The Newgate Jig (4 page)

Brutus
and Nero lent their keen noses to the pursuit and trailed back and forth along
the edge and, had I let them, doubtless they would have found a way down the
steep bank, but I held them back. It is no secret that I cannot abide close
places, and the black hole of the tunnel, viewed even from this distance,
gripped me with terror, and so with my heart thumping, I stood for some
minutes, with the rain pelting down, looking into that underworld, noting the
flicker, here and there, of lanterns as the cazzelties laboured on, burrowing
into the ancient London soil. The boy must have gone somewhere! I looked around
me at the wild expanse of wretched earth, and across the chasm at the houses
and their unblinking windows. And I waited, with the gale howling in my face,
for the boy to clamber up the chasm face, or to shout for help from the bottom.

But
I waited in vain. After five, ten, fifteen minutes, when there was not a sign
of him, and the only sound the echo of spade and pick, I turned my back upon
the cutting and bent into the wind.

My Friend Trimmer

I did not expect to see
or hear about the boy again. Why should I? Certainly, he had given me the
trouble of mending my torn breeches and sponging away the foul clay which
stuck to them, and if I did, when we next traversed the wasteland, contemplate
the cutting and wonder if he had slid to the bottom of that terrible gulf and
his body was lying there under a heap of bricks, I was not inclined to enquire
further. In fact, if I had the inclination to worry, it was about myself and my
dogs and our future, for my every moment of leisure these days was spent in
sending out cards and letters to likely places (halls and pleasures gardens and
the like), and scanning the columns of the Era, just to keep track of my
competitors. There is one man, Mr John Matthews, who I regard as a keen rival,
and he is often favourably reported, with his excellent hound, 'Devilshoof'.
Matthews is a busy man, also, and has more strings to his fiddle than I, being
also an exhibition swordsman. What work he does not get with the dog in the
circus or theatre, he can make up for with his sabre on a military show. He is
a clever man, and no mistake. I wish I had his many skills.

Keeping
body and soul together in these uncertain times and trying to put a little by,
that was my constant worry. I was forever inventing new tricks for Brutus and
Nero, little novelties which were easy to learn, but would amuse and keep
spectators returning and asking for Chapman's Sagacious Canines. It was a
wearying time. My boys were quick scholars and diligent at their work and right
as ninepence after only an hour in the back-yard, but I was more often worn out
after a day's performing and ready for a cup of tea and a few pages of a
rollicking story before I answered the sweet siren-call of my mattress.

One evening, not many
weeks after the business with the boy, Mrs Gifford, our housekeeper at the
Aquarium, caught me as I was homeward-bound and waved a letter at me. I had
just finished my last show, had quickly rounded up my dogs and was on the
stairs, already contemplating supper in my own room with a nice little fire,
when I heard her footsteps behind me, and her 'Mr Chapman! A moment, please!' I
generally avoid her if I can, and would certainly rather stare at a blank wall
than meet her eye. But a glance at the folded note she held out made me as
close as snatch it from her. 'To Chapman, Aquarium, URGENT!!! By Hand.
URGENT!!!' quickly announced to me that its author was Trim, and within was the
simple instruction, 'Meet Cheshire Cheese. 11 sharp. Urgent. T.' It was unusual
for Trim to issue such a summons in such a way, but I was not about to reveal
that to Mrs Gifford. I held it close to my chest, read it once, twice, three
times, before I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. I needn't have
bothered being so careful.

'I hope I wasn't the
bearer of bad news, Mr Chapman,' said Mrs Gifford, clinging to my back like a shadow
as I hurried down the stairs. I would have wagered a week's chink then that she
had already looked at the note, and when she forgot herself and said, 'The
Cheshire Cheese is not a respectable tavern, you know. And tonight there is an
auction in the yard, so it will be crowded,' of course no further proof was
needed. (She had, as Trim once remarked, the gall of the French.) She
continued, 'You should take care, Mr Chapman. It's a place that attracts the
light-fingered sort, so don't you go losing your handkerchief or those handsome
dogs of yours.'

Gifford was standing on
the next to bottom step of the big staircase at the Aquarium, with a bunch of
keys in her hand, and wearing that high-nosed look as though there was a bad
smell, and I was the cause of it. My dogs, waiting on either side of me, were
as still as headstones, though Nero gave a low growl, little more than a rumble
in his throat. But it didn't tell. She wasn't moved at all, though her mouth
drew itself into a thin line. 'You want to watch that dog, Mr Chapman,' said
she. 'It might turn nasty, and you wouldn't want the police taking it away and
putting it down. What would you do then?'

We hurried out of the
door and, though I never looked back, I could swear that she watched us until
we turned the corner, and we did not stop, not even to smell the freshly baked
pies at Mrs Quilter's shop. Only when we heard the roar of voices and a rosy
glow lit up the street, did we slacken our pace, for it announced the nearness
of the Cheshire Cheese. And Mrs Gifford was at least correct in her prediction
of the auction. In the Cheese's great yard (regular host to marionette and
theatre shows) was raised a gaily lit canvas booth, inside which was a platform
and seats, crowded to the rafters with people eager to be parted from their
pennies and shillings in exchange for 'handsome parcels of beef (unfit for
dogs) and 'handsome clocks and watches' (unfit for timekeeping), which Harris
the Hawker, as he was popularly known, and his cohort of street-wise assistants
were selling 'from the plank'.

