‘Cat! If you don’t get down here now, I’ll skin you!’ shouted Mr Salter.
‘Coming!’ I grabbed hold of the nearest rope and slid down it, much to Mr Salter’s horror.
‘You could have used the stairs, you little hoyden,’ he said, handing me a thick sheaf of tickets. ‘Now get yourself off to Brook’s, the gentlemen’s club in St James. Do you know it?’ I nodded. ‘Just ask at the door. They’re expecting a messenger from Drury Lane. Make sure you get a receipt.’
Outside, the day did not seem to have dawned even though it was near midday. Fog, mixed with the smoke of thousands of coal fires, had brewed a spell for invisibility. Hackney cabs rattled down Drury Lane blind to everything but the feeble will-o’-the-wisp lamps of the carriage in front. Woe betide anyone who dared to cross without taking due care! The jarveys would probably just ride over you in this weather and not worry too much about the bump under their wheels. I stuck to the pavement, weaving my way through the crowds. On the corner of Long Acre, a gaggle of gullible country bumpkins had clustered around a card sharp as he waved a pack of cards under their noses.
‘Pick a card, gents – any card,’ I heard him intone as I passed. ‘And I bet you a shilling I can tell you which one it is.’
‘Course you will, Joe,’ I called out, then muttered in his ear, ‘it’s the one you’ll palm off on them from up your sleeve.’
Joe ‘The Card’ Murray grinned and caught my arm. He was one of the less respectable members of Syd’s gang. His gold tooth glinted in the light of the shop window behind him.
‘’Ow’s you, Cat? ’Ow’s Prince?’
‘Bearing up, Joe. Are you coming tonight?’
‘Course. Purchased me ticket first I ’eard of it.’ He looked at his listeners – their attention was beginning to wander. ‘Right, the little lady ’ere is goin’ to ’ave first guess. Take a card, miss.’ I plucked a card from his hand, seeing if I could spot the exchange, but he was too quick for me. He paused dramatically, hand pressed to his forehead in earnest thought. ‘I think it’s the ace of spades.’
I turned the card over. It was the four of diamonds. The bumpkins laughed.
‘You owe her a shilling,’ one called out.
‘That I do.’ Joe presented me with a shilling. ‘Spend it wisely, little miss. ’Ow about some nice satin ribbons?’ He opened his jacket to display a rainbow of ribbons dangling there.
‘Not now, Joe, I’m on an errand. See you later.’
Joe turned back to his audience, undaunted by his failure. I knew exactly why he’d done it: if his audience thought they stood a fair chance of winning, they’d be freer with their shillings. His loss to me was a good investment.
I turned south, giving the patch known as the Rookeries a wide berth. My old enemy, Billy Shepherd, had increased his grip on the streets of St Giles since we last met. Rumour had it that he was now the top man in the district, thanks to a few throat-cuttings and arson attacks on those who had held out against him. I would certainly not be welcome if I strayed into his territory. He still had a price on my head following our last encounter in the holding cells of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.
Now the crooked streets of Covent Garden gave way to the wider carriageways of Piccadilly. The people on the pavements were noticeably smarter. I counted six gold pocket watches in the space of a hundred yards and at least three pickpockets – a sure sign of riches. The shops were also a good deal more flash. James Lock & Co. displayed an array of hats like an aviary of exotic birds. Gray’s, the jewellers, tempted the purse with ropes of pearls and trays of gold rings like a pirate’s cave.
Finally I reached Brook’s, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
‘Yes?’ a footman challenged me pompously.
‘I’m the messenger from Drury Lane,’ I said breathlessly.
‘They sent a girl – to Brook’s?’ Incredulity was written all over his face.
‘As you can see.’ I silently cursed Mr Salter, who no doubt thought it funny to send me here knowing the chance that I’d be refused entry.
‘We don’t allow females.’
‘I know. I don’t want to put my foot across your poxy threshold. I just want to deliver my message. You can take it in for me, if you want.’
The footman frowned. ‘I can’t do that, miss. The member was most insistent that he receive the message in person. There’s a receipt to go back.’
I’d forgotten that part. Mr Salter had mentioned something about it.
‘Well, you’d better smuggle me in then,’ I said, amused by the expression of horror working its way across his face. ‘I’ll try not to be too obviously female. I’ll keep the swoonings to a minimum and promise I’ll have only one fit of the vapours.’
The footman curled his lip. ‘You – the vapours! Ha! Brats like you can’t afford that luxury.’ This was very true but need he rub it in? ‘Come on then, follow me and keep quiet. I’ll take you up by the backstairs.’
Quickly checking that no one was watching, the flunkey marched me across the black-and-white tiled foyer, through a swing door and into the servants’ hall. Ignoring the shocked looks of the off-duty footmen, he led me up to the second floor.
‘He’s in the billiard room,’ the footman explained as we walked quickly along the carpeted hallway to a door at the end of the corridor.
‘The messenger from Drury Lane, sir,’ he announced, ushering me in.