The Diamond of Drury Lane (11 page)

I shrugged. ‘I suppose not. But is that likely at a boxing match?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Johnny, putting the sketch away in his portfolio. ‘Many gentlemen of my acquaintance are bound to be there for the gambling. I can’t risk it. Now, let’s see what you have done.’

I showed him my drawing.

He chuckled. ‘You have made the old villain look like one of those anteaters from the Americas. A very good start if you want a career as the first female cartoonist, Cat.’

On Sunday morning, Pedro and I waited at the corner of Grosvenor Square for Lord Francis. We appeared to have arrived at rush hour: carriage after carriage was drawing up at the front doors, taking the inhabitants off to the church service of their choice. Only a few families were brave enough to expose their expensive attire to the streets by
walking the short distance to the parish church.

I spotted the duke and Lady Elizabeth emerging from their house shortly before ten. Pulling Pedro out of sight behind a carriage waiting on the corner, I watched them walk arm in arm in the opposite direction.

‘’Ere, what you playin’ at?’ protested the coachman, flicking his long whip in our direction. ‘Get away from my carriage.’

Enjoying my breeches role (as Johnny put it), I couldn’t resist the temptation to indulge in a bit of unladylike shouting.

‘What’s your problem, mate? We haven’t scratched your precious paintwork.’ I then stuck my tongue out at him.

‘Come on, Cat,’ said Pedro, grabbing the back of my jacket and towing me into Charles Street, away from the anger of the coachman and the reach of his whip. ‘You’re enjoying this too much.’

I laughed. ‘I can’t tell you how good it feels to get out of petticoats! I feel quite a different person.’

‘I can see that.’ Pedro looked about him as the
church clocks began to chime the hour across London. ‘Where is he?’

There was a shrill whistle behind us and a clod of earth hit Pedro on the back of his head. He turned round to shout a protest as, out of the mews, bolted a tall, scruffy boy, his face blackened with soot like a chimney sweep. He ran straight up to us and presented himself for our inspection, arms thrown wide.

‘Lord Francis!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’d never’ve recognised you!’

Lord Francis the chimney sweep looked me up and down. ‘Nor I you, Miss Royal.’

‘Forget Miss Royal,’ I replied, stuffing a stray strand of hair deeper into my cap. ‘Call me Cat.’

‘And you’d both better drop that lord business,’ said Lord Francis, digging his hands into his breeches pockets. ‘How about calling me Frank?’

‘As you wish, sir,’ said Pedro.

‘Frank,’ Lord Francis said as he cast an eye across the square to see that his father was out of sight.

‘Frank,’ said Pedro uncertainly.

‘Come on, we’d better hurry!’ I said, setting off towards Oxford Street. ‘We don’t want to miss it.’

As we ran through the streets, dodging the carriages, jumping the puddles, jostling the families occupying the pavement as they walked to church, I felt a great bubble of happiness inside me. Despite my fears, I was looking forward to the adventure ahead. If only I didn’t have to watch Syd take a beating!

There was a light drizzle in the air as a cold rain shower tried to dampen the holiday mood. Mixing with the swirling smoke from thousands of chimney pots, the rain settled on the day like a damp blanket, forcing the light to work hard to break through the clouds. Yet despite the grey, dank weather, there was no sign of anyone being deterred . . . crowds began to thicken with people heading for the boxing match as we drew nearer to Marylebone. You could tell at a glance which ones they were: groups of shouting boys, loud-voiced men from Camden or Covent Garden, crafty bookmakers eying the punters to spot the gullible . . . very different from the respectable families bound for the morning service.

We arrived at the very edge of town. Just beyond Oxford Street the buildings give way to villages, fields and woods, though every year more acreage is covered with houses as London creeps ever further north like the tide rising to cover the mudflats in the Thames. Today, as we escaped the bricks and mortar of the city, we were also escaping our everyday drudgery, hoping to be thrilled by the primitive pleasure of watching a trial of strength. Man against man, fighting in an arena where neither education nor money gave you the edge: it was brute force and quick reactions that counted.

‘Place your bets, gents!’ called out one bookmaker waving his notebook in the air as he weaved through the crowds. ‘Two to one for the Camden Crusher to beat the Butcher with a knockout!’

‘That doesn’t sound too good for your friend, does it?’ said Lord Francis looking longingly after the bookmaker. ‘Shall I place a bet on him winning?’ He chinked some coins in his pocket.

