The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow (19 page)

Something about all this was strangely familiar, and as she sat watching them, Sophie realised she had been to this theatre before – once, long ago, when she was quite small. A Christmas treat with Papa –
Cinderella
perhaps? She recalled the sounds of the orchestra tuning up, and the soft red plush of the seat. Even as she remembered, the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up a waltz, and Sophie was a child again, feeling a sudden thrill as the curtain went up with a swish, and the show began.

‘I always said your mother would spoil you, letting you read all those books and getting ideas above your station.’ Uncle Sid’s face was growing redder and redder.

Billy was sitting opposite Sid in the staff cloakroom. The head porter’s huge form was folded uncomfortably on to a bench, his legs splayed out awkwardly in front of him. Billy could still scarcely believe he wasn’t roaring and bellowing: he had been sure he was in for a right royal dressing down, and probably, knowing Uncle Sid, a good walloping as well. But instead his uncle had taken him down to the cloakroom and insisted they sit down for what he called ‘a serious word’.

‘You’ve got to work hard if you want to get on,’ Uncle Sid was saying, his voice deep and earnest. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to do things you might not want to do, but you’ve just got to knuckle down and do as you’re told.’

Billy opened his mouth to try and say something, but Uncle Sid held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t answer back, don’t ask why, just get on and follow your orders. That’s what I’ve always done and it’s served me well. Look, I know you think I’m too hard on you, but it’s for your own good.’

There was an awkward silence as Uncle Sid took off his hat and scratched his head for a moment. Billy fixed his attention on the shiny toes of his Uncle’s boots: his own, he saw guiltily, were scuffed and dusty. For once, he found himself wishing that his uncle were yelling at him. Anything would be better than this solemn lecture. But how could he possibly explain to Uncle Sid that he wasn’t slacking, or playing the fool – he was simply trying to prove who was really behind the burglary, and to get Sophie her job back?

‘I know you were cut up about that girl that got the sack. And we’ve all had our moments of . . . er . . . being sweet on a young lady,’ Uncle Sid was saying awkwardly now.

Billy’s cheeks turned crimson. He gazed at the floor, thinking that he might actually die of embarrassment if Uncle Sid started talking to him about sweethearts. As he started to protest, Sid went on: ‘But you can’t go on like this – mooning about, making mistakes, disappearing to read those stories of yours for hours at a time. You think I don’t notice you sneaking off down to the basement and who knows where else? And I’m not the only one either. I’m getting complaints about you – my own nephew!’ Uncle Sid shook his head. ‘I’ve been keeping you out of Mr Cooper’s bad books, but I can’t go on doing that forever. You’ll have to pull your socks up. Your mum’s counting on you to bring home a decent wage.’

He paused for a moment, and Billy hoped the lecture might be over, but then he went on. ‘This is a grand chance for you, lad. For both of us. I’ve worked since I was your age for a chance at a fine place like this one – and I’m not going to stand by and watch you muck it up for us both.’

Uncle Sid’s voice quavered a little as he said this, and Billy suddenly felt pricked all over by pangs of conscience. He stared repentantly up at his uncle, taking in the immaculate moustache, the carefully brushed hat, the gleaming buttons. Uncle Sid was
proud
of working at Sinclair’s, he realised in a sudden rush. It meant everything to him. And he, Billy, was acting as if it was worth nothing at all.

‘Well, this is your last chance. Do your best at the party tonight. Prove to me that you’re taking it seriously. Any more nonsense and I wash my hands of you. I’ll report you to Cooper myself.’

With that, Uncle Sid got up and hurried out of the cloakroom, leaving Billy gazing guiltily after him.

Sophie sat fanning herself and looking around her. Many of the seats were empty now: most of the audience had hurried for refreshments at the start of the interval, but she had no money to spare for lemonade or bonbons so she stayed where she was.

