‘I’ve no choice, Mr Paxton,’ Garnet said through his teeth. ‘My servant appears to have decamped—’
But Mr Paxton didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘You need a nurse, not a servant. If you’ve a mind to engage one, I know a deal of good nurses. For now, though, I must offer you our apologies. The boy and I are expected at dinner.’ Whirling around, he winked at Philo, then clapped him on the back. ‘Come along, slugabed! I told you to meet me at my lodgings! Did you expect me to ferret you out of your burrow?’
Next thing Philo knew, Mr Paxton was hustling him into the nearest side street. The surgeon kept his hand on Philo’s shoulder, steering him like a yoked bullock until Garnet was out of sight. Only then did Mr Paxton speak.
‘You can stop shaking,’ he observed. ‘What a hold that man has on you, to be sure!’
‘He – he’s very ill,’ Philo stammered. ‘He should never have left his bed …’
‘I concur.’
‘What if he should faint in the street?’
Mr Paxton stopped. They were standing in New Broad Court – which was wide and bright – so there was room enough to pause without blocking the rest of the foot-traffic. Turning towards Philo, Mr Paxton addressed him in a voice that was at once grave and slightly impatient.
‘You care too much about too many people,’ he said. ‘You are wasting away on account of it. I have never seen you so thin.’ Releasing Philo’s shoulder, the surgeon stooped to look him straight in the eye. ‘Garnet Hooke is not worth your consideration. Drop him. He is poison to you.’
Philo blinked. ‘I – I try to avoid him, your honour.’
‘Good.’
‘But Fettler Ben came to me, and I couldn’t turn him away …’
‘No doubt.’ Mr Paxton seemed to be in a hurry; he straightened up and clapped his hands together. ‘Well – I suggest you take another route home. Meanwhile, I do have a dinner engagement. So I’ll wish you good morrow and see you on Saturday.’ He nodded cheerfully, then hesitated as Philo’s face fell. ‘Unless there’s something else you want to tell me?’
Philo shook his head. It had occurred to him that Mr Paxton could write him a letter, in case Mrs Cowley wasn’t at home. Then it would be a simple matter of slipping the note under her door.
But he didn’t want to detain the surgeon.
‘Spill it.’ Mr Paxton knew him too well to be fooled. ‘Quickly, now.’
‘’Tis a letter I need, sir,’ Philo blurted out. ‘Two lines on a page, an’ it please you, but I can wait—’
‘You’ve no cause to.’ With a jerk of his chin, Mr Paxton began to move off. ‘I’m bound for the Bedford Coffee House, where there’s no shortage of ink or paper. What do you want written?’
‘Oh … ah …’ Philo recited the message he wanted Mr Bishop to receive. ‘Mr B., meet me outside the Black Boy and Sugar Bag tonight at ten o’clock. Your servant, Theophilus.’
The surgeon glanced down at Philo. ‘You’re not putting yourself at risk, I trust?’
Again Philo shook his head.
‘Something’s wrong, though. Is that Hooke creature troubling you?’ When Philo didn’t answer, Mr Paxton smiled crookedly. ‘Hah! I thought as much.’
‘Mr Hooke’s not to blame, sir. At least …’ Philo faltered, not knowing how to describe his complicated predicament. ‘I have other enemies,’ he said at last. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with ’em—’
‘Who?’
‘Ah – a crew o’ glim-jacks.’ Philo didn’t want to tell Mr Paxton about Anne Jenkins, or Mr Bishop, or Lady Primrose, so he was vague when it came to particulars. But he did admit that he had invaded Wat Wiley’s neighbourhood. He also confessed to punishing Wat Wiley for something he hadn’t done. As the story poured out, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his back. ‘I’d own to it freely, before making amends,’ he fretted, ‘but I don’t know that Wiley would trust me to keep my word. I’d not blame him if he didn’t wait to hear my apologies. I doubt I would myself, in his shoes.’ Punching his own palm in frustration, he said, ‘I played the fool, and now my boys must suffer for it.’
Mr Paxton grunted. ‘What if I were to treat with these fellows?’ he asked. ‘Belike they would listen to a neutral party.’
‘You, sir?’ Philo stared at him, horrified. ‘Lord, sir, don’t think of it!’
