Cat Among the Pigeons (9 page)

‘True. You both deserve the credit.' Equiano lowered his voice and turned me to look up at him.
‘You're closest to him – I can trust you to look out for him, can't I?' I nodded. ‘Don't drop your guard yet. Until I see Hawkins sailing away from England, I won't be convinced we've really won.'

‘Cat! Cat! Wake up!'

I retired late and had only caught a few hours' sleep when I found myself being shaken awake.

‘W-what?'

‘Get up, you silly girl. You've got to go.'

I opened my eyes to find myself staring up at Mr Sheridan, my unofficial guardian and the owner of Drury Lane. Back from his visit to the countryside, he was now in the Sparrow's Nest, standing over me with a candle. This was all wrong: he never came up here. Something very serious must have happened.

‘Is it Pedro?' I asked, throwing off my blanket.

‘No, you fool,' he said tersely. His dark eyes glittered angrily at me. A jolt of fear pushed me to my feet. Mr Sheridan was all that stood between
me and destitution: it was by his permission that I found a roof over my head at Drury Lane. If he was furious with me then I was in serious trouble.

‘What have I done?'

‘You tell me, Cat.' He strode to the window, his back turned. ‘I get to my club and find it in an uproar. Apparently some vandal rampaged through the members' library shouting obscenities. How shocking, I thought. Then I find out that the same person had nearly severed a finger belonging to a very respected gentleman. Dreadful, thought I.' He faced me. ‘Finally, I'm told it was a girl from Drury Lane and that an official complaint has been made. A warrant is out for her arrest for assault and destruction of property. You can thank your lucky stars that I've arrived before the runners, who, I'm also reliably informed, will be only too delighted to take you into custody. If I didn't owe you one for looking after Johnny, I would have left you to them. What did you think you were doing?'

I stared at him in horror as he said all
this, my mind refusing to take it in.

‘It was Pedro's old master, Mr Hawkins. He stuck his fingers in my mouth,' I said in a hollow voice, thinking some kind of explanation was required.

‘Cat, you expect me to believe that a grown man put his fingers in the way of your teeth and you just happened to bite down on them?'

‘He was pretending to buy me,' I protested, ‘like in the slave market. I felt humiliated.'

Mr Sheridan ran his fingers through his hair and swayed slightly. He'd taken in a lot of wine tonight, I could tell, and was perhaps wondering if he'd heard me properly.

‘Sounds like he was teasing you, Cat. You shouldn't have let it get so out of hand. But no matter. I can't hide you from the runners – you've got to go, and go now.'

‘But where can I go? This is my home!' I whispered faintly.

Somewhere down below, there came a banging on the stage door.

‘Open up! Open up!'

‘It's them!' hissed Mr Sheridan. ‘You're going to have to leave through here.' He gestured to the window. ‘They'll be watching the doors.'

I nodded, my brain finally recovering from its bewilderment. I was dressed only in my nightgown. Grabbing a few belongings together in an old sewing bag, I threw the window open, then turned round.

‘I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused, sir. Thank you for warning me.'

‘Get along with you, Cat,' he said, ruffling my hair in his old affectionate manner. ‘You'll be back, I've no doubt. Here!' He thrust some coins into my hand. ‘Stay away from the obvious places where they'll look for you – Grosvenor Square, the butcher's shop, and so on. And keep out of any more trouble.'

I nodded and clambered on to the sill as Mr Sheridan closed the window behind me. Clutching my bag under one arm, I scrambled up on to the ridge of the roof and sat astride it. If
you edge along the ridge to the gable overlooking Brydges Street, it's possible to slide down to the gutter, swing to the broad window ledge of the tavern next door and then, if you are lucky and the catch is open, climb in on the first floor. At least, that was the theory. I'd never done it before.

