A Nest of Vipers (12 page)

Quarmy looked confused. ‘You talk complete rot!’

Cato put his hand to his forehead. ‘Right, I’m talking
rot
, am I? How do you think we make our living? By doing good turns?’

‘Of course not!’ Quarmy said. ‘I know what the lot of you are – coney catchers, in the common canting tongue, though of course it pains me to use it.’

‘Shout it to the world, why don’t you? Look, Quarmy,’ Cato said. ‘Remember Bella at that dance? The Russian countess? Even you thought she was a proper nob, not some girl from Covent Garden dressed up to the nines.’

Quarmy said nothing.

‘You were fooled and no mistake!’

Quarmy looked slightly sheepish.

‘Anyway, there’s one more thing I want to ask you,’ Cato continued. ‘Your old man . . .’

‘Old man?’

‘Father . . . the king, or whatever it is you call him. He sells people, don’t he?’

‘I am not talking about this now: we will only argue. You don’t understand what it is like in Africa.’ Quarmy turned away.

‘I know one thing,’ Cato said. ‘I know people are all the same – black, white, old, young. We’re all greedy and we all don’t care about other people as much as we should. Just answer me. Your pa, he sells slaves?’

Quarmy squirmed. ‘My father, yes. But it is not that simple.’

‘If I lived in your country, I would overthrow your
father
and build a bloody great cannon to fire at the slavers,’ said Cato in disgust.

Quarmy laughed. He laughed all the way down to the river while Cato got more and more angry.

‘You are so young, Cato. Nothing can be solved that simply. As you say, people are greedy, and guns, on the whole, seem to make things worse because no matter how many guns we Africans have, the white men always have more.’

They had reached the ice. Cato looked around. He would have to calm down. Anger was useless when he was working – it got in the way of playing and schemes.

He took a deep breath. There was work to do.

‘This place is prime. Fairs always are – full of fancy and robbers and rogues and those with money burning holes in their pockets.’

‘So what do you propose?’ Quarmy asked.

‘First off we need to find ourselves a punter, a mark; someone whose face shows the greed inside, because – and this is our number-one rule – you cannot cozen an honest man . . . or woman for that matter. They’ll do half the work for you if they think you’re giving them something for nothing. You tell them how clever they are; how beautiful or gracious—’

‘Even if they are not?’

‘Yes, even if they are not. You have to be whatever they want you to be.’

‘But I am a prince!’

‘You worked for Master Tunnadine, didn’t you? You opened the door for him and played valet? Prince or slave, it’s no odds. Just button your lip and watch me.’ Cato turned away and started through the crowd. He muttered under his breath, ‘God strike me down if I can teach this one anything.’

‘But, Cato, don’t you find your conscience in any way troubled?’

Cato turned and faced Quarmy. ‘I am not the one whose livelihood is earned on the broken backs of slaves!’

‘You repeat yourself like a mewling child who has learned a new idea,’ Quarmy said arrogantly. ‘That bores me.’

Cato glared at him. ‘
My
conscience is clear. Like I said, we never take an honest man.’ He stopped suddenly. He thought of Edgar, the poor bridegroom, for a second. He would be over Bella by now, wouldn’t he? Sighing loudly, he led Quarmy through the crowd.

They’d just walked past the dancing bear and the hog roast when Cato spotted a young man wearing a particularly fine worsted jacket cut in the modern fashion. It was covered with silver embroidery and enough Dutch lace spilling out from the cuffs to make nightgowns for an entire Chelsea boarding school. Cato saw him watching an old lady wrapped up in woollens to
keep
out the cold; then he saw him help the woman over a slide in the ice as he cut and concealed the woman’s purse, smiling at her all the time.

‘See him?’ Cato nudged Quarmy in the ribs. ‘There, by the Spanish tumblers. For Christ’s own sake don’t stare! See how he moves? He is like us, watching for somebody.’ He turned away. ‘I have not seen that cutpurse in town before, and by the looks of him he is one that values both his appearance and his tailor.’

‘You will steal from the thief?’ Quarmy asked.

‘Not steal, sir, never steal. The trick is to get your quarry to hand over the goods willingly; to give you the goods or the cash with a grateful heart.’

Cato turned back to the cutpurse and watched as the young man’s eyes darted through the crowd before settling on a pair of shop girls carrying baskets of ribbons and fixings.

‘Engage those girls in conversation, quickly! And make it plausible,’ Cato said.

