.’

  ‘Will you stay and play cribbage with me?’ asked Dido instantly.

  ‘All right – only jump in quickly.’

  She retired through the doorway to a very untidy ground-floor bedchamber evidently shared by the two sisters, for as well as Dido’s meagre collection of playthings, it contained curling-tongs, copies of the Ladies’ Magazine, and a great quantity of frilly garments, which plainly belonged to Penelope, strewn about in a state of disrepair.

  ‘Now you sit there,’ ordered Dido, jumping into a skimpy dishevelled bed and patting the coverlet. ‘Here’s the cribbage board. Shall we play for money?’

  ‘No, we certainly shall not,’ said Simon reprovingly. ‘Besides, I don’t for one moment suppose that you have any.’

  ‘No, I haven’t a tosser to my kick,’ Dido said, bursting out laughing. ‘What a hum it would have been if you’d won! Come on – you can start.’

  They played for an hour, Dido winning all the time, largely because she was prepared to cheat in the most unabashed manner. Then she began to get restless and peevish, and suggested they change over to loo. Simon, who thought she ought to get some rest, proposed that he should straighten her covers and leave her to try and go to sleep, but she raised vehement objections.

  ‘I don’t want to go to sleep! I don’t want to be left alone! There’s too many people come into this house at night, walking about and bumping on the stairs.’

  ‘I don’t believe there’s a soul except us,’ said Simon. ‘You’re not scared of ghosts, are you?’

  ‘I ain’t afeared of anything,’ said Dido with spirit. ‘I just don’t like people walking about on the stairs and bumping. They clanks, too, sometimes.’

  ‘Shall I get you something to eat or drink?’ Simon suggested.

  Dido thought she would like a drink of hot milk. ‘Ma said she’d leave a mug of milk in the kitchen, but I’d sooner you hotted it. My throat feels like someone’s been at it with sandpaper.’ She gave him a pitiful grin, looking more than ever like a small, moulting sparrow.

  Simon found the Twites’ kitchen, a huge gloomy room in the basement. The mug of milk was on the table, but it took some hunting to discover a clean saucepan. The fire in the range was very low and the coal-scuttle empty; he returned to Dido and asked where the coal was kept.

  ‘In the cellar. Door’s back o’ the pantry. Mind how you go down the steps, they’re steep,’ she croaked. ‘Ma won’t let me go down there.’

  There were some half-used candles on the kitchen dresser. Simon lit one, took the hod, and went down the steep, narrow cellar stairs. There was another door at the foot, which was locked, but the key was in the lock. He opened this and cautiously entered the darkness beyond, holding his candle high. His foot struck against something metallic which clinked on the stone floor. He lowered the candle and was astonished to see a musket – another – dozens of them, neatly stacked. And beyond the muskets were barrels of a greyish substance which Simon, by feel and sniff, holding the candle at a safe distance, identified as gunpowder. The room was a regular arsenal!

  He found a heap of coal in one corner. Thoughtfully he filled his hod and returned to the kitchen, locking the cellar door behind him again. While he mended the fire and waited for the milk to heat he pondered over this discovery. No wonder Dido heard people bumping and clanking on the stairs! No doubt about it, the Twites must be Hanoverian plotters, bent on removing good King James from the throne, and bringing in the Young Pretender, Bonnie Prince Georgie from over the water.

  The milk came to the boil and, remembering Mrs Cobb’s Special, he shook in some aniseed and took the mug to Dido. She sipped the hot drink gratefully while he beat up her pillows and straightened the blankets with clumsy goodwill.

  ‘Now you must try to sleep,’ he ordered, when the mug was empty.

  ‘You’ve got to stay with me till I go off,’ she countered. She looked hot-cheeked and heavy-eyed, ready to fall asleep at any moment.

  ‘Very well,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll blow out the candle.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Put it over on that cupboard where it won’t shine in my eyes.’

  ‘Lie down, then.’ She curled up, sighing, with her back to him, and he placed the candle on the cupboard. As he did so his attention was caught by a small drawing pinned on the wall. He held the light close and saw that it was a sketch-portrait of Dido, done roughly, but full of life and animation. She was sitting on the front steps, eating a piece of bread-and-jam. Simon let out an exclamation under his breath and studied the picture intently. The style of drawing was unmistakable: it could be by no other hand than that of Gabriel Field. He looked at the lower right-hand corner where the doctor always signed with his initials, but saw that the whole corner of the paper had been neatly removed by somebody’s thumbnail.

  He put the candle down and returned to Dido, intending to question her, but she was so drowsy he had not the heart. ‘Kind,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Nobody else …’ Her voice died away. She took a firm hold of Simon’s hand and sank into sleep. In any case, what would be the use of questioning her? She would only tell lies about it. Best to mention it to Mr Twite in the morning – it offered complete proof that Dr Field had been in the house and seen Dido.

  Had Dr Field stumbled on some evidence of the Hanoverian plot and been put out of the way?

