A Nest of Vipers (9 page)

‘You chose them! Now stop working your tongue and work your feet instead,’ Sam snapped. ‘And, Cato, good luck with Master Tunnadine. Remind him of the horses.’

Cato decided to see if Sam knew any more about Mother Hopkins. ‘I heard from some talk in The Vipers that old Josh Tunnadine was more than sweet on Mother Hopkins.’

Sam was dismissive. ‘I heard half of London was sweet on her once. Come on, Jack! We’re late.’

Cato watched them as they raced off, then looked around at the houses. A pair of children ran past him talking a language Cato thought must be French. He knew Soho and Spitalfields were the best places in town for French pastries when there was any spare cash to be had for them. Addy loved the ones curled like a ram’s horns the best, and if she’d been at home, Cato would have bought her one.

Master Tunnadine’s house was called Carfax, and was four storeys of good London brick. It must have been extremely grand not so long ago. The windows to the upper floors were shuttered and looked as if they had not been opened for years. Cato stepped up and knocked hard at the black painted door. He tried to remember Master Tunnadine but then recalled he’d never been round at The Vipers, and it was only Mother Hopkins and Sam and Jack that had had any dealings with the fellow. He did remember the Epping job and it made him shiver. The countryside was not Cato’s favourite place – far too much mud.

The door squeaked open.

‘Yes?’

Cato knew the voice instantly. Quarmy, tall and dark as polished ebony, had opened the door.

‘Christ stripe me! The African prince! What are you
doing
here? You’re a slave too and no mistake!’ Cato had to stop himself from laughing. ‘All that flim-flam about royalty!’

Quarmy held a silver tray out ready for the visitor’s card, but when he saw Cato, he put it down at his side.

‘I am no slave!’ The fury in his answer was sharp as nails. ‘And as to what I am doing here – well, not expecting you, that’s true. I think you should try the servants’ entrance. Whatever you want surely cannot be with Master Tunnadine.’

‘I thought you was a prince!’ Cato said, ignoring Quarmy and stepping inside. ‘I’ve come to see Master Tunnadine and you’re to show me in – there’s a good footman.’

Quarmy shut the front door and rolled his eyes. ‘I am not a footman, and I am no slave! I am a personal valet and adviser.’

‘Oh right, yes. Advise Master Tunnadine on opening doors, do you?’ Cato couldn’t help smiling. ‘Or maybe you’re teaching him music? Are you going to show me in then or not?’

‘What’s your business? Do you have any business?’ Quarmy asked snootily.

‘Naturally. I am Cato Hopkins, here on behalf of Mother Hopkins, of Covent Garden.’

For a moment Quarmy said nothing.

‘
The
Mother Hopkins?’

‘I do not doubt there is more than one,’ Cato said – he was used to this reaction.

‘You know
the
Mother Hopkins?’ Quarmy lowered his voice. ‘The Queen of Scoundrels? You are not lying?’

‘Queen of Scoundrels? I’ve not heard that one before. And yes, I know her. I am her son.’ Cato coughed. ‘Of sorts.’

‘Don’t tell me!’ Quarmy feigned wonder. ‘There is more than one way of begetting children? Then England is truly more wondrous than I could have imagined.’

‘Adopted son.’

‘Wait there. I’ll tell Master Tunnadine you are here. But I need to speak with you, in private.’

Cato could not imagine what Quarmy would want with him. As he waited, he looked around. Inside, the house was smarter than outside: there were a few good paintings, although the walls were painted in darker colours than were fashionable.

Then the door to the drawing room opened and Quarmy waved Cato inside.

Master Tunnadine was folding a copy of the
London Gazette
on his lap as Cato entered. He looked older than Mother Hopkins, and was wearing a black coat with a velvet cap on his head. White tufts of hair escaped from underneath.

‘Young Cato! I have not seen you since you were, ooh, six or seven years.’ He put out his hand for Cato to shake.

‘I was with Jack Godwin and Sam Caesar in Epping, sir. Last year,’ Cato replied.

‘The horses, yes, I was glad it went well! Come, sit. Close to the fire.’ He gave a throaty cough. ‘Tell me, what worries my Mariah so that she needs old Joshua?’

Cato sat down –
his Mariah
? He had never heard anyone refer to Mother Hopkins like that.

‘I did hear the wedding lay is over now.’ Mr Tunnadine put the
Gazette
down on a small table and smiled.

Cato was stunned. How did he know of that?

