Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

  ‘I have to go,’ he said at last. ‘Or I’ll be late.’

  ‘Captain—’ Kit began, but Philo wouldn’t let him finish.

  ‘I’m doing this for Anne Jenkins. She’s not faring well. I spoke to her this morning and they’re making her beat hemp.’ Seeing the other boys wince, Philo continued, ‘I owe her my help. We all do – just as we owe Mr Paxton. I want one o’ you to visit Mr Paxton this afternoon, and make sure he’s comfortable. Fettler, you’re to stay here and welcome Mrs Cowley. She’ll want her clothes back.’

  Philo sensed that his crew were avoiding each other’s eyes. He felt sure that they were going to start discussing Mrs Cowley the moment he left the room. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  He was heading for the door when Kit said, ‘Why don’t you tell us more, Philo? How can we help you if you don’t tell us more?’

  Philo hesitated. It was true; he tended to keep things to himself. But when he didn’t, the results were often disastrous. He had unburdened himself to Mr Paxton, and Mr Paxton had ended up half-dead. He had unburdened himself to Mrs Cowley, and now she was risking her own skin.

  He wasn’t about to make the same mistake a third time.

  ‘There’s one thing you should know,’ he said, in an attempt to placate Kit. ‘Mr Bishop’s real name is Giberne. Gabriel George Giberne. His cousin is the wine merchant who drinks with James Bourdieu.’ After allowing this to sink in, Philo took a deep breath and finished, ‘If aught should befall me, you must remember that.’

  Then he scampered downstairs, before Kit could demand a fuller explanation.

  It took Philo less than half an hour to reach Charing Cross. First he followed Long Acre to St Martin’s Lane. Then he turned left and kept walking until he arrived at the Strand – where he emerged just opposite what he assumed must be Northumberland House. It was a vast structure made of red brick and white stone, with turrets at each corner and a lion over the gateway.

  Turning right, he immediately encountered a hanging sign with a gold cross on it. This sign was attached to a tall, thin, busy-looking inn, constructed around a very low archway that led to a coachyard. Beyond the inn stood a pillory, and beyond that stood a statue on a plinth. Philo had been told that the statue of a mounted king graced the very centre of Charing Cross, though he couldn’t remember which king it was.

  Even from several yards away, he could smell the pillory. It stank of dung and rotten eggs, though no one was locked into it.

  The Golden Cross coachyard was noisy and crowded. A post-chaise stood in one corner, having freshly arrived from Bath; Philo heard one of the post-boys talking about his journey. In another corner stood a wagon loaded with wine-casks. A hackney carriage occupied the coach-house, and a hay-wain was partially blocking the entrance to the stables. Everywhere he looked, Philo could see unfamiliar faces peering through windows, framed in doorways, and hanging over the wooden galleries that were stacked three high around the coachyard. There were people leading horses, people unloading luggage, people shouting at servants and people running around with full tankards.

  But he couldn’t see Mr Giberne anywhere.

  ‘Hi! You!’ Philo hailed a pot-boy. ‘I’ve come to meet a man called Bishop. Do you know him?’

  ‘Bishop?’ The pot-boy turned to address a chambermaid who was trudging past, carrying a bucket of water. ‘Name o’ Bishop!’ he called. ‘Seen him?’

  ‘First floor,’ she replied gruffly. ‘Mr Murphy’s regular.’

  The pot-boy gave a grunt, then pointed at one of the galleries. ‘Up there,’ he told Philo. ‘Last room on the right, by the stairs.’

  ‘Thank’ee,’ Philo answered. Following the pot-boy’s directions, he climbed a staircase to the first floor, passing the wine-cart on his way. He noticed that the words stamped on each butt of wine echoed the inscription on the side of the cart. But it took him a while to string all the letters together in his head.

  He had just knocked at a low-set, badly scarred door facing the coachyard when he suddenly worked out that the wine-cart belonged to ‘Giberne and Stainforth, merchants’. This came as quite a shock. He was still wondering what it meant when Gabriel Giberne pulled open the door.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Giberne. He checked his watch. ‘A trifle early, but that’s all to the good. Come in. Sit down. We have a great deal to do …’

  SHOWING HOW

  PHILO BECAME A GUEST

  OF THE KING

  The room that Mr Giberne had engaged was dark and shabby. Its walls were covered in old leather panels, kippered by smoke. A large round table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a mismatched assortment of rickety chairs. The only decoration was a hanging mirror, so flecked and mottled that it reflected almost nothing.

