And did it bother me that we had a criminal in our midst? I must admit it didn’t. I just thought that the government lacked a sense of humour if they took offence at his drawings. Some of the things he told me, like equality for men and women, for black and white, made a lot of sense. As for the ‘dung-heap of history’, you may be shocked, Reader, to know that I wasn’t too concerned what happened to our monarchy hidden away in their palaces of marble and gold. If the people decided to get rid of the king, good luck to them, 1 it was unlikely to make much difference to me stuck here at the bottom of society. But I couldn’t see it happening in my lifetime, not least because we wouldn’t want the Froggies to think we were copying them.
And then there was Pedro. He had been deceiving me. Since he had rescued me from the balloon, I’d taken him on trust as a friend and introduced him to my own circle, but now I thought that he’d really only ever been thinking about cheating on me. From the very first day, he had taken advantage of my indiscretion in telling him about the diamond and intended to steal from my patron. The belief that Pedro had used me hurt deeply. You see, Reader, I liked Pedro: he was talented and brave, he had a self-composure that I could never aspire to . . . he had the bearing of a little king. No wonder Syd and the others called him ‘Prince’. I had wanted to be Pedro’s friend and had hoped that he had begun to like me too, but it appeared I had been mistaken. I’d just been a rung on the ladder he was climbing to riches. Now I didn’t know who I could trust.
Except Syd. Yes, I thought with a smile, he was straightforward. If he didn’t like something, he told you to your face and that was that. There were no surprises with him. At least, I hoped not. Recently I had begun to fear that maybe he . . . No, I didn’t even want to entertain the idea that he had feelings for me. That would make them more real somehow and complicate everything horribly. Syd was Syd. I’d leave it at that.
Monday was a quiet night for the theatre. After the play finished, the crowds dispersed quickly and we were ready to close up by ten-thirty. I stood at the stage door with Caleb watching Mrs Siddons, our leading actress, sign autographs for her admirers before she retired for the night. She was a stately lady with a mass of elegantly arranged hair and a good taste in gowns. She shared her brother’s mesmerising dark eyes . . . eyes which were now bent to speak to a young admirer . . . but on stage she could rivet thousands to their seats by the power of her presence. Under her spell, they groaned when she groaned, wept when she wept. To see her play Lady Macbeth was to experience true horror.
‘Fine lady that,’ muttered Caleb appreciatively. ‘Famed throughout the land but still remembers me by name and gives me a penny for my baccy now and then.’
I murmured my agreement and thought him very lucky. Mrs Siddons moved in circles far above mine. She rarely spoke to me . . . perhaps only to thank me for doing some small errand for her . . . but I idolised her. She was the queen of British theatre and I her most loyal subject.
‘Here, Caleb, can I have a word?’ It was Johnny. He had waited for the crowds of Mrs Siddons’ admirers to disperse before collaring the porter. ‘Can you find someone to deliver this for me?’
I peered with interest at the long thin package wrapped and sealed with red wax. It took no great brains to guess that it was the cartoon he had been working on all afternoon. Johnny saw me looking and frowned.
There was no time to dwell on this, for a ragged boy ran into the little courtyard by the stage door, his face the very picture of terror, and bounded straight up to me.
‘You Cat?’
‘Yes. What is it?’ I didn’t recognise him . . . his clothes were hanging on by threads and he was crusted with dirt.
‘I’s told I’d find you ’ere. You’ve gotta come wi’ me. The African boy’s askin’ for you. It’s bad.’
‘What? Pedro? What’s bad?’
‘The fight. ’E’s been ’urt . . . mortal ’urt.’
All my anger at Pedro was swept away on hearing the threat to his life. If he was asking for me at this moment, it must mean that I hadn’t been completely wrong: Pedro did care for me too. What did a silly argument between us matter when he could be dead by tomorrow morning?
‘Where is he?’ I asked, grabbing the boy’s arm.
‘Foller me,’ he said, running back the way he had come.
‘Cat! Where’re you going?’ called Johnny behind me.
I had no time to explain: he’d try to stop me going and every minute might count. I’d never forgive myself if I arrived too late. Too late for what? a voice in my head asked. I didn’t want to think about that. I dashed after the boy, flakes of snow stinging my cheeks. The boy did not lead me as I had expected towards Covent Garden. Instead, he raced over Long Acre, heading northwest for the narrow streets of St Giles, otherwise known as the Rookeries. I hesitated on the kerb, but fearing to lose him, darted across the slushy street in pursuit. I knew London too well to choose to go into St Giles of my own free will. In normal circumstances, I would have given this district a wide berth. The people who lived there, mostly vagrants, thieves and beggars, were said to strip the possessions of any fool who wandered into their lanes, hair and teeth included. They were a law unto themselves, a patch of wild savagery, a running sore in one of the richest cities in the world.
Plunging into the maze of alleyways, I immediately felt the threatening atmosphere: the houses were so shoddily built they seemed to collapse on to each other across the street, blocking out the sky above. Whispers of smoke seeped out of the crazy chimneypots. The only lights came from the gin shops and taverns that stank of drink, sweat and sickness. Even the steady fall of pure white snow was sullied by the time it landed on the cesspool that passed as a roadway in these slums.
‘Wait!’ I called after the boy. ‘Where are you taking me?’
The boy paused, shifting from leg to leg nervously as I caught him up. He too felt happier to be on the move rather than standing still waiting to attract trouble.