‘Lud!’ said the actress. She sat down slowly.
Philo plucked the letter from her hand.
‘Had I been seized in the palace,’ he continued, ‘I would have been condemned, and Mr Murray with me. But if I was to take this letter to an honest nobleman, and explain how I came by it, then I might be believed. What do you think?’
‘Belike it would answer,’ Mrs Cowley conceded. ‘Though the letter must go to someone in opposition – someone who has no Jacobite stain. Lord Bathurst, for instance.’
Philo pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘Do you think Mr Giberne would be anxious to have this letter back, if I threatened to show it to Lord Bathurst?’ he asked Mrs Cowley, who nodded.
‘I do.’
‘Anxious enough to exchange it for your letter, ma’am?’
Mrs Cowley gasped. ‘Oh, my dear!’ she cried. ‘Would you?’
‘I can think of no better way of serving the rogue,’ growled Philo.
‘Darling boy!’ Mrs Cowley jumped up and planted a kiss on Philo’s cheek, then jerked back in surprise. ‘But you’re so hot!’ she exclaimed. ‘My dear, you are not well! You should rest.’
‘Later.’ Philo had a job to do first. He had several jobs to do. ‘Would you happen to know where Mr Giberne lives?’
‘Of course! I made it my job to know. In fact, I once paid him a little call, though …’ Mrs Cowley hesitated, before deciding to continue after all. ‘Though I did not find what I was seeking,’ she admitted slyly. ‘The gentleman has it well hidden.’
‘That won’t matter, if we make him give it to us.’ Breaking off, Philo glanced around the room and asked if she could spare a mouthful of something wet. All of a sudden he was desperately thirsty.
‘I’ve barley water, if that would suit,’ the actress offered. She poured him a glass, then retired to her room – where she spent at least a quarter of an hour getting dressed. Philo followed her lead. He donned his hat and coat, removed his white neck-cloth, and wondered what he should do with his Chapel Royal costume. The breeches would have to stay on until they could be replaced. The coat was solid proof of Mr Giberne’s scheme, but Philo didn’t want to keep it in case he was accused of theft. I’ll return these in exchange for my own clothes, he decided, though he had to admit to himself that Mr Giberne probably hadn’t kept his clothes. A clever man would have got rid of every link between himself and Philo – and Mr Giberne was a clever man.
‘Refreshed?’ said Mrs Cowley, when she emerged from her bedchamber. She was her flawless self again, all glowing skin and gleaming hair. Over a pearl-grey petticoat she wore a matching jacket trimmed with silver ribbon. On top of her muslin cap was perched a straw hat like a plate. ‘If you feel unwell, you may take your ease here,’ she added. ‘At least until you’re fit enough.’
‘I’m fit enough.’ Philo lurched to his feet. ‘Where does our friend live?’
‘In Austin Friars, off Throgmorton Street. Near the Draper’s Hall. We’ll need a hackney carriage.’
Philo grimaced. ‘I don’t have the chink,’ he confessed.
‘I do. ’Twill be cheap at the price.’ Mrs Cowley cast about her, finally pouncing on a mat-basket that seemed to be full of sheet music. ‘There are always coaches to be had on Drury Lane,’ she said, as she emptied the music onto a chair. ‘You don’t look like a page, precisely, but if you carry this basket, you’ll not raise too many eyebrows getting up beside me. For I’ll not have you travelling on the coachbox. Not in your present state of health.’
Then she shoved the basket into Philo’s arms and bustled out the door. Philo packed up his scarlet coat before he followed her. They didn’t speak as they made their way down Windsor Court; people would probably have stared if they had. It was only after Philo had hailed a carriage, and they’d both climbed into it, that Mrs Cowley felt safe enough to address him as a friend rather than a footboy.
‘Mr Giberne is not married,’ she observed, sitting straight-backed on the cracked leather seat, ‘but there’s no telling who may be at his house. Have you considered how we might proceed if he is not alone? Have you a story to tell?’
Philo shook his head. Rather than thinking about Mr Giberne, he’d been wondering what to do about Anne Jenkins and Mr Paxton. Though he still didn’t know who had assaulted the surgeon, he’d decided that he didn’t really need to know – not for sure. He had to protect his friends. He had to protect himself. His sense of betrayal had hardened into a red-hot, focused fury that was making his mind race and his breath quicken.
