Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

  ‘My head …’ Mr Paxton grimaced. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Your honour, who did this?’

  The surgeon knitted his brows. ‘What …?’ he faltered, still squinting at Philo.

  ‘Who beat you? Who tossed you in the river?’

  ‘I was beaten?’ Mr Paxton’s gaze slid away. ‘Dear me …’

  ‘Do you not recall?’

  Mr Paxton closed his eyes again.

  ‘That’s bad,’ the ostler observed in a satisfied tone. ‘His brain’s been affected.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Philo turned on him. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I know enough to keep a civil tongue in my head,’ the ostler growled.

  ‘I’ll go back there, Captain,’ Lippy suddenly offered. ‘With you and Kit and Val. And we’ll gut those culls like hogs.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ Philo spoke more roughly than he meant to. He was acutely conscious that the whole street was listening. ‘You think I want more o’ my friends lying senseless in a wine-cart? That wharf is perilous. You’re to stay well clear of it.’

  ‘Oh, aye, ’tis a flash vicinity,’ the ostler agreed. ‘Stiff with rovers and water-sneaks. I’ve had my purse cut there many a time …’

  He gabbled on, but Philo didn’t listen. As they trudged up Drury Lane, attracting many a flippant comment from the passing crowds, Philo’s thoughts turned to revenge. He knew exactly how it might be accomplished – without involving his crew. Except for Fettler, of course. But Fettler wouldn’t be running any risks.

  First, however, Philo had to be sure. He had to be absolutely sure that Wiley’s friends had been responsible for Mr Paxton’s injuries. He didn’t want to make the same mistake twice and blame Wiley for something he hadn’t done.

  Somehow, Philo had to hunt down the surgeon’s attackers. Then he had to make sure that they never touched any of his friends ever again.

  IN WHICH PHILO’S

  GREAT SENSE OF LOYALTY WAS

  BOTH ABUSED AND LAMENTED

  Late that night, on the stroke of ten, Gabriel Giberne appeared in the doorway of the Black Boy and Sugar Bag. He nodded when he saw Philo.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A linkboy. Take me to St Clement Danes.’

  Then he set off down Stanhope Street, his gaze never once drifting in Philo’s direction.

  It was several minutes before Philo found the courage to speak. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he murmured at last.

  ‘I was curious,’ Mr Giberne replied in an undertone. ‘Have you changed your mind about my offer? Ten pounds is a sizeable sum.’

  Philo didn’t know how to answer that. ‘I need help,’ he said at last, bluntly.

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘A friend o’ mine has fallen foul o’ the Bow Street magistrate. She was sent to Bridewell for selling a pamphlet written in Mr Murray’s defence.’

  ‘I have read it,’ Mr Giberne interposed.

  ‘Sir, you’d not know as much as you do if it wasn’t for Anne Jenkins. Whatever I’ve told you about Jacobite tracts … ’twas all from her, your honour.’ They were passing a drunken blacksmith, who had just staggered out of the White Rose Inn. Philo waited a few seconds before adding, ‘She’s been roasted on our account, for I told her to make the Jacobite pamphlets her business.’

  Mr Giberne seemed to accept this. ‘And?’ he said.

  ‘And I thought if you was to write to Mr Fielding, he might change his mind.’

  Mr Giberne didn’t answer immediately. He remained silent until they were hemmed in on both sides by shuttered shops and lightless windows. Then he said, ‘You want a letter testifying to this woman’s character?’

  ‘Aye, sir. If Mr Fielding knew she was working for the Secretary of State—’

  ‘But she was not,’ Mr Giberne interrupted. ‘She was working for you.’

  ‘Aye, but I was in your service,’ Philo pointed out.

  Mr Giberne inclined his head. Then, in a light, almost playful tone, he asked, ‘Which begs the question – are you still in my service?’

  Philo had been waiting for this. He sighed before answering, ‘I’ll happily meet you outside the White Swan on Friday night, sir. I was always happy to do that.’

  ‘I’d rather see you tomorrow,’ said Mr Giberne. ‘In the Golden Cross, at two.’

  ‘The Golden Cross?’ As far as Philo could recall, there wasn’t a single tavern of that name anywhere in the neighbourhood. ‘I – I don’t know it, your honour—’

  ‘You’ll find it at Charing Cross. Opposite Northumberland House.’