The Cheese was low in
all respects. It stood at the corner of a low street in a low neighbourhood.
Many of its ceilings were so low that they required a man to stoop all the way
to his seat or risk bruising his head on the beams, which were old and knotty,
just like the assortment of benches and tables which might have been dragged
from both dining rooms and barracks, so ill-matched were they. It was very old,
I believe, and Drinkwater, the landlord, liked to boast about Shakespeare and
Julius Caesar having sat in its best room and carved their initials on his oak
settle, and took pride in showing them to visitors, who felt obliged to be
impressed. But the Cheshire Cheese itself, though low, is not a bad place, and
when we meet, Trimmer, Will Lovegrove and I, we take ourselves to a corner of
the remotest room in the house and there enjoy our supper of bread and cheese
and a glass of the best. I am not a drinking man, but I enjoy the company of my
friends and so I am willing to put up with the little discomforts of heat and
fug. And Brutus and Nero, of course, were happy in any place as long as they
found kind, affectionate friends! They were eager to find Trimmer and Will
Lovegrove, then, and it was not difficult to do, for they sat in our usual
corner with a jar each and one ready for me, and the plate of bread and cheese
on the table before them. Only it stood uneaten, the cheese sweating in the
heat and the doorsteps of bread drying to stone. And my two friends like statues
themselves, in attitudes of silent anxiety, were only slightly relieved when
Brutus and Nero, tails a-wagging with joy, demanded their customary attention.
Will Lovegrove clapped my shoulder and shook my hand.

'Ah! Bob Chapman. A
good evening to you - and to Brutus and Nero, of course! Come and join us, and
see if you can relieve poor Trim here of his worries. If you are unable to, I
very much fear that they will consume him completely and that, alas, we will be
forced to carry him home in pieces, so broken is he by his fretting! Haroo!'

Will Lovegrove, leading
actor at the Pavilion, sometimes found it difficult to leave his dramatic roles
in the theatre. He was a fine William Braveheart and John Masterman, a roguish
Captain Freestaff and Mynheer Deepson, and did Trim much good service in the
representation of his highwaymen and pirates. Jack Blackwood, a heroic
gentleman of the road, was cheered on - and off - the stage for months, and as
tall, handsome Ruggantino, the Spanish Pirate, had many young women lingering
at the theatre door and their men threatening to fight him! But Will was a
good soul, as brave as those heroes he represented, and with such a fine figure
he had no need of PFCs (padded false calves, which are shoved down the legs of
their stockings by less shapely actors) and wore his own dark hair long and
curling about his shoulders. Will Lovegrove was probably the most handsome man
I had ever seen and certainly, Trim and I, being just everyday lookers, had
reason to be envious when Lovegrove turned the head of every pretty young woman
in the street.

But Trim, anxiously
twisting his gloves about and not wanting to look either of us in the eye, was
above and beyond his usual state of agitation. Will frowned and nudged him
encouragingly, and said in that rich, sailor-hero voice he reserved for serious
occasions, 'Now then, old fellow. Buck up and hoist yer topsail! Tell Bob here
about your dreadful shipwreck.'

Trimmer smiled weakly
and laid his hands upon the table. 'It is simple enough and you already know
the first instalment, Chapman. I left Garraway's this morning with a full
stomach, a light heart and a manuscript copy of
Elenore the Female Pirate, a
Christmas Extravaganza
in one pocket and
The Vulture's Bride; or the Adventures
of Fanny Campbell, the Terror of the High Seas, A Novel,
in the
other. I arrive at the Pavilion Theatre with
Elenore
in a muddy
and despicable condition, and
The Vulture's Bride
in the hands of a
stranger.' He paused, for dramatic effect. 'I've been robbed. Distressing
enough, of course, but that's not all.' Trim wound the ends of his muffler
around his fingers. 'If it were just a robbery, I should not mind. The fact
that it
was
my only finished copy of
The Vulture's Bride,
and it'll be the devil's own job to re-write it from working scraps, is bad,
but it can be done.' He reflected. 'No, it's not just the robbery. Rather the
manner of it. And what went with it.'

And then followed a
description of his route, what and who he saw on the way, and finally his
strange encounter with a street boy - 'Skulking in the shadows!' - just on the
corner of Dunfermline-street, where the pavement was narrowest and the shadow
of the London and South Metropolitan railway bridge was deepest. 'I suppose I
wasn't looking where I was going, and tripped over this boy. I hit the ground
rather hard and dropped the manuscript, and it scattered everywhere. Whilst I
was trying to recover it, the boy hooked the novel from my pocket and made off
at a lick.'

Will was frowning and
tracing pot stains on the table. 'An unusual robbery, I'll give you that.'

'The boy was sitting on
the ground,' continued Trim, 'with his back to the wall, like some Chinese
statue. And just out of sight, round the corner. No doubt waiting for me.'

Will nodded
thoughtfully. 'If you say so, old fellow. Was he alone?'

'I didn't see anyone
else,' said Trim, 'but there might have been someone hiding. There are plenty
of rows and courts around there.'

Will
considered.

'Just a passing
thought, old fellow, but don't you think it's rather out of the way for a
boy
to rob you like that? On his own? Pick your pockets in a market, yes. Trip you
up on a dark street at midnight, certainly. But even then, with someone else
larger and taller to hold you down, or kick you, or beat you with a club,
before robbing you. And it doesn't sound like a garrotting either. From your
description, it sounds more like an accident.'

Trim's eyes widened in
indignation. 'Well! Clearly, I've had a narrow escape! By rights, I should be
weltering in the road! Or have had my throat pressed by a nasty man till I'm
insensible.'

'All
I am saying—'

'No need, Will,' said
Trim, trying, I think, to keep his irritation under a sack. 'As a matter of
fact, I have already formed my own opinion. I think this is a simple matter of
professional jealousy. A conspiracy to steal my new story even before Barnard's
have seen it and pass it off under a different name. I can think of two or
three likely candidates in the penny novel business even now.' He shook his
head. 'Jealousy is one thing, but theft!'