It sounded like home. I was beginning to get an inkling of what was happening.
‘But J-F seems very young to be running a kingdom,’ I ventured. ‘Why hasn’t someone taken it over?’ In London, I couldn’t imagine quick wits and an entertaining manner keeping anyone in charge of a gang of thieves.
The bishop scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Now there’s an idea.’
‘No, don’t get me wrong!’ I said hurriedly, not wanting to be blamed for starting a gang war in Paris. ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything.’
Monsieur Ibrahim showed a fine set of white teeth as he threw back his head and roared. ‘Don’t worry, mademoiselle, I’ll do no such thing without provocation. It’s tradition that the thief king of the Palais Royal is a merry fellow like our J-F – he rules by consent. The bishop of Notre Dame,’ he tapped his own chest, ‘rules by decree. Each to his own.’
Paris struck me as a very mixed up-place with all these contending underworld rulers. In my city, the person with the biggest fists commanded the most respect. We liked to keep it simple.
‘But you shouldn’t underestimate J-F,’ continued M. Ibrahim as if he could read my thoughts. ‘He has people loyal to him. It would be more difficult than you might imagine to walk in and declare that you’ve taken over his kingdom.’
‘I see.’ I remembered the hulking lads who had walked off with Joseph’s livery – yes, J-F did have his troops even if he preferred to live by his wits rather than fists.
‘But this will not do, mademoiselle,’ declared M. Ibrahim, pouring me a second cup of coffee. ‘I was supposed to be asking you the questions, not the other way round.’
‘Of course, your eminence. I am at your service.’
He grinned and stroked the lip of his cup. ‘You’re an interesting creature, Mademoiselle Cat. Who are you really? I don’t buy this story that you’re a dancer.’
‘Me? I’m no one – just an orphan brought up among theatre people, now having to find my own way.’
‘Really?’ His tone was sceptical.
‘Yes, really.’
‘You see, mademoiselle, our beloved authorities are convinced that there is an English agent at large in Paris.’
I choked on my coffee. ‘Oh yes? How do you know this?’
‘Naturally, I’ve a source in the City Hall.’
‘I see.’
‘Certain incriminating correspondence has been intercepted mentioning the king’s flight and the imprisonment of those English aristocrats. Mayor Bailly is under the impression that the most likely source for these reports is someone close to the Avon boy, perhaps a servant or the boy himself. It’s one of the reasons they are so eager to lay their hands on him. What do you make of that?’
‘That’s very . . . interesting.’
‘Isn’t it? I don’t suppose you’d care to show me what you were writing last night?’
I put down my cup and discreetly checked that the letter was still in my apron pocket.
‘Actually, your eminence, I’d prefer to keep my letters private.’
He leaned forward. ‘That is a shame, mademoiselle, because I have a theory that if I handed the authorities the English agent, they would still give me the reward.’
‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘Think about it, mademoiselle. J-F won’t part with the boy without profit for himself so I have scant hope of receiving anything that way tonight. This means you will die unless you can persuade me that it’s worth my while to let you live.’
‘And I thought we were getting on so well.’
‘Oh, but we are. I think we understand each other completely.’ He rose and yawned. ‘I’m going to sleep now. Think over what I’ve said. I’ll be back to hear what you have to say this evening.’
The first thing I did when he left the room was burn the letter I’d written to Mr Sheridan. The bishop doubtless knew that I’d destroy any evidence I had on me but he was confident I’d prefer confession of my guilt to death. Curse Mr Sheridan for saying there was only slight danger involved in setting up a confidential correspondent in Paris!
Mind you, I reflected as the paper curled into ashes, he’d said that was before the king took it into his head to flee, leaving an anxious and suspicious government behind. I should’ve taken this into account before I started firing off my missives. Why did it not occur to me that in these dangerous times any letter to a well-known English politician such as Mr Sheridan would be opened as a matter of course? I should be cursing myself – so I did just that as I sat curled up in a ball on the bishop’s chair. I’d got myself into this mess, so I had to think of a way out of it. As far as I could see, there were two possibilities: J-F would surprise me with his loyalty and think of some way of rescuing me or I would do it myself. Of the two, the latter was the most likely.
I explored the cellar again: there was only one way in and out: up the stairs. The top of the steps was secured by a heavy wooden door that would’ve withstood a pounding from Syd, let alone yours truly. The best I could think of was to lie in wait and try to slip past the next person to come in. To this end, I made a Cat-shaped mound out of my blankets and returned to the top step.
I hate waiting. I am the least patient person in the world. Add to that my fear at what I was about to do and I hope you can understand, Reader, what an uncomfortable day I passed. I knew my plan was a shaky one: I didn’t even know what was on the other side of the door – more barricades for all I knew. But I had to try something.
After many hours, I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. I flattened myself in the space that would be behind the door once it was opened. It’s fortunate that there’s not much of me – few would manage this without being squashed flat. A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Someone entered carrying a tray – that suited me as it meant they did not have a hand free to shut the door behind them.