‘Then she can help repair the delays by finding ’im for me,’ Signor Angelini said briskly, ushering the orchestra back to their places. ‘Run, Caterina. Tell the boy ’e won’t be in trouble if ’e gets back in the next quarter of an hour. After that, ’e will regret it.’ He swished his baton, giving me no doubt that he intended to apply it to Pedro if he was still missing after that time.
I ran as fast as I could up the rickety stairs leading to the Sparrow’s Nest. Mrs Reid was sitting with Sarah Bowers, heads bent over a long velvet train that had got ripped in the scuffle to leave the stage last night. A shaft of smoky light fell across their laps from the window above their heads, dust motes dancing in the beam like tiny fairies. Their needles twinkled as they plied them in and out of the cloth with great skill . . . a skill I had never been able to acquire despite all of Mrs Reid’s lessons.
‘Is Pedro here?’ I asked breathlessly.
Mrs Reid looked up, her mouth full of pins. ‘Who, dear?’
‘Pedro. The Mogul Prince.’
She still looked blank.
‘The black boy.’
‘No, dear. We’ve not seen anyone. But if you do see our prince, tell him his costume is ready for trying.’
‘I will,’ I shouted as I clattered back down the stairs.
What had become of him? He was much in demand but nowhere to be seen backstage. True, Reader; there were plenty of places to hide if you knew your way around, but Pedro had never been here before as far as I knew and in any case, why would he be hiding? He seemed too serious a character to indulge in such childish play, particularly when no one else was in the game. It was a puzzle.
I sat on the bottom step for a moment, thinking. If he wasn’t hiding and he wasn’t backstage or front of house, then he must have gone outside. Yes, that was it. The brass-belcher’s remarks must have upset him more than I had realised. Pedro had deserved praise, not insults for doing what he did. He had probably gone outside to get away from us all.
I ran to the stage door. It stood open, but there was no sign of Caleb. This was unusual, for if Caleb were called away for any reason, he would not leave the door like that. This confirmed my theory. I emerged into the little courtyard that led on to Russell Street. It too was deserted. Where would he have gone? Left towards Covent Garden, or right towards Drury Lane? I stood indecisively, trying to see the place as he would have seen it. He probably had not meant to go far. Perhaps he just wanted some air? Well, if he wanted open spaces, he would have headed for the market which, despite the constant din of the fruit and vegetable sellers crying out the latest bargains, the wagons passing to and fro, not to mention the clucking of the poultry on the butcher’s block, offered the only uninterrupted view of the sky in this part of town. I felt a sudden stab of concern for him. A boy in fine livery would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the tough apprentices of the market . . . I should know, for most of them were my friends.
I had a bad time negotiating the busy crossing on Bow Street. It was packed with people going about their business. A bailiff hurried by with his men, loaded down with goods they must have just seized from some poor debtor. A hawker of ballads stood on the corner crying out his latest wares.
‘You ’eard it ’ere first, ladies and gents: the dying speech of John Jeffreys, traitor, thief and murderer. ’Ot off the press! ’Ear ’ow ’e laments ’is wicked crimes afore ’e took the drop at Newgate last week.’
I gave the ballad maker a wide berth, having no taste for such grisly songs. In any case, they were all pure invention: the unfortunate Jeffreys would have had no time for long versified speeches before the trap opened and certainly no time afterwards unless he revived on the table before the anatomy men dissected his body.
My attempt to steer a path through the crowd gathered around the ballad seller had the unfortunate consequence of bringing my feet plum into the middle of some freshly dropped horse manure. I cursed. To add insult to injury, a black coach and four with a ducal crest rattled by, spraying me with the icy water from a puddle outside the Magistrates’ Court. I hopped back too late, colliding with one of the Bow Street runners, our local law enforcers. He pushed me roughly away.
‘Watch where you’re going, you idiot!’ he bellowed, brushing down his uniform.
‘Same to you with knobs on, you old fogrum!’ I replied, and dashed across the road before he could box my ears.
(I should perhaps explain here for the more delicate among my readers that a different deportment is required on the streets of London than is usually taught to young ladies and gentlemen. Believe me when I assure you that I would not have survived long in my present situation if I had not learned this early on. I hope you are not unduly shocked for there is much more of the like to come.)
I ran as fast as I could out on to the piazza and dodged under one of the arches of the houses flanking the market place. I shook out my skirt and scraped my shoes on a piece of old sacking lying in the corner. Thankfully, the cold weather had quelled some of the riper odours of the street: the refuse, piss and dung that gave our streets their distinctive odour were noticeably less overwhelming this morning. This was just as well as I was now carrying most of it on my shoes and skirt. But the cold had another consequence: having neglected to put on a shawl over my woollen dress, I was already shivering. Time to find the violinist and get back into the warm.