Free Den of Thieves by Julia Golding Page B

star-crossed lovers and dutiful daughters. It was poor stuff – but better than many a tale that made it into print. I left it on the table so that Mr Tweadle would see it when he came down for breakfast.
    â€˜Ah, I see you’ve passed your time profitably, Cathy,’ he said, stirring his porridge and smiling atme as if for all the world our quarrel of yestereve had not happened.
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    I went out the back to escape his presence. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up the pretence of obedience when I hated every wispy hair on his head. I’d only swept the yard twice over when he came to the door holding my new story.
    â€˜What’s all this?’ he asked me. ‘Where are the boxers and the villains? The musicians and actors?’
    So he had read my stuff then.
    â€˜I wrote what I thought you, standing
in loco parentis
, would approve of, sir,’ I said with a passable imitation of meekness.
    â€˜Well, no, no, I do not approve, Cathy. I want the other kind of story from you – something with guts and excitement, not this curds-and-whey stuff.’
    â€˜Why? I thought I was supposed to be just amusing myself – a hobby you called it.’ A suspicion was forming in my mind that perhaps after all his delays he might, just might, be considering putting out a collection of my work. This might all be a test to see if I really was the author.
    â€˜Hmm.’ He looked up at the sky and then down at me. ‘If you are ever going to make it into print, Cathy, you have to be true to yourself. This . . . this is cheap imitation. I want the genuine article.’
    I nodded. ‘I understand. I’ll write something for you – to show you I can do it.’
    â€˜That’s it. You do that. Take the morning to see what you can knock out for me.’
    Heartened by this exchange, even partially reconciled to my position in the household if I was allowed time to write, I cleared the kitchen table and set down to work. I was soon lost in an account of a visit to a crime lord’s flashy household and forgot the time. I was amused to find that even Billy made good copy when turned into a story – the repellent reality becoming quite amusing when looked at from a distance.
    I was so pleased by the end product that I was determined to take it to Mr Tweadle directly. I tried the kitchen door: it wasn’t locked this morning. Running along the corridor, I paused outside the shop entrance, wondering if it was safe to knock. Mr Tweadle would not want me tointerrupt him with a customer. I could hear voices. I put my head close to the door to listen.
    â€˜I asked you, sir, if you knew where I could find Catherine Royal.’ It was Mr Sheridan. Thank goodness I hadn’t burst in dressed in my dirty scullery maid’s apron – I would have died of embarrassment.
    â€˜As I told you, I have no idea where the young person can be found,’ Mr Tweadle said airily.
    â€˜He’s lying, he must be.’ Frank! What was he doing here? ‘It’s her stuff, I know it is.’
    Mr Sheridan spoke again. ‘Look, Mr . . . er . . . Mr Tweadle, the young lady has disappeared and her friends are most anxious to locate her. I’m not asking you to betray any confidences – we’re not fortune hunters trying to muscle in on her success or anything of that kind – but we know that you must be in contact with her or you wouldn’t have all this.’
    All what? What were they talking about?
    â€˜I repeat, sir, I have no knowledge of the lady. You are mistaken if you think this belongs to anyone but my talented young assistant, George Nokes. He’s a prodigy.’
    â€˜He’s a fraud and a thief!’ interrupted Frank, outraged. ‘If he’s told you those stories are his then he’s lying through his teeth.’
    â€˜Am not!’ protested Nokes. ‘I’ve sweated over those, I ’ave. I’d swear