Dido and Pa Read online

  Only then did she realize that the door had opened and closed again behind her; two men had come in quietly and stood on either side of her.

  ‘I am afraid, Dr Finster,’ said the Margrave, ‘that our charming guest is not to be persuaded; or not yet. Let her be secluded here for a further period of reflection; perhaps she may still come round to my way of thinking. Especially if she remembers that, otherwise, both she and her brother will certainly die; that is inevitable.’

  Sophie turned – opened her mouth to scream for help – and almost choked on a large handful of dry bandage that was rammed halfway down her throat. Another bandage, wound vigorously round her head several times, held the first one in place.

  The man with the grey cravat whom the Margrave had addressed as Dr Finster then bound her arms tightly together in front of her with more bandage, pinning it so that she could not reach the pin; she was pushed down into the pink marble chair from which she had risen, and her legs were fastened to its legs.

  ‘There, Lady Sophie,’ said the Margrave, who, though flushed and discomposed in appearance, took pains to maintain his calm manner, ‘I grieve that you must miss the concert, but it is quite your own fault. Perhaps you will have had second thoughts by the time it is over, when I will visit you again. I do sincerely hope so. Otherwise I am afraid you will have to be removed from this pleasant room to one of our cellars under the Thames. There, I fear – in spite of all our efforts – large numbers of rats are to be found; so many, indeed, that any person left down there for more than a day or so is rapidly reduced to mere bones – but let us not dwell on such matters. I will see you later.’

  As an afterthought he took the dead dove from the mantelpiece and laid it on her lap. Then he left the room, followed by the other two, Finster locking the door as he went.

  The shock of the Margrave’s disclosure, the suddenness of what had happened to her, and the extreme discomfort of her position, made Sophie feel so ill and strange that, for a short time after they left, her head swam and she lost consciousness. She had no means of knowing, when she came round, how long she had been insensible, for there was no clock in the room. No sound was to be heard; she must be a long way from the music room. She struggled, tried to push out the gag with her tongue, tried to wriggle her hands free – but without the least success; all she achieved was to slide down a silver bracelet which had been hidden under her cambric wrist-frill until it dangled uncomfortably over her knuckles. Perhaps I can bribe somebody with it, she thought rather hopelessly. But there seemed no possible way out of the trouble she was in. And that her brother was in. What will happen when Mogg comes back to pick me up? I suppose they will tell him that I accepted a ride in somebody else’s carriage? He will be suspicious, of course, but he will go back to Chelsea. When he finds I am not there, what will he do? Suppose Simon has not yet come home? Even if somebody does begin to suspect – begin to wonder if I am still here – what can they do? And even if they do inquire – by that time I may be in one of those cellars under the Thames . . . Her flesh crept on her bones at the thought.

  Sophie was of a sanguine, cheerful nature, and not given to despair, but now she came very close to it. After a while, however, she began to be distracted by a shuffling, scuttling noise, fairly close at hand.

  Rats! ran her first horrified thought. Even here – could it be? She was able to move her head, and did so, peering agitatedly about the room. The sound appeared to come from the direction of the elegant pink fireplace – but nothing could be seen there, save the stone pot of pale pink roses. These were suddenly displaced – the pot fell over – and a very dirty, angular black cat emerged from the chimney.

  Even in her fright and distress, Sophie had to smile: the reality was so different from her expectations, and so different from her three frightening captors. Yet why should the sight of a cat be surprising? If there were so many rats under Cinnamon Court, there must be dozens of cats in the place too; it stood to reason. No doubt they patrolled it from attic to cellar.

  Sophie was fond of cats, and would have liked to call to this one – thin, scruffy, dirty as it was; but she had no voice. She made a muted noise in her throat and the cat paused in its inspection of the room and stared sharply at her. It had a thin, ugly face and large pale green eyes. No one could call you handsome, puss, Sophie said to it silently, but I am very pleased to see you, I’m glad you came here. Nice puss, good puss.

  Now the cat, sniffing and peering as eagerly as a bloodhound, began to roam about, inspecting the room, plainly finding nothing that pleased it. By and by it passed closer to Sophie and suddenly noticed, for the first time, the white dove lying in her lap. Its interest at once aroused, the cat reared up on hind legs for a closer look.

