Theophilus Grey and the Demon Thief

  I must find out if Beans is living with Hellcat Nan, thought Philo.

  ‘They took my burgundy coat with the silver buttons,’ Mr Storer groaned, as he was carried through his own front door. ‘And my black silk waistcoat, and my gold signet ring . . .’

  ‘Hush. You mustn’t talk.’ Mrs Storer, who was holding her husband’s feet, suddenly rounded on Philo. ‘Fetch a doctor!’ she exclaimed. ‘Hurry!’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Philo hesitated on the threshold. He had a duty to his client, who was trying to wrestle Mr Storer up a flight of stairs. ‘Mr Rowe, sir—’

  ‘Aye, go! Go! I’ll be here a few minutes yet.’

  So Philo took off for Parker’s Lane, having decided to fetch Mr Paxton. There was a physician who lived slightly closer, but a physician would cost more – and besides, Mr Storer needed his wound stitched. Who better to do that than a naval surgeon? To Philo, Mr Paxton seemed the obvious choice.

  It was pure coincidence that they ran into each other on Drury Lane, just a few seconds later.

  ‘Mr Paxton?’ said Philo, pausing to squint up the street. He had spotted a small man with a doctor’s bag passing under an oil-lamp. Though the man’s head was bowed, something about his gait was familiar. ‘Is that you, sir?’

  Mr Paxton looked up. He wore kid gloves and sturdy jackboots, as well as a worsted muffler that was wrapped around his neck right up to his chin.

  ‘Theophilus!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well met!’

  ‘Your honour—’

  ‘I was just this moment thinking, If only Master Grey were lighting me home – and now here you are! You must have the gift of fore-speaking.’

  ‘Sir, you’re wanted in New Broad Court,’ said Philo. ‘A man was robbed—’

  ‘Injured?’

  ‘Mr Storer, sir. The actor. He was hit on the head.’

  Mr Paxton heaved a sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Lead on.’ As Philo started retracing his steps, the surgeon added, ‘What a dangerous place this city has become. I just left a lying-in at the hospital, and the midwife who attended me said she had been robbed on her way there. A midwife! It beggars belief.’

  ‘What was taken?’ asked Philo, who knew that Garnet would want a list.

  ‘Naught but a knife. A consecrated knife.’ Mr Paxton made a scornful noise, halfway between a snort and a snicker. ‘She was loath to cut the babe’s cord without her consecrated knife. ’Tis a common fault among midwives.’

  Philo grunted. ‘Did she see the thief?’

  ‘She said he was as dark as a gypsy.’ Struck by a sudden thought, Mr Paxton peered at Philo. ‘Have you any notion of who he might have been, Master Grey?’

  ‘Nay, sir.’ There were any number of swarthy men in London; Philo needed more than that to identify him. ‘But I may know who nailed the actor. Did you visit Mr Bambridge today?’

  ‘I did,’ said Mr Paxton, his voice emerging in great gusts of white steam. ‘He’s not long for this world, I fear. Still as limp as a wet rag.’ Before Philo could inquire further, the surgeon continued, ‘I also spent many hours leafing through books, trying to identify any poisons that might induce such symptoms, but to no avail. There remains only my friend Winthrop, who has a particular interest in exotic poisons. I shall consult him tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you be visiting Mr Bambridge tomorrow, as well?’ Philo cut in. They were about to turn into New Broad Court, but suddenly the surgeon halted.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Mr Paxton studied Philo with narrowed eyes. ‘What is your interest?’

  Philo hesitated. He was about to do something that Garnet wouldn’t like; he was about to give away information. But he could see no other way of getting what he wanted. ‘I’m thinking that one o’ the men who nailed Mr Storer might be lodging with Mr Bambridge,’ he said at last.

  ‘And why would you think that?’

  ‘Because his mort is living there, your honour. Nan Dooley. You saw her last night.’ When Mr Paxton nodded, Philo was encouraged to add, ‘This cull is a footpad, sir – one of the Hellfire Gang. Lean and long-shanked, with an earring in his left ear. And I was a-wondering if . . . ah . . .’

  ‘If I would watch for him when I return to Mr Bambridge’s lodgings?’

  ‘Aye, your honour.’

  ‘Well . . . I am expected there tomorrow at noon. So if I happen to spy this rogue – what’s his name?’

  ‘O’Neill, sir. Beans O’Neill.’

