The Diamond of Drury Lane (5 page)

‘Wasted!’ protested Peter, putting an arm around my shoulders and giving me a comforting squeeze. ‘Only so we could save our Cat!’

‘Then she can help repair the delays by finding ’im for me,’ Signor Angelini said briskly, ushering the orchestra back to their places. ‘Run, Caterina. Tell the boy ’e won’t be in trouble if ’e gets back in
the next quarter of an hour. After that, ’e will regret it.’ He swished his baton, giving me no doubt that he intended to apply it to Pedro if he was still missing after that time.

I ran as fast as I could up the rickety stairs leading to the Sparrow’s Nest. Mrs Reid was sitting with Sarah Bowers, heads bent over a long velvet train that had got ripped in the scuffle to leave the stage last night. A shaft of smoky light fell across their laps from the window above their heads, dust motes dancing in the beam like tiny fairies. Their needles twinkled as they plied them in and out of the cloth with great skill . . . a skill I had never been able to acquire despite all of Mrs Reid’s lessons.

‘Is Pedro here?’ I asked breathlessly.

Mrs Reid looked up, her mouth full of pins. ‘Who, dear?’

‘Pedro. The Mogul Prince.’

She still looked blank.

‘The black boy.’

‘No, dear. We’ve not seen anyone. But if you do see our prince, tell him his costume is ready for trying.’

‘I will,’ I shouted as I clattered back down the stairs.

What had become of him? He was much in demand but nowhere to be seen backstage. True, Reader; there were plenty of places to hide if you knew your way around, but Pedro had never been here before as far as I knew and in any case, why would he be hiding? He seemed too serious a character to indulge in such childish play, particularly when no one else was in the game. It was a puzzle.

I sat on the bottom step for a moment, thinking. If he wasn’t hiding and he wasn’t backstage or front of house, then he must have gone outside. Yes, that was it. The brass-belcher’s remarks must have upset him more than I had realised. Pedro had deserved praise, not insults for doing what he did. He had probably gone outside to get away from us all.

I ran to the stage door. It stood open, but there was no sign of Caleb. This was unusual, for if Caleb were called away for any reason, he would not leave the door like that. This confirmed my
theory. I emerged into the little courtyard that led on to Russell Street. It too was deserted. Where would he have gone? Left towards Covent Garden, or right towards Drury Lane? I stood indecisively, trying to see the place as he would have seen it. He probably had not meant to go far. Perhaps he just wanted some air? Well, if he wanted open spaces, he would have headed for the market which, despite the constant din of the fruit and vegetable sellers crying out the latest bargains, the wagons passing to and fro, not to mention the clucking of the poultry on the butcher’s block, offered the only uninterrupted view of the sky in this part of town. I felt a sudden stab of concern for him. A boy in fine livery would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the tough apprentices of the market . . . I should know, for most of them were my friends.

I had a bad time negotiating the busy crossing on Bow Street. It was packed with people going about their business. A bailiff hurried by with his men, loaded down with goods they must have just seized from some poor debtor. A hawker of ballads stood on the corner crying out his latest wares.

‘You ’eard it ’ere first, ladies and gents: the dying speech of John Jeffreys, traitor, thief and murderer. ’Ot off the press! ’Ear ’ow ’e laments ’is wicked crimes afore ’e took the drop at Newgate last week.’

I gave the ballad maker a wide berth, having no taste for such grisly songs. In any case, they were all pure invention: the unfortunate Jeffreys would have had no time for long versified speeches before the trap opened and certainly no time afterwards unless he revived on the table before the anatomy men dissected his body.

My attempt to steer a path through the crowd gathered around the ballad seller had the unfortunate consequence of bringing my feet plum into the middle of some freshly dropped horse manure. I cursed. To add insult to injury, a black coach and four with a ducal crest rattled by, spraying me with the icy water from a puddle outside the Magistrates’ Court. I hopped back too late, colliding with one of the Bow Street runners, our local law enforcers. He pushed me roughly away.

‘Watch where you’re going, you idiot!’ he
bellowed, brushing down his uniform.

‘Same to you with knobs on, you old fogrum!’ I replied, and dashed across the road before he could box my ears.

(I should perhaps explain here for the more delicate among my readers that a different deportment is required on the streets of London than is usually taught to young ladies and gentlemen. Believe me when I assure you that I would not have survived long in my present situation if I had not learned this early on. I hope you are not unduly shocked for there is much more of the like to come.)