  No! was Sophie’s first horrified thought. Was that what you came for, you wretch? You shan’t have it! – not my poor dove. I suppose I might have known that a cat in the Margrave’s palace would have bloodthirsty intentions . . .

  But then, more soberly, she realized: this might be a chance for me. The only one. And it is merely the cat’s nature, after all. And my poor dove is dead, nothing will bring it back.

  Come here, then, puss, she called to the cat silently, in her mind. Come on to my knee. You shan’t have the dove otherwise.

  She laid her joined hands down over the dead dove.

  The cat was interested; looked; hesitated; inched closer; jumped back. Sophie nearly went mad with impatience, remembering that the Margrave might return at any time. The hour was late, she felt certain; the concert must surely have finished long ago.

  At last, coming to a bold decision, the cat leapt on to the arm of Sophie’s chair, and reached a tentatvie paw down towards the dove, stretching out its thin neck and scrawny chin. By moving her tethered arms sideways, Sophie was just able to grab the cat by its scruff; and then, working as fast as she could, she shuffled the silver bracelet, with the fingers of her left hand, over her right wrist, and on over the cat’s head. It let out a loud squall of indignation, wrenching itself free and jumping on the floor. Here then! Sophie said to it silently, and with her joined hands pushed the dove off her knee on to the green carpet. The cat, shaking its head furiously against the unaccustomed weight of its new collar, still could not resist the lure of the dove. With a triumphant pounce it seized the bird and retreated, growling and shaking its head, to the region of the hearth. Go on then! Sophie urged it in her mind. Take the dove away. Go, go quickly, before somebody comes back.

  The cat glared at her with ears flattened, as if daring her to reclaim the dove; and then turned and sprang up the chimney, dislodging a cloud of soot, which fell on the overturned pot and scattered roses.

  How long it was after this that the Margrave returned, Sophie had no means of knowing. A long, long time, she thought. Her head ached miserably, her throat felt dry and raw; she wanted to cough, but dared not in case she choked; the bandages bit into her arms and legs until she began to wonder if her feet and hands would rot and drop off; they felt perfectly numb. But even so, in her terror for Simon, she hardly noticed her own trouble. Where was he now? Could the Margrave, at this very moment, be arranging for his death?

  At times, in spite of her distress, her head lolled forward and she dozed, or half fainted; it was in the middle of one of these periods of half consciousness that the door opened and the Margrave strode in.

  He looked, Sophie thought, starting out of her doze in terror, even worse than he had before. The fear she had felt then was nothing to what she felt now. Something had made him frightfully angry; and a large portion of that anger was about to spill on to Sophie.

  Indeed, he addressed her furiously.

  ‘Stupid, brainless little chit! How could I ever have thought you worth inviting to join my scheme! How dare you say that I look ill – that I have not much time left? How dare you?’

  Sophie, unable to reply, could only look at him helplessly over the bandage across her nose and mouth. But he did not wait for an answer. Plainly
what she said had been rankling in his mind during the last hours.

  ‘I am not ill!’ he stormed at her. ‘When my king is on the throne, my Chapelmaster’s music shall be played continuously, for twenty-four hours a day – In any case, I am better already, I improve daily. I have many, many years of life ahead – I am only sixty! And let me tell you,’ he went on, almost frothing at the mouth in his fury, ‘a blind seer, a very well-thought-of person whose predictions have all come true forecast that in my sixty-first year I should have a great, great stroke of luck, of tremendous good fortune; the best thing I could ask, he said, the greatest blessing of my whole life. So what do you say to that, Lady Supercilious Sophie? Ashamed of yourself? In a few days I shall be the supreme power in this kingdom. I don’t give that for your notions –’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Oh –’ impatiently, as she rolled her eyes, unable to reply; coming towards her he pulled out a silver knife. For a moment’s heart-stopping terror she thought he was going to put her eyes out, but he slit the bandage behind her head, and thankfully she coughed and spat out the gag. ‘Well? What do you say?’ he asked. ‘Will you change your mind? Have you thought over what I said?’

