Cat's Cradle (10 page)

I polished off the last bit of muffin. ‘You can smuggle me into the Temple.'

‘Ah! It's the dasher. What might we do for you today, miss?'

Bob did not seem surprised to see me back so soon. He lounged in the doorway, his eyes sliding to my companion with amused interest.

‘Is Mr Beamish at home?' I asked.

‘Sleepin', I expect, miss.' Bob lowered his voice. ‘Not as young as 'e was but still sharp as a tack in the courtroom.'

I nodded, as was only polite, still struggling to imagine the cherubic Mr Beamish tearing into criminals as Bob promised he did.

‘Wait a 'alf a mo and I'll go see if 'e's receivin'.'

Frank leaned on the banister and inspected the oriel window above. ‘Nice set of chambers. Charlie's considering the law; I'll mention it to him when I get back.'

Charlie Hengrave had been my pretend older brother during my sojourn at Westminster School.
*
Warm memories crowded into my mind as I remembered the lark we had had fooling the teachers that I was a boy.

‘How is he?' I asked. I hadn't seen him in over a year.

‘Capital. He's still sharing a set with me, but this time in Trinity Great Court. You'll doubtless see him when you come to Cambridge.'

‘I'd like that.'

Bob was back. ‘Mr Beamish is at your disposal, miss, and the young gentleman's, of course.'

‘He's the Earl of Arden, Bob,' I explained as I stepped over the threshold.

‘Blimey, miss, you do move in queer company, don't you?' he exclaimed.

I handed him my bonnet. ‘As fits a dasher.'

‘Indeed, Miss.' Bob chucked my bonnet with his usual skill on to the coatrack, ribbon flying like a kite string.

‘Not bad,' whistled Frank. He tried lobbing his own hat but it tumbled ignominiously to the ground.

‘Takes years of practice, my lord.' Bob picked up the round-brimmed hat and skimmed it to a peg. ‘See?'

Mr Beamish was sitting exactly where I'd first seen him, behind his desk, surrounded by papers. He rose on my entrance.

‘Ah, Miss Royal, back so soon. Sheridan did warn me you wouldn't let the grass grow under your feet once you knew.'

Bob coughed. ‘The Earl of Arden, sir.'

Beamish turned to Frank and gave him a surprisingly sharp inspection before bowing.

‘Delighted to meet you. Avon's heir, aren't you?'

‘I have that honour,' agreed Frank, bowing.

‘How is the young duke?'

‘Young?' Frank looked confused, wondering if
Mr Beamish was mixing him up with someone else.

‘When you get to my age, everyone's young. A sobering thought. All my contemporaries are either six feet under or completely gaga.'

‘Except you, sir,' replied Frank, taking to this jolly barrister.

‘Kind of you to say so, but sometimes I wonder . . .' He waved us to take a seat. ‘Now, how may I serve you?'

‘I wanted to ask if you would use your influence to secure me a job.' I paused. ‘At the New Lanark cotton mill.'

Mr Beamish rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Bob nodded. ‘Excellent, dasher. Blindside that Mrs Moir. No flies on you, eh?'

Mr Beamish pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer of his desk and began writing. He glanced at me. ‘Ever done work of this sort before?'

I shook my head.

‘Thought not. Still, it's not highly skilled from what I understand. A smart girl like you will manage, I do not doubt.' He signed his name with a flourish then stamped a wax seal on the bottom.
‘Just present this to Mr Dale. I imagine he will have no hesitation about assisting you. A remarkably kind man by all accounts.'

I took the letter. ‘Did you explain my mission?'

‘I said you were trying to trace your family but made no mention of names.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Not a'tall, m'dear, not a'tall. I look forward to hearing the outcome.' He glanced up at Bob. ‘And I venture to say on both our behalves, that we wish you a pleasant reunion. You never know.'

It was kind of him to dress it up that way, but we all knew this was very unlikely.

Frank had already dismissed the tiger with the curricle when we arrived at the Temple. We therefore returned to Bow Street on foot, reminiscing about the times we'd shared on these streets, speculating as to what our old friends were doing now. Particularly Pedro. I could barely turn a corner without imagining I'd see him strolling towards me. He'd become so much a part of my life, it felt empty without my adopted brother.