I ran as fast as I could out on to the piazza and dodged under one of the arches of the houses flanking the market place. I shook out my skirt and scraped my shoes on a piece of old sacking lying in the corner. Thankfully, the cold weather had quelled some of the riper odours of the street: the refuse, piss and dung that gave our streets their distinctive odour were noticeably less overwhelming this morning. This was just as well as I was now carrying most of it on my shoes and skirt.
But the cold had another consequence: having neglected to put on a shawl over my woollen dress, I was already shivering. Time to find the violinist and get back into the warm.

I looked around the piazza. It was a crisp winter’s day . . . the painted houses stood out gaily against the bright blue sky, each roof ridge, each chimney pot sharp and distinct. At first I saw nothing unusual; just the normal collection of servants making purchases, stallholders waylaying the naïve with rotten fruits hidden under their most gleaming articles for sale, apprentice boys lounging outside the inns finishing a late breakfast, gentlemen passing in and out of the coffee houses.

Then I spotted him. I had not seen him at first because he was, as I had feared, surrounded by a crowd of some of the roughest boys of the market, pushed up against the stone monument in the centre of the square. Foremost amongst them was a tall, thin youth of about seventeen with a close-cropped head of dark hair. It was Billy Shepherd, the leader of one of the gangs that vies for control of the market underworld. I’ve known Billy ever
since I first played on the streets: he was a bully then and shows no signs of improvement as he gets older. Of course, he is by no means the only tyrant in Covent Garden. The thing that makes Billy different, that has thrust him to the head of his gang, is that he is clever. He links a total absence of moral scruples with the cunning of a fox. Let me put it this way: if the Devil challenged him to a sinning match, and they were taking bets, I’d put my money on Billy to win. You don’t believe me? Well, here’s my shilling, Reader: put yours down on the table and we’ll see who’s the richer at the end of the adventure.

Knowing Billy as I do, I looked anxiously around, wondering if Syd’s gang was anywhere in sight. Syd was Billy’s rival for mastery of the square. Though a gentle giant, Syd had a mean pair of fists when roused to defend his territory. If I could persuade him to take Pedro under his wing, he would look after him. Unfortunately, I could see neither hide nor hair of my friend. I was on my own if I wanted to return Pedro to the theatre in one piece. And I had better act quickly for Billy
now advanced on Pedro and grabbed him by the jacket. Pedro stared back at him in disbelief, confused by the attack he had done nothing to provoke. He didn’t understand that Billy needed no excuse.

‘Oi! Billy!’ I shouted, running over the cobbles to reach them. ‘Leave him! He’s with me!’

Billy leant coolly against the pillar, pinning Pedro by the throat. A couple of his burly mates chuckled as I came sliding to a stop at the bottom of the steps to the monument.

‘Found yourself a beau, ’ave you, Cat?’ he sneered. ‘Scraping the barrel with this one, ain’t you? What’s wrong with one of us?’ His eyes, pieces of ice in his pasty face, sparkled maliciously as he looked down at me.

‘Oh, hold your tongue!’ I snapped back, annoyed to feel that I was blushing. ‘He’s not my beau. I only met him this morning but he saved my neck at the theatre just now.’

‘Saved your pretty white neck, did he?’ said Billy. ‘Well, ain’t that nice to ’ear. I tell you what, if you give me a kiss, I’ll let him go.’ He puckered up
his ugly fat lips and waited. His gang all laughed as if Billy was the sharpest wit in London.

‘Kiss my a
**
e, you toad! I’ll smack you in the face if you don’t let him go this instant!’

‘Ooo! I am scared!’ Billy said in a mock whine. ‘The little cat will get out her claws, will she? ’Elp, boys, I’m terrified.’

His cronies sniggered again. One with a sharp nose like the snout of a ferret made a meowing sound behind me, plunging them into fresh paroxysms of mirth.

‘I’m warning you!’ I said, taking a step towards Billy. I did not know what I was going to do, but anger was driving me recklessly on, like a runaway horse pulling a carriage downhill.

But at least my rage produced one good effect: Billy released his hold on Pedro and swaggered towards me as if he owned the whole market and everything in it . . . including me. ‘Or what? Are you askin’ for a beatin’? ’Cause I’ll give you one, even though you are a girl. Mind you, you’re no lady, so it don’t count.’ He gave me an evil grin, displaying his row of blackened teeth. ‘You’re just a daggle-tail
’oo can speak like a duchess when it suits but can’t wash off the stink of the gutter no matter ’ow you pretend to your fine friends in the theatre.’