  She shook her head.

  A tap came at the door which the Margrave had closed behind him.

  ‘Go away!’ he shouted.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but it’s the midnight news. You said you wished to be –’

  ‘Oh, to be sure. Bring it here, then.’

  A red-headed page came in with the newspaper. When he caught sight of Sophie his face went wooden with shock; but he said nothing, only bowed and handed the paper to the Margrave, then left again.

  ‘See!’ cried the Margrave. His voice vibrated with triumph. ‘I had heard a rumour earlier in the evening, but here is confirmation –’

  He held out the paper so that Sophie could read it. Her appalled eyes took in the headlines:

  DUKE OF BATTERSEA MISSING:

  Feared killed in wolf hunt

  ‘See!’ cried the Margrave again triumphantly. ‘My luck holds! Events fall the way I need them, I do not even have to act. Do you understand? Will you be persuaded now?’

  Sophie’s heart felt like a lump of ice inside her. But she said shakily, ‘So far as I can see, my lord, the best piece of good fortune for you would be that you should die, now, before you can do any more harm. No; I will not join you.’

  She shut her eyes, then, because she did not wish to look at his face.

  A fearful silence followed. She heard him draw a deep breath – and waited in terror. But a heavy thud followed; she opened her eyes again, involuntarily, and saw that he had fallen to the ground.

  Next moment Finster and a couple of pages rushed into the room.

  11

  THE MOON WAS high, now, and cast a silver glare over the frozen snow, between the black houses. Wally’s shadow lurched from side to side as he ran, sliding and stumbling, over the glassy surface.

  ‘Died o’ Fright!’ he panted. ‘Thank the lord I caught ye! There’s worrisome news.’

  Behind Wally Dido then saw his brother Podge, who, larger and plumper, found even more difficulty in making his way over the slippery ground. He waved to Dido and she called, ‘What about your leg? I thought it was busted for sure?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just a bit of a – bruise,’ he explained, getting his breath. ‘Better – now.’

  ‘Old Podge is made of gum arabic.’ Wally gave his brother an affectionate poke in the ribs. ‘Takes a deal to break him. Mends quicker than my coffee-stall, he do.’

  ‘What’s the bad news?’ Dido asked quickly. ‘Not summat to do with Simon or Sophie?’

  ‘Aye, it is. Podge went over to Chelsea tonight – he goes most nights,’ Wally explained matter-of-factly. ‘Even if he don’t go in, he likes to walk around outside o’ Sophie’s house, and think of her inside there.’

  Podge became bright pink – this was visible even in the moonlight – and interrupted gruffly, ‘Never mind that! I knew she wasn’t in tonight – she was going to a party at the Margrave’s –’

  ‘What – not here, in Wapping?’ cried Dido with the liveliest curiosity and astonishment. ‘Sophie was at that party? I never seed her! I was there – handing round the sherry cobbler and the larks on toast – I never laid eyes on Sophie!’

  ‘Well, she went,’ Podge said heavily, ‘for old Mogg the coachman said he took her to the door. But when he went back to fetch her he was told she’d ridden off with the Duke and Duchess of Shropshire. Mogg weren’t satisfied with this – off he goes to Shrewsbury House – and they tell him, there, that the duke and duchess weren’t planning to come home after the party, but meant to drive straight down to their place in Wenlock Forest. So then Mogg comes back and he tells me –’

  ‘It don’t seem like Sophie, what I remembers of her,’ said Dido, ‘not to tell the folk at home before she’d go jauntering off like that?’

  ‘That’s what I thought too.’ Podge’s kind, plain face looked desperately worried. ‘It’s not like Sophie a bit. She’d have written a note for Mogg.’

  ‘Where’s Simon? Ain’t he hunting for her?’

  Podge and Wally looked at one another. Then Podge said, ‘That’s some more bad news. Simon went out after the wolves, and he hasn’t come back. There were stories in the evening papers that he’d been killed by a wolf.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Dido cried out in horror. Sophie was a distant, though kind and gracious memory; but Simon she had seen, very recently; he had given her a sheepskin coat, they had made happy plans together –

  ‘Oh, no!’ cried Dido frantically. ‘That can’t be true.’