We crossed the Strand and headed north to Bow Street. It wasn't until we were a hundred yards from Syd's shop that I realized something was wrong. An angry crowd had gathered outside. Most of the gang were there, boys rolling up sleeves and dumping jackets on the ground. Four men had picked up makeshift weapons, tools and bricks. There was no sign of Syd. I broke into a run.

‘Cat!' Frank pounded after me. ‘What's wrong?'

I shouldered my way through the press and grabbed Nick's arm. His face was ugly with rage, his eyes blank for a second until he recognized me.

‘Nick, what's happening?' I gasped.

‘Get inside, Cat. This is no place for you right now,' he replied, turning back to face his troops, for that was what they looked like.

‘Where's Syd?'

Nick jerked his head to the shop. ‘In there. The doctor's with 'im now. 'E'll live, we think.'

I thumped his arm to gain his full attention. ‘What happened?'

Nick ran his hand through his hair. ‘Look, this mornin' 'e went to check on that Irish girl.'

I groaned. It had never occurred to me that Syd would do such a thing, but of course he would have considered her his responsibility after she had stayed here last night.

‘'E ran across 'er brothers. The O'Rileys accused 'im of all sorts of stuff and set about him, seven to one. Even Syd can't beat them kind of odds. Bleedin' cowards! 'E's beat up pretty bad. You'd better go to 'im.'

I swallowed my sick feeling of rage. I'd caused this situation, at least in part. It was my fault Syd was so badly hurt. ‘I will, but first tell me what you're doing.' I could guess. The Butcher's Boys and the people of the market would not let this pass without taking their revenge.

‘Evenin' the score,' Nick said with leashed fury. He flexed his fists. ‘Showin' those Irish they're not welcome round 'ere.'

I could just imagine what would happen when a crowd of angry men from the market swarmed all over the building site. It would be a battlefield, innocents crushed in their passage.

I gripped his sleeve. ‘Stop this, Nick. Think
what Syd would want. There are women and children living there. You can't go marching in and let rip – Syd would hate you to do that.'

Nick shook me off. ‘Get out of my way, Cat. I'm in charge of the Butcher's Boys, not you.'

Frank, who'd been waiting just behind me, stepped forward. ‘She's right, Nick. You can't do it this way. This is between you and the O'Rileys – not every Irishman in London.'

‘With all due respect, my lord,' Nick's tone dripped with sarcasm, ‘this is none of your bloody business.'

Frank stood tall, challenging Nick with his unflinching gaze. ‘You forget, Nick, I'm in the gang until Syd says different. And I say you're wrong about this.'

Nick, usually one of the kindest people of my acquaintance, would listen to no reason this morning. He was seeing the whole world through a red mist. ‘Bleedin' blue blood – what do you know about anythink?'

‘Don't you take it out on Frank, Nick!' I shouted, jabbing him in the ribs. ‘You're just too dim-witted
to realize we're right. You aren't thinking straight.' I turned to the crowd. ‘Go home, all of you.'

‘Shut up, Cat.' Nick seized me around the chest, stopping my mouth with his hand. I struggled, but he didn't let go. ‘Don't listen to 'er. We're off!'

Thwack! With a sudden jerk, Nick's grip on me loosened and he flew backwards. Seeing his man down, Frank rubbed his knuckles and addressed the crowd.

‘Joe, Tom, Mick – all of you, go home. Wait for news of Syd. Tempers are running too high. You'll regret it if you do anything now.'

Nick was pulling himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it from the blow to his jaw.

‘Think, lads: would Nick lay a finger on Cat if he was himself?' Frank continued.

A few muttered, some shoulders began to sag, taking on less belligerent stances.

I moved to Frank's side. ‘Please, everyone. At least wait until Syd agrees to whatever action you're going to take,' I pleaded. I held out a hand to Nick. ‘Please.'

Nick hesitated, looked at me for what felt like an age, then took my hand. ‘All right, Cat. Maybe we should wait – see 'ow Syd is.' Addressing the men, he said, ‘We'll meet again at six. I'll let you know the plan then.'

The crowd dispersed, leaving us three alone.

Frank gave Nick a wary look. ‘Sorry I hit you, but I couldn't let you manhandle Cat.' He held out a hand.

Nick gave a gruff laugh and shook the proffered palm. ‘Blimey, Frank, you can pack a punch!'

‘I've had a good tutor.'

‘Yeah, and 'e'd've knocked me even 'arder if 'e'd been 'ere. Sorry, Cat. I was a bit beside meself.'

