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.’
‘Watch it, woman, or my boys will be paying you a call one of these nights.’
Mrs Peters fell silent. Would Billy take up her invitation to search the stall? If he did, I was dead. But perhaps the thought of poking around amidst the highly smelling cheeses deterred him. He hesitated just long enough for one of his boys to come running back to him.
‘Billy, Blackie’s been spotted. Over ’ere!’
The hobnailed boots thundered off across the cobbles on the scent of a new quarry. I waited till the din had died away completely and then scrambled out of my hiding place.
‘Thanks, Mrs Peters,’ I said gratefully, gulping breaths of fresh air.
‘Don’t you do that to me again, Cat!’ she said, venting her fury by hacking at a round cheese the size of a cartwheel axle.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and stood looking at me, her hands on her hips. ‘I know, dearie, but you stay out of ’is way, won’t you? Or you’ll be found in the gutter one mornin’ with your throat slit like wot ’appened to poor Nat Perkins.’ She looked around the edge of her stall, checking that the coast was clear. ‘You’d better get out of ’ere while you can.’
I nodded and headed off southwards, intending to circle round and enter the theatre from the Drury Lane side. I just hoped that Pedro had managed to get away too.
I found him leaning over a water fountain near the stage door. His fine livery was in tatters and he had a bloodied nose and black eye. He looked up as I approached and gave me a nod, his white teeth stained with blood from a cut to his mouth.
‘You got away too then?’ he asked.
‘Better than you, by the looks of it.’
He shrugged. ‘I took a wrong turn but there was only one of them by the time he caught up with me . . . the small one. I soon sorted him out and got away before the others arrived.’
‘Sorted him out?’ I asked incredulously. I’d not put Pedro down as a street-fighter.
‘I can look after myself, you know.’
‘So you didn’t need my help then?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘I wish you’d told me for I’d’ve spared myself a lot of trouble. I s’pose you’d’ve beaten them all single-handed, would you?’
‘Well, I have to admit that it wasn’t looking promising until you showed up.’ He shook the water off his face and dusted down his ruined clothes. ‘Shall we go in?’
He didn’t seem to realise just how close we had come to serious injury. ‘You may have dealt out one beating this morning,’ I told him grumpily, ‘but we both face another when they see what a state you’re in.’
‘Beatings are nothing new. Thank you for coming to help me, Miss Cat.’ He gave me a mocking bow.
I could not help but smile at his flamboyant flourish. He had bowed as if I were a duchess.
‘It’s just Cat, Pedro. You saved me from the balloon; I rescued you from the Boil. So, we’re quits then?’