Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

  When Philo arrived that afternoon, Susannah offered him a mouthful of the fried fish that she’d bought for dinner. And because he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, he sheepishly gave in.

  ‘But we mustn’t delay,’ he insisted, with a sidelong glance at Jane’s dark, hulking shape. ‘’Tis after three now, and the office shuts its doors at five.’

  ‘What office, Philo?’ asked Susannah, her face as white as milk in the candlelight. They were sitting around Nell’s work-table, which was covered in billows of sprigged muslin.

  ‘The licensing office,’ he replied. ‘I’m going to buy you a pedlar’s licence.’

  Susannah caught her breath. ‘But Philo—’

  ‘If you’ve been threatened once, you may be threatened again.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘I’ve come into some chink,’ Philo continued, his thoughts turning to the golden guinea in his pocket. ‘So I’ll not suffer from the expense of it.’

  ‘Oh, Philo.’ Susannah’s misty eyes filled with tears; Philo could see them gleaming in the glow of the candles. ‘I’ll pay back every penny,’ she promised. ‘On my mother’s life, I shall.’

  ‘Indeed you will not,’ Philo said gruffly. ‘For I’m to blame that you was singled out in the first place. I’d not ask you to bear the burden o’ my error.’ Then he jumped to his feet, so eager to be gone that Susannah had to run after him as he bounded back upstairs and into the street. Here the warm, wet weather had hatched a multitude of flies, and had turned many walls and windows black with mildew. The stench of sewage was so strong that Philo had to keep holding his breath until he’d emerged safely onto Broad Street.

  From there it was just a ten-minute walk to the Bull and Gate, which was a busy coaching inn. The office of the Commissioners for Hawkers and Pedlars occupied a small house wedged in beside it. When Philo and Susannah arrived there, they found two clerks in cheap wigs sitting behind a wooden counter. One of the clerks had a pinched, sour, dyspeptic face. The other looked tired.

  Philo joined the queue in front of the tired one.

  It was a long, slow queue, full of unhappy people. For nearly an hour Philo had to listen to them complaining to each other about Scotsmen, taxes, street repairs and borough scavengers. By the time he reached the front of the line, he was in such a gloomy temper that he had already braced himself for bad news. And sure enough, when he asked how much a pedlar’s licence would cost, the tired clerk replied, ‘Four pounds a year.’

  ‘Four pounds?’ This was far worse than Philo had expected. He stood for a moment, stunned, as Susannah tugged frantically at his sleeve.

  ‘Come, Philo. Come away,’ she begged.

  ‘But for a ten-year-old herb-seller?’ Philo argued. ‘Look at her! She’s lame!’

  The tired clerk craned his neck to study Susannah, who was skulking behind Philo. ‘I know you,’ the clerk said to her. ‘You’re the lass from St Giles’s church.’

  Susannah flinched like a thief caught in the act. ‘Aye, your honour,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked the clerk.

  Philo answered for her. ‘Off Banbridge Street,’ he said carefully, not wanting to be more exact.

  ‘Then you’ve no need of a licence,’ the clerk informed Susannah. ‘You’re not peddling outside your own district.’ Seeing Philo frown, the clerk continued in a bored voice, ‘If she was to cry her wares in St James’s Park, or down by the wharves, she would need a licence. But if she keeps to her parish, no one can challenge her.’ His gaze shifted as he flapped a limp hand at Philo. ‘Move along now, please,’ he added.

  Ten minutes later, Philo was marching home in a fury. Though he was glad that he’d been able to send Susannah straight back to the Resurrection Gate, he was still outraged that Mr Samuel Johns had thought he’d be cowed by such an empty threat. Clearly, the lawyer considered him a fool – or was Mr Johns himself one? Whatever the answer, Philo had just wasted a couple of valuable hours running around London when he could have been more usefully employed defending his crew against genuine dangers.

  One of these dangers was Garnet Hooke. Philo had been worrying all afternoon that Garnet might not have returned to his own lodgings after meeting Mr Paxton. What if Garnet had continued on his way to Philo’s place, and had confronted Fettler Ben there? It was more than possible.

  So Philo’s next job, after saying goodbye to Susannah, was to make sure that Garnet hadn’t upset his crew.

  He arrived home to find everyone finishing off a late dinner of bread and bacon. Even Fettler was present, sitting glumly in one corner. When asked if Garnet had paid him a visit, he looked alarmed.

