‘Ah.’ The Reverend Mr Gordon seemed reluctant to commit himself. ‘I … um …’
‘’Twill be a triumphal procession,’ Mr Johns added. He had a sharp, grinding nasal voice that was pitched a little too high; it made Philo think of a blade being sharpened on a whetstone. ‘The sheriffs of London will take part. Mr V. has invited me to share his equipage, though I’m not fond of his company.’
‘Is any of this wise?’ asked the clergyman, in a faintly reproving tone.
Mr Johns shrugged. ‘Wise? Mr M. was never wise. A very noisy gentleman – unlike his brother.’
‘Lord Elibank is the soul of restraint,’ the Reverend Mr Gordon agreed.
‘Indeed he is.’ The solicitor nodded. ‘And he will be receiving Mr M. at Henrietta Place, or so I’ve been told. The procession will finish there.’
‘After starting at Newgate Prison?’
‘And proceeding down Oxford Street.’ Mr Johns gave a smirk, which was just visible in the flickering glow of Philo’s torch. ‘The Duke of Newcastle will be able to hear it from his bedroom window. No doubt that was Lord C.’s intention.’
‘You don’t think it a rather provocative arrangement?’ the clergyman began, then broke off, frowning. He had been interrupted by a noise that made Philo’s hair stand on end.
It sounded like a wolf’s howl. Long and drawn-out, it echoed off the high brick walls that penned them in, finishing on a growling quaver.
It seemed to be coming from behind them.
HOW PHILO WAS
PURSUED, AND WHAT
CAME OF IT
‘By the great God of day!’ cried the Reverend Mr Gordon. ‘What was that?’
‘Someone’s trifling with us.’ Raising his torch, Philo spun around and peered into the shadows. But he could see nothing that alarmed him. ‘We’d best show a leg,’ he warned the clergyman, just as another howl was unleashed. This time it came from somewhere up ahead, on Milford Lane.
‘Blood an’ ’ounds,’ Mr Johns muttered.
Philo’s mind was racing. Though he’d spent nearly seven years patrolling the streets of London, he’d never heard anything like this. Surely it couldn’t be a pack of wild dogs? In the heart of the city? It was more likely to be a gang of footpads, driving Philo’s customers towards an ambush.
‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us,’ the clergyman groaned. Mr Johns was cursing under his breath. Both men had stopped in their tracks; was that what the footpads wanted?
Philo threw back his head and gave voice to his own howl, hoping that it might cause some confusion. It certainly confused Mr Johns. He stared at Philo in disbelief.
‘Come,’ Philo murmured. ‘Be quick.’
‘What are you—?’
‘Hurry!’ Philo grabbed the solicitor’s velvet cuff and pulled him back towards Essex Street, knowing instinctively that this was the right way to go. Essex Street was respectable. Milford Lane wasn’t. Besides, Lady Primrose lived in Essex Street, and her footmen could be summoned if anyone launched an attack.
‘Have no fear,’ said Philo. ‘’Tis naught but drunken foolery.’ He adjusted his grip on the flaming torch, holding it like a weapon. But when he emerged onto Essex Street, he didn’t have to fight off any armed footpads. The only two people he could see were a porter and a linkboy.
Philo paid particular attention to the linkboy.
‘Belike we should return to Lady Anne’s house,’ the Reverend Mr Gordon proposed breathlessly. ‘She could send one of her servants to hail a coach.’
‘I think not,’ said Mr Johns, who was surveying the street with eyes as hard and grey as nail-heads. ‘This prospect seems peaceful enough – what think you, lad?’
‘Why ask him?’ The clergyman spoke as if Philo were deaf. ‘He’ll tell you whatever will earn him his fee.’
Philo coloured. He understood why linkboys had such a bad reputation. Many were in the habit of leading people down dark alleys, into the arms of waiting cut-throats. But among his own neighbours, Philo was well known for being an honest linkboy. It pained him to be accused of putting money above the safety of his clients.
‘I see no places of concealment, your honour,’ he told Mr Johns, lifting his torch to study the short stretch of road between Little Essex Street and the Strand.
‘You’re right,’ said Mr Johns. ‘A footpad would have to threaten us from the rooftops. I like our chances, sir. Let us show good courage.’
