The Newgate Jig (15 page)

'I
wonder, do you have the packet? No? Oh dear. That is, as you theatricals say, a
tragedy. Really it is.'

I
gave the door another shove, but he was already halfway in. He licked his fat
lips.

'We
should go in, my dear. No sense shivering in the cold. Shall we join them? The
boy and the tiny creature?' He giggled. 'Ah! I know her well.
Mia cara
?'
And he mewed the Princess's little endearment like a cat. 'Oh naughty, naughty!
She didn't tell you we are acquainted? Oh shame! Oh, silly creature!'

His smile was, as before, as mild as a priest's.

'Shall
we go and find them? But don't alarm the boy, will you? I have business with
him.'

Through
the mist of his silky words, I was still wondering how I could keep him away
from the Princess and although blood did not rush to my head, nor courage to
its sticking place, I thought once more of Mr Mint, the Cerberus of the stage
door, and a man who would allow no one through it with whom he was not
acquainted. If he could be summoned, he would certainly bar this creature from
his theatre. But even now, the Nasty Man was ahead of me.

'And
Mr Mint - ah - excellent man! Shall we apply to him? Oh look, my dear, he has
run away! Like little Freddy Forskyn. Naughty Freddy tight in lamb-skin / Cook
him up a good lamb pie! / Give everyone a
slice
of Freddy / Good and rare and toby-red . . . Know that song, sir? A naughty
song? Oh yes, sir. Very.'

He
must be mad, I thought, for he had pushed the door wide open and was dancing on
the very edge of his toes with delight and relish, humming and reciting the
vile rhyme over and over. Whilst he was so distracted, here was my opportunity
to summon Mint and have him marched away. But his cubbyhole was locked and
dark, and pinned to it was a note.

'Called
away. Back soon. P.M.,' chanted the Nasty Man, without looking at it. 'Peter
Mint. Brave soldier, stalwart chappie, but now the castle's unguarded - and
pity the poor Princess and her young prince!'

The
merriment was over and he pressed me towards the stage, his breath hot and
sweet upon my neck. I wanted nothing so much as for him
not
to touch me, and the thought of those fat fingers and fleshy lips was quite
terrible. In the dark regions of the stage with the swaying canvases and a
labyrinth of passages, I had a fleeting notion that I could escape him, but it
was a desperate thought and a forlorn hope for, as we approached, I could hear
the Princess's tiny voice and the boy's urgent tones. They were where I had
left them, only he had fetched a chair for the Princess - in fact, had dragged
out the property throne - and was sat at her feet with her tiny hand in his. At
any other time, it would be a touching scene, but not now. I waited for the
grampus to make a dash at him and grab the boy by the collar, the advantage of
surprise being all on his side. But he didn't. He stood at my shoulder, his
breath coming in short whistles, breathing through those baby teeth.

The Nasty Man was listening.

His
head was cocked as he strained to hear what they were saying and he leaned
forward, putting his hand upon my shoulder. I flinched and, whether we made a
noise or he sensed we were there, the boy suddenly sprang to his feet with a
terrible cry and was across the stage and had shinned up a rope as high as the
battens before anyone moved.

'You!'
he cried, hanging like a monkey above the stage. 'You shan't get me, you devil!
And I shall serve you out! For my father's sake!'

His
voice rang out across the blackness of the theatre, but the Nasty Man was
undeterred. Laughed, indeed, at the boy's boldness with a childish giggle,
which he tried to hide with the back of his hand.

'Serve
me out, will you?' he taunted. 'Son of George Kevill, the murderer, the thief!
And
filthy dog, so I've heard!'

The
boy cried out again, slipping a foot or so down the swaying rope, but
recovering enough to wrap his thin legs around it when his chorus began again.
'My Pa done nothing wrong, you villain! I'll serve you out, see if I don't!'

'Oh, Barney, take care!' cried the Princess.

'Barney,
is it?' said the Nasty Man. 'Better come down here then, Barney Gallows-bird,
and look after your little friend.'

'Don't you touch the Princess,' cried Barney.

'She's
my friend,' mimicked the grampus in a high and childish voice, and wobbled his
head. 'Oh, Pa! Oh, Pa! I'll serve him out!' and he laughed until I thought he
would burst, but then suddenly turned off that wild laughter like a tap, and
his face was set and terrible.

'Serve
me out, will you?' he spat. 'And how will you do that, Jack Ketch's bait? I
want the pictures your Pa gave you. You know where they are. Or did you give
the packet away for someone else to keep? To this dog's-face, perhaps? Which is
it?'

'What
pictures? I don't know about any pictures!' cried Barney.

The
Nasty Man took half a step and raised his cane. Nero, braveheart that he is,
growled.

'You,
dog-man,' said he, 'keep your curs by your side, sir, or I'll knock their
brains into their arses and you can lick 'em clean! Heard that one?' Then he
rapped the ebony cane upon the boards, and fixed me with that half-smile upon
his face. 'Where are they, then? Pictures? And a letter perhaps? You know what
I want. Give them here!'

He
raised the cane once more, and as he did so, a door slammed behind me.

It
was only when, some time later, I replayed these events, did I wonder how it
came to be that the person who did that slamming and clattered onto the stage,
and greeted Brutus and Nero with a cheery whistle, was Will Lovegrove, elegant
as ever in a rusty Benjamin and old slouch hat. Nor did I ask myself why he
should be at the Pavilion Theatre at this early hour. I could only guess that
he had not been home, and certainly from the dark rings beneath his eyes, he
had not slept.

'Bob!'
he cried, hanging his arm about my shoulders. 'Here's luck! Now, join me at
Garraway's if you and your boys have not breakfasted, for I had the devil's own
fortune last night and - Hello!'

