‘Oh, dear.’ Helen looked anxious. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it …’
‘Of course you should,’ soothed Rosalie. ‘You can see I’m dressed as a drab little widow …’ she pointed to the cheap ring she wore ‘… and I’m going to take Biddy’s brother Matt with me, just as you suggested. I’ll deliver your Scribblers to Bishopsgate, as well. Don’t look so worried, Helen. It’s broad daylight, and with big Matt O’Brien at my side no one will come near me!’
But Rosalie’s plans went awry almost immediately, because Matt and his older brother had been called at short notice to another job that morning, according to little Joe, the youngest of the family, who at only ten was not much use as a protector.
Rosalie hesitated for only a moment. Then, heaving up her canvas bag of news sheets, she walked down to Clerkenwell Green to hire a hackney cab.
At busy Bishopsgate, the driver softly grumbled as he lifted her heavy bag out of the cab for her. ‘You deliverin’ the Bible or some such round ‘ere, missy? Best make sure you’re well away before the alehouses get crowded at noon. And don’t say I didn’t warn yer!’
Rosalie took charge of her bagful of Scribblers. ‘Consider me warned,’ she said lightly.
A slight breeze lifted the concealing veil of her severe bonnet. The driver looked at her curiously, then his eyes fastened on the plain wedding band on her finger. ‘Why, yer only young. Quite a fetching little thing …’ She snatched her veil down again. ‘Well, well,’ he sighed. ‘You take care now, missy.’
Bishopsgate was busy. First she delivered the copies of The Scribbler to the news vendor, who took them eagerly. ‘These should go like hot cakes, miss!’ he said. ‘‘Specially if there’s a piece in by that fellow Ro Rowland—my gents are fond of them!’
Rosalie smiled. ‘I do believe there is.’ And, her bag now much lighter, she walked on towards Crispin Street.
Thank goodness Helen and Biddy didn’t know she’d ventured here, alone.
Immediately she found herself in a different world. The ancient buildings leaned in over the street, three, sometimes four storeys high; they were unkempt, with broken windows, and in the roughly paved lane dogs nosed amongst heaps of rubbish. Ragged children gathered by doorways, even their attempts at play half-hearted in this oppressive neighbourhood.
As she hesitated, an urchin came up boldly to stare at her and Rosalie asked the grubby child, ‘Can you tell me which house is Two Crows Castle?’
‘It’s the big ‘un, see.’ The child pointed. ‘Can’t miss it. All the soldiers live there.’
Rosalie swallowed and nodded. It was a huge old house set back from the road, with a bunch of men slouching outside, defying the freezing February drizzle that had just started to fall. It must once have been a grand mansion, but grand was no longer the word that applied to it. The broken crenellations resembled nothing more than gapped teeth; the stuccoed façade was cracked and stained. Clearly, as the district had sunk into poverty during the last fifty years, so had this place. And the man who charged the homeless ex-soldiers to live in such squalor was once an army officer. Shameful.
She became conscious of rough-looking people assessing her from open doors, of the smells of greasy cooking and ale from the various taverns. Her heart missed a beat. Time, most definitely, to go. She turned to head back to Bishopsgate, where the street would be busy with shoppers and the atmosphere less menacing. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming up behind her. And a hand grabbed her arm.
‘Now, what may you be wantin’?’ a rough male voice demanded. ‘Some kind of charity lady, are yer?’
She spun round to see a small but fierce-looking individual in a tattered soldier’s uniform, his whole demeanour made even more sinister by the black eyepatch he wore. A big golden dog hovered close to him, growling softly. And soon there were more men looking her suspiciously up and down, men who’d been loitering outside the ominous building known as Two Crows Castle.
Despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but gasp, ‘How many of you are there in that place?’
‘None of your damned business, pardon my French,’ Eyepatch said tersely. ‘I’ll let you off with a piece of advice—don’t go stickin’ yer ladylike little nose into other folks’ affairs. Now, be off with you!’ The dog barked in agreement.
In the circumstances, it seemed sensible to do precisely what he said, but at least a dozen ragged men had come to crowd round her in a distinctly menacing sort of manner. They were big. They were blocking her path. Rosalie’s heart was thumping hard. You idiot, coming here alone …
‘I’ll be on my way just as soon as you let me pass!’ she said, rather faintly.
She felt acute relief as the men slowly stepped aside.
Then Eyepatch said, ‘Wait. What’ve you got in that bag of yours?’
Rosalie swallowed. ‘It’s empty. I’ve just been delivering something, and now I really must go.’
‘Empty, eh? Let’s just have a little look-see.’
Eyepatch was drawing closer. Rosalie looked round desperately for help that clearly wasn’t going to arrive. She’d remembered that her bag wasn’t quite empty, after all. Grasping it tightly, she turned to run. But her long cloak hampered her and suddenly Crispin Street was alive with scowling ruffians, appearing from every doorway, every alley, from the walls themselves, it seemed. Could things get any worse?
They could, and they did. She dropped her bag and saw it fall open. Oh, fiddlesticks. Yet more men gathered, and Rosalie whirled round, her heart pounding painfully. The lethal piece of paper that had fluttered from her bag was drifting towards the gutter; one of the men snatched at it and gave it to Eyepatch.
Rosalie, feeling a little faint, saw Eyepatch scowling at it. Not The Scribbler, but a few notes she’d been jotting down in the cab—ideas for her next article. Something not intended for public scrutiny anywhere, let alone here. What a tumble, as Ro Rowland would say.
‘Please give that to me,’ she said rather weakly. She was fervently hoping the ruffian wouldn’t be able to read.
‘No, hold on,’ said Eyepatch, ‘this looks interesting.’ And slowly he began to decipher her scrawled notes, while his companions gathered round.
‘Your fellow about town wants today to draw your attention to the scandalous practice of rackrenting. Rackrenting?’ He lifted his head to glare at her. ‘Who wrote this?’
‘Just somebody—well, it’s me! I—I amuse myself, during carriage rides, by writing things down, silly things—’ She tried to grab the sheet back, to no avail.
He hung on to it grimly. Started again. ‘Scandalous practice of rackrenting. What is truly—truly—’ Eyepatch broke off. ‘Can’t read the rest of this flummery.’
Thank God for that.
But there was no reprieve. For someone else—a big, redheaded man—was announcing, in a broad Scottish accent, ‘Awa’ with ye, Garrett, I can read the rest. It says, “What is truly shameful is that many of those who are thus exploited are former soldiers, forced to live in squalor at a place called Two Crows Castle …”’
The dog barked. They were all pressing around her again. Eyepatch looked at her with his one eye. ‘Exploited? By God, we ain’t exploited here at Two Crows Castle. We don’t like people who write filthy lies about our Captain, do you hear? As he’ll tell you himself—’cos he’s on his way right now!’
Her heart, she was sure, had stopped beating. The Captain?
Don’t be a fool, Rosalie. There must be dozens of ex-army Captains in town. Nevertheless she pulled down her veil as far as it would go, until she felt like a blinkered horse with a fly-gauze