Cue for Treason Read online

  There was a jam of traffic at Temple Bar. He had to rein in his horse and wait behind a farm-cart until a squadron of soldiers had ridden through the narrow gate. I seized my chance, slipped between a carriage and a man with a donkey, and reached his side.

  ‘Excuse me, sir –’

  He looked down from his saddle. For a moment his eyes flashed recognition instinctively. Then he remembered – and pretended not to remember.

  ‘What do you want, my lad?’

  ‘I lent you a copy of a play –’

  ‘You what? What's the matter? Are you crazy? You're mistaking me for someone else.’

  ‘Oh no, I'm not,’ I said firmly, and grasped his bridle. At least now I knew I was dealing with a thief, not a forgetful gentleman, and I could behave straightforwardly.

  He cut me across the shoulders with his whip, but I still held his bridle, and a crowd began to gather. One of the gate-keepers bustled forward, swearing because the traffic block was being worsened. I stuck to my story. It was gospel truth, and I couldn't understand why everyone else couldn't see it was gospel truth.

  Looking back now I can see it with their eyes. A gentleman on a horse – and an actor boy, a vagabond, shouting absurd accusations about stolen plays. (How could you steal a play – or who would want to? And the boy didn't even know the name of the gentleman he was accusing!)

  Yes, I can understand better now why they dragged me away, sent me flying into the gutter, and yelled after me that I was lucky not to be handed over to the Law for a thrashing.

  When I picked myself up, red with shame and fury, the yellow gentleman had gone. So, to my surprise, had Kit. She hadn't said a word to back up my story, she hadn't even stayed to console me. I felt deserted and resentful.

  I did her an injustice. She came walking through the gate, glared at the keeper, stuck out her tongue at the passers-by who had lingered and were still grinning, and then led me away without a word. From the way she squeezed my arm I knew that there was still hope.

  ‘I've found out where he lives,’ she said as soon as we'd gone a safe distance.

  ‘I wondered where on earth you'd got to.’

  ‘Well, I knew I couldn't help you,’ she said sensibly. ‘If bull-at-a-gate methods were going to do the trick, I knew you'd manage without me. But I had a fancy things would turn out as they did, so I kept in the background. He didn't know I was with you. He looked back once, to make sure you weren't following him, but he didn't give me a glance. Then he rode through a gate, and I could see from the way the servant took his horse that he's staying there, even if it isn't his own home.’

  ‘Where was it? Along the Strand?’

  ‘Just off. Right down on the river-bank. One of those houses that rise straight from the water, I should think. Not a very big one – or it looks small, because it's wedged in between two huge places.’

  ‘Well, thanks; it was pretty smart of you,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but I don't quite see what the next move is.’

  Kit admitted that she didn't either. ‘Still,’ she argued, ‘it's something to know where the man's to be found, and to know that the play is somewhere inside that house.’

  ‘And I'm going to get it back,’ I vowed, though for the life of me I couldn't see how. There was no sense in going to knock on the front door and asking for it. If it had been money or jewels, I suppose we could, with Shakespeare's help, have got a magistrate's warrant to search the house. But would any Justice of the Peace help us to look for a lost play? Yet, the more I thought the matter over the more important it seemed that we should regain the script. The yellow gentleman had behaved so suspiciously.

  I began to wonder if I could get into that house, without anyone's warrant or permission, and recover what was (after all) only my own property.

  We walked back, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in our mouths, and I peeped at the house Kit indicated. It was a three-storey building, overshadowed by great mansions on either side. There was a square double gate leading to the courtyard, and this, with its great iron bars and nails, would have needed a battering-ram to force it if it were locked against you. There was only one small window on the ground-floor, and it was protected by bars. Most of the Strand houses were well defended like this, for they stood outside the City walls and the protection of the watch. When I say that three hundred criminals are hanged in London every year, you'll see the need for bolts and bars.

  ‘You'll never get in there,’ said Kit.

