Had he ever been this afraid before? He doubted it. He remembered being scared during his mother’s last illness, though he was very young at the time. He hadn’t wanted her to leave, and when she did, his fear had been replaced by an unexplained resentment. His first day up at Oxford had been unnerving rather than frightening. His stage debut was probably the worst. As his insides had churned up, he had almost been overcome by faintness. It had been the fear of the unknown. He was still nervous every time he trod the boards, but that had more to do with hoping that no one in the audience would throw anything at him.
This was different. This was raw fear. There were so many imponderables involved. Would he get in? What would he find? Would someone find him? He sat miserably at the foot of Bowser’s garden wall. He had managed to scale it – not without difficulty – and now he huddled pathetically in a patch of damp earth. It had gone dark early that evening and it was freezing; he told himself that he could not move until the flurry of snow had ceased. He knew it was an excuse to put off the inevitable.
Bessie had given him a passionate farewell kiss, which he had been too preoccupied to reciprocate in kind. That was after she had pressed a knife into his hand. He had looked aghast.
‘Do you think I will need to defend myself?’
‘No. But you may need to break a lock or force open a window.’
She had been useful in other ways, too. She had acknowledged the difficulties he faced and had taken measures of her own. She had delivered her invitation to Bowser’s house personally, having already established he would be out at the theatre with Courtney. Goosemoor had shown her in when she indicated that she would await Bowser’s return. She had been put in the first-floor drawing room (‘He had a portrait there, too,’ she reported.) which, in the time she had been left alone, she had searched. It was a formal room, given to entertaining, and she thought it unlikely that whatever they were after would be there; she had been right. Then she had departed before Bowser’s return. Bowser had sent a note agreeing to their assignation and at this very moment was probably making a play for Bessie’s tits. He only hoped she wouldn’t let him. The thought prompted him into action.
As stealthily as he could, he made his way round to the back of the building. There was a light at the top of the house, so at least one of the servants was about. The ground and first floors were in comparative darkness.
After discussing it with Bessie, they had decided that the room Bowser had taken Jack into to give him the snuffbox must be where he kept his papers, probably in the desk. Jack hadn’t been sure of the layout of the house, but that room definitely had a window and almost certainly didn’t front onto the street. The safest way was to break in through a window at the back and, with a bit of luck, it would belong to the dining room or Bowser’s inner sanctum. They had also concluded that if he could find Lady Lammondale’s letter, then whatever was with it would be what they were looking for. It didn’t follow, and they both knew it, but it helped to justify the escapade.
Jack crept forward. Suddenly he felt a sharp jab of pain. He had banged into a hard object. He gave a strangled yelp and danced about on one leg while clasping his stricken knee between his hands. When he had calmed down, his knee still throbbing, he felt for the object – it was a large stone pot.
Cursing quietly to himself, he tentatively approached the house. The snow had stopped, but there was no moon to help him. He reached the wall and felt his way along it. About chest-high was the sill of a sash window. He peered in. It was too dark to make out which room it was. Gently, Jack pushed the bottom of the frame upwards, praying that the window wasn’t locked. It moved and made – certainly in Jack’s highly nervous state – a loud screeching sound as it rose. He stopped, paralysed. Had anybody heard? Jack was surprised it hadn’t alerted everyone between here and the quayside. He couldn’t afford to wait much longer: his fingers were starting to freeze up. He eased the window up noisily a few more inches, estimating there was probably just enough room for his less-than-sylphlike body to squeeze through.
He tried to pull himself up onto the window ledge. He fell back onto the thin sprinkling of snow. He got up and brushed down the seat of his breeches, which were now irritatingly soggy. God, why had he agreed to this ludicrous plan? He couldn’t even get into the bloody house! A second attempt failed. His sister, Rachel, would have been through the window like a musket shot. This spurred him on. If she could do it, so could he. This time, he went a few paces back and took a running jump. His fingers curled round the bottom of the window frame and he hoisted himself up. His head went through the gap, followed by his upper torso. He was hanging half in and half out when the upper sash slid down a couple of inches and pinned him. He kicked his legs frantically, but to no avail. Tears of frustration welled up inside; he fought them back with rising panic.
The window frame was resting on the top of his buttocks. Lying there in great discomfort, he tried to think rationally. What movement could he engineer to lever up the frame? He couldn’t reach back with his hands, and leg-kicking had proved useless. What would Bessie do? She was resourceful. It was then that Bessie gave him the idea. He began to move his hips as though he were slowly making love to her. The frame creaked. He continued, and the gap he created began to increase. Within a couple of minutes, he was able to wriggle through. Typically, the window stayed open once he was through and he couldn’t close it after him. He decided he would use it as his escape route.
The room smelt of food – a pungent, gamey meat to be more precise. At least Jack knew he was now in the dining room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw the embers of a fire at the other end of the room. He tiptoed down alongside the table until he reached the fireplace. Out of his pocket, he took a candle and lit it in the fire. Bessie, ever the practical one, had given him two candles.
Where was the door that led to Bowser’s inner sanctum? Somewhere in the panelling. Jack wished he had paid more attention on his last visit. He slowly felt his way round the walls until his fingers touched some cold metal. He stood apprehensively with his hand on the little door knob. The candle spluttered. He flinched as the hot tallow splattered onto his fingers. (It was bound to be one of the inferior candles Bowser foisted onto an unimpressed Tyneside public, thought Jack bitterly. They had to grin and bear it because Bowser had sewn up the monopoly in the town. No wonder he was so rich, charging so much for such poor quality. With no competition, you had to pay up or spend your nights in darkness.)
Jack slipped through the door. The inner room was lit only by the fire, which flickered intermittently. He gave himself a fright when he glanced up and saw Bowser glaring down at him from his portrait. He went over to the desk and lit the candles in the nymph holders. They didn’t splutter. Nothing but the best wax candles for Bowser. Jack blew his own candle out and threw it into the fire. It flared up and disintegrated.
He was sure the answer to his quest lay on or in the desk. Though still trembling at the thought that someone might suddenly walk in, he forced himself to sit down and he began sifting through bundles of papers. Most were dull business correspondence or lists of merchandise, quantities and prices. Bowser’s interests were not only wide, but also very lucrative from what Jack could judge. Nothing untoward showed up so Jack went through some of the drawers which, to his surprise, were unlocked. In one, there were a few letters. Now I am getting somewhere, he thought. But these were also connected with business.
The final drawer was locked. He looked around for something to prize it open with. Then he remembered the knife that Bessie had thoughtfully provided him with. With the nervous fumblings of an amateur thief, he made little impression upon the lock. Only panicky brute strength eventually loosened the drawer. Inside was a wooden box. Not another one! Wooden boxes seemed to be plaguing him. He morbidly began to think about the one he would find himself in if he got caught…
He was about to pick the box out of the damaged drawer when his hand froze – he heard footsteps clomping loudly somewhere above. It was probably the creepy Goosemoor. He held his breath; beads of sweat prickled his brow. Then the footsteps receded and a door was closed. Fingers shaking, he hurriedly replaced the business letters he had scattered on the desk top.
Then he noticed the cupboard where he knew Bowser kept his fabulous collection of snuffboxes. Pinch one of them and he could afford to bribe his way out of this awful town. But the thick wooden doors wouldn’t budge. The Dutch oak cupboard was solidly built and he wasn’t going to risk trying to break it open, as it was far sturdier than the desk drawers. The noise would soon alert Goosemoor. He was still contemplating his disappointment when he heard footsteps again. This time there was no mistaking where they were coming from. The dining room.