‘But—’
‘’Twould not answer.’ Though deeply touched that the surgeon would even suggest such a thing, Philo quailed at the thought of Mr Paxton charging around the riverside wharves. He cursed his own weakness, knowing that if he hadn’t been so keen to unburden himself, Mr Paxton would never have hatched such a foolhardy scheme. ‘By the by, sir, did you ever hear of a pedlar’s licence?’ he asked, in an attempt to change the subject. ‘My friend Susannah has been told she must have one, and I don’t know where to go for it.’
‘High Holborn,’ Mr Paxton replied promptly. ‘Against the Bell and Gate.’
Philo looked up at him, startled. ‘Sir?’
‘That’s where the Commissioners for Hawkers and Pedlars do their business. From nine in the morning until midday, then from two till five.’
‘Oh.’ Philo knew the office, but had always thought it somehow connected with the poor rate. Taxes of any kind were a mystery to him.
‘I don’t know what it will cost her, though I don’t doubt she’ll pay too much,’ Mr Paxton remarked. Having reached the end of James Street, he turned left at the Shakespeare’s Head. ‘Is she likely to be pursued? Such trifling misdemeanours are rarely enforced, in my experience. One might as well fine a dog for lifting its leg.’
Philo shrugged. He didn’t know if Mr Johns would make good his threat against Susannah, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. Anne Jenkins was already in Bridewell; he didn’t want Susannah following her. ‘Susannah is a good friend,’ he murmured. ‘She needs my protection.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Mr Paxton had once helped Philo to rescue Susannah from the clutches of a gang of footpads. He understood how much Philo was willing to do in her defence. ‘Well – here we are, at last. You might as well come in. If my friends have arrived, I’ll beg ’em for two minutes’ grace, while I pen your missive.’
The Bedford Coffee House occupied a gracious building behind the portico to the north of Covent Garden market. It was the most fashionable of all London’s coffee-houses; even in the middle of the afternoon, it was busy. As he followed Mr Paxton through the press of people by the front door, Philo found himself squeezing past the famous actor Mr Garrick, the famous artist Mr Hogarth, and Mr Henry Fielding’s blind brother, John.
‘You’d best wait here, or you’ll be charged a penny.’ Mr Paxton had to raise his voice above the roar of conversation that filled the stuffy, crowded vestibule. ‘I shan’t be long. If anyone asks, say you’re a runner.’
He then disappeared into the coffee room, which stank of tobacco smoke. Peering around the doorjamb, Philo could see two long tables covered in gazettes, newsletters, pens, paper, earthenware pitchers and a scattering of clay pipes. A coffee pot was steaming over the fire in the hearth. Cocked hats hung from a rack on the wall.
Philo spotted two familiar figures drinking dishes of coffee in shabby armchairs. One of them was James Bourdieu. Another was Mark Giberne, the wine merchant.
‘A poet is like a cat, my friend, because of his muse,’ someone was saying, high over Philo’s head. He could smell toasted cheese. There was a burst of laughter, then Mr Garrick began to recite some lines of blank verse, striking a dramatic pose, his quivering finger in the air.
Philo was watching him, open-mouthed, when Mr Paxton sidled up with a folded sheet of paper.
‘There,’ said the surgeon. He slipped the paper into Philo’s hand – along with two half-pennies.
‘Sir!’ Philo protested, but Mr Paxton cut him off.
‘For your trouble, lad,’ the surgeon declared loudly, before lowering his voice. ‘In God’s name, buy yourself some dinner with
it.’
Then he turned back into the coffee room, leaving Philo to battle his way out of the building alone. Luckily, some of the actors began to follow Mr Paxton, so the pressure eased a little. Philo managed to edge his way past the other gentlemen without treading on anyone’s foot, or snagging anyone’s coat-cuff.
He was hurrying down the front steps when he suddenly found himself face to face with Mr Bishop, who was heading inside.
Mr Bishop looked neat and composed. He had a folded newspaper tucked under one arm, and was in the process of checking his pocket watch. For a split second the two of them stared at each other. Then Mr Bishop sidestepped Philo, his blank gaze shifting to a spot just beyond Philo’s right ear. He moved past like someone avoiding a pile of horse-dung, while Philo was still recovering from his initial shock.
