Theophilus Grey and the Demon Thief

  He didn’t start crying until he was on King Street, heading for the Maidenhead Inn.

  CHAPTER 29

  A SURPRISING

  INSTANCE OF LOYALTY AND AFFECTION

  Philo spent the afternoon with Toby Mackett, who made up a bed for him in the Maidenhead’s beer cellar. Though Philo had offered to pay for an attic bedroom, Toby had scoffed at the idea. No one would notice a spare body among the casks. Why, Toby was the only living soul who went down there for days on end! But of course Philo wouldn’t be able to stay for very long, the pot-boy had added, with a questioning look. Then he’d asked what Philo was planning to do, now that he’d broken with Mr Hooke. Was he going to remain a linkboy?

  Philo didn’t know. Though he had told Toby about his ‘disagreement’ with Garnet, he hadn’t provided any details, and was afraid that Toby might think he had stolen something – or worse. If he’d been feeling stronger, he might have unburdened himself to Toby, who was honest and kind. But Philo didn’t feel strong. Garnet’s betrayal had shaken him to the core. Wandering around in a daze, he was able to do nothing that afternoon but eat hot chestnuts and ask himself, over and over again, why it mattered so much. Garnet had always been a stern businessman, impatient of sentiment and keen to make money from any ploy that wasn’t downright illegal. He had always viewed the world with detachment, observing without sympathising, studying people as if they were gears in a clock. Yet Philo had thought himself the exception. He’d believed that Garnet liked him. Trusted him . . .

  Now he knew that he was just another gear. Another tool. Garnet was not so much a father-figure as a puppet-master, and the thought made Philo physically ill. He was sitting on a bench by the taproom door, nursing a queasy stomach and mourning his early days with Garnet – which he now saw in a far murkier light – when the sudden flare of a nearby oil-lamp brought him back to the present, reminding him that it was getting dark.

  It was Saturday night, it was getting dark, and Mr Paxton was scheduled to leave the St Giles workhouse at six o’clock. Would he expect a linkboy to meet him? Would Lippy remember to do it? Would Garnet allow him to do it? Poor Mr Paxton had been left at Rat’s Castle to manage as best he could – and Susannah Quail had been left there with him. Casting an anxious glance at the darkening sky, Philo thought to himself: I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I should made sure they were both all right.

  A short time later he was heading down Vinegar Yard, carrying a makeshift torch that had been thrown together out of wood and rags and pitch obtained from an oilman in Broad Street. The torch had been lit on the Maidenhead’s kitchen fire, and burned so crookedly that he had been forced to wrap his hand in a piece of sacking to protect himself from falling embers. But it was a perfectly functional torch, and it wouldn’t be needed for very long.

  Philo didn’t know, in fact, if it would be needed at all.

  As he drew closer to the workhouse, he was surprised to see not one but four jets of flame flickering near its entrance. Four linkboys were gathered there, all huddled near the front door. On approaching them, Philo recognised Lippy’s Quaker hat, Kit’s stunted silhouette, Dandy’s gleaming curls and Fleabite’s white, freckled face. For an instant Philo paused, wondering if he should leave before they spotted him. But then Dandy pointed, and Fleabite gave a yip, and all at once Philo was surrounded by eager bodies which he had to shield from his flaring, spitting torch. ‘’Ware!’ Philo exclaimed. ‘You’ll burn yourselves . . .’

  ‘Who made that?’ Fleabite demanded.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘At short notice.’ Embarrassed, Philo cleared his throat and said to Fleabite, ‘Is that my hat?’

  ‘Aye! And your tinderbox.’ Fleabite reached up to jam the hat on Philo’s head. ‘We thought you would come for them, but you didn’t . . .’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ said Philo. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. What news from Rat’s Castle?’

  ‘You’ve not heard?’ Fleabite waited for a moment, but when no one else seemed eager to tell the tale, he launched into it with relish. ‘The chairmen found one o’ Scamper’s crew down in the cellar, and were carrying him to the pillory in Plumtree Street when two constables stopped ’em. So he was took to the Rotation Office instead. But in the meantime, there was a terrible disagreement about the treasure—’

  ‘Until Mr Paxton stepped in, with Mr Storer,’ Dandy interrupted. ‘They stood over that treasure with their swords drawn till Kit returned with another constable.’ As Philo thanked Kit with a nod, Dandy remarked in his placid way, ‘That Mr Paxton is a dab hand with a sword. And brave, withal. I can see why you’d want to enter his service, Philo.’

