28

Thomas Campion was sitting at his desk. His head was heavily bandaged but he was feeling much better. If only he could recall more clearly what had happened to him. It worried him that somebody at the theatre had attacked him.

The fog outside was thick tonight, as dense and sticky as porridge. He could see little outside his window, and just occasionally he caught the glimmer of a lantern crossing the yard. At least the fog in his mind was beginning to clear since Rose had returned in the dead of night. She had been sitting by his bed when he awoke. He’d been horrified to learn his bang to the head had left her a helpless prisoner. He had begged Rose’s forgiveness, but she had merely hugged him so hard that it hurt quite a lot, and said, “Oh, Thomas, I knew there’d be an explanation for why you hadn’t returned, and that you would come back for me when you could because I know you love me like a father.”

Thomas and the others had been gripped by Rose’s account of her conversation with Sarah Dorset.

“So I think there can be no doubt,” said Rose. “Ned Dorset was Lily and Lord Frederick’s son, Edward Easingford.”

“Which means,” said Thomas, “that Freddie is actually the rightful Lord Easingford.”

“It’s just like a stage melodrama,” said Rose. “Even better than the ones you used to write, Thomas.”

“Maybe,” said Thomas. “But at least in my stories the blood isn’t real and nobody actually gets murdered. We’re going to have to go to the police.”

Rose looked at him astounded. She didn’t have much faith in the rozzers, and they’d probably be laughed out of the station. Who would believe their word against that of a great lord, a man about to be made a privy councillor to boot? They needed more evidence. They needed to speak to Oliver Dorset Woldingham.

“There’s more,” said Rose, and she nudged Effie, who told them what she had heard about Lizzie Gawkin.

Thomas had frowned at the mention of the woman’s name. Damn his aching head, he just couldn’t remember what it was that made him feel so anxious about her.

Just then, Lottie appeared at the door. She and Gus, the stage manager, had been doing sterling work keeping Campion’s going over the last two days and ensuring that the show did indeed go on. “All right, you lot, I need some ’elp downstairs and I bet Thomas needs a rest from your gabbing.”

They’d all trooped after her to get ready for the first show, leaving Thomas sitting down at his desk to go over the takings. Houses had been superb the last two nights. Lottie had said that audiences were going mad for the cancan with the small blonde girl called Dora at the end of the line. When word got round that the girls’ bicycle act, in which Aurora would appear dressed as a boy for the first time, was back at the top of the bill tonight, both performances were likely to be sell-outs.

Thomas wondered whether Campion’s fortunes might be on the turn. He hoped so. He was expecting Mr Cherryble imminently to discuss the finances and also to mull over what was to be done with Freddie. He could hardly stay hidden as a girl forever. Thomas wondered whether he should send him to his brother in the country for a while. He also wanted to talk to Mr Cherryble about Aurora. He wanted Lizzie out of Campion’s as soon as possible but he didn’t want her to take Aurora with her. If he had to pay to ensure Lizzie’s departure and to keep Aurora as part of the Campion’s family, so be it.

But he wanted to be careful. The woman was vindictive, possibly dangerous. He needed her to leave Campion’s feeling she had got the upper hand. He felt quite certain she might put a match to Campion’s if she felt thwarted.

There was a knock at the door. Thomas said, “Come in, Cherryble.” But it was not the lawyer. A man of about fifty with a kind face and cornflower-blue eyes stepped into the room. He was wearing a dog collar. He removed his hat and held out his hand.

“Mr O’Leary said to come up. I’m Oliver Woldingham. I have come, Mr Campion, in response to your letter. I cannot believe that dear Ned Dorset is dead. I must tell you all I know to avoid further tragedy.”

Thomas offered Oliver a seat, and by the time Mr Cherryble joined them, the men were already in deep conversation.

Josiah Pinch sat at the back of the gallery watching as the cancan came to an end. Around him people were up on their feet, their faces glowing, but Josiah stayed firmly seated, his bowler tilted over his face, just in case those prying children saw him. He still felt certain that Freddie was hidden away at Campion’s. He had kept watch, but there had been no sign of the boy; the only child he had seen was a little blonde girl he had glimpsed running around the yard playing with the cat.

