‘Yes, we’re quits.’
It was only as we reached the safety of the theatre that it really struck me that we hadn’t heard the last of this morning’s escapade. I had made myself a very formidable enemy in Billy ‘Boil’ Shepherd . . . and his enemies had the unfortunate habit of meeting sudden ends down dark alleyways. Not a pleasant thought.
SCENE 3 . . . A TRIUMPH
As I had predicted, we were both soundly beaten for arriving back at the theatre covered in mud and, in Pedro’s case, blood. No one wanted to hear our explanations. As far as Signor Angelini was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that Pedro had missed an hour of rehearsal time and returned having spoilt both his clothes and appearance. As for me, Mrs Reid did not look kindly upon my mud-spattered skirts nor on the part she assumed I had played in ruining her Mogul Prince.
‘It’s all very well for you to cry, missee,’ she scolded as I nursed my hands, raw from the blows she had just inflicted, ‘but you should have thought first before you led the boy off into the streets. If you want to stay at Drury Lane, you have to start acting like a lady, not like a street beggar’s brat.’
‘I didn’t lead him anywhere!’ I protested, outraged by the unfairness of her accusations. ‘I was saving him from being mobbed by the market gangs!’
‘Well, you didn’t do a very good job, did you?’ she replied, stabbing a pin into Pedro’s costume as he stood patiently waiting for her to finish. He had been thrashed by Signor Angelini but I will not tell you where. Suffice to say that the beating will not interfere with his violin playing nor be visible to the public. He winced as she tugged on a red silk sash but then, seeing that I was watching, he gave me a wink when her back was turned.
Sarah Bowers entered carrying an enormous confection on a tray. I looked again: it wasn’t a dessert as I had at first thought but a lavishly decorated turban of pale pink.
‘’Ere you go,’ said Sarah, ramming the hat on Pedro’s head so that it covered the cut on his right temple. ‘I’ve gone to town with the jools . . . they should take eyes off that there black ’un of yours.’
Indeed the twinkling gemstones were dazzling even in the pale light of the Sparrow’s Nest; it was not hard to imagine them in their full splendour under the chandeliers. But Sarah’s talk of jewels reminded me of another subject I had almost forgotten in today’s adventures.
‘Are those real?’ I asked, stretching up to tap on the big ruby set in the centre of the turban. A white ostrich feather bobbed over Pedro’s head like a swan’s neck dipping into a silken stream.
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Pedro, squinting at himself in the mirror, ‘because then I’ll be on the first boat to France and will live off my riches for the rest of my days.’
Mellowing a little as she admired the effect of the costume over which she had slaved so hard, Mrs Reid laughed. ‘You won’t get far with those, my lad; they are all paste. Gimcrack rubbish the lot of them. The feather’s worth more than they are put together . . . all the way from Africa, would you believe it! So mind you see that no harm comes to it if you don’t want a second beating!’ Her nearsighted eyes glared a warning at him in the mirror as she fixed a single pearl earring in his lobe.
Pedro nodded, sending the ostrich feather into a swaying dance.
‘Mind you, you rarely see the real thing, Cat,’ added Sarah, arranging the folds of the turban. ‘When the ladies sit in the boxes with ropes of pearls and diamonds around their necks, you know they’re mostly fake. There’s many a duchess with her jools laid up in lavender, if the rumours be true.’
‘Laid up in lavender?’ I asked.
‘At the pawnbrokers, dear,’ explained Mrs Reid, ‘to pay gambling debts usually. So think about that if ever you are tempted to try your luck at the card table.’ She gave Sarah and me a cautionary look over the top of her glasses.
I was very unlikely to face that temptation. No one could possible think I had money to lose in a card game, let alone jewels. But perhaps Mrs Reid could help me with the mystery of Mr Sheridan’s diamond.
‘Mrs Reid,’ I began, passing her the tape measure that had fallen to the floor, ‘if you had a real jewel, where would you keep it for safety?’
‘Locked in a big iron chest in the Tower of London, guards on the door day and night,’ she chuckled. ‘If only . . .’
‘Forget the chest,’ said Sarah, throwing a shovel full of sea-coal on to the fire. ‘Just give me the guards, six foot tall and ’andsome as can be.’ She stood up and mimed flouncing across the hearthrug like a fine lady, swinging a jewel on the end of a chain around her neck.
‘You bold madam!’ laughed Mrs Reid. ‘You’ll come to no good, you will, if you carry on like that. Now, young man, take off your finery and Cat can show you where to get something to eat before the show starts. You’ve not got long.’
Grabbing some small beer, cold meat, bread and sweet wrinkled apples from the table laid out in the Green Room, Pedro and I made our picnic in my favourite hideaway of the manager’s box. Already the early arrivals were taking their seats in the Pit and a number of servants were lounging in the galleries, saving places for their masters and mistresses. The stage was empty . . . the balloon (now repaired) was well hidden in the flies so that it could descend unheralded to the amazement of the crowd. Pedro had a lot to play against if he was to make his mark tonight.