The clergyman didn’t look convinced. But he followed Mr Johns, who struck out for the Strand at a brisk pace, with Philo hurrying to catch up. Philo was keeping his eyes peeled for the linkboy he’d seen earlier. Where had he gone? Had he been engulfed by the traffic up ahead, or had someone opened a door for him? It annoyed Philo that he hadn’t noticed. Noticing things was an important part of his job.
He was drawing level with a wine-merchant’s shop when the wolf’s howl suddenly rang out again.
‘God ha’ mercy!’ whimpered the clergyman.
‘Courage!’ Mr Johns increased his speed. ‘Whatever the creature may be, ’tis well behind us now!’
‘It won’t get past my link, your honour.’ Philo paused for a moment, brandishing his torch as he gazed back towards Little Essex Street. The howl had come from that direction. But it was much too dark to see who – or what – might be lurking in the shadows.
Moved by a sudden spurt of rage, Philo put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. ‘Here, boy! Good dog!’ he taunted, hoping to provoke a response. It didn’t work, though. Nothing happened.
By this time Mr Johns and his friend had reached the Strand. They hesitated as a post-chaise passed them, then stepped into a meandering tide of hawkers, lamp-lighters and constables. It was the busiest time of the evening. Some people were hurrying home, anxious to get off the streets now that night had fallen. Others had gathered to peddle food, light or lodgings. Philo suddenly realised that he was in danger of losing his customers. They had already crossed the road, and were pushing westwards, towards the front of the hackney stand.
‘Hi! Your honours!’ He sprinted after them, jumping over a wheelbarrow and narrowly avoiding a drunken flax-dresser. Up ahead, Mr Johns paused for a moment. His friend was speaking to one of the jarvies, who sat high on his box between two glowing coach-lamps.
‘Sir!’ Philo exclaimed. ‘Please, sir – you’ll be heading for Lyons Inn, now?’
‘Aye, lad. But not afoot.’ The solicitor drew a farthing from somewhere beneath his coat. Then he tossed the coin at Philo, before climbing into the carriage that Robert Gordon had just hired. A few seconds later, the clergyman followed him in.
Philo stood staring as the carriage door slammed shut. A farthing was an insult. It was almost a slap in the face. Philo felt the sting of it; his hands began to tremble as the blood rushed to his cheeks. Clearly, Mr Johns hadn’t been satisfied. He must have thought Philo was in league with the howlers.
Either that, or he hadn’t been willing to pay the full fee for such a short trip.
‘Ho! Linkboy!’
Philo jumped, startled by the sound of a voice in his ear. He turned and found himself face-to-face with a sedan chairman. Philo knew lots of chairmen. One of his friends, Valentine Brody, was Irish – and most of London’s chairmen were Irish too. In fact Val earned his keep as a sedan-chair escort, lighting the way for those who preferred to travel in mouldy wooden boxes.
But this particular chairman was a stranger to Philo. Dressed in purple livery trimmed with tarnished silver braid, he was a big, shambling, red-faced man who spoke with a thick Scottish accent. His nose was nearly as purple as his coat.
‘Will ye no tack my wee nephew home?’ the chairman asked, pushing forward a boy of perhaps five or six. ‘He lives on Devereaux Court, above the Duke’s Head.’
‘Oh – ah …’ Philo was sorely tempted. Devereaux Court lay just off Essex Street, so the trip wouldn’t take him far out of his way. And it would be comforting to pick up another fee, after the farthing fi
asco.
‘Here’s a bawbee for ye,’ the chairman continued, offering Philo a halfpenny. ‘The wee bairn shouldnae be out so late. Will ye tell his ma I’ll not be home tonight?’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Philo. The boy looked freshly washed; his blond hair had been slicked back, his face and neck scrubbed raw. ‘Does he know how to find his lodgings? Or is he new in London?’
The boy scowled. ‘I don’t want to go home,’ he muttered. His voice was pure Cockney.
‘Ye’ll gang awa’ now, Rob, or ye’ll do it in pieces,’ the chairman retorted. Then he said to Philo, ‘If ye dinna haud his wee hand, he’ll tack to his heels, I’m warning ye.’
So Philo grabbed the young boy’s hand and set off for Devereaux Court. But they didn’t turn down Essex Street. They didn’t have to. Instead Philo approached his destination from the north, where the narrow, winding alley joined the Strand. Starting its journey as a tight little passage, Devereaux Court widened as it turned left, then right, then right again on its way to Essex Street. It was a remarkably crooked route.