Josiah was wondering whether he should follow Lizzie Gawkin’s example and get into the blackmail business. If he could only find the boy, maybe he could put the screws on Lord Henry. After all, Josiah knew rather more about his lordship’s affairs than he would ever want made public.

The band struck up again. The crowd leaned forward. The tune was “Daisy Bell”. The crowd gave a cheer as Rose came on stage riding the bicycle. Josiah grimaced at the sight of it. He still had the bruises where Effie had cycled into him. There was a roar from the crowd as a young boy stepped on stage. Josiah suddenly stood up to get a closer look. It was the same boy he’d seen going into Campion’s on the day of the Shoreditch debacle. Only it wasn’t a boy, of course. It was that Aurora girl pretending to be a boy! What an idiot he was. What a fool those kids had taken him for, parading Freddie in front of his very nose as little Dora. He stood up and forced his way along the row to the exit. He knew that Freddie Dorset was here. All he had to do now was snatch him.

Aurora came off stage laughing. The act had gone really well. She loved doing it with Rose. Then they came face to face with Lizzie and her heart sank. She had enjoyed being so free of Lizzie recently, but she knew it couldn’t last.

To Aurora’s surprise, Lizzie smiled at both the girls and said, “That’s a wonderful act you two have worked up. What clever little things you are.”

Aurora and Rose were astonished and then suspicious; it was not like Lizzie to lavish praise. The woman continued, “You look very daring in that get-up, Aurora. And, Rose, you look lovely, my dear. But you ought to wear your hair up.” She moved to lift up Rose’s hair to reveal her neck but Rose squirmed away.

“Thanks, Lizzie,” said Rose, trying not to shudder at the touch of the woman’s clammy fingers, “but I need to tighten the screw on this pedal before it drops off.” She disappeared with the bicycle.

Lizzie stared after her. “I’m off for a gin,” she said, and walked off, leaving Aurora puzzling at her strange behaviour.

Another big bunch of flowers had arrived at the stage door for Tess, so Aurora picked it up and took it down to the ballet girls’ dressing room. Tess, Lottie and the others were brewing a huge pot of tea.

“Do you want some, Aurora?” asked Lottie. Aurora shook her head. She was about to leave when she spotted something under a jumble of clothes.

“Oh,” she said. “There’s my shawl. I wondered where it had gone.”

“Is it yours?” asked Lottie. “I borrowed it to wear to poor Ned’s funeral. It was in the trunk with the Aladdin props.”

Aurora stared at her. She remembered Effie had mentioned a shawl.

“You all right, Aurora? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Lottie,” said Aurora urgently, “when you took the shawl, did you take anything else from the trunk?”

Lottie shrugged. “Only an old box. We needed something to keep make-up in but it was locked. It’s over there, under Belle’s mum’s bit of embroidery.”

Aurora lifted the embroidered linen and there was the lacquered box.

“Sorry, Lottie,” she said, “but I need this.”

Aurora ran into the dressing room next door. She got a hatpin and fiddled around with it; after a few seconds she heard a click and the box opened. She pulled out the contents, put the cup and ribbon to one side and began to sift through the papers. A newspaper cutting from The Times caught her eye, or at least the photograph did. It was of the young man who had picked up Lizzie’s glove outside the post office on the day they had arrived at Campion’s. The newspaper said the man was a young English actor called Ed Ford who was taking America by storm. Scrawled in Lizzie’s handwriting at the bottom were the words Edward Easingford. The young man at the post office! The day they had arrived at Campion’s! The day Ned Dorset died! She gasped, remembering the fleck of blood on Lizzie’s glove. Aurora ran next door to Lottie’s dressing room.

“Lottie,” she said, holding her hand over the story so all that Lottie could see was the photograph. “Lottie, do you know who this is?”

Lottie glanced at the picture. “Course I do,” she said. “Know ’im anywhere. That’s poor dead Ned Dorset.”

Aurora raced back to her dressing room, where she picked up the lacquered box and its contents to take it to show Rose, Thomas and the others. She flung open the door again and came face to face with an unsmiling Lizzie.