Cat Among the Pigeons (3 page)

And now for Ariel's acrobatic exit. Pedro was to tumble off stage in a series of cartwheels, back flips and somersaults. Giving me a cheeky wink, he took a run up and –

Clap, clap, clap.

Pedro crashed to the floor at the side of the stage as a slow round of applause rang out from the shadows of the Pit, startling us both.

‘Oh, well done, Pedro, well done.' From the auditorium came a man's voice. He had a strange accent – American or West Indian, I guessed.

Pedro froze. Sprawled in the dust, his dark
eyes looked up at me through the slits of his mask, wide with terror. It was his expression that made me feel afraid. I moved to the edge of the forestage and shaded my eyes from the guttering footlights, my heart beating unsteadily in my chest. Few things could stop Pedro in his tracks but this person had succeeded with no more than the sound of his voice.

‘And my, little gal, you ain't bad neither – not that Kemble need worry for his position any time yet.'

A broad-shouldered man in a brown jacket and black breeches was making his way down the central aisle, an iron-tipped cane in his hand. As he approached, he seemed at first glance a handsome man, bronzed by the sun. But when he stepped into the pool of light by the orchestra, I saw his eyes were hard, the lines around his mouth cruel. Black hair shot with grey straggled from beneath his hat. He walked as if he owned the place – it annoyed me intensely.

I bobbed a curtsey. ‘I'm sorry, sir, but the theatre's closed until six,' I said tartly, clearly signalling that he was not wanted here, whoever he was.

He waved me away with his cane like a bothersome fly.

‘I ain't here for no play. I'm here to reclaim my property.'

Thinking he had probably dropped something in the scrum to get out the night before, I asked more politely than he deserved: ‘What have you lost, sir? Perhaps I can fetch it for you?'

He gave a belly laugh. ‘Maybe you can, missy. I've come for my slave – Pedro Hawkins.'

I heard a whimper as Pedro scrambled to his feet. Clasping my hands behind me I made rapid ‘get going' gestures, giving him the chance to back slang it out of the theatre.

‘Your slave? I think you must've made a mistake.'

‘I don't make mistakes,' said Hawkins, moving closer. ‘He's my boy and I'm coming to get him.'

‘Is that so, sir? Well, I'm sorry, but you can't have him,' I replied airily.

‘Oh, can't I?' With unexpected agility for one so large, the man bounded across the orchestra pit and clambered on to the stage. I retreated a step to prevent him following Pedro into the wings. ‘A bantling like you won't stop me getting what's mine,' he added, swiping the cane at me. I tried not to flinch.

‘Of course not, sir,' I replied, my tone studiously polite. ‘What I'm trying to tell you, sir, is that the Ariel you just saw isn't your boy Pedro.'

‘No?' the man said sarcastically. We were now doing a strange sort of Barnaby dance: shuffling to and fro as I blocked his attempts to set off in pursuit.

‘No. Sadly, Pedro Hawkins died of a fever last Monday. That was the understudy you saw.'

‘Balderdash!'

‘It's God's honest truth, sir,' (said with fingers crossed behind back). ‘I can understand your confusion – what with the costume and the mask.
But black boys are ten a penny round here. We keep a few in stock in case they up and die in this cold climate as they so often do.'

He wasn't fooled. ‘Let me at him then – I'll soon tell you if it's him or no.'

‘I can't, sir. I'm not allowed to let anyone backstage. I'll be fined five shillings if I do.'

He felt in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. ‘Here, this'll more than make up for any fine. Now let me by, or I'll stop being so reasonable.'

I ignored the coins. ‘I can't do that.'

‘Out of my way!' His bloodshot eyes glaring, he raised the cane.

‘No!' I stared back at him, my chin thrust forward. I wasn't going to let a big bully like him lay hands on Pedro! The man then lunged, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck. His sudden resort to violence caught me unprepared. I was dangling in his grip like a puppet with broken strings and could do nothing but curse him. How dare he lay hands on me!

