Theophilus Grey and the Demon Thief

  It seemed that John Fern had taken the bait.

  ‘And this contrivance will be of your own making?’ asked Mr Paxton.

  ‘’Twill, sir.’

  ‘Master Grey, you are wasted as a linkboy. Simply wasted,’ the surgeon remarked. But he didn’t sound amazed, or even amused. He sounded thoughtful.

  From Shorts Gardens, it wasn’t far to Broad Street – or to the northern end of St Giles’s churchyard. Philo cut through this churchyard to reach the Resurrection Gate. He didn’t know how he was going to persuade Simon Edy to hire out his dog and his clothes, but was hoping that Susannah might be able to help. He was also hoping that Mr Paxton would be able to pass himself off as Simon – from a distance, at least. Though the beggar was a little taller than the surgeon, he had a stoop that brought his height down. And they both had brown hair.

  Philo was relieved, when he arrived at the gate, to see that Simon was standing in his usual position, wearing his customary three coats and four hats. But where was Susannah Quail?

  ‘Where’s Susannah?’ he asked Simon. ‘Where’s the little girl?’

  Simon turned his bleary, bloodshot eyes towards Susannah’s pitch. ‘She’s gone to the devil,’ he replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aye, poor lass. Gone. Gone. The devil took her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Philo’s voice rose sharply as his heart began to pound. ‘Where is she? Where’s Susannah?’

  ‘She’s in the devil’s lair. He’ll come for her, betimes.’

  Philo grabbed Simon’s arm. He was vaguely aware of the dog’s threatening growl, but he was intent on getting information out of Simon – by force, if necessary. ‘Tell me what happened! Tell me!’

  ‘Theophilus.’ Mr Paxton laid a cautionary hand on Philo’s shoulder. ‘The dog . . .’

  But Philo didn’t care about the dog. ‘Where’s Susannah, Mr Edy?’

  Simon was shrinking away from Philo’s touch. He rolled his eyes until the whites showed, muttering, ‘Poor lass. Poor lass. She’s devil’s bait.’

  ‘Devil’s bait?’ said Philo. ‘How? Why?’

  ‘Gold didn’t lure the devil. Nor chanting. Nor a lighted candle in a cleft stick.’ Simon lowered his voice as his dog began to bark. ‘She was put down there to spring the trap, so the devil would come. For devils take children wherever they can. I heard her cry, poor lass.’

  Philo was starting to shake. He found it hard to breathe as he tried to suppress a rising sense of panic. But he managed to croak out, ‘Where did you hear her cry? Where is she?’

  ‘Down the well. He’s been using copper wire, and a red thread, and a bellarmine jug. But none of ’em worked – not with gold, nor with chanting, nor with a lighted candle in a cleft stick . . .’

  Suddenly a terrible thought slashed across Philo’s brain. The bellarmine bottle. The sprite-trap. The consecrated knife.

  Gugg Worris had laid his sprite-trap in Rat’s Castle. He had tried to attract the spriggan with a magic spell, and that hadn’t worked. Then Garnet had recommended gold – but that obviously hadn’t worked, either. So Gugg must have decided that a child might succeed where the other baits had failed, since spriggans were known for abducting children.

  Philo reeled away from Simon. The fire iron fell from his hand. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’

  ‘What?’ said Mr Paxton. ‘Theophilus?’

  Philo ignored him. Susannah was tiny. Susannah was lame, and lived near Dyott Street. She would have been the obvious choice for Gugg; why, he had talked to her just the day before at the Resurrection Gate!

  And it was all Philo’s fault. If Philo hadn’t spoken to Toby, Gugg would never have singled out Susannah.

  ‘Christ!’ Philo shrieked, flinging his hat on the ground. He was clawing at his hair when Mr Paxton seized him by both arms and shook him.

  ‘Theophilus. What’s toward? Tell me!’

  ‘He took my friend!’ Philo choked, tears gathering in his eyes. ‘He’s using her as bait for the spriggan!’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Gugg Worris. The housebreaker. I don’t – I can’t . . .’ Philo was finding it hard to think. ‘He’s put her down a well . . .’

  ‘Where? Where is the well?’

  ‘At Rat’s Castle.’

  ‘Good.’ Mr Paxton straightened, releasing Philo. ‘Then I shall rescue your friend before I secure the poison.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Aye – as far as the door,’ Mr Paxton replied. ‘But no further. You’re too young, lad. I’d not take a child into battle.’