  ‘Mr Hooke? Nay! Is he coming?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Philo. He decided that Garnet must have felt too ill to climb the stairs. ‘When you’re all o’ you done with your dinner,’ he went on, picking up the last bacon strip, ‘we need to make a trip to the Strand.’ Seeing five puzzled faces turn towards him, he added, ‘If we don’t resolve our differences with Wat Wiley, we’ll be fending him off every night. Once and for all, we need to end this. Peacefully.’

  ‘But Captain …’ Kit paused, then exchanged a quick look with Dandy Dodds.

  Dandy said, ‘Didn’t you send Mr Paxton to parley with those rogues?’

  Philo nearly choked on his bacon. ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Paxton,’ Kit explained. ‘He came here earlier. Told Lippy you’d asked him to talk to Wiley’s crew, as a neutral party.’

  ‘Mr Paxton didn’t know where to go,’ Lippy chimed in. ‘I said to make inquiries at the hackney stand by St Clement’s. Though I couldn’t remember the gypsy’s name, I gave him Crab Jack and Wat Wiley, and that spindleshanks with teeth like a goat …’ He trailed off, silenced by the look on Philo’s face.

  Fleabite murmured, ‘Are you all right, Captain?’

  Philo stared at him, speechless. After a moment, Kit asked, ‘Was it a lie, then?’

  Philo dropped onto Kit’s bed as his knees gave way. He took off his hat and covered his face with one hand.

  ‘For the love o’ Christ,’ he groaned.

  The others waited.

  ‘I honour the fool for his kindness, but this won’t fadge,’ Philo said at last, in a muffled voice. ‘They’ll eat him alive, sword or no sword. We must find him before he has cause to regret what he’s done, God save him.’ Looking up, Philo appealed to his crew. ‘We’ll go armed. In force. And stay together at all costs. I doubt he’ll have found the culls, but there’s no knowing. We must prepare for the worst, if he has.’

  Then he slapped his hat back on.

  THE BLOODY

  CONSEQUENCE OF A

  DREADFUL QUARREL

  Philo started at the St Clement’s hackney stand. He and his crew ranged along the line of stationary carriages, asking if anybody had seen Mr Paxton. Luckily, one of the jarvies had. He told Philo that ‘the little gentleman in the scarlet waistcoat’ had been making inquiries about Wat Wiley’s crew.

  ‘I told him I’d seen none of ’em, it being so early,’ the jarvie explained, from high up on his box. ‘But I recommended Hutchinson’s Wharf as a likely place to find ’em in broad daylight. That or the Three Horseshoes tavern.’

  ‘Hutchinson’s Wharf!’ Kit said later, as they all crossed the Strand. ‘I don’t even know where that is.’

  ‘At the end of Milford Lane.’ Philo was clutching an unlit torch, because elmwood torches always made handy weapons. Dandy and Fleabite were also armed with torches, but Lippy had chosen to bring a rock in a stocking. As for Kit, he favoured a sharpened clasp-knife.

  Fettler was nursing a bottle of lye. He himself bore many lye burns, dating from a time when he’d tried to clean Garnet’s linen himself. Fettler had great faith in the caustic powers of lye.

  ‘Keep your eyes open for Wiley’s crew,’ Philo warned the others, before plunging into Milford Lane. It looked even seedier in the afternoon than it had at night, with its sooty, dilapidated houses and clutter of c
oal-wagons. The Three Horseshoes tavern stood near a grain warehouse, on the corner of Greyhound Court. It was a grim old place with leaning walls and crooked casement windows; a single glance through its front door told Philo that it was frequented by coal-whippers, lightermen and other common folk.

  At least we look as if we belong here, he thought, scanning the tavern’s dingy taproom for a familiar face. But he saw none – and was disconcerted. He was so used to recognising at least half the people he passed in his own neighbourhood, it always left him feeling lost when he found himself in a street full of strangers.

  ‘No one of interest,’ he observed. ‘We’ll search the wharf.’

  He then led his troop past a stable yard, a coal-merchant’s shop and another dead-end court, dodging laden carts and curious glances, until they reached the tangle of alleys at the end of Milford Lane. The smell of the river was very strong, here; many of the passages ahead of them dropped down flights of stairs to reach the water. Confronted by three possible routes, Philo took the one on the right, which was full of licensed porters carrying casks of wine and bags of grain. More stables lined this little street, which finally opened onto a wide stretch of rough cobbles ending, abruptly, at the river.

