Syd brought his cleaver down with a thwack and threw the head into a bucket, slopping the floor with blood. I hurriedly lifted my skirts out of the way.
‘Sorry, Cat. Not used to ’avin’ a lady watch me work.’
The bloody scene before me took me back to the boxing match.
‘Aren’t there easier ways of earning a living?’ I asked wistfully, leaning on the doorpost to take the weight off my sore leg.
Syd looked hurt. ‘What’s wrong with butcherin’?’
‘Nothing,’ I said quickly and truthfully. It was an honest trade of which no one should be ashamed. ‘I meant being battered to a pulp in the ring.’
‘Ah, that.’ Syd brought the cleaver expertly down on the pig’s trotters, shearing them off. ‘I don’t expect a girl to understand but it’s my only way to fame and fortune, Cat. Butcherin’ is all right . . . but I want more.’
‘Like what?’
‘To be champion, of course. Then, perhaps, one day, own a boxin’ academy where fine young gents like your Lord Francis will pay me good money to teach ’em to box. I could then afford a decent place to live, raise a family in comfort, send my sons to good schools.’ He gave me a quick look from under his lashes. ‘I’d be on the up and up.’ He gave two short staccato taps at the curly pig’s tail and threw it on to a tray behind him.
I felt uncomfortable hearing him talk about the future; it was safer to bring him back to the here and now. ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you, Syd? Be careful about who you get involved with?’
He laughed. ‘Course, Cat. Don’t you worry your pretty little ’ead about me.’ He put his cleaver down and gave me a serious look. ‘To tell you the truth, Cat, I’m worried about you. Word is, the Boil’s after you for somethink. You stay away from the market for a bit, won’t you? Until I’ve sorted ’im.’
I swallowed. ‘Sorted ’im . . . I mean, him?’
‘Yeah. We’re settling it tonight. In the market. ‘’Is boys against mine.’
‘Syd!’
Syd smiled and wiped his hands on his apron, pleased to see, I think, that I was concerned for him. ‘Don’t worry, Cat. ’E don’t stand a chance. I’ll walk you back now, check nothing ’appens to you.’
He would not accept a refusal but escorted me like a prisoner under guard across Bow Street.
‘Wait a moment,’ I said as we paused outside the magistrate’s house. A new notice bearing a familiar name had gone up on the sign by the runners’ office. A crowd had gathered round it and were talking animatedly. I had to read it.
Syd obligingly stopped. The people at the front of the gathering respectfully made way to allow him to the best position.
‘What’s it say, Cat?’ he asked. He had never learnt to read, having contented himself with mastering a few sums, which came in handy for his trade.
‘It’s a reward notice,’ I said glumly. ‘They’re offering a hundred pounds for information leading to the arrest of the man known as Captain Sparkler.’
Syd clapped his hands. ‘Gawd, that’d be a nice sum for someone to pick up!’
‘You’re right there, mate,’ a bystander replied.
‘I wouldn’t mind an ’undred pounds . . . I could buy my own boxin’ club for that and forget about the fightin’.’ He guided me away from the sign. ‘Won’t be long before someone squeals on him, I’d say.’
I nodded, while fervently praying he was wrong. One thing was certain: after last night, I would not breathe a word of what I had found out about Johnny to anyone, particularly not to Pedro. With the lure of a hundred pounds, telling Pedro would be like sending Johnny to the gallows myself.
SCENE 2 . . . THE ROOKERIES
I didn’t see either Pedro or Johnny for the remainder of that day. Signor Angelini informed me that Pedro had gone to entertain a duke’s son for the afternoon. He seemed to be under the impression that this involved playing the violin; I didn’t want to disabuse him, but I suspected that it meant that Lord Francis and Pedro were roaming London in disguise again. I had hoped that I could make it up with Pedro and try to persuade him not to take part in the fight planned for that night. But being warned by Syd to stay indoors, I did not think it wise to go in search of the boys.
As for Johnny, he was in the theatre, but ‘busy’. A sign had appeared on his door: ‘Do not disturb’, it read in Johnny’s elegant curling script. I pressed my ear to the door and, sure enough, I could hear him inside. From the sounds of the scratching pen, I guessed he was drawing. I could well imagine the reason he did not want any callers: seeing a half-finished drawing by Captain Sparkler on his desk would be as good a way of revealing his identity as running through the streets shouting the secret to the heavens. I waited outside for a time, sitting on a large wooden anchor used to dress the stage for the pieces with a nautical theme, but my watch was barren. Giving up, I trailed back to the Sparrow’s Nest and asked Mrs Reid if she had anything for me to do.
‘Lord, girl, look at your face!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve not seen you this miserable since Mr Salter boxed your ears.’ She threw me a bundle of darning. ‘See what you can make of that. Small stitches, mind . . . none of your fishing nets!’