She was a squab of a woman, short and fat and middle-aged, with apple cheeks and a toothless smile. When Philo spotted her bustling past Mr Paxton, he immediately glanced over his shoulder. And the sight of Derby Sinnock told Philo everything he needed to know.
‘Move,’ he muttered, giving Mr Paxton a prod. As the surgeon stumbled forward, Philo said in a loud voice, ‘Jenny Jones and Derby Sinnock! There’s naught for you in this gentleman’s pockets!’
The names alone were enough. Nothing else was needed to repel two thieves who relied on stealth for their success. Derby Sinnock immediately peeled off, swerving into a nearby court. Jenny Jones lingered just long enough to scowl at Philo. Then she, too, drifted away.
Without breaking his stride, Mr Paxton began to laugh.
‘Ah, Captain . . .’ he spluttered, shaking his head and grinning from ear to ear. Suddenly he slapped Philo on the back, so forcefully that Philo almost lost his balance. ‘What a treasure you are! I owe you a dinner! Come – show me this cookshop, and we’ll exchange our news. Else someone will doubtless steal my bag while I’m eating my beef . . .’
CHAPTER 16
AN INTERVIEW
IN A COOKSHOP, FOLLOWED BY A MEETING ON THE ROAD
Mrs Maine’s cookshop was just around the corner, in a cellar beneath a confectioner’s house. It was dark and overheated, with a low ceiling and a brick floor, and could be reached only by a staircase so steep that it was almost a ladder. Though half the tables were empty, the place still seemed crowded.
The smell of roasting meat made Philo’s stomach growl.
Mr Paxton paid Mrs Maine at the front of the shop, before joining Philo by the spits in the rear. Together they selected their cuts of meat, which were served up by a sweating cook who basted his pork, mutton and beef with an old rag drenched in fat. Then, after each collecting a dab of mustard, a hunk of bread and a handful of fresh marigold leaves, the two of them sat in one of the booths, where a stained cloth covered the table.
By this time Philo was almost faint with hunger; it seemed a long time since the mouthful of bread he’d swallowed for breakfast. He couldn’t concentrate on anything except the food, and was so busy packing it into his mouth that at first he didn’t notice what Mr Paxton was doing. Eventually, however, he looked up to see the surgeon watching him with an expression that was hard to read, but seemed to consist mostly of pity.
Philo flushed. ‘There’s something you should know,’ he said, after swallowing a mouthful of pork.
‘A good many things, I would hazard,’ Mr Paxton replied. ‘Commencing with Jasper LeCourt’s history.’
Philo hesitated. He regarded the surgeon with a measuring look that must have been sharper than he realised, since Mr Paxton raised his eyebrows and said, ‘What’s amiss?’
Philo was on the point of saying that he couldn’t be bought with a pork dinner, but finally decided not to. Mr Paxton didn’t deserve it. He had given Philo an important piece of intelligence at no cost, and if he was hiding something, Philo couldn’t imagine what it might be.
‘Junks LeCourt is an ostler, and stablehands like that know when coaches are hired,’ Philo said at last, in a low voice. ‘They know who’ll be in ’em, and what kind o’ luggage they’ll be carrying. So they’re useful to rank riders.’ Seeing Mr Paxton’s puzzled frown, Philo translated. ‘Knights o’ the road, that is to say.’
‘Highwaymen?’
‘Aye.’
‘Gracious heaven!’
‘Mr Paxton, sir . . .’ Philo took a deep breath, aware that he was about to take a very big step. He glanced around the smoky room, making sure that no one could overhear him, then leaned forward and said softly, ‘That ostler was settled as a warning to a rank rider by the name o’ Civil Joe Constantine. I’m sure of it, same as I’m sure Mr Bambridge was a warning to the footpads who use him as a fence, and Jemmy Jukes was a warning to the other housebreakers in his crew.’ As Mr Paxton’s mouth fell open, Phil hurriedly added, ‘There’s a new arch-rogue in this parish demanding plunder. If he don’t get it, more folk will fall like Junks.’
‘But this is unconscionable!’ the surgeon exclaimed. When Philo scowled, he quickly lowered his voice. ‘Someone must be told. Mr Henry Fielding, at the very least. He is the Bow Street magistrate—’
‘I know that.’
