He had been persuaded to meet with Philo because of Mr Paxton’s letter, which had been full of praise for Philo’s skills and honesty. Mr Paxton had also pointed out that since Garnet Hooke’s intelligence came mostly from Philo, and since Philo was no longer working for Mr Hooke, Garnet’s future reports would not be as full or as accurate. Mr Paxton had concluded his letter by offering Philo’s services – and the services of his four loyal friends – at a reduced rate. And Mr Fielding had jumped at the prospect. Even a lack of written reports hadn’t bothered the magistrate, who preferred face-to-face contact. ‘The eye is a window to the soul,’ he’d once remarked, ‘and as long as we have a private place to meet, I welcome any opportunity of winnowing the wheat from the chaff in person.’
The wheat on this particular Saturday night was Philo’s latest intelligence about Scamper’s gang. Though long gone from Rat’s Castle, they were still drifting around its immediate neighbourhood. Gugg had last been seen scavenging for scraps in Bloomsbury Market, while Fleabite had spotted Scamper Knaggs scurrying along Hog Lane with a suspicious-looking bundle under his arm. Only Cockeye seemed to have vanished altogether; Kit had heard that he was in Plymouth.
As for Jemmy Jukes and Davy Andrews, Mr Fielding already knew where they were. Davy had been sent back to Virginia on a convict ship, while Jemmy was tottering around the St Giles workhouse, not fully recovered from his stupor. According to Garnet Hooke, even Civil Joe Constantine continued to suffer from the poison’s aftereffects. Garnet knew this because the highwayman was still consulting him. And Mr Fielding knew it because Garnet was still feeding the magistrate scraps of intelligence.
‘I gather that Mr Hooke is in receipt of much chairmen’s gossip,’ the magistrate had observed, ‘but I suspect that the bulk of his information comes from a more dubious source. Indeed, if he were not so careless of his patients’ privacy, I would be tempted to have him charged for defrauding by the false exercise of skill in witchcraft or conjuration.’
Philo sensed that Mr Fielding would have liked to hear more about Garnet’s divining business. The magistrate had a clever way of questioning Philo without appearing to do so. But informing on Garnet Hooke wasn’t a part of their agreement, so Philo had never blabbed. He felt guilty enough about Garnet.
That was why he gave Fettler a cut of Mr Fielding’s fee every week. Philo wanted to demonstrate that, instead of forcing Garnet out of the arrangement, he had simply reversed it; now Philo was the one distributing the money, instead of Garnet. Philo didn’t want Garnet to die a pauper. He especially didn’t want Garnet hating him. It was unwise to offend a cunning man, even if that cunning man didn’t necessarily believe in his own curses . . .
After scribbling down most of Philo’s report, Mr Fielding had left the house at eight o’clock. Fifteen minutes later, Philo had followed him into the street, taking care to slip out quietly when no one else was around. Philo had then lit his torch and gone looking for business; he’d escorted a butcher from Lewknor’s Lane to the White Hart, a gunsmith from the White Hart to the watch house, and a couple of drunk brewers from Coal Yard to Turnstile Alley. But towards midnight he had headed for a tavern called the Black Boy and Sugar Loaf – because it was here that he met with a certain Mr Bishop every week.
Mr Bishop had heard about Philo through Mr Paxton’s friend at the Admiralty. Philo understood that Mr Bishop worked for the Secretary of State, but knew little more than that. He was even beginning to doubt that Bishop was the gentleman’s real name. All Philo knew about Mr Bishop was that he paid well, and that he had a truly astonishing memory. While Mr Paxton and Mr Fielding had to write down what Philo told them, Mr Bishop never did. He couldn’t, because their meetings always took place during their regular trips from the Black Boy and Sugar Loaf to the hackney stand beside the church of St Clement Dane.
Mr Bishop was very punctual. He unfailingly left his tavern on the stroke of twelve, expecting Philo to be waiting for him. Tonight was no different. Philo had barely caught his breath before Mr Bishop appeared, sniffing the air as he pulled on a pair of gloves. He was pale, slim and soft-spoken, with small brown eyes and slender hands. Framed by a crisp, white wig, his face was curiously smooth and ageless; he could have been anything from twenty to forty.
He never raised his voice, and rarely changed his expression, which was usually one of good-humoured detachment.
‘Ah,’ he said, on spotting Philo. ‘Well met. I should like to go to the Strand.’
‘Aye, your honour.’ Touching his hat, Philo set off down Stanhope Street – which had been carefully chosen for this particular job. It had no gin-shops or coffee-houses along its entire length, so it was always quiet in the early hours of the morning. More importantly, it was well supplied with exits; Philo could turn off it in any direction without straying too far from his route. And he’d had to do this more than once, because Mr Bishop didn’t want to be overheard. Apparently it was vital that there be no suggestion of a ‘secret meeting’. After his regular Saturday-evening punch club, Mr Bishop could hardly be blamed for hiring a linkboy to walk him to a hackney stand. It was the kind of thing anybody might do. But to ensure that no one eavesdropped, it was Philo’s job to keep well away from other people.
