He marched up to the gatehouse door, which was wide enough for a coach to pass through. The porter occupied a little room to the right of the carriageway. Though respectably dressed, he had the battered face of a boxer.
He looked at Philo without interest. But when Philo said, ‘I wish to speak to the Duke of Newcastle’, he offered Philo a sour smile.
‘Oh, aye?’ he drawled.
‘I have a message from Gabriel George Giberne.’ Philo held out his guinea and watched the porter’s eyebrows almost disappear into his wig. Luckily, Philo’s hands weren’t shaking. ‘His Grace might also care to see this,’ Philo continued, presenting his canvas-wrapped breeches.
The porter took both the guinea and the bundle. He stared at Philo for a moment, measuring every curl and button with his steady, penetrating gaze. Then he jerked his chin. ‘Come in,’ he said, pocketing the guinea as he stepped aside.
Philo entered the porter’s little room, which had a bench running along one wall. He sat on the bench while the porter returned to his stool. For a while nothing happened. Then a boy of about Fleabite’s age suddenly appeared. He had fair hair and flushed cheeks. Though his clothes were much too big for him, they were all of good quality. Philo envied him his waistcoat.
Philo didn’t have a waistcoat anymore, thanks to Mr Giberne.
‘Find Mr Jones,’ the porter said to his boy, handing over Philo’s bundle. ‘Tell him I have a messenger here from Gabriel George Gib … Gib …’
He faltered, then glanced at Philo, who said, ‘Giberne.’
‘Giberne,’ echoed the porter. ‘Tell Mr Jones this fellow wants to speak with His Grace. Tell him he brought that.’ The porter nodded at Philo’s bundle as he dropped a letter into the boy’s hand. ‘Oh – and give this to the steward.’
The boy accepted the letter, tucked Philo’s bundle under his arm, and vanished. Philo waited. He waited while the porter took a delivery of potatoes and turned away someone called ‘Sir Thomas’. It was as if Philo didn’t exist.
But when the fair-haired boy finally returned, and announced that Mr Jones was waiting, Philo suddenly became visible again. The porter told him to ‘follow Percy’. The boy – Percy – urged him to hurry up. When Philo asked who Mr Jones might be, the porter instructed him to mind his own business.
Percy headed towards the rear of the gatehouse. Here the carriageway passed straight through the main building, into what looked like a cobbled yard. But Percy turned left before reaching the end of the carriageway. He led Philo through a low door, up a flight of stairs, down a well-lit passage, through another door, and into an entrance hall as fine as anything in St James’s Palace. It had gilt-framed mirrors, huge windows and a glittering chandelier.
A monkey occupied a cage in one corner. It looked like the monkey commonly seen on the shoulder of a hurdygurdy man in Covent Garden – except that it was wearing livery. So was the footman stationed next to it.
‘Here he is,’ said Percy. The footman nodded and began to walk away, beckoning to Philo with one white-gloved hand. He was a tall young man dressed in a white wig, white breeches and white stockings. Even his waistcoat was white.
Philo followed him to a small corner room at the rear of the house, which contained two doors and two windows, a cabinet full of books, a framed map, a clock, a fireplace and a writing desk. ‘Wait here,’ the footman told Philo, pointing at a hard-backed chair. Then he stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.
The other door was also shut.
Philo sat down to wait. It was very quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. Unnerved, he tried to distract himself by studying the map, then the clock, then the books. But as the minutes dragged by, his thoughts began to wander.
It was three days since he’d moved back home. On the first day, the stairs had almost defeated him. By the second day, he’d been fit enough to deliver a letter to Bow Street – a letter addressed to Mr Fielding, which Mr Paxton had written on Philo’s behalf. In it, Philo had apologised for missing the previous Sunday’s appointment. He had then excused himself from all further meetings. ‘Phrase it politely enough, and you needn’t say more,’ Mr Paxton had assured him. Philo hadn’t wanted to offend the magistrate, but hadn’t wanted to see him again, either. He was disappointed in Mr Fielding.
He felt they were no longer friends.
Luckily, the churchwarden’s business would more than make up for the magistrate’s. And there would be money coming in from the High Bailiff, when the next election was called. But nothing could replace Mr Giberne’s loss; Philo knew that already. He knew that he wouldn’t be buying a waistcoat any time soon.
Even worse, he knew that he wasn’t safe. Mrs Cowley had said so. ‘We must both of us be on our guard,’ she’d warned him. ‘Mr Giberne is a dangerous man, and a clever one. And you, my poor boy – you are forever roaming through dark alleys at night, open to attack from any false client who might lead you into an ambush …’ Seeing Philo grimace, she’d tried to offer a solution. ‘I’m sure Mr Paxton will advise you on the best means of defending yourself,’ she’d said. ‘He is a very gallant gentleman, and would not suffer you to wander the streets unarmed.’
