They also roamed much farther afield, since it was their duty to attend every fire in the city, no matter how distant.
Philo knew one of the Bridewell boys, whose name was Barnabas Holt. They had met when Barnabas was eight and Philo six. For a brief time they had lodged in the same house, before Barnabas’s mother had moved away to St Bride’s parish. Years later, after extinguishing a fire at the Woodyard brewhouse, Barnabas had spotted Philo at the Golden Key tavern.
Ever since, Barnabas had been acting as one of Philo’s informants. His specialty was ‘tinny hunters’ – thieves who plundered the victims of house-fires by pretending to rescue their property. Barnabas would take note of everyone he saw loitering at the scene of a fire, then pass the details on to Philo. The two boys tried to meet once a month, but it was difficult. St Bride’s parish was a long way from Philo’s territory, and Barnabas wasn’t free to roam at will. There were strict rules governing Bridewell Hospital (which adjoined Bridewell Prison), and though the Bridewell apprentices didn’t always follow these rules, Philo rarely saw Barnabas.
So when he noticed his friend riding on the fire-engine, he immediately decided to follow it.
‘Come,’ he said to Fleabite. ‘The fire is in Covent Garden market. I need to speak to Barnabas, and I don’t have a link.’
‘What happened to you?’ Fleabite demanded, his gaze moving from Philo’s distorted hat to his muddy face. ‘Is that tow on your head?’
‘We need to get away from Wych Street,’ Philo said shortly. He grabbed Fleabite’s bony little arm and hurried after the fire-engine, which was heading for Drury Lane. A lot of other people were following it; fires were a popular form of entertainment, and didn’t cost a penny.
‘You look a rare sight,’ Fleabite continued, as he stumbled along beside Philo. ‘Like something you’d sweep up on market day.’
‘’Twas this or a basting,’ Philo snapped. ‘I fell foul o’ Wiley’s crew.’
‘What?’
‘He’s not kept his word.’
On their way to Covent Garden, Philo told Fleabite what had happened outside the Essex Head. By the time they reached Pump Court – where Philo stopped briefly to wash his face, untie his hump and remove his bedraggled wig – Fleabite was spitting with anger.
‘Blood an’ ’ounds, they’re past all shame!’ he cried, dancing about like a flea on a griddle. ‘By God, I’ll ding the huffs!’
‘You’ll not go near ’em,’ Philo growled, fixing Fleabite with his cold, blue gaze. ‘I’ll deal with the rogues, and I’ll do it as I see fit.’
‘But—’
‘They’d wipe their feet on you.’ Philo spoke in such a commanding tone that Fleabite subsided. But he kept muttering to himself as they continued up Bridges Street, past the Rose Coffee House, into a pall of smoke. The smoke was drifting down Russell Street like a sea-mist, turning oil-lamps into faint, bright smudges and making Philo cough.
As he approached the market, Philo’s interest in what was happening defused the simmering rage he still felt at the thought of Wat Wiley’s treachery. He could hear hoarse cries coming from the square, where clouds of smoke and steam were just visible above the silhouettes of about a hundred onlookers. Philo soon worked out that the fire had started in the distillery at number eleven – John Bradley’s house – and that it hadn’t spread. In fact it seemed to have been extinguished. Though there was a lot of smoke, there weren’t any flames. No hellish glow illumined the faces clustered around, which were lit by lamps and lanterns. Embers were falling from the sky, but instead of being tossed about by boiling gusts of hot air, they drifted down gently, like apple-blossom.
Squeezing past several people whose names he knew, Philo soon reached a spot that gave him a good view of the distillery. He noticed that a bricklayer named Richard Norris and a plumber named Edward Ives were hard at work with buckets and fire-hooks. It didn’t surprise him. Both men were employed by the Duke of Bedford, and the whole of Covent Garden belonged to the Duke.
Philo wondered if the Duke’s contractors would be punished for letting a fire take hold in one of the Duke’s own houses.
