Lady Lightfingers Read online

  Celia did know about men. In this part of London you learned quickly if you wanted to survive – and she did intend to do that. She knew what her mother had to do on occasion to keep food on the table, and how much she hated it. Celia was learning other skills of survival, but they didn’t include accommodating the appetites of men.

  She snorted. ‘Do donkeys fly? There were others waiting to relieve him of the purse if I hadn’t planted my foot on it. That’s why I was marked myself, I reckon.’

  Celia grinned. Her explanation had been accepted. She must have inherited her father’s skill where lying was concerned. Or perhaps her mother chose to believe her because they were in need.

  Her smile faded as a second thought intruded. Watch out, Jackaby Laws, I’m only fifteen at the moment but I’ll soon be grown-up. If I ever run into you I’ll find some way to relieve you of the money you took from my mother and grandfather. When I do, my mother will be able to hold her head up again and so will her children.

  Lottie called out and her mother sighed. ‘Look after her, Celia. I’ll go out and buy some milk and bread, and some pies and fruit. We’ll eat like princesses tonight.’

  ‘I’ll go if you like.’

  ‘Not if you’re marked. He’ll be hanging around where he last saw you, waiting for you to emerge.’

  ‘You can’t miss him; he’s wearing a red kerchief, and there’s a ned in his belt. I haven’t seen him round here before, and I spotted him easily. What about the watch? Shall I try and sell it?’

  ‘You must find some way of giving it back to the gentleman, but don’t get caught, Celia. I couldn’t bear it if you were put in prison or transported to the other side of the world and I never saw you again. And get rid of that ring at the same time. It’s too noticeable.’

  It was a pretty trinket with a green stone in the middle, surrounded by small, creamy pearls. It fitted her middle finger perfectly.

  Lottie came in and climbed on to her lap, her eyes widening when the watch began to chime. Celia held it to Lottie’s ear. She was three years old, and she had light-blue eyes and soft, brown, curly hair, the same as Alice, so she looked as though she belonged to them. Celia had darker eyes. Cornflower blue.

  Celia could remember cornflowers in the fields when they’d toured with the Wentworth Players. She resembled her father, her mother had told her. His eyes had been the same colour, as was his hair – dark brown, almost black. Not that Celia had ever met him. He didn’t even know of her existence – not yet! But one day she’d find him, even if it took the rest of her life.

  As for Lottie’s parentage, it was a mystery. Her mother had found her as a newborn baby, abandoned amongst the rubbish on the riverbank. She’d been left for the tide to carry away, something that was a common practice. She’d probably been born there and left where she was dropped.

  At first, Alice had intended to ignore the child, but her thin little cry as the cold and dirty water began to lick at her naked body had touched her, and Celia had begged her mother to save the baby’s life. They’d called her Charlotte, quickly shortened to Lottie, and thus Celia had gained a sister.

  They’d lived in a real house then, the room and board paid for by her mother’s efforts at housekeeping. Another child in his home, especially one that cried at night, was too much for the owner to bear, and he’d sent them packing.

  They’d gone downhill. Nobody would employ her mother and she sent Celia begging. But Celia couldn’t earn enough to keep them all.

  They’d been lucky and had found the cellar that they’d called home for the past three years. But it was a struggle to pay the rent and buy food. Now, when it seemed that they couldn’t go any lower, her mother seemed resigned to her lot in life.

  Life wasn’t fair sometimes, Celia thought, kissing her sister’s soft curls. But she had no intention of trying to earn an honest living by sewing seams in trousers or being a housemaid and a dollymop on the side.

  Celia learned things easily, and she didn’t intend to stay. When she was old enough she would leave this place. Using her wits, lying, stealing, dramatics, begging – or even marriage to a rich man – she’d be the very best at what she did, and she’d look after her family while she was doing it.

