‘Oh, those bits of old paper. I think I put them down somewhere – can’t for the life of me remember what I did with them.’
‘Kindling for the fire, sir?’ suggested Nokes with a malevolent grin at me.
‘Very possibly. If you’re so worried about it, you’d better write some more, girl. I’ll give you pen and paper so you can keep up your little hobby. I like to encourage innocent pursuits. If you’re good, I might be able to remember what I did with them in a few days.’
‘A few days!’ I exclaimed. The slimy cheat was holding my manuscripts hostage to keep a cheap maid about the place.
Mr Tweadle got up. ‘I’ll send Nokes back with the paper for you. I do so want you to be happy while you are staying here, Cathy. You’ll feel so much better if you let your mind rather than your person wander and write a few more stories to pass the time. You won’t mind if I lock you in now, will you? You have to understand it’s for your own good.’
Of course I minded, but they were gone and the bolt clunked into place.
That night, I considered my options. Mr Tweadle couldn’t keep an eye on me forever – I had no fears about that locked door. If the worst came to the worst, I’d simply climb over the back wall and make my escape that way. But he needed no real shackles – my manuscripts were like a ball and chain keeping me here. They were irreplaceable. No one else might have any use for them, but they were everything to me. I’d have to find them, then flee – that was all there was to it.
To lull Mr Tweadle into a false sense of security, I scribbled down a little story that night – something about star-crossed lovers and dutiful daughters. It was poor stuff – but better than many a tale that made it into print. I left it on the table so that Mr Tweadle would see it when he came down for breakfast.
‘Ah, I see you’ve passed your time profitably, Cathy,’ he said, stirring his porridge and smiling at me as if for all the world our quarrel of yestereve had not happened.
‘Yes, sir.’
I went out the back to escape his presence. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up the pretence of obedience when I hated every wispy hair on his head. I’d only swept the yard twice over when he came to the door holding my new story.
‘What’s all this?’ he asked me. ‘Where are the boxers and the villains? The musicians and actors?’
So he had read my stuff then.
‘I wrote what I thought you, standing in loco parentis, would approve of, sir,’ I said with a passable imitation of meekness.
‘Well, no, no, I do not approve, Cathy. I want the other kind of story from you – something with guts and excitement, not this curds-and-whey stuff.’
‘Why? I thought I was supposed to be just amusing myself – a hobby you called it.’ A suspicion was forming in my mind that perhaps after all his delays he might, just might, be considering putting out a collection of my work. This might all be a test to see if I really was the author.
‘Hmm.’ He looked up at the sky and then down at me. ‘If you are ever going to make it into print, Cathy, you have to be true to yourself. This . . . this is cheap imitation. I want the genuine article.’
I nodded. ‘I understand. I’ll write something for you – to show you I can do it.’
‘That’s it. You do that. Take the morning to see what you can knock out for me.’
Heartened by this exchange, even partially reconciled to my position in the household if I was allowed time to write, I cleared the kitchen table and set down to work. I was soon lost in an account of a visit to a crime lord’s flashy household and forgot the time. I was amused to find that even Billy made good copy when turned into a story – the repellent reality becoming quite amusing when looked at from a distance.
I was so pleased by the end product that I was determined to take it to Mr Tweadle directly. I tried the kitchen door: it wasn’t locked this morning. Running along the corridor, I paused outside the shop entrance, wondering if it was safe to knock. Mr Tweadle would not want me to interrupt him with a customer. I could hear voices. I put my head close to the door to listen.
‘I asked you, sir, if you knew where I could find Catherine Royal.’ It was Mr Sheridan. Thank goodness I hadn’t burst in dressed in my dirty scullery maid’s apron – I would have died of embarrassment.
‘As I told you, I have no idea where the young person can be found,’ Mr Tweadle said airily.
‘He’s lying, he must be.’ Frank! What was he doing here? ‘It’s her stuff, I know it is.’
Mr Sheridan spoke again. ‘Look, Mr . . . er . . . Mr Tweadle, the young lady has disappeared and her friends are most anxious to locate her. I’m not asking you to betray any confidences – we’re not fortune hunters trying to muscle in on her success or anything of that kind – but we know that you must be in contact with her or you wouldn’t have all this.’
All what? What were they talking about?
‘I repeat, sir, I have no knowledge of the lady. You are mistaken if you think this belongs to anyone but my talented young assistant, George Nokes. He’s a prodigy.’
‘He’s a fraud and a thief!’ interrupted Frank, outraged. ‘If he’s told you those stories are his then he’s lying through his teeth.’
‘Am not!’ protested Nokes. ‘I’ve sweated over those, I ’ave. I’d swear it in court, I would. No girl could write that stuff.’
I went cold and leant against the door.
‘Well, you are wrong,’ countered Mr Sheridan. ‘I know the only girl in London who could write “that stuff ” as you call it and I’m prepared to say so in court. Produce her or I’ll fetch the constable.’
‘There’s no young lady on the premises. There’s just me, Nokes and the maid, as I am more than happy to prove to anyone who comes with a warrant.’
The dirty double-crossing liar! Roused by my fury, I pushed the door open, pulling the cap from my head as I entered the shop.