Trudging past the Grecian coffee-house, Philo soon found himself hemmed in by dark, silent façades.
‘Where’s the Duke’s Head?’ he asked Rob, who had spent most of the trip dragging his feet and humming to himself.
‘Round the next corner,’ Rob replied. At that instant, Philo became aware that someone was behind them. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a couple of linkboys – one of them large, the other small. The large one was probably a little older than Philo, with a heavier build and bow legs. He wore a cocked hat and a scarlet infantryman’s coat, all soiled and torn and missing its buttons. Two of his front teeth were gone, and his long auburn hair fell across his shoulders.
The boy beside him was about eleven, as thin as his friend was solid. He had buck teeth, jug ears, and huge bulging eyes the colour of weak tea. Instead of breeches, he wore canvas trousers under a ragged linen shirt. On his head was a knitted Monmouth cap.
After one look at these two boys, Philo knew that he was in trouble. He tried to speed up, but Rob was hanging off his arm like a lead weight. Then the street took a sharp right, and when Philo turned the corner he was suddenly confronted by another linkboy, in company with a gigantic Thames waterman. Philo identified him as a waterman because of his badge, his domed cap, his short red coat and his oar-calloused hands.
‘Is this him?’ said the waterman, whose arms and throat were matted with thick black hair.
The linkboy beside him nodded. Though older than most linkboys – perhaps nineteen or twenty – he was a stunted, dwarvish fellow so covered in soot that Philo wondered if he ever washed at all. A greasy scratch-wig made his oversized head look even bigger. His shirt was full of holes and his toes were poking out of his shoes.
Philo glanced around. He realised that his route was now blocked in both directions, and that the only other exit – through New Court – was protected by an iron gate. Leaning against this gate, he gave it a quick rattle. But it was locked.
It was also too high to climb.
‘Can you squeeze through here?’ he asked Rob, releasing the boy’s sweaty little hand. Though Philo’s head was in a whirl, he knew that his first priority should be the safety of his client.
Rob didn’t answer. Instead he took a deep breath and howled like a wolf. Then he burst out laughing.
Philo suddenly realised that he was in league with the other linkboys.
‘I know who you are, my cully, and it won’t fadge,’ said the auburn-haired linkboy. He advanced to within a few feet of Philo, then stopped. ‘You’re a St-Giles glim-jack who’s wandered too far from his ken.’
‘I’m not here to filch your business,’ Philo rejoined, trying not to sound desperate. ‘I’m engaged for one job—’
‘There’s business and business,’ the auburn-haired linkboy interrupted. He had a low, husky voice, and seemed to be in charge. ‘Business brought in from elsewhere is one thing. Business picked up on our patch – that’s another.’
‘You’ve been here too long,’ his buck-toothed crony agreed. ‘You’d best get out afore we make you. And if you try for our business again, you’ll have a pack o’ wolves on your tail. Your customers won’t like that.’
‘We’ve friends on the wharves,’ the stunted linkboy added, cocking his thumb at the waterman.
Philo knew better than to protest. ‘If you want me to leave, you should let me pass,’ he pointed out calmly, keeping his expression blank.
‘We’ll let you pass when you give us your link.’ The auburn-haired linkboy held out his hand as Philo hesitated. ‘Shall we do this like gentleman or no? The choice is yours.’ Had Philo been in his own neighbourhood, his chances would have been better. He would have known every escape route close by. He would have been armed with the names, histories and criminal records of every boy confronting him.
But he was at a loss, and couldn’t defend himself. Not against three flaming torches and one giant waterman. So he surrendered his own torch, telling himself that it could always be replaced.
‘Off you go, then,’ said the auburn-haired linkboy. He stepped back, sneering. ‘But be warned: if you cross the Strand again, I’ll give you such a polt on the pate, ’twill leave you cross-eyed.’
Philo didn’t answer. Not at first. He waited until he’d drawn level with the other boy, who was slightly shorter than he was. ‘We’ve not been introduced,’ he said, fixing his ice-blue gaze on the freckled face in front of him. ‘Theophilus Grey.’
‘Wat Wiley.’