  Her gaze went to the watch. She was tempted to keep it, but just as she thought she might, Lottie’s exploring fingers found a hidden catch and the back sprang open. Celia laughed when Lottie’s eyes rounded with surprise and she clapped her hands. Revealed was a small sketch of a child’s face surrounded by a wreath. RIP Celia Jane Hambert it said on the back, and there was an address.

  For reasons unknown, tears sprang to Celia’s eyes.

  The man had lost a child he loved and he carried a memorial of her around with him. Odd that they bore the same name. Celia didn’t believe in signs . . . until now. It was as if the ghost of the girl was whispering to her, asking to be taken back to the father who loved her. She must take the timepiece back; if she didn’t something bad would happen to her.

  Her fingers touched against the dangling door key. She had the address and she had a way in. There was bound to be cash at the house and she could leave the watch and help herself to the reward at the same time. All she had to do was watch and wait, and seize her chance.

  Two

  It didn’t take Celia long to discover where Thomas Hambert lived. It was apparent that he was a pleasant gentleman, tipping his hat when the need arose to people he passed, especially the ladies. He had an air of absent-mindedness about him that was endearing. Celia followed him around and learned his habits, which proved to be just as much fun as the thrill of dipping her fingers into pockets undetected. He seemed unaware of her presence.

  It never ceased to amaze her how careless people were with their purses. Just that morning she’d taken one from a woman’s basket, handing it back to her, lighter by several coins.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but you dropped this,’ she said, handing it over with as much humbleness as she could muster.

  The woman’s male companion fished a penny from his pocket and dropped it in her hand. ‘Here, girl.’

  The purse was placed back in its basket, while the man automatically patted his inside pocket to make sure his paper money was secure, revealing exactly where it was kept. Celia could almost guarantee that by the time they reached the end of the lane, both purse and pocket would be emptied. She was tempted to do it herself, except she’d spotted Thomas Hambert standing outside a bookshop.

  She sidled up beside him and looked in the window. When she was sure he wasn’t looking she slanted a glance at his notebook. He was making a sketch of the alley with quick, sure pencil marks.

  She lowered her gaze when he gave her a quick glance and her eyes fell on a book in the window. ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ she whispered, her eyes shining as she wondered if she should duck through the door and grab up a copy. But there was a barrier made of wire across the back of the display.

  ‘I beg your pardon, young lady. Did you say something?’

  ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ She pointed to the book. ‘See, it’s there. Four shillings and nine pence. Who would have thought words would cost so much?’

  ‘It’s good value, because when you’ve learned them the words are yours to keep and do what you like with. People who arrange words into stories earn money from them. Also, the publisher who makes the book earns money, and so does the shopkeeper who sells the book.’

  ‘So if I wrote a book and it sold for four shillings, I would only earn about . . .’ She stopped to count it on her fingers . . . ‘One shilling and four pence. That’s very little for all that work.’

  ‘If it was accepted by a proper publisher and displayed in a bookseller’s window, I’d expect more than one person to buy it.’

  ‘Ten perhaps?’

  ‘Easily . . . more . . . one hundred copies perhaps.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘That many; would you buy a copy?’

  He smiled at her. ‘If it was well written, most certainly I wou
ld. Such enterprise would need rewarding.’

  ‘Then I’ll write a book, and it will be a good one. I’ll write down my life story.’

  ‘An autobiography?’

  ‘Yes, an autobiography.’

  He gave her a faint, and rather superior smile. ‘You’re rather young to have accumulated enough adventures with which to write an autobiography. Do you know what it is?’

  She shrugged as she threw at him, ‘Of course. My mother made me read all the words in the dictionary. I learned their meaning and how to spell them. She promised to buy me Robinson Crusoe when I’d learned them all. I thought she’d forgotten, because she didn’t keep her promise; but it must have been because she couldn’t afford it. She used to be a teacher before she met my pa, you know. He turned out to be a trickster of ill repute. She’s frightened that I’ll take after him.’

  His smile was one of amused indulgence. ‘And will you?’

  She laughed at his question and shrugged. If only he knew!