To protect his crew – and Mr Paxton – he would send a message to Lady Primrose’s house, via Fettler Ben, warning her about Wat Wiley. To protect Anne, he would send a message to Dr John Bamber, who was on the Bridewell Board of Governors. Philo had been toying with the idea of having Mrs Cowley write both letters, but sitting opposite her in the coach, he changed his mind. It wouldn’t be fair, he thought. The letter to Lady Primrose would be a lie, and the letter to Dr Bamber would be little better than blackmail, since it would threaten to publish details of the doctor’s ‘secret instrument’ unless he helped Anne.
Philo didn’t want Mrs Cowley taking the blame for either message, should the worst happen. Instead he’d decided to have someone else write the letters – someone who would richly deserve whatever grim fate befell him, if anything went wrong.
Garnet Hooke would do it. Philo would make him do it. Because if Garnet refused, Philo would tell Mr Fielding that a certain Mr Hooke had been communicating with the Jacobites.
‘I’ll think of something to say,’ Mrs Cowley promised, her voice wobbling as the coach slammed over a pothole. ‘What you must do is husband your strength, for you’ll need to be in fine fettle for this job. You have the letter?’
Philo nodded.
‘Good,’ she said, then gazed out the window. ‘I must confess, my nerves are in shreds. Our friend will not submit without a struggle. I trust you understand that?’
Philo understood it only too well. He had always been intimidated by Mr Giberne, whose velvety manner didn’t quite conceal his steely core. On the other hand, Philo was angry. He was so angry that he felt like drowning the man in one of his own wine-casks.
It was the kind of anger that banished all fear.
Throgmorton Street lay farther east than Philo had ever been, way beyond St Paul’s Cathedral. It was the first time Philo had travelled along Cheapside. Though he caught only glimpses of this wide, busy street from his carriage window, he saw enough to realise that the shops here were far more luxurious than anything he’d seen before. The buildings were all at least five storeys high, and hung with innumerable signs – many of them varnished and gilded. Mrs Cowley pointed out the premises of her own draper. ‘I assure you, it is the only place in London to buy Spitalfields silk,’ she told Philo, who couldn’t have cared less.
They turned left after passing the church of St Mary Le Bow, then right when they reached the Guildhall. From there, it was just a short distance to Austin Friars, which was a quiet, narrow, winding court that wrapped itself around a little Dutch church, incorporating so many twists and turns and blind alleys that Philo soon lost his bearings. There were many fine freestanding gentlemen’s houses tucked away in Austin Friars, some with stone porticoes and carved pediments. But the actress didn’t make for any of them. Instead, after paying the coachman, she led Philo to a skinny corner building with a square-sided passage punched through it.
The front door of this building was set high above the street. Mrs Cowley climbed a short set of stairs to reach it, then lifted a lion’s-head knocker. Rat-tat-tat. When she beckoned to Philo, he joined her at the top of the stairs – just in time to see the door swing open.
All at once they found themselves face to face with Mr Giberne.
Philo nearly dropped his basket. But he wasn’t nearly as shocked as Mr Giberne, who froze on the threshold, round-eyed and speechless. He wore a dressing-gown over his waistcoat, and no wig. His mouse-coloured hair was cut
close to his skull.
‘Ah. Mr Giberne,’ the actress said, smiling sweetly. If she was scared, it didn’t show. Thanks to her theatrical training, her expression was one of pleasant anticipation. ‘May we come in? There is a little matter we ought to discuss, and I’m sure you would prefer to do it in private.’
Mr Giberne stared at her for a moment before his blank gaze shifted to Philo – who glared right back. There was a long, dragging silence. Then Mr Giberne cleared his throat and stepped aside.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Do come in. I’ve no other company, at present.’
WHAT PASSED
BETWEEN PHILO AND THE MAN
WHO BETRAYED HIM
Mr Giberne lived in gracious lodgings on the first floor. His parlour was lined with glass-fronted book-cupboards. His writing desk was piled high with papers. Everywhere Philo looked, he could see rolled maps, pounce-pots, uncut quills and sticks of red sealing wax. The floor was spattered with ink and the mantelpiece was cluttered with candle-stubs.
