‘I’ll remember,’ Lippy promised.
‘Aye, aye, Captain!’ said Fleabite.
They saluted Philo, then broke away from him. Philo set off down Castle Street. He was still pondering his curious encounter with Cockeye McAuliffe; the more he thought about it, the odder it seemed. Why had Cockeye been searching for Jemmy Jukes in Turnstile Alley, when they’d agreed to meet miles away, at the King’s Arms? And why had Cockeye urged Philo to be careful? Housebreakers were hard men, without a hint of sentiment. Why would Cockeye be concerned about the welfare of a strange linkboy?
‘Unaccountable,’ Philo murmured. He knew that many people would have dismissed the incident, but he couldn’t. His master had always warned him to disregard nothing. ‘A word of gossip might be the link between one story and another – between a purse and a thief, or a debt and a payment,’ he’d told Philo. ‘If you look at each fact alone, it might mean very little. But step back, and regard them altogether . . . and you may see another picture entirely.’
Philo felt sure that his meeting with Cockeye meant something. But he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to decipher it without further information. So he tucked the little incident away in his head, confident that one day he would stumble upon the key to the mystery.
Then he turned his attention to the George Inn, up ahead.
CHAPTER 2
HOW THE MYSTERY
OF JEMMY JUKES ONLY GREW MORE PUZZLING
The Blue Bell Inn looked like a giant theatre. It was built around a cobbled yard, with rooms opening off galleries that were stacked one on top of the other over the stables and coach-house. A narrow passage led from the yard into Dirty Lane, past the glowing windows of the parlour and taproom.
Philo could smell stale beer and roast mutton as he stood by the taproom door, waiting to be hired.
He had come straight from the George Inn, where he’d found Junks LeCourt playing cards. The ostler had received Mr Sterne’s message with a sneer, and had given Philo nothing extra for his trouble. Philo had then gone in search of more customers, but the George had been disappointingly quiet. Even the pot-boy had been dozing behind the bar. So Philo had moved on, hoping to catch a straggler from the punch club that was held at the Blue Bell every Monday evening. Though most of the club’s members left around midnight, he knew that some gentlemen preferred not to be hurried.
Standing in the bitter wind, Philo could see no trace of Lippy or Fleabite. He concluded that they must have been hired by the earlier rush – and wondered if he had missed his chance. There wasn’t a lot of noise coming from inside.
He was about to turn tail when a man emerged from the parlour door and stood for a moment, peering into the gloom. With the light behind him, the man’s face was hard to see. But Philo recognised his red satin waistcoat.
It was Nathaniel Paxton.
‘Aha!’ Mr Paxton suddenly spotted Philo. ‘A spindle-shanks with a flaming torch! Would you be Theophilus Grey, by any chance?’
‘Aye, your honour.’
‘The landlord of this establishment mentioned you were out here. He tells me you are the only honest linkboy in London.’
Philo was amused, but didn’t smile. He rarely smiled. ‘I’m not the only one, sir,’ he finally answered. ‘Belike there’s a dozen more.’
‘Well, the last time I walked home from an alehouse at this late hour, I fairly broke my neck on a pothole,’ Mr Paxton confessed, ‘so I’d be obliged if you would light my way tonight, Master Grey.’
‘That I will, Mr Paxton, sir.’
Mr Paxton looked startled. ‘Have we met?’ he asked Philo.
‘Nay, your honour. But I know who you are. You’re the workhouse surgeon. You live in Parker’s Lane.’
‘You know where I live?’
Philo nodded. ‘I know where most folk live, hereabouts.’
‘Indeed?’ Mr Paxton stepped forward, squinting into the unsteady glare of Philo’s torch. ‘And would that be because your patrons are often too drunk to find their own lodgings?’ Before Philo could answer, the surgeon said, ‘Be assured, Master Grey, that I am not too drunk to remember where I live. So do not think you can guide me down a dark alley into the arms of a thieving scoundrel!’
Though Philo was taken aback, he didn’t even blink. ‘I’d not do that, sir.’
‘For I warn you, I have a lancet. And I keep it well sharpened.’
Philo studied Mr Paxton’s face, which didn’t look like the face of a homicidal maniac. It was pleasant enough, with compact features, good teeth and a scrubby jaw. The surgeon’s hazel eyes had a gleam in them that told Philo not to take him too seriously.
‘I’ll mind that, your honour,’ Philo cautiously replied.