  There were a lot of people about. Most were busy loading or unloading cargo. A bedraggled woman with a basket was scouring the ground for spilled coals. Another was peddling oysters. Across the muddy river – which looked as grey as slate under an overcast sky – Philo could see the gardens and tentergrounds of Lambeth behind a thin screen of ship’s masts.

  Someone nearby was shouting.

  ‘We’re out of our depth,’ Kit muttered to Philo, shooting a sidelong glance at a knot of large, pipe-smoking wherrymen in oilskin cloaks. All of them were peering at Philo’s crew with narrowed eyes and wrinkled brows. ‘They’ll whiddle us soon, and I’d not lay odds on our chances against ’em.’

  ‘Stand fast,’ said Philo, who was distracted by further noises coming from the stretch of riverbank to his right. He wasn’t the only one showing interest. More and more heads were turning as someone out of sight called for help. A low wall at the western end of Hutchinson’s Wharf blocked Philo’s view of what was happening in the narrow alley just beyond it. But he could hear anxious cries of ‘Heave him up! Handsomely, now!’

  ‘What’s toward?’ someone called to the lighterman’s boy perched on top of a bollard.

  ‘Just another tosspot fished out o’ the river,’ he replied loudly, squinting towards the commotion. ‘Hold up, though – he’s alive, by the look of it.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ said the oyster-girl, craning her neck.

  A small crowd was forming along the edge of the wharf. Alerted by the rattle of wheels, Philo looked back to see an ostler dragging a wooden cart across the cobbles towards him.

  ‘We should go,’ murmured Kit. ‘There’s not a trace of ’im hereabouts.’

  ‘Stay.’ Philo felt vaguely uneasy, though he couldn’t have said why. Sidestepping the cart, he moved towards the river.

  ‘Hoist him up!’ a bare-chested lumper shouted at someone down on the mudflats. ‘There’s a cart waiting!’

  ‘Aye, pass him along,’ said the ostler, who had straw in his frizzy grey hair.

  By this time Philo had reached the bollards that marked the end of dry land. From here, when he looked to the west, he could see the long, slow bend in the river, which skimmed the distant arches of Somerset House and the ruins of another large building just beyond it.

  But Philo wasn’t interested in the view. His gaze was riveted to the tangle of figures below him. Half a dozen bargemen and porters were heaving a limp, muddy form from hand to hand. What with the awkward angle, and the filth, and the milling bodies, Philo found it hard to see the person being rescued – until a sudden flurry of movement revealed a glimpse of scarlet amid all the black slime.

  ‘God save us …’ Philo’s stomach seemed to turn a somersault as he batted his way through the crush of people. He recognised that scarlet waistcoat.

  ‘Mr Paxton!’ he cried, rushing to where the lifeless-looking surgeon was being lifted up onto the wharf. As the ostler stooped to examine the bloody wound on Mr Paxton’s brow, he nearly elbowed Philo in the face. Philo shoved him aside and dropped to one knee. ‘Mr Paxton! Mr Paxton …’

  ‘Is that his name?’ asked the bare-chested lumper.

  But Philo didn’t reply. He was too busy feeling for a pulse in the surgeon’s throat. When he found one, the relief of it made him dizzy. With his lolling head and blooming black eye, Mr Paxton looked half-dead. His lips were blue and his hair was plastered with muck.

  ‘Who did this?’ Philo’s own head jerked up. He glared at all the encircling faces. ‘Who dinged him? Who?’

  ‘Philo …’ warned Kit, who was close on his heels. But Philo shook off Kit’s hand.

  ‘You must have seen! Someone must have seen!’ Philo exclaimed.

  Not I…Not a thing…‘Twas miles off…A murmur of voices denied all responsibility. Some people shook their heads. A few backed away.

  ‘Where does he live?’ asked the ostler.

  ‘Parker’s Lane,’ said Kit, before Philo could speak. Torn between grief and rage, Philo didn’t know what to do next. On the one hand, he could see for himself that Mr Paxton’s wound was quite fresh – that he hadn’t been long in the river. The person who’d tried to drown him was probably still close by.

  On the other hand, Philo couldn’t just wander off in pursuit. Not if it meant leaving Mr Paxton.

