Rose Campion and the Curse of the Doomstone Read online

  For Ellie, Ruari, Hector and Sid.

  May you have many brilliant

  adventures together.

  1

  Rose Campion sighed with pleasure and leaned back in her seat as the crimson stage curtains swept closed with a satisfying swish. The house lights came up, making her blink. Then the chandeliers high above the auditorium sprang back into life, shivering and sparkling like great upside-down wedding cakes, winking with crystals and brightly coloured glass. The audience began to clap, the noise and lights propelling Rose back into the real world, so that the play suddenly seemed like a fading dream slipping beyond her grasp.

  “They liked it,” exclaimed Aurora, turning excitedly to Effie and Rose.

  “Wrong,” said Rose. “They loved it – just look at them.”

  Rose was right. Every single plush red velvet seat in the Pall Mall Theatre had been sold, and every seat was now empty – the glittering first-night crowd had risen to their feet to acknowledge Edward’s performance as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Even the most refined society ladies, their swan-like necks encircled by pearls and emeralds, were standing to applaud. Rose looked around the audience, all rich, modish and lustrous, as if somebody had given them all an extra polish before they came out for the evening, and thought how removed the Pall Mall was from her beloved Campion’s Palace of Varieties and Wonders. It was a different world. The audience at Campion’s music hall, on the wrong side of the river in Southwark, was frequently ragged and rowdy, but they always responded straight from the heart. The poised and self-conscious Pall Mall crowd seemed to be performing a role, taking their cues from each other and glancing around anxiously to check that they were doing the right thing. A first night at the Pall Mall was clearly not just about seeing a play – it was about being seen.

  “He really was good, wasn’t he?” said Aurora, a touch of anxiety creeping into her voice as her father took yet another solo bow. “They’re not just clapping because Edward’s got a title and his rags-to-riches story is so romantic?”

  Rose squeezed Aurora’s hand. “Of course not,” she said. “They’re clapping because he’s a great actor.”

  Which he was, thought Rose – but the fact that Edward Frederick Dorset Easingford was also the new Lord Easingford was certainly not going to be a hindrance at the box office. The production had been the talk of London society as soon as it was announced. The theatre was stuffed with dukes and duchesses – most of them, Rose suspected, entirely indifferent to Shakespeare. She wished that Thomas, owner of Campion’s music hall, and the man who had found her and Aurora abandoned together on his doorstep when they were just babies, was here tonight. Thomas adored Shakespeare. She also knew that the pretensions of the first-night Pall Mall crowd would have made him laugh. But although he’d had a ticket to join them, he was needed at Campion’s, where the Illustrious Gandini, the stage magician known as the Great Wizard of the North, was performing later that evening and would be drawing big crowds. You didn’t turn down the Great Wizard of the North when he said he wanted to perform at your music hall, even if it was with just a few days’ notice.

  Since he had appeared like a rabbit out of a hat just three months earlier, way down the bill at a modest music hall in the suburbs, Gandini had swiftly acquired a reputation for eccentricity. He was in huge demand in halls all across London – a demand that was fuelled by the fact that Gandini turned most offers down. Some said that he came from Italy, where he was known for the infamous bullet-catch trick in which he caught a bullet fired from a gun between his teeth. Others swore that they had seen him in Paris, where he had successfully performed the Indian rope trick. Still more said that he had been spotted in San Francisco. The approach from Gandini, asking to play Campion’s tonight, had only been made five days ago, and announced the day after that. There had been hints that if Thomas was accommodating, the Illustrious Gandini might consider a longer run at Campion’s. It would be a real coup – if a small hall like Campion’s could attract such top-of-the-bill acts, when there was such stiff competition from the bigger, more glamorous West End halls, its future would be secure.

  “Oh, Rory,” sighed Effie. “Yer dad was perfect. I’ve never seen anyone die so beautifully.”

  Except for Thomas, who she held in awe, Effie shortened almost everyone’s name. Rory had stuck. It suited Aurora, particularly since she had been dressing as a boy to perform the bicycle act she did with Rose. But her pleasure in the nickname ran deeper: Aurora had grown up friendless and unloved, and was delighted to have friends close enough to affectionately shorten her name.

