The Newgate Jig (5 page)

I
was not convinced, and don't think Will was either.

'You may be right,' he
said, patiently, 'but it seems a lot of trouble to go to just for a packet of
paper, even if it is your very excellent story. After all, how would this boy
know you had it on you? You are sure nothing else is missing? Not your purse?
Your handkerchief?'

'No.
Only the manuscript.'

'And the boy,'
continued Will, thoughtfully. 'What was he like? Short? Tall? Red-haired?'

But Trim couldn't remember,
though he swore he would know him again if he saw him for but a second. 'He was
small. Dirty, of course. But aren't they all? He wore a scabby short coat and
boots out at the toes. A red handkerchief around his neck, showman style.
Remains of a hat - what do they call them? A flat poke, I think. Maybe a tooth
or two missing. I don't really know. I didn't get a very good look at him.'

Will laughed. 'But you
took in everything at a glance! Woe betide us all! Witnesses?'

'None,' Trim said
quickly. 'Not one. No one around at all. Unless - but I can't see how he had
anything to do with the business - there was a strange-looking creature who
delivered a page into my hands.'

The clock ticked, the
fire crackled and spluttered, Brutus and Nero snored lustily. We were warm and
snug for now, but opening up a mystery, had we but known it, which would affect
all our lives.

We
waited and, after a moment's thought, Trim explained.

'He gave me a page from
the drama,
Elenore the Female Pirate.
I'd dropped the whole lot, as I told
you, and there was paper scattered everywhere. I thought I'd collected them
all, but one escaped, I suppose, and he rescued it and gave it back to me. A
strange-looking creature. Perhaps I should try and find him.'

'In
what way strange?'

Trim wriggled in his
seat. 'Well, to begin with, he was enormously large,' he said, 'like a pudding
about to burst, and with a head as round and smooth as a cannon ball. And he
was strangely dressed. All pale. He might have been an actor. You fellows can
be extravagant in your costumes.'

Will seemed not at all
put out, though he was affecting a rather large collar and a scarf which was
also oversize. And, of course, his hair was long and curling about his neck. In
an actorly fashion.

'Was
he foreign, perhaps?'

'No, not foreign, but
not regular either. He had an odd way of talking, rather overdone.'

Lovegrove stared at our
friend and ran a hand through those glossy locks with such careless elegance
that I could have been envious. 'My dear fellow, his size and his bald pate,
and what might be an actor's lisp to boot - this stranger must stand out like
an honest man in parliament! We will make enquiries. He seems a prime
candidate.'

Trim shook his head and
gazed at us, by turn, with an anxious expression.

'No, no. You are very
kind. Good friends both. But I fear,' he said with a dramatic emphasis that
Lovegrove could never have taught him, 'I very much fear that I shall never see
him, nor the boy, nor
The Vulture's Bride
again.'

He
was, of course, completely wrong.

The
Pavilion Theatre

My dogs and I are
comfortably seated at the side of the stage of the Pavilion Theatre. Mr Carrier
has requested our attendance in connection with some occasional work in the
forthcoming Christmas extravaganza written by that talented dramatic author, F.
H. Trimmer,
Elenore the Female Pirate; or the Gold of the Mountain King.
We
are as pleased as a dog with two tails - Brutus and Nero in partic.! - and not
just because it puts some extra shillings our way for the penny bank. No, it's
the novelty of a theatre show, for we haven't had so much as a sniff of
greasepaint for almost a year - since we were usurped at the Bower Saloon by
our friend Mr Matthews and 'Devilshoof - and, according to Trim, it is a
buster, and will reach the pages of the
Era
and the notice
of other managers. All in all, a
good thing.
So we
are happily waiting upon the manager and our friend Will Lovegrove, who has yet
to arrive, but who I am certain we have to thank for this opportunity.

Mr Carrier has
certainly taken a risk on Trim's Christmas piece and has dispensed with the Harlequin
theme altogether, and Will says he is the only London manager to do so.
'Traditional' and 'time-honoured' are bywords for the pantomime, and woe betide
the man who will contemplate an alternative. We are used to
Harlequin King Rumbledetum and the Fair Princess Who-Will-Have-Her-Own-Way; or
the Bright Secrets of the Dark Lake and a Misty Plot to Boot.
We
expect a foggy story, topical songs and jests, gorgeous costumes, a brilliant
spectacle with banners and flags of all nations, a fairy ballet, effects to
take one's breath away, and a transformation scene to dazzle.

Pantomimes
are all the same, every year. No matter what.

Until
this year.

Yes,
Mr Carrier is taking a risk.

'Mr Hennessey at the
Oriental,' he confided to the company only last week, 'is rumoured to have
secured the services of Van Ambrose, the great equestrian and animal trainer. I
have heard that his act two finale will present a magnificent procession of
camels, horses and elephants. Then, at the Duke's Theatre, I understand Mr Goldhawk
is building an entire Chinese pagoda, complete with turtle doves for his
transformation scene.'

'But,' said Mr Pocock,
his faithful secretary, 'Mr Willard plays safe with
Ali Baba,
though
his forty thieves are all, to a man, female and rather lumpy.'

There was a titter from
the ladies and something ruder from our low comedian.

'No laughing matter,
ladies and gentlemen,' Mr Pocock gloomily continued, 'particularly since he has
secured the services of Mr Lawrence, the firework manufacturer and pyrotechnist.
We know, from our own experience, that mighty explosions and clouds of smoke
will be the order of the day.'