There were also about a dozen Bridewell boys on the scene, most of them pumping water through the front door of number eleven. In the light shed by the fire-engine’s coach-lamps, Philo could just make out Barnabas Holt’s looselimbed figure. Though it was often hard to tell the Bridewell boys apart, Barnabas was always easy to pick, despite his uniform. He had a wild way of moving, as if his joints were made of wet string. Sometimes, when he threw himself about, he looked like a marionette in a stiff breeze. He rarely combed his hair, which was a mousy, matted tangle, and his lantern-jawed face was always covered in boils.
As a small boy, Barnabas had been as mousy as his hair. But Bridewell had changed him. He’d become quite boisterous, full of quips and pranks, though there was always something hard and watchful at the back of his eyes that made Philo feel sad. Kit Maltman shared the same wariness, which never quite left him.
It came, Philo thought, from a lack of trust.
Suddenly Philo spotted another familiar face in the crowd. It was Wiley’s friend, the dwarvish linkboy. Crab Jack. There was no mistaking that ragged shirt and greasy scratch-wig.
Philo muttered an oath.
‘What is it?’ asked Fleabite, who had sidled up to him. ‘Captain?’
Philo didn’t respond. He was too busy scanning the marketplace, looking for other members of Wat Wiley’s crew. But even though he recognised a good many faces, he couldn’t see anyone who didn’t belong.
‘Philo! Hi! Philo Grey!’ Barnabas cried. He had spotted Philo, and was waving at him. Philo cursed again as he glanced towards Crab Jack. Sure enough, the other linkboy had heard Philo’s name. Peering through all the smoke and ash and milling bodies, he took one look at Philo and bolted.
‘Hollo! Barnabas!’ Fleabite answered because Philo hadn’t. ‘Too busy for a dram?’
‘Give me a moment!’ Barnabas replied loudly.
Fleabite nudged Philo, who was staring after Crab Jack with narrowed eyes. He had half a mind to follow the treacherous little ragamuffin and throw him down a well. How dare he move beyond Wych Street, after what his friends had done to Philo?
But then Philo caught sight of Richard Norris staggering out of the distillery, and a sudden thought occurred to him.
‘Wait here,’ he told Fleabite, moving to intercept Norris. The bricklayer was short but stocky, with thick, powerful limbs and an enormous neck. His wispy hair was tobacco-coloured; his eyes were grey slits. Both his ears and his nose bore witness to the amount of boxing he did in his spare time.
He knew Philo. In fact he knew most of the folk who frequented Covent Garden, and would sometimes have a quiet word in a dark alley with people who owed the Duke of Bedford rent, or who had damaged the Duke’s property.
‘Mr Norris!’ said Philo. ‘A word, an’ it please you!’
The bricklayer scowled at Philo. ‘What?’ he snarled.
Philo took a deep breath, suppressing a sudden pang of doubt. I’ll teach those shuffling rogues to break their word, he thought fiercely. Then he launched into his speech, which he delivered in a calm, quiet, steady voice. ‘Sir, I just saw a glim-jack who don’t belong here. He runs with a riverside crew – Crab Jack is his name.’
‘And?’ Norris rumbled impatiently.
‘Sir, those culls are known to mix with river pirates, so why not tinny hunters?’ Seeing the bricklayer’s eyes widen, Philo added, ‘He had a flaming torch and wasn’t on his own patch. It raised a suspicion in my mind. What if he lit the fire so others might profit from it?’
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Crab Jack, sir. A stunted fellow in a scratch-wig. One o’ Wat Wiley’s crew. They work south o’ the Strand.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Norris, mopping his sooty face with his neckerchief. His gaze flicked towards the great crowd of spectators behind Philo, as if searching for someone. ?
??He’s not here now?’
‘He ran when I snilched him.’
‘I see,’ Norris growled. Then he nodded. ‘Thanks.’
Philo nodded back. He waited until Norris had buttonholed another of the Duke’s bullies. Then he turned away, satisfied.
‘What was that about?’ asked Fleabite, when Philo reached him. But Philo just shook his head, coughing.
‘We should stay and watch for tinny hunters,’ he replied.
So they did. As the smoke thinned and the engine ran dry, they kept their eyes pinned on everyone who emerged from the smoking house. But apart from John Bradley himself, no one stumbled through its front door laden with rescued property. ‘I’ll lay odds they would have struck early, before the fire took hold,’ Philo muttered. Then he lifted a hand to Barnabas, who was heading in his direction. ‘I’ll buy that drink for Barnabas,’ he told Fleabite. ‘You should keep working.’ As Fleabite scowled, Philo sighed and said, ‘I can’t keep working. I’ve lost my link. But I’ll fetch another from home when I leave here.’