  I was inclined to agree. I raised my eyes to the upper windows. Each storey projected a couple of feet beyond the one below, so that the house hung over the narrow lane like a crag. If it had been a crag, I might have managed something. As it was, the smooth cream plaster offered no holds.

  ‘Perhaps there's a back way.’ I suggested.

  ‘I doubt it. I think these houses all go straight up from the river. Of course, there might be a water-gate, if we got a boat…’

  We turned down an alley, hoping it might bring us to another lane at the back of the house. But, as we had feared, it was a dead end. It brought us to a flight of seaweedy stairs, leading straight down into the grey Thames. Standing on these steps, we could look a hundred yards along the curved river and see the house of the yellow gentleman, unmistakable between its taller neighbours, rising sheer from the water. As we watched, an upper casement was flung back and the head and shoulders of a servant appeared with a bucket, the contents of which he sent slopping down.

  ‘No bars on that window,’ I said.

  ‘But no landing-stage or steps or anything,’ Kit pointed out. Nearly all the bigger houses had their entrance from the river as well, because it was the pleasantest highway between Westminster and the far side of London.

  I looked at the house with narrow eyes. The noonday sun was shining full on it, and every irregularity and crevice stood out in black shadow. There was a lot of timbering on this side…

  ‘I could get up to that window,’ I said at last. ‘I'd need a boat and… let me see… say, half a dozen daggers.’

  ‘Half a dozen what?’

  ‘Daggers. I could stick them into the beams where there's no other hold. I think we could borrow half a dozen, don't you?’

  Kit began to look alarmed now my plan was really taking shape; but I soon reassured her, and she promised to do her share.

  We timed the burglary for twilight, when there would be less risk of being noticed by people passing up and down the river, but sufficient light remaining for me to see what I was doing inside the house. There was no sense in going at midnight if it meant candles. Also, the tide would be well up about eight o'clock, shortening my climb.

  We booked the boat for seven. The waterman was a little dubious about our youth, but I soon convinced him that I knew how to manage the craft. We told him we were going to row up past Westminster, and drift back by moonlight with the current and the ebb-tide. He wished us a pleasant trip….

  We collected the daggers at the theatre, as well as a length of rope which I thought might be handy for the return journey down the face of the house. As soon as the performance was over, we made for the Strand. Kit carried a bundle of girl's clothes, borrowed from the company's wardrobe, and changed into them in the fields near Lincoln's Inn. Her job was to watch the landward side of the house. In girl's clothes she would arouse less suspicion, and, if the yellow gentleman looked out, he would not be reminded of the boy he had seen that morning. Finally, as a girl, she would be better fitted to play the part required of her.

  Which was…?

  Well, you'll have been thinking, no doubt, that the most difficult part of our problem was still unsolved: what would the yellow gentleman and the other inmates of the house be doing all the time I ransacked their belongings?

  Kit volunteered to look after them. I didn't like dragging her into danger, but she went haughty at once.

  ‘There's no danger for me – I'm an actor. I can do this on my head. Pete,’ she added accusingly, ‘you're doing what you
swore you wouldn't – treating me as a girl!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘All right, then. Remember: when the clocks stop striking eight, that's the moment for you to act.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she answered, ‘and do be careful.’

  I went away to get the boat. The sun was setting behind Westminster Abbey, and the incoming tide stung my nostrils with the tang of the sea.

  I took the oars and swung the boat out on the brimming surface of the river.

  12. Treason on Thames-side

  I CAN tell you, the lowest window looked mighty high from the boat in which I sat – and I had decided rather to try the upper windows, since there was less risk of anyone being in the bedrooms at this time of the evening.

  Luckily, heights don't trouble me. I've scrambled about on too many crags at home, when below me there was sickening space, followed by hard rock, instead of water to break my fall.

