Den of Thieves

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Authors: Julia Golding
extreme.
    I tackled him about it after seven days of this treatment. I had cooked what I hoped was a passable dinner. Mr Tweadle was in a very good mood: he had ordered in a jug of wine and was treating Nokes and himself to a glass or two.
    â€˜To our customers!’ he crowed, raising his vintage in the direction of the shop. ‘To those who keep us in this delightful style.’ His eyes flicked over to me, standing by the stove. ‘Do you want some, Cathy?’
    â€˜No thank you, sir. But I was wondering if I might go out tomorrow – just for a half hour or so. I know a good butcher’s where I can get much better meat than the poor stuff Mr Nokes has been buying. That last bit of mutton was surely from a sheep that died of old age – you must have noticed how tough it was?’
    Mr Tweadle frowned and put down his glass. ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t go wandering.’
    â€˜I promise to go there and come straight back. I won’t talk to anyone.’
    â€˜I said no, Cathy. My word is final.’
    I’d had enough of being his slave. I took off my cap and began to untie my apron.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ he asked sharply, all pretence at being friendly abandoned.
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir. I can’t continue like this. I’ll go mad if I can’t get out and about.’
    â€˜You hear that?’ he appealed to Nokes. ‘The ungrateful girl frets over her freedom to roam the streets like some common hussy. You see how right I was to insist she stayed inside?’
    â€˜Very wise, sir,’ Nokes intoned. ‘She’s got to be kept close, this one, or your name will be mud.’
    â€˜I don’t think a walk to a butcher’s shop would place Mr Tweadle’s name in peril, but as you both do, I had better take my leave. If I could have my manuscripts back, please?’ I held out my hand.
    My employer and Nokes exchanged looks.
    â€˜What manuscripts?’ asked Mr Tweadle coldly.
    â€˜My manuscripts – the ones I showed you last week!’ I felt a rising sense of panic. I had to get them back – I had to!
    â€˜There were no manuscripts.’
    â€˜There were! In a canvas bag. You looked at them in the shop.’
    â€˜Oh, those bits of old paper. I think I put them down somewhere – can’t for the life of me remember what I did with them.’
    â€˜Kindling for the fire, sir?’ suggested Nokes with a malevolent grin at me.
    â€˜Very possibly. If you’re so worried about it, you’d better write some more, girl. I’ll give you pen and paper so you can keep up your little hobby. I like to encourage innocent pursuits. If you’re good, I might be able to remember what I did with them in a few days.’
    â€˜A few days!’ I exclaimed. The slimy cheat was holding my manuscripts hostage to keep a cheap maid about the place.
    Mr Tweadle got up. ‘I’ll send Nokes back with the paper for you. I do so want you to be happy while you are staying here, Cathy. You’ll feel so much better if you let your mind rather than your person wander and write a few more stories to pass the time. You won’t mind if I lock you in now, will you? You have to understand it’s for your own good.’
    Of course I minded, but they were gone and the bolt clunked into place.
    That night, I considered my options. Mr Tweadle couldn’t keep an eye on me forever – I had no fears about that locked door. If the worst came to the worst, I’d simply climb over the back wall and make my escape that way. But he needed no real shackles – my manuscripts were like a ball and chain keeping me here. They were irreplaceable. No one else might have any use for them, but they were everything to me. I’d have to find them, then flee – that was all there was to it.
    To lull Mr Tweadle into a false sense of security, I scribbled down a little story that night – something about

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