The Diamond of Drury Lane Read Online Free PDF Page A

motes dancing in the beam like tiny fairies. Their needles twinkled as they plied them in and out of the cloth with great skill . . . a skill I had never been able to acquire despite all of Mrs Reid’s lessons.
    ‘Is Pedro here?’ I asked breathlessly.
    Mrs Reid looked up, her mouth full of pins. ‘Who, dear?’
    ‘Pedro. The Mogul Prince.’
    She still looked blank.
    ‘The black boy.’
    ‘No, dear. We’ve not seen anyone. But if you do see our prince, tell him his costume is ready for trying.’
    ‘I will,’ I shouted as I clattered back down the stairs.
    What had become of him? He was much in demand but nowhere to be seen backstage. True, Reader; there were plenty of places to hide if you knew your way around, but Pedro had never been here before as far as I knew and in any case, why would he be hiding? He seemed too serious a character to indulge in such childish play, particularly when no one else was in the game. It was a puzzle.
    I sat on the bottom step for a moment, thinking. If he wasn’t hiding and he wasn’t backstage or front of house, then he must have gone outside. Yes, that was it. The brass-belcher’s remarks must have upset him more than I had realised. Pedro had deserved praise, not insults for doing what he did. He had probably gone outside to get away from us all.
    I ran to the stage door. It stood open, but there was no sign of Caleb. This was unusual, for if Caleb were called away for any reason, he would not leave the door like that. This confirmed mytheory. I emerged into the little courtyard that led on to Russell Street. It too was deserted. Where would he have gone? Left towards Covent Garden, or right towards Drury Lane? I stood indecisively, trying to see the place as he would have seen it. He probably had not meant to go far. Perhaps he just wanted some air? Well, if he wanted open spaces, he would have headed for the market which, despite the constant din of the fruit and vegetable sellers crying out the latest bargains, the wagons passing to and fro, not to mention the clucking of the poultry on the butcher’s block, offered the only uninterrupted view of the sky in this part of town. I felt a sudden stab of concern for him. A boy in fine livery would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the tough apprentices of the market . . . I should know, for most of them were my friends.
    I had a bad time negotiating the busy crossing on Bow Street. It was packed with people going about their business. A bailiff hurried by with his men, loaded down with goods they must have just seized from some poor debtor. A hawker of ballads stood on the corner crying out his latest wares.
    ‘You ’eard it ’ere first, ladies and gents: the dying speech of John Jeffreys, traitor, thief and murderer. ’Ot off the press! ’Ear ’ow ’e laments ’is wicked crimes afore ’e took the drop at Newgate last week.’
    I gave the ballad maker a wide berth, having no taste for such grisly songs. In any case, they were all pure invention: the unfortunate Jeffreys would have had no time for long versified speeches before the trap opened and certainly no time afterwards unless he revived on the table before the anatomy men dissected his body.
    My attempt to steer a path through the crowd gathered around the ballad seller had the unfortunate consequence of bringing my feet plum into the middle of some freshly dropped horse manure. I cursed. To add insult to injury, a black coach and four with a ducal crest rattled by, spraying me with the icy water from a puddle outside the Magistrates’ Court. I hopped back too late, colliding with one of the Bow Street runners, our local law enforcers. He pushed me roughly away.
    ‘Watch where you’re going, you idiot!’ hebellowed, brushing down his uniform.
    ‘Same to you with knobs on, you old fogrum!’ I replied, and dashed across the road before he could box my ears.
    (I should perhaps explain here for the more delicate among my readers that a different deportment