  ‘If I happen to spy him, I shall report back to you.’ By this time the surgeon was stamping his feet to warm them. Yet still he lingered. ‘Is there aught else I should be looking for, in that house?’

  ‘A burgundy coat with silver buttons, a black silk waistcoat and a gold signet ring,’ Philo answered promptly – before it occurred to him that, with such information, Mr Paxton could easily apply for any reward that might be posted. Dismayed, he began to stammer, ‘If you – uh – c-could you . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Struck dumb, Philo cursed himself. How could he have been such a fool? Intelligence was valuable. How had Mr Paxton tickled it out of him?

  ‘If I see any of those articles, I’ll tell you,’ Mr Paxton remarked, watching Philo very closely. ‘And you may claim any reward on offer.’

  Philo caught his breath. It was as if the surgeon was reading his mind.

  ‘I shouldn’t like it known that I was informing on my patients,’ Mr Paxton continued. ‘And I should be loath to deprive you of your living, Master Grey. For that is how you earn a good shot of your daily bread, is it not? By collecting reward money?’

  Philo coloured. He stared at the surgeon, feeling like a grouse that had been flushed from a thicket. This was what came of being careless. This was what happened when he didn’t guard his tongue every moment of every day.

  Though he didn’t collect reward money directly, Garnet was paid a cut by the thief-taker who did collect it. And this wasn’t something any of them wanted generally known.

  ‘Not that your daily bread can be too generous a portion, by the look of you.’ Mr Paxton shook his head as his gaze raked Philo from head to foot. ‘You must live on nutshells and bacon rinds.’

  Philo wanted to defend Garnet, who always made sure his crew ate a dinner of some sort, even when their takings didn’t quite cover his rent and his medicines. But Mr Paxton had already moved away.

  ‘Come,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll freeze if we stand here.’ He turned into New Broad Court just ahead of Philo – who caught up seconds later. Nothing else was said until they arrived at the Storers’ lodgings; then, as he was knocking on the door, Mr Paxton glanced down at Philo and asked, ‘Will you wait for me, Master Grey? Or have you other business to attend to?’

  ‘Mr Rowe’s still here, sir,’ Philo mumbled. ‘I promised to light him home.’

  The words had barely been uttered when Mr Rowe himself yanked open the door. He looked flushed and sweaty, as if he’d just come from an overheated room.

  ‘Hollo!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you the doctor?’

  ‘Surgeon-apothecary. Nathaniel Paxton.’

  The two men bowed, but Mr Paxton had to catch Mr Rowe, who nearly toppled onto his face.

  ‘By damn!’ Mr Rowe spluttered, righting himself at the very last moment. ‘’Tis a heavy sea!’

  ‘A little fresh air will work wonders,’ said Mr Paxton. Then he turned to Philo and lowered his voice. ‘Is this Mr Rowe?’

  ‘Aye, your honour.’

  ‘Go, then. Come back if you can. Otherwise I shall see you tomorrow night, at the workhouse.’ The surgeon spoke more loudly to Mr Rowe. ‘Pri’thee, sir, where is the patient?’

  ‘Up there,’ Mr Rowe replied, flapping his hand at the staircase. Then he stumbled past Philo, into the night.

  Philo was about to follow him when the surgeon said, ‘Wait!’ and began to unwind his grey wool muffler. ‘Here. Take this.’

  Philo blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘I know you have no waistcoat, Theophilus. No neckcloth. No greatcoat. You’
ll perish.’ Mr Paxton offered him the muffler. ‘Take it. Please.’

  ‘Nay.’ Philo retreated a step. ‘The link keeps me warm.’

  ‘You’ll ease my conscience.’

  ‘I’m no beggar, sir,’ Philo said stiffly. ‘I’d not take the clothes from your back.’

  Then he hurried off to intercept Mr Rowe – who had already become entangled with a horse-trough.

  CHAPTER 14

  OF AN UNEXPECTED

  AND HIGHLY UNWELCOME VISITOR

  Philo never did get back to Mr Paxton that night. After leaving Mr Rowe at his lodgings, he was hailed by a printer called Fry, who wanted an escort home to Covent Garden. Then a drunk gentleman at the Rose tavern paid Philo a penny to fetch his friend from Tom’s Coffee House. On delivering this friend, Philo was immediately hired by two plasterers, heading for the Crown and Sceptre on Drury Lane. And from there he accompanied a staymaker to the watch house, where she went to report the theft of three linen sheets by a fellow lodger.