‘Apology accepted.' I took a breath, the full horror of what had happened penetrating now the immediate danger had passed. ‘Come on – let's go see Syd.'

Syd was lying in his bed, tended by his mother. At least I think it was Syd – his face was swollen and both eyes blackened. He looked distressingly like
the raw meat sold downstairs. I could better understand Nick's rage now – if the O'Riley brothers had been anywhere within reach I would have cheerfully taken a horsewhip to them myself.

‘How is he?' I whispered, gripping Mrs Fletcher's hand.

Syd's eyes flickered open. ‘Cat?' he croaked.

‘I'm here.' I knelt by the bed. ‘Frank's here too.'

‘I'm not dyin', you know.'

His mother sniffed and bit her lip.

‘I know you're not, you idiot. A pasting won't take Syd Fletcher down.' I swivelled round to Mrs Fletcher. ‘What's the damage?'

‘Busted ribs, bruisin'. Too early to say about bleedin' inside but the doctor's hopeful. 'E's got a tough 'ide 'as our Syd.'

‘Tough as old boots,' I agreed, trying not to show my shock in my expression. ‘You'll be up and about in no time.'

Syd beckoned me closer. ‘I'm worried 'bout the Irish lass.'

‘I saw her this morning. She was . . . she was all right.'

‘She won't be able to stay now. She'll get 'urt – I just know it. One of my lot or one of 'er brothers. She'd be better off out of it.'

‘I'll look after that. Don't worry.'

‘Nick?' Syd groaned as he shifted on his pillow.

Nick took a step futher into the little chamber. ‘Yeah, Syd?'

‘Keep the boys from doin' anythink stupid. I'll deal with the O'Rileys in me own time. I trust you to 'ave more sense than most of them 'ot'eads.'

Nick flicked a guilty look at Frank and me. ‘But if we catch 'em, I'm not goin' to let 'em get away with this.'

Syd gave a strained laugh. ‘Nah, I don't expect you will. But remember, this is my battle.' He flexed his fist then let it go limp on the covers. ‘Leave me at least Corny O'Riley.'

Nick gave a nod. ‘I promise.'

‘And no one else is to be punished,' Syd continued. ‘Don't let this get out of 'and, eh?'

With some reluctance, Nick gave his word.

‘Now off you go, the lot of you,' said Mrs Fletcher, flapping us from the room. ‘I'm goin'
to give Syd a few drops of laudanum and let 'im sleep.'

Sobered by the interview with Syd, Frank and I sat in the kitchen at a loss what to do now.

‘How are you going to help the Irish girl? You can't risk going over there – not with her brothers about.' Frank stirred the kitchen fire with the poker.

‘But I promised.'

‘Send her a note.'

‘I doubt she can read.'

He frowned. ‘True. Perhaps I could send a footman?'

‘She'd love that,' I said sourly. ‘Very subtle.'

There came a timid knock on the back door and I jumped up to answer. Bridgit O'Riley stood on the step, small bundle in one hand, a tatty shawl clutched at her throat.

‘Er, Frank?' I said over my shoulder.

‘Yes?'

‘I think our problem's just been solved.'

Bridgit accepted my offer of tea with wary
thanks. She perched on the edge of her chair, eyes darting into every corner as if expecting someone to spring out and attack.

‘I am so sorry, Cat,' she said hoarsely. ‘I should go, but I don't have anywhere else. All I could think of was you and Mr and Mrs Fletcher and how kind you were to me. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault.'

‘No, it's not.' I squeezed her hand while Frank bustled around the range looking most bemused as he worked out the feminine mystery of tea-making.

‘How fares your friend?' she asked, her eyes filled with tears. ‘He was so brave, standing up for me in front of my brothers. They called him – and me – all sorts of names, but he weren't having it. Told them to respect me, he did. That's when they attacked.'

I hastened to reassure her. ‘He'll be all right. He's a tough one, is Syd.'

She breathed a sigh of relief, then clenched her fists and struck her thighs in impotent rage. ‘I hate my brothers – hate them!'

I put an arm round her, preventing her
directing any more of her anger against herself. ‘So do I right now. Where are they?'

‘They have barricaded themselves in our room; they're expecting trouble. They told me to run for it.' She gulped. ‘Corny told me not to come back – said it was my fault.'