Den of Thieves

by Julia Golding

  ‘What nonsense, Frank! You know that’s not why you’ve got to go to Boxton. You need to prepare for your college examination,’ said Lizzie, prodding her brother with her fan. ‘Father doesn’t want you to get by on your rank but on your merit.’

  ‘And unfortunately, according to my tutors at Westminster School, my merit is not sufficient,’ Frank added sorrowfully. ‘I wish I had your feel for Latin, Cat: it would make my life much easier and the summer much shorter.’

  ‘And I wish we could swap places,’ I replied, thinking that I wouldn’t mind spending the summer on a country estate improving my language skills – it would certainly be better than the uncertain future I was facing in London.

  ‘Unfortunately, I think my tutor might notice this time.’ Frank nodded at my hair which now reached my shoulders after being cut short six months ago so I could masquerade as a Westminster schoolboy. ‘What about you, Pedro? What are you going to do when the theatre closes?’

  Pedro stretched out on his back on the grass, hands behind his head. ‘I’ll be with the maestro. He did say something about going to Paris and then on to Italy.’ He’d evidently been saving up that little gem of information, just waiting for us to ask for it. That’s Pedro’s way: to appear quite collected about the most exciting things. I guessed he was really enthusiastic underneath his cool demeanour.

  ‘What! You lucky thing!’ Frank exploded. ‘So I’m the only one stuck in old England, am I?’

  ‘Apart from me,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Of course, you. That’s a given. You leaving Covent Garden is as about as unthinkable as the ravens leaving the Tower of London.’ Frank turned back to Pedro. ‘Will you see the Colosseum? Venice?’

  I refilled my glass, not entirely pleased with this speech. Why did Frank think it inconceivable that I would leave London? Why did my privileged friends think I couldn’t move beyond the world I knew? Did they consider me so limited that I wouldn’t be able to cope? Another voice whispered, perhaps they were right? Perhaps I couldn’t survive outside the Sparrow’s Nest? My hand shook and I splashed raspberry sherbet on my white gown.

  ‘Oh, b*****!’ I swore.

  ‘Cat!’ exclaimed Lizzie as Frank and Pedro howled with laughter at my obscenity.

  ‘What was that about behaving at our house?’ crowed Frank. ‘Treating her like a lady?’

  I got up. ‘Sorry, Lizzie. I’d better go.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll summon someone to bring a cloth to wipe off your skirt. Raspberry leaves terrible stains.’ She reached for a bell.

  ‘No, I clean my own clothes, thanks.’ Pride dented, I took off across the grass before they could stop me. Larking about in the library was one thing, but swearing in front of Lizzie another. I’d let myself down. I knew that my anxious state of mind about the future was some excuse for the bad language. What did Lizzie and Frank know about worrying where your next meal was coming from or where you could shelter for the night? Their reaction to my bad language only served to emphasize the gulf that I had always known stretched between us. What had Syd said? Duke’s children had one world, he another. The problem was I didn’t seem to have any world at all any more.

  I heard soft footsteps running up behind me and Pedro appeared at my elbow.

  ‘Frank and Lizzie sent me to accompany you home,’ he explained. ‘Frank’s sorry if he offended you and Lizzie said not to worry about your lapse in . . . er . . . taste.’

  I turned. The duke’s children were standing watching us from the shade of the pavilion, Frank at his sister’s shoulder. He gave me a salute when he saw I was looking in their direction. I waved back, having a strange sensation that they were on board a ship sailing away from me, separating us for ever.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pedro, noticing my uncharacteristic silence.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming back to Grosvenor Square,’ I said, giving voice to my intuition.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Cat,’ he laughed. ‘You didn’t swear that badly. You didn’t say . . .’ He proceeded to reel off a list of the saltiest words in my vocabulary that he had picked up in my company.

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘True. No, I just meant that I feel as though these separations are bringing something to an end. All of you are going in different directions. It’s never going to be the same again.’