‘Of course. Of course you do.’ Mr Paxton took off his hat and began to run his hands through his dishevelled brown hair. ‘’Tis as we thought, then! A poison of some sort! And applied through the skin, I’m persuaded.’
‘Your honour—’
‘There were several nicks on LeCourt. Winthrop told me so. One of ’em must have been fresh—’
‘Please, sir!’ Philo cut him off by thumping on the table. As the surgeon blinked, Philo continued solemnly, ‘There’s folk who say this is the work o’ something strange, your honour. Something unnatural.’
‘What?’
‘They’re calling it a spriggan, sir.’
‘A what?’
‘Shh!’ Philo motioned for the surgeon to speak more quietly, conscious that the cook was watching them. ‘A spriggan is a Cornish sprite,’ he murmured. ‘They say it wants treasure for the faery hoard, and can drop a man with one touch.’
Mr Paxton rolled his eyes. ‘What a parcel of todge,’ he said.
‘There’s a good number believe it. And one who claims to have seen it too.’
‘Aye – for the sole purpose of spreading fear,’ Mr Paxton retorted. ‘This tale would have been devised by the arch-rogue, surely? To impose his will? A clever notion, by my fig. For who would go to any magistrate with complaints about an imagined creature?’
Philo swallowed. He now realised, beyond all doubt, that Mr Paxton would think him a fool if he did what he’d come here to do. But there was nothing for it; he couldn’t back down. So he took a deep breath and croaked, ‘Sir, what if the arch-rogue is the spriggan?’
Mr Paxton looked at him for a moment, but didn’t speak. The expression on his face was subtle and complex; Philo couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
‘I came to warn you, sir,’ Philo went on doggedly. ‘Belike ’tis the work of a villain, as you say, but if something unholy is roaming the streets, you should take care on your rounds at night.’ Unable to meet the surgeon’s steady gaze any longer, Philo fixed his own attention on the tabletop. ‘I’ve heard St John’s wort is a good defence. And iron forged on a cold anvil. And seawater. And turning your clothes inside out—’
‘Theophilus.’ Mr Paxton’s quiet tone made Philo glance up. ‘You shoulder too much weight, lad. Don’t concern yourself with my wellbeing – I am not a member of your company. I am a grown man, and you are not. It seems to me you are too much imposed upon; do not add me to your dependants.’
Phil didn’t know what to say. So he took his last scrap of bread and mopped up his gravy with it.
‘The question before us is not what we must do to protect ourselves, but what we must do to protect the city,’ Mr Paxton continued. ‘I said before that Mr Fielding should be told . . .’ He paused as Philo shook his head energetically. ‘Why not, pray?’
‘There’s naught to tell him.’ Philo cringed at the thought of what would happen if Mr Paxton went to the Bow Street magistrate. Word would get back to Garnet, no doubt, and there would be hell to pay. ‘You can name no poison, and the folk afflicted won’t talk. Not to a magistrate, for they’re all of ’em rogues. Besides, they’re too scared o’ the spriggan.’
‘And you? What do you fear?’ Sitting back against the hard wooden settle, Mr Paxton pushed away his half-empty plate, his eyes on Philo. ‘Do you fear the man who raised you? Is that why you’re so careful and calculating? Does he beat you, this lawyer’s clerk?’
‘Beat me?’ Philo exclaimed, startled. Then he remembered the bruise on his jaw. ‘Never. He’s never laid a hand on me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Your honour, I told you this in confidence, for your own sak
e – not to spread about the town like a plague. But I swear to you, the proper people will learn of it at the proper time. That will happen.’
‘I see.’
‘Please, sir, don’t pursue this alone. Or you may cause offence among the wrong crew.’ To emphasise his point, Philo cocked a thumb at the door. ‘Like those two in Coal Yard. You didn’t twig, because you didn’t know ’em. They’d have got you into a desperate scrape, if I hadn’t been there to fend ’em off.’ Having finished his meal, Philo rose abruptly to his feet. ‘I must go now. Thanks for the victuals – ’twas fine grub, and I’m grateful.’
‘One more thing before you go,’ said Mr Paxton, who hadn’t stirred. ‘If I was to spread this news about town, would you suffer as a consequence?’