‘Good! Shall we go, then? It must be desperate late.’
‘The last watchman cried one o’clock, sir.’
‘One o’clock! The deuce! ’Tis high time I went to bed!’
‘Aye, but . . .’ Philo trailed off, glancing over his shoulder. Then he took a deep breath and tried again. ‘An’ please your honour, the quickest run to Parker’s Lane from here is through Middlesex Court. Which is by way o’ being a dark alley.’
‘Is it?’ Mr Paxton seemed quite unconcerned. ‘That don’t signify,’ he said with a shrug. ‘For should we meet with any cut-throats, you must let ’em pummel you while I make my escape. I believe such a plan will answer well enough.’
Philo stared at Mr Paxton, who raised his eyebrows. There was a moment’s pause.
‘I spoke in jest,’ the surgeon said at last.
‘Oh.’
‘’Tis a little late for jokes, I dare swear.’
After another short silence, they set off together along Dirty Lane, with Philo keeping three steps ahead, his torch held high in front of him.
‘What else do you know about me, Master Grey?’ Mr Paxton asked suddenly. ‘Are you aware that I was in the navy, for a spell?’
‘Nay, your honour.’ Philo tucked this tidbit into the mental box where he kept all his other Parker’s Lane intelligence.
‘The absence of a wig should have alerted you,’ Mr Paxton went on. ‘Naval men don’t favour wigs, which are apt to blow off in a gale.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Do you know I attend the Lying-In Hospital, when occasion demands?’
Philo shook his head, then turned into Middlesex Court. It was a passage barely wide enough for three men to walk abreast, dark and damp and choked with refuse. It smelled strongly of urine. ‘I do know you drink at the Bull’s Head, on Great Queen Street,’ he volunteered, causing the surgeon to halt for an instant.
‘Bless my soul!’ muttered Mr Paxton. Then, with a crooked smile, he set off again. ‘You are perfectly right. I have been frequenting the Bull’s Head. But when I heard of Mr Coverdale’s punch club, I thought to widen my acquaintance with the other taverns in this quarter.’
‘Mr Coverdale makes a famous punch, sir.’
‘And one deserving of its fame.’ Mr Paxton frowned as Philo stopped abruptly. ‘What’s toward?’ asked the surgeon.
Philo pointed. Prone on the ground ahead of them, barely visible in the light of Philo’s torch, a man lay blocking their path, dressed only in a mud-splattered shirt and breeches.
‘Blood an’ ’ounds!’ Mr Paxton cried, starting forward.
Philo pulled him back. ‘Wait.’
‘But—’
‘This may be a fetch. He may be lying on a pistol.’
‘He may be leaking bile!’ Mr Paxton protested. ‘And I am a surgeon!’
Philo, however, stood firm. He had recognised the man on the ground, whose grey hair was close-cropped, and whose scalp bore a distinctive sickle-shaped scar.
Someone had made off with Jemmy Jukes’s scratch-wig.
‘Please wait here, your honour. I know this cove. He’s a prig, sir. A housebreaker. He can’t be trusted.’ Philo darted forward before Mr Paxton could stop him, sliding to a standstill just inches from Jemmy Jukes. But the fallen man didn’t move a muscl
e.
Philo gave him a tentative prod with one foot. ‘He’s alive, your honour. He’s breathing.’ A swift, surreptitious kick assured Philo that Jemmy was dead to the world. ‘He seems to have fainted.’
‘Let me see.’
Jostled aside, Philo stepped back to let Mr Paxton examine Jemmy, who was as limp as a hung pheasant. When turned, Jemmy proved to be plastered with filth, but there was no sign of a wound. There wasn’t even a drop of blood. While Mr Paxton squatted beside his patient, pressing and kneading with a practised hand, Philo kept a sharp lookout for any footpads who might be lurking in the shadows nearby.
‘No obvious cuts or contusions,’ the surgeon remarked. ‘No broken bones or fever. It may be apoplexy.’ He glanced up at Philo. ‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Dyott Street, your honour. He’s a long way from his ken.’
‘Long or no, he must be moved. We cannot leave him here like a dead dog.’
Philo wasn’t so sure about that. A ruffian like Jemmy Jukes wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving them in the street. But Mr Paxton clearly had a surgeon’s instincts – and it was Philo’s job to keep him safe.