  Pedro kept silent for a moment but I could feel his eyes were on me. ‘Will you be all right, Cat? Lizzie and Frank were wondering if they –’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, cutting him off. I wasn’t going to spoil my friendship with the Avons by becoming a hanger-on, living off their charity. ‘The theatre will look after me, I expect.’ At least, I hoped so. From the angry voices I heard last night, I wasn’t the only one to have worked out that with a full staff at the King’s Theatre already, not all of us would have jobs when the company moved.

  We walked on, and turned into Piccadilly, a smart district of gentlemen’s clubs, wine merchants and tobacconists. It was quieter than normal as the season was ending and noble families were departing daily for their country residences. A brace of two-wheeled curricles raced down the street as the young bloods on the driving seats put their horses through their paces.

  ‘More money than sense,’ I grumbled to Pedro as we waited for the dust to settle. He sneezed.

  As the cloud thrown up by the passage of the carriages cleared, I noticed two heavily-built men in sharp cut brown jackets watching us from the opposite side of the street. They had the unmistakeable air of hired hands paid to execute their master’s orders, be it to collect debts or break limbs.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I whispered to Pedro, giving him the merest hint of a nod towards the danger I had spotted. My first thought was that they had been sent by his old master to rough us up in revenge for squeezing Pedro’s manumission from him in the winter. Quick to reach a similar conclusion, Pedro’s eyes widened in alarm and we picked up our pace. The men started to walk briskly in the same direction, but parallel to us. I looked about for a shop to retreat into, but we were in the stretch of Piccadilly that ran in front of several clubs – we’d not gain admission in there even if we had a mad axeman on our tail.

  ‘What shall we do?’ hissed Pedro as one of the men crossed the road behind us.

  I took a quick look around; the heat had driven most customers off the street but there were still a respectable number of people in sight. ‘Carry on walking and keep to the centre of the pavement.’ I had now noticed a hackney cab travelling suspiciously slowly near the curb a few yards behind. Was it an attempt to snatch Pedro?

  The second man sped up and strode over the road to reach the pavement in front of us. We stopped. With lazy confidence he walked towards us, swinging a cane in his hand. I grabbed Pedro’s arm, determined not to let go. I had a piercing scream, plus a few unladylike moves taught me by Syd if necessary.

  The man stopped a few feet from us and bowed.

  ‘Miss, I think you dropped something.’ He held out a black silk pouch.

  What dodge was he up to? Did he think I’d fall for a magsman’s trick like that?

  ‘You are mistaken, sir,’ I said coolly. ‘That does not belong to me.’

  ‘Are you sure, miss?’ said the man. His voice was harsh as if he had gargled with iron filings and forgotten to spit them out. He thrust his hand into the bag and drew out a long piece of red hair. ‘My master said you were certain to remember it. ’E swore you’d come along like a little lamb.’

  I gripped Pedro’s arm, trying not to show the panic inside. My own hair – cut from my head by a razor eighteen months ago – Billy Shepherd’s calling card.

  ‘But ’e said, in case your memory was not too sharp today, that we should bring the means to . . . ’ow shall I put it? . . . to ensure that you keep your appointment with ’im.’ He nodded to his friend standing at my back. I heard knuckles crack as the bully flexed his fists.

  ‘You will not lay a finger on this young lady, you blackguard,’ said Pedro fierce
ly, stepping in front of me. He knew nothing about the promise I’d given Billy.

  ‘It’s all right, Pedro.’ I had to get him out of here or we were both in deep trouble. I had to persuade him I wasn’t scared. ‘It’s just the Boil. I . . . er . . . I owe him something.’

  ‘You don’t owe that sewer rat anything,’ replied Pedro with a proud toss of his head. ‘Look, it’s broad daylight: they can’t take you against your will before all these people.’

  He had more faith in the decency of the London man on the street than me. I doubted very much that there were many who would risk taking on these two apes in our defence.

  ‘If I don’t go now, there’ll be another day – or night – in a dark alley with no witnesses,’ I argued, wishing to spare him a pointless beating.

  ‘The young lady’s no flat,’ grinned the man, ‘as Mr Shepherd told us. ’E said she’d come nice and easy.’

  ‘Well, she’s not going without me,’ said Pedro, trapping my hand on his arm under his. ‘You’re not getting into a cab with them on your own, Cat,’ he argued as I tried to pull away.