‘What? What should I say?’

‘Think on your feet, man! Put a smile on your face and be charming. Be more than charming, be regal. Tell them they shall be queens of the coast of Bonny! Make sure they know who you are.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing! And keep talking until I give you the say-so. Right, I will return with the cutpurse and when I
do
, remember this: just repeat the end of my sentence. So if I say “yes”, agree most uncommonly.’

‘And if you say no?’

‘Then you say no! Now, watch and learn, Quarmy, watch and learn.’

Cato sent Quarmy towards the girls and took out of his pocket the pick he carried with him just in case. Then he walked towards the young man, speeding up as he neared him until he ran into the cutpurse so hard he knocked him over. Cato made sure he fell too, and for a second while he rolled into him he hooked into the silver embroidery on the young man’s coat. Then he stood up, shouting curses into the crowd at the imaginary child who’d been so uncouth as to knock the pair of them down.

‘Blessed city urchins!’ Cato turned to the young man and helped him up, brushing him down and tugging at the embroidery a little more.

‘Are you unharmed? Please pardon me, I am not from these parts. I am a humble visitor, with my master, the Prince of Bonny,’ Cato said, indicating Quarmy.

‘I am unhurt. I think,’ the cutpurse said.

‘Oh, but your jacket! See the silver threads! They are undone here.’ Cato pointed at the back of the jacket, where he’d managed to pull a few threads loose in the tumble.

‘God’s teeth! No! This was but newly made!’ cried the man.

‘My master – my master could engage a tailor and put it right, no doubt. I do feel I am to blame.’ Cato bowed as humbly and as low as possible. ‘Let me enquire of the prince – he is a most gracious and generous master.’

Cato bowed again and led the way to where Quarmy was still making small talk with the shop girls.

‘Your Highness!’ Another bow. Quarmy smiled and nodded.

The shop girls giggled.

‘Ooh la! You are a prince, ain’t yer?’ said one.

‘He is an’ all,’ added the other.

Cato coughed. ‘Excuse me, sire. Unfortunately I have damaged this gentleman’s fine coat. See, the threads are loose.’ He plucked at them and they unravelled more, and the young man winced as they undid.

‘A very fine coat,’ Cato enthused. ‘Much like the one your father has purchased for you, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Indeed, quite so,’ Quarmy said with genuine disdain. Obviously the thought that a cutpurse could wear a similar jacket to a prince was irksome, thought Cato.

The young man looked at Quarmy and took him in. ‘You are, in truth, a prince?’

‘Of the most ancient and venerable Kingdom of Bonny,’ Cato said on Quarmy’s behalf, bowing exaggeratedly.

‘Is that some African isle?’ asked the young man.

Quarmy was haughtily dismissive. ‘Not an isle, sir, not
an
isle. An isle is surrounded by sea and thus, by definition, small. Our land extends into the heart of the great continent of Africa itself.’

Cato smiled.

‘So you have coins enough to fix up my coat?’ the cutpurse asked.

‘It is but a trifle to the prince, sir,’ Cato said.

‘Of course. I mean my retainers to do no harm to the inhabitants of this . . . this small island,’ Quarmy said, and Cato had to struggle to keep his face from breaking into too wide a smile.

‘His Highness is staying in town . . . in St James’s Square.’ Cato pulled a card from inside his jacket. ‘His Highness’s card.’

The cutpurse took it and nodded. ‘A good address. I myself am newly come up to town from Bath.’

‘Bath?’ Quarmy said without being prompted. ‘I have long thought about a visit to take the waters.’

‘It would be a pleasure to instruct you on my home’s delights.’ The cutpurse bowed low. I bet it would, Cato thought. He could see the thief was imagining that this could be the beginning of a profitable friendship. The cutpurse took off his jacket and handed it to Cato.

‘Leave it with us,’ Cato said. ‘You may send your man round for it in the morning. Or indeed call yourself if you would wish and take some coffee.’

‘It would be my pleasure,’ Quarmy agreed.

‘You are too kind, too kind,’ said the man eagerly.

Cato bowed again and, keeping a tight hold on the coat, walked ahead of Quarmy through the crowd. After they had gone a little way he looked again and, when he was sure the man wasn’t watching, urged Quarmy into a run. The coat was heavy, and the embroidery exquisite. It was only unpicked a little and Bella could make it good in no time. Cato wished he could keep it rather than hand it over to Mendes, although he was bound to give them a most excellent price.