She had enjoyed every minute of the first act, although Lil had been right, it was an awfully silly story, really – the tale of a beautiful young shop girl, who was happily engaged to a poor student until she was swept off her feet by a handsome millionaire who came to her counter. The millionaire had come from Colorado to seek out the orphaned daughter of an old mining chum to tell her she was due to inherit a fortune, and it was only too obvious to Sophie that the shop girl would of course turn out to be the lost daughter and would end up inheriting the fortune and marrying her poor, but deserving sweetheart. But however predictable the story might be, it was delightful to be immersed in an imaginary world where she knew the characters would be allowed a happy ending. She had enjoyed looking out for each of Lil’s appearances too: there she was, pirouetting and twirling perfectly at the end of a line of chorus girls or demurely dressed in a white frock and a lace parasol, singing a jaunty song about the marvels of British trade, all the time grinning wickedly and catching everyone’s eye.

Sophie decided to entertain herself until the start of the second act by looking up in the boxes. Society beauties in magnificent jewels were murmuring to each other behind their fans, whilst gentlemen lit cigars and clapped each other on the shoulder, and beside them, waiters poured out glasses of champagne. The ladies’ gowns were like illustrations from the fashion papers come to life. Sophie was just trying to decide whether she would choose the pale-blue silk chiffon or the jade-green velvet, when her eye was caught by a man sitting by himself in one of the most magnificent boxes. It seemed odd to see someone sitting all alone like that: rather like herself, she thought suddenly with a wry half-smile. Then she frowned and looked again. The man’s face seemed to swim before her eyes: she recognised it. She had seen it somewhere before. Remembering the opera glasses Lil had loaned her, Sophie took them out of the bag, and trying to be discreet, quickly glanced through them at the man in the box.

At first, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She must be mistaken! But she wasn’t. There could be no doubt about it. His dramatic profile and dark swept-back hair streaked with white were unmistakable. There, sitting coolly all alone, was the man whose face she had seen earlier that day in the photograph Lil had brought, the photograph that even now was sitting at home on her mantelpiece. It was the Baron.

She dropped the opera glasses in her lap as though they had burned her. She knew he couldn’t possibly have seen her looking at him, but all the same her heart was pounding. For one, dizzy moment, everything seemed unreal. She glanced swiftly back up at the box. As she watched he took out a pocket-watch, glanced at it, and then leaned back in his chair to light a cigar.

She looked quickly around. No one was watching her. She clicked her fan shut abruptly and stood up, bundling the opera glasses into her evening bag, then hurried out along the row of seats, and made her way up the red-carpeted aisle towards the door.

The staff refectory was a hubbub of noise. All around him, Billy could see little huddles of shop girls talking excitedly together, and groups of salesmen, guffawing and digging each other in the ribs as they speculated about what the evening might bring. But he himself sat quietly, slowly eating the last mouthfuls of pudding and trying to listen respectfully to Uncle Sid’s conversation with two of the other doormen.

Just as they were finishing the meal, Claudine came bustling over to their table, looking anxious. ‘Have you seen Monsieur Cooper?’ she asked Uncle Sid. ‘The Captain’s
boutonnière
is ready to be taken upstairs. Cooper said he wished to take it himself but I cannot find him anywhere.’

Uncle Sid wiped his moustache with his napkin. ‘Well, it wouldn’t do to keep the Captain waiting. Best get it dealt with. Go on, lad, if you’ve finished,’ he added to Billy. ‘Make yourself useful.’

Billy had never been near the Captain’s apartments before, and felt rather nervous as he climbed up the wide, thickly carpeted stairway, carefully carrying the tray upon which rested a particularly exquisite orchid for Sinclair’s buttonhole. It was beautifully quiet in the offices. He tiptoed through a wood-panelled room where several well-dressed young men were scribbling busily in ledgers, and then another, where Miss Atwood’s typewriter girl was still tapping at the keys.

At last, he came into the office where Miss Atwood herself worked, which interconnected with the Captain’s own, but Miss Atwood was nowhere to be seen. Billy paused for a moment, taking in the glossy leather-upholstered chairs, the shelves of books and the grand oil paintings on the walls, and thinking what a splendid room it was – more like a marvellous library than a secretary’s office.

But what was he to do now? For a moment he lingered, hoping that the typist might see him and offer to take the flower in herself, but then he thought of what Uncle Sid had said, and went forward purposefully. He strode over to the door of Sinclair’s office, ready to knock, but as he raised his hand, Sinclair’s distinctive voice rose from inside.

‘Keep this to yourself, Miss Atwood. I won’t have lurid stories flying round and upsetting everyone tonight. Understand?’