  ‘I haven’t got a choice. I’ll have to see Billy if he wants to see me.’

  ‘So it would seem. But not by yourself. I’m coming too.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Blackie,’ said the man. ‘You can come for the ride if you like.’

  ‘Can we have a moment?’ I asked.

  Billy’s messenger shrugged and stood off a couple of paces.

  ‘Pedro, you’d better stay out of this,’ I urged. ‘Remember what he did to you last year – kept you chained up in a pit for days!’

  Pedro’s jaw was set. He shook his head.

  ‘There’s no point both of us disappearing into the Rookeries. If you leave now, you can let Syd know where I’ve gone. That means if I need help – though I doubt I will – you’ll have alerted the gang. If you come with me, Billy will just use you against me – you know what he’s like. He’ll threaten to hurt you just to get at me. I couldn’t bear that.’

  Pedro unclenched his teeth.

  ‘You know Billy and I are old sparring partners. He probably just wants his annual dose of insults from me.’

  A pause followed this suggestion and then Pedro nodded. ‘I’ll run and tell Syd. If you’re not back by dark, we’ll come in after you. Agreed?’

  ‘I’ll be back long before then, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Agreed?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. And good luck.’ He squeezed my hand and darted off down Piccadilly before my guard of honour could stop him.

  ‘The young African gentleman not accompanying you after all, miss?’ asked the messenger sardonically.

  ‘He had another, more pressing engagement,’ I said airily as if I had not a concern in the world. ‘As do I. I hope your master is not going to keep me long?’

  ‘No idea, miss,’ he replied, helping me into the cab. ‘’E’s a law unto ’imself, is Mr Shepherd.’

  SCENE 2 – THE CROWN JEWELS

  I was wrong about the Rookeries. I should have remembered that Billy Shepherd’s empire had grown overnight like a particularly poisonous species of toadstool. He had decided to let his fungus sprout in Bedford Square, Bloomsbury, surrounded by the elegance to which he now aspired; though his roots were still planted not far away in the stews of St Giles where he made his money and ruled his own criminal kingdom.

  The cab drew up outside a brick house at the end of the terrace on the southern side, the first floor embellished with a cage-like iron balcony. The front door was framed by an archway of alternating black and white stone, reminiscent of a badger’s snout. Billy had appropriately chosen a fox’s head for his brass knocker. I suppose that made me the first chicken in history to walk voluntarily into the den.

  A cool chequered-tile entrance hall stretched out before me. I was glad I happened to be appropriately dressed for my surroundings and could meet the servants’ eyes without embarrassment. I folded my skirt in my fist to hide the pink sherbet stain and followed the butler upstairs, intrigued despite myself to see what Billy was doing with his newfound riches.

  Was it my imagination or did all of Billy’s household look like barmaids and cracksmen playing at dressing up? Having known a properly managed staff at Grosvenor Square, I couldn’t help but notice that the maids’ skirts were too flouncy and the stripes of the butler’s breeches too broad.

  I was brought up short when we reached the first floor landing. The neutral entrance hall had lulled me into a false impression; up here Billy had got to work, stripping out the previous tenant’s decorations and bringing in his own objets d’art. It was as if King Midas had been invited to run riot. Everything – and I mean everything, Reader – was gold. A figurine of a crude-looking satyr leered at a shepherdess on the other side of the doorway. Fleshy goddesses lolled about on clouds in heavy gilt-framed pictures. The chairs were painted gold, the drapes made from golden silk. I had the impression if I stood still any longer I would find myself gilded to the spot. It was the most ostentatious display of wealth and poor taste I’d ever had the misfortune to see.

  The butler opened the door in front of us with a flourish.

  ‘Your guest has arrived, sir,’ he said in sepulchral tones.

  If the first floor landing was a study in gold, this drawing room was an exercise in white and glass by some unhinged set designer for the pantomime. It was like standing inside an ice sculpture. A huge cut-glass chandelier dripped from the ceiling; mirrors glittered from the walls, snowy painted floorboards stretched at my feet. Impractical white-covered furniture floated like icebergs on an Arctic sea.

  ‘I’ll disappear if I set foot in here,’ I joked to the butler, looking down at my dress. ‘All you’ll see is a ginger head bobbing about.’

