Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Theatre Royal, Covent Garden
This was probably a very bad idea, thought Dora as she approached the stage door of Covent Garden, Ren accompanying her so he could watch her back.
With Jacob at the bank and Jane gone home to dinner to quiz her brother about the Vorontsovs, she had decided to take on the challenge of finding out more about Yekatarina Petrovna.
Remembering the three singers she and Jane had met and their interest in the investigation, tracking them down for more information had seemed sensible in the office; now it seemed in poor taste.
‘Well, miss,’ said Ren, hands on hips. ‘Aren’t you going to knock?’
Dora took a step back, half turning to go. ‘What if Madame Catalani thinks I’m stalking her, you know, like a hunter after a stag? She must get tired of people thinking up excuses to spend time with her.’
Ren sighed, his disgust at her vacillation evident. ‘So what if she does? Have you got a job to do or not?’
‘I do. Yes, I absolutely do.’ Inside she was cringing. She usually didn’t mind offending people, but her heroine…?
Giving up on her, Ren pushed past and banged on the door. It flew open. The porter who had been on duty on two days ago looked at her, then down at Ren.
‘Oh, it’s you, Ren. No, they don’t need a Tom Thumb in the pantomime. Grimaldi has that all sewn up. We’re doing clowns.’
‘We’re not here for a job – though if the wind changes, you’ll let me know, eh?’ said Ren with a huge wink. ‘I dare say Miss Dora here wouldn’t say “no” to a Covent Garden audition, would you, miss?’
‘What? Me?’ Would she? Playing a big role in a play here was the height of everything Dora had dreamed of when slogging her way across the Pennines with the Northern Players.
She hadn’t even considered that as a possibility, but to do it just once…
Ren wiggled his eyebrows at her and she knew then he was teasing and – worse – she had fallen for it.
Who was she fooling? There were many hopefuls and many others ahead of her in the profession with better connections and a known record in London.
‘In that unlikely event, I would consider throwing my hat in the ring,’ she agreed, as it only seemed polite, ‘but as Ren says, we are here to talk to the singers, if they are still rehearsing.’
‘They’ve gone over to Vauxhall Gardens for the dress rehearsal,’ said the doorkeeper.
He handed them a bill advertising the delights on offer that evening, a grand fête to celebrate Wellington’s recent victories and newly created title of Marquess.
She ran her eye down the programme. Madame Catalani was singing Thompson and Arne’s ‘Rule, Britannia!’; Incledon and Dignum were to perform some comic songs, and they were to be joined by a chorus of the allies for martial airs.
‘This chorus of the allies, who might they be?’ she asked.
The doorkeeper scratched his head, dislodging his cap.
‘That would be some German basses, a Portuguese baritone – he’s very good, in my humble opinion, worth the price of admission – a Spaniard – don’t think much of him, too nasal – a Russian alto, and an Austrian mezzo-soprano.
They’re reasonable but not a patch on Madame. ’
‘Would the Russian be Miss Petrovna by any chance?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Busy little bee, she is. Flew in here in July and been buzzing around ever since, sweet-talking the management, desperate to make an appearance.’
That sounded about right. ‘Do you know where she is lodging?’
‘With them Russians at the embassy. Thinks herself a cut above, she does. Looks at me like I’m horse shit.
’ He shook his head at the madness of the world.
‘Don’t you think it strange how the Russians can go off and hobnob with old Boney for a few years, all’s forgiven, doesn’t matter you chopped the heads off your king and queen, my old pal, yeah, we’ll pucker up and kiss your Corsican arse, then when that little love affair is over, they come back to us and pretend like it never happened?
Oh, Georgie boy, of course we always loved you more, and your armies. ’
A shrewd analysis of the state of politics from an unexpected source. ‘In war, you might end up with odd bedfellows,’ she offered.
‘Yeah, but I just hope they don’t fuck us over again, pardon my French, miss.’
‘I think that might be old school English, but consider yourself forgiven.’
‘She wanted to sing a solo,’ the porter added as an afterthought.
‘That Russian woman. Madame Catalani shut that down quick as lightning as it’s her concert.
She’s the one arranging it for Wellington and she doesn’t want no newcomer butting in to divert the spotlight onto the Tsar or whoever the Russians think is their best hope. ’
‘That would be Prince Kutuzov,’ said Dora. ‘He’s in charge of the Tsar’s army now.’
‘Who the hell is Kutuzov when he’s at home?
’ said the doorkeeper. ‘I read the newspapers – got sons in the army so of course I do – but I can’t keep all these names straight in my head, particularly those Russian ones.
Fair jaw crackers, they are. Kutuzov, eh?
Well, good luck to him, but he’s not the main attraction tonight.
That would be the Marquess of Wellington.
God bless him and all that fight with him. ’
Thanking him for the information, Dora and Ren turned to go.
They joined the crowds in Covent Garden market, stallholders packing up after a busy morning; prostitutes taking it easy on their doorsteps, enjoying their few hours of leisure before the evening trade; street urchins loitering in alleyways, hoping for some easy gleanings from the fruit and vegetables that hadn’t been sold.
A tabby cat with a stub of a tail sprawled on the doorstep of a tavern, risking getting stepped on.
That was probably how it lost the other half of its tail.
‘Are you going to go?’ asked Ren.
‘To the concert? I think so.’
‘Not alone?’
‘I’m not that stupid, Ren.’
‘Never said you were, miss.’
He was only implying it. ‘I’ve never been before, but even a northern lass like me has read novels about the dangers of the dark walks in Vauxhall.’