They reached The Vipers out of breath from running.

‘That was the most diverting morning I have spent for many weeks!’ Quarmy said.

‘That, Quarmy, is our life.’ Cato checked the street behind them. ‘And he has not followed us. Good.’

‘Good indeed! I think I may have enjoyed myself a little too much!’

‘The words flowed freely from you, that’s the truth,’ Cato said as they went upstairs.

Quarmy laughed. ‘I think that I shall prefer playing a prince to actually being one!’

C
HAPTER
T
EN

A New Play

CATO WOKE WITH
a start. He’d been dreaming about a dark place, a place where he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face or smell anything other than illness and death. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shook the thoughts away. Too many of Mother Hopkins’s tales of Newgate Prison, he told himself. He stretched, and on the floor between his bed and Sam’s empty one a shape moved. Cato reminded himself it was Quarmy, who would wake as soon as the bell of St Andrew’s started chiming and complain that he’d had the worst night of his life, worse even than the nights he’d spent in a barn outside Friern Barnet after he’d been sent down from school.

‘So this is the day!’ Quarmy said and yawned. ‘I’ll not let you down. I’ll be the best prince yet, and our ship—’

‘The
Favourite
,’ Cato reminded him.

‘Yes indeed, that famous vessel loaded down with silks and satins from China and—’

‘India!’ Cato said. ‘And woven a thousand times more skilfully than the nimblest Spitalfields weavers.’

‘Yes, yes, from the coast of Coro . . . Coro . . .?’

‘Coromandel!’ Cato sighed. ‘You are supposed to be a scholar – can you not remember any of it?’

Last night they had stayed up long after the inn had closed, going over and over the plans for today. Cato shivered. He had worked up a sweat in the night and now the cold settled on him.

‘It will come to me, I have no doubt,’ Quarmy reassured him. ‘Just as a violin melody works its way into my fingers before I have to play.’

‘I hope so, Quarmy, for both our sakes. Not to mention the wrath of Mother if it doesn’t!’

Tunnadine had left the keys for Carfax, and Bella and Mother Hopkins had spent the greater part of the previous day arranging a drawing room and dressing it for Elizabeth Stapleton’s visit. Instead of an impromptu meeting with a tobacco grower, there would now be a most entertaining and enlightening morning cup of chocolate with a real African prince in attendance.

Cato brushed down Quarmy’s jacket and then his own. He would be the prince’s retainer, required to say little, but carrying the important documentation
regarding
a ship. A special ship, the
Favourite
, run aground off the prince’s kingdom and being refitted at this very moment.

The prince would beg Ekaterina, Countess of Pskoff, and Lady Stapleton to help him dispose of her cargo – one of best Indian chintz and the latest Chinese silks, so beautifully woven and dyed that London had yet to see such fabric. And all, of course, at extremely favourable rates.

Cato took a deep breath. He wished Addy was here – she would tell him not to worry. But he reminded himself he’d rather be a princely retainer than a housemaid. This plan would work.

The inn was quiet when he left with Quarmy. Sam was out, and Jack, Bella and Ma were gone to Carfax House. The rush in the bar had died down before lunch time and The Vipers seemed unnaturally sad and sullen – like Addy in a sulk, Cato thought.

Cato had wanted to wear the cutpurse’s jacket. It fitted him so well, but he would have outshone Quarmy. More importantly, they’d needed the money it had made at the second-hand clothes merchant.

They had reached the Charing Cross Road when suddenly Cato was aware that Quarmy was shaking. He seemed to have frozen in the middle of the road, slack jawed and wide-eyed.

Cato caught his sleeve. ‘Quarmy, come on,’ he said.

Quarmy didn’t move.

‘We are in the middle of the highway. Christ’s blood, man, move!’

Cato took his shoulders and had to push him out of the way of the Highgate coach. ‘Quarmy!’

‘Ruth,’ Quarmy said, softly the first time; then he shouted, ‘Ruth!’

Cato followed Quarmy’s eyes and saw a girl in a woollen shawl and a dark red skirt disappear down the alley to St Giles. Suddenly, like a hare zigzagging across a field, Quarmy was off after her. Cato had only seen her face for a second, and he had to admit that against the background of her rather showy red silk dress her face was round and pale. Unremarkable, he thought, and not a face to inspire the passion that seemed to have Quarmy in its grip. Cato took a deep breath and followed fast.