Philo was pleased to hear Mrs Cowley praise his friend. He thought them well suited. Although the actress wasn’t entirely respectable, the surgeon, for his part, was a little rakish in his tastes. Philo couldn’t imagine him pouring tea for a rector’s daughter, or escorting a colonel’s niece to church. It seemed to him that a man as good and clever as Mr Paxton deserved a lady as pretty and talented as Mrs Cowley.
But as clever as Mr Paxton was, he couldn’t protect Philo from Mr Giberne. Only one person could do that. So while the rest of his crew were out shopping or paying calls, Philo had set off secretly to visit the Secretary of State …
Suddenly the door to his left opened, and a young man appeared. Soberly clad in dark blue velvet, he carried Philo’s scarlet breeches under his arm. His white wig made his smooth face look strikingly youthful, though his manner was creaky and sedate. A pencil was tucked behind his left ear.
‘I am Hugh Valence Jones, the Duke of Newcastle’s private secretary,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘I’m told you have a message from Mr Giberne?’
By this time Philo was on his feet, hat in hand. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he squeaked, ‘My message is for His Grace, your honour.’
‘That is for me to judge.’ Mr Jones spoke in a clipped and sniffish tone. ‘Mr Giberne is well known to me, as I am to him. Kindly relate your business.’
Philo hesitated. Though he’d been rehearsing his speech all the way from Cockpit Court to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, his mind was suddenly blank. The silence of the room, the cautious disdain of Mr Jones, and the intimidating height of the ceiling had all combined to drain him of confidence.
He’d never stood unmasked in a nobleman’s house before – not as Theophilus Grey, a common linkboy. It was different without a disguise.
‘What is the significance of these smallclothes, for example?’ Mr Jones asked, placing the scarlet breeches on the writing desk. ‘I notice that the buttons are engraved with a crowned rose. These are Chapel Royal garments, are they not?’
Philo was impressed. ‘Aye, your honour.’
‘But you are not a child of the Chapel Royal, surely?’
‘I am not, sir.’ Philo squared his shoulders and blurted out, ‘I am the boy who hid in the Earl of Westmoreland’s dining room, and heard Mr Alexander Murray say that he could storm St James’s Palace.’ Seeing Mr Jones narrow his eyes, Philo added, ‘I am the boy who was put in a wine-cask and smuggled into the palace disguised as a chorister, so that Mr Murray might be charged with treason.’
He stopped and regarded Mr Jones, whose eyebrows were climbing his unlined forehead.
‘Mr Giberne gave me a forged letter,’ Philo went on. ‘A treasonous letter. I believe his plan was that it should be found on my person, but I foiled him. I escaped.’ Studying Mr Jones,
Philo saw that the man had lost his imperious expression, which had been replaced by a troubled frown. So he braced himself and said, ‘If you was not told of this plan, sir, then I thought you should be. If you was told, then I have come to argue my case. Your honour, I was put in a barrel that was left in a locked cellar beneath half a tun of wine, near the State Apartments. But I was not caught.’ Philo felt weak at the knees. His voice quavered as he continued, ‘If this plan was the Duke’s, sir, then I am sorry I forestalled it. But rather than punish me for its failure, His Grace might care to have me work off my debt to him. Mr Giberne always had great faith in my skills – and I was always loyal, until he betrayed me. Belike His Grace would profit more from my service than my ruin. For I know Mr Giberne would ruin me now, given the chance.’
Philo had finally run out of breath. He trailed off and waited, watching Mr Jones, who was silent for some time. As the clock ticked away on the mantelpiece, Mr Jones seemed to be thinking. Then he picked up the scarlet breeches.
‘Stay,’ he told Philo, before slipping out of the room.
Philo felt sick. He collapsed onto the nearest chair and wrapped his arms around his stomach. Anything might happen now. A pair of footmen might drag him off to the nearest watch house, or hurl him down the nearest well. He might look up and see Mr Giberne walk in. Philo had no idea what to expect. He had thrown his dice, and now he would have to see how they fell.
Ten minutes passed. Philo counted them off on the face of the clock, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. At last the door opened again, and Philo glanced up, expecting to see Mr Jones.
Instead he was confronted by a much older gentleman in a full-bottomed periwig, a lilac-coloured coat, and a waistcoat of satin brocade. This gentleman had a full face and a long nose. His dark eyebrows were as thick as brushes.
Philo jumped to his feet, sweating. He could see Mr Jones lurking on the threshold, all bowed head and clasped hands. It wasn’t hard to identify the gentleman in the periwig, though he didn’t introduce himself.
Instead he stopped in front of Philo, stared down at him and said, ‘I’ve heard of you. Your name is Theophilus Grey, is it not?’
Philo couldn’t speak. So he nodded.
‘You’re a linkboy.’ When Philo nodded again, the gentleman asked, ‘Could you be a pot-boy, if it was required of you?’
Philo stared at him, then swallowed and said, ‘A potboy, your – uh …?’