  Philo blinked. ‘I’m not working for Mr Paxton,’ he protested.

  ‘Mr Hooke said you was,’ Lippy piped up.

  ‘Mr Hooke is a liar.’ Philo’s voice cracked. Seeing Kit and Fleabite exchange glances, he quickly changed the subject. ‘What befell Susie? Is she well?’ he asked Kit.

  ‘Far as I know. Mr Paxton took her home to her sisters.’

  ‘Good,’ said Philo, thinking that he would visit her in the morning. She deserved that – and more. She deserved an apology. ‘What about the rest o’ Scamper’s crew? Where did they go?’

  Kit shrugged. Then Fleabite asked, ‘Where did you go, Captain? I was certain you’d pawned your things, but Fettler said you’d taken ’em elsewhere!’

  Philo swallowed. ‘I had to,’ he replied. ‘And don’t call me Captain. I’m not your captain now.’

  ‘You are,’ said Kit.

  The others all murmured in agreement. Scanning their solemn faces, Philo felt close to tears. ‘I told Mr Hooke I’d not turn you against him—’

  ‘We’re your crew, Philo, not his,’ Kit broke in.

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘How can we feel comfortable in his house if you cannot?’ Kit’s dark gaze held Philo’s. ‘You’re our captain. We trust you. Whatever he’s done that’s stuck in your craw . . . well, we’d choke on it too, I dare swear.’

  ‘Where you go, we follow!’ Fleabite declared stoutly.

  ‘Lads . . .’ Philo shook his head and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I cannot read. You know that. And whenever there’s a full moon or heavy rain, ’tis the written reports that pay our quarters—’

  Kit cut him off. ‘If we have to starve, on occasion, we’d be no different from most glim-jacks. And we all have chink put aside.’

  ‘I have a shilling!’ Lippy exclaimed.

  ‘Aye, but you’d fare better with Mr Hooke,’ Philo argued. He felt dazed at the thought of running a crew without Garnet’s support. ‘He’ll make you captain, Kit, I’ll wager.’

  ‘You’re our captain!’ squawked Fleabite, who was beginning to sound upset. Philo racked his brain for words of comfort, but before he could speak, Kit addressed him in a firm, grave, quiet tone.

  ‘Mr Paxton gave Mr Hooke half a year. What’ll we do subsequent to that, without you?’ The others nodded as Kit finished, ‘You’re the king o’ the linkboys. The rum-glimmer of St Giles. There’s no one to match you on these streets – least of all Mr Hooke. You always know what to do, Captain. We shall fare better as your crew.’

  At that instant, the workhouse door creaked open. Mr Paxton stepped through it, then paused when he spotted the cluster of linkboys in front of him.

  ‘Well,’ said the surgeon, ‘a guard of honour, no less! I’m flattered, of course, but I don’t know if I have the funds to pay for this.’

  ‘We’re not all here to light you home, sir. Some of us came to find our captain.’ Fleabite spoke in such a friendly way that Philo was startled. Then he realised that Fleabite must have had some dealings with the surgeon at Rat’s Castle – and that the two of them must have got along quite well. ‘Did you visit the Bow Street magistrate, sir?’ Fleabite went on to ask. ‘You was intending to . . .’

  ‘I did not, as it happens. But I am determined to pay my respects on Monday, when I shall
provide him with a detailed account of what happened in Dyott Street. I feel he should be properly informed.’ Mr Paxton fixed his tired, bloodshot gaze on Philo and said, ‘Am I to understand that you will be lighting me home, Theophilus?’

  ‘Aye, your honour – an’ it please you.’

  ‘Take my link, Captain.’ Kit kindly traded his torch for Philo’s, adding in a low voice, ‘Where are you lodging?’

  ‘The Maidenhead. But not for long.’ As he moved away, Philo muttered a few quick words of reassurance. ‘I’ll come to you – look for me – I shall resolve this . . .’

  He trailed off as Kit signalled ‘good luck’, and didn’t speak again for several minutes. Walking beside Mr Paxton, he was so preoccupied that he failed to notice how quiet the surgeon had become until a sudden exclamation yanked him out of his reverie. Mr Paxton had narrowly missed stepping in a pile of horse manure, and was thanking God for his lucky escape.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Philo, stopping short. ‘I should have seen that and given you fair warning.’

  ‘You do seem unusually abstracted.’ After a brief pause, the surgeon asked delicately, ‘Might it be because, as I couldn’t help overhearing, you are homeless at present?’