‘No!’ I said quickly, pulling him back. ‘Just how
do you think a chimney sweep could afford to bet gold? You’ll be found out in one second flat.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ said Lord Francis gloomily, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. ‘And Father’s always forbidden me from betting.’

‘He’s a sensible man,’ said Pedro, gazing after the toffee-apple seller, a large woman with a tray of glistening wares who was following the crowd through the gates on to the field. Lord Francis saw where he was looking.

‘I did take the precaution of putting a few pennies in amongst my guineas,’ he whispered, pressing some into Pedro’s hand. ‘Why don’t you buy us all one?’

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Pedro as he hastened off to catch her up.

‘Not “sir” . . . Frank!’ I hissed as a man at my elbow turned to look at us curiously.

‘Thanks, Frank,’ Pedro corrected himself and scrambled through the press to the toffee-apple seller. He returned bearing four sticks aloft in triumph.

‘Four!’ said Lord Francis. ‘Why four?’

‘One for luck,’ mumbled Pedro through a
mouthful of toffee. He swallowed. ‘She’d seen me at the theatre, she said, so gave me one for nothing.’

It was then that I realised I had wasted my time worrying about Lord Francis drawing attention to us. Having Pedro was sufficient to make most people turn in our direction. I pulled my hat lower on my brows and said dryly, ‘Come on. Let’s find ourselves a spot before we get mobbed by Pedro’s admirers.’

The crowd was dividing in two around the raised platform. The arena was surrounded by rails and had a three-foot square . . . the scratch . . . marked out in chalk at the centre. A number of gentlemen sat on benches at the ringside; the rest of us found the best spot we could at ground level. Diving under arms and through narrow gaps, we managed to push our way through to the front.

Syd was sitting in his corner with his second . . . his father . . . listening intently to his advice. He had not yet stripped to the waist but was flexing his bare hands thoughtfully. On the other side of the chalk square sat the Camden Crusher . . . a lad of
sixteen, built like an ox with a small head and powerful shoulders. He had already stripped and his second, a dandified gentleman in a bottle-green jacket with a sharp face like fox, was oiling his back for him . . . and, believe me, there was a lot of him to oil.

Nick, the lookout we had met outside Syd’s shop, sidled up to us.

‘’Ello Prince, Cat. ’Oo’s the soot?’

‘Frank,’ said Pedro, handing Nick the spare toffee apple. ‘He’s new.’

Nick gave Lord Francis a curious look. ‘’E’s a bit big for the chimneys, ain’t ’e? I thought they only liked nippers of eight ’n’ under.’

‘My master specialises in big chimneys, big houses,’ said Lord Francis quickly. ‘My younger brother does the small ones.’

‘Oh,’ said Nick, losing interest. ‘Right you are.’ He nudged me and nodded over at the Crusher. ‘Looks bad, don’t it, Cat? But Syd’ll be glad you came. You’re ’is lucky mascot. Oi, Syd! Cat’s ’ere!’ he shouted.

Syd turned round to look down on us. He gave
me a wink. ‘All right, Cat?’ he called over. Seeing him standing up there made me think of him as the victim on the scaffold but, as I would not for any money let him see my concern, I gave him my broadest smile.

‘Yes,’ I called up. ‘Good luck!’

He gave me a nod and then returned to his preparations.

When I turned to speak to Pedro, I found him and Lord Francis sniggering over a piece of paper Nick was showing them.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, making a grab for the pamphlet. I could see it was a cartoon.

‘Nuffink,’ said Nick, hiding it behind his back.

‘Don’t give me that!’ I said, trying to wrestle it from him. ‘Let me see!’

‘Er, Cat,’ said Lord Francis in an undertone, ‘I don’t think it’s suitable for a lady’s eyes.’

‘Stuff that!’ I said, determined not to be left out. ‘Give it here!’

By tickling Nick in the ribs, I succeeded in making him surrender the paper. Perhaps I should not have done so, for as soon as I looked
at it, I felt my cheeks go scarlet. It was a very crude representation of a member of the government squatting on a chamberpot marked ‘The Oppressed Masses’.

‘The word is,’ said Nick, covering for my embarrassment, ‘old Captain Sparkler’s gone too far this time. The beak’s after him.’

‘Beak?’ asked Lord Francis.

‘Gawd, Frank, wot country ’ave you been livin’ in? Beak: ma-gi-strate. Got it?’

‘Oh,’ said Lord Francis quickly. ‘Of course.’

‘’E’s to be made han heg-sample of, they say. Government’s got the wind up. ’E’s to be done for treason . . . ’anged or transported most like.’

‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘All because he poked some fun at a few people! That’s not fair!’

‘Wot’s fair got to do with it? It’s powerful people ’e’s takin’ on, Cat. They don’t like to be made to look like fools. They ’ate ’im for makin’ fun of ’em. ’E can draw as many bare bums as ’e likes, but you watch, they’ll get ’im for attackin’ the king. ’Is last cartoon was plain treason, it was. Banned, I ’ear, so sales ’ave gone sky ’igh as you’d expect.’

‘So, have they caught him yet?’ asked Pedro.

‘Not likely,’ said Nick with evident pleasure. ‘’E’s too clever for ’em, is Captain Sparkler. ’E loves to drive ‘em wild by flauntin’ these pictures in front of ’em as ’e dances out of their reach. The word is ’e’s stowed away on a ship for France.’

‘So how is the pertinacious captain able to draw a cartoon referring to a political scandal that broke last week?’ asked Lord Francis, sounding exactly like the nobleman he was rather than the chimney sweep he was pretending to be.

‘Lawd, Frankie boy, you swallered a dictionary or somethink?’ marvelled Nick. Lord Francis now flushed and began to stammer an excuse. ‘No, don’t you apologise. Nuffink wrong with a bit of learnin’. You be proud of it, mate! Look at our Cat here: ’oo’d think she ’ad all that stuff packed away in ’er pretty little ’ead? Syd’s always ’olding ’er up as a model to the rest of us ’alfwits!’ Nick began to laugh at the very idea of him and the gang learning to read and write like gentlemen.

I did not quell Nick’s overloud comments as I was still thinking about Lord Francis’s question. Yes,
how was a man, rumoured to be in France, able to be so up-to-the-minute with his cartoons? The obvious answer was that he had never left. He must be in hiding and I had a shrewd suspicion where.

So pleased was I by my own powers of deduction that I was eager to share my guess with Pedro to impress him with my cleverness. Unfortunately, there were too many people around at the moment: it would have to wait.

‘Gentlemen!’ The referee stood forward and held up his hand for silence. ‘I present our fighters to you: the reigning champion . . . the Camden Crusher!’

The Camden Crusher lumbered to his feet and raised his glistening arms to acknowledge the cheers and whistles of his supporters.

‘And our challenger: the Bow Street Butcher!’

Rather more nimbly, Syd stripped off his shirt, bounced to his feet and bowed to acknowledge the applause. His hair looked very pale against his flushed cheeks.

‘Go for him, Crusher!’ yelled a man on the far side.

‘Let’s hear it for the brave butcher!’ shouted another.

The crowd cheered Syd again, but rather, I felt, as a crowd for a public execution would comfort a popular criminal with their voices. Everyone was expecting him to be well and truly crushed by the boy from Camden.

‘You can do it, Syd!’ I cried.

Hearing my high voice over the others, Syd turned in my direction to give me a special smile and a nod.

‘Now, you know the rules, gents,’ said the referee in a voice that commanded silence. ‘Nothing below the belt. If you’re down, you have half a minute to return to set-to at the scratch. If you fail to come up to scratch, then your opponent wins. Are you ready, gents?’

Syd grunted his agreement and raised his fists to chest height. The Crusher nodded, giving Syd a mocking smile.

‘You’re dead,’ he mouthed.

‘Then . . .’ said the referee, moving back, ‘set to!’

The fight began. The Crusher piled forward and grabbed Syd in a wrestling hold, pushing him back against the rails. Syd took small, quick jabs at his opponent’s stomach . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . until he collided painfully with the wooden bar. There they stayed, the Crusher grinding down Syd’s resistance with a flurry of punches that left great red welts on his skin. Once it was clear that the pair were caught on the rails, the referee rushed forward with the seconds to part the fighters. The seconds led their boys back to the scratch, both hissing encouragement and advice. The boxers set to again, this time exchanging body blows. Head down, arms pumping like pistons, Syd grazed his knuckles as his fist caught the side of the Crusher’s ribs. Blood dripped from the Crusher’s nose as a second jab caught him in the face. When the fighters circled round, I could see that Syd too was bleeding, in his case from a cut to his temple. Blows rained down fast and furious, bone smacking into flesh, red sweat dripping down their backs. I could hardly bear to watch and was reduced to covering my eyes with my hands. The more bloody
and vicious the fight became, the more the crowd cheered. Peeking through my fingers, I could see money changing hands as the gentlemen at the ringside placed new bets. Syd was holding his own. I guessed the odds on him were shortening.