The two men stepped back into the theatre. I kept very still, hardly daring to breath. I would have got away with it too if the fastening of the man’s cloak had not snagged on the curtain. He turned to tug it free and caught sight of a pair of white-stockinged legs peeping out.
‘What’s this?’ Marchmont barked. I felt my arm seized in a fierce grip as I was wrenched into the open. Two fingers pinched my ear, dragging me upwards so I had to stand on tiptoes or part company with my earlobe. I squealed with the pain and tried to push him off. ‘A spy? What have you heard, girl?’
Behind Marchmont I could see Mr Sheridan looking back at me, his face white with shock except for the inflamed patch across his nose that was flushed red like a warning flag.
‘Nothing!’ I lied.
‘I don’t believe you! Why were you hiding there? Who’s paid you to follow me, eh? Tell me quickly or you’ll find yourself at the bottom of the Thames with only the fish to spy on.’
He twisted my ear, causing me to yelp in pain a second time.
Mr Sheridan took a step forward and grabbed Marchmont’s wrist, making him release his grip.
‘Don’t frighten the child, Marchmont. It’s only my little Cat. No one’s paid her to spy on us.’ He turned to me, his eyes sparkling with anger at my presumption. ‘What are you doing here, Cat? What did you hear? Everything, I’ll be bound.’
I nodded miserably, eyes trained on the shiny caps of his shoes. ‘Sorry, sir. I just followed you when we got backstage.’
‘And?’ he said threateningly.
‘And I stayed to see who you were meeting.’
‘And?’
‘And I heard you talking about the diamond.’ I looked up to see if I could read my fate in his face.
Surely he wouldn’t throw me out on to the streets after all these years? ‘But I promise I’ll not tell anyone, sir,’ I ended lamely.
Mr Sheridan’s expression was enigmatic. I could not be sure but there seemed to a ghost of a smile hovering around his lips.
‘You’ll keep my jewel safe for me, won’t you, Cat?’
I nodded my head vigorously. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll let me know if anyone comes sniffing around for my treasure . . . anyone that shouldn’t be here?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Marchmont laid an unnaturally white hand on Mr Sheridan’s arm. ‘Is this wise, Sherry? The girl already knows too much. You should get rid of her.’
Mr Sheridan ruffled my hair. ‘They’ve been saying that to me for years but somehow Drury Lane would not be the same without its Cat.’ He pushed me out of Marchmont’s reach. ‘Run along now and keep your ears open for me, won’t you?’
‘Yes, sir!’ I saluted him before darting away, eager to escape from the presence of Mr Marchmont. He made my skin crawl.
The conversation I had overheard gave me plenty to think about that night as I settled down in the Sparrow’s Nest . . . the costume store on the top floor of the theatre where I was allowed to sleep. The place was misnamed . . . the magpie would have been a more suitable bird in view of the treasures that lay scattered through the wardrobe. It was like a museum of curiosities: the regalia of heathen kings lay next to those of Christian saints; presses were filled with the cast-offs of Roman emperors and Egyptian queens, now mingled in democratic abandon with the rags of mechanicals and shepherdesses. I made my bed on the couch with Lady Macduff ’s velvet cloak for my blanket, careful to blow out my candle as instructed, for one spark in here would set the whole theatre ablaze.
So, I thought, staring open-eyed into the darkness, listening to the raucous noises of the night revellers outside as the four hundred and thirty-eight rioters ended their evening smashing bottles and shouting in the street, Mr Sheridan wanted to hide a treasure in the theatre? And he had tasked me to protect it. It was a charge I was determined to take most seriously.
ACT I
SCENE 1 . . . A BALLOON RIDE
It occurs to me now, Reader, that you may be wondering who I am and just what I am doing living in a theatre.
My full name is Catherine Royal, known to almost everyone but the vicar and Mr Salter as Cat. I am four foot four, have long red hair and green eyes, and not a penny that I can call my own. But I am not asking for your pity: I think I am more fortunate than those heiresses of many thousands a year that you read about in sentimental novels for I live in the most exciting place in the whole wide world: the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London. Forget everything you’ve heard about our rival house, Covent Garden, for Drury Lane undoubtedly has the best actors, backstage hands, musicians and dancers. And I should know for there is nothing that happens in our theatre that I am not aware of . . . well, almost nothing, as my tale will show.