CHAPTER SEVEN
A Hunt in Soho
CATO SAT TIGHT inside the sedan chair as Jack and Sam bumped and swayed in and out of Covent Garden, through the market, with the smells of rotting vegetables and dung, past the porters’ shouts and yells, westward to Soho. It was nearly noon and he’d already been to the milliner’s and warned them to expect Bella, though with a new name and accent.
The sedan chair hurtled up the Tottenham Road, swerving to avoid a carriage and a party of schoolboys in long blue coats. Cato thought of Quarmy again and, looking back at the scholars, realized he’d never seen one with a black face in his whole life. Quarmy could be as much a merchant of lies and flummery as anyone else. And Rowlands, free in name, but somewhere out in the rookeries of the parish of St Giles, where the poor slept a dozen or more to a room.
Cato knew his life with Mother Hopkins was as close to a charmed one as could be imagined for a young boy whose skin was less than porcelain white. He had thanked his stars more than once that Mother Hopkins had not discarded him as soon as they were out of Newgate, for it was more than a few years and more meals than he could count before he had begun to earn his keep. Why did she take them in, Jack and Addy and Sam? One day, he told himself, he would ask.
The chair pulled up suddenly in Soho Square. A few years ago it had been the best address in town and there were a deal of fine but, compared to St James’s, slightly down-at-heel-looking houses.
‘We’ve a job up Westminster, double pay, if we’re quick,’ Sam said as Cato got down from the chair.
‘So we’re not stopping.’ Jack stamped his feet to knock the mud from his shoes. ‘I tell you what, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’d rather we wore those high Russian boots than these damnable slippers any day of the week.’
‘You chose them! Now stop working your tongue and work your feet instead,’ Sam snapped. ‘And, Cato, good luck with Master Tunnadine. Remind him of the horses.’
Cato decided to see if Sam knew any more about Mother Hopkins. ‘I heard from some talk in The Vipers that old Josh Tunnadine was more than sweet on Mother Hopkins.’
Sam was dismissive. ‘I heard half of London was sweet on her once. Come on, Jack! We’re late.’
Cato watched them as they raced off, then looked around at the houses. A pair of children ran past him talking a language Cato thought must be French. He knew Soho and Spitalfields were the best places in town for French pastries when there was any spare cash to be had for them. Addy loved the ones curled like a ram’s horns the best, and if she’d been at home, Cato would have bought her one.
Master Tunnadine’s house was called Carfax, and was four storeys of good London brick. It must have been extremely grand not so long ago. The windows to the upper floors were shuttered and looked as if they had not been opened for years. Cato stepped up and knocked hard at the black painted door. He tried to remember Master Tunnadine but then recalled he’d never been round at The Vipers, and it was only Mother Hopkins and Sam and Jack that had had any dealings with the fellow. He did remember the Epping job and it made him shiver. The countryside was not Cato’s favourite place – far too much mud.
The door squeaked open.
‘Yes?’
Cato knew the voice instantly. Quarmy, tall and dark as polished ebony, had opened the door.
‘Christ stripe me! The African prince! What are you doing here? You’re a slave too and no mistake!’ Cato had to stop himself from laughing. ‘All that flim-flam about royalty!’
Quarmy held a silver tray out ready for the visitor’s card, but when he saw Cato, he put it down at his side.
‘I am no slave!’ The fury in his answer was sharp as nails. ‘And as to what I am doing here – well, not expecting you, that’s true. I think you should try the servants’ entrance. Whatever you want surely cannot be with Master Tunnadine.’
‘I thought you was a prince!’ Cato said, ignoring Quarmy and stepping inside. ‘I’ve come to see Master Tunnadine and you’re to show me in – there’s a good footman.’
Quarmy shut the front door and rolled his eyes. ‘I am not a footman, and I am no slave! I am a personal valet and adviser.’
‘Oh right, yes. Advise Master Tunnadine on opening doors, do you?’ Cato couldn’t help smiling. ‘Or maybe you’re teaching him music? Are you going to show me in then or not?’
‘What’s your business? Do you have any business?’ Quarmy asked snootily.
‘Naturally. I am Cato Hopkins, here on behalf of Mother Hopkins, of Covent Garden.’
For a moment Quarmy said nothing.