Philo hesitated. He didn’t flinch or grimace, but something must have shown in his face, because the surgeon nodded slowly and declared, ‘Very well. I’ll stay mum, for the present.’
‘Thank ’ee, your honour.’ Relieved, Philo edged out of the booth – then paused as something occurred to him. ‘Will you need me tonight, sir?’
‘At the workhouse? More than ever, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Aye, sir. Thank ’ee, sir.’
Philo escaped from the cookshop as quickly as possible, concerned that he’d lingered there too long. His next stop was supposed to be the Maidenhead Inn, where he intended to have a word with Toby Mackett. After that, he would proceed to St Giles’s church. But as he turned west, towards the parish almshouses, a sharp movement made him glance down the road just in time to see Fettler Ben duck into White Hart Yard.
The White Hart was a coaching inn, and it was busy. Even as Philo paused to consider his next move, a post-chaise began to emerge from the yard’s entrance, drawn by four horses. There was a post-boy guiding the left-hand drawing horse at the very front of the team. Philo knew him. He also knew what a tricky manoeuvre it was, threading a carriage through an alley. There was no chance he would be able to edge past – or that Fettler would be able to come back out that way for some time.
But White Hart Yard had more than one exit. So Philo dashed down Broad Street, dodging the post-chaise, and took the first left-hand turn into Drury Lane. Sure enough, he quickly arrived at the second passage into White Hart Yard, which was squared-off and narrow, with a ceiling that sagged under the weight of the inn’s two upper storeys.
Fettler was hurrying down this passage, but stopped when he saw Philo.
‘Are you looking for me?’ asked Philo, folding his arms. When he saw Fettler flap his mouth like a landed fish, he knew exactly what was going on. ‘You was sent to dog my tracks,’ he added, noting that Fettler was wearing a borrowed coat. Fettler’s face had been smeared with soot, and he wore one of Garnet’s stockings as a neckerchief. Philo could only assume this was meant to be a disguise.
‘Mr Hooke’s orders—’ Fettler began.
‘I know.’ Philo felt strangely calm. He even sympathised with Fettler, who looked as if he was on the verge of tears. ‘You’re not to blame.’
‘You’re to blame!’ snapped Fettler. In his usual fashion, he was defending himself by going on the attack. ‘Why storm off like that? Mr Hooke didn’t know where you went!’
‘I went to warn Toby and Susannah—’
‘And decided to have dinner on the way?’ Fettler gave a snort. ‘Was that the surgeon I saw with you?’ When Philo nodded, Fettler said scornfully, ‘A man like that wouldn’t eat with a glim-jack, save he had some fetch in mind. You’re being gulled, Philo – that’s what I think. Mr Hooke thinks so, too.’
‘Mr Hooke always thinks so.’ Stepping aside to let a porter pass him, Philo remarked, ‘You can go home now, Fettler. I’m off to visit Toby at the Maidenhead. We should none of us spend too much time on Dyott Street, if we can avoid it.’
Fettler frowned. ‘Aye, but Mr Hooke—’
‘Will know where I’ve been. I’ll tell him myself. I’ve a deal to tell him.’
Still Fettler seemed reluctant. He began to pluck nervously at his borrowed coat. ‘Mr Hooke gave me orders. He’ll not like it if I disobey.’
‘You’ve been flushed, though.’
‘Aye. But I must follow you, still.’
Philo heaved an impatient sigh. ‘Well, then follow me!’ he snapped, and turned on his heel. He could feel his temper rising. Though Garnet sometimes told one member of Philo’s crew to shadow another, it was usually done for training and assessment. When Fleabite had first gone out on his own, Philo had trailed him across the parish, later reporting to Garnet that Fleabite was a ‘born glim-jack’.
But this was different.
Philo knew that he could have dodged Fettler. He didn’t want to, though, because Fettler didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the kind of punishment that Garnet would dish out once he discovered that Fettler hadn’t done his job.
So the two boys walked on together without speaking, side by side. It wasn’t until they reached Dyott Street that Philo at last broke the silence between them.
‘Do you have that herb I gave you?’ he asked, stopping short.
Fettler nodded.
‘Mr Hooke didn’t take it?’
Fettler shook his head.
