Cat Among the Pigeons

by Julia Golding

  ‘I s’pose I should thank you for stopping Hawkins from running me through,’ I said grudgingly.

  ‘Nah, don’t do that. I only did it ’cos I didn’t want ’im to deny me the pleasure of killin’ you meself one day. For now, you make me laugh, but when I’ve ’ad enough of that, I’ll make sure there’s somethink special in store for you.’ His stare was chilling, like a snake biding its time before the strike. I couldn’t understand why he took such a malign interest in me; surely I wasn’t worth it? I was a scruffy orphan with no stake in anything; he a gang leader with a growing empire. ‘Somethink slow and painful like Mr ’Awkins said. No quick knife in the ribs for you.’

  ‘Thanks. I look forward to it,’ I replied sardonically. It was a strange moment as we both knew he was joking in deadly earnest. His behaviour made no sense.

  We reached the Pantheon with five minutes to spare. Stopping by the back entrance, I caught his arm.

  ‘Tell me one thing, Billy, before we get back to Syd and the others. Why do you bother with me? I can’t believe that I’m so important to you that you’d risk annoying a client, but you did that for me tonight.’

  He looked down at my hand then covered it with his, drawing me closer.

  ‘You know the answer, Cat,’ he hissed in my ear. His whisper made my skin crawl. ‘You turned me down and I don’t like that. I can ’ave anythink I want now – fine clothes, a flash ’ouse, a carriage or two – but I still can’t ’ave you, can I? You won’t join me gang, so I thinks, if I can’t ’ave ’er, I’ll kill ’er – but not just yet.’

  There wasn’t anything I could say to that. His eyes were burning a hole through me, so hate-filled was his stare. Or was it something else? Whatever it was, I didn’t like what I saw. I pulled away.

  ‘Come on, or Syd’ll be practising his butchery on your boys.’

  I ran up the stairs, feeling as if I had just escaped falling into a pit even deeper than the one in which Pedro now lay.

  The freezing fog over the Thames was flushed pink with the dawn when Syd delivered us back to Westminster School. The porter said nothing as we slipped inside, thanks to the coin that Frank palmed him.

  ‘I’ll send the account very soon, my lord,’ said Syd loudly for the porter’s benefit. He added in a softer voice to me, ‘I’m goin’ to work out ’ow we can spring Prince from ’is trap, Cat. I gave ’im a promise and I intend to keep it, come ’ell or ’igh water.’

  I gave him a miserable nod. ‘Shepherd’s web’s hard to cut through. I don’t fancy your chances in the Rookeries, not even with all your boys by your side.’

  ‘Nah, that’s not a fight I’d pick either,’ agreed Syd. ‘But Pedro can’t stay in there forever. The river’s the weak thread. We’ll just ’ave to be ready. And thanks to you, we know that ’e’s alive and well – that counts for a lot.’ He patted my hand, turned and walked off whistling into the mist.

  Frank ushered me up the staircase. ‘You get some rest this morning, Cat. Charlie’ll say you’re ill.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, seeing that he was not following us up the stairs.

  ‘I’m going to tell Mr Sharp and Mr Equiano what’s happened. Charlie, let Dr Vincent know that Great-Aunt Charlotte’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘But she died a couple of weeks ago, remember?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Frank scratched the back of his head. ‘Well, her twin sister is pining since her loss and not likely to live long.’

  ‘And that’s Great-Aunt –?’

  ‘Eugenia.’

  ‘Got it,’ Charlie said with a grin.

  ‘And you expect me to sleep after all that?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Especially after “all that”,’ Frank confirmed. ‘Don’t you think you’ve put yourself through enough tonight? And, Lord knows, this week looks as though it might be an exciting one. Sleep – that’s an order.’

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ I said, a shade resentfully. Shepherd’s insinuations still rankled. I thought for a mad moment that Frank was parading his superior status before me, reminding me that I was only there because he was paying for me, that he owned me in some sense.

  ‘Oh yes, I can.’

  ‘Or what?’ I challenged him.

  ‘Or I’ll set my mother on you.’ Frank smiled and dispelled the illusion: it was just Frank being Frank, trying to look after me. ‘You really don’t want her to take you under her wing. Her pick-meup potions are not recommended – she has a firm belief in experimenting with traditional medicine.’