Philo made a mental note. ‘I’ve my own friends, Wat Wiley,’ he remarked. ‘And though they’re none of ’em on the wharves, you’ll find ’em in the watch houses. So if you cross the Strand, I’ll not need to make you pay. There’s folk who’ll do it for me.’
Then he pushed past the other boys and headed up Essex Street. Though he didn’t look back, he was aware that Wiley’s crew followed him all the way to St Clement’s church.
He knew it because he could hear them howling.
A DIALOGUE
BETWEEN PHILO AND
MR BISHOP, CONCERNING
THE JACOBITES
‘I’ve been warned off,’ said Philo, ‘and will lose more than my link if they snap me again, sir.’
It was just past twelve, and he was walking down Vere Street with Mr Bishop. Every Friday, on the stroke of midnight, Philo met Mr Bishop outside a tavern called the White Swan. From there they would make their way to the hackney stand at St Clement Danes, along quiet streets full of escape routes. Philo had to be vigilant when guiding Mr Bishop, who seemed to have a lot of enemies. Once they’d been forced to dodge an ambush by fleeing across the rooftops of New Inn.
‘An’ it please your honour,’ Philo continued, as they trudged past a series of top-heavy, half-timbered houses, black with damp and soot, ‘we might fare better if you was to engage one o’ the local lads to watch Lady Primrose. This cove who gulled me – Wat Wiley – he seemed sharp enough. And he knows the streets thereabouts.’
Mr Bishop gently shook his head. He was always calm, even when climbing walls or scrambling over roofs. He had a smooth, bland face that revealed very little; his age could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. Pale and slim, with neat hands and small brown eyes, he favoured snow-white wigs, plain waistcoats and dark stockings.
His voice was so soft, it was sometimes hard to hear.
‘I am loath to discuss my business with a stranger,’ he said. ‘Who can vouch for this boy’s honesty? He has done naught to merit my trust.’
‘Aye, but—’
‘I have complete confidence in you, and none at all in him. Some solution will present itself, I’m sure.’ As Philo opened his mouth to protest, Mr Bishop murmured, ‘I may be mistaken, but I think someone is following us.’
‘That’ll be my friend, Dandy Dodds,’ said Philo. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied Dandy hovering at the entrance to Bear Yard. It was Dandy’s torch that Phil
o had borrowed upon leaving the Strand; poor Dandy was now flitting about with a rushlight, since there were no spare torches back at their lodgings. ‘I always set one o’ my boys on our tail, your honour, lest you and I should be forced to part,’ Philo explained softly. ‘If such a fate was to befall us, I’d lure away any cut-throats while my friend took charge o’ you.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mr Bishop. ‘A cunning tactic. But I’ve never before spied any of your friends in the shadows.’
‘There’s a reason for that, sir.’ The reason was that Kit Maltman normally trailed Mr Bishop. Kit was the quickest and quietest of Philo’s small team of linkboys, all of whom lived with him in Cockpit Court. Kit had spent his early years crawling through windows for a gang of housebreakers, and though he’d long since abandoned his life of crime, he remained as stealthy as a cat.
But Kit was recovering from a fever, so Philo had decided that Dandy should take Kit’s place. Not that Dandy was as skilful as Kit Maltman. He wasn’t able to hide the way Kit could, despite the fact that he was small for a nine-year-old. Dandy did, however, have one advantage over Kit. Thanks to his sweet smile, silky blond curls and huge blue eyes, nobody ever suspected Dandy of doing anything wrong.
That was why he pulled in so much business.
‘You see why I place my trust in you?’ Mr Bishop observed. ‘You are always thinking three steps ahead. What other linkboy would have devised such a scheme? ’Tis high time I introduced you to Mrs Cowley.’
‘Sir?’
‘A friend of mine.’ Mr Bishop paused for a moment, eyeing a knot of people who had spilled from the door of the Seven Stars Inn. Philo recognised most of them as butchers and linen-drapers. Driven into the street by the warmth of the night air, they were laughing and bickering, red-faced in the glow of the tavern’s oil-lamps.
None of them looked suspicious to Philo. And Mr Bishop must have felt the same, because he soon moved on.
‘Mrs Caroline Cowley is a widowed actress,’ Mr Bishop continued, once he had put some distance between himself and the alehouse. ‘Do you know her?’