Mr Giberne didn’t offer his guests a seat. After closing the parlour door behind him, he said to Mrs Cowley, ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?’
Mrs Cowley opened her mouth, but it was Philo who answered.
‘You can give back my clothes!’ he snapped. ‘Where are they?’
‘Why, they’re at the Golden Cross—’ Mr Giberne began suavely. Philo, however, wouldn’t let him finish.
‘Then why are you not with ’em?’ Philo demanded. He dumped the contents of his basket onto the floor. ‘Here are your clothes. Where are my breeches? Where’s my waistcoat? Did you burn ’em? Is that what you did?’
‘Indeed I did not,’ said Mr Giberne. His face was expressionless, his voice calm. Somewhere on the staircase he had regained his composure. ‘When you didn’t return—’
‘You didn’t want me to return!’ Philo took a step forward, shaking with anger. His fists were clenched and his chest was heaving. ‘But here I am – you see? Here I am!’
‘And I rejoice at the sight,’ said Mr Giberne.
‘Hah!’
‘My dear.’ Mrs Cowley laid a hand on Philo’s shoulder. ‘Recollect that this is a business transaction. We are not here to quarrel.’ Turning to Mr Giberne, she smiled with radiant goodwill and said, ‘Once we exchange our respective documents, there should be no bad feelings on either side. There should be no further communication at all.’
Mr Giberne didn’t respond. His gaze flicked from Mrs Cowley to Philo and back again. He seemed to be waiting.
So Philo pulled out his letter with a flourish. ‘Yours for hers,’ he growled, then took a quick step back as Mr Giberne reached for the letter. ‘Yours for hers,’ he repeated, through his teeth.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Mr Giberne said mildly. ‘I don’t recall writing to you, Theophilus …’
‘Stop lying!’ Philo spluttered. He felt like slapping the man. ‘I have your letter! You wrote it!’
‘Does it bear my name?’ asked Mr Giberne, delicately raising his eyebrows.
‘Of course not!’
‘Then how can it be mine?’ Turning to Mrs Cowley, Mr Giberne addressed her in an amiable manner. ‘The boy seems confused. Is he of sound mind? He looks feverish …’
‘Aaugh!’ Philo was about to hurl himself at Mr Giberne when Mrs Cowley seized his arm and snatched the letter away.
‘It does seem odd. And most confusing,’ she conceded, keeping a firm hold on Philo. Then, as Mr Giberne bobbed his head graciously, she went on, ‘That is why I thought we might show the letter to Lord Bathurst. I’m sure he will have some insight into such a knotty problem.’
Mr Giberne’s mouth twitched. Something shifted behind his eyes.
‘Doubtless he will ask himself, Why would the Duke of Newcastle condone forgery?’ Mrs Cowley continued. ‘To which my reply would be, Only consider the circumstances, my lord! Mr Giberne was using his cousin’s firm to accomplish this deceitful act. Why risk it, unless he had no choice? Unless the Duke himself had no hand in the matter?’ With a glint in her eye, the actress concluded, ‘It seems that you took it upon yourself to implicate Mr Murray for your own advancement. At least, that is what I would argue, if I were your employer – whether it be true or no.’
Philo wanted to cheer. He fixed Mr Giberne with a fierce look while Mrs Cowley waited, one hand on Philo’s arm, the other toying with Mr Giberne’s letter.
‘Lord Bathurst is unlikely to believe a common linkboy,’ Mr Giberne said at last. ‘Certainly not one whose only character witness is a female of your reputation.’
Mrs Cowley coloured. Philo was outraged.
‘She’s more honest than you are!’ he cried. ‘And she’s not the only friend who would speak in my favour! So would a magistrate, and a surgeon, and a gentleman from the Admiralty!’
Still Mr Giberne didn’t flinch – though his smirk looked a little strained. ‘You think such gentlemen would vouch for you when faced with a charge of treason?’ he drawled.
‘Aye – they would!’ Philo snarled. ‘For they’re not like you! They’d not betray a friend for the sake of favour, or advantage, or policy! They understand what honour means! They are true gentlemen!’ Seeing Mr Giberne’s jaw muscles twitch, Philo jabbed a finger at him, saying, ‘I could walk out of here now with that letter, and if I went straight to Lord Bathurst, you would find yourself in a monumental scrape! And I’d do it! I’d be glad to, because you betrayed me! You’re a traitor as bad as any Jacobite, damn you to hell!’