  ‘You’ve evaded my question, and now you tell me you can read all the words in the dictionary?’

  ‘No, I didn’t evade it, and yes, I do know what an autobiography is. It’s an account of someone’s life as written by the subject herself . . . or himself, whichever the case may be.’

  ‘My goodness, you’ve been educated in letters with a vengeance. Like a little parrot you repeat back the words you’ve been fed.’

  Her hands went to her hips. ‘There’s no need to mock me.’

  ‘Indeed, I’m not mocking you. I’m lost in admiration that one so young could display such a retentive mind. The dictionary, no less?’

  There were little red dents at each side of his nose where his spectacles pinched. ‘It’s the only book we have at home.’

  ‘Samuel Johnson’s edition one would hope. Your mother has indeed been industrious on your behalf. Tell me, what are you going to do with all those words now you have them at your disposal?’

  ‘I’m going to write an autobiography.’

  ‘Ah yes, my dear,’ and his pencil flew over the page. ‘I believe we’ve already established that. Because it’s fact, you must be careful what you put in it, since it could land you in trouble, especially if you’d done something wrong, or blackened somebody else’s name.’

  ‘Like stealing, you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m not suggesting that you would have, of course. You look like an honest and open person to me.’

  Guilt prodded at her conscience. ‘Perhaps I’ll write about the people who live in the district. I can make up poetry and stories about them instead. All I will need is a book like the one you use. Then if I sell it I can keep all the money and will write another one.’

  Finished with his task he snapped his notebook shut and pulled a fresh notebook from a satchel he carried. ‘Are you sure you can write? If you can I’ll give you this to start off with.’

  ‘Test me. Ask me a word . . . any word,’ she said, unaware that her eyes were as fierce as a bird of prey on the prize.

  ‘Frequently,’ he came back with.

  ‘Something that happens often.’ She spelled it for him.

  ‘Can you spell the word enough?’

  She did.

  ‘Through . . .?’

  She gave him a bit of a smile. ‘Easy. I can also spell though, tough . . . thought and cough.’ Her fingers closed around the offered notebook and she prayed it wouldn’t be withdrawn. ‘Thank you, Mr Hambert. My first book of fictional stories and poetry will be for you at the cost of four shillings.’

  The smile he gave was loaded with amusement. ‘But I paid for the notebook in the first place.’

  ‘But you didn’t pay for the future content. You may deduct the cost when the time comes.’

  ‘I’m impressed by your business acumen, young lady. In fact, I’m impressed by you altogether.’ He raised a peppery eyebrow and gazed at her through eyes so astute that they seemed to skewer her to the spot. ‘Don’t forget to keep a copy of your work, and state that it’s yours on the title page.’ He chuckled. ‘I might steal it and pretend it’s mine, otherwise.’

  The watch in her pocket began to chime. Damn! She’d forgotten about the timepiece she’d lifted from him the last time they’d met. She’d meant to slip it back into his pocket.

  Her heart began to thump erratically as he gave her a puzzled look. His fingers automatically slid into his waistcoat and felt about, then he patted his jacket pockets and mumbled, ‘I thought I’d lost it. It must have slipped into the lining somewhere.’

  ‘I won’t forget to keep a copy; thank you so much,’ she said with enough faked graciousness to disguise her mounting panic. While he was distracted Celia edged away to merge with the jostling crowds. She had no choice, because once he realized she had stolen his watch he’d have her arrested and charged with stealing it. She liked Thomas Hambert and had enjoyed their interesting conversation.

  But she hoped to talk to him again. First, she’d make sure he got his watch back. After that she wouldn’t steal anything but money, until she made her fortune writing enough fictional stories to amaze and delight people. She might even write a play for Mr Wentworth. She had lots of stories inside her head, mostly about the people who lived in the slums. Once she was rich she’d stop stealing altogether, she promised herself.