A back-hander,
according to Will, since old Lawrence nearly burned down the Pav one year in an
accidental burst of blue fire when the drop-scene went up in smoke.

'Of course,' continued
Mr Carrier, 'thanks to Mr Lombard, we are not short of wonders at the Pavilion
- the ship-in-f- sail in act three will be a "stunner", I am
sure.'

If the quantity of wood
and paint, the healthy dollop of paper and paste, and the shortness of Mr
Lombard's temper were anything to judge by, it will be a marvel to behold.
There will be sails and rigging too, said the Boss, beaming like a Chinaman,
and all in working order so that 'a talented chorus' (Mr Carrier does not name
names) might shin up the ropes and ladders and perform an 'aerial ballet' at
least ten feet above the stage.

Mr Lombard, the
Pavilion's stage artist, was as busy as a hen with one chick, and worried not
only about the construction of the ship-in-f-sail, and the desert island
with waving palm trees, but also the more pressing business of scenery for the
new drama on the stage next week -
The Path of Pride; or the
Housebreakers of London
- in which he was required to suggest,
with terrific realism, a prison cell, London streets east and west, and the
rooftop of an aristocratic residence in Larkhill-square.

'All of this to be
built and painted.
When?
I am asking of you.'

He shot this in my
direction and I, like a fool, looked around me, expecting to see Mr Carrier or
Mr Pocock ready with a sharp answer, but there was no one except the shadow of
Mr Mint, the doorkeeper, and a collection of Mr Lombard's assistants, bustling
here and there.

'"There are set
scenes which might be dragged out from the store and refreshed," says the
Boss.
When
? I am asking of you. "There are only two which must be
got up from scratch," says he.
When?
I am asking,
a third time.'

This was a new
experience for me. At the Aquarium, we are often as solitary and quiet as a
nun's parlour for hours, but in the theatre, it seems, everyone talks.
Constantly. Mr Lombard, who looked more like a grocer in his long apron and
with his pipe clamped between his teeth, interrogated everyone and the thin air
beside, and now and again fired off an angry enquiry at me and my boys, who
were sitting ducks at the side of the stage. I do not think he expected a
reply. Mr Lombard had been early upon the Pavilion stage, with gas lit and
curtains drawn, for he wanted two drop-scenes painted, and another underway,
before the daily irritation and interruption of performers commences.

Thorns
in my side,' he grumbled.

But today, even those
precious hours of industry were denied him, for noises off signal the arrival
of, not only the regular company, but a small and growing battalion of girls
and their mamas, eager to try for the children's ballet. They were not due
until after twelve and had a good two hours or so to wait, but eager mothers
and weary-eyed children were already in the queue at the theatre door. Through
them, like a trail of conscripts, trooped the company, rubbing sleep from their
eyes and complaining about the inconvenience of such an early hour to
professionals who have not long been in their beds. One of these stragglers,
remarkably bright-eyed and cheery, was Lovegrove who, though we talked - and
Will drank - in the Cheshire Cheese until very late, looked for all the world
as if he had had a full eight hours in a feather bed. Tall and elegant, with
that easy, shambling walk, as though his boots were half a size too large, he
passed the time of day with Mr Mint, tipped his hat and murmured something
inaudible to a gaggle of ballet girls who gasped and giggled behind their
hands, and, grinning at me, drew up alongside Brutus and Nero, who vigorously
wagged their affection for him. Even Mr Lombard, whose opinion of
'professionals' is as low as a Methody's, nodded his head and muttered,
'Mornin', Mr Lovegrove,' as though he meant it.

'Bob,' said Will, still
scratching Brutus's ear, 'I'd be obliged if you could spare a moment to come
with me and take a breath of briny air. Just a step or so out of the theatre
door onto the fo'csle, don't you know?'

We ambled back there,
and he stood at my shoulder on the step, but held me back from going outside.

'No, wait a moment, my
old shipmate,' said he, 'and before you dirty your shoe leather, just cast your
peepers across to starboard, there, and see what you can see in the shadow of
Cheeseman's noble establishment. See if you can espy a boy, hunkered against
the wall.'

I did as I was told,
and peered through the buzzing crowd of mothers and children, where I did
indeed descry a small figure, hunched upon the ground. There was only one, and
he looked to me like any other street boy - thin and dirty, with his boot-toes
out, and wearing such a ragged collection of clothes that it was impossible to
see where his shirt began and his jacket finished.

'Now,' he said,
'another test for you. Look across the road. There, standing at Strang's
table.'

I strained my eyes, for
although it was mid-morning, the light was grey with fog and the sun would not
break through the gloom today. Yet I could see a man at the table outside Mr
Strang's bookshop. Given his immense size and remarkable costume - a Benjamin
made of some light-coloured cloth, with tall hat to match - he was hardly
flying low! Apparently deep in contemplation of a volume, he would turn into
the light now and again, the better to read it. And the better to look around
and about him also, I thought, for I noticed his head was constantly bobbing up
and down.

'I wonder,' Will was
saying in a low voice, 'if this unlikely pair might be the two who tripped our
friend Trimmer and stole his penny novel? The boy and the grampus he described
to us. At the very least, it's an extraordinary coincidence to have two
specimens who so very nearly fit the bill here in the street together, don't
you think?' He scratched his head. 'I wonder if they were intending to rob Trim
of something particular, and failed, and so they've come back to try him again
...
I don't know though. It's rather out of the way. Perhaps we should just call
the constable and have him put it right.'