  Business finally dropped off as the temperature plunged. But it was too late, by then; Mr Paxton would already have returned to Parker’s Lane. Philo didn’t know whether to be sorry or relieved. On the one hand, he couldn’t help liking the surgeon, who was clever, amiable, and always pleased to see him. But Mr Paxton’s bizarre acts of generosity unsettled Philo. To offer up his muffler in a snowstorm – to pay a shilling a week for a guide he could have got for threepence – why? What were his motives?

  When Philo arrived home, just before dawn, he didn’t thaw himself by Garnet’s stove. Instead he went straight to bed, where he lay pretending to sleep as his friends made their way in, one by one. It took him a long time to drop off. Hours after the other boys were unconscious, Philo’s mind was still buzzing; he kept thinking about Susannah, and Beans O’Neill, and Gugg Worris, and the lamplighters. He fretted about St John’s wort and witch-bottles. He wondered if he might have offended Mr Paxton, then decided it was probably a good thing if he had. Conversations with Mr Paxton always seemed to end with Philo spilling valuable intelligence. Perhaps it was better that they didn’t talk from now on.

  If Garnet ever heard about Philo’s last slip of the tongue, there would be hell to pay.

  At last Philo fell into a restless sleep, which was filled with dreams of pursuit. He woke with a start, much earlier than usual. Fleabite’s feet were digging into his side. Dandy was snoring in his ear. Glancing at the window, Philo judged from the angle of the light that it was between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning.

  He quietly used the chamber-pot, then combed his unruly hair and wrangled as much as he could of it into a ponytail, tied with a frayed ribbon. Getting dressed was just a matter of pulling on his coat and shoes. There was nothing in the water jug and nothing to eat in anyone’s pockets, so Philo headed downstairs, in search of tea and toast, or perhaps a hard-boiled egg.

  He wasn’t expecting to see Josiah Billings at Garnet’s door.

  For an instant Philo thought that he must be dreaming. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There stood the lamplighter, with his stork’s neck and his cleft chin and his greasy auburn hair hanging loose. His teeth looked like a sparse collection of dirty tombstones, leaning this way and that. He was unshaven, and beneath the stubble his face was the colour of raw tripe.

  Josiah’s jaw dropped when he spotted Philo.

  ‘Wait!’ he barked, raising a hand.

  But it was too late. Philo had already hurled the water jug at him. As Josiah ducked, fending it off with his forearm, Philo launched himself downstairs, determined to protect all his sleeping friends on the top floor. His plan was to drive his head into the lamplighter’s belly.

  Instead he collided with the small of Josiah’s retreating back.

  ‘Oof!’ The lamplighter fell like a stone, landing with Philo’s weight across his legs. This impact knocked the air out of both of them. But as Josiah struggled to rise, Philo reared up again, casting around for a weapon.

  Then someone seized Philo’s collar.

  ‘Stop! Theophilus!’

  It wasn’t Garnet who’d grabbed him. Garnet was leaning against the nearest doorjamb, wrapped in a dressing-gown and screeching like a rooster. Philo suddenly realised that Fettler Ben was the one almost choking him to death.

  ‘This is Josiah Billings!’ Philo squawked. ‘He’s a lamplighter!’

  ‘He is consulting me, you fool!’ Garnet snarled. ‘Now leave him alone!’

  Dazed, Philo staggered to his feet. Josiah, meanwhile, was croaking out an appeal, supporting himself on one arm while he shielded his face with the other.

  ‘Truce!’ he pleaded. ‘Truce, for pity’s sake! I didn’t come here for you! I didn’t know you was here! I was told about the cunning man in this house – no one said a word about glim-jacks!’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Billings,’ said Garnet. ‘Benjamin, help him up.’

  ‘I don’t want to cause trouble!’ Josiah moaned. ‘I’ve trouble enough! I came about the spriggan! The spriggan is all I’m fretting on!’

  ‘The spriggan?’ Philo was confused. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘’Tis our common peril.’ By this time the lamplighter was upright again, surrounded by shards of the shattered water jug. He looked sweaty and shaken. ‘We must settle our differences, for we cannot fight on two fronts.’

  Philo glanced inquiringly at Garnet, who sighed and said in a low voice, ‘Mr Billings has been threatened with a spriggan—’

  ‘By a spriggan,’ Josiah interrupted.

  Garnet shook his head. ‘Hardly that. You’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Aye, but Scamper has! I told you!’