  Philo’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s in St Martin’s parish!’ he spluttered.

  ‘And not beyond your compass, I think?’

  Not if I head down St Martin’s Lane, thought Philo, who had no intention of taking the route along the Strand.

  ‘Mr Murray’s remarks about the sentries at St James’s Palace are troubling,’ Mr Giberne remarked quietly. ‘He implied that he has a detailed knowledge of the sentries’ movements. If so, he must have got it from the Yeomen of the Guard.’

  Philo didn’t see how this could possibly relate to his own predicament. But he kept silent, his gaze jumping from shadow to shadow.

  ‘The Yeomen’s quarters were recently moved to the palace from Leicester House – which was once a hotbed of discontent, as you may know,’ Mr Giberne continued, under his breath. ‘The Prince of Wales never got along with his father, though since the prince’s death there has been much less inflammatory talk at Leicester House. His widow has no taste for politics.’ Mr Giberne paused for a moment, as a shutter banged above their heads. He listened for a moment, his eyes narrowed, before proceeding on his way. ‘I have discovered that a servant named Fanny Ollerenshaw, who now works for Lord Elibank, was lately turned away from Leicester House for associating with one of the yeomen,’ he told Philo. ‘I’m inclined to think she may be visiting this guard secretly at St James’s Palace – and passing to Lord Elibank any intelligence she may have acquired about sentry movements. To get into the palace, she must be familiar with their rotation. That may be why Lord Elibank hired her in the first place.’

  Phil could keep silent no longer. ‘Sir, why are you telling me this?’

  ‘To explain why I need you at the Golden Cross tomorrow. To persuade you of the importance of this task.’

  ‘And my letter?’ asked Philo.

  ‘You will receive it once the job is done.’

  By this time they had reached Clare Market, where the Bull’s Head tavern was still lively and well-lit. Most of the other half-timbered buildings around it were as dark as tombs. Looking for a quiet spot, Philo steered Mr Giberne towards the dilapidated old theatre where a famous clergyman preached his eccentric sermons.

  ‘Sir, what do you want me to do?’ Philo was keen to hear more details. But Mr Giberne seemed to misunderstand.

  ‘Use my name at the Golden Cross,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there to meet you.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours,’ Mr Giberne concluded. ‘You’ll be home for dinner.’

  ‘Home from where, though?’ Philo demanded.

  ‘Why – from St James’s Palace, of course.’

  Philo was struck dumb. He didn’t recover his breath until they were well past Clement’s Inn. As they hurried down the steps to the churchyard, he muttered, ‘Will Mrs Cowley be coming with me?’

  ‘I think not,’ Mr Giberne replied. ‘You’ll be on your own.’

  ‘Why?’ Philo cut a quick, nervous glance at his companion, whose face was unreadable. ‘Is she afraid to do it?’

  But Mr Giberne wouldn’t answer this question directly. A tiny smile flitted across his lips. ‘I need someone smaller than she is,’ was all he would say.

  Then he hailed a hackney carriage.

  Five minutes later, Philo was trudging up Wych Street, all alone. Potential customers hailed him from the Angel, the Five Bells, and the Queen of Bohemia’s Head, but he ignored the
m. He wanted to get back to Mr Paxton’s house. The surgeon had been left unattended, for Dr Winthrop had taken his leave at dusk, after prescribing laudanum and a ‘cephalic mixture’. As for the landlady, she had supplied Mr Paxton with a pot of beef broth before clattering back downstairs, with a promise to ‘look in’ at regular intervals.

  It was Philo who had parked himself by the bed to watch over his friend, until his appointment with Mr Giberne had forced him onto the streets.

  Philo had sent the rest of his crew off to work, stressing that they should keep their eyes peeled for Wat Wiley. It worried him that they were out and about, but they had to earn their daily bread – especially since Philo had the night off. ‘I have a scheme for our protection,’ he’d assured them. ‘Trust me. Wiley won’t be tormenting us for much longer.’ Philo was hoping that Mr Paxton’s memory might be restored, after a good night’s sleep. He was hoping that the surgeon would remember who had attacked him, and why.

  Only then would Philo feel justified in taking his revenge.