  ‘Well he hadn’t come home,’ said Podge with gloom. ‘Not when I was there. They sent off a rider to Wenlock Castle, but it’ll be upwards of six hours before the man gets back –’

  ‘And suppose all the time Sophie’s shut up in Cinnamon Court by that murky Margrave?’ said Wally. ‘How’d we ever know?’

  ‘Cinnamon Court’s a plaguy great place,’ Dido said. ‘There’s probably hundreds of rooms she might be in. Yes, and I remember – that old monster of a Margrave told his bully boys to shut up the old ’uns, the ones as let on to be sick, in the cellars under the river –’

  ‘I’ve heard tell o’ those,’ shivered Wally. ‘They say the rats will eat you alive – But why should he shut up Sophie?’

  ‘What can we do?’ demanded Podge, who looked distracted with worry.

  At this moment a smallish black shadow shot up the front steps, past the three who stood talking, and vanished into Bart’s Building.

  ‘What was that?’ said Podge.

  ‘Oh, that’s only Figgin. Little Is’s cat,’ explained Dido. ‘She’ll be rare and pleased to see him back. She was feared he’d been frizzled in the fire –’

  ‘Oh, murder, you had a fire here, didn’t you,’ said Wally, paying heed for the first time to the blackened, gaping windows and trampled sooty snow.

  ‘That cat was carrying something white,’ said Podge sharply. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Blest if I know –’

  ‘I’d like to see what it was –’

  ‘The cat brings her home all kinds of prog, so she says,’ Dido told him. ‘Most like it was a Dover sole, or a jellied eel –’

  ‘Can I look at it?’

  ‘Sartin sure. Why not? Let’s find the mog.’

  Dido led the way into the house. Figgin, having distastefully inspected the sodden basement and decided that his mistress could not possibly be there, had turned upstairs, and was wauling loudly outside van Doon’s door.

  ‘Figgin? Is that my Figgin?’ came the joyful cry of Is within the room, and the door quickly opened. ‘Save us, what have you got?’

  ‘Is?’ called Dido. ‘There’s a chap here as’d like to take a gander at what Figgin’s brought you –’

  ‘Come in, and welcome,’ offered van Doon, weary but hospitable. ‘Indeed we were not asleep. The little one was too anxious; it is very good th
at her cat returned –’

  The end of his sentence was drowned by the Slut’s cry of utter wonder.

  ‘Look ahere! A collar! Figgin’s got a silver collar on!’

  Icy white moonlight was blazing in at the large window of van Doon’s room and throwing a great lozenge of light across the floor. Little Is and her black cat, squatting in this bright light, were like two characters on a stage. She pulled off the silver collar from the neck of Figgin – who at once rolled on the floor in great relief, then seized on his dove again, growling possessively.

  ‘Sophie’s dove!’ whispered Podge, who stood behind Dido. ‘Surely that is Sophie’s dove? The one I gave her?’

  ‘There’s writing on this here collar!’ announced Is. ‘What do it say?’

  She passed the silver band to Dido, who read in a startled voice: ‘Henry Bayswater, it says. And Simone Rivière. Who in nature are they?’

  Podge said hoarsely, ‘Those are the names of Sophie’s parents. It is her bracelet. I have seen it on her wrist a hundred times.’

  ‘Oh, my lord,’ said Dido. Gently she passed the bracelet to Podge, who stood turning it over and over in his hands. They all stared at Figgin, who, now that he had brought his dove home to Bart’s Building, did not seem at all sure what to do with it.

  ‘We still don’t know where she is,’ said Wally, after some thought.

  ‘Figgin does get into Cinnamon Court sometimes,’ said Dido after another pause. ‘You told me that, didn’t you?’ to Is, who nodded.

  ‘Once he brung me a cutlet wrapped up in a silk napkin – it had a hammer on it, in gold thread.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Podge strongly, ‘we have got to go round there – rouse the porter – ask where she is.’

  ‘At four in the morning? Suppose they say she ain’t there?’ Wally looked dubious. ‘They’d throw us in the clink – say we was drunk or raving.’