  His face refused to crack. He ushered me forward.

  ‘Suit yourself, shipmate,’ I muttered as I launched myself into the room. I shouldn’t have expected Shepherd’s employee to be friendly – or to have a sense of humour.

  I didn’t see Billy at first. That was because he was lounging on the chaise longue at the far end of the room in his shirt sleeves and white silk breeches, his dark hair caught back with a black ribbon. I snorted with ill-timed laughter. He’d obviously planned this white-thing to impress me.

  ‘Cat!’ Billy exclaimed, rising on his elbow as he helped himself to a fistful of cherries. ‘A pleasure to see you as always.’ His grey eyes sparkled with mischief – he must have something unpleasant planned for me then.

  ‘The pleasure is all yours, Billy,’ I said briskly. ‘What’s all this about? I haven’t got time to waste playing games with you.’

  He spat a cherry stone into a silver bucket. It rang like a bell and I could see he was pleased with the effect.

  ‘Take a seat, make yourself at home,’ he continued, waving me towards a chair opposite him.

  ‘A gentleman would’ve risen when a lady entered the room.’ I paused by the seat but did not sit down.

  ‘Well, when one comes in I’ll make sure I stir myself.’

  Ouch! I walked into that one. A point to him.

  ‘Sit down, sit down, Moggy. Our business might take some time. No need to stand on ceremony.’

  True. Remaining standing in his presence was a bit too much like a courtier before a king. I sat down.

  ‘Cherry?’

  I shook my head. ‘Very nice, Billy,’ I commented, looking around the room. ‘Very . . . er . . . tasteful.’

  He missed the irony. ‘Glad you like it. I’m havin’ the place done over by London’s top craftsmen. Every room has a theme.’

  I noticed that he over-pronounced his haitches. So, he was taking elocution lessons too, was he?

  ‘What’s the subject of this one then? Bedlam? All you need are a few lunatics in white gowns and the picture would be complete.’

  He grinned. His teeth were as bad as ever. ‘Nah, I’ve got you for that, Cat, ain’t I?’ he quipped, slipping ba
ck into his old manner of speaking.

  ‘You’re right, Billy. I was mad to come.’

  ‘You ’ad no choice.’ His manner stiffened; he sat up, scattering cherry stones on the white rug at his feet. We were getting down to business at last.

  ‘What was it to be if I hadn’t come? A knife in the ribs or a trip down the Thames?’

  ‘Would I do that to you, Cat?’ he asked with feigned innocence, hands spread wide. ‘Me, a respectable man of property?’

  ‘Respectable, my a**e. You’re about as honest as Molly Everymans from the Jolly Boatman.’

  ‘Watch it, Cat. My patience with you ’as its limits.’

  He was riled: a point to me then.

  I put the black silk bag containing my lock of hair on the table. ‘As I infuriate you so badly, Billy, why not finish it between us? Tell me what you want. I’ll do it if I can, then we’ll call it quits. You leave me alone and I promise never to lay my eyes on your ugly mug again.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re a girl that keeps ’er word, Cat. I ’alf expected you to make some excuse about promises extorted unfairly. I ’ad you in a bind that night, didn’t I?’ He chuckled at the memory.

  ‘When you’ve stopped congratulating yourself on your low cunning, Billy, perhaps you’ll get to the point?’ I scratched at the upholstery, feeling the stuff split under my nails. He’d been cheated by his supplier if he thought he was getting the finest.

  ‘All right, Kitten –’

  ‘Don’t call me Kitten.’

  ‘Kitten, I want you to get me something.’

  ‘What exactly?’ I didn’t like this – I didn’t like this at all.

  ‘I’ve got everything a man could want, but I’ve found that recently I’ve developed the tastes of a con-a-sewer.’

  How appropriate. He meant connoisseur, of course.

  He rose from the couch and beckoned me to follow him. ‘Come and see my collection.’ Seeing him on his feet for the first time, I noticed that he loomed over me these days. Leading me to a door in the wall beside the over-large mantelpiece, he took out a key and unlocked it. I hesitated: the room he had revealed was dark; I suspected a trap.