Fleabite still wasn’t pleased. He slumped and glowered and dragged his feet as he trudged away, putting on an act for Philo’s benefit. But Philo hardly noticed. He was feeling exhausted, though it wasn’t yet midnight.
The thought of shoving more intelligence into his overstuffed brain made him want to curl up like a hedgehog.
‘Philo Grey!’ Barnabas lunged at him suddenly from out of the smoke, all wild eyes and sooty skin. ‘What an age it’s been! You should have lit a fire here long ago …’
Philo winced and glanced nervously towards Richard Norris. ‘That’s a dangerous charge, even in jest,’ he said quietly. ‘Where shall we go? The Shakespeare’s Head?’
‘Aye.’ Barnabas flung an arm around Philo’s shoulders. ‘But you’d best show a leg, or we’ll not be drinking alone. The other lads’ll be with us in a minute.’ As they moved off together, past the shuttered fruit stalls, he added, ‘Where’s your link? And what’s that stick for? Protection?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘I thought to see more pretty girls. Did the fire scare ’em off? I don’t see why – ’twas barely a bonfire, that one. Three little rooms scorched, and the roof’s still as sound as a nut.’
‘Did you—’
‘Spy a tinny hunter? I saw one skulking rogue. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Yellow waistcoat. A bad ’un to the core, by the look of him.’ Barnabas gave a shout of laughter, throwing Philo off balance as he pitched sideways for no good reason. ‘By my fig, but I’ve a thirst! I could drink the Thames dry! Hungry, too – though not as gut-foundered as you must be.’ Looking Philo up and down, he said, ‘You’re skin and bone. Have you been ill?’
‘I’m well enough.’ Philo tried to change the subject. ‘How are you faring at the hospital? Someone mentioned it to me, this afternoon—’
‘As a nursery of rogues? Aye. ’Tis that.’
‘He was talking about Dr Bamber.’
‘Old Spoony?’ said Barnabas, then coughed, hawked and spat. ‘We see him about.’
‘Spoony?’ Philo repeated. ‘He’s a fool, then?’
Barnabas shook his head. ‘No more than most. Nay, the ladies call him that, for at every lying-in he uses some strange device like a giant spoon with a hole in it.’
‘An instrument?’ asked Philo, remembering what Mr Paxton had said.
‘I daresay, though it don’t play tunes.’ By this time they had reached the Shakespeare’s Head, which was busy even in the early hours of the morning. But Philo knew the potboy, so they didn’t have to wait too long before placing their order. ‘I’ll have a gin and small beer,’ Barnabas announced, then nodded graciously when it was offered to him free of charge. In his soot-smeared white hat and blue uniform, he was guaranteed free drinks for most of the night, though Philo had to pay fourpence for a quart of pale ale.
There were gin-shops nearby where they could have bought a whole pint of gin for fourpence. But the Shakespeare’s Head charged more because it was a superior tavern, famous for its turtle soup and learned societies. Philo understood this, and was willing to pay extra. He knew that any information he received from Barnabas would be well worth it.
So he sat down in one of the vacant booths near the door, laid his staff carefully against the oak-panelled wall beside him, and prepared to memorise whatever Barnabas chose to reveal.
WHY PHILO
FOUND HIMSELF BEFORE
A MAGISTRATE
Philo’s crew usually spent their Sundays looking for people who couldn’t go out at any other time, for fear of being arrested. These ‘Sunday men’ were mostly debtors and petty thieves, though sometimes a few notorious highwaymen would emerge into broad daylight. By following them from one illegal gin-shop to the next, Philo’s team would eventually track them back to their bolt-holes. Then Philo would pass this information to Mr Henry Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate.
But while the other boys normally set off at around midday, Philo always woke up a little earlier. He would dress quietly (so as not to wake the others), swallow a few mouthfuls of bread, comb his hair, wash his face and head for St Paul’s church, in Covent Garden. For it was here, after the Sunday morning service, that he met with Mr Fielding.