‘Best way to experience some things if you ask me – in a book. Vauxhall Gardens are overpriced, and the ham is so thin you can see the light through it – and they make that a selling point! Ham shavings! Bleeding con if you ask me. And if it rains, no fun at all.’ They both looked up at the skies which were promisingly fine.
‘Though you might be safe on that account. Take Dr Sandys with you – and an umbrella.’
‘That was the plan.’
They had reached the fine portico of St Paul’s church at the far end of the market from the theatre when they heard footsteps hurrying up behind them.
Ren span round and produced a knife – a knife? Where had that come from, Dora wondered. ‘Stay right there!’ he growled.
The man came to halt, panting. He looked down at Ren, smiled, then thought better of his laughter when the knife was not lowered.
‘Je suis désolé, monsieur, but I saw Miss Fitz-Pennington and I was ravished with joy to see a familiar face. I have no, how do you say, bad intentions?’ He gave an elaborate bow. ‘Michel Percy, votre serviteur.’
Michel Percy. Dora couldn’t believe it. The French agent, last encountered fleeing the scene of the explosion in the Egyptian Hall, had the bare-faced cheek to be strolling about Covent Garden as if he wasn’t a wanted man!
Dora had regretted letting him escape on that occasion, particularly when it turned out that he was far more than the collector of gossip and art for Napoleon’s collection in the Louvre, but at least she had comforted herself that their paths were unlikely to cross again and she wouldn’t be reminded of her mistake.
Yet here he was, dressed in a well-tailored cream linen long coat and stocking pantaloons that were daringly close-fitting.
With his matching waistcoat and cravat, he was a pale column of dandified gentleman foreign to English climes.
‘Mr Percy,’ she said flatly. ‘You are the last person I expected to see.’
He made to kiss her hand, but she tucked them behind her back. He turned the gesture into another bow. ‘I live to entertain you with such delicious surprises.’
‘Delicious? You must be joking. Or are you going to be apprehended by the runners while we stand here? Now that I would find entertaining.’
Ren looked between the two of them, realising who he was. Ren had been part of the team tailing the man during the Elgin investigation. He slipped his knife back under his jacket. ‘What do you want to do with this cove, miss?’
‘You mean the French spy?’ she said tartly.
Percy grimaced. ‘I hate to correct a lady, but I’m no spy. You see before you a diplomatic envoy to the Court of St James, legitimately accredited. Even in these times of regrettable war, our governments allow some conversation to happen.’
Dora snorted.
‘I’m afraid it is true, ma chérie. England would starve without exports of our grain. You could stand on principle, naturally, but why do so when we have a surplus to sell and you a peasantry to feed?’
‘I can’t believe you are here to negotiate the trade in wheat.
Sale of fine art, or erotic paintings, yes.
’ Her mind was whirling. They had been wondering about the French involvement in the comte’s murder and here was a prime candidate for tangling in such intrigue.
‘My joy at your return knows no bounds. When did you arrive, monsieur?’
Percy made a show of dusting himself down. ‘I am fresh off the boat, do you not notice the sea salt?’
They would have to check that. He favoured using his own yacht so he could slip across the Channel on his own timetable. ‘I thought you would be in prison in Paris, or at least in disgrace for the débacle in May?’
‘Au contraire, that was my triumph! I told you, mademoiselle, that I could explain that all to my people. I stopped Fleury, did I not?’
Dora folded her arms. ‘No, I stopped him.’ Fleury had been Percy’s rival, running his own spy operation in London. He had nearly blown up members of the Elgin circle, and had killed innocent bystanders in his attempt to discredit Percy and find favour in Paris.
‘Details, details.’ Percy fluttered his fingers, dismissing her part in ending the career of the other French spy who had been loose in London.
‘I explained it all most cogently. What is more, I even managed to find a little piece of the Parthenon marbles thanks to my ingenuity – it now sits on display in the Louvre, educating my countrymen about the beauties of the classical age. Tout le monde est content! Apart from Fleury, who is dead.’
‘You are far too pleased with yourself,’ said Dora.
‘If I do not celebrate my achievements, who else will do so?’
She had to smile at that. There was something so audacious about his self-love that she could not help but admire him a little bit.
Ren fidgeted. ‘Do you want me to call a runner, miss? We can get some of these barrow boys to keep hold of him. Just tell them he’s French and they’ll do the rest, probably muddy up that stupid white coat of his.’
‘What a bloodthirsty little man. I approve,’ said Percy.
‘Don’t patronise him,’ said Dora.
‘You mean, don’t talk down to him?’ Percy hid a smile behind a cough.
‘Not funny.’
‘I thought it was hilarious.’
Dora sighed. She had not forgotten how infuriating he could be. ‘It’s all right, Ren. I think he is speaking the truth when he says he has diplomatic immunity. He is enjoying being able to talk to me in broad daylight far too much for that to be one of his many lies.’
Percy replaced his hat which he had taken off to flourish in his bow. ‘As perceptive as always.’
‘I do not believe you ran after me merely to greet me. What do you want, Mr Percy?’
He clapped his hand to his breast. ‘So many things, but I know your heart is already given to the dear doctor and I must wear the willow. How is he, by the way?’
Recovering from being run over – had Percy been behind that? ‘He is very well, thank you. I’ve no doubt he will be most interested to hear of your return.’
‘Bon! We must get together, a little party of old friends, and discuss what has happened since we last met.’
‘I’m afraid we are very busy.’
‘In a few weeks then. I can wait.’
Dora frowned. ‘How long are you going to be here?’
He grinned. She knew then that this was what he had stopped her to say. ‘Did I not mention? I am permanently attached to our embassy here. I’m staying for the foreseeable future as the trade envoy. You are – how do you say? – stuck with me for good.’