Theophilus Grey and the Demon Thief

  ‘The landlady said Sussex,’ Susannah went on – then grabbed her basket as Philo nearly dropped it.

  ‘What’s that?’ He thought he’d misheard. ‘Sussex?’

  ‘He has family there.’

  ‘In the country?’ When Susannah nodded, Philo exclaimed, ‘Are you telling me Bob Crow has left London?’

  ‘This morning.’

  Philo couldn’t believe his ears. He staggered a little, trying to absorb this extraordinary piece of information. Susannah watched him for a few seconds.

  ‘Is it good news or bad?’ she finally murmured.

  ‘Good. Very good.’ With Bluff Bob gone, there was only Josiah Billings left to deal with. ‘Did you find out why he left? Did the landlady know?’

  Susannah shook her head. ‘She didn’t care, for he paid his quarters.’

  ‘Well . . . thanks, Susie. I am in your debt.’ Philo was about to leave when something else occurred to him. ‘Oh – by the bye – has Simon said aught about a devil on Dyott Street?’

  ‘Simon’s devil is everywhere. Perched on every shoulder,’ Susannah pointed out.

  ‘Aye, but lately . . .’ Philo trailed off, wondering how to phrase his next question. At last he said, ‘Have you formed a picture of his devil? Of exactly where it lives, or what it looks like?’

  Susannah’s gaze drifted away from him, coming to rest on the soot-streaked bodies of the damned souls carved into the Resurrection Gate. ‘Simon’s devil lives in every heart and home,’ she said softly. ‘’Tis dark and famished and deaf to all pleas. It prowls the streets at night. Sometimes it hides in the poor-hole.’

  Philo shuddered. He glanced towards the church, with its looming steeple, its grey vestry house and its overcrowded graveyard. ‘But is it real?’ he demanded. ‘Is it something you might come across lurking in an alley, like a footpad or a mad dog?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Susannah. Lifting her calm eyes to his face, she added, ‘Why are you asking about devils, Philo?’

  ‘No reason. A maggot in my brain,’ he answered. Then he hurried away, feeling slightly unnerved.

  It was time to talk to Garnet.

  CHAPTER 11

  OF AN UNEXPECTED

  VISIT FROM A HOUSEBREAKER, AND WHY PHILO WAS SO TROUBLED BY IT

  Philo arrived back home just in time to see a man in a brown riding-coat slip out the front door. The coat was long and generously cut, with three capes and a high collar, but it wasn’t ample enough to conceal the fact that its owner was carrying a parcel. Nor was the man’s cocked hat pulled down low enough to hide his face. Philo took one look at his heavy black brows, swarthy skin, plump cheeks and shifty green eyes and instantly identified Gugg Worris.

  Gugg Worris – a known housebreaker – was coming out of Philo’s house with a parcel tucked under his arm.

  ‘Hi! Stop!’ Philo charged down Cucumber Alley, yelling at the top of his voice. Heads popped out of windows. An oyster-seller turned to look. A horse shied and a dog flinched.

  Gugg jumped like a rabbit. He looked so guilty that Philo screamed, ‘Stop! Thief!’ It was a cry that lured several people out of their houses, though not in time to help Philo. When he threw himself at Gugg, there was nobody close enough to block the backhand that landed on his jaw.

  ‘Gaah!’ Philo dropped to one knee, still clinging to Gugg’s coat. The housebreaker shoved him off with a boot to the chest. It was a glancing blow, but it was enough to floor Philo. Then Gugg jerked away and ran off towards Queen Street, as Philo rolled onto his stomach, coughing and groaning.

  ‘Theophilus!’ Garnet’s voice suddenly thundered down from an upstairs window. ‘Theophilus Grey! Come inside at once!’

  ‘Gugg . . . thief . . . can’t . . .’ Philo tried to protest, but eventually trailed off. By this time a neighbour had joined him; Philo looked up to see the button-maker from down the alley, who clicked his tongue and shook his head as he helped Philo to his feet.

  ‘Theophilus?’ Garnet continued. ‘Upstairs, if you please. The man merely wanted a letter written.’

  Dazed, Philo picked up his hat and staggered into the house. His chest hurt and his jaw felt numb. His beautiful coat was smeared with muck. His hat was dirty.

  He was still trying to brush it clean when he reached Garnet’s room.

