‘I thought I’d start a community, a place where men and women can live together, dividing their time between honest physical labour and intellectual pursuits . . . an ideal republic.’
‘It sounds a load of moonshine to me. What do you know about hard work? Do you know how long it takes to scrub a floor or clean a shirt, let alone plough a field?’
Johnny looked awkward: he knew he was on dubious ground when he, the nobleman, talked to me, the commoner, about the simple life. ‘No, but I can dream.’
‘Carry on dreaming,’ I said briskly. Clearly, someone had to look after him or he was heading for a fall. ‘But in the meantime why don’t you plan for something more substantial than that? Do something you know you know well, like drawing, for example. There must be opportunities for an artist like you even in so uncivilised a place as America.’
‘Well, I do have a contact who has set up a newspaper in Philadelphia.’ He laughed. ‘Listen to me. Taking career advice from a . . . how old are you?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘From a young lady then,’ he said with a wink, pocketing the guineas.
That afternoon Mrs Reid sent me to dust the offices. I had just finished Mr Kemble’s and had made a start on Mr Sheridan’s when the owner came in with a gentleman I did not recognise. They did not see me for I was crouched behind the desk . . . if the truth be known, wondering if I could find the infamous diamond and take a peek at it before it went to America with Johnny. From Mr Sheridan’s tone, I could tell that he was trying to get his companion away from the theatre as quickly as possible.
‘Look, Ranworth, why not come to the club and talk about it?’
Ranworth? I peered over the desk and saw the back of a white-haired, portly gentleman dressed in a claret-coloured jacket and shiny black boots. That must be Johnny’s father. Thank goodness Johnny was locked in his room for the afternoon checking over the proofs of his latest cartoon. He had better stay there. Someone had to warn him. But the men were standing between me and the door.
‘Is there really no news of my son?’ said the Earl of Ranworth, refusing to budge. I had the impression Mr Sheridan had been avoiding answering his questions and so the earl had come to the theatre to corner him. ‘I’m ashamed of the pup, I admit, but I do have the feelings of the father. I would like to know that he is alive and well. These wanted posters everywhere make my blood run cold! Just imagine what a scandal there’d be if they knew who Captain Sparkler really was!’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Sheridan, patting the old man’s arm. ‘But they won’t find out, will they? Who would suspect such a thing? I’m sure the young rascal has come to no harm.’
‘And Salter, you say, has drawn a blank in Bristol?’
‘Completely. I’ve asked him to enquire at Plymouth and Portsmouth. I expect news very soon.’
So Mr Salter was safe and still on his wild goose chase, I noted.
The Earl of Ranworth took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. With the weary movements of a man exhausted by worry, he slumped into the chair facing the desk. Seeing there was no shifting the man, Mr Sheridan came to the far side to take a seat.
He stopped, finding me at his feet. ‘Cat! What on earth are you doing here?’
The earl jumped up from his seat, a look of consternation on his face.
‘Dusting, sir,’ I said, holding up my cloth as evidence.
‘Hmm,’ Mr Sheridan said sceptically. ‘You always seem to be cropping up in the most inconvenient places, don’t you?’
There was a bold knock on the open door. We all looked round. In the corridor stood a man wearing a blue coat with brass buttons and a leather hat, armed with a cutlass, pistol and truncheon: unmistakeably a Bow Street runner.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir,’ he said deferentially to Mr Sheridan, ‘but I’m following up a report that there may be a wanted man on the premises.’
The Earl of Ranworth looked up abruptly and gave Mr Sheridan an astonished stare. He was no fool. At least for him, the penny seemed to have dropped. Mr Sheridan gave him a quelling look.
‘Indeed, Constable . . .?’ Mr Sheridan said lightly.
‘Lennox, sir.’
‘Constable Lennox. And what is this to me?’
‘Well, sir,’ said the runner awkwardly, ‘the old man on the door said I had to ask your permission before I can carry out a thorough search.’
‘You have no warrant from the magistrate then?’
‘No.’ The runner coughed. ‘I, er, I thought the report, an anonymous letter, was not sufficient grounds to disturb him.’
I bet the letter came from the greasy paw of Marzi-pain Marchmont! I called him as many colourful names as I could think of under my breath.
Mr Sheridan strode across the room. ‘But you thought it grounds enough to make havoc in my theatre?’
‘I intended nothing of the sort, sir! I . . . ’
‘You are already interrupting the work of my maid here. Run along, Cat; I’m sure there is something very important you should be doing.’ Mr Sheridan shooed me to the door. As he knew I would, I sprinted as fast as I could to Johnny’s office. Ignoring the sign, I burst in upon him, the surprise making him spill ink across the picture he was working on.
‘For heaven’s sake, Cat, look what you’ve done!’ he exclaimed in exasperation.
‘Forget that!’ I said, stuffing a cap on his head and hauling him from the table. ‘A constable’s here . . . so’s your father.’
‘My father brought the runners for me?’ he said incredulously, getting quite the wrong end of the stick.
‘No, you fool, they came separately. But you’d better run for it.’
Johnny made a grab for his drawing things.
‘Leave them . . . I’ll deal with that. You can’t get caught with these on you.’
‘Where can I go?’ he asked wildly, pulling his jacket on.
‘Go to the butcher’s in Bow Street. Ask for Syd. Tell him you’re my friend. I’ll send a message when it’s all clear.’