  It had been a quarter to eight when I took the boat out. Now, as I groped in the gloom for something to tie it to, the time must have been only a few minutes short of the hour. The water slap-slapped against the wall. As I stood up, the boat creaked and echoed woodenly. Far up-river a party of diners-out sang lustily as their boat zigzagged towards Westminster. Their torches streamed redly in the green twilight. Anyone who happened to be scanning the Thames at that moment was far more likely to be watching the revellers than noticing the shadowy figure under the wall.

  There was nothing to which I could tie my boat, so it was lucky I had brought all the daggers I could lay hands on. I drove one into a wooden pillar which stood out from the stone foundation wall. It didn't go in very far: the wood was tough. I pulled it out and tried again, using more force. This time it seemed firmly embedded. I knotted the painter of the boat round its crossed handle, and prepared to climb.

  The first ten feet were the worst. There were no holds, and I had to use daggers, thrust into the timber with all my force. It isn't easy to drive a dagger into hard timber, especially when you are standing on another dagger and precariously holding on by your left hand to a third. Each time I put my weight on a fresh dagger my heart went into my mouth and I nerved myself for the

  splash below. Each time I lifted my foot from the lowest dagger, I felt the wildest exultation of relief.

  Soon it got easier. There were beams, projecting three or four inches from the smooth plaster, and offering handy ledges for finger-tips and toes. Above my head, but a little to the left, there was an open window. I decided to peep through very cautiously, and, if the room was empty, to take a chance and swing my leg over the sill. The clocks would be striking the hour at any moment now, and that meant that Kit would put her share of the plan into execution. Once she started there wouldn't be any time to waste.

  I was out of luck. The room wasn't empty. I could hear men's voices as I climbed higher. After all, I should have to use the top-floor windows.

  ‘Well, I don't intend to lose my head on Tower Hill,’ came the voice of the yellow gentleman, so suddenly and so crystal-clear that I almost let go my hold. ‘Oh, I know others have said that before me, and they've gone to the scaffold none the less. But it's different this time.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ interposed a mild, mocking voice, ‘it always is different.’

  I shifted my position slightly and listened intently. Anxious as I was to stop playing the fly on the wall, I thought this conversation too interesting to miss. Luckily, I had got a place where I could relax a little and remain, if need be, for several minutes without moving.

  ‘I wish I could tell you more of the details,’ said the yellow gentleman irritably, ‘then you wouldn't croak like an old frog. Anyhow, you know Morton.’

  ‘Morton?’ The unseen friend sounded as surprised as I was. ‘You mean Philip Morton? Is he in this?’

  ‘Up to his ears!’

  There was silence for a moment. Then the other voice said in a new tone: ‘If Morton's in it, it is different. There's something unearthly about that young man. I remember when he first came to Whitehall, she took one look at him and said to Essex, “The Devil's come to Court!” And she gave him about as cordial a welcome.’

  ‘I know,’ the yellow gentleman agreed. ‘He's never forgiven her.’

  All the clocks in the City began to strike. I flattened myself against the house, ready for action. The two voices went on in tranquil discussion, but I could gather no more than I had already guessed, that something like high treason was being plotted in that room, and that Sir Philip Morton, that bad penny of my life, seemed to be mixed up in it.

  Bang! Bang!

  Far away, at the other side of the house, Kit was hammering madly on the street door. From where I was I could hear it only dimly.

  ‘What the deuce is that?’ said the yellow gentleman.

  ‘Someone knocking,’ answered the other, like a fool.

  ‘But who?’ I could guess they were feeling rather nervous. When you have a guilty secret, a sudden knocking on doors can be very upsetting. ‘I'll see,’ said the yellow gentleman, and I heard his chair grate back and the door of the room open. He called downstairs – I could hear nothing distinctly – and then he must have turned to address his companion.

  ‘Some girl, they say. Attacked by a cutpurse in the lane outside – came screaming and hammering on our gate. Let's go down, shall we?’

  ‘By all means. Is it all right to leave… these?’