  Dido stirred and suddenly opened her eyes.

  ‘Where’s your kitty?’ she muttered.

  ‘I’ve lent it to a lady called Mrs Cobb.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To catch mice for her.’

  Dido lay silent. Presently a large tear rolled out from under her closed eyelid.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘First the donkey went – then the kitty went – next you’ll go. I don’t have anyone nice to play with – they allus leaves.’

  ‘I shan’t leave,’ Simon soothed her. ‘You go back to sleep.’ But as the words left him it suddenly occurred to him to wonder what would happen if the Twites realized that he had seen the arms in the cellar. Would he, like Dr Field, mysteriously disappear?

  Dido’s eyelids flickered ope
n, then shut once more. Her breathing slowly became deep and even, her clutch on his hand loosened. Fifteen minutes went by and then he judged it safe to slip his hand free and stand up. As he did so she moved and muttered in her sleep, ‘Can’t tell, you see. Pa would larrup me.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Simon softly. ‘I think I know.’ And he tiptoed from the room.

  Simon took a long time to go to sleep. He lay awake worrying, and woke next day with his problem still unsolved. His first impulse had been to inquire the way to the office of the Bow Street constabulary and put the whole matter before them. What would happen then? There would be commotion, uproar, publicity – the Twites would be arrested, no doubt, the guns and ammunition removed, but would he be any nearer discovering what had happened to Dr Field? He doubted it. After much pondering he decided to keep his own counsel a bit longer, and to watch the Twites even more closely.

  To this end, when, as he ate his breakfast, he heard a violent quarrel break out on the stairs, he went quietly on to the landing and stood listening by the banisters out of sight.

  ‘I’ll teach you to leave keys in doors!’ Mrs Twite was crying angrily. ‘Didn’t I tell you to see to the fire and lock the cellar before we set out? Oh, you nasty little minx, you! I’ll wager you never fetched the coal. Oh, you hussy, you. All you cared about was prinking and powdering and sticking on beauty-spots!’

  Simon heard what sounded like a hearty box on the ear followed by an angry shriek from Penelope:

  ‘Leave me be, Ma! Pa, make her leave me be or I declare I’ll leave home. I won’t stay here to be abused!’

  ‘Best leave her be, then, Ella, my dove.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Abednego!’

  There followed the sound of a door slamming. Simon waited a moment or two, then ran quietly downstairs.

  By the front door he came face to face with Mr Twite.

  ‘Ah, it’s our distinguished young Raphael, our Leonardo-to-be,’ said Mr Twite with a wide smile which seemed almost to meet round the back of his head while leaving the upper half of his face quite undisturbed. ‘I trust you are rejoicing in the pursuit of your studies? Art, art, a hard but rewarding taskmaster!’ Evidently rather pleased with the sound of these last words, he repeated them over to himself, shutting his eyes and opening his mouth very wide at each syllable, pronouncing rewarding like guarding. Meanwhile, Simon waited for an opportunity to ask about the sketch.

  ‘I delay you,’ said Mr Twite, opening his eyes and giving Simon a very sharp look.

  ‘No, sir. I was going to ask how Dido does this morning.’

  ‘Poorly, poorly. A delicate sprite,’ sighed Mr Twite. ‘Dido Twite: a delicate sprite,’ he chanted, to the air of Three Blind Mice. ‘It is the curse of our family, young man, to be afflicted by spirits too strong for our bodies.’

  Simon thought that if Dido were given rather more food, and warmer clothes, and in general more care and attention, her body would be equal to maintaining its spirit, but he did not say so.

  ‘In point of fact,’ Mr Twite confided, ‘the poor child is quite feverish – my wife has just sent along to the pharmacy for a drop of Tintagel Water.’

  ‘Is that young Thingummy?’ called the sharp voice of Mrs Twite, and she came out of the kitchen, attired for the morning in plum-coloured plush. Directing at Simon a smile as glittering as it was insincere, she exclaimed: ‘It must have been you, dear boy, who heated up a mug of milk for our little one last night.’

  ‘Yes it was, ma’am. She didn’t fancy it cold, so I heated it and put in a pinch of aniseed. I hope I did nothing wrong?’

  ‘Not a bit, dear boy. Not a bit. It was a truly Samaritan act.’

  ‘The Samaritans came in two by two,

  And paused to bandage the kangaroo –’

  sang Mr Twite.

  ‘Will you be quiet, Abednego! I do hope, Mr Thingummy,’ pursued Mrs Twite, looking at Simon very attentively, ‘that you weren’t put to too much trouble about it. I hope you didn’t have to mend the fire, or fetch coals, or anything of that kind?’

  ‘No trouble, ma’am,’ Simon said. Luckily Mrs Twite took this to mean that he had not had to fetch coal. ‘Penny must have told the truth, then,’ she murmured, glancing significantly at her husband. ‘She forgot to take the key, but no harm’s done.’

  ‘She’d better not forget it again, or she’ll have a taste of my hoboy.’