With a quick glance back at Mr Sheridan, I began my perilous journey across the tiles. Reaching the Brydges Street end, I leant forward on my stomach to look down to the road. Two men were lounging against the wall opposite the theatre. Moonlight glinted on the buckles of their uniform. Mr Sheridan was right: the runners were after me in force. I would have to make my slide down to the gutter that ran between the theatre and the Players' Tavern as noiselessly as possible. I took a couple of calming breaths. My fingers were frozen – my bare toes also. I had my boots slung by their laces around my neck but dared not pause to put them on. Swinging my leg over the ridge I hung there for a moment, silently counting to three.

‘One . . . two . . . three.'

I let go and slid all the way down to the gutter, leaving the skin of my hands and knees behind me on the leads. Thump! I jolted to a halt and gave a hiss of pain.

‘What was that?' I heard one of the runners ask on the deserted street below. ‘Did you hear something?'

‘Nah. Probably just a cat.'

Now for the most difficult part. I would have to come into view – albeit two storeys up – to drop on to the window ledge. I crawled to the edge of the gulley and let myself down, legs dangling over the void. I know it was not the most ladylike behaviour, Reader, but I had no choice.

I must be mad, I thought. Well, it was either break my neck this way or let the hangman do it for me. I let go, dropped to the ledge, and nearly missed my footing. To stop myself falling, I threw myself forward against the sash window; a pane shattered with the impact and glass tinkled to the ground.

A whistle blew on the street below. Not daring to look down, I tugged at the window until it crashed open. I heaved myself in and tumbled to the floor of a bedroom. In the gloom, a man in a nightcap sat up in bed.

‘What the . . .!' he exclaimed.

‘Sorry!' I hissed as I darted for the door. ‘Must go!'

I made my way to the stairs, and there bumped into the innkeeper, Mr Mizzle, on his way down to answer the hammering at the door.

‘Mr Mizzle, it's me, Cat. The traps are after me! Don't let them in yet.'

Us theatre folks stick together. As chief provider of ale to the thirsty crew from next door, Mr Mizzle knew that now was no time for the whys and wherefores of the matter. Now was the time to help me escape.

‘Out the back, Cat. You know the way,' he said, thrusting me through the kitchen door into the yard. ‘I'll keep them busy in here.'

I dashed across the yard, climbed on some
empty barrels and over the wall, dropping to the ground in the alleyway. I then breathed a sigh of relief. From here on, I was safe. I knew the back alleys around Drury Lane better than any Bow Street runner. Hopping into my boots, I threaded my way down to the Strand and ran westwards into the night.

SCENE 2 – SWITCHED

I only stopped running when I reached Westminster Bridge. Panting so hard I thought my ribs would crack, I leant against the parapet. It was cold – so cold. As the heat of my dash across town faded, the frosty air began to bite. I was shivering uncontrollably. I couldn't remember ever being this frozen. But then, I'd never been homeless dressed only in a nightgown, shawl and boots since – well, since I was a baby left on the doorstep of Drury Lane. And there was no going back to the theatre tonight – or for many nights – perhaps forever.

I stared out at the dark water of the Thames rolling below, wisps of mist creeping along the banks. Dawn was breaking and the streets were coming alive. A barge sailed beneath me, coals in a brazier glowing as the bargemen warmed their hands. They laughed gently and took a swig from steaming cans of tea. The contrast between my
own situation and their cheerful life made the view the most depressing one I'd ever seen.

That's enough, Cat, I told myself fiercely. This is no time for self-pity. You're in a spot of trouble? Well, it's not the first time. You're cold? So you need warmth. That means clothes and a fire – possibly breakfast too if you're lucky.

I pulled open the bundle of clothes I had grabbed in my hurry to escape and found that I'd picked up the breeches, jacket and cap that I'd put by for jaunts out with Syd's gang when I dressed as a boy. Oh brilliant, I groaned. I didn't even have a full set of proper clothes.

But then I had an idea . . .

‘You've a message for Lord Francis?' The porter at Westminster School peered at me sceptically from the warmth of his lodge. ‘Bit early isn't it?'