‘You know what we do with pert gals like you back where I come from?' he hissed, thrusting his cane under my chin. ‘We teach 'em a lesson with this.' He jabbed me hard on the jaw. ‘That'll stop your mouth.'

‘What, sir, are you doing to that child?' a voice roared from off-stage. Mr Kemble strode on to the boards decked out in the crimson robe of the magician, his face made up a startling white with dark eyebrows over flashing black eyes. Power seemed to radiate from him.

‘Teaching her some manners,' said the man. He shook me like a terrier with a rat in its mouth.

‘He's trying to get backstage, sir! He's trying to steal Ariel!' I squeaked.

‘Put her down this instant!' boomed the actor-manager.

‘Bring me the boy first.'

‘You're talking rubbish, man. Put her down.'

‘I told him Pedro died last week but he won't believe me,' I added, half-suffocating under his grip on my neck.

Mr Kemble raised an eyebrow but said nothing to refute the lie.

‘Hold your tongue,' snarled the man. ‘Don't think for one moment that you can bamboozle Kingston Hawkins, you little witch. The boy is mine by law. You're keeping him here against my will.'

Mr Kemble took a step closer. ‘The boy you are talking about is . . . was an apprentice bound to my musical director, Signor Angelini.'

‘Your Angelini's a macaroni-eating fool. He wouldn't know a genuine agreement if it bit him on the ass. The man who sold Pedro to him had no darn right to do so. The boy's mine, I tell you, dead or alive, and no jumped-up player can tell me otherwise!'

Jumped-up player! I kicked hard at his shins in my outrage – he had insulted the most admired actor in the land! But in doing so I only earned myself another shake.

‘Well, sir, unfortunately for you,' Mr Kemble returned icily, ‘you are in the theatre of this
“jumped-up player” –' I heard footsteps: Mr Bishop, the irascible stage-manager, ran up brandishing a hammer, his one good eye fixed on my persecutor, the other hidden by his black eye-patch. Behind him, Long Tom appeared out of the shadows slapping a chain threateningly into his palm. ‘– And you are surrounded by his cast and crew. I suggest you take up your claim with the proper authorities and stop manhandling our Cat as if she were some stray you had a mind to drown.'

My captor let out a hissing breath. Caliban, otherwise known as Mr Baddeley, now stumped into sight, his mass of wild whiskers and mud-splattered sackcloth making an appalling apparition. He was wielding a log with evident intention to apply it to any offending body he could reach. Six extras dressed as sailors followed and formed a semi-circle behind Mr Kemble, pushing up their sleeves in eager anticipation of a brawl.

‘You have 'til the count of three. One . . .'

Kingston Hawkins looked around him, counting his opposition.

‘Two . . .'

He looked down on my bedraggled head, wondering if I was worth the fuss.

‘Three.'

I was dropped to the floor.

‘I will be back!' he shouted as he leapt down into the Pit. ‘In force. You'd better have my slave or his coffin waiting. And understand this: if he's dead I own even the maggots eating his corpse. You can't keep him from me.'

The door to the Pit slammed. There was complete silence on stage. Mr Kemble extended his hand to help me to my feet.

‘Now,' he said lightly as if nothing untoward had happened, ‘where were we? Ah, yes: our Ariel has flown off. Hadn't you better bring him back from the dead, Cat?'

I found Pedro hiding in one of the practice rooms in the basement, curled up and trembling on an old carpet that had once seen better service as the dying spot. (As you may have noticed if you've been to Drury Lane, actors never die on stage without a rug to stop them spoiling their costumes – this particular one had probably supported the legendary Garrick many years ago.) Pedro scrambled up when he heard my approach. We looked at each other speechless for a moment, the right words difficult to find.

He spoke first. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Me? Yes, I'm fine.'

‘I'm so sorry I ran away.' He was still in a lather of fear. He began walking to and fro, clenching and unclenching his hands. I'd never seen him like this.

‘Don't apologise. You did the right thing.'

‘Is he gone?' He stopped to look at me. ‘Did he hurt you?'