He had once proposed that they simply fall silent whenever they found themselves within earshot of anyone else. Mr Bishop had dismissed the idea. There could be nothing more suspicious, he’d said – and the last thing he wanted was to arouse suspicion. To the casual observer (someone inside a house, for instance) they had to look as if they were discussing the state of the roads, or the price of gin.
So Philo often found himself ducking down side streets with Mr Bishop, as if he was terrified that every other pedestrian might be a footpad.
‘Have you seen aught of John Caryll?’ Mr Bishop inquired, as they passed the shuttered pastry shop on the corner of Peter Street.
Philo nodded. ‘Twice on Thursday evening, at the Crown and Anchor. Then again the next day, outside a house in Butcher’s Row. He tapped on the door and whistled an air before being admitted.’
‘And the air was?’
‘“Highland Laddie”.’
‘Was it indeed?’ Mr Bishop rarely sounded so interested. ‘Which house?’
‘The one on the east corner of Ship Yard.’
Mr Bishop grunted, apparently pleased with this reply. He had told Philo to keep his ears pricked for Jacobite tunes, and to watch out for Jacobite symbols such as oak leaves, acorns or white roses. If Philo ever heard anyone use the words ‘Let it be done’ as a greeting – if he ever saw anyone passing his glass over water before toasting the King – he was to tell Mr Bishop. Philo was also to convey any intelligence he might pick up about a certain house, a certain tavern and a certain printer’s shop. The printer in question was suspected of publishing Jacobite pamphlets, while the tavern was probably hosting a Jacobite drinking club. As for the house, it was where the Young Pretender had been staying.
According to Mr Bishop, increased activity at known Jacobite haunts might mean that a plot was being hatched to overthrow the King.
‘An’ it please you, sir – there’s a fellow heading this way,’ Philo softly observed, before nudging Mr Bishop into Clare Street. As it happened, someone was ambling towards them down this street, too, but it didn’t matter. All Philo had to do was take a sharp right into George Alley.
‘Did Mr Caryll keep any company at the Crown and Anchor tavern?’ Mr Bishop continued, after a brief pause. ‘Did he arrive or leave with anyone?’
‘He did,’ said Philo, and began to describe the gentleman in a low voice as they splashed through a puddle. On arriving at Holles Street, he had a choice of three routes to take – and two of them were blocked by dim silhouettes that troubled Philo.
Could the man from Stanhope Street have retraced his steps?
‘That gentleman with Mr Caryll might have been George Osborne,’ Mr Bishop remarked thoughtfully. ‘He edits the True Briton, which Mr Caryll sp
onsors. It is the most inflammatory rag . . .’
While Mr Bishop mused and muttered, Philo crossed Holles and plunged into an alley. But when he reached the next cross-street, he stopped short.
‘Wait,’ he said, peering around the corner. Sure enough, their Stanhope Street friend had backtracked once again, and was hovering off to their right, at the end of the road. Up on Vere Street, to their left, someone else was doing the same thing. ‘We’re being drove,’ Philo whispered, retreating a step.
‘What?’ said Mr Bishop.
‘We’re being drove,’ Philo repeated. He fixed his gaze on the alley ahead – New Inn Passage – and saw at once what was going on. At the end of this passage lay New Inn, one of the inns-of-court. Its entrance was a narrow doorway with a big, empty garden beyond it. And the porter would be fast asleep, at this hour.
‘They want to drop us with no warning,’ Philo went on, sensing an ambush. ‘A hue and cry is our best defence.’ He raised a hand to knock on the nearest door.
But Mr Bishop caught his arm. ‘No fuss,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll go back.’
‘If we do, they might risk a direct assault.’ For a split second Philo considered the streets all around them – and suddenly it was as if a signpost had popped into his head. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked, peering up at Mr Bishop.
‘Of course.’
‘Then come. Don’t speak.’
Philo took a deep breath before moving briskly across Haughton Street into New Inn Passage. Here, outside a one-storeyed tobacconist’s shop, he shoved his torch into Mr Bishop’s hand and swung himself up onto the windowsill. ‘I’ll need a push,’ he said, reaching for the little shelf above the window. Mr Bishop obeyed, giving Philo’s backside a great shove. Two seconds later, Philo had cleared a low brick parapet and was on the roof.
‘Link!’ he croaked. ‘Hurry! While they still can’t see us!’
Mr Bishop passed up the torch before grabbing Philo’s free hand, which was stretched towards him. As Philo braced himself, Mr Bishop placed one foot on the windowsill and one on the wall beside it, hanging off Philo’s arm as if it were a rope. For an instant Philo thought that his arm was going to be yanked out of its socket. But Mr Bishop was amazingly spry, and sprang up to grab the parapet like a man who’d spent years climbing topmasts.
Soon he was scrambling over the roof with Philo, heading for the two-storeyed building next door.
Philo was familiar with all the houses along New Inn Passage. He knew that the two-storeyed bookbinder’s shop was jammed against the three-storeyed rear walls of numbers nineteen and twenty, New Inn. He also knew that the houses encircling the New Inn garden, being joined together, offered an unbroken route to Wych Street. So he used the bookbinder’s house as a stepping-stone to the roofs of New Inn – which, though quite steeply pitched, were studded with multiple chimneys to cling to, and handy parapets that would break any fall.