  ‘Scamper Knaggs?’ Philo broke in. He glared at the lamplighter. ‘You’ve been running with that crew?’

  ‘Never before!’ Josiah insisted, twitching with suppressed nerves. ‘Scamper came to me. He’s caught fast. The spriggan has dropped Jemmy Jukes, and will kill us all if we don’t serve it.’

  ‘But what is a spriggan?’ Kit demanded, from high above them. Looking up, Philo saw him at the top of the stairs, barefoot and rumpled. Clearly the noise of smashing crockery had roused him from his bed.

  ‘A spriggan is a deadly Cornish creature, much given to thievery and mischief,’ Garnet replied smoothly. ‘Or so my texts would have us believe. A very troublesome sprite.’

  ‘’Tis a soldier of the Unseelie Court,’ the lamplighter added in a trembling voice. ‘It steals children and spreads disease. It guards the faery hoard. That is why it wants more treasure.’

  ‘More treasure?’ Philo was confused. He looked to Garnet for guidance, but Garnet’s face was an unreadable mask.

  ‘Treasure for the faery hoard!’ cried Josiah. ‘Why do you think I came? I’ve no kin in the countryside! I cannot flee like Bob Crow! I must defend myself!’ Seeing Philo’s blank expression, he exclaimed, ‘You should guard your own backs, or you’ll be thieving for that devil soon enough!’

  Philo was stung. ‘I’m no prig,’ he snapped.

  ‘You think I am?’ Josiah scowled at him. ‘All I ever did was drink with Gugg Worris, and buy a few knick-knacks from his friends. Now they’ve threatened me with a faery stroke if I don’t give ’em ladders! They’ll not stop till they strip the whole city.’ His gaze shifted to the higher landing, where Kit had been joined by Lippy, Fleabite and Val. ‘You wait,’ he warned them. ‘They’ll have you guiding fuddled gentry straight into their open arms, if you don’t find ways o’ fighting that spriggan.’

  ‘Seawater,’ Garnet interposed. ‘As I told you before, Mr Billings, the old lore recommends seawater. And turning your clothes inside out. Both methods have proven effective against spriggans in the past.’

  The lamplighter frowned. ‘I thought you said cold iron was the cure?’

  ‘Cold iron is regarded as poisonous to inhabitants of the spirit realm,’ Garnet agreed. ‘But I’ve found no reference to its effect on spriggans.’ Watching the lamplighter descend towards the street, he called after
him, ‘If you find iron efficacious, would you apprise me of the fact, sir? You’ll save lives if you do.’

  ‘I’ll assay it . . . don’t hold me to the pledge, though . . . belike it won’t fadge . . .’ Muttering excuses, Josiah disappeared through the front door – leaving a strained atmosphere behind him. Philo was in shock. Garnet was breathing heavily. Even Fleabite was silent, having sensed the tension in the air.

  Then Garnet began to issue a series of orders.

  ‘Benjamin – clean up that mess. Christopher – I want everyone dressed and reporting to me betimes. Theophilus . . .’ He pointed into his room. ‘A word.’

  Philo obeyed the gesture with a heavy heart. He knew that he was about to endure the full force of Garnet’s disapproval. Sure enough, Garnet slammed the door behind them both. Then he stared at Philo with eyes as dark and threatening as the hole in the muzzle of a gun.

  ‘This is the second time you’ve attacked one of my customers,’ he said, each word bitten off sharply like a piece of thread. ‘I’ll not have it happen again. Is that clear?’

  Philo desperately tried to defend himself. ‘Sir, ’twas a lamplighter – and I’d just risen—’

  ‘And left your brain abed? Is that what you’re telling me?’ Garnet paused, continuing only when Philo didn’t respond. ‘What ails you, Theophilus? ’Tis naught but humours and vapours with you, of late.’

  This question galled Philo, who was goaded to rejoin, ‘Did you hear what Joe Billings just told us?’

  ‘I never allow the ravings of a bottle-headed clunch to trouble me,’ Garnet replied. ‘I would recommend that you follow my example – in this as in all else.’

  ‘But there is a devil!’

  ‘A spriggan.’

  Philo blinked. ‘You believe it, then?’

  ‘I believe that Mr Billings believes it.’

  ‘And he is not alone!’

  ‘Of course not. There are too many fools in this world.’ Garnet pronounced the word fools with disdain, skewering Philo with his gimlet eye. ‘Fools convince other fools. Clever men depend on it.’