  Philo guessed that it was the kind of room normally hired for card-games and committee meetings.

  Laid out on the table were a sealed letter, a hand-drawn map, and a small pile of folded clothing. On the floor by the fireplace was an empty wine-cask, missing its lid. Philo immediately wondered why the words ‘Giberne and Stainforth’ weren’t stencilled on its side. Surely it was destined for the wagon downstairs?

  ‘You’ll be travelling in that,’ said Mr Giberne.

  Philo blinked.

  ‘You’ll be smuggled into the palace,’ Mr Giberne explained. ‘Once you emerge from this cask, you have only to deliver a letter.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Fear not. You will be dressed as a chorister of the Chapel Royal.’ Mr Giberne laid a hand on the pile of folded clothes. ‘It is unlikely that your presence will be questioned, since I am reliably informed that the choristers are forever underfoot. Their master, Mr Gates, is very lax. And you should be able to walk straight out, since the guards customarily challenge only those going in.’

  Philo stared at Mr Giberne in disbelief. He thought for a moment that he must have misheard. ‘Your honour, I cannot – this is—’

  ‘Easily done,’ Mr Giberne insisted. ‘Sit down. Have a drink. And listen.’

  Philo obeyed. Though he felt light-headed from his long walk in the hot sun, he accepted the glass of small beer that Mr Giberne poured him.

  ‘The palace cellars lie directly beneath the state apartments,’ Mr Giberne continued. ‘Your destination will be the guardroom beside the Presence Chamber, which is at the top of the main staircase in the southern wing. All you have to do is go directly upstairs—’

  ‘But why?’ Philo interrupted. ‘Why not leave the letter at the gatehouse? Or give it to the man delivering this barrel?’

  Mr Giberne shook his head. ‘There is no telling what might happen to a letter left at the gatehouse. Any number of people might open it before it reaches its destination. And the waggoner will unload his wine in Colour Court – he would not be admitted into the southern wing.’ Mr Giberne reached for the sealed letter on the table. ‘I want this left in the guardroom, which should be empty if you arrive between four and five o’clock. Put the letter on the reading desk, and Thomas Sparrow will almost certainly find it when he’s finished his turn of waiting.’

  ‘Thomas Sparrow?’ Philo repeated.

  ‘He is our target. Thomas Sparrow is the guard presently dallying with Fanny Ollerenshaw.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘This letter was forged,’ Mr Giberne added. ‘It bears the false signature of Alexander Murray, and is addressed to Thomas Sparrow. In it, Murray asks to meet Sparrow, specifying both a date and a time.’ Gently placing the document on the table in front of Philo, Mr Giberne fixed him with an intent look. ‘If Sparrow reports this message to his superior, we’ll know that he is in no way complicit. If he remains silent, then he will bear watching.’

  Philo didn’t know what to say. He sensed that there was some flaw in the scheme, but he couldn’t work out what it was. His brain felt sluggish.

  ‘You see my difficulty?’ Mr Giberne went on. ‘This letter must be handled as if it were a true Jacobite document. Should anyone else chance to see
it, the plot will be spoiled.’

  ‘But what if I’m caught?’ Philo protested.

  A smile twitched at the corner of Mr Giberne’s mouth. ‘You won’t be.’

  ‘But what if I am?’

  ‘Then you’ll have naught to fear,’ Mr Giberne assured Philo. ‘Simply mention my name. The Secretary of State knows who I am.’

  Philo was about to ask which name he should mention (Giberne or Bishop?), but then changed his mind. Garnet Hooke had always told him that valuable information should be kept or sold, not given away – and Mr Giberne’s real name was valuable. Thinking about it, Philo let his gaze drift towards the lidless wine-cask. Why, if Mr Giberne was using a false name, had he decided to employ his cousin’s equipment? Surely it was taking a risk?

  Unless, of course, he didn’t view it as a risk. Philo was struck by a sudden thought; he realised that Mr Giberne probably didn’t know he could read.