‘The Mother Hopkins?’
‘I do not doubt there is more than one,’ Cato said – he was used to this reaction.
‘You know the Mother Hopkins?’ Quarmy lowered his voice. ‘The Queen of Scoundrels? You are not lying?’
‘Queen of Scoundrels? I’ve not heard that one before. And yes, I know her. I am her son.’ Cato coughed. ‘Of sorts.’
‘Don’t tell me!’ Quarmy feigned wonder. ‘There is more than one way of begetting children? Then England is truly more wondrous than I could have imagined.’
‘Adopted son.’
‘Wait there. I’ll tell Master Tunnadine you are here. But I need to speak with you, in private.’
Cato could not imagine what Quarmy would want with him. As he waited, he looked around. Inside, the house was smarter than outside: there were a few good paintings, although the walls were painted in darker colours than were fashionable.
Then the door to the drawing room opened and Quarmy waved Cato inside.
Master Tunnadine was folding a copy of the London Gazette on his lap as Cato entered. He looked older than Mother Hopkins, and was wearing a black coat with a velvet cap on his head. White tufts of hair escaped from underneath.
‘Young Cato! I have not seen you since you were, ooh, six or seven years.’ He put out his hand for Cato to shake.
‘I was with Jack Godwin and Sam Caesar in Epping, sir. Last year,’ Cato replied.
‘The horses, yes, I was glad it went well! Come, sit. Close to the fire.’ He gave a throaty cough. ‘Tell me, what worries my Mariah so that she needs old Joshua?’
Cato sat down – his Mariah? He had never heard anyone refer to Mother Hopkins like that.
‘I did hear the wedding lay is over now.’ Mr Tunnadine put the Gazette down on a small table and smiled.
Cato was stunned. How did he know of that?
‘And you, I can see, are grown too tall to play the pageboy.’ Tunnadine leaned forward and poked at the fire in the grate. ‘Mariah has mouths to feed and too many responsibilities to bank on living fast and loose with the law much longer.’ He turned to Quarmy, who was standing by the door, listening hard. ‘If you’d kindly leave us, Master Quarmy, I’d be more than grateful.’
Quarmy said nothing and shut the door firmly after him.
‘I can see your confusions writ all across your face!’ exclaimed Tunnadine. ‘Mariah should have taught you to hide your feelings better than that.’
‘But you seem to know all about us,’ Cato protested. ‘Do you know why I am here as well?’
‘Mariah Hopkins and I share much history, boy. And I make it my business to know what goes on in town, as does she. So. How may I help?’
Cato explained that they needed the house as Bella’s – or rather the Countess Ekaterina’s – London home. Tunnadine laughed. ‘That is her!’ He held up the Gazette and Cato read: BALTIC BEAUTY CHARMS LONDON SOCIETY.
‘She must have looked a picture! Little Arabella a countess! I’ve not seen her since she were a maid of twelve.’ He sighed. ‘Well, you are most welcome. But know this: Carfax, my house, is as much a sham as you or I.’ Tunnadine stood up and waved Cato to follow him. ‘This is not my home. For my sins I am still in Kent with my lady wife. I won Carfax off an officer in the Horse Guards regiment in a game of cards last Michaelmas. My wife would have me sell, for she is afraid of London – she says it turns my head, and to be fair she is most p
robably right.’ He opened the door to the hall and called for Quarmy to come with a lighted candle; he descended the staircase in a flash.
‘You have met, you two? You are, after all, brothers of a kind.’
‘I think you’ll find that I am royalty,’ Quarmy said sharply. ‘And Cato is not.’
‘What is royalty but an accident of birth?’ Master Tunnadine said, leading the way up the stairs. ‘Oh, I do not doubt you are who you say you are, Master Quarmy. After all, your lineage is written across your face.’
‘So he is a prince?’ Cato asked.
‘Indeed. Those scars mark out his princehood as much as any crown. But as for the rest of humanity, we are none of us entirely what we seem. For all I know young Cato may be royalty too.’
‘I am not so sure about royalty, sir. Mother Hopkins always told me I was bought for pennies from a girl in Newgate Prison.’
