Den of Thieves (2 page)

P
RINCIPAL
C
HARACTERS

The Diamond of Drury Lane
Cat among the Pigeons
Cat O'Nine Tails
Black Heart of Jamaica

London and Paris, 1791
Curtain rises.

In the theatre, there comes a moment when we bid goodbye to a play. The scripts are put back on the shelf, the scenery dismantled, the actors move on to new roles. Yesterday, my life at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, came to the end of its run.

What can I say to you, Reader? For me, everything is over.

I admit that I'm scared. I don't know what I shall do. I wasn't prepared for such a sudden termination to the life I thought I was going to lead. And so strange to think that the curtain was brought down with such a simple question.

Mr Sheridan caught me in the corridor backstage as I carried the actresses' wigs out of the powder room. ‘Cat, come here. Tell me what you think.'

From the stage came the sounds of the orchestra tuning up. My friend Pedro would already be in his place, sitting with the other violinists. Counting the audience we were expecting a full house. Backstage was abuzz with excitement as the moment of performance approached. I really didn't have time to linger but my patron, Mr Sheridan, could not be denied. He hauled me into his office, snatched the tray, and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor.

‘Watch it, sir! I'll get skinned if anything happens to those!' I protested as I tried to prevent many guineas' worth of powdered curls tumbling on to the hearth.

‘No, no, forget about those,' he said, heedless in his enthusiasm. ‘I want you to be one of the first to see the plans,' and he hooked me by the elbow and propelled me to the desk.

‘Fifteen minutes!' called the stage manager outside. Three actors rushed by, not yet in costume. They'd obviously lingered too long in the Players' Tavern.

On the scuffed leather surface of the desk lay a
sheaf of crackling white parchment scored with lines and tiny numbers.

‘So?' Mr Sheridan asked, rubbing his hands eagerly, looking across at me, his brown eyes sparkling.

He evidently wanted my opinion – a fact that I would have found flattering if I hadn't been in such a rush to deliver the wigs; the actresses would not thank me if I made them late for their first entrance. I had better get this over with. I turned my mind to the papers in front of me. It was clearly a design for a grand building of some sort – a palace perhaps. Maybe Mr Sheridan's extravagant friend the Prince of Wales had yet another construction project in his sights?

‘Er . . . what is it?' I asked.

‘It's Drury Lane, of course.' My patron's flushed face beamed happily. Was he drunk already?

I took a closer look. I could now see the vast stage and auditorium, but this wasn't my theatre. None of my familiar landmarks were here; he must be joking. ‘No, it's not, sir. Where's the Sparrow's Nest? Where's the scenery store?'

‘You don't understand, Cat. Not
this
worn-out pile of bricks and cracked plaster,' he waved dismissively at the ceiling. ‘These are the plans for the
new
Theatre Royal – one fit for our modern age that will rise from the ashes of the old.'

Mr Sheridan had often talked about sprucing up the theatre when he had the money – he never did, so I had always let these ramblings wash over me.

‘Very nice, sir,' I said non-committally, wondering if I could get on my way. In fact, I thought the plans looked terrible – they represented a vast, soulless place where actors would seem like objects viewed the wrong way down a telescope, if I had understood the drawings correctly. It would kill the theatre – and probably quite a few of our leading actors as they tried to make themselves heard in that space. It was a good job that it would never be built.