‘Ain't it just, gov,' I said, legs astride and wiping my nose on the back of my hand in my best messenger-boy manner. ‘That's wot I said when the duchess 'erself sent me 'ere.'

‘Hmm. Hand your note over and I'll see it delivered when his lordship rises.'

‘Well, that puts me in a fair pickle, gov. I's 'avin' the message in my canister if you foller me.' I tapped my cap to indicate my head.

‘All right, all right,' said the porter, already tiring of talking. ‘Lord Francis has the top room in that staircase by the clock tower.'

I touched my cap and bolted across the courtyard. First barrier overcome; breakfast a couple of steps nearer. As I entered the staircase, I met a young man with curly black hair on his way down.

‘Here, tiddler, where do you think you are going?' he said, grabbing me by the arm.

‘Message for Lord Francis, sir,' I said, keeping my head lowered. I realized with a horrid jolt that I knew him: it was Frank's friend, the Honorable Charles Hengrave. I'd even read some of my work to him earlier that year at one of Lizzie's tea parties.

He laughed. ‘He won't be out of bed until the
bell – dead to the world until the last moment. You'd better leave him be.'

‘I can't do that, sir,' I said desperately, trying to worm my way past him. ‘It's urgent. It's his Great-Aunt Charlotte. She's on 'er last legs.'

The Honorable Charles pulled me up short by the back of my jacket.

‘What? I know for a fact that he doesn't have a Great-Aunt Charlotte.' He turned me roughly to face him – and then let go as if I'd burnt him. ‘Miss Royal! I do apologize, but what on earth . . .!'

I made frantic shushing noises. The porter was peering out of his cabin at the altercation going on across the quad. ‘Please don't give me away. I'm in enough trouble as it is. I've got to see Frank.'

Charles turned on his heel. ‘Come on then. We'd better hurry. Everyone will be up in a moment.'

I followed him up the narrow stone staircase to the very top and he hammered on the door.

‘Frank! Frank! Make yourself decent. You've got a visitor.'

Waiting a few moments, my escort opened the door.

‘Lucky for you we share a set of rooms,' he said. ‘You can't imagine how much trouble he'd be in if anyone else caught him with a . . . well, with a you-know-what in his room unchaperoned.'

We entered the study to find a bleary-eyed Frank standing in a rumpled shirt.

‘Who is it, Charlie?'

There were footsteps outside. The porter appeared at the door. ‘Everything all right, sir?'

‘Yes, Mr Jennings, everything is perfectly in order,' said Charles, shoving me out of sight behind him. ‘I was just telling his lordship about the messenger.'

‘It's only that I thought I saw the little urchin giving you cheek down in the quad.'

‘No, no, he's been very respectful. We were having a joke, that's all.'

‘Well, in that case, I'll get on with my work.'

‘Yes, yes, you do that. Very good, very good.'

Charles backed the porter out of the door and shut it behind him with a sigh of relief.

‘What's going on, Charlie?' asked Frank, still not fully awake. He yawned, stretched and scratched the back of his head. ‘What's the messenger here for?'

Charles waited until the footsteps had died away. ‘You'd better ask yourself. I must say I'm also rather intrigued to know the answer.'

Frank took his first proper look at me and swore. ‘Damn and blast, Cat, what are you doing here?' He grabbed a dressing gown and hastily wrapped himself up in it.

‘I was rather hoping you'd let me warm up and have some breakfast,' I replied with a longing look at the fire. ‘I've just spent the night on the tiles.'

‘Good lord, Cat, you look frozen.' He grabbed my hands, now noticing that they were blue with cold, and rubbed them briskly in his palms, all trace of sleepiness vanished. ‘Charlie,
get the blanket off my bed.'

Bundled up by the fire, warming up at last, I began to tell them the tale of my escape across the rooftops.

‘Miss Royal, you are certainly a most extraordinary young lady!' exclaimed Charles when I'd finished.

‘You'd better drop the Miss Royal, sir,' I said. ‘I'm a boy for the moment.'