  When he reached Parker’s Lane he found Mr Paxton’s landlady in her nightgown, barring the downstairs shutters. But she let him in with no more than a muttered complaint, and he made his way up to the surgeon’s lodgings – where he found a fire lit in the bedroom, despite the warmth of the night.

  Mr Paxton was asleep. Philo intended to snatch a few hours’ sleep as well; he brought an armchair from the parlour and placed it near the bed. But the creak of floorboards or the rush of displaced air must have roused Mr Paxton, who suddenly opened his one good eye and licked his cracked lips.

  ‘Theophilus,’ he said hoarsely.

  He was propped against a stack of pillows, his head bandaged, his hair still encrusted with blood and dried river-mud. In the flickering firelight his face looked as pale as the bed linen.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ He glanced around vaguely. ‘It must be very late …’

  Philo tried to answer, but couldn’t. He had noticed more bruises blossoming on his friend’s neck. Mr Paxton’s hands were a mess of cuts and grazes. His breathing was shallow, as if it pained him to fill his lungs.

  ‘You look so scared,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t fret – I’m well enough.’

  Philo burst into tears. He buried his face in the mattress and sobbed, unable to stop himself. He was so tired, and so frightened, and it all seemed so hopeless …

  He felt Mr Paxton’s hand alight on his hair.

  ‘Nay, lad, there’s no need for this. Hush, now. Winthrop is sanguine, I assure you.’

  Philo blurted out an apology, then found himself blubbering on about Anne and Susannah, and his beleaguered crew, and how he’d failed them. But the words were drowned in snot and smothered by the feather bed.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mr Paxton asked feebly. ‘Either my ears are full of water or you’re speaking some foreign tongue …’

  ‘Whatever I do, I imperil my friends!’ Philo wailed, lifting his head to speak. ‘Anne is in gaol, and my boys are at risk, and you, sir – you, who have been so good to me – this is how you are repaid for your kindness …!’

  His voice cracked on another sob. Mr Paxton’s hand shifted. His fingers closed around Philo’s.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he said in a slightly blurred tone. ‘You cannot hold yourself accountable for your friends’ misfortunes. Tell me why you think yourself to blame for mine. In all truth, I haven’t a notion, for I’ve no memory of it.’

  Philo blinked, hiccoughed, and wiped his nose with his free hand. ‘None?’ he asked.

  Mr Paxton frowned, then winced. He closed his eyes for a moment. His grip on Philo’s hand relaxed.

  ‘I remember sharpening my scalpels this morning – or was it this morning? I remember visiting the Bedford Coffee House …’

  ‘That was last night,’ Philo interrupted.

  ‘Was it? Oh.’

  ‘Do you remember what I told you last night, sir? About another crew of glim-jacks that’s been troubling my boys?’ Seeing Mr Paxton knit his brows, Philo continued, ‘You offered to treat with ’em for me. I told you not to assay such a thing. Did you, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know. Did I?’

  ‘Lippy Whittle says you did. He says you came to him and asked where to find the rogues. You was wearing a sword at the time.’

  ‘By heavens,’ Mr Paxton remarked. ‘I seem to have had a deal knocked out of my head, do I not? For I remember none of this.’ A rueful smile opened up his battered face – at which point Philo saw that his front tooth was chipped. ‘But that’s not to say it won’t come back. I’ve seen many cases such as mine.’

  ‘Aye, but—’ Philo began, then stopped.

  ‘But what?’ asked Mr Paxton. On receiving no answer, he fixed Philo with a stern look. ‘The culprits don’t matter, Theophilus. Not to you.’

  ‘Your honour—’

  ‘This is my concern, and mine only. If I must – if I can –I shall prosecute. You’re not to take this matter upon yourself.’

  ‘Sir, ’twas my own fault.’

  ‘Pish!’ Mr Paxton retorted, with a surprising amount of energy. Then he coughed, flinched, and said in a tight, breathless voice, ‘You warned me against it and I paid no heed. I’ve been well served for my foolishness. Promise me you will not undertake any retribution. For I’ll not thank you if you do.’

  ‘They stole your sword,’ said Philo.

  ‘Did they? Well …’

  ‘We might track ’em down as a consequence. I know a good many pawnbrokers.’

  ‘Track them down by all means. But do not attempt to punish them. That is what the courts are for.’

  ‘Aye – at great expense!’ Philo lamented.