‘But sir – Jones is – I mean . . .’

‘He’s dead. It’s unfortunate. Tragic, I grant you. But it won’t make a difference if we tell them tomorrow. Under the circumstances, we simply daren’t risk any distractions tonight.’

Billy stepped abruptly backwards, but even as he did so, Miss Atwood emerged, looking grim and pale.

‘So the flowers are here at last?’ she snapped. ‘About time too – we’ve been waiting for them. Well, put them there, and be on your way.’

Billy nodded and put down the tray on the table Miss Atwood had pointed to. Then he swiftly went back out through the offices, trying to ignore the creeping cold sensation that was rising in his chest.

Sophie’s satin slippers made little sound on the thick carpet as she hurried down the long passageway that led towards the boxes. She had waited until the usher’s head was turned the other way to slip quickly up the stairs. Now, as a waiter carrying a tray of drinks came by, she held up her head and smiled, trying to look as if she belonged here. It must have worked, because he passed her by without a moment’s hesitation. She let out a long breath and went on, counting the doors . . . one, two, three. This must be it: the Baron’s box.

The door was slightly ajar, and for a moment she hovered on the threshold, uncertain now of what she meant to do. She could hardly stand here in the corridor waiting for him to come out – she would be much too conspicuous. She peered through the doorway, ready to jump back and apologise at once for being in the wrong place, should another usher appear.

She glimpsed a slice of a man’s shoulder. He seemed to be quite alone, sitting perfectly still, smoking his cigar. The smoke drifted around him in a ghostly cloud. Looking to the side, she could see that there were velvet curtains around either side of the door, just inside the box. Could she slip behind one of them? The sound of footsteps approaching made up her mind, and very softly she opened the door wider, praying it would not creak – and then slid soundlessly behind the velvet drape.

Her heart was thumping even more heavily now and her breathing seemed impossibly loud. But even as she tried to calm herself, a sick horror flooded her as, to her astonishment, the Baron began to speak.

‘S
entimental rot, of course, but Lloyd’s a clever fellow. He’s got them eating out of the palm of his hand.’

Sophie felt dizzy with relief. For a moment she had thought the Baron had somehow realised that she was there – but there must be someone else in the box, someone who had come in while she was making her way up the stairs, that he was now speaking to. She buried herself deeper into the darkest corner behind the curtains, and peered out. Sure enough, she could see there was a gentleman sitting at the Baron’s right hand. She could see the texture of his hair, greying a little at the temples, the medal that adorned his jacket, and the gold signet ring he wore on the little finger of the hand that held his cigar. His elegant evening clothes were beautifully tailored, and a silk hat was carefully placed on a chair at his side. He looked so much like any gentleman attending a society event that she found herself wondering whether Lil had been quite mistaken about the Baron’s identity and these were just two quite innocent gentlemen here to enjoy the show.

‘But you know we didn’t ask you here to talk about musical comedy,’ the Baron was saying. He had turned slightly to the left, and to Sophie’s surprise, she realised he was addressing not the man she could see, but a third person who was sitting outside her eyeline altogether. She began to feel increasingly alarmed that the box accommodated not one, but three people, any of whom might have spotted her when she had slipped behind the curtain.

The sudden, sharp sound of a chair being pushed back made her freeze. But there was no further movement. Instead, the third man said something in a low voice that she could not make out, and then, to her astonishment, the Baron laughed heartily. ‘Good heavens, Freddie! You worry too much. You must realise he’s the type of fellow who can scarcely see beyond the end of his own nose. I’m sure he hasn’t even noticed you’ve gone. As for being recognised here, you’re more than capable of remaining unseen. Besides, you know better than anyone that the theatre is the perfect place for talking in private.’ He gazed out across the auditorium for a moment, apparently surveying the figures in the boxes across the way, talking and drinking champagne. ‘Just look. Not one of them is interested in anyone but themselves.’

There was a long pause in which Sophie hardly dared to breathe, before the Baron went on. ‘But after tonight we can make plans for your departure. I thought a widowed sister, living in some provincial town, who can no longer get on without her dear, devoted brother? Or perhaps you’ve always yearned to return to the country village of your childhood and grow prize-winning marrows? But we can work out the amusing details later. After tonight, we will begin to work on the next role you will play.’