‘Let me light you home, your honour,’ said Philo. ‘Then I’ll tell the watch. Old Charley will pass down Drury Lane soon enough.’
‘The watch!’ Mr Paxton made a scornful noise. Philo didn’t blame him; most of London’s watchmen were elderly, if not downright infirm. It was commonly said that they called the time only to warn wrongdoers that they were approaching.
So Philo made another suggestion, acutely conscious that they were lingering too long in one place. It wasn’t a wise thing to do after dark – especially in the streets around Covent Garden. ‘The parish searcher lodges nearby,’ he said. ‘Belike Charley will fetch her out for us.’
‘The parish searcher!’ Mr Paxton exclaimed. He sat back on his heels, squinting at Philo with a quizzical look. ‘May I remind you, Master Grey, that the parish searcher is charged with identifying cause of death, for the bills of mortality?’
‘Aye.’ Philo knew that well enough.
‘Our unfortunate friend is not dead,’ the surgeon pointed out, ‘and therefore has no need of a parish searcher.’ Jumping to his feet, he added, ‘We must take him to the workhouse infirmary. Come. ’Tis close enough.’
‘But—’
‘Oh, aye. You’re carrying a link. I forgot.’ Mr Paxton hesitated. His gaze shifted from Philo’s burning torch to the nearest dwelling, which was a narrow house three storeys high, with a façade blackened by dirt and damp. ‘I shall rouse some neighbours,’ he declared – much to Philo’s dismay.
‘An’ it please your honour . . .’ Philo cringed at the thought of what Mr Paxton would face if he started waking people in Middlesex Court at one o’clock in the morning. ‘The lady living there must be eighty if she’s a day, sir, and palsied,’ he warned. ‘And her maid is stone-hearted.’
‘Next door, then?’
Philo shook his head. ‘Don’t go bothering Mr Weddle, sir. He drinks so much of an evening, belike he’ll knock you down.’
‘I see.’ Mr Paxton sniffed, then surveyed the house directly opposite, which had a blank stone front and tiny windows, like a castle keep. ‘What about there?’ he asked, pointing.
‘Mr Ecklin’s civil enough,’ Philo conceded, ‘but his wife’s so starched, she wouldn’t lift a finger for a sneak like Jemmy. Not at this time o’ night.’
‘The deuce!’ A grudging laugh escaped Mr Paxton, who was apparently torn between amusement and annoyance. ‘Do you know everyone in this lane?’
‘I have to know ’em.’
‘Then what is your advice? To whom should we appeal?’
As Philo opened his mouth to answer, he heard the distant cry of a watchman. ‘There’s old Charley,’ he said with relief. ‘We should both of us fetch him, sir, for he’ll not come at my bidding.’
The watchman’s name was Obadiah Hurlock, though he was often called Charley, like every other watchman in London. Philo knew him well enough. He was a parish pauper who lodged in Salutation Court. Every night between nine o’clock and sunrise, wearing an oilcloth greatcoat and armed with a staff and a lantern, he would stump around St Giles parish, calling the time. Once in a while some drunken reveller would snatch off his moth-eaten wig. Occasionally a brace of street urchins might throw dung at his back, then run as he shook his fist at them, his jowls quivering.
As far as Philo knew, Hurlock hadn’t caught a criminal or prevented a theft in all of his years on the beat.
‘You, there! Watchman!’ Mr Paxton cried, erupting into Drury Lane. Philo kept pace with him, casting a suspicious eye up and down the street as they approached Hurlock. It was so dark that Philo couldn’t be sure how many people were about; all he could see were a few glowing windows, and several pools of light where householders had recently mounted oil-lamps over their doors, in obedience to a city decree.
‘A man has been injured,’ Mr Paxton informed Hurlock. ‘He is lying in that court, over there. We must carry him to the workhouse at once.’
‘Wha . . . ?’ Hurlock stared at the surgeon in dumb amazement. Philo could tell from his resentful expression that he wasn’t keen to help.
‘’Tis none other than Jemmy Jukes, Mr Hurlock,’ Philo coolly observed. ‘And if it becomes known that you turned your back on Jemmy – why, his fraternity may take issue with you one dark night.’ He cocked his head at the watchman, who spluttered, swallowed, and flapped his mouth speechlessly. ‘I’ll carry your staff and lantern, sir,’ Philo added. ‘We’ll not leave ’em behind.’