  ‘I am a surgeon, not a parish scavenger. I can afford it.’ Mr Paxton squeezed Philo’s hand again. ‘Listen, lad. You are the staunchest friend and the bravest of good fellows, but you care too much. If you hadn’t been so burdened with responsibilities, would I have felt so inclined to shoulder a few? I was only following your example, and look what befell me!’ As Philo blinked, struck by this comparison, the surgeon continued, ‘You are a twelve-year-old boy. You cannot live other people’s lives for them. You cannot fix the world. Go home. Go to sleep. You have an inflamed conscience, and the only cure for that is to rest it.’ With another crooked smile, he added, ‘I’m a medical man. You should heed me on this.’

  Philo smiled back feebly. He returned the pressure of Mr Paxton’s hand, and obediently rose to take his leave. He even promised not to assault the surgeon’s attackers, if they should ever be identified.

  But he made no promise about other, more indirect forms of revenge. He couldn’t do that.

  Someone had to pay for spoiling Mr Paxton’s fine set of teeth – just as someone had to save Anne Jenkins. And who besides Philo was even willing, let alone capable, of doing either?

  HOW PHILO CAME

  TO BE IN BRIDEWELL PRISON,

  AND WHAT HE DID THERE

  Mrs Cowley was dressed as a Quaker. In her black hood and beaver hat, her plain round gown and green apron, she looked almost unrecognisable. Her face was strangely wan, her expression stern.

  She carried a covered basket, but it was empty.

  ‘You promised to bring food,’ was the first thing she said to Philo, who promptly presented her with a piece of cheese, a cottage loaf, a slice of black pudding and a bunch of watercress, all of which he’d been carrying in his upturned hat.

  He was glad to dump them into Mrs Cowley’s basket, which he then took from her.

  ‘That waistcoat has to go,’ she declared. ‘Take it off and put it in the basket. I’m glad your shirt is so plain.’

  ‘Why are you dressed as a Quaker?’ Philo asked softly, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. They were standing on the corner of Crown Court and Russell Street, and there were a lot of people about. ‘I thought you was planning to be a clergyman’s wife?’

  ‘’Twill be easier to hide behind a Quaker’s garb, since folk tru
st Quakers not to lie,’ Mrs Cowley muttered, her lips barely moving in her stiff, unyielding face. Then she jerked her chin. ‘Come. ’Tis a goodly distance to Bridewell, and every inch must be on foot.’

  The only direct route to the prison was via the Strand – which was as busy as a hive on such a bright morning. Philo pulled his hat down low as he followed Mrs Cowley towards Temple Bar, having no wish to be recognised by any of Wat Wiley’s crew. Mrs Cowley had given him very little advice as to how he should conduct himself; she had merely buttoned his coat to the chin and told him to keep his mouth shut. So their trip to Bridewell was largely silent. Mrs Cowley walked ahead of him, stiff-backed and grim-faced, while Philo shuffled along with his head down, feeling sweaty and anxious.

  Though he’d visited the odd sponging-house, he’d never set foot in a prison like Bridewell. He’d never wanted to. Kit, who had known a good many thieves in his time, was full of horror stories – and Fleabite could recall a spell in Newgate when he was only four years old. (His mother had been gaoled for debt.) Both boys had assured Philo that it was easy enough to visit the inmates of such places, since many of them were fed and clothed by their families. But Philo nursed a secret fear that, once inside, he would somehow be prevented from leaving.

  That was one reason why he’d sought Mrs Cowley’s help. Though her main job was to get him into the hospital to see Barnabas, he also wanted her beside him when he entered the prison – since he was convinced that she would be able to get him out again, no matter what.

  I hope Barnabas isn’t away from home, he thought, on passing beneath the carved stone arch of Temple Bar. As ever, he couldn’t resist glancing up at Francis Towneley’s severed head, which had been rotting on a spike, high above the traffic, for a good five years. Towneley had been a Jacobite, executed for high treason.

  Philo wondered if Alexander Murray’s head was going to end up on a spike next to Towneley’s. He had a feeling that it would, if Mr Giberne had any say in the matter. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  Beyond Temple Bar lay Fleet Street, which was lined with old houses and printing shops. Stretches of carved black wood seemed to absorb the sunlight, which glittered on acres of lattice windows. Ahead loomed the pale dome of St Paul’s cathedral.