  Philo heaved a sigh. ‘Aye, no doubt.’

  ‘You have left Mr Hooke’s service?’

  Philo nodded.

  ‘I rejoice to hear it,’ Mr Paxton remarked. ‘You deserve better.’

  ‘Mr Hooke raised me—’ Philo began, then thought better of trying to explain the sense of loss – and obligation – that tormented him. He fell silent, as did Mr Paxton. Together they trudged along, each of them lost in thought. It was a milder night than usual, and the streets were busy, but Philo didn’t pay much attention to the torchlit faces streaming past. He was too distracted.

  At last Mr Paxton said quietly, ‘If I was to offer you work, Theophilus, would you undertake not to discuss it with another living soul?’

  Philo stared at the surgeon in surprise. By this time they had entered Drury Lane, where the flow of pedestrians kept stalling them in their tracks.

  ‘Aye, sir. I’d keep mum,’ said Philo, wondering if Mr Paxton was about to make a confession of some sort. A secret wife? A gambling debt?

  ‘I have a friend in the Admiralty,’ Mr Paxton murmured, his expression unusually solemn. ‘He works for the Lords Commissioners.’

  Philo waited. But after a brief pause, Mr Paxton changed his mind. ‘On reflection, we should discuss this in a quieter spot,’ he said.

  Obediently Philo turned into Meeting House Court, a narrow little dead-end passage frequented only by Quakers and cheesemongers. It was empty, as usual, and as quiet as a country lane. Philo led Mr Paxton to a dark corner between two blank brick walls, then stopped and gazed inquiringly at the surgeon – who looked quite solemn in the unsteady light of the torch.

  ‘You impress me as a child of remarkable penetration,’ Mr Paxton said at last. ‘I believe I can trust you, now that you have thrown off the yoke of that dubious fellow Hooke. But you must understand that this is no common secret. And I doubt I’d be entrusting you with it if you were not . . . shall we say, in need of a better life?’

  Philo blinked. He barely recognised Mr Paxton’s voice, it was so earnest and low-pitched.

  ‘You’ve heard of the Jacobites, I dare swear?’ the surgeon continued.

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Philo was aware of the Jacobites, who wanted to place the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stewart, on the throne of England. Several years previously, just after the death of Philo’s mother, there had been a Jacobite uprising. Philo vaguely remembered cheering in the streets, after the Battle of Culloden. ‘What about ’em?’ he asked.

  ‘There is a certain house off the Strand where a number of well-born Jacobites live. The Young Pretender was recently seen there.’

  Philo gasped. ‘Lord!’ he exclaimed, then glanced around guiltily.

  ‘It need hardly be said that His Majesty’s government is very concerned about this house and its occupants. There are plans afoot to place an agent among the household staff.’ Mr Paxton hesitated, as if he was having second thoughts about the wisdom of saying so much. But then he took a deep breath and plunged on. ‘My friend was informed about these plans, and was asked to nominate a suitable candidate. Not being a man who moves in any but the most exalted circles, he applied to me for suggestions.’ The surgeon considered Philo for a moment. ‘Naturally, you sprang to mind.’

  Staring up into Mr Paxton’s lively, pleasant, unexceptional face, Philo felt as if he couldn’t quite get it into focus. Though utterly familiar, it also seemed suddenly quite strange.

  Mr Hooke was right, he thought. I don’t know this man.

  ‘Are you a spy, Mr Paxton?’ he whispered.

  Mr Paxton shook his head with a smile. ‘In the past, I must confess, I did collect the odd piece of intelligence for my friend in the Admiralty. A naval surgeon is well placed to do so, being often in foreign ports. But I am now landlocked, and those days are over.’ He laid a hand on Philo’s shoulder, stooping so that they were eye to eye. ‘Be assured, however, that I am well acquainted with the skills required to succeed in such employment – and you have them in abundance. What’s more, they are skills worth their weight in gold. You are a valuable creature, Master Grey. You should be aware of that.’

  Philo’s spirits sank like a stone. ‘So Mr Hooke was right. You did want something from me,’ he said.

  ‘What? Nay! I’ faith, I did not!’ Mr Paxton abruptly straightened, releasing Philo. Even in the poor light, Philo could see him flushing. ‘I have always thought you a lad of too many parts for such a humble occupation! And I raise this matter now only because you find yourself stripped of your livelihood. I do not fish for agents in the street. You do me wrong.’

  Philo mumbled an apology.