‘Come,’ Mr Paxton said. ‘’Tis already gone one, man – bestir yourself!’
The watchman had no spine to speak of. Instead of arguing, he grudgingly surrendered his staff and lantern, then followed Mr Paxton into Middlesex Court. Soon he and the surgeon were struggling up Drury Lane, with Jemmy Jukes slung between them and Philo preceding them, a light in each hand. Philo could hear the watchman wheezing like a pair of bellows. When Mr Paxton started to pant, Philo thought about swapping places with him. But before he could suggest it, he turned a corner and bumped into his friend and colleague Kit Maltman.
There was no mistaking Kit. Even in the unsteady light of his torch he was unmistakeable, with his wizened build and knock knees. His fleecy brown hair was so luxurious that it seemed to be sucking the life out of him, and the hardship of his early years was written all over his face, which was marred by a broken nose, jagged teeth and pockmarked skin. Only a pair of large, dark, thoughtful eyes saved him from looking like a goblin.
‘Oh!’ said Kit. Philo said nothing. He saw that his friend was with the rector of St Giles, who was probably on his way to a deathbed. As Philo stepped aside to let them both pass, he signalled to Kit; two jerks of the chin meant ‘come’, a stamp of the foot meant ‘soon’, and a flapping motion with the bent right arm meant ‘workhouse’.
Kit nodded. The rector didn’t even do that. He ignored Philo, grimaced at the watchman, and touched his hat to Mr Paxton – who responded by bowing clumsily from the waist. But neither man paused to exchange a greeting.
Philo deduced that they knew each other, but weren’t great friends.
‘This way, your honour,’ he told Mr Paxton, upon reaching Crown Alley. ‘Down here, then left into Vinegar Yard. We’ve not far to go, sir.’
Leading the way past a shuttered gin-shop, Philo decided that he would request his halfpenny as soon as they reached the workhouse. Otherwise, he might not receive a second payment for the trip to Parker’s Lane.
CHAPTER 3
SHOWING HOW
PHILO’S RARE TALENTS RECOMMENDED HIM TO MR PAXTON
The workhouse entrance was in Vinegar Yard, opposite a cookshop. Built of solid oak, the imposing double doors were studded with iron bolts and framed in stone. Trapped behind them were at least two hundred paupers, living the kind of life that Philo preferred not to think about. Some cooked and some cleaned. Some toile
d away at thankless tasks like breaking stones, or unravelling rope, or winding silk onto bobbins. Some were too ill to work.
An inscription was engraved over the entrance, but Philo couldn’t read it. He had never learned to read.
Almost everything he knew about the workhouse had come from his friend Dandy Dodds, who had been raised as a parish orphan. Dandy had so often talked about the beatings, the poor food and the long days that Philo was determined to avoid the workhouse at all costs – even if he had to join the navy. Sometimes, late at night, he would lie awake and admit to himself that a life of crime would be preferable to a life on parish relief, though he had always been proud of earning an honest livelihood. But it won’t come to that, he would think, unless I’m blinded, or crippled, or too ill to mind what I do. Philo had decided to make his way in the world – and the workhouse wasn’t a part of his plans.
So he turned his back on it, both physically and mentally, distracting himself by trying to remember the name of every person who lived in Vinegar Yard. There was John Fern, the tailor. There was Meg Sample, who kept a chandler’s shop. There was Toby Mackett’s mother. Toby was a pot-boy from the Maidenhead Inn, and an honorary member of Philo’s crew; every Tuesday, Dandy Dodds would pay a visit to the Maidenhead Inn, where he would collect a payment from Toby and give him, in return, a written report from Philo’s master. Toby would then deliver this report to a local thief-taker, who would use the information to claim various rewards posted for goods stolen around the parish.
‘Philo!’ A familiar voice suddenly interrupted Philo’s train of thought. It belonged to Kit Maltman, who was hurrying up the lane with his oversized coat billowing around his ankles. All of Kit’s clothes were too big for him. The points of his neckerchief reached his navel, the ragged lace on his cuffs covered his hands, and his leather breeches had to be cinched in at the waist with a piece of rope.
Philo’s wardrobe looked far more respectable. He kept his stockings well darned, his shoes well buffed, and his buttons well polished, because appearances were important when it came to attracting business. Months of hard work had gone into the purchase of his black fustian breeches and blue stuff coat, which was only a fraction too short for his long, lanky figure.