  ‘What have I told you about jumping to conclusions?’ said Garnet, who was leaning against the doorjamb. For a moment he studied Philo over the tops of his spectacles, his gaze shifting from Philo’s muddy knees to his trembling hands to his tousled curls. ‘We must hope that this will serve as a lesson to you.’

  ‘But Gugg, sir – he’s a thief—’

  ‘He was not thieving. He was here for advice.’

  ‘Belike ’twas a fetch! To lift something without your knowledge!’ Philo sounded almost as breathless as Garnet did, thanks to his bruised ribs. ‘Gugg had a bundle, your honour—’

  ‘With a jug in it.’ Garnet took a step backwards. ‘Come inside. I refuse to discuss my business on the stairs.’

  Obediently Philo entered the room ahead of Garnet, who closed the door behind them. It was very warm, thanks to the blazing stove. Philo saw at once that Fettler was missing – as was one of Garnet’s bellarmine jugs. These curious vessels, made of stoneware and decorated with bearded faces, were kept high on a bookshelf out of Fleabite’s reach. Garnet had collected them from various taverns over the years, to make the protective charms known as witch-bottles.

  Every so often one of them would vanish, to be replaced (eventually) by another. There were now only four jugs, instead of five.

  ‘Gugg wanted a witch-bottle?’ Philo demanded, rounding on Garnet.

  ‘He did not. He wanted a sprite-trap.’

  Philo frowned. ‘A what?’

  ‘A sprite-trap.’ Garnet pronounced the words with amused contempt. ‘For catching hobgoblins, or some such thing.’ With a snort, he shuffled towards his bed, discarding his slippers on the way. ‘He paid a handsome price for the jug, which will be needed to put the sprite in, once it’s trapped. You can do more with a witch-bottle than curse witches, I’ve discovered.’

  Philo was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of profound unease. He had always found Garnet’s room an uncomfortable place, thanks to all the dusty books and eerie-looking objects scattered about. But never before had he felt as if he were caught in some kind of lair, with an unholy creature lurking just out of sight, in the shadows.

  ‘Help me, will you?’ said Garnet, who was slowly climbing into bed. ‘Give me your arm.’

  There were two mattresses stacked on the bed – one stuffed with horsehair and one with feathers. Philo had to steady Garnet as he clawed his way up onto the feather mattress. Garnet then collapsed against a pile of bolsters, his chest heaving.

  Philo waited until Garnet was comfortable before attempting to speak.

  ‘Mr Hooke,’ he began, ‘Gugg Worris lives in Rat’s Castle. Brimstone Moll lives there too – or did, until last night. And both have sought you out since yesterday, wanting charms.’

  Garnet nodded. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  ‘Stoat Grocott also left Rat’s Castle last night. And Simon Edy, the beggar – he’s been raving about devils.’

  Garnet coughed. ‘Simon always raves about devils.’

  ‘Aye, but he told me about the devil’s touch. How it makes a man fall like a stone and lie like a corpse.’ Philo waited, but there was no reply. So he continued, more urgently. ‘’Tis what befell Jemmy Jukes, who also hails from Rat’s Castle. Something’s desperate wrong on Dyott Street. And if aught’s amiss there, it may spread. Like a plague. It should be stopped before it does, surely?’

  ‘I shall make a note,’ Garnet replied. He didn’t sound the least bit concerned, so Philo tried another tack.

  ‘Sir, what if Brimstone Moll had good cause to seek a charm from you? What if . . . what if . . .’ He faltered as he met Garnet’s steady gaze, then took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘What if there is a devil
?’

  For a moment Garnet stared at him. In the sudden silence, Philo heard the distant sound of bells ringing and street-vendors shouting. At last Garnet drawled, ‘If there is a devil, then we are fortunate. Belike it will mean more business for me.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘You’ve no cause to trouble yourself about such a parcel of rogues,’ Garnet continued calmly. ‘For they would not spare you a moment’s thought.’

  ‘Aye, but a devil might. What if it troubles other folk? Honest folk?’

  ‘I’m persuaded devils don’t trouble honest folk, Theophilus. Are we not assured in the scriptures that it is their delight to punish dishonest folk?’ Garnet’s tone was grave, but there was a glint in his eye. ‘You are honest enough to escape their clutches, I feel sure.’

  Philo didn’t. And he was equally doubtful about his crew. ‘Sir, if Brimstone Moll has a charm, and Gugg too, could you not . . . ah . . .’ The sight of Garnet’s raised eyebrow made Philo stall briefly, but the thought of Kit and Fleabite stiffened his resolve. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘You should give us a charm. For protection.’

