‘Bow Street? But that’s nearer danger!’
‘Exactly . . . the last place they’ll look for you. Now hurry!’ I pushed Johnny out of the door and watched him bolt off down the corridor, colliding with Mr Bishop half-way.
‘What’s got into him?’ Mr Bishop asked me in confusion.
‘Urgent errand. Uncle on the point of death, asking for him,’ I invented.
Mr Bishop shook his head sadly. ‘Reminds me of my old girl. Didn’t get there in time, but she was asking for me after the baby was born. Never did see the child . . .’
‘Sorry, Mr Bishop,’ I interrupted him, not having time for family reminiscences, ‘I’ve got to tidy up in here for Johnny.’
‘That’s right, Cat, you do what you can to make him comfortable.’ With that, Mr Bishop plodded away, his mind fortunately on the wife he had lost many years ago rather than on the strange behaviour of the prompt.
I shut the door and began to sweep away the evidence of Johnny’s employment. Roughs of his cartoons littered the floor and I threw them higgledy-piggledy into the grate. Voices could be heard in the corridor outside.
‘Why here first, constable? What’s my prompt to do with this business?’
‘Nothing, I hope, sir. It’s just that my informant said he’d been here himself and suggested I start with Mr Smith.’
They were upon me. I grabbed the proof Johnny had been working on and stuffed it into my bodice. The door opened.
‘What are you doing here, girl?’ asked the runner suspiciously when he saw me kneeling by the burning grate.
I got up. ‘Just laying the fire, sir,’ I said, bobbing a curtsey.
‘As I told you,’ said Mr Sheridan coldly, ‘my staff have their jobs to do.’
The runner, however, was no half-wit. He strode over to the fire and pulled out a singed piece of paper. Faintly, you could make out the bulbous nose of a cartoon head.
‘And what’s this?’ he said severely to me. ‘Why were you lighting the fire with this, girl? Has someone been drawing?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered nervously, twisting my apron in my hands. I could see Mr Sheridan waving urgently behind the runner’s back to stop me saying any more, but I knew what I was doing. ‘I’m afraid it’s me, sir. I’ve been taking drawing lessons, you see, sir, b-but I’m not very good yet and . . .’
He cut through my stammered explanation with a flick of the paper. ‘Drawing lessons? What’s a maid doing taking drawing lessons?’ he exclaimed.
I turned to Mr Sheridan. Now was the time for me to rival Mrs Siddons with my acting ability. I had to be convincingly abject with my apology.
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I said, wiping the corner of my eye with my apron. ‘I’ve been sneaking in here to practise.’ I pulled out the drawing of Caesar I had done from my workbox over at the foot of Johnny’s bed and held it up as proof. ‘Mr Smith’s half-blind, as you know, so he can’t see what I’m up to. You can dock the cost of the paper from my wages, sir, if you like, but, please, please, don’t turn me away for it.’
Wages? Wages would be a fine thing! I never got anything but board and lodging. Mr Sheridan eyed me closely. I could see laughter twinkling in his eyes but he was managing to look suitably stern.
‘And who is this meant to be, young woman?’ he asked.
‘A portrait of Julius Caesar, sir.’ Sniff, artful wipe of the eye with my apron. ‘I made a mess of the nose.’
‘There, Constable Lennox . . . hardly topical political satire,’ said Mr Sheridan, rounding on the runner. ‘Had you better not move on and look for someone whose targets are a little more up to date, by about eighteen hundred years?’ Mr Sheridan rolled up my picture and tucked it in his pocket.
‘Right you are, sir,’ said the runner sheepishly. He could at least regain some dignity by turning on the only victim present. ‘As for you, miss, you keep your hands off your master’s things or I’ll be having words with you down at the courthouse.’
I bent my head, trying to look suitably cowed. ‘That’s enough, man. I’ll deal with my own staff, thank you,’ said Mr Sheridan sharply.
He led the constable out of the room, but the Earl of Ranworth lingered. He was staring at some papers covered in Johnny’s handwriting that I had not had time to burn. He gave the desk a caress with his fingertips then came over to me.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You did well.’ He pressed a sovereign into my hand. ‘And when you see my son, tell him . . . tell him the old man misses him, won’t you?’
SCENE 3 . . . ATTACK
Johnny crept back in after darkness fell and hid himself away in his office. I found him sitting on his bed, his belongings rolled up into a small bundle at his feet, all traces of his work obliterated.
‘Here, I managed to save this,’ I said, producing the proof from my bodice.
Johnny did not even look at it but got to his feet and threw it into the glowing heart of the fire. The paper caught flame and began to curl up, writhing like a spirit in torment as the black touch of fire consumed it.
‘Enough,’ Johnny said grimly, ‘Captain Sparkler is dead. Johnny Smith is bound for pastures new.’
‘You’re really going then?’ I asked, sitting in the place he had vacated. I stared down at the meagre bundle . . . not much to show for an earl’s son. ‘But I thought that . . . well, it seemed to me that your father was ready to have you back. He was sad. He misses you.’
Johnny sighed. ‘And I miss him. But he has agreed with Sheridan that the best thing now is for me to go abroad for a few years, until this Captain Sparkler business dies down. He thinks the passage of time will mellow my firebrand views.’ Johnny gave a bark of laughter. ‘He thinks I’ll be ready then to take up my duties and responsibilities.’
‘So you intend to go to America at once?’