  ‘I’m coming in,’ Philo said stubbornly.

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘I’m coming in,’ Philo repeated. He looked up at the surgeon, his white face set like plaster, his eyes as hard as slate.

  And something about his expression made Mr Paxton fling up his hands in surrender.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE ARRIVAL

  AT DYOTT STREET, AND WHAT HAPPENED AFTERWARDS

  It was Mr Paxton who persuaded Simon Edy to undress. Watching the surgeon smile and joke and pat Simon’s dog, Philo deduced that Mr Paxton probably spent a lot of time cajoling his patients into parting with their clothes. Simon only agreed to part with his clothes after Mr Paxton had spent several minutes asking questions about the dog – whose name was Achilles. Mr Paxton thought it a ‘splendid name’, and declared that Simon’s habit of wearing several layers of garments was ‘very sensible indeed’.

  ‘But I shall need to borrow at least two of your coats, Mr Edy, and two of your hats, and your boxes, and your handsome Achilles,’ the surgeon coaxed. ‘’Twill be for no more than an hour or two, and you will earn yourself a shilling for the privilege of helping to save a little girl from extinction. What could be more noble? What could be more profitable? A man of foresight, like yourself, would not chaff at such an offer, I feel sure.’

  After a lot of banter like this, Simon allowed Mr Paxton to nudge him across Broad Street into Bannister’s Alley – where a deserted timber yard offered them plenty of dark corners. Here, in the collapsing remains of an old saw-pit shed, Simon reluctantly handed over most of his worldly goods: three of his hats, two of his coats, a swag of books, his canisters of meat and cheese, his shoes, his neckerchief, his outermost waistcoat. Off they all came, along with a very bad smell and a lot of fleas. Mr Paxton didn’t baulk, though. He bravely put on everything that Simon had discarded, and was soon transformed. Smeared with grime and splashed with street-sludge, he cut a convincing figure, though he was a good ten years younger than Simon and didn’t have the beggar’s drooping, bloodhound face.

  Even the dog looked confused, once Mr Paxton had finished.

  ‘If that dog knows its way home,’ Philo observed, watching the creature sniff suspiciously at Mr Paxton’s knees, ‘it will lead us straight to Simon’s ken, by way o’ Simon’s door.’ Turning to the beggar, who was pulling on Mr Paxton’s coat, Philo asked, ‘Do you have a key to your lodgings?’

  Simon stared at Philo blankly, as if he didn’t understand English. Once again, it was Mr Paxton who finally persuaded Simon to admit that he had no key because he required no key – not for the closet in which he lived. But Achilles knew the way. Achilles slept there too, defending it from the devil. Achilles was a good dog.

  ‘Dog is god, turned about,’ Simon remarked. ‘God is a very present help in times of trouble.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ Mr Paxton agreed in his kindliest tone. ‘But will this dog show us the right path? Will he take us to Rat’s Castle, where you lodge?’

  By way of an answer, Simon reached into one of the canisters slung across Mr Paxton’s chest. Philo was surprised to see him produce an old Turkish slipper, very dirty and torn, which he waved at the dog.

  Achilles stiffened, his ears twitching. He was an ugly mongrel, squat and bow-legged, with a missing ear and a milky eye. Like a maggot, he had a white body and a dark head; his usual manner was
sullen and brooding. But at the sight of the chewed slipper, he began to pant and bounce and wag his tail.

  ‘If you follow him, he will take you home,’ Simon declared, sounding almost like a man of sense. When he tossed the slipper at his dog, Achilles caught it and headed back towards Bannister’s Alley.

  Philo and Mr Paxton exchanged a startled look. Then Philo grabbed his fire iron and Mr Paxton grabbed his sword.

  ‘Wait for us at the Resurrection Gate!’ Philo instructed, concerned that Simon might set off after them. But the beggar didn’t move. He just stood helplessly, watching Philo run away.

  If Philo hadn’t been so busy worrying about everyone else, he would have worried about Simon.

  Luckily, Achilles didn’t seem to be in a rush. Though his pace was brisk, he moved at a steady trot rather than streaking ahead like a greyhound. Philo and Mr Paxton were able to keep up as the dog hurried past bricked-up windows and shadowy doorways.

  ‘Stay.’ Philo grabbed Mr Paxton before he could step out onto Church Street, which was wide and bright and scattered with people. ‘Give me your sword, sir, and keep your head down. For there’s folk here who likely know Simon.’

