‘I’m surprised you have any ideas at all.’
He let this pass. ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. That place is ripe for the pickin’. I’ll start with askin’ the innkeepers for a small consideration for protectin’ their establishments. Move on to ownin’ a few places myself. I’d give a fair price for goods people might come by “inadvertently” like. ’Ave some boys . . . and girls . . . workin’ for me. You’d be a real ’elp, Cat, knowin’ what you do about the ’igh end of the thievin’ line. You’d make a capital fence. You could run the girls, if you like, if you give me a percentage of your take.’
His picture of our ‘future’ together was laughable. I had to say something.
‘Billy, you’ve got me all wrong: I’ve never stolen anything in my life.’
He gave me a wink. ‘’Course you ain’t, Cat. Nor’ve I. We’re as innocent as a pair of newborn babes, ain’t we? Or that’ll be our story.’
I almost smiled: he was like some persistent suitor, not taking ‘no’ for an answer. He didn’t know that I had Lady Elizabeth rushing across town even as we spoke to come to my defence.
‘Forget it, Billy. When your heels are swinging in the wind, I’ll be free as a bird. You can forget the Rookeries: you’re going to pay for what you did last night and I’ll be in the front row cheering the executioner on.’
‘Pay, will I?’ said Billy menacingly. He sat up, his boots thumping on the ground with a dull thud. ‘You may pretend to be Miss Goody Two Shoes, but don’t forget, I know you and your game. If I’m for the nipping-jig, you’ll be swinging up there with me. I’ll make sure I take you.’
‘Dream on, Boil!’ I replied, though I had felt a shiver down my spine as he spoke. ‘I’ve got powerful friends. I’ll be out of here.’
‘Not before I’ve knocked some sense into you!’ He sprang to his feet, kicking a mug of beer over as he did so. The sour liquid seeped into the straw. ‘Face it, Cat, no respectable friend is goin’ to ’elp you now you’re in ’ere. We’re beyond the reach of all that’s nice and polite. You’ve got to rely on yourself now.’ He ground his fist into his palm in frustration at my obstinacy. ‘Look, if we stick together, tell the same story, we’re both free; if you split, I’m dead meat . . . and I’m not ’avin’ that!’ He made a lurch towards me. I cowered on my bench, face screwed up, having all too good a reason to fear his fists. But no blows fell. I opened my eyes and saw that he couldn’t reach me: like a guard-dog on a chain, his ankle had been manacled to a bolt in the floor. The ridiculous sight of an irate Billy trying to make a grab for me set me off into a peal of hysterical laughter.
The laughter quickly turned into hiccupping sobs. Billy glowered at me and retreated to his side of the room. He slipped a knife from his boot and began to pick at the bolt on the crumbling brick floor. My hysterical fit stopped as suddenly as it had come as the cold realisation dawned that he would . . . given time . . . be able to work himself free.
Scrape, scrape, rattle went the knife on the manacle.
Neither of us spoke.
*
‘Catherine Royal?’
The runner had returned and was standing by the door, a lantern in his hand. I sat up with a start, having dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
‘Yes?’ I said blearily.
‘You’re to come with me.’
I got to my feet eagerly. Billy’s eyes were on me, the knife concealed in the sleeve of his jacket. So had Lady Elizabeth finally arrived? I wondered. I had expected her to be here much sooner, and terrible doubts had begun to undermine my confidence in her, but at least she’d arrived before Billy had had a chance to work himself free of his bonds.
The runner led me back up the narrow stairs and into the office above. But we were not stopping there: he took my arm and led me through a pair of glass-panelled doors and down a corridor carpeted in a rich dark woollen cloth. We were clearly getting closer to the inner sanctum of the magistrate. The runner paused before a door with a polished brass handle and knocked.
‘Come!’ came a man’s deep voice.
Constable Lennox opened the door to reveal a study lit by two high windows overlooking a pleasant garden at the rear of the house. The walls were lined with books; papers lay scattered in comfortable confusion on the desk and every available surface. In contrast to the chilly cellar the room was very warm, thanks to a fire roaring high in the grate, and in other circumstances it would have struck me as pleasant.
Though I took in all these details, my attention was mainly occupied by the people in the room who had all turned to watch me enter. An unfamiliar bewigged elderly gentleman dressed in black with a snowy white stock at his neck sat behind a desk, fingers laced together as he surveyed me. On the edge of a chair in front of him perched Lady Elizabeth. Her face was drained of colour and tear-stained. She looked quite wretched to see me in this state. By her side stood Lord Francis. His face was pale also, but it was the paleness brought on by the effort of suppressing great anger. On the far side of the room, looking out of the window at the garden, stood Marzi-pain Marchmont. He turned on my entry and gave me a triumphant smile. I now began to have some inkling of what was happening. Next to Marchmont stood the duke. His eyes were directed at me with blazing anger and I felt their force almost as if he had actually lashed out at me. Marchmont whispered something to the duke, who then nodded as if his worst fears had been confirmed.
‘Here’s the prisoner, sir,’ said the constable, standing behind me with his arms folded as if I was some dangerous beast that he was here to guard.
The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘You are Catherine Royal, also known to the criminal fraternity as “The Cat”?’