‘Stay close,’ he hissed, after hauling Mr Bishop onto the roof of number twenty. What with the darkness and the chimney smoke, it was very hard to see; Philo was worried that Mr Bishop might tumble to his death if he strayed too far from the torchlight. But Mr Bishop continued to surprise him. Having pulled off his shoes, the man padded along the rooftop in his stockinged feet like a cat, making far less noise than Philo. It was only when they finally reached Wych Street that Mr Bishop put his mouth to Philo’s ear and said, ‘How are we going to get down?’
Philo didn’t answer. So far, they had been keeping to the west side of the roofs, away from the garden, where someone might have spotted their torch. But on reviewing a mental map, Philo realised that they would have to risk being seen if they were to use the dormer windows set high over the main entrance to New Inn.
He put a finger to his lips, ducked down low, and led Mr Bishop back towards the garden, passing two chimneys and scrambling over another low parapet that separated one building from the next. From there he scuttled along a narrow terrace – bent almost double – until he reached a sash window that he pried open with his clasp-knife. Having escorted many a drunken lawyer home, he knew that all the inns-of-court chambers were reached by common stairwells. And he was pretty sure that the window in front of him led to one of these stairwells.
Sure enough, he soon found himself climbing over the windowsill onto a landing, where he blackened the plaster with smoke from his torch. Once Mr Bishop had joined him, it wasn’t long before they were both on the ground floor, peering through a half-open door across a vast expanse of dimly lit gravel. Somewhere out there was New Inn Passage.
‘I can’t see them,’ Philo whispered.
‘Nor can I,’ said Mr Bishop, who was pulling on his shoes.
‘Quick! Before they come back!’
It was barely six steps to the main entrance. Philo covered this distance in the blink of an eye, then darted through a covered passage into Wych Street. But Wych Street wasn’t lively enough – not that early in the morning. Philo had to keep his pace brisk and his mouth shut until they were close to the Angel Inn, which was still noisy despite the hour.
He only relaxed when they reached the broad, bright, busy Strand, where oil-lamps gleamed and hackney coaches were rattling to and fro.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bishop. He had stopped in front of St Clement’s churchyard to adjust his wig. ‘I must congratulate you, Mr Grey. That was as neat a ploy as ever I saw. May I ask if you recognised any of those gentlemen?’
‘I did not, your honour.’
‘I’m afraid I did. And I must offer my apologies.’
‘Sir?’
‘Rooftop escapes are an unfortunate consequence of my patronage. It is not the first I’ve undertaken, nor will it be the last. One grows accustomed to such detours.’ Mr Bishop drew out his pocket watch, checked the time, and gave a satisfied nod before once again fixing his mild gaze on Philo. ‘Should we continue this discussion next week, in less distracting circumstances?’
For a moment Philo stared at Mr Bishop. Then he began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he couldn’t speak. All he could do was nod in reply.
He was still laughing when they reached the hackney stand in front of the church.
GLOSSARY
Basting – a beating
Belike – perhaps; maybe
Bespeak – testify to
Betimes – early; before the usual time
Blowen – girlfriend
Breeched – when a small boy graduates from frocks to breeches
Burn the ken – vacate a lodging without paying the rent due
Bussing – kissing
Chink – money
Clunch – clumsy, awkward, clownish fellow
Cordwainer – someone who makes shoes from fine, soft leather
Cove – man
Crib – dwelling
Cull – man
Dead-men – empty glasses
Deuce – twopence; the devil
Ding – to knock down
Fadge – do, or suit (i.e. it won’t fadge – it won’t do)
Fetch – a trick
Flash crib – thieves’ haunt
Foxed – drunk
Duds – clothes
Glim-jack – linkboy
Grub – food
Gull – to trick
Gut – rob
Gut-foundered – hungry
Handy-blows – fisticuffs
Hook it – to leave; to run away
Hop the twig – to leave to run away
Jockum-gage – chamber-pot
Ken – dwelling
Ken-miller – housebreaker
Land-pirate – highwayman
Lay – a scheme, an enterprise
Lollpoop – lazy, idle drone
Lying-in – childbirth
Maunder – beggar
Mill – to rob or steal
Mill, upon the –housebreaking
Montero cap – cap with flaps that can be drawn down to cover the ears
Mort – woman
&nbs
p; Nail – to rob or steal
Nix – nothing
Noddy – idiot
Peach – to inform on
Pig-widgeon – fool
Prig – thief
Quarters – rent
Roast – to arrest
Rum-glimmer – exceptional linkboy
Scrape – a distressing predicament
Settle – to stun or knock down
Shopped – arrested
Slubberdegullion – worthless person
Smeller – nose
Snap – to catch
Strip – to rob
Stubble it – hold your tongue
Todge – mash
Tosspot – drunkard
Twig – to comprehend
Vapours – hysteria
Whip off – to leave; to run away
Catherine Jinks, Theophilus Grey and the Demon Thief
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