  “Yer dad was like a real prince. And it were just like his story, weren’t it? That Claudius gaffer was a real smug piece of work. He was like Ed’s wicked uncle, who tried to diddle ’im out of the title and them big houses. I wanted to rush up on to the stage and give ’im a right good talking to.”

  Rose suppressed a smile. She wondered how the Pall Mall audience would have responded if little Effie, with her sweet, heart-shaped face, untidy ditchwater-blonde hair and eyes that gleamed like moonstones, had dared to do such a thing. She loved the way Effie always said what she thought, and her enduring cheerfulness in the face of adversity: Effie’s mum, Iris, was still lingering in Holloway Prison, where she was sick with consumption. Thomas and his lawyer, Mr Cherryble, had been trying to get Effie a visit to see her mother. Edward and his lawyers had been helping too, but so far in vain.

  “Come on,” said Aurora. “Let’s go backstage to see Edward. He’ll be expecting us.” The girls pushed their way through the crowd, who blithely blocked exits as they stood chatting, swooping down on each other like shimmering birds and crying out in delight.

  “Lady Fitzcillian! Georgiana! What a delight to see you here. How exquisite you look tonight,” said a man in a voice that boomed louder than Big Ben. “Her Ladyship and I have booked a private room at the Ritz for a party to partake of a little champagne supper. Will you join us?”

  “I would love to have joined you, dear Lord Cox, but I’m invited to the Café Royal with His Grace and his party.”

  There were more greetings going on around them so for a moment their way was blocked again.

  Rose grinned wickedly. She tossed her unruly conker-coloured curls and grabbed Aurora’s hand, bowed low, kissed it and declared in her best Southwark drawl, “My dear Lady Easingford! You look so delicious in that blue crêpe de Chine I could gobble you up. Would you join us for pie and mash and a cuppa?”

  Effie squawked with laughter so loudly that people turned and tutted, but although Aurora grinned, Rose could see the flush rising on her friend’s creamy skin, and she wished she hadn’t played the fool in public. She knew that Aurora was sensitive to her still new, and unexpected, status as the lost daughter of a lord, caught in the nether land between the world of Campion’s and polite society, and feeling as if she no longer quite belonged in either.

  Rory’s face blushed pinker still as somebody whispered loudly, “Isn’t that the Easingford girl? Aurora? Such behaviour!” Another woman, with a mouth puckered as if she had just drunk a quart of vinegar, raised her lorgnette to peer at Aurora more closely. The murmured words “dresses as a boy in a music hall act” rose like vicious little balloons from the tight gaggle of women, and there were some shocked gasps of delighted outrage. Then another whispered loudly, “They say Edward Easingford has been seen losing badly at the card tables. Maybe his daughter could support him doing her music hall turn if he runs through the Easingford fortune?”

  There was malicious laughter. The women made Rose think of the geese she had spotted on the muddy banks of the Thames down by London Bridge, pecking at ea
ch other viciously if any weakness was spotted. Seeing Aurora’s face, so undefended and full of hurt, Rose reached for her friend’s gloved hand, squeezed it hard and pulled her through the throng with Effie following.

  They reached the top of the stairs. A tall man sporting an elaborate waxed handlebar moustache and a jolly peacock-blue waistcoat, and holding a glass of brandy in his hand, was standing amid a small group of men. He was talking a little too animatedly as if trying to keep their interest. It was obvious that he was boring his companions, who one by one were slipping away. Rose felt sorry for him. She liked his bright peacock waistcoat, which looked like a gaudy costume that might be worn by an actor upon the Campion’s stage, and didn’t think that anyone who wore such evening clothes could possibly be dull. The waistcoat marked him out as different, and as two of the group passed, Rose heard one murmur to the other, “Interesting chap and filthy rich, of course, but in trade, and it shows. Did you see that waistcoat! Not the thing at all.” She glanced back and caught the eye of the owner of the waistcoat, and his rueful smile suggested that he too had heard what had been said about him. He winked at Rose and then turned to the bar to get himself another drink.