‘Sir!’ Philo’s original plan had been to deliver his note to Mrs Cowley. But it occurred to him that no one who might be watching would think him anything more than a messenger boy. After all, Mr Paxton had actually written the letter. ‘Sir – this is for you, sir!’ he exclaimed, spinning around and thrusting the piece of paper at Mr Bishop’s retreating back. For one horrible moment he thought that the man was going to keep on walking.
But Mr Bishop halted. Then he turned and regarded Philo in his usual placid manner, with not a trace of recognition in his eyes. ‘For me?’ he asked, holding out his hand.
‘Aye, sir.’ Philo surrendered the note without meeting Mr Bishop’s gaze, conscious that any normal messenger boy would be expecting a tip. So he hesitated, not wanting to arouse suspicion – and Mr Bishop responded with a farthing.
‘Thank you so much,’ Mr Bishop said drily. He was gone before Philo could even pocket the coin.
Later, as he hurried down Russell Street, Philo hoped that Mr Bishop wasn’t angry with him. Suppose he resented being ambushed on the doorstep of the Bedford? Suppose he refused to show up at the Black Boy and Sugar Bag that night?
Surely he wouldn’t have expected me to walk right past him with that note in my hand, mused Philo, who had decided to visit Mrs Cowley anyway, letter or no letter. There was something he needed to ask her. There was something he had to do.
Upon arriving at her door, he was admitted by the maid, who happened to be on her way out with a bundle wrapped in newspaper. Mrs Cowley hailed him from inside her bedroom.
‘Theophilus Grey! Is that you?’ she said. Before Philo could answer she appeared in the doorway, looking pale and unkempt. A loose robe was wrapped around her, barely covering her shift and petticoat. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were puffy.
Philo wondered if she had been drinking.
‘Forgive me—’ he began, but Mrs Cowley wouldn’t let him finish.
‘Can you not read?’ she asked.
‘Read?’ he echoed, puzzled. ‘Aye. A little.’
‘Did you not read my note?’
‘I did,’ said Philo.
‘Then why did you come back?’ Mrs Cowley slumped against the doorjamb, fixing him with a look so grave – so hunted – that he was filled with a sense of amazed compassion. ‘Why did you not go away and never come back?’
‘Ma’am, I am here because I need your help,’ he murmured. ‘And I will gladly repay the favour, if you should ever need mine.’
A MUTUAL
AGREEMENT, A STROKE
OF GOOD FORTUNE, AND
A PIECE OF ILL LUCK
Philo wanted to visit Anne Jenkins in Bridewell Prison. He wanted her to know that he was working to get her out. He also wanted to speak to his friend Barnabas Holt, who lived in the hospital wing next door, because he thought that Barnabas might be able to help Anne.
But he wasn’t sure if he would be allowed to see Barnabas. He didn’t know if a twelve-year-old linkboy might be turned away from the hospital. It seemed to him that his entry could be guaranteed only if he went with Mrs Cowley.
He was convinced that Mrs Cowley could trick her way into any building, as long as she had the right costume.
‘I daresay I could ape a clergyman’s wife,’ Mrs Cowley agreed, once she had considered Philo’s request. ‘You could play the part of a foundling or a footboy – someone brought along to carry my basket. I’d have to bring a basket, of course. It is very bad form to visit a prison without bringing food.’
‘I’ll buy food,’ Philo promised. ‘I owe my friend that.’
‘Do you?’ Mrs Cowley was lounging on a settee, still wrapped in her robe. She hadn’t tried to tidy herself up, though she did look more alert. And she was studying Philo intently, with no trace of her usual light-hearted graciousness. There was something stern and uncompromising about her washed-out face and flat tone. ‘Your friendship seems to have a solid value to it, unlike so many I could name,’ she continued. ‘If I was to be your friend, my dear, would you do as much for me?’
‘Aye, ma’am.’ Philo took a deep breath, clutching his knees with both hands. He was sitting opposite Mrs Cowley in a dainty armchair. ‘If you was to do me this favour, I would be in your debt. And I always repay my debts.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Cowley. ‘I’ve inquired.’ Reaching for her fan, she snapped it open and began to beat the air languidly. ‘You have a reputation on the streets for honest dealing – and should not run the risk of soiling so precious a possession. That is why I warned you off the path that I was forced to take.’ Lowering her voice, her bright eyes trained on Philo like gun-barrels over the top of her fan, she said, ‘The truth of the matter is that I am impelled to do far more in Mr Giberne’s service than I would choose to. And I am in need of a friend because I do not have one in him.’
