Pious Fraudsters

IV.

Oh, did we eat our words!

Patrick arrived that night, after I’d gone off and was strumming my mandolin on another street corner and getting splashed by the puddles that carriages rattled through.

I didn’t recognise him at all when I saw him – he tipped a hat to me, but I ignored him – he dropped a sovereign in my upturned hat, and I looked up to see him at last.

“What the –”

“Devon, get up off the floor,” he said, “and walk with me.”

I did that, pocketing the sovereign before he asked for it back.

“I’m making you an offer,” he said, “to come and live with me.”

“Where?” I asked.

“The West End,” he replied.

I dropped my mandolin. “What?”

“Didn’t you trust me?” he asked. “Didn’t you believe I could succeed in convincing them I was Banksbridge’s poor bereaved brother?”

“Well, no, to be honest,” I said, picking my mandolin up, “and I’ll only go if Behan’s going too.”

Patrick looked a little reluctant. “Come on,” I said, “don’t you want to see his face when he hears the news?”

We went back, and I told Behan, who was waiting by the wagon, to pack everything we had, for Paddy had a surprise for him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“If I tell you it won’t be a surprise, will it?” I told him. “Get the things, and we’ll go!”

Patrick took the things most dear to him, and then we all left to get a carriage to the West End. I could barely sit still. I looked out of the tiny window to the street, where the roads turned from pot-holed and lumpy to wide and flat and cobbled, where mansions reared up from the ground, and the rich perambulated about the glorious streets.

The carriage stopped, Patrick got out, Behan followed him, and then offered me a hand. We stood in front of a large door, which opened onto a big hall, with wide stairs and massive rooms.

“Who are we sharing with?” I asked uncertainly.

“Nobody, silly,” Patrick said, “it’s all for us.”

“What prank is this?” Behan thundered. “What horrible trick have you played on me? Speak, devil! What is the meaning of this show?”

“Has Devon not told you?” Patrick asked him.

“No! Devon, what were you supposed to tell me?” he cried, turning his blazing grey eyes on me.

“I succeeded in my heist,” Patrick answered him, quietly.

Behan stood there, his mouth open, his eyes bulging with complete surprise. Patrick walked over to him, and shut his mouth with a finger.

“Behan, that isn’t polite. There is a bath upstairs – perhaps you would like to wash.”

“Me first!” I cried. “I’ve never washed in a bath before.”

“I’ll ask a servant to run one for you,” Patrick replied.

“Servants as well!” Behan blurted out. “I mean – this Banksbridge was rich, eh?”

I ran upstairs for the bath, and cleaned myself. Oils and soaps were laid out in a small cupboard by it, as well as a shaving-bowl and mirror, but I didn’t touch any of these, I only rinsed myself off and wet my hair and patted myself down with a towel. But oh! the experience! If only Patrick had come by it all honestly, and it would all have been perfect.

Behan washed after me, and we both went downstairs to the dining-room to eat. Patrick sat there and a large lady servant was putting the last of the food out for us. And what good food! Soft meats and ripe vegetables, not the slurry we had to eat before.

Behan ran forwards, seized the fork and the knife, and would have tucked in there, but for Patrick, who stopped him with a finger.

“Thank you, Becky,” he said to the servant, “that will do.” She left the room, and shut the door – we were alone.

“Before you eat, sit down,” he said to us. “and don’t eat it with your fingers. You eat them with a knife,” he held up a knife, “and a fork,” he held up the fork. “You’re playing a part, so do it properly.”

I clutched both instruments in my hands. I stabbed a sprout with a knife, and tried to eat it off there. “With the fork, Devon.”

“Oh, does it matter?” I cried.

“Yes,” Patrick rejoined, “it does.”

I tried my best from then onwards. “Now,” he said to us, “I’ve got something very important to tell you both.”

“Fire away,” Behan replied, his mouth full of food.

“First of all,” he said, “My name is not Patrick O’Dair any more. It is Patrick Banksbridge.”

“Is the brother called Patrick Banksbridge as well?” I asked.

“No idea,” he replied, “but it doesn’t matter, as you shall soon see. You two are my servants that I have brought with me. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” we said.

“There is no argument. You do as the other servants do, and that is whatever I say. I will make you head of the servants of the house,” he said to me, and to Behan, “You are my personal manservant. There is to be no argument with my orders, because that’s how servants have to behave. If you want to take me up on something, you do it privately.”

We understood that our position was unthinkably vulnerable. Patrick continued: “Thirdly, the plan is this: I’ll get as much as we can, and then we’ll get out of here.”

“Not back to poverty, I hope?” I pleaded.

“Oh, God, no, Devon. No, we shall just move away, the three of us, with a lot of money, where we’ll invest it in something and get even richer. We’ll never go back to the slums again, unless we’re discovered.”

“Worse, I’d say,” Behan replied, “we’ll get hanged, or –”

“Hush, my boy,” Patrick replied, “Don’t lend time to bad thoughts.”

“How long shall we stay here, then?” I asked him.

“As long as it takes,” he replied.

I shoved away my plate once I’d done with it, and stretched a little. The silk shirt was soft against my skin. I’d gone from rags to riches in an hour and forty-five minutes, and I was elated and exhausted. Behan yawned and looked at Patrick, and said, “What do we do now?”

“How about a trip to the theatre?” Patrick replied.