  The surgeon nodded, surrendering his sword. Then he plunged after Achilles. Philo held back for a few seconds; he didn’t want anyone thinking that he and Mr Paxton were together, since Simon Edy was always alone. People would stare if Simon appeared with a friend, and Philo didn’t want that to happen.

  He knew some of the faces in Church Street, but not as many as he would have liked. He didn’t even know the street very well. It was lined with three-storeyed houses, most of them shabby and mildewed. There was a chandler’s shop at one end of the street and a gin-shop at the other, but neither had signs hanging over their doors. Most of the people drifting around were ragged and listless, though the knot of children outside the chandler’s shop had enough energy to whistle at Achilles as he passed them. One threw a dry bone at him, but he ignored it.

  Then the same children spotted Mr Paxton, who was shuffling along in an attempt to imitate Simon’s gait, with his hat-brims pulled down low and his chin buried in his neckerchief. The sound of their taunts made Philo cringe. He was afraid that they might follow Mr Paxton, or pelt him with muck, or try to snatch off one of his hats. If they did that, there would be trouble.

  So Philo picked up his pace and drew attention to himself by shifting his grip on the small sword. Because it was an expensive weapon, it looked out of place in Philo’s hands. And when the other children saw it, they assumed the worst. Philo rounded the corner into Carrier Street pursued by a volley of shouts and catcalls, as several of the children accused him of being a thief. He thought they were probably McCauleys. There were about a dozen young McCauleys, all with the same buck teeth, savage squints and white-blond hair. The whole quarter was infested with them. Kit loathed the McCauleys.

  They were one reason why Philo tried to avoid Dyott Street.

  Garnet had once told Philo that some of the bigger, older buildings on Dyott Street dated back a hundred years, to a time when wealthy merchants had built fine houses on the outskirts of London. Rat’s Castle, he’d said, was one of these houses. Philo found it hard to believe. As he followed Achilles down the filth-choked passage known as Ivy Lane, he couldn’t see a speck of greenery – just grey slate and sooty brick and slimy black cobbles. The lane came straight up beside Rat’s Castle, joining Dyott Street opposite a lodging house. But Achilles didn’t get as far as Dyott Street. Instead he swerved to the left, darting through a gap in a fence where the palings had been stolen.

  Philo followed the dog into a small yard separating Rat’s Castle from another decrepit building that might once have been a coach-house. There were pigs in the yard, and a midden heap, and a tiny, barefoot child wearing a linen shift, but there was no well. The child stared dumbly, its thumb in its mouth, as Achilles sprang from the top of the midden heap onto the roof of a shed that was attached to the rear of Rat’s Castle. Philo decided that this shed had probably been built for storing fuel, or perhaps as a makeshift smithy. But whatever its original purpose, it now served as a kind of staircase for the dog. Achilles scrambled across its collapsing roof – which was full of holes – until he reached one of the Castle’s upper windows.

  Then he disappeared.

  ‘That’s our route,’ Philo said softly, assessing it from the base of the midden heap. He thought he could probably manage such a climb, as long as the roof didn’t give way beneath him. But he didn’t want to go in just yet. ‘Will you wait here, your honour?’ he asked Mr Paxton. ‘I’ve something I must do.’

  Mr Paxton was staring at the child in the linen shift. ‘Look at that poor lass,’ he muttered. ‘Chilled to the bone and not above three years old. What a sin.’

  Philo gave a grunt. He had other things on his mind. ‘You’ll not enter without me?’ he said. ‘Scamper and Gugg both live here, sir, and they believe there’s a spriggan.’

  ‘I’ll wait. Have no fear.’ Mr Paxton took the sword and the fire iron, which Philo had passed to him. ‘What is your plan for distracting the occupants?’

  ‘There should be a mob out front,’ Philo explained. ‘Ripe to tear the doors off their hinges once I tell ’em about Susannah.’

  ‘A mob?’ Mr Paxton repeated. ‘You’ve contrived to raise a mob outside this house?’

  ‘Aye.’ Ignoring the surgeon’s dumbfounded stare, Philo promised to return quickly. Then he dashed back into Ivy Lane, listening for the sound of raised voices. Had anyone arrived yet? He wasn’t sure of the exact time. It was such a grey day that he had trouble pinpointing the sun’s location – and there were no clocks striking anywhere in the neighbourhood. Beside him, the southern wall of Rat’s Castle loomed up like a cliff-face, three storeys high and punctured with generous windows. But the ground-floor windows were all boarded up where the glass had been smashed; there was no way of seeing inside.

