He took my hand. ‘Go!’
We ran towards the wings in step.
‘Now!’ he shouted, dropping my hand. With perfect timing, we cartwheeled off the stage, landing neatly by Johnny’s seat.
‘Well, well, well!’ Johnny said, laughing as he slipped the mask off my face. ‘Who would’ve guessed you could do that? If you’re not careful, Mr Kemble will give you the part. Cat the clown. Has rather a ring to it, don’t you think?’
Pedro slapped me on the back. ‘You saved my skin out there, Cat. I owe you one.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not likely to let you forget,’ I said with a wry smile.
SCENE 2 . . . PAWNBROKER
Early the next morning, I slipped out of the theatre and headed down towards the Strand and the pawnbroker’s shop that many of the actors and musicians used. I’d been there before for Peter Dodsley, the first violin. When he had been going through a particularly lean patch, he had pawned his watch on a Saturday and redeemed it after being paid on a Monday. He’d explained at the time that as he spent most of Sunday resting in bed, he did not need to know the time, but he did need a few creature comforts, such as a bottle of fine French wine. I had always thought this a poor way of managing his money, but he was by no means the only one to use the services of the broker.
As I arrived outside the shop, who should come up behind me but Jonas Miller, the hog-grubber clerk who was more usually to be seen causing trouble in the Pit.
‘Out of my way, girl,’ he said rudely, pushing me aside. He was in a fearful hurry to get into the shop. I wondered why. I probably would have followed him in to find out even if I had not had an errand myself.
Pushing the door open, I entered the darkened room. It had the secretive atmosphere of a Catholic confessional: little cubicles separated the customers from each other so they could admit their monetary failings in privacy. Behind an iron grille, Mr Vaughan and his assistants heard their clients’ troubles and offered a temporary cure. The items put up for pawn were displayed in locked cases, tempting their owners with a knowing twinkle and glitter to claim them back . . . if they had the money, that is, and they rarely did. Amongst the snuff boxes and rings, I noticed with a shudder of disgust that someone had even pawned their porcelain false teeth: it was hard to imagine what depths of despair had pushed them to that extreme. The teeth grinned back at me from their red velvet cushion in a smile like the rictus of death.
‘Ah, Mr Miller, I have your silver inkstand waiting for you,’ said Mr Vaughan loudly. Perhaps he had not noticed someone else coming in for he was speaking more openly than usual. ‘Have you the money?’
‘That’s all I have.’ Jonas pushed a bag of coins over to him.
Mr Vaughan pulled the bag under the grille and carefully counted out the silver and coppers. ‘Hmm, not enough, sir, not enough,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head.
Jonas ran his fingers through his dirty hair in desperation.
‘Look, I’ve got to have it back. There’ll be hell to pay if I don’t. You see, it’s . . . it’s not exactly mine.’
Mr Vaughan frowned. ‘I don’t deal in stolen goods, sir,’ he said sharply, hand hovering over a bell to summon his assistant.
‘No, no, you misunderstand me,’ said Jonas. ‘It’s borrowed . . . from a friend.’
A friend? All my eye! That was nonsense. I recognised that inkwell: it was the one from Jonas’s desk in the lawyer’s office where he worked. I’d seen it hundreds of times when I’d passed by his window. Jonas was now fingering his pocket watch nervously.
‘Perhaps we could come to some arrangement, Mr Vaughan,’ he pleaded, placing his watch on the counter.
I did not see the conclusion to this transaction for Mr Vaughan’s assistant, a pale youth with a high forehead like the dome of St Paul’s, glided out of the backroom.
‘Yes, miss, can I help you?’ he asked, spying me waiting on the hard bench.
Jonas turned round and his eyes widened with consternation. I could tell that the presence of someone who knew him was most unwelcome. Come to think of it, I’d prefer not to be seen by anyone I knew either. I hurried over to the vacant cubicle and pushed the package of jewels under the grille.
‘How much can you offer me for these?’ I asked in a low voice.
With a bored expression, the assistant unfolded the handkerchief. The boredom stopped there: on to the counter fell a jumble of glittering gemstones and gold chains. His eyes lit up.
‘Are these real, miss?’
‘Of course.’
Giving me a sceptical look, he screwed a jeweller’s eyeglass into his socket and began to examine each piece. One by one he gave a little nod and put them reverently aside. Finally, he put down the eyeglass and gave me a searching stare as if willing me to reveal where I had come by such riches.
‘Mr Vaughan, Mr Vaughan, I need your advice on something!’ he called to his employer.
Mr Vaughan was still arguing with Jonas Miller.
‘A moment, sir,’ he told Jonas and moved across to the patch of grille in front of me.
‘All real?’ he asked his assistance.
‘The genuine article, sir.’
Mr Vaughan pawed the jewels lovingly. I could see he hungered to have them in his possession, if only for a short time, but he was worried how I came by them.
‘I’m here on behalf of a lady,’ I explained as he surveyed me. ‘I’m her confidential agent in this transaction.’
‘Hmm. I can offer you five pounds for them,’ he said.
As an opening bid it was laughable. We both knew it.
‘Fifty,’ I said firmly.
He smiled. ‘What do you take me for, miss? A charity?’
‘Then I’ll take my jewels elsewhere.’
‘Thirty,’ he snapped.
‘Forty-five’
‘Forty.’