‘No, not me.' I surreptitiously shifted my neckerchief to hide my throat.

‘I'm so sorry I didn't stay. I should've.' To my horror, Pedro leant against the wall and thumped his head hard, again and again, punishing himself. ‘I'm a coward . . . coward . . . coward.'

‘Pedro, stop!' I rushed forward and caught him in a tight hug. ‘It's all right. Mr Kemble threw him out.' I could feel Pedro quivering. ‘That Mr Hawkins thinks you're dead – well, maybe he's only half convinced, but it'll do for now.'

Pulling himself together, Pedro stood up straight, furious with himself. ‘I'm sorry. You must think I'm a real girl for behaving like this.'

‘Nothing wrong with being a girl,' I said with mock indignation, trying to cheer him up.

‘Not a girl like you, anyway,' he replied, smiling despite himself.

I sat down and patted the carpet beside me. ‘I think you'd better tell me everything.'

‘Where to start?' He held out his hands helplessly.

‘Well, for one, I thought you were apprentice to Signor Angelini?'

‘I am,' confirmed Pedro, ‘well, sort of.' He looked down at his fingernails.

‘What do you mean “sort of”?' I sensed he was not being entirely straight.

Pedro sighed. ‘I suppose I'm paying the price for it now. You see, my . . . my old master passed me on to a man called Jack Grimes down in Bristol – it was a kind of loan. Grimes dragged me around the provincial theatres and private parties – “the noble savage and his violin”, he called me. Dressed me in the most ridiculous outfits.' Pedro curled his lip with distaste.

‘Not much changed then,' I said, gesturing to Pedro's Ariel costume.

‘If you think this is stupid, you should've seen what I had to wear then. On second thoughts,
I'm pleased you didn't. I feel ashamed just thinking about it.' Pedro managed a wry smile. ‘Anyway, last year Grimes ran into Signor Angelini during the summer circuit. The maestro was taken with my talent. Grimes thought he'd make a bit of extra money by arranging the apprenticeship. I knew then that it was an odd agreement – Signor Angelini paid him money to sign me up, realizing he'd get it all back through my earnings. I didn't say anything – the maestro seemed a much better bet than either Grimes or Mr . . . Mr Hawkins. I thought he could teach me things, turn me into a real artist and not just some musical freak show.'

‘So Mr Hawkins is right to say that your articles of apprenticeship aren't worth anything?' I asked quietly.

He shrugged. ‘I don't know, Cat. Is that what he claimed?'

I nodded.

Pedro stared at the flickering lantern in
misery. There seemed to be nothing more either of us could say.

‘I'm not going back to him. I'm not,' he broke out suddenly. ‘I'll kill myself before I let him a lay a finger on me again.' Pedro ground his fist into his palm.

‘Of course you're not. He can't take you against your will.'

‘What? Him a rich man, and me a runaway slave – who'll protect me?'

‘Who'll protect you?' I caught his hand in mine. ‘Why, your friends of course.'

He squeezed my hand in silent thanks.

‘Look, we'd better go and explain all this to Mr Kemble while Mr Sheridan is still out of town.' I rose to shake out my skirts. ‘Then I think we should pay a call on Grosvenor Square. I'll send word that we're coming and arrange an escort to keep you safe from that villain Hawkins.'

Pedro's face perked up at this suggestion. ‘You think Frank and Lizzie can help?'

‘I'm sure of it. It took an earl to get me off a
hanging over the diamond
*
; a lord and lady might just do the trick for you.'

We were still left with the problem that Pedro was dead.

It was a greater difficulty than you might first imagine. His name was already on all the playbills printed for the opening night of
The Tempest
. Mr Kemble had half-confirmed my wild claim to Hawkins that Pedro had succumbed to a fever; he would be in hot water if he was proved to have lied to the man. It didn't matter what I said – no one took
me
seriously – but Mr Kemble's word counted for something in London. As Pedro and I made our way upstairs, I realized that the first thing we had to do was straighten the matter out.