  Thomas Hambert lived in Bedford Square. The three-storey house at the corner of the row was made of dark brick and six oblong windows supported curved recesses. Two attic windows peered from the roof. The double doors were set to one side with a decorative portico, and there was a bridge of steps over the basement area. Over the past week Celia had observed several entrances to the square, through Bayley, Caroline and Charlotte Streets, should she need to make a quick escape.

  Her gentleman had one housekeeper, a skinny streak of a woman who looked as though a puff of wind would carry her off. She came in daily and left about four o’clock, just as winter began to cape them in the gruel of twilight. Thomas Hambert usually arrived home about an hour later, after eating a pie and having a pint of ale in a public house.

  Celia chose a day when the fog closed in early, muffling the street sound. She knocked first, in case the woman hadn’t left. She had. The key fitted in the lock and turned smoothly, giving a well-oiled clunk. She found herself standing in a hallway with a flight of steps to her left.

  She had never entered a stranger’s house without permission before. It felt strange as though something hovered, watching her every move and breathing tension into her ear. She wondered if it were her own conscience. The house smelled of beeswax mixed with stale tobacco smoke, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was a warm house, not at all like her cold cellar, which lacked a good fire to toast them. The faint smell of stew made her stomach rattle.

  A creak came from upstairs and she held her breath, expelling it when a plump tabby cat came racing down to weave around her ankles. When she tickled its chin its purring rattle ceased. It stalked off towards the back of the house, tail up, stopping only to offer her a disapproving look over its shoulder before it disappeared through an open door, as if to say it’d thought she was someone else and the friendly gesture it’d initially offered her was a mistake.

  Somewhere, a clock gave a quiet tick, reminding her of why she was here. The empty spaces of the house pressed against her ears as she opened the door to the nearest room.

  Where should she leave the watch? When Thomas Hambert found it she wanted him to think it had been there all the time. She found herself in a comfortable drawing room with blue, winged chairs and a chaise longue. The room had a chill to it, as though the fire wasn’t often lit. Over the fireplace there was a picture of a woman, unsmiling and stern. Her brown eyes seemed to follow Celia around the room.

  ‘It’s all right, missus, I won’t steal anything, I promise,’ she whispered.

  The next room made her gasp. Here, the fire was ready to light in the grate. Here, were two leather chairs either side of the mantelpiece,
an occasional table and a sideboard with a decanter of brandy and glasses on a silver tray. Here, there was a whole wall of books, brown, green and red with gold lettering, and of all different sizes. Envy grew in her. He had books – so many that if she took one he wouldn’t even miss it.

  On the small, highly polished table there was a statue of a bronze goddess with a bow and arrow in one hand, while the other rested on the head of a dog pressed against her leg. She hung the watch around the woman’s neck. Thomas Hambert was bound to see it sooner or later, since the chime would alert him.

  Her hand slid along the books, and she smiled when she saw a copy of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. She pulled it out, opened it and read aloud, ‘I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family . . .’

  Her mother had been born of a good family too. Celia was about to curl up in the chair and read more when she heard the key slide into the lock at the front door. Startled, she threw the book on to the chair, hurried out of the room and bounded up the stairs.

  She should have realized that the fog would have driven Mr Hambert home early. She watched from the landing as he took off his greatcoat and made a fuss of the cat, which had come running to greet him.

  ‘What have you been up to today, Frederick? Not annoying Mrs Packer, I hope.’

  Frederick gave a bit of a trill.

  ‘Ah, you need some milk, do you? Then we’d better go down to the kitchen,’ he said. The cat meowed in agreement, as though the pair of them were having a proper conversation. Celia smiled as they headed away out of sight, Mr Hambert chatting to the cat and the cat looking up at him and talking back. She was lucky that cats didn’t really speak, else Frederick might be telling him there was a stranger lurking in the house.

  Seizing her chance, she ran lightly down the stairs to the front door. She fumbled with the catch. Footsteps came from the back of the house and she just managed to open it and slip through the crack in time. Pulling the door behind her with some force she leaped on to the pavement and began to run.