What
did he make of the extraordinary scene? The boy hanging from the rope? Princess
Tiny trembling upon the massy gilt throne? The Nasty Man, forcing an amiable
smile, politely saluting him and extending a gloved hand?

'My
dear sir, may I shake your hand? I do not believe I have had the pleasure?'

Will's
face was impassive, and he kept his arm about my shoulder.

'Not
yet introduced,' effused the grampus, retreating only slightly. 'Quite
understand. Not done. Precipitate upon my part. Am merely trying to recapture
myyoung-er-apprentice, here, who will keep running away, sir.' He raised the
cane. 'Naughty boy. Needs a thorough dry-beating, eh? You and I, sir? We might
- enjoy - giving him a shirtful of sore bones?'

We
stood in silence, as the Nasty Man looked from Barney to Will.

'He
is party to the business, also,' the grampus said
finally, pointing at me. 'I hope he is not a friend of yours, sir. The boy gave
stolen property to him. Outside this very theatre. I saw it. He should give
back what doesn't belong to him.'

Will
glanced up at Barney, still dangling from the rigging, and addressed the
Princess. 'A runaway, eh? An apprentice, he says. And a thief to boot,' he
said. 'That would make him an apprentice thief. What do you think, madam? He
certainly looks like a pincher. If that is so, I must assume that, as his
master,
you,
sir, are an adept yourself.' He wheeled upon the
puffing grampus. 'What would you recommend, Bob? Shall I call the constable to
arrest the boy for absconding and this master for procuring? Or shall I simply
knock seven bells out of him myself and save the bluebottles the trouble? What
do you say, sir?'

And
with a sudden flourish, he struck the Nasty Man a glancing blow upon his
shoulder that sent that black stick clattering across the stage. It was
surprising to see Will Lovegrove angry, and he clearly was. His face was pale
and his eyes flashed, and he seemed six inches taller, whereas the Nasty Man
was reduced to grovelling for his cane and squeaking threats.

'You have no notion, sir, who you trifle with!'

'Trifle,
eh?' Will cried, advancing upon him. 'Let us review that when I've given you a
regular good kicking, sir!'

The
Nasty Man backed away, filling the air with threats and vile curses.

Then
there was the slamming of the theatre door, and he was gone.

Will's
only concern was for the Princess though she, shaken and trembling, expressed
herself 'perfectly well, thank you, Mr Lovegrove' and even managed a smile as
my handsome friend knelt and took her hand. Barney, who quickly let himself
down the rope, professed himself 'fit as a trout, Princess, no worms'.

What
a strange group we must have made for any ghost of a spectator sitting, that
morning, in the pit of the Pavilion Theatre. Handsome Will Lovegrove, with his
long, curling hair and actorly dress, and the boy Barney, begrimed and ragged.
Then the tiny Princess, elegant in her dark-green walking outfit and a
miniature hat perched upon her bird-like head. And, me, Bob Chapman, wrapped in
my one good coat (a little out at the elbows, but still serviceable for another
winter if I am careful with it) standing apart with Brutus and Nero, and taking
in the scene as if it were one of Trim's dramas.

Will took charge, asking no questions (though he
must have been consumed with curiosity!), and insisting that the Princess was
returned, post-haste, to the Aquarium.

'Roll out my lady's carriage, Chapman!' he cried
and, in stately procession, we went back to the Aquarium, Barney pushing the
Princess's chair, Will walking by her side and my dogs and I keeping
rear-guard. The Nasty Man was nowhere about, but when we arrived at the
Aquarium, Mrs Gifford was in the hall to greet us, looking more pinched and
unhappy than I have ever seen her, and anxious to remind one and all that the
Princess was delicate and should not be 'traipsing the streets in the early
morning or be thrown about like a sack of sugar'. Taking the Princess's hand
and hurrying her through the waxworks chamber to the back stairs, she
announced, with an imperiousness that set my teeth upon edge, that 'Princess
Tiny will be resting for the duration, but she'll work as usual that evening,
conscious as ever of her devoted public and the respect they hold for her.'

Aye, I thought bitterly, and the sixpences they drop
you for extra favours, I shouldn't wonder.

I set up my platform quickly, and, with shaking
hands and a sweating brow, brewed my first pot of the day. Almost before the
kettle could sing, the salon door opened and my boys were on their feet in
readiness for our customers. But Nero, poking his head around the screen, began
to wag and
that
is a sign for the arrival of a friend rather than a
customer. Two friends, in fact. Will and Barney, the latter with a scrubbed
face and hands, courtesy of the Princess, and a clean shirt and breeches,
courtesy of the waxworks wardrobe, hence their fashion of some distant century.
We sat cosily behind the screen, and I put another two spoons of tea in the
pot. Will was thoughtful.

'Here's
a nice kettle of fish, Bob, and young Barney here is the sprat caught in it.
From what he has told me, and those details which our Princess has added, it is
clear to me that Barney is the victim of a misunderstanding.' Will laid a
friendly hand upon my arm. 'And that you, my friend, have been drawn into the
business also.'

Barney nodded and rubbed an already red eye.

'As
I understand it, the story is this. Barney's Pa was a peep-show man. He and
Barney travelled the country fairs, where they met our fairy and giant,
Princess Tiny and Herr Swann. They come to London from the country to make
their fortune but, like many others, find it not so easy. Wherever Barney's Pa
puts up his show, someone turns him off. He has to buy a pitch, and pay bullies
not drive him out. He has a son to look out for, and not enough coin coming in.'

'It
was a good show,' piped up Barney. 'We gave the Battle of Trafalgar and the
Parting of the Red Sea, with the best coloured pictures to be had anywhere.'

'Then,'
continued Will, 'the show is smashed to flinders by some drunken roughs. How
does George Kevill earn a living now?'