Tunnadine turned round. ‘No, no, no! That’s not the tale. Your mother, for I assume it was her – indeed, she was as tawny as you – was passing Newgate, with you hidden inside a rather shabby cloak of some fustian stuff, I do recall.’
Cato was gobsmacked. ‘You were there?’
‘Indeed! It was my pennies that paid for you!’
‘The girl, sir. Did you ask her name? Did you know her at all?’
‘Of course not! I never saw the woman again. Come now, to business. This house . . . You will have to tell your Mistress Hopkins that the upper floors are unusable.’ Tunnadine pushed open a door and held out the candle. It was a jumble of furniture and parcels, and in the thin candlelight the dust swirled like soot.
‘Mother Hopkins said that we’d need the house next week at the latest.’
‘Then you’ll have a deal of work getting it ready, I’ve no doubt. Tell her to come and see me herself and I promise I’ll dragoon a team of men in here ready to do the drawing room in the finest Russian style if she thinks it will help, though Mariah will have to stump up their wages. I’d do more if I could. There’s many a tale I could tell . . .’ Tunnadine shook his head and smiled, remembering. ‘But my Mistress Tunnadine, a most upright young woman, would have me tarred and feathered if she found any of this out.’ He sighed. ‘Back home in Kent I am a deacon in our country church. How’s that for a pretty tale? Joshua Tunnadine, a deacon!’ He shook his head. ‘Times change.’
Quarmy coughed. ‘Your afternoon appointment, Master Tunnadine. You will have me fetch the papers from Gray’s Inn?’
‘Yes, yes, I must ready myself.’ The old man shuffled down the stairs, and Cato and Quarmy followed.
‘So you knew Mother Hopkins well?’ Cato asked.
‘Better than anyone alive, I am sure,’ Tunnadine replied.
‘And you know about me?’
Tunnadine waved a hand. ‘I have told you everything about your provenance there is to tell. Ask Mariah herself but there is no more to it than that. Now, run along and inform your mistress I wish to see her. And, Quarmy – be quick to Gray’s Inn.’
Quarmy had caught up with Cato by the churchyard at St Giles. Cato wished he hadn’t, for he would rather have been alone with his thoughts. The afternoon was busy even though it was cold. The sun shone on the frosted cobbles and there were plenty of beggars bundled up in rags, breathing clouds of white smoke.
Cato walked fast. He was imagining a younger Tunnadine handing over a few pennies and being passed an infant. Cato tried to imagine the face of the woman. She could have been a girl – did Tunnadine say girl, or young woman? He imagined Tunnadine trying to shush and quiet his own baby self, bawling as his mother disappeared into the stew of the city.
‘Watch your step!’ Cato had walked into the crossing sweeper at the top of Great White Lyon Street. He had reached the Seven Dials, and the smell of hot metal and thick ink caught in his throat. This was where the best ballads were printed. Once he’d bought one that was still hot from the press and warmed his hands as he read. And although he was in a hurry, looking in the window took no time at all.
He hadn’t realized Quarmy was still beside him, looking out of breath from hurrying.
‘I think you’ll find Gray’s Inn is better reached if you take the Oxford Road,’ Cato said.
Quarmy said nothing. Instead of his usual arrogant air, he suddenly looked forlorn and morose, more like the kitten Addeline had saved from drowning last spring, just as Ezra was about to take it to meet its maker in a bucket in The Vipers’ yard where the barrels were stored.
Quarmy did not move.
‘Quarmy, are you quite well? Is it the cold? I expect you can’t be used—’
Quarmy cut him off. ‘It pains me to ask but I am in desperate need.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Cato, taken aback.
‘I was offhand with you at our first meeting – please excuse me. You are Cato Hopkins, son of the Mother Hopkins?’
‘I think that’s clear enough, and you, as you have told me often, are a Prince of Brinny, or Bonny.’
‘Bonny. That’s the truth. And I have been trying to find a way to Mother Hopkins these past days! I only took the post with Tunnadine because he promised me he knew her, and he has had me running errands all over town and waiting on him at his pleasure.’
Cato smiled. ‘Master Tunnadine is almost as cunning as Mother Hopkins. If he had told you straight away, you would have left him to stew! And anyway, I fail to see why a prince would need any help at all. You are, as you keep telling me, a man who likes the natural order of things. Mother Hopkins is only sought by those who wish to turn the natural order on its head.’