Philo stared at her. ‘Mr Giberne?’ he echoed.
‘Our mutual friend. You call him Bishop.’ Mrs Cowley smirked at the sight of Philo’s dropped jaw. ‘Did you not know his real name? Gabriel George Giberne. His family are French tradesmen. His cousin is a wine merchant.’ She spoke with profound disdain, almost spitting out the words. Then her shoulders sagged despondently. ‘And yet he has me in his power!’ she lamented. ‘I do not know if I can trust my own maid. But you would stand fast, would you not? If I proved myself your friend?’
Again Philo wondered if she had been drinking. Or did she simply have a taste for melodrama, like most actresses? ‘Aye, ma’am,’ he said cautiously. ‘But how can Mr Bish – I mean, Mr Giberne – force you to do what you’d rather not?’
‘Because he has a letter of mine.’ Shutting her fan with a movement so abrupt that it was almost violent, Mrs Cowley turned her face away, thin-lipped, and began to rearrange the folds of her robe. ‘One day, if I am very fortunate, I may be in a position to retrieve it – or you may. Until then, I will invest in our friendship all the riches at my disposal.’
She then went on to explain that, although she was shortly due at the theatre, she would be available the next morning. So they arranged to meet at ten o’clock, outside the Scottish Presbyterian Church. It was only after Philo had thanked her in a dozen different ways for her kindness that her hand suddenly shot out and fastened itself to his wrist.
‘You will not betray me?’ she demanded, with such intensity of feeling that he shrank back in alarm. ‘You are my true friend?’
‘Aye, ma’am. I’d not wish to harm you.’
‘Of course not. You are a good boy. The moment we met, I knew we were linked in our fortunes.’ She patted his cheek, then ushered him towards the stairs. ‘Mind how you speak in front of my maid, henceforth,’ she added under her breath. ‘And do not mention this little scheme to our mutual friend, if you should see him. For he would know at once that we had formed an understanding.’
Philo nodded. He still wasn’t sure how much truth there was in Mrs Cowley’s tale of woe; she was an actress, after all, and he strongly suspected that she had been drinking. It even crossed his mind, as he headed down Windsor Court, that Mr Giberne himself might have engineered the whole incident. What if he wanted to test Philo’s loyalty? What if Mrs Cowley had been ac
ting on Mr Giberne’s instructions? Though it seemed farfetched, Philo couldn’t help wondering.
Mr Giberne had started to influence the way his mind worked.
Gabriel George Giberne, Philo thought. At least he now knew the man’s real name. And Philo had no doubt that Mr Bishop was Mr Giberne, having twice seen him in the company of his cousin, the wine merchant. For there could be no doubt that Mark Giberne had been waiting for Gabriel inside the Bedford Coffee House.
It occurred to Philo that he might actually be able to blackmail Mr Giberne into writing a letter, now that he had his real name. After all, there had to be a reason why Mr Giberne was using a false one. But the idea had no sooner crossed his mind than Philo rejected it. He felt ashamed that he had let it surface at all.
Philo’s next stop was the Resurrection Gate, where he was pleased to find no trace of Susannah. She must have taken his advice to keep away from her pitch until he told her to return there. So he struck out for New Street, which lay in the very heart of that region commonly known as the ‘Holy Land’. Here Susannah lived in a cellar room down a narrow, stinking alley tucked behind the brewhouse in Horseshoe Yard. Philo had always hated visiting her there. He hated the neighbourhood, which was full of illegal gin-shops. He hated her street, which was infested with notorious thieves and drunkards – many of whom frequented Rat’s Castle, a dilapidated den of vice situated just around the corner.
Most of all he hated her room, which was dark and damp, with a dirt floor and no windows. Susannah shared it with her sister Nell, a seamstress who worked at home, and with her other sister Jane, who sat all day in one corner, blank-faced and mute, rocking back and forth on a three-legged stool.
The place smelled of mould and rat’s urine. Every time Philo stood at the top of the cellar steps, he had to fight an overwhelming urge to turn and run. He was ashamed of this feeling. It meant that he wasn’t a frequent visitor. Sometimes he told himself that he stayed away because Susannah was always trying to give him things: herbs, cake, cider – even a new button, or a few stitches in his frayed cuff. But he knew he was only finding excuses.