  Simon seized the chance, when Mrs Twite had retired, of asking who had drawn the little sketch of Dido that hung in her room.

  ‘Sketch of Dido, my boy?’ Mr Twite looked vague. ‘Is there such a thing? I confess I do not recall it, but, surrounded as we are by talent, it may be by any of a dozen friends.’

  ‘I’ll show it to you,’ Simon said eagerly.

  ‘Later, later, my dear fellow.’ Mr Twite held up a restraining hand. ‘This evening, perhaps. For here comes the lad with the Tintagel Water, and Aesculapius must rule supreme.’ He gently shoved Simon out of the front door as the boy Tod came up the steps with a large black bottle.

  That evening Simon was washing out his shirt in a pail of water when Tod opened his door without knocking and remarked:

  ‘Young Dido’s calling for you, and Aunt Twite says, can you sit with her?’

  ‘Very well.’ Simon left his shirt soaking. Tod muttered:

  ‘Can’t think why she wants you …’

  ‘Oh, there you are, Mr Thingummy. I declare,’ exclaimed Mrs Twite, who looked flushed and irritable, ‘I’m clean distracted with that child so feverish as she is; keeps trying to get out of bed, and Penelope gone out to goodness knows where, and a meeting of the Glee Society in half an hour. She’s been calling for you, dear boy, so if you would just sit with her till she goes off –’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Simon said.

  He found Dido in a high fever, throwing herself restlessly about in her bed, muttering random remarks, singing odd snatches of songs. When he took her hand she quieted somewhat and lay back on the pillow.

  ‘Hallo, brat,’ said Simon. ‘Do you want to play cards?’

  ‘Too hot,’ she muttered. ‘Tell story.’

  Mrs Twite put her head round the door long enough to nod gracious approval, and went quickly back to her Glee Society preparations. Simon racked his brains for a story. Then he hit on the notion of telling his adventures during the years when he had lived in his cave in the forest of Willoughby Chase, playing hide-and-seek with the wolves all winter long. This answered famously. Dido left off her restless fidgeting and settled down, holding on to his finger, listening in languid contnt.

  ‘I’d like to go there …’ she whispered.

  ‘I expect you will some day.’

  Her eyes opened in a drowsy flicker. ‘Will you take me?’

  ‘Yes, very likely, if you are good and go to sleep now.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Very well.’

  Her eyes closed and she slept. Simon carefully withdrew his hand and tiptoed across the room to re-examine the little sketch. But it was gone. Annoyed at not having anticipated this and showed it to Mr Twite in the morning, he tried to open the door but found it locked. Since he did not like to knock and risk waking Dido he found himself a prisoner. Having searched the room for some occupation and rejected the chance of reading numerous copies of the Maids’ Wives’ and Widows’ Penny Magazine, he went philosophically to sleep, curled up on the floor.

  He woke to find Mr Twite shaking him.

  ‘So sorry, my dear boy – a most unfortunate oversight. My wife thought you had already retired. No doubt you will wish to do so directly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Simon yawning. Then he recollected the sketch. ‘Mr Twite, that little drawing of Dido – the one that hung just there –’

  ‘No, no, dear boy, no picture hung there. You imagined it, I daresay – yes, yes, your fancy is full of pictures. It is most natural.’

  ‘But I saw –’

  ‘Ah, we artists,’ said Mr Twite, waving him out of
the door. ‘Always at the mercy of our visions. By the way,’ he added in quite another tone, ‘have you seen my daughter Penelope by any chance?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  ‘Strange – most strange. Where can she have got to? Doubtless she will turn up, but it is vexatious. Ah well, I’ll keep you no longer from the arms of Morpheus.’

  Dido was feverish for several days, and Simon sat with her each evening until she was pronounced well enough to get up and lie outside on the patch of thistly grass by the river.

  ‘I shan’t be able to sit and tell you stories this evening,’ said Simon, finding her so placed one morning as he went off.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I shan’t be home till late.’

  ‘Why? Where are you going? To a circus!’ Dido asked with instant suspicion.

  ‘No, no. When I go to a circus I’ll take you too. I’m going to play chess with an old gentleman.’

  ‘Stupid stuff,’ said Dido, her interest waning. ‘I wouldn’t care to do so. Did you know Penny had run off? She left a note saying she wouldn’t be put upon. You should have heard Ma create!’

  Simon recollected that he had not seen Penelope for several days. He could not feel any sense of loss at her departure.

  ‘P’raps Ma’ll make some togs for me, now,’ Dido said hopefully, echoing Simon’s thoughts. Then she added, ‘Where’re you playing chess, anyways?’

  ‘At Battersea Castle,’ Simon called over his shoulder as he walked off. ‘Goodbye, brat. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Mr Cobb,’ Simon said that evening as he mended the springs of a lady’s perch-phaeton. ‘What would you do if you thought you had discovered a Hanoverian plot?’

  Mr Cobb lowered the wash-leather with which he was polishing the panels and regarded Simon with a very shrewd expression.