‘Good.’ Philo wasn’t about to drag one of his boys up Dyott Street without some form of protection. His own sprig of St John’s wort was sitting in his pocket – as was Toby Mackett’s share. Even so, Philo had to take a deep breath before turning the corner. It almost surprised him to see the notorious thoroughfare looking so calm and inoffensive. He’d half-expected a monster to be sauntering about.
The Maidenhead Inn stood close to Broad Street, in front of a small yard. It was a gracious stone building, three storeys high, with dormer windows in the attic and a triangular pediment over the front door, held up by stone pillars. From the front, the inn looked more like a manor house than a St Giles hostelry – though the view from the yard was less impressive. At the rear, the inn bristled with protruding wooden box-like structures, including a half-submerged cellar and a couple of sheds. A favourite haunt of country waggoners and dealers in milled flour, the Maidenhead always had a dusty look about it, even on the wettest days.
When Philo pushed the front door open, his entrance blew chaff and meal across the flagstone floor.
Toby Mackett was generally to be found in the taproom, which contained a bar, a fireplace, and a lot of wooden booths. At first Philo couldn’t see him, because the atmosphere was so smoky. It was Fettler who pointed to a white apron in the distance.
‘There,’ he said.
Philo nodded and made for the bar, where Toby was unloading empty tankards from a tray. Though quite small for someone who had just turned fourteen, Toby was a valuable pot-boy because he was so quick and tireless, with agile hands and a talent for mental arithmetic. He had bouncy brown hair, a pasty complexion and huge grey eyes fringed with thick dark lashes.
When Philo touched his shoulder, he turned with a start. ‘Philo?’ he said.
‘I’ve something for you,’ Philo began – then broke off as his gaze shifted.
In a booth across the room, almost hidden by smoke, Scamper Knaggs was sitting opposite Cockeye McAuliffe.
CHAPTER 17
OF AN UNFORTUNATE
COINCIDENCE, AND WHY IT PUT PHILO IN GREAT PERIL
Neither of the housebreakers had even glanced up at Philo. They were tucked against the wall, their heads bent, deep in conversation. Cockeye was running his hands through his hair while Scamper scowled into a pint-pot, his wiry wig perched crookedly on his scalp.
Philo grabbed Toby’s arm and said, ‘Outside.’
‘What?’
‘Now.’ Philo began to retreat, but Toby resisted. He was holding an empty tray.
‘What ails you? Philo? I’ve work to do . . .’
‘Come here.’ Philo dragged Toby behind the front booth, where they couldn’t be seen from Scamper’s table. Fettler joined them a moment later.
‘What is i
t?’ Toby demanded, as he gestured towards an empty glass. ‘I have to collect the dead-men—’
‘You told Kit about a new arch-rogue in Rat’s Castle,’ Philo said in a low voice.
‘Aye . . .’
‘People are saying it might be a spriggan. That’s a kind of demon.’
‘I know,’ said Toby.
‘You know?’
‘I just heard Scamper Knaggs speak of it.’ Toby pointed. ‘He’s back there—’
‘I know he’s back there!’ Pushing Toby’s hand down, Philo hissed, ‘What did he say?’
‘He was complaining that they couldn’t get rid of their guest – their “devilish guest”. He was angry because the trap didn’t work.’ Toby’s grey eyes searched Philo’s face. ‘He was cursing your master, Philo.’
Philo blinked. ‘Mr Hooke?’
‘Saying he’d led them a merry dance, what with his red threads and consecrated knives. Saying ’twas no more a sprite-trap than a mouse-trap.’ Toby glanced quickly over his shoulder, then put his mouth to Philo’s ear and whispered, ‘He promised Cockeye he would have a stern word with Mr Hooke.’
Philo glanced at Fettler, who was looking very worried. So was Toby, who asked in a hesitant voice, ‘This spriggan – does it wander?’
‘I don’t know,’ Philo confessed. ‘But if it does, I’ve something here that will guard against it.’ He pulled a sprig of dried herb from his coat. ‘Susannah Quail gave this to me.’
‘What is it?’ Toby demanded, as Philo placed the twig in his hand.
‘St John’s wort. Iron is good for protection too, but it must be forged on a cold anvil.’ Philo gave Toby’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his gaze flitting towards the back of the room. ‘I cannot stay. Keep your ears pricked. I’d like to know what those ken-millers have to say about Mr Hooke.’