  ‘No doubt Mr Hooke’s upbringing has blinded you to all nobler motives,’ Mr Paxton continued, then paused, and seemed to collect himself. ‘But I cannot blame you for it,’ he added kindly. ‘What could be more natural? Nevertheless, you must consider my offer. It is well meant, and will be of great benefit to you.’

  Philo, however, was already shaking his head. ‘Nay, sir. I cannot.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘My crew . . .’ Philo’s voice roughened; he had to swallow before repeating, ‘My crew, sir. They – they depend on me.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Paxton. He nodded, quietly remarking, ‘I understand.’

  ‘I cannot abandon ’em.’

  ‘Then what will you do?’ the surgeon asked.

  Philo looked away, staring off into the darkness. He thought about his friends. He thought about Garnet, and Susannah, and Mr Paxton. He thought about the mysterious man from the Admiralty. Then something seemed to spark inside his head.

  ‘Mr Paxton,’ he entreated, ‘would you help me, sir?’

  ‘In any way I can,’ Mr Paxton promised.

  Philo looked up, his pale eyes suddenly bright with inspiration. ‘Please, sir,’ he said, ‘would you write a letter to Mr Fielding and tell him I’m leaving Mr Hooke’s employ . . . ?’

  CHAPTER 30

  BEING AN ACCOUNT

  OF EVENTS THAT OCCURRED SOME THREE MONTHS LATER

  It was a Saturday night, and Saturday nights were always busy.

  At six o’clock Philo had escorted Mr Paxton home from the workhouse. On arriving in Parker’s Lane, they had settled down in the surgeon’s parlour so that Philo could make his usual report on a silk merchant called James Bourdieu. Mr Bourdieu often entertained foreign visitors by taking them on a tour of the bathhouses around Covent Garden. Philo had been asked to collect information about these visitors for Mr Paxton’s friend at the Admiralty, who was especially interested in Mr Bourdieu’s French associates. There was some concern that Mr Bourdieu might be working as an agent for the French East India Company.

  ‘You must understand that the French East India Company is a tool of that puffe
d-up land-grabber Joseph Dupleix, the Governor of French India,’ Mr Paxton had explained to Philo. ‘He is an inveterate foe of our own East India Company. Hence the Admiralty’s interest in Bourdieu’s dealings with foreign men of business.’

  Philo didn’t know anything about India. But he did know that England had been at war with France recently. So he was happy to keep an eye on Mr Bourdieu’s foreign friends, who would often get quite drunk and refuse to go home with Mr Bourdieu. Only a week earlier, Dandy Dodds had spent a whole night escorting a Dutch exporter from one establishment to the next, starting in Hummum’s bathhouse and ending in Lewknor’s Lane.

  The Dutchman hadn’t said much, because his English wasn’t good. But Philo had dutifully reported his movements to the Admiralty.

  After Mr Paxton had scribbled down Philo’s latest news, they had spent an hour working their way through the alphabet. Mr Paxton was teaching Philo to read, partly to give Philo an excuse for entering the house, and partly because both of them thought it a good idea. Though Mr Paxton wasn’t much of a teacher, they were making progress. Philo had memorised every one of the alphabet’s twenty-six letters, and was able to copy them out. But he hadn’t yet learned how to combine them into words.

  By half-past seven, Mr Henry Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate, had arrived. He always came in the same sedan chair, with curtains drawn against prying eyes, and it was always carried straight through the front door before being deposited at the foot of the staircase. From there, Mr Fielding would ascend to Mr Paxton’s rooms, while the two chairmen went outside to join Valentine McCourt for a smoke. The climb often left the magistrate wheezing; he had weak lungs, and told his wife that he consulted Mr Paxton every Saturday because of his asthma.

  In fact, he came to hear Philo’s weekly report on the state of the parish.

  A middle-aged man with a hooked nose, a prominent chin and a slight paunch, Mr Fielding always wore very long waistcoats and an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig. Though Garnet had tended to make contact with the magistrate only through Archibald Duncuff, the pawnbroker, Philo had always known what Mr Fielding looked like because the man was such a prominent local figure. Philo had often seen him in the streets around Covent Garden – though he had never expected the magistrate to notice him. It had therefore come as something of a shock when, on first being introduced to Philo, the magistrate had recognised him instantly. ‘You’re the linkboy with the coterie,’ Mr Fielding had remarked, with a piercing look. ‘I’ve seen you directing your boys, much as I direct my Bow Street constables. I’ve always thought you a likely lad.’