  ‘Witchcraft, you mean,’ amended Charlie.

  ‘Unconventional herbal remedies is a politer way of putting it,’ said Frank.

  ‘Point taken,’ I said submissively. ‘I’ll go to bed.’

  I woke up late in the afternoon to hear the boys talking in soft voices. Wrapping Frank’s dressing gown around me, I padded barefooted out to the study to hear the news.

  ‘What did Mr Sharp say?’ I asked eagerly. ‘Is there anything to be done for Pedro?’

  Frank had a piece of bread on the end of a toasting fork and was holding it over the flames.

  ‘Honey or jam?’ he asked. That meant it was bad news.

  ‘Spit it out, Frank. What did he say?’

  Charlie got out of the armchair and handed me into it. Very bad news then.

  ‘He said that we can’t do anything even if we know where Pedro is and who has him,’ said Frank heavily.

  ‘Why not? Can’t he use this habeas thingy?’

  ‘Habeas corpus. No, because he would have to apply to the magistrate for it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The magistrate will say, “What proof do you have, sir, that Mr Hawkins, that respected businessman and donor to many worthy causes, is hiding this boy from us when he swears he doesn’t know where he is?”’

  ‘But we’ve seen him there. We know he’s got him,’ I protested.

  ‘You’ve seen him there. You know he’s got him.’

  I realized what Frank meant. Mr Sharp could produce no witness because I was in hiding from the very same magistrate. Even if I did come forward, it would be my word against Hawkins and we all knew which side the law would come down on. Shepherd knew I could do nothing with the information he had given me.

  ‘I hate Billy Shepherd,’ I said fiercely, clenching my fists on the arms of the chair.

  Frank looked at me strangely. ‘He takes an uncommon amount of interest in you, doesn’t he? It’s not healthy, Cat. I wouldn’t encourage him.’

  ‘Encourage him? You think I encourage him?’ I asked, not believing I was hearing this.

  ‘You answer him back, you make fun of him, you show you’re not scared of him – need I say more?’

  I was angry with Frank now. ‘And you think this adds up to me encouraging him?’ I rounded on Charlie. ‘Do you think I encourage his . . . his attentions, Charlie?’

  Charlie looked embarrassed and shrugged. ‘It did strike me that you and Shepherd seemed to understand each other rather better than the rest of us did,’ he offered.

  ‘But I was just being me! I don’t want a dog-breathed bully like Billy Boil to walk all over me!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Frank, passing me the toast. ‘That’s why he likes you.’

  ‘Likes me!’ I was now incandescent with rage. ‘He wants to kill me, you idiot – very slowly and painfully, he told me. It was only because Syd had his blessed knives that I’m still alive now!’ I got up and threw the toast on the hearth. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Slamming the door to my room, I sat with my back to it, head in my hands. Not meaning to eavesdrop, I heard Charlie say, ‘She can’t help it, Frank. She’s not going to become a simpering female just to put Shepherd off.’

  ‘But he loves manipulating her – it’s like a game to him. He knows he can rely on her temper to make the sparks fly.’

  ‘Are you saying you want Cat to change? To become like all those awful drawing-room misses we have inflict
ed on us when we go visiting?’

  ‘Perish the thought, no! I wouldn’t have her any other way. But she’s making life very difficult for herself as she is. She said it: she’s a magnet for trouble and unless she turns off the magnetism, she’s going to keep on attracting Shepherd to her and one day . . .’

  He didn’t complete the sentence but I did it for him in my head. And one day, as he promised, Billy would simplify whatever it was he felt for me by killing the cat.

  There was a buzz of excitement in the air as we filed into the Lower Form classroom on Monday morning. I’d missed so many lessons the previous week, I appeared to be the only one not in the know.

  ‘How are you feeling, Hengrave?’ asked Richmond with mock concern. ‘Got over your fall yet?’

  My mind filled with the humiliating memory of him rubbing my face in the dirt but I reined in my temper. I could take revenge another way.