  ‘So you’d not peach on the men who did this?’ he demanded fiercely, addressing the clump of well-muscled wherrymen. ‘You’d see a decent gentleman smashed within ten yards o’ where you stand, yet you’d never think to bring down the villain responsible?’

  ‘Philo!’ By now Kit was shaking him. ‘Hold your tongue!’ He beckoned to Lippy as Philo bent over Mr Paxton again, gently tapping his cheek in a desperate attempt to rouse the surgeon from his stupor.

  ‘We’re heartsore to see him like this,’ Kit anxiously informed the wherrymen, who were beginning to mutter and scowl. ‘He’s a good friend …’

  ‘Wiley’s to blame. I know he is.’ Philo sat back on his heels so that Lippy could help load Mr Paxton into the ostler’s cart. ‘And he’ll pay for it, by God – he’ll rue the day, so help me …’

  Philo’s voice cracked; he had to collect himself before turning to Fleabite, who was hovering nearby with the rest of his crew. They all looked shocked, except Fettler Ben. Fettler just looked dazed.

  ‘Go and fetch Dr Winthrop,’ Philo told Fleabite. Dr Winthrop was Mr Paxton’s friend and colleague. Though Philo had met him only once, he’d been impressed by the physician’s calm good sense and bone-dry humour. ‘Bring him to Mr Paxton’s lodgings,’ Philo went on. ‘Take Kit with you.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ Fleabite delivered a brisk salute, then darted back towards Milford Lane. Kit hesitated.

  ‘Philo—’

  ‘Don’t lose him!’ Philo snapped. ‘What if he falls foul o’ Wat Wiley?’

  Kit nodded and set off after Fleabite. Lippy, meanwhile, had wrestled Mr Paxton into the ostler’s two-wheeled cart. The surgeon’s legs protruded from its rear, while his head was so jammed up against the board at the front that his chin was on his chest.

  Philo noticed that he’d lost a shoe.

  ‘Here!’ said Philo, pulling off his coat. He gently tucked it under Mr Paxton’s head as Lippy placed himself between the shafts like a bullock. Meanwhile, the wine merchant who owned the cart was insisting that one of his warehouse porters go with it. So when it began to move, the cart had seven people in attendance: Philo, Fettler, Lippy, Dandy, the ostler, the porter and the oyster-seller, who was firing off suggestions. She declared that hyssop was good for open wounds, that her sister was a midwife, that Mr Paxton needed cupping, that elevating his feet would bring him back to consciousness.

  Philo ignored her. He ignored all the curious bystanders who joined th
em on their way up Milford Lane. Walking beside the cart, bent over Mr Paxton, Philo held him down with every bump and jolt, trying to keep his head still. ‘I’m sorry,’ Philo kept saying. ‘I’m sorry … I’m so sorry …’

  He was overjoyed when Mr Paxton’s eyelids fluttered.

  ‘Sir! Your honour!’ Philo began to pat the surgeon’s cheek again – and was thrilled to hear him grunt. Then Mr Paxton rolled his head and briefly opened his eyes. ‘Mr Paxton! Sir! Can you hear me?’

  ‘He’s not come to his senses,’ the ostler remarked. ‘He needs smelling salts.’

  Philo hadn’t had a chance to refill his smelling-bottle with hartshorn, after his battle with the watermen on Essex Street. Cursing his own carelessness, he turned to Dandy. ‘Run ahead,’ he ordered. ‘Tell Mr Paxton’s landlady she must heat water, so we can wash off this mud.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ Dandy bolted across the Strand and up Wych Street, which was very busy. Thanks to the crowds, Lippy had to keep stopping and starting, causing Mr Paxton so much discomfort that he twice groaned, and once murmured fretfully, groping for his wound with a shaky hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Philo whispered. ‘I’m so sorry …’

  ‘His sword’s gone,’ said Fettler. When Philo looked up, Fettler added, ‘He had a sword when he spoke to Lippy. I was there. I saw it.’

  Philo winced. The sword had probably been stolen. It was Mr Paxton’s naval sword, and had been worth at least twenty shillings.

  Suddenly a faint voice croaked, ‘Theo – philus?’

  The voice belonged to Mr Paxton. He was staring straight up at Philo with one bloodshot eye. The other was just a slit in a lump of blackened skin and crusted blood.

  ‘Oh, sir …’ Thrusting his unlit torch at Fettler, Philo seized the surgeon’s hand in both of his. ‘I’m here. You’re safe now.’