Quarmy gulped at the air.
‘One thing I do know, Quarmy, is that I cannot stand here in the street with the north wind freezing the marrow in my bones to ice.’
‘Mine is a long story, sir – please do not go. Please. Listen!’
‘Well, walk with me quickly. There is a good pie shop in Little White Lyon Street. If you must talk at all, let’s talk there.’
Quarmy began speaking as they walked. He was a prince – he said it again. Master Tunnadine had recognized the patterns on his face that were as much a sign of royalty on the west coast of Africa, he said, as a crown and sceptre would be to Queen Anne.
‘This is it.’ Cato opened the door and they were engulfed by a warm fug of hot breath and tobacco smoke. A few folk turned to look a few seconds longer at the two dark-skinned boys, but that was only because they were farmers, up from the country in brown canvas smocks.
A boy around Cato’s age was standing on a table at the far end of the shop singing the latest ballad, one about how he’d won the lottery but lost his love.
Quarmy had a faraway look in his eye. ‘I’d be more than happy to win that lottery. It would solve all my problems at once.’
‘It is a mug’s game, Quarmy,’ said Cato. ‘The lottery serves to make the poor poorer and to part fools from their money. And you said you were a prince. You said your father had bronzes and musicians and you said you were at school! Was that all lies?’
‘No. I was at school. I was sent down.’
‘Sent down?’ Cato hadn’t heard the expression.
A girl much younger than Addy thumped two pies down onto the rather grubby table and held out her hand for payment.
‘Farthing each!’ she shouted at them over the singing.
‘I have no money! Quarmy hissed. ‘Why do you think I work for Tunnadine?’
The girl and Cato rolled their eyes and Cato stumped up a ha’penny. Cato picked up his pie and enjoyed the feeling of warmth seep into his cold hands.
‘You said you was “sent down”,’ Cato said, before taking a bite.
‘Expelled, thrown out,’ Quarmy revealed. ‘My father does not know. He has paid for five years of English education in advance and I have left after two. He would be utterly mortified. I was supposed to go on to university to study Greek and Latin. My father did not understand, and at first, neither did I. They would no sooner let an African into their precious Cambridge
than make a chicken a lady-in-waiting to the Queen!’
Cato laughed and almost lost some of his pie. ‘Now that I would pay to see.’
‘This is serious! I was thrown out because of Ruth, thrown out and relieved of my money, my living, by her cheating father!’
Cato’s face showed blankness.
‘She was my schoolmaster’s daughter.’ Quarmy sighed. ‘Prettiest girl in all of Barnet.’
Cato saw Quarmy’s eyes mist over and could tell he was lost in some kind of dream. Still, he told himself, there was probably not much competition as to pretty girls in Barnet. As far as he could remember, the place was no more than a village where the ash men carted the rubbish of the city. But still, Cato could see the moonish look on the young man’s face as proof of the same emotion he’d seen in young Edgar as his father dragged him away from Bella. Love. Quarmy sighed again and Cato wondered if his Ruth did love him truly – or maybe she was like Bella. Was there a way you could really tell? It could be a pile of dreams that Quarmy had staked his future on. Could a Barnet girl, one with less sophistication in her little finger than a Billingsgate fishwife, really see beyond the spiral scars and love this Quarmy – even if he was a prince?
Outside, the church clock at St Martin-in-the-Fields struck three o’clock.
‘Christ swipe me! I was to be back home before now. See, Master Quarmy – or should I call you sire? – although you have drawn me a pretty picture of your life so far, I fail to see how I or’ – Cato lowered his voice – ‘Mother Hopkins could help.’ Quarmy opened his mouth to go on but Cato put a hand up to stop him. ‘No, please, and even if she – we could help, we are currently more than one hundred per cent engaged. It would be impossible.’
Cato ate up the last crumbs of his pie and stood up to leave.
‘If I were in your shoes, Master Quarmy, I would work my passage on a ship back to Bonny and live the life of ease and feather beds you was born to. Oh – excepting one thing. I would take over so many guns and cannon that when the slavers came I’d pepper their ships with shot and dance as they all sank. Clear? Now, if you excuse me, I have to get on.’
A Nest of Vipers Page 7