‘A daggle-tail cat!’ repeated Ferret-features with an appreciative chuckle.

I was searching for a suitably tart response when Pedro scrambled to stand between me and Billy, his fists raised.

‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ he challenged.

Even I had to admit, my champion’s threat was not very impressive. He looked as if one stout blow would knock him to kingdom come. But I appreciated his courage all the same.

‘Or what, Blackie?’ jeered Billy. ‘You want a gob-full of claret too, eh?’

‘Leave him out of this!’ I said angrily.

Billy flicked a contemptuous look at Pedro. ‘Wot ya think, boys? Our Cat ’ere ’as fallen for ’is dusky charms.’ Billy pushed Pedro aside and tucked me under his sweaty armpit. ‘We can’t ’ave our English girls messin’ with no African slave boys, can we now?’

I struggled to free myself from his arm but he
continued to tow me away. If I didn’t do something quickly, he would bring his boys in against Pedro in a lynch mob. There was nothing the London youth liked better than a bit of foreigner-bashing. I had to think of something to draw their fire away from him.

But the African wasn’t helping. ‘I’m no slave!’ declared Pedro proudly, standing up erect.

‘Let me go, you fathead!’ I protested, punching Billy ineffectually in the ribs to get him to release me. ‘Back off, Billy
Boil
!’

Billy winced. He did indeed have the misfortune to have a large inflamed spot on the end of his nose. I had not realised that he was so sensitive about it . . . if I had, I would have employed the insult sooner. He shoved me roughly away, on to the cobbles, and called me a name that you do not hear in polite company. He then aimed a kick at me.

‘Run!’ I yelled at Pedro as I picked myself up and made a dash for home. I did not even look round to see if he was following. I had done my best by distracting Billy; Pedro would have to rely
on his own wit for the rest. At least in part the trick had worked, for I could hear the thunder of footsteps on my heels: Billy and his boys were after me. I leapfrogged over a grocer’s stall, spilling a crate of apples in my passage through. A boy cursed behind me as he fell to the ground, feet forced from under him by the green ammunition I had let loose.

‘Come back ’ere, you vandal!’ shouted the unfortunate owner of the stall, but I was not fool enough to obey him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pedro running parallel, chased by two of Billy’s thugs. He was outstripping them easily and appeared to stand a better chance of getting home in one piece than I did. I could hear the panting breath of someone hot on my heels. If I didn’t get out of sight, it was all up with me. I took a sharp right, dodging out of view of my pursuers for a few precious seconds, and dived under the cheese-monger’s stall. Mrs Peters was minding the shop . . . a lucky thing for me, for she was known to be a kind-hearted woman.

‘Hide me, please!’ I hissed to her plump ankles.

‘Lawd love us, Cat!’ she muttered. ‘What scrape ’ave you got into now?’

I had no time to reply, for Billy Shepherd had arrived at her stall. I shrank close to a churn, hoping he would not think to look under the table. My hiding place had the sour smell of milk on the turn, but in my present situation I could not afford to be too particular.

‘Oi, missus! Which way she go?’ asked Billy, panting hard.

‘’Oo’s that?’ Mrs Peters replied with forced cheerfulness, though I could see her knuckles were white as she clenched a cloth by her side. All of the stallholders had reason to fear Billy Shepherd. He was a nasty piece of work who would not think twice about wrecking their business if it suited him. They had been appealing to Syd to do something about Billy and we all knew a confrontation was brewing.

‘Don’t be clever with me,’ growled Billy. ‘Cat . . . that red-’aired girl from the theatre. ‘’Oo else d’you think I mean?’

‘Oh, ’er,’ said Mrs Peters as if the daylight of
understanding was just dawning in her benighted mind. ‘I saw ’er run off down Russell Street as if the devil ’imself were after ’er.’

Billy swore. ‘I don’t believe you, you old cow. She couldn’t get so far so fast.’

‘If you don’t believe me, search my stall then . . . and ’is . . . and ’ers.’ She waved her cloth at the other stallholders. This was a high-risk strategy on her part. I slid as close as I could to the churn, feeling the metal cold on my cheek. ‘I’ve got nuffink to ’ide from the likes of you.’