  Rose and the others leaned against the balcony and looked down past one of five chandeliers, hanging within touching distance and shimmering so brightly with coloured crystals that it made Rose think of Aladdin’s treasure cave in the Campion’s pantomime. The crowd below glittered too. It suddenly parted for Stratford-Mark, the portly actor-manager who owned and ran the Pall Mall, and who Rose thought resembled a mournful walrus. He acknowledged the crowd like a king. On his arm was an exquisite woman whose skin was so luminous it was as if somebody had sprinkled sugar crystals all over it, for the way it gleamed in the light. But glistening even more radiantly was the single, huge blue stone that hung around her neck on a slender gold chain. It was the colour of a dazzling sea on a summer’s day. Everyone turned to look at her and the stone, and there were cries of admiration and loud whispers. Two men, looking awkward in ill-fitting evening dress, hovered nearby, looking ready to tackle anyone who came too close.

  “Who is she?” breathed Rory.

  “Let me enlighten you.” It was the stranger in the peacock-blue waistcoat. He gave the three girls a little bow. “That is Lydia Duchamps – at least, that’s what she calls herself. She arrived here in London recently, from America. Everyone says she will be a huge star. Well, Stratford-Mark does, and if he says so it must be true. He’s taken a real interest in her. Nobody knows where she’s come from, and the more unkind whisper that it must have been the gutter. But as Stratford-Mark has already introduced her to everyone who is anyone, the only way is up. Possibly to the very top of society. She is a shooting star, our little Miss Duchamps.” The man was clearly delighted to have found a new and far more receptive audience.

  “So she’s an actress?” asked Rose. “Is she any good?”

  “Nobody has seen her act yet. She is to make her debut as Lady Macbeth opposite Stratford-Mark himself – an unlikely coupling, I know, but they say that Stratford-Mark eventually wants to have her play opposite Edward Easingford in the great classics. Thinks they will make a pretty pair and be a huge draw together. He’s got one box-office hit with Hamlet but he badly needs more. There are rumours that this theatre is mortgaged to the hilt, and Stratford-Mark will do anything to save it. Edward Easingford is a great actor, so does it really matter if Lydia Duchamps is not a great actress? She’s certainly a great beauty, and she’s got a good eye for publicity, and that’s important these days.”

  “That gem’s a real whopper,” said Effie, starring at the jewel around Lydia Duchamps’s neck.

  “That’s the famous Star of the Sea,” said the man. “Those two men clinging to her like shadows are there to ensure it’s not stolen.” The man grinned, but without malice. “Judging by the number of swells here with secret gambling debts from too many late nights at the baccarat table, it’s probably a wise precaution. Stratford-Mark isn’t the only one suffering financial embarrassment. The Star is being auctioned next week – what better way to generate interest in both Lydia Duchamps and the diamond than by putting the two of them together at the most glittering first night of the season? It was a stroke of genius of Stratford-Mark to suggest it.”

  “A diamond?” asked Aurora. “But it’s blue. I thought diamonds were white.”

  “Not this one,” said the man. “The fact that it’s blue and so flawless contributes to its value and romance, although of course some may be put off bidding because of its disturbing history.”

  All three girls leaned forward with curiosity. The man was enjoying their attention.

  “What do you mean, disturbing history?” asked Aurora.

  “The Star of the Sea is also known as the Doomstone, because so many who have owned it, or in some instances stolen it, have died in mysterious circumstances.”

  Effie gasped, her eyes wide.

  “I think I’ve heard of the Doomstone,” said Aurora with a frown.

  “I know I have,” said Rose, her eyes alight with interest. “I remember now. I read about it. They say it’s cursed.”