  Stopping to peer around the corner into Dyott Street, Philo was relieved to see people milling about in front of Rat’s Castle. Among them were Valentine’s friends, the Irish chairmen. Val was there too, as were John Fern the broke tailor, and Charles Storer (with a bandaged head), and William Coverdale, the landlord of the Blue Bell. Mr Smart, who owned three houses on Goldsmith’s Alley, was heading up the street with another man – both of them bearing cudgels. Charles Storer had brought two friends along. Mr Weddle, from Middlesex Court, had also arrived, and was hammering on a shutter, calling for his friend Matthias in a loud, drunken voice.

  But there was no response from inside the house.

  ‘Val!’ Philo exclaimed, as he sidled up to Valentine. Though he kept his voice low, a couple of the chairmen heard him, and scowled in his direction. There were about a dozen of them, all wearing livery and carrying chair-poles. Their impatient air made Philo nervous.

  ‘Philo! At last!’ said Val. ‘What’s the plan? Who’s the target? We need direction—’

  Philo cut him off. ‘Gugg Worris took Susannah Quail. He has her in that house, down a well.’

  ‘What?

  ‘She’s bait for the spriggan. We must get her out.’ Ignoring Val’s astonished stare, Philo turned to the nearest chairman, whose name was Sean Callaghan. ‘Do you know Susannah Quail? The little yellow-haired pedlar from the Resurrection Gate?’

  ‘I do,’ said Niall Donohoe. ‘Sells rosemary by the bunch.’

  ‘She was taken. You’ll find her in that house, along with half the wealth o’ London.’ Pointing at Rat’s Castle, Philo scanned the broad, weathered faces turned towards him. Then he took a deep breath and declared, ‘There’s a villain in there who’s behind every piece o’ wickedness to befall St Giles this past week. Every theft, every wound, every unexplained stupor – and now this. A child put down a well for some devilish purpose, and no one . . .’ Philo’s voice cracked. He had to swallow before continuing. ‘. . . no one to help her. We must save her, Mr Donohoe. Please.’

  ‘Who’s the villa
in?’ asked Niall.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Philo decided that mentioning the spriggan would only complicate matters. ‘But Scamper does. And his crew likewise. They’re running half the rogues in London, by force o’ threats and blows. They’ve driven every soul from Rat’s Castle, as you can see . . .’

  ‘Aye, ’tis a mystery, to be sure,’ Sean broke in, ‘the castle being all shut up and dark as a grave. And the little girl’s in there, you’re saying?’

  ‘Put down a well,’ said Philo.

  ‘Ah, now, that’s wrong. That’s wicked.’

  ‘And every spoon and snuff-box that’s been hoisted in the parish this past week must be in there with her,’ Philo added, ‘for they’ve floored even Civil Joe Constantine, and will be running his gang soon enough.’

  ‘Civil Joe?’ said Niall, as his friend Tiger suddenly burst out, ‘’Tis the honest truth, Niall! I heard it from a Chick Lane hawker – they say Civil Joe caught a mortal blow last night, and hasn’t woken from it.’

  ‘Holy Mary,’ Niall muttered.

  Philo, meanwhile, had cast a quick glance at the gathering crowd, which was still loose and bewildered, but growing bigger. Meg Sample had joined it, along with Robert Coppinger and Elias Tilbury, both of whom had brought sturdy-looking companions with them – two porters, a post-boy and a footman, all armed to the teeth. Ephraim had come from the George Inn. John Barnwell was hovering about, looking confused. Shambles Sam was there, as were Tristram Fry, the printer, and Dick Groundwell from the Hoop gaming house . . .

  Then Philo spotted Kit, and waved him over.

  ‘We must raise a hue and cry,’ Niall was saying. ‘There’s folk enough here to do it.’

  ‘Aye, we can whip ’em up easy,’ said Tiger. ‘Sure, those lads with the shillelaghs look to be here for trouble.’

  ‘I’ll go behind the house,’ Philo offered, ‘and stop ’em sneaking out the rear.’ With a few surreptitious hand signals, he ordered Val to stay with the chairmen. Then he jerked his chin at Kit, and headed back to where Mr Paxton was waiting.