  Garnet’s lips twisted, as if he’d smelled something bad. ‘Cold iron will usually suffice,’ was his chilly response. Then he settled back into his pillows and closed his eyes.

  Philo recognised a dismissal when he heard one. Any further discussion would simply annoy Garnet – and Philo didn’t want to do that. He was wary of Garnet’s tongue – and he also nursed an abiding sense of gratitude towards Garnet, who had saved him from the workhouse after his mother’s death. It meant that he felt obliged to meet Garnet’s high expectations.

  So he turned and left the room, massaging his jaw and wondering where he was going to find cold iron for his entire company. Would a handful of nails answer? Perhaps they could be bent at the tip, and worn on a string around the neck . . .

  ‘Captain!’ Suddenly Kit hailed Philo from the bottom of the stairs. Philo waved him up, trying to recall the nearest (and friendliest) nailer. He also wondered how much seven iron nails would cost. They were usually about a shilling a pound.

  I should ask Susannah what to do, he thought. She might know.

  ‘You’re back betimes,’ he said to Kit, then added, ‘’Twas wise to leave Dyott Street before dark, no doubt.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked Kit, eyeing Philo’s dirty coat and bruised face.

  Philo shrugged. ‘Naught. A trifle.’

  ‘Was it the lamplighter?’

  ‘Come upstairs – we need to talk.’

  Upstairs, in their garret room, they found Lippy and Dandy still toiling over the new torches. Linen tow had been wrapped around the heads of six wooden shafts, which were being doused in the pine pitch that Lippy had already heated up downstairs. The room stank of hot resin.

  ‘Fleabite not back?’ Philo asked, wincing at the pain in his jaw.

  Lippy shook his head. ‘Who pummelled you?’ he demanded. ‘Bluff Bob or Joe Billings?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Philo, adding, ‘Bob Crow has left London.’

  Everyone stared at him. Then Dandy burst into applause.

  ‘Huzzah!’ he cried. ‘You did it, Captain!’

  ‘Not I. Bob left this morning.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lippy.

  Philo shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can only pray he’ll not return.’

  ‘There’s a deal o’ folk hooked it, these last few days,’ Kit remarked. Dropping onto his bed, he looked up at Philo and murmured, ‘Rat’s Castle is empty. Bolted shut. There’s not a soul left that I could see.’

  Philo frowned. He had passed Rat’s Castle just a handful of times in his life, and on every occasion there had been people spilling out of the big old house, which had long ago fallen on hard times. The ground floor had for years been a popular place to buy cheap grog; the free-and-easy on the next floor generally offered singing, dancing and almost inedible suppers. A bed cost twopence a night, while for a shared bed the charge was just one penny.

  ‘Did you go in?’ Philo asked.

  ‘I told you, the front door was bolted.’ Kit held Philo’s gaze, his expression sour. It had been several years since Kit’s last unauthorised entry into a locked building, and he didn’t like to be reminded that he’d ever made a habit of climbing through windows. ‘I stopped at the Turk’s Head,’ he went on. ‘Said I was to meet a friend at the Castle, and what had befallen it? But no one would talk. So I went to the Maidenhead.’

  ‘And spoke to Toby Mackett?’ Philo interrupted. Toby was one of their go-betweens.

  ‘Aye.’ Kit lowered his voice. ‘Toby’s not so well informed, but he’d heard whispers. Folk are saying there’s a new uprightman among the fraternity, and that he’s a rare ding-boy.’

  Kit often returned from Dyott Street spouting more thieves’ cant than usual; after talking to his old friends, he found it hard to shake off. But Philo was aware than an ‘uprightman’ was a leader – and that a ‘ding-boy’ was a violent bully.

  ‘Word is that this new head-cully has taken over Rat’s Castle,’ Kit went on, ‘and flushed everyone out by putting the fear o’ the devil into ’em.’

  ‘The fear o’ the devil?’ Philo said sharply. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well – ’tis not the fear o’ God,’ Kit pointed out.

  ‘Oh. Aye.’

  ‘Mr Fielding would pay well for news of a fresh arch-rogue,’ Kit concluded, absentmindedly scratching his arm. ‘I’d lay odds Garnet will want to know more.’

  And Garnet wasn’t the only one. Philo wanted to know more, too. He wanted to know if the new arch-rogue was actually a demon.