  2

  There were a large number of people swirling around outside the stage door hoping to catch a glimpse of the actors. Rose and the others managed to push their way through, and were let into the theatre by Grumbles, the ginger-whiskered stage-doorkeeper, who smelled of mothballs and had acquired his nickname because he complained unceasingly. He ushered them through, moaning about the racket outside his stage door and Stratford-Mark’s parsimony, and the girls climbed the stairs. They walked along a dingy corridor, where the paint peeled from the walls – a stark contrast to front of house, all red velvet, gilt and crystal. The Pall Mall, thought Rose, was like a dowager duchess who went out dripping diamonds but underneath wore dirty petticoats. One of the dressing-room doors opened slightly and a wan girl about their own age with reddish-gold hair peered out at them. Her gooseberry-green eyes were wary, and when the ever-friendly Rose beamed at her she looked flustered and slammed the door shut again, as if Rose’s smile was a threat.

  Edward’s dressing room was far more cheerful: full of gilt mirrors, flowers and well-dressed chattering people. Rose noticed that Edward looked simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated, and she envied him for having just come off stage having performed in one of the greatest plays ever written. She vowed to herself that one day she too would act on this stage playing the great Shakespearian heroines, Rosalind, Juliet and Viola.

  Aurora had to fight her way over to her father. As soon as he saw her he grinned delightedly and hugged her hard, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. For a moment Rose felt a pang watching father and daughter together. She knew that Thomas loved her like a father, but Thomas was never demonstrative like Edward was with Rory. It was, thought Rose, as if Thomas was always conscious that he wasn’t her real father, and didn’t want to burden her by laying too great a claim to her. Or maybe he was protecting himself from the day that might come when someone laid claim to her, as Edward had done with Aurora just a few months ago. But Rose knew that lightning was unlikely to strike twice, even though Thomas had been doggedly pursuing the only information they had to go on about Rose’s origins. All they knew was that she had been stolen as a newborn out of a pram from somewhere in the West End by the unscrupulous Lizzie Gawkin, who had dumped her like an unwanted parcel on the steps of Campion’s a few days later. It was very little to go on – too little, said the police, who had been extremely unhelpful, and Rose was level-headed enough to realise that it was unlikely she would ever find her real father. Or the mother whose lack she sometimes felt so sorely. Real life wasn’t like a play.

  She realised that she had been lost in thought and hadn’t heard what Edward was asking her.

  “Rosie,” said Effie, nudging her. “Ed’s askin’ what yer think of his performance and the production.”

  “You’re the only person, Rose, I can really trus
t to tell me the truth,” said Edward, and he said it so sincerely that Rose knew that he took her opinion seriously, because he knew that acting really mattered to her. She felt a flood of happiness inside: it must mean that Edward, who was a really good actor, thought that she might be a good actor too. She began to talk earnestly to him about the production and the bits that she thought really worked, and why she didn’t think the final sword fight was as successful, and how it could be better if the blocking was done differently.

  Edward was nodding his agreement when the door of the dressing room opened again. Lydia Duchamps stood framed in the doorway as if she was an exquisite real-life painting, the Doomstone winking like a blue, unblinking eye at her beautiful neck. Edward stared at her for a moment as if mesmerised. Stratford-Mark lumbered forward to make the introduction, putting a proprietorial hand on her arm, as if she was a precious jewel he had recently purchased and wanted to keep safe.

  “Edward, my dear boy, this is Miss Lydia—”

  But before he could finish, Lydia had swept across the room to Edward, closely followed by her human shadows, and cried, “Edward, Lord Easingford, you were quite magnificent!” Her voice was low and husky, with just the tiniest trace of an American accent. “You are the talk of the town. I cannot wait to play opposite you. I will be Juliet to your Romeo, Titania to your Oberon. Together we will take London by storm.”

  Rose suppressed a snort of laughter, although she had to admit that being in a room with Lydia was like being in the presence of a small, exquisitely formed hurricane. Rose thought that Lydia was all too obviously putting on an act, but Effie was staring at Lydia longingly, Aurora looked impressed and none of the men and women in the room could drag their eyes away from her, including Edward. Edward bowed low and kissed Lydia’s hand.

  “Miss Duchamps, I am enchanted to meet you.” He raised his gaze to meet hers, and as their eyes locked a tiny frisson of shock and surprise crossed Lydia’s face, as if she had just been hit by a bolt of lightning that had fallen not from the sky but from Edward’s eyes. For a second she swayed, and Rose wondered if she was about to faint.