‘And you, I can see, are grown too tall to play the pageboy.’ Tunnadine leaned forward and poked at the fire in the grate. ‘Mariah has mouths to feed and too many responsibilities to bank on living fast and loose with the law much longer.’ He turned to Quarmy, who was standing by the door, listening hard. ‘If you’d kindly leave us, Master Quarmy, I’d be more than grateful.’

Quarmy said nothing and shut the door firmly after him.

‘I can see your confusions writ all across your face!’ exclaimed Tunnadine. ‘Mariah should have taught you to hide your feelings better than that.’

‘But you seem to know all about us,’ Cato protested. ‘Do you know why I am here as well?’

‘Mariah Hopkins and I share much history, boy. And I make it my business to know what goes on in town, as does she. So. How may I help?’

Cato explained that they needed the house as Bella’s – or rather the Countess Ekaterina’s – London home. Tunnadine laughed. ‘That is her!’ He held up the
Gazette
and Cato read:
BALTIC BEAUTY CHARMS LONDON SOCIETY
.

‘She must have looked a picture! Little Arabella a countess! I’ve not seen her since she were a maid of twelve.’ He sighed. ‘Well, you are most welcome. But know this: Carfax, my house, is as much a sham as you or I.’ Tunnadine stood up and waved Cato to follow him. ‘This is not my home. For my sins I am still in Kent with my lady wife. I won Carfax off an officer in the Horse Guards regiment in a game of cards last Michaelmas. My wife would have me sell, for she is afraid of London – she says it turns my head, and to be fair she is most probably right.’ He opened the door to the hall and called for Quarmy to come with a lighted candle; he descended the staircase in a flash.

‘You have met, you two? You are, after all, brothers of a kind.’

‘I think you’ll find that I am royalty,’ Quarmy said sharply. ‘And Cato is not.’

‘What is royalty but an accident of birth?’ Master Tunnadine said, leading the way up the stairs. ‘Oh, I do not doubt you are who you say you are, Master Quarmy. After all, your lineage is written across your face.’

‘So he
is
a prince?’ Cato asked.

‘Indeed. Those scars mark out his princehood as much as any crown. But as for the rest of humanity, we are none of us entirely what we seem. For all I know young Cato may be royalty too.’

‘I am not so sure about royalty, sir. Mother Hopkins always told me I was bought for pennies from a girl in Newgate Prison.’

Tunnadine turned round. ‘No, no, no! That’s not the tale. Your mother, for I assume it was her – indeed, she was as tawny as you – was passing Newgate, with you hidden inside a rather shabby cloak of some fustian stuff, I do recall.’

Cato was gobsmacked. ‘You were there?’

‘Indeed! It was my pennies that paid for you!’

‘The girl, sir. Did you ask her name? Did you know her at all?’

‘Of course not! I never saw the woman again. Come now, to business. This house . . . You will have to tell your Mistress Hopkins that the upper floors are unusable.’ Tunnadine pushed open a door and held out the candle. It was a jumble of furniture and parcels, and in the thin candlelight the dust swirled like soot.

‘Mother Hopkins said that we’d need the house next week at the latest.’

‘Then you’ll have a deal of work getting it ready, I’ve no doubt. Tell her to come and see me herself and I promise I’ll dragoon a team of men in here ready to do
the
drawing room in the finest Russian style if she thinks it will help, though Mariah will have to stump up their wages. I’d do more if I could. There’s many a tale I could tell . . .’ Tunnadine shook his head and smiled, remembering. ‘But my Mistress Tunnadine, a most upright young woman, would have me tarred and feathered if she found any of this out.’ He sighed. ‘Back home in Kent I am a deacon in our country church. How’s that for a pretty tale? Joshua Tunnadine, a deacon!’ He shook his head. ‘Times change.’

Quarmy coughed. ‘Your afternoon appointment, Master Tunnadine. You will have me fetch the papers from Gray’s Inn?’

‘Yes, yes, I must ready myself.’ The old man shuffled down the stairs, and Cato and Quarmy followed.

‘So you knew Mother Hopkins well?’ Cato asked.

‘Better than anyone alive, I am sure,’ Tunnadine replied.

‘And you know about me?’

Tunnadine waved a hand. ‘I have told you everything about your provenance there is to tell. Ask Mariah herself but there is no more to it than that. Now, run along and inform your mistress I wish to see her. And, Quarmy – be quick to Gray’s Inn.’