Not that Philo actually went to the service. Instead he would linger behind the giant stone column in the middle of the square, until the congregation had left. This usually happened while the bells were ringing. On rainy days the crowd dispersed quickly, but when it was fine he often had to wait as well-dressed parishioners stopped to chat in front of the church’s massive portico, smiling and nodding and exchanging news.
On the morning after the fire, they all stood and pointed at Mr Bradley’s house. Though Philo couldn’t hear them, he could guess what they were saying. The distillery was a sad sight. Though its upper stories were merely soot-stained, the windows on its lowest floor were gaping black holes. And no one was working in the charred ruins because it was a Sunday. Even Mr Bradley hadn’t dared break the Sabbath.
Mr Bradley wasn’t at church, either. At least, Philo didn’t see him. But he did see Mr Fielding, who emerged from St Paul’s surrounded by his wife and children. Thanks to his gout, Mr Fielding was on crutches. He wore a sober grey coat and a full-bottomed periwig, and he didn’t look well. Instead of accompanying his family back home, he kissed Mrs Fielding, bowed stiffly to one of the other ladies, then turned into the Covent Garden watch house – which stood just inside the churchyard, next to its southern gate.
This was Philo’s signal. He immediately headed towards the northern gate, on the other side of the church. From there he circled the building, threading his way through the lime trees and open graves in the churchyard, until he reached the back of the watch house.
Then he knocked three times on the watch-house door.
It was a modest little building, two storeys high and one room wide. A shuttered window had been placed on each side of its front entrance; there was another window in the roof, and a third in the rear, heavily barred. When Philo peered through this low-set window, he saw that the cell behind it was empty.
Suddenly the back door opened, revealing a sullen parish constable named Meeks.
‘Come in,’ said the constable, jerking his chin at Philo – who slipped past without a word. He knew exactly where to go. The front room of the watch house was a grim place, furnished with nothing but a table, a few benches, a rack of oilcloth coats, and lots of lanterns stacked on high shelves. It was where the watchmen gathered before setting off on their evening rounds, where the constables received complaints, and where prisoners were brought at night. The lock-up at the rear of the house was even grimmer. But between these two rooms lay a parlour with a fireplace, and it was here that Mr Fielding always interviewed Philo.
Until recently, they had met once a week at Mr Paxton’s lodgings – where Mr Fielding had pretended to consult the surgeon about his asthma. But now that he was stricken with gout, the magistrate no longer wanted to climb st
airs. So he had arranged to meet Philo in the Covent Garden watch house, out of the public eye.
‘Ah! There you are,’ said Mr Fielding, as Philo slipped into the room. ‘Your tea’s getting cold.’
The magistrate was a tall, heavy, middle-aged man with a hooked nose and a big chin. His hands were always ink-stained. Though at first glance he looked a little ponderous, thanks to his gout and his paunch and his old-fashioned wig, there was nothing slow about his piercing gaze or his razor-sharp wit. Philo had always been slightly afraid of Mr Fielding, who was a writer as well as a lawyer, and who had powerful friends like the Duke of Bedford. Though the magistrate was blessed with a good sense of humour, his temper was sometimes soured by illness. So Philo trod carefully whenever they met.
For once, however, Mr Fielding seemed to be in high spirits. He was sitting by the fireplace, a dish of tea in one hand and a pencil in the other. His gouty foot was propped on a low stool. In his lap was a leather-bound book. Beside him was another stool, which supported a stoneware teapot, a napkin, another dish of tea and a bowl of oatcakes.
Mr Fielding nodded at the chair across from him. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Did you hear about the new Gin Bill?’
Philo shook his head, reaching for an oatcake as he settled into the empty chair. Mr Fielding always fed him, and Philo was always grateful for the courtesy.
‘No more selling of gin in gaols or workhouses,’ the magistrate announced, with obvious satisfaction. ‘Licensing fees and taxes to be raised. No more gin-distilling licenses to be granted henceforth. I expect to see a drop in street-crime. And an improvement in children’s health. I said as much in the pamphlet I published last week.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Philo hadn’t heard about this pamphlet. ‘What was it called?’