‘Or you can give me my letter,’ Mrs Cowley cut in quietly, ‘and this matter will be forgotten. Surely that is what you would prefer? Do you really want to lower yourself by engaging in a squalid public dispute with a common linkboy and a disreputable actress? My dear Mr Giberne …’ She narrowed her eyes, which were suddenly as hard as agates. ‘Only think what your cousin would say, never mind the Duke of Newcastle.’
There was a long silence. At last Mr Giberne turned on his heel and strode across the room towards his writing desk. After moving a stack of ledgers, he bent over and fiddled with some kind of latch, causing a whole set of drawers to swing open. Hidden behind them was another, secret set of drawers – from which Mr Giberne extracted three sheets of blue paper tied with ribbon.
Mrs Cowley gasped. Her hand crept up to her throat. Philo extended his own hand, but Mr Giberne shook his head.
‘Not until I have what is mine,’ he insisted with gentle menace.
‘Give me the first page, then.’ Philo waited stubbornly until Mr Giberne finally capitulated, dropping one of the pale-blue sheets into Philo’s open palm. Then Philo passed the sheet to Mrs Cowley.
She took it and nodded. There were tears in her eyes. When she surrendered the other letter to Philo, he reluctantly offered it to Mr Giberne.
‘Here,’ said Philo. ‘Now give me the rest. And don’t think to gull me, or I’ll gut you like a fish.’
Mr Giberne wordlessly handed over the two sheets that Philo wanted. But as his unwelcome visitors turned to go, he said, ‘You’re unwise to make an enemy of me, Theophilus Grey.’
Philo sniffed. He was feeling terrible; his head was throbbing, his throat was burning and his joints were aching. But he wasn’t cowed by Mr Giberne’s veiled threat.
‘I could say the same to you, Gabriel George Giberne,’ he replied, his gaze as cold as ice. Then he followed Mrs Cowley downstairs, knowing that he had a fever and wondering vaguely how bad it was going to get.
They didn’t talk to each other on the street. Philo stayed in character, shuffling along in Mrs Cowley’s wake like a footboy, nursing her empty basket. But as soon as they were both safely tucked away in a hackney carriage, the actress threw her arms around him, almost weeping with joy and gratitude.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she quavered, ‘how shall I ever repay you? This is something I shall never, ever forget – you are my Sir Galahad!’
Philo had never heard of Sir Galahad, and didn?
??t know what to say. Mrs Cowley smelled very nice, but he was acutely conscious that he probably didn’t. So he held himself stiffly within her embrace, staunchly enduring the kiss that she planted on his forehead.
He was relieved when she pulled away with a grimace.
‘But you’re on fire!’ she exclaimed. ‘My poor boy, you are ill! We must take you straight home and summon a doctor.’
‘Not yet,’ said Philo.
‘But—’
‘Not yet!’ Philo had one more call to make. And no matter how much Mrs Cowley begged, he wouldn’t go straight back to his lodgings. Though she argued that she had to go there anyway, to collect her clothes, Philo was adamant. Every ounce of his strength was focused on the task ahead. Once it was done, he could afford to be ill. Once it was done, he could go home and collapse. But until then, he would drive himself forward.
So Mrs Cowley didn’t alight in Drury Lane. Instead she had the carriage take them all the way to Castle Street. Here she paid their fare while Philo trudged down Cucumber Alley, which was far too narrow for a coach. He wasn’t well enough to dodge her, despite his head start. So when he finally arrived at Garnet’s house, she was walking behind him like a gleaming shadow, all silk and ribbon and anxious frowns.
By that time Philo was feeling so tired, it was as if his head had become untethered from his body. When he stopped for a moment outside Garnet’s front door, to gather his strength for the climb upstairs, Mrs Cowley accosted him. She inquired loudly if he was ill. Then she lowered her voice and hissed, ‘This is madness! You must go home!’
‘Later,’ said Philo. ‘When I have paid my call.’
‘Here?’ Mrs Cowley glanced at the house looming over them. ‘You’ve a friend living here?’
‘An acquaintance,’ Philo corrected.
‘Then allow me to escort you,’ said the actress. But Philo pulled away sharply from the hand that she had placed on his elbow.