  ‘Here is a plan of the palace,’ Mr Giberne continued, drawing Philo’s attention to the map spread out on the table. ‘As you can see, there are several exits, though I wouldn’t recommend using the closest one. It is the King’s own entrance, and leads to the gardens. You might be noticed if you try to pass through that.’ He planted his finger on a large, empty box encircled by smaller boxes. ‘Your safest point of egress would be through Colour Court – here – which has two gates. The main gatehouse is the busiest. I have marked it in red. The other red square is the Yeomen’s guardroom.’

  Philo noticed that nothing was actually written on the map.

  ‘Did you draw this?’ he asked. ‘For me?’

  ‘I did. You may take it with you. And the letter too, of course. But first you must change your clothes.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘I’ll keep your clothes here. You may retrieve them on your way home. I’ll want a report, in any case.’

  ‘And the letter?’ said Philo. Seeing Mr Giberne frown, he quickly added, ‘My letter?’

  ‘Ah.’ Mr Giberne smiled. Then he flipped open a leather case that he’d placed on one of the chairs, drawing out a folded sheet of paper. ‘Your letter will await you on your return,’ he promised.

  ‘May I see it?’

  Mr Giberne hesitated. He glanced at the door.

  Philo flushed. ‘I’ll not run off with it, if that’s what troubling you.’

  ‘It is not,’ Mr Giberne replied smoothly. ‘I was merely wondering why you want to see something that you cannot read.’

  Philo grimaced. So he’d been right; Mr Giberne did think him illiterate.

  ‘I can read,’ he rejoined.

  ‘You can?’ It was the first time that Philo had ever seen Mr Giberne look startled.

  ‘Very slowly,’ Philo admitted. ‘It takes a long time …’

  ‘And we’ve not much of that to spare,’ said Mr Giberne. But Philo was adamant. He refused to move.

  ‘I want to see that letter,’ he insisted.

  So Mr Giberne passed it to him and waited, expressionless, while Philo peered at the crabbed script. ‘To’ was easy enough. So was ‘Mr’, though ‘Henry’ was a little more challenging to spell out. By the time Philo reached ‘Fielding’, the veins were standing out in his forehead.

  ‘Es … es … what does this say, your honour?’ Philo asked, pointing.

  ‘“Esquire”.’ Mr Giberne spoke with the tiniest flicker of impatience. ‘As you see, it is addressed to the right man. Could we get on, now?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Thank’ee, sir.’ Philo allowed Mr Giberne to whisk the letter away and replace it with an armful of clothes. These included a starched white neck-cloth, a pair of black stockings, and a gold-trimmed scarlet coat, complete with matching breeches.

  It occurred to Philo, as he put them on, that these garments had to be worth a pretty penny.

  ‘You will not suffocate,’ Mr Giberne assured him, pointing out a small bunghole in the side of the wine-cask, which had been sealed with a wedge of cork. ‘You may draw that cork when you feel it is safe to do so,’ he said. ‘I have arranged that no other butts will be stacked on top of this one. My orders are clear: the unlabelled cask is to go on top.’

  ‘I still don’t understand …’

  ‘What?’ Mr Giberne bent his unreadable gaze on Philo, who sensed that something didn’t quite fit. But he couldn’t pin it down. He felt so tired. Was it the heat, perhaps?

  ‘We’re losing time,’ said Mr Giberne. ‘What else do you want to ask me?’

  Philo shook his head. He would have liked to turn around and walk straight out, but he needed Mr Giberne’s help. He had made a promise to Anne Jenkins.

  So he took the sealed letter and the map, then climbed into the wine-cask – which was so cramped that had to sit with his chin on his knees. When Mr Giberne fitted the lid over his head, Philo barely had enough room to raise his hand and grab the handle that was pressing down on his scalp.

  Plunged into a smothering darkness, he groped for the cork with his other hand. One tug was enough to give him a little light and air.

  ‘You must keep a firm grip on the lid, or it will fall out,’ Mr Giberne warned him. ‘And try not to make any noise.’ Suddenly his small, dark eye appeared, framed in the bunghole. ‘Plug this hole when you’re being moved around, else someone may wonder what’s happened to the wine,’ he said. Before Philo could respond, Mr Giberne finished, ‘I’ll fetch the waggoner. If you must cough, cough now.’

