I rejoiced inwardly to hear my enemy so criticised by his employer. Ever since Mr Salter got off the Norwich mail coach and knocked on the door of Drury Lane looking for work as a playwright, he has been no friend of mine. In my defence, I should point out that he started it by calling me a ‘dirty beggar’ and suggesting that the Foundlings Hospital was a more suitable place for an orphan like myself than a theatre. Since then, I am not ashamed to admit that it has been open war between us. And as he has been angling for the job of prompt for weeks after Old Carver got too deaf to carry on, he knows that I’ve been using all my influence with Mr Sheridan and Mr Kemble to stop him getting the job.
Leaving the noise of the bellowing, braying audience behind, Mr Sheridan ducked into the shadowy labyrinth behind stage and made his way deftly around the scenery, ropes and barrels that littered his path. This was the world never seen by the paying public . . . workshops, storerooms, dressing rooms and cellars: the underbelly of the theatre. You could get lost in here for hours. But Mr Sheridan did not put a foot wrong; we both knew this place like the back of our hands. We passed Mr Salter who was quivering in the wings, his old tie wig scrunched up in his hands as he gazed in agony at the destruction of his hopes on stage. Mr Sheridan barely spared him a glance but pressed on without offering a word of comfort, a bitter smile on his lips. He seemed to have forgotten I was with him as he was now striding along, hands clasped behind his back, whistling ‘Rule, Britannia’ under his breath, horribly out of tune. His mind had clearly turned to other things. And there were many things that he could be thinking about . . . in addition to owning the theatre, he is a member of parliament, a leading figure in opposition to Prime Minister Pitt’s government, as well as best friend of the Prince of Wales. He has made himself into one of the first men in the country . . . which is no mean feat for an Irish actor’s son, you must agree. I admire him more than anyone I know . . . though even I am not blind to his shortcomings. You could not spend five minutes among my friends backstage without knowing that his inability to pay wages is probably his chief fault. He is distinctly devious about money matters and always in trouble with someone about his failure to pay up.
With all this on his plate, I could not even begin to imagine what business might be on his mind, but that did not stop me trying to find out. Curious to know where he was going in this purposeful manner, I followed him, slinking behind like his shadow.
Perhaps he was only going for a breath of fresh air? Sure enough, Mr Sheridan stopped at the stage door and said a few friendly words to Caleb, the doorkeeper, offering him a pinch from his snuffbox, which the old man gratefully received. I lingered in a dark corner, wondering if there would be anything more interesting to see. A stray rioter perhaps?
‘Has my visitor arrived yet?’ Mr Sheridan asked Caleb quietly, though I thought his expressive eyes twinkled with more than usual interest to hear the answer.
‘No, sir,’ Caleb replied hoarsely. ‘Not a sight nor sound of anybody round the back tonight. All the excitement’s out front from what I ’ear.’ The night breeze carried with it the sound of breaking glass and raucous voices; the protest at Mr Salter’s execrable writing had spilled over on to the street.
‘Oh, he’ll be here all right,’ said Mr Sheridan, looking out into the bleak January evening. ‘He has no choice but be here. Go get yourself a drink, Caleb. I’ll watch the door for a few minutes.’ There was a chink as he dropped some coins into the doorkeeper’s gnarled palm.
‘Thank ’ee very much, sir,’ wheezed Caleb. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’ He shuffled off in the direction of Bow Street in search of a warming mug of porter.
As soon as the old man had limped out of sight, there was a cough in the darkness beyond the doors. Mr Sheridan took a step outside.
‘Marchmont, is that you?’ he called.
Something scuffled over to our right behind a stack of barrels but it was too black to see anything. A rat?
‘Anyone there?’ challenged Mr Sheridan, moving towards the sound.
A gentleman stepped out of the night behind his back. He was much taller and slighter than the stocky Mr Sheridan, swathed in a black cloak and had a three-cornered hat pulled low on his brow, giving him a most villainous appearance. I shrank behind the door curtain, keeping out of sight but within call in case Mr Sheridan should need help.
‘Sherry, my old friend, of course it’s me. Why, were you expecting someone else?’ the man replied. His thin, high-pitched voice would have sent a shiver down my spine if I hadn’t already been trembling in the bitter wind blowing through the open door. I hid further in the folds of the door curtain, trying not to sneeze as my nose rubbed against the musty material.
Mr Sheridan ignored his question. He shifted uneasily, looking about him into the shadows.
‘Do you have the diamond?’ he asked, speaking so low I could barely hear him.
I swallowed my expression of surprise. No wonder he had sent Caleb away! He did not want anyone to hear this. This was evidently a conversation on which I should not be eavesdropping . . . that of course made it all the more tempting to listen.
Marchmont must have also noticed Mr Sheridan’s agitation for he laughed in a shrill neigh. ‘Don’t be so worried, old friend. The riot has distracted everyone, as you predicted. The diamond will be with you later tonight. We can slip our jewel across town without anyone noticing.’
So Mr Sheridan had not been as deficient in taste as I thought: the choice of play was deliberate, I noted.
‘Good, good,’ said Mr Sheridan, relaxing a little. ‘Would you like to come in for something to take off the chill? I have a few bottles stashed away in my room.’
‘Of course you do,’ Marchmont said with a knowing leer at one of England’s most celebrated drinkers. ‘I dare say I could force down a drop of something. The river was damned cold tonight.’