  ‘My meeting with the stones merely impressed on me how impoverished in wit and honour you and your friends are,’ I said with a sweet smile in my best drawing room manner, though my words were laden with insult. If Frank wanted me to act like an insipid miss, then that’s what he’d get and we’d see if he liked it. Richmond was disconcerted – as well he might be, for I knew I looked my most girlish with this expression on my face. ‘And I thank you for enlightening me.’ I tipped my head to one side, finger pressed lightly to my cheek coquettishly. ‘I also hadn’t realized such small-brained thugs could walk and talk at the same time – that too was a revelation. Tell me, do you get the ape in you from your mother’s or your father’s side of the family?’

  The boys on my bench laughed.

  ‘Why, you little . . .’ snarled Richmond.

  Mr Castleton walked into the room, positively bursting with his news.

  ‘Settle down, boys,’ he said, giving us all an indulgent smile. ‘Here it is: the cast of this year’s Latin play!’ He waved a piece of parchment in the air.

  Checking his paper, he wrote a list of names up on the board. I heaved a sigh of relief – mine was not among the principal characters. I’d been worried that Mr Castleton’s admiration of my reading skills would propel me into the limelight at the biggest social event of the school calendar. ‘That’s it for the men,’ he said, stepping back. ‘But this play is really about the women of Greece, about the loyalty of a sister to her fallen brother, so those of you chosen for these parts should not be ashamed.’ My heart sank. I knew what was coming. And I was right. I was to play the lead, Electra.

  ‘And I have some more news for you all,’ Mr Castleton continued. ‘We have a very special guest attending our first rehearsal this afternoon: His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. As old boys will know, he takes a keen interest in the play and has seen several of our productions. He’s sent word that he’s bringing Mr Sheridan, the great playwright himself, to give our young actors some tips.’ A murmur of enthusiasm swept across the room. But my heart was in my boots. ‘So we want to have an “electra-fying” performance, don’t we, to impress our guests?’ Mr Castleton’s eyes rested on me.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ we intoned.

  Electrifying it would be. I couldn’t imagine what Mr Sheridan would think seeing me cavorting on the stage at Westminster School, pretending to be a boy cast as a girl. It would certainly send a few sparks through his system.

  ‘You’ll spend the lesson looking over your parts. Any questions?’

  How quickly can I make a run for it? was the thought uppermost in my mind, but I had to sit it out till the end of the lesson. My attempt to leave on the bell was ruined by Mr Castleton.

  ‘Hengrave, a word.’

  I walked reluctantly to the front of the class. Fatty Ingels pushed roughly past me but Mr Castleton steadied me before I toppled over.

  ‘About last week,’ he began. ‘You don’t think what happened will mar your performance, do you? Are you quite recovered?’

  He was just worried about his damned play. Where had I seen that obsession about the stage before? Oh yes, I remembered: backstage at Drury Lane. I smiled.

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Good, good. Then come with me now. I want to present you to our guests before the rehearsal so they can meet our new young star.’

  ‘No!’ I gave a strangled cry.

  ‘Don’t be silly, boy. They won’t eat you.’ Mr Castleton seized my arm, ignoring all the excuses I stammered out, and towed me over to the headmaster’s office. He knocked respectfully on the door.

  ‘Come!’ bellowed Dr Vincent.

  Mr Castleton, still gripping me firmly by the elbow, entered the room and gave a low bow to the assembled company. I bowed too, keeping myself hidden by the door. The Prince of Wales stood in the centre of the room, dressed in a holly berry red jacket, shiny black boots and snowy white shirt loaded with so much lace that his small head looked like a raisin floating on whipped cream.

  ‘So is this the promising young actor you mentioned, Castleton?’ said Prince George. ‘We were telling Sherry here –’ he waved to his left ‘that you could certainly do with an injection of talent. Last year’s female lead had a broken voice that squeaked like a battered old organ and he looked like the organ grinder’s monkey too.’

  Everyone but me laughed. I could not see Mr Sheridan yet – the door still shielded me – but I could hear his rich chuckle blending with the other gentlemen. It wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘Yes, this is he, your highness.’ Mr Castleton gave me a firm shove in the back and I was propelled further into the room. I gave a low bow. What else could I do? Mr Sheridan gasped, then went into a violent coughing fit.

  ‘You all right, Sherry?’ asked the prince with concern.