  Then he left the room. Philo could hear receding footsteps, followed by a creaking door and a raised voice. He realised that Mr Giberne was calling to the waggoner from the gallery outside – so he wasn’t surprised to hear footsteps again a moment later, as Mr Giberne returned.

  ‘How long will it take to reach the palace?’ Philo asked. He was already feeling twinges of pain in his legs.

  ‘No time at all,’ Mr Giberne replied. ‘A quarter-hour, perhaps? Hush, now. No more talk. The men are coming.’

  Sure enough, Philo caught the sound of more footsteps, much heavier than Mr Giberne’s. He pushed the cork back into place as someone with a rough voice began to talk directly overhead. Then suddenly the whole world began to reel around him; if he hadn’t been so tightly wedged into the cask, he might have suffered a few knocks and bumps as he was hoisted onto his side and swung up into the air.

  He swallowed a squeak and held his breath, bracing himself against the curved wooden boards that enclosed him. The motion of the cask made him feel dizzy. The lack of air made him feel faint. He was so disoriented that he couldn’t get a fix on where he was, though at one point a rhythmic jolting sensation made him wonder if he was being carried downstairs. At last – after a final, sickening lurch – the cask stopped moving. He found himself sitting upright, though he couldn’t tell where.

  A sharp bang made everything shake. Philo heard the sound of muffled voices from somewhere just below, and realised that he was probably in the wine-cart. This guess was confirmed a few seconds later, when he felt himself moving again. First there was a sudden jerk, followed by a low-level juddering that he identified as the vibration of wheels on cobbles. When he cleared the bunghole, he saw that he was right. Passing before it was a succession of windows and fanlights and milling heads. As the wagon left the coachyard, his view became more varied; he caught fleeting glimpses of shop signs, oil-lamps, treetops, jarvies, and some very fine horses (from the neck up). It soon occurred to him that the buildings on his route were growing more handsome. He could tell by the number of chimneys per house, and by the sudden outbreak of carved stone finials.

  At last the wagon turned left. It plunged into shadow, then creaked to a halt. Philo was confronted by a red brick wall. Voices echoed somewhere up ahead, though the conversation was just an indistinct buzz. At last the cart began to move again, and Philo spied the top of a sharpened halberd.

  It was a very short trip. Soon they stopped for a second time. From where he was hiding, Philo could see only mullioned windows, a wedge of stone colonnade, and a footm
an’s powdered head. But when he felt the wagon shudder, and heard the squeak of hinges just a few feet away, he realised that he had arrived at his destination.

  He was in St James’s Palace.

  Reluctantly he closed the bunghole, resigning himself to an airless wait in a lightless little oven. Around him people began to grunt and swear. When they picked up his cask and heaved it onto someone’s back, he had to swallow the urge to be sick. His head was spinning. His joints were aching. He clutched the lid and held on tight, telling himself over and over again that he wasn’t hanging upside down, no matter how it might feel …

  Within minutes he noticed that the cask had cooled down. From this he deduced that he’d been carried inside, out of the sun. Though uncomfortable, the rest of the trip was mercifully brief; Philo was bumped against a wall several times, but nobody dropped him. Nobody rolled him along the floor, either – though he did hear the rumble of other casks being rolled. ‘Over here,’ a man’s voice ordered, just before Philo was set down with a clunk on something that sounded like a stone floor.

  At this precise moment, Philo’s whirling head cleared, and a question bubbled to the surface of his mind. Mr Giberne worked for the Secretary of State, who would always be welcome at St James’s Palace. So why hadn’t Mr Giberne asked his employer to leave the letter in the guardroom?

  Why go to all the trouble of such a dangerous, complicated plot?

  ‘Is that the last?’ someone growled.

  ‘One more,’ came the reply.

  Then a heavy weight came to rest on top of Philo’s wine-cask.

  OF PHILO’S

  ADVENTURES IN ST

  JAMES’S PALACE

  At first Philo couldn’t believe what had just happened. Mr Giberne had promised that Philo’s cask would be on top! Someone had made a terrible mistake!