catch me reading. Anyway, I’m sorry I tripped you up,’ he finished.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Sophie. She held out her hand politely, like Miss Pennyfeather had taught her. ‘I’m Sophie Taylor. I’m in the Millinery Department.’ She had already learned that using her full name, Taylor-Cavendish, would do her no favours here at Sinclair’s. It was safer to stick to plain old Taylor.
‘Billy Parker, apprentice porter,’ he explained, accepting her hand and giving it a firm shake.
‘Parker? Then are you –?’
‘Related to Sidney Parker? Yes. He’s my uncle, worse luck,’ Billy said, grimacing. ‘Oh cripes, and here he comes now,’ he murmured in a lower voice, hastily stuffing the creased story-paper into his pocket as a man came striding towards them along the passageway.
Like everyone else at Sinclair’s, Sophie already knew exactly who Sidney Parker was. He was Head Doorman, in charge of the whole team of doormen and porters, and Mr Cooper’s right-hand man. Tall and handsome in a bullish sort of way, he was impossible to miss in his immaculate uniform. With his hat perfectly brushed, his buttons gleaming and his glossy black moustache always smoothed into place, he couldn’t have been more different from his untidy nephew.
‘Good morning, miss,’ he said, sweeping off his hat with the respectful manner he used for all ladies. Then he turned to Billy. ‘Where do you think you’ve been? Stand up straight, lad – and cheer up, can’t you? You look like a wet weekend.’
He winked at Sophie as though they were sharing a joke at Billy’s expense and then swung the door that led to the shop floor open for her with exaggerated politeness. Throwing a quick smile over her shoulder to Billy, she walked out of the passageway.
Billy gazed after Sophie as she vanished through the door. She was the first girl in the whole place who hadn’t treated him like he was dirt on the bottom of her shoe. With her golden hair, he decided she looked rather like the heroine of the Montgomery Baxter story he had just been reading. That would, of course, make him the brave boy detective who saves her from deadly peril. He was just beginning to consider exactly what that peril might be when he was brought back to earth by a sharp cuff on the back of the head from Uncle Sid.
‘Don’t pretend to me that you haven’t been larking about again, boy,’ he said curtly. ‘I know everything that goes on in this place, and don’t you forget it. You want to pull your socks up otherwise you’ll be out on your ear. Now shift yourself. Go and help George with the deliveries.’
Billy went down the passage towards the door to the stable-yard, muttering the rudest words he could think of under his breath as soon as Uncle Sid was out of earshot. He couldn’t believe that just two weeks ago, he had actually been looking forward to starting work and doing a man’s job. Now he was here, and all he did was spend each day bored senseless, being treated like everyone’s dogsbody, or getting told off. He’d already had his wages docked twice by Mr Cooper – once for being late and once for having dirty boots. Mum was forever harping on about how lucky he was to have such a fine start, but as far as he was concerned, he’d rather be back at school doing sums. At least he’d been half decent at those.
The stable-yard was warm and damp and smelled of horses and hay. George was sitting alone in a patch of sunlight, squinting at a newspaper, his pipe clamped between his teeth. Blackie, the boiler-room cat, was nearby, thoughtfully washing one paw.
‘Here you are, young feller,’ George said, patting a packing crate beside him. ‘Pull yourself up a pew.’
Suddenly, Billy felt better. It was much nicer here in the stable-yard, away from Uncle Sid and those awful giggling shop girls, and he liked George, who never jeered at him.
‘You’ve got good eyes – read us this bit out,’ said George, pointing with the stem of his pipe.
Billy sat down on the packing case, took the newspaper that George was holding out to him and read aloud:
‘Fancy that,’ said George admiringly. ‘And to think that all that’s going to be coming through here this very morning, jewels that have belonged to queens and the like.’
‘Look at the picture’ said Billy, and they bent over the paper to squint at the blurry photograph.
‘Don’t look much like any sparrow I’ve ever seen,’ said George, contemplating it. ‘A different tune every time, eh? Now however do you reckon they get it to do that?’
At that moment, a cart loaded with boxes of merchandise rumbled into the stable-yard. ‘Shake a leg, George!’ called a voice from behind them. ‘The gaffer wants this lot unloaded sharpish.’
George winked at Billy and then heaved himself to his feet. ‘Come on pal,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with this and then we’ll finish reading later on.’
Saying that was all very well, but Billy found it was difficult to concentrate on boxes and deliveries. He kept picturing immense diamonds glinting in the dark tunnels of an Indian mine. Then there was Marie Antoinette’s tiara. How had the Captain come to own it? He imagined a grand Paris auction house, or a furtive transaction with a cloaked stranger in a foreign tavern. Busy with these speculations, it seemed no time at all before the boxes were unloaded, and then two shiny black motor vans were pulling into the yard, each driven by a man in white gloves. George nodded to Billy, who stood staring, fascinated by the thought of the priceless treasures that must be within.
But then Uncle Sid strode up. ‘No hanging about, if you please. This isn’t a job for the likes of you. Hop it. Find yourself something useful to do.’
Obediently, Billy walked away, but inwardly he was bristling. At the first sign of something exciting happening, he was told to make himself scarce!
He kicked at the ground, feeling bored and irritable. If only there was something else he could do instead of being a rotten old shop porter. A police detective, solving crimes; the commander of one of those new submarines, keeping the British Empire safe from her enemies; or even an author, writing thrilling tales like those he read in Boys of Empire. Or perhaps he could be a man like the Captain, an adventurer travelling the world, collecting exotic jewels . . . But it was no good even imagining it. Fellows like him just didn’t do that sort of thing.
He wandered gloomily into the stables, thinking that he might be able to find a quiet corner to get on with his story. Bessy, the chestnut mare, put her head over the door of her stall as he approached, and he paused to stroke her. Now, being a cowboy, that would be something, he thought vaguely. Riding on his valiant steed across the great plains of America, like Deadwood Dick or Buffalo Bill –
Suddenly, he stopped short. Something was moving under the hay in the empty stall next to Bessy’s – something much too big to be a rat, or even Blackie the cat.
He gathered his wits quickly. It was probably just some kid mucking about. Sometimes there were children hanging about the store, waifs and strays begging or hoping to earn a penny. Uncle Sid always ordered them away, threatening to set the law on them if they came near the place again. Well if his uncle could do it, he could too. He puffed out his chest and stood taller.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded. Nothing happened and he began to wonder if he had imagined the rustling movement. He raised his voice and said clearly, much as he imagined the great Montgomery Baxter himself might speak: ‘I know you’re there. Show yourself at once.’
To his astonishment, the hay twitched again – first he saw the glint of a dark suspicious eye, and then a form beginning to emerge. But it wasn’t just a kid, he saw with surprise and then with growing anxiety. It was a youth – a young man really – probably a few