  ‘A glass of wine, Mr Sheridan?’ offered Dr Vincent, hastily filling one of his best glasses with his finest vintage.

  ‘I’ll say “yes” for him, headmaster,’ said the prince. ‘After all, he never says “no”.’

  Mr Sheridan’s coughing fit subsiding, the prince turned back to me. ‘The boy will certainly look the part, but can he act?’ he asked Mr Castleton.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He’s only been with us for a short time but he reads with such passion and sense – it’s a joy to hear.’

  My eyes slid to Mr Sheridan. It was some relief to know that he hadn’t shouted out my true identity the moment he saw me. His eyes were on me, an expression of – what was it? – of pride in them? I risked a quizzical look. He gave me a slight nod.

  ‘So, boy, how did you learn to act so well?’ the prince asked me.

  ‘I had some very good teachers, your highness,’ I said, glancing back at Mr Sheridan. He now gave me a broad smile.

  ‘Where are you from, boy?’

  ‘From Dru –, from Dublin,’ I amended.

  ‘He’s one of the Hengraves from Leinster, your highness,’ said Dr Vincent, picking up a letter from the top of the pile on his desk and waving it. ‘You may remember his mother – Lady Ann Hengrave. She was a lady-in-waiting to your mother before her marriage.’

  The Prince of Wales nodded vaguely. Clearly he did not spend much time thinking about his mother’s household. My thoughts were far from vague, however, as my eyes fixed on the envelope in Dr Vincent’s hand: the letter had arrived, but the seal was not yet broken. Time for Tom Cat to hop the twig.

  But I had not reckoned on Mr Sheridan having a bit of fun with me now he had recovered from his surprise.

  ‘So, young Hengrave,’ he said the name with relish, ‘what kind of roles do see yourself most suited to?’

  ‘Feste, sir – the fool,’ I replied quickly.

  ‘What about Viola? Or Rosalind? Or Portia?’ He’d named all the most famous breeches roles in Shakespeare.

  ‘Oh no. Perhaps Brutus in Julius Caesar.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ asked Mr Sheridan, grinning at me as he sensed what was coming.

  ‘He gets to stab his patron in the back when the patron proves too annoying.’

  ‘Very good,’ chuckled S
heridan. ‘I’ll remember that when we next meet, young Hengrave.’

  ‘Poppycock, Sherry,’ said the prince, snapping his fingers. ‘The child can’t play Brutus. You stick to the women’s parts while you’re young, boy. You won’t be able to play them when you sprout a beard, you know.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll take your advice, sir. I don’t think I’m quite ready for a beard.’

  The prince waved me away with his chubby hand. Mr Sheridan gave a wink and drained his glass to me. I made another bow and darted from the room, running all the way back to my staircase without pausing to catch my breath. I didn’t have a moment to lose.

  Abracadabra: Thomas Hengrave was about to disappear.

  SCENE 2 – OLD JEAN’S BEAGLES

  I wasn’t quite quick enough. I had calculated that the headmaster would be spending the hours until the rehearsal escorting his royal guest, but I was wrong. He had returned to his paperwork far sooner than I had imagined. I had written a farewell letter, changed and packed a few belongings in a bundle but not yet left the room when an almighty commotion broke out in the courtyard below. I peered out the window. Dr Vincent was standing in the middle of the Dean’s Yard and bellowing, ‘Hengrave! Hengrave Junior and Senior, my office, now!’ When neither of us emerged to obey his summons, he shouted to a passing boy. ‘You there! Fetch the Hengraves!’

  There was no time to get down the stairs unnoticed. Footsteps could be heard coming up to fetch me. I hid my bundle in the coal scuttle, blackened my hands and face with ash and knelt on the hearth. A boy burst into the room. As my luck would have it, it was Ingels. He was confronted by the sight of the scullery maid in demure close-fitting cap, laying the fire.

  ‘Oi you! Have you seen Thomas Hengrave? He’s a little squirt with red hair who lives in these rooms,’ Ingels said rudely.

  I got up, wiped my nose on the back of my hand and bobbed a curtsey, keeping my eyes lowered. ‘Nah, sir, I ain’t seen no one since I came up ’ere. I think ’e went skatin’ on the duck pond.’ This was the furthest point of the school from here.