‘Your Grace,’ Mr Jones interjected.
‘There is a tavern called the Swan in a village called Stockwell, which lies on the edge of Lambeth,’ the Duke continued, as if his secretary hadn’t spoken. He had a deep, rough-edged voice with a very slight lisp. ‘We have reason to believe it is the haunt of tea smugglers, who bring their loads across Clapham Common from the south. They meet their customers at the Swan, and store their tea nearby – I know not where. In underground vaults, no doubt.’ The Duke turned on his heel suddenly, and began to pace the room with his hands behind his back. ‘I have little interest in contraband tea,’ he admitted. ‘It is most properly a matter for the Customs and Excise Board. But I am troubled by these smugglers’ Jacobite sympathies. Four years ago, when the Hawkhurst Gang retrieved their confiscated tea from the customs house at Poole, ’twas a Jacobite general who planned the attack.’
Philo remembered this incident. People had talked of it for weeks. And they had talked of it again two years later, when the gang’s leaders had been hanged.
‘I am inclined to think that wherever smugglers may be found, so too may Jacobite traitors,’ the Duke declared. Drawing level with Philo, he stopped abruptly and turned to face him. ‘A pot-boy working at the Swan would glean a surfeit of information, if he was careful and cunning. And it occurs to me that you might be well suited to the task.’
Philo caught his breath, then cleared his throat. ‘In – in Lambeth, Your Grace?’ he croaked. ‘South o’ the river?’
‘For a month or two,’ the Duke confirmed. ‘You’d not regret it.’
He spoke flatly; he didn’t plead. He didn’t have to. Philo could feel the weight of his authority like a storm brewing overhead. Gazing up into his sleepy eyes, Philo felt like someone standing at a crossroads. He thought of his crew, and how well they’d coped with his illness. He thought of how scared he’d been, hiding in the Earl of Westmoreland’s dining room. Then he reminded himself that he’d actually talked his way out of the King’s cellars.
Finally, he remembered the handful of smugglers he’d met along the Strand. They’d been as hard as St Giles footpads, and far more greedy. The Hawkhurst Gang had once killed a customs officer by burying him alive.
‘Aye, Your Grace,’ he said at last. ‘I’d be honoured to serve you.’
The Duke didn’t respond. He simply nodded at his secretary and left the room. It was Mr Jones who thanked Philo, telling him to report back the next day. Certain arrangements would have to be made, he said, if Philo was to secure a post at the Swan without arousing suspicions. And then there was the matter of Philo’s payment. It, too, would have to be settled.
‘But you will not be disappointed,’ Mr Jones assured Philo. ‘Those in the Duke’s service rarely are – as I myself can attest.’ He paused for a moment, studying Philo with fierce concentration, as if committing his face to memory. Then he walked over to the writing desk, removing the pencil from behind his left ear.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me exactly what Mr Giberne wanted you to do …’
GLOSSARY
Ague – a fever or shivering fit
Basting – a beating
Bawbee (Scottish) –halfpenny
Belike – perhaps, maybe
Betimes – early, before the usual time
Boglander – Irishman
Caw-handed – awkward, clumsy
Chapbook – cheap popular booklets, often sold on the street
Charley – watchman
Chink – money
Clunch – a clumsy, awkward, clownish fellow
Cove – man
Cull – man
Cully – fool
Ding – to knock down
Dram – a small amount of liquor
Dunnage – possessions
Fadge – do, as in ‘it won’t fadge’
Flash – thievish, relating to low criminals
Flummery – nonsense
Flux – diarrhoea
Gang (Scottish) – go
Glim-jack – linkboy
Green-headed –inexperienced
Gull – cheat
Gut-foundered – hungry
Huff – a bullying fellow
Ken – a dwelling
Lagged – transported
Lay – a scheme, enterprise
Lumper – a docker, especially one who unloads cargo
Lying-in – childbirth
Nightsoil – human faeces
Pate – the head
Peach – inform on
Pigwidgeon – a fool
Polt – a blow
Prigging – thieving
Roasted – arrested
Rosy-gills – fresh-coloured
Rover – pirate, vagabond
Rum-bob – apprentice
Rum-duke – a queer, eccentric fellow
Scrape – disagreeable situation
Scrub – ragamuffin
Settle – to stun or knock down
Shag-bag – a poor shabby fellow
Shopped – arrested
Shot – share
Sirreverence – human faeces
Slubberdegullion – a worthless person
Slugabed – a lazy person
Smash – to beat violently, to kill
Smeller – nose
Smoked – discovered
Snap – catch
Snilch – to see or spot
Spindleshanks – slender-legged
Stubble it – hold your tongue
Toss-pot – drunkard
Water-sneak – someo
ne who robs ships on a river by getting in at night
Wherryman – someone who mans a light, swift rowing boat
Whiddler – an informer
Catherine Jinks, Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask
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