Quarmy had caught up with Cato by the churchyard at St Giles. Cato wished he hadn’t, for he would rather have
been
alone with his thoughts. The afternoon was busy even though it was cold. The sun shone on the frosted cobbles and there were plenty of beggars bundled up in rags, breathing clouds of white smoke.

Cato walked fast. He was imagining a younger Tunnadine handing over a few pennies and being passed an infant. Cato tried to imagine the face of the woman. She could have been a girl – did Tunnadine say
girl
, or
young woman
? He imagined Tunnadine trying to shush and quiet his own baby self, bawling as his mother disappeared into the stew of the city.

‘Watch your step!’ Cato had walked into the crossing sweeper at the top of Great White Lyon Street. He had reached the Seven Dials, and the smell of hot metal and thick ink caught in his throat. This was where the best ballads were printed. Once he’d bought one that was still hot from the press and warmed his hands as he read. And although he was in a hurry, looking in the window took no time at all.

He hadn’t realized Quarmy was still beside him, looking out of breath from hurrying.

‘I think you’ll find Gray’s Inn is better reached if you take the Oxford Road,’ Cato said.

Quarmy said nothing. Instead of his usual arrogant air, he suddenly looked forlorn and morose, more like the kitten Addeline had saved from drowning last spring, just as Ezra was about to take it to meet its maker in a
bucket
in The Vipers’ yard where the barrels were stored.

Quarmy did not move.

‘Quarmy, are you quite well? Is it the cold? I expect you can’t be used—’

Quarmy cut him off. ‘It pains me to ask but I am in desperate need.’

‘Excuse me?’ said Cato, taken aback.

‘I was offhand with you at our first meeting – please excuse me. You are Cato Hopkins, son of
the
Mother Hopkins?’

‘I think that’s clear enough, and you, as you have told me often, are a Prince of Brinny, or Bonny.’

‘Bonny. That’s the truth. And I have been trying to find a way to Mother Hopkins these past days! I only took the post with Tunnadine because he promised me he knew her, and he has had me running errands all over town and waiting on him at his pleasure.’

Cato smiled. ‘Master Tunnadine is almost as cunning as Mother Hopkins. If he had told you straight away, you would have left him to stew! And anyway, I fail to see why a prince would need any help at all. You are, as you keep telling me, a man who likes the natural order of things. Mother Hopkins is only sought by those who wish to turn the natural order on its head.’

Quarmy gulped at the air.

‘One thing I do know, Quarmy, is that I cannot stand
here
in the street with the north wind freezing the marrow in my bones to ice.’

‘Mine is a long story, sir – please do not go. Please. Listen!’

‘Well, walk with me quickly. There is a good pie shop in Little White Lyon Street. If you must talk at all, let’s talk there.’

Quarmy began speaking as they walked. He was a prince – he said it again. Master Tunnadine had recognized the patterns on his face that were as much a sign of royalty on the west coast of Africa, he said, as a crown and sceptre would be to Queen Anne.

‘This is it.’ Cato opened the door and they were engulfed by a warm fug of hot breath and tobacco smoke. A few folk turned to look a few seconds longer at the two dark-skinned boys, but that was only because they were farmers, up from the country in brown canvas smocks.

A boy around Cato’s age was standing on a table at the far end of the shop singing the latest ballad, one about how he’d won the lottery but lost his love.

Quarmy had a faraway look in his eye. ‘I’d be more than happy to win that lottery. It would solve all my problems at once.’

‘It is a mug’s game, Quarmy,’ said Cato. ‘The lottery serves to make the poor poorer and to part fools from their money. And you said you were a prince. You said
your
father had bronzes and musicians and you said you were at school! Was that all lies?’

‘No. I
was
at school. I was sent down.’

‘Sent down?’ Cato hadn’t heard the expression.

A girl much younger than Addy thumped two pies down onto the rather grubby table and held out her hand for payment.

‘Farthing each!’ she shouted at them over the singing.

‘I have no money! Quarmy hissed. ‘Why do you think I work for Tunnadine?’

The girl and Cato rolled their eyes and Cato stumped up a ha’penny. Cato picked up his pie and enjoyed the feeling of warmth seep into his cold hands.

‘You said you was “sent down”,’ Cato said, before taking a bite.

‘Expelled, thrown out,’ Quarmy revealed. ‘My father does not know. He has paid for five years of English education in advance and I have left after two. He would be utterly mortified. I was supposed to go on to university to study Greek and Latin. My father did not understand, and at first, neither did I. They would no sooner let an African into their precious Cambridge than make a chicken a lady-in-waiting to the Queen!’