‘What have I done?’
‘You tell me, Cat.’ He strode to the window, his back turned. ‘I get to my club and find it in an uproar. Apparently some vandal rampaged through the members’ library shouting obscenities. How shocking, I thought. Then I find out that the same person had nearly severed a finger belonging to a very respected gentleman. Dreadful, thought I.’ He faced me. ‘Finally, I’m told it was a girl from Drury Lane and that an official complaint has been made. A warrant is out for her arrest for assault and destruction of property. You can thank your lucky stars that I’ve arrived before the runners, who, I’m also reliably informed, will be only too delighted to take you into custody. If I didn’t owe you one for looking after Johnny, I would have left you to them. What did you think you were doing?’
I stared at him in horror as he said all this, my mind refusing to take it in.
‘It was Pedro’s old master, Mr Hawkins. He stuck his fingers in my mouth,’ I said in a hollow voice, thinking some kind of explanation was required.
‘Cat, you expect me to believe that a grown man put his fingers in the way of your teeth and you just happened to bite down on them?’
‘He was pretending to buy me,’ I protested, ‘like in the slave market. I felt humiliated.’
Mr Sheridan ran his fingers through his hair and swayed slightly. He’d taken in a lot of wine tonight, I could tell, and was perhaps wondering if he’d heard me properly.
‘Sounds like he was teasing you, Cat. You shouldn’t have let it get so out of hand. But no matter. I can’t hide you from the runners – you’ve got to go, and go now.’
‘But where can I go? This is my home!’ I whispered faintly.
Somewhere down below, there came a banging on the stage door.
‘Open up! Open up!’
‘It’s them!’ hissed Mr Sheridan. ‘You’re going to have to leave through here.’ He gestured to the window. ‘They’ll be watching the doors.’
I nodded, my brain finally recovering from its bewilderment. I was dressed only in my nightgown. Grabbing a few belongings together in an old sewing bag, I threw the window open, then turned round.
‘I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, sir. Thank you for warning me.’
‘Get along with you, Cat,’ he said, ruffling my hair in his old affectionate manner. ‘You’ll be back, I’ve no doubt. Here!’ He thrust some coins into my hand. ‘Stay away from the obvious places where they’ll look for you – Grosvenor Square, the butcher’s shop, and so on. And keep out of any more trouble.’
I nodded and clambered on to the sill as Mr Sheridan closed the window behind me. Clutching my bag under one arm, I scrambled up on to the ridge of the roof and sat astride it. If you edge along the ridge to the gable overlooking Brydges Street, it’s possible to slide down to the gutter, swing to the broad window ledge of the tavern next door and then, if you are lucky and the catch is open, climb in on the first floor. At least, that was the theory. I’d never done it before.
With a quick glance back at Mr Sheridan, I began my perilous journey across the tiles. Reaching the Brydges Street end, I leant forward on my stomach to look down to the road. Two men were lounging against the wall opposite the theatre. Moonlight glinted on the buckles of their uniform. Mr Sheridan was right: the runners were after me in force. I would have to make my slide down to the gutter that ran between the theatre and the Players’ Tavern as noiselessly as possible. I took a couple of calming breaths. My fingers were frozen – my bare toes also. I had my boots slung by their laces around my neck but dared not pause to put them on. Swinging my leg over the ridge I hung there for a moment, silently counting to three.
‘One . . . two . . . three.’
I let go and slid all the way down to the gutter, leaving the skin of my hands and knees behind me on the leads. Thump! I jolted to a halt and gave a hiss of pain.
‘What was that?’ I heard one of the runners ask on the deserted street below. ‘Did you hear something?’
‘Nah. Probably just a cat.’
Now for the most difficult part. I would have to come into view – albeit two storeys up – to drop on to the window ledge. I crawled to the edge of the gulley and let myself down, legs dangling over the void. I know it was not the most ladylike behaviour, Reader, but I had no choice.
I must be mad, I thought. Well, it was either break my neck this way or let the hangman do it for me. I let go, dropped to the ledge, and nearly missed my footing. To stop myself falling, I threw myself forward against the sash window; a pane shattered with the impact and glass tinkled to the ground.
A whistle blew on the street below. Not daring to look down, I tugged at the window until it crashed open. I heaved myself in and tumbled to the floor of a bedroom. In the gloom, a man in a nightcap sat up in bed.
‘What the . . .!’ he exclaimed.
‘Sorry!’ I hissed as I darted for the door. ‘Must go!’
I made my way to the stairs, and there bumped into the innkeeper, Mr Mizzle, on his way down to answer the hammering at the door.
‘Mr Mizzle, it’s me, Cat. The traps are after me! Don’t let them in yet.’
Us theatre folks stick together. As chief provider of ale to the thirsty crew from next door, Mr Mizzle knew that now was no time for the whys and wherefores of the matter. Now was the time to help me escape.
‘Out the back, Cat. You know the way,’ he said, thrusting me through the kitchen door into the yard. ‘I’ll keep them busy in here.’
I dashed across the yard, climbed on some empty barrels and over the wall, dropping to the ground in the alleyway. I then breathed a sigh of relief. From here on, I was safe. I knew the back alleys around Drury Lane better than any Bow Street runner. Hopping into my boots, I threaded my way down to the Strand and ran westwards into the night.
SCENE 2 – SWITCHED