  ‘Did Toby tell you aught about this cove?’ he asked Kit. ‘What he looks like? Where he comes from?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘Nix,’ he replied. ‘The fraternity don’t talk much outside the trade. All Toby’s heard is rumours.’

  ‘If we could get into Rat’s Castle—’ Lippy began, but wasn’t able to finish. Philo and Kit both turned on him, cutting him off in unison.

  ‘Are you addled?’ Kit said sharply, as Philo exclaimed, ‘Don’t be a fool!’

  Lippy subsided, looking hurt.

  ‘When an uprightman bolts the door against you, ’tis wise to take the hint,’ Kit added, in a more kindly tone. Then he said, ‘What’s for supper? Does anyone know? I’m gut-foundered . . .’

  As the discussion turned to cooking, Philo pondered his next move. A new presence had arisen on Dyott Street – he was sure of it. But was this so-called ding-boy a man or a devil? Brimstone Moll thought it a devil. So did Gugg Worris. It didn’t make sense, though; why would a devil attack Henry Bambridge the watchmaker?

  Unless, of course, there was no connection. Perhaps it was pure coincidence that a plague like a faery stroke had struck down two men while a new bully was moving into Rat’s Castle.

  ‘Captain?’ Lippy was speaking to him. ‘Captain!’

  Philo blinked, then shook off his reverie. ‘Aye? What?’

  ‘Who dinged you, if not the lamplighters?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Philo hesitated. If he mentioned Gugg Worris, he would have to explain what Gugg had come for. And if he did that, then the whole subject of demons would be given a good airing. Philo wasn’t sure that he wanted to mention demons just yet – not until he’d talked to Susannah about protective charms. What was the point of frightening Dandy and Fleabite out of their wits, unless he had something with which to reassure them?

  ‘’Twas a misunderstanding,’ he said cagily.

  Then Fettler burst into the room, carrying cheese and cabbage, and Lippy instantly forgot all about the bruise on Philo’s jaw.

  CHAPTER 12

  IN WHICH,

  AFTER SEEKING HELP, PHILO WITNESSED A PERPLEXING DISAGREEMENT

  ‘There are wicked sprites everywhere,’ Susannah observed. ‘In Wales and Cornwall and Scotland. Why should they not live in London?’

  ‘Aye, but . . . at Rat’s Castle?’ said Philo. They were skirtin
g St Giles’s pound, which was a large brick box with no roof, set smack in the middle of the wide, triangular space where Oxford Street met Tottenham Court Road. Behind the walls of the pound, pigs were grunting and dogs whining as they waited for their masters to find the money to retrieve them. But the cage next to the pound stood empty; no one had been imprisoned there for a long, long time. People were more likely to be put in the stocks, these days.

  ‘They say there’s a clurichaun in the cellars of the King’s Arms,’ Susannah informed Philo, ‘so why not an amadan dubh in Rat’s Castle? They’re both flash cribs.’

  ‘A clurichaun?’ Philo glanced down at her. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An Irish fae. A surly drunkard. The ruin of many a landlord.’ Turning into Banbridge Street, Susannah continued placidly, ‘If an alehouse is always changing hands, there’s bound to be a clurichaun drinking away the profits. Clurichauns are like bed-bugs – they’ll not leave a place where there’s drink to be had, and how can a tavern keep trading without a full cellar?’

  By this time they were in the very heart of the warren that Kit Maltman called the ‘Holy Land’. It was an unsettling place, with more drunkards per square yard than the Fox tavern. Many of the houses were falling down. If you weren’t a local, people glared at you. The place was full of dead-end courts and blind alleys, none of which Philo had fully explored. Every pedlar was selling things that had been stolen or scavenged: windfall fruit, laces and buttons, scraps of fabric.

  Philo usually tried to avoid the area. But he had agreed to accompany Susannah because she’d insisted on it. When asked about the usefulness of iron against demons, she had thought for a moment before agreeing that iron was effective, providing it had been forged on a cold anvil. ‘If you can be sure o’ that, you’ll be safe enough,’ she’d said, ‘though I have something better.’ She had then picked up her basket and taken Philo’s hand, guiding him away from St Giles’s church, towards High Street. ‘What you need is a sprig o’ St John’s wort, gathered at midnight on St John’s day,’ she’d told him, as she limped along. ‘I’ve a good portion left o’ my mother’s supply, but keep it under the bed. You’ve time enough to collect it before dark.’