  ‘Oh, goodness, yes. There's nothing there that would hang a dog.’

  ‘Then let's go down and comfort the distressed damsel.’

  The door closed behind them, and in a couple of seconds my leg was over the window-sill.

  It was a small room. My eyes took in a tall cupboard, a couple of chairs, stools, a chest, a table bearing wine, candles (unlit), and a heap of books and papers. I could have whooped when I saw my play-script, half-hidden by what looked in the gloom like letters and household accounts.

  Perhaps I should have acted differently – bundled together as much of that litter as I could stuff into my doublet, or at any rate carried some to the window and tried to read it. True, the yellow gentleman had assured his friend that there was nothing incriminating, but I fancy I might have learnt some names, at least, which would have proved helpful afterwards and saved me from some of the misfortunes which befell me.

  But there, I wasn't an experienced Government agent then, and it wasn't second-nature to me to do these things. I was a boy with his heart in his mouth, scared that at any moment the yellow gentleman might come back – perhaps to fetch the wine from the table to revive the ‘distressed damsel’. I'd got what I'd come for, and I wasn't stopping. I went through the window with the heavy wad of paper bulging my doublet, and let myself down with infinite care.

  Going down was at least as bad as going up. I had to dangle my feet in the gathering darkness, swinging this way and that till I felt the foothold. When I got to my stairway of daggers, I had to pull them out after me, one by one, as I went down. It took a strong tug to bring them out of the timber, and I had to be careful lest the force I exerted should topple me from my precarious hold. As I drew them forth, I stuck them in my belt till I looked like a pirate – or should have done, had it been light enough to look like anything.

  The most awkward part was getting back into the boat, which had swung round on its painter and (as usual with boats when you leave them) wasn't at all where I had left it, or where I wanted. Still, I didn't worry by that time; I was safe enough now, even if I got a wetting. Actually, I avoided even that, and managed to step dry-shod into the boat after all. As I did so, one of the daggers slipped from my belt and plopped into the water with a mighty splash. That was a pity, I thought, and would cost me the price of a new one, but it was better than leaving the tell-tale weapon in the wall.

  ‘… Only a water-rat, I expect,’ came the yellow gentleman's voice, and to my dismay I saw his head far above me, dark against a glow of candle-light, peering down from the window. ‘No! there's a boat
down there!’

  I still hadn't untied the boat, and I knew that, what with unshipping the oars and everything, it would take me a minute or two to get outside pistol range.

  Better to disarm suspicion… I knew that the boat showed only dimly from the window above, and that I myself was visible only as a vague shape. That shape might just as well be two people huddled close as one.

  ‘Darling!’ I said in my huskiest, deepest voice.

  ‘Dearest!’ I answered, with a little feminine giggle. And then, in a tone of alarm: ‘Oh, Robbie, someone's looking!’

  ‘Be off with you!’ the yellow gentleman shouted. ‘You can't tie up there; do your billing and cooing somewhere else, not under our windows!’ His voice faded as he turned back into the room. ‘Only a pair of love-sick idiots…’

  I hurriedly got out the oars and sculled away.

  By the time I had restored the boat to its owner, and gone to our agreed meeting-place at Temple Bar, Kit was waiting for me, still in her girl's clothes.

  ‘Got it!’ I said triumphantly. And then: ‘What are you giggling about?’ Kit was positively bubbling, like a kettle just ready to boil over.

  ‘I – fooled them so – so beautifully!’ she managed to get out. ‘They sent a servant with me to see me safely inside the gates. They were so considerate – it was really a shame. They gave me wine to revive me.’

  ‘I suppose that's why you're giggling like a child of eight,’ I said, taking her arm. She needed it.

  It was late when we got home to our lodgings. I lit a candle hurriedly, while Kit looked round for some food. I wanted to assure myself that the play-script was intact.

  Yes, it was complete. There was only one thing which puzzled me. In the middle of the play, in a long speech by the Chorus, there was one sentence underlined: