Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask Page 12

  Then someone spoke directly above him, high on the staircase.

  ‘Have you no regard for my feelings?’ It was a woman’s voice, shrill and plaintive. ‘Mr Murray is newly released from prison – who knows what infectious agues he might bring into this house?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ A man’s voice answered her sharply. Philo could hear hurrying footsteps; he froze where he stood, wondering what to do.

  ‘And Lady Carpenter has no conversation,’ the woman went on. ‘She speaks only of her children and her wet nurse. If she is not talking of the child that’s lately dead, she’s talking of the child lately arrived.’

  ‘I am well aware of your opinions on the subject of children,’ the man rejoined harshly. All at once he appeared in front of Philo, crossing the entrance hall.

  It was the Earl of Westmoreland.

  He was wearing the same huge wig he’d worn in the carriage that had swept past Philo at St Giles’s church. This time, however, the Earl was dressed in grey satin. Philo had a very clear view of his face, which was slightly mottled, with a beaky nose, heavy jowls and watery grey eyes. He looked cross.

  Remembering Mrs Cowley’s instructions, Philo backed against the nearest wall and dropped an awkward curtsey. But the Earl didn’t seem to notice him, storming past without so much as a glance in his direction. The woman pursuing the Earl also ignored Philo. She wore so much flowered silk that she rustled as she walked; her hair was grey and her neck looked like a plucked chicken’s.

  ‘How can you say such a monstrous thing?’ she cried. ‘You know my situation, yet you continue to torment me in such a way—’

  ‘I torment you? Hah!’ snapped the Earl, before disappearing through one of the doors that opened off the entrance hall. The woman followed him.

  Philo scurried towards the dining room. He felt quite faint with relief. But he knew that he was still in danger. What if he stumbled on a footman?

  Luckily, he didn’t. The dining room was deserted. Philo paused for a moment on its threshold, stunned by the shiny red silk that covered it walls. Then his gaze fell on a low, gilded cabinet that had pretty country scenes painted all over it. He knew at once that he’d found his court cupboard.

  ‘I looked inside,’ Mrs Cowley had assured him. ‘’Tis sturdy enough for something so dainty. But I’d lay odds it will creak at the slightest movement, so try not to stir, once you’re in there.’

  As promised, the space behind the two painted doors contained only a thin layer of starched white linen, neatly folded. Philo laid his own linen on top of the rest, wondering how he was going to fit into such a cramped space.

  He was about to thrust his head inside when a voice behind him said, ‘There you are! You’re wanted upstairs. Anne says you’re to fetch the dirty linen from her ladyship’s room.’

  GIVING AN ACCOUNT

  OF PHILO’S ADVENTURES

  IN HANOVER SQUARE

  Philo froze. His mind was a blank. But before he could speak, a rustle of skirts and the slap of leather soles told him that the woman who’d addressed him had turned away. He heard her footsteps receding into the distance.

  It wasn’t until they had faded completely that he risked glancing back over his shoulder. No one was standing on the threshold. No one was passing through the entrance hall.

  So he climbed straight into the court cupboard, wincing at every groan and creak that it made as he wriggled into position. When he finally pulled the doors shut, they nearly hit him on the nose. His knees were tucked under his chin and the back of his head was wedged into one corner.

  He could hardly breathe.

  Lying in the dark, Philo listened anxiously for any approaching voices. He was afraid that his pounding heartbeat might make the cupboard shake. The minutes dragged by as he tried to work out what he would do if someone discovered him. Should he run for the door or head for a window?

  It wasn’t long before he started smelling the faint aroma of roast beef. But it was a long, long time before anyone entered the dining room. First he heard creaking floorboards and the clink of cutlery. Then he heard a whispered argument somewhere off to his right, followed by a thud as something heavy was dropped onto the court cupboard. Finally the sound of twittering voices reached his ears – the voices of ladies and gentlemen making polite conversation. They grew louder and louder. Chair legs scraped across the floor. The smell of perfume mingled with the smell of hot food.

  Philo could feel one arm growing numb, but he strove to ignore his discomfort. Instead he concentrated on the different voices, trying to distinguish one from the other. He was already familiar with the Earl of Westmoreland’s dry, barking tones, and with the Countess of Westmoreland’s quavering bleat. The only other lady present had a very soft, gentle, refined voice, though she hardly used it. She spoke once of her wet nurse and once of curdled milk, but said little else. The others addressed her as ‘Lady Carpenter’. Her husband, Lord Carpenter, seemed to be suffering from a slight cold. There was a hoarse edge to his voice, and he kept sniffing and coughing.

  But Philo was more interested in the other two guests. One of them was Mr Alexander Murray. The other was Lord Elibank, his brother. Both had Scottish accents, but while Mr Murray’s speech was quick and clear and breathless, Lord Elibank spoke more slowly, in a rich but slightly hesitant baritone. It wasn’t long before they were dominating the conversation, though they always yielded to the Earl of Westmoreland.

  At first there was a lot of dull, scattered talk about the weather, and how hot it had been, and how the heat was affecting the Countess’s health. As Philo lay sweating in the dark, he found himself battling the urge to cough, so he missed most of the chatter about Mr Murray’s health after six months in Newgate Prison. But by repeatedly swallowing, and holding his breath until he nearly passed out, Philo was able to suppress the tickle in his throat. And when at last he turned his attention back to the room outside the court cupboard, he realised that the discussion had turned to politics.

  ‘I could raise five hundred loyal men in Westminster,’ Mr Murray was saying. ‘It would be the simplest thing in the world, I assure you. Why, I could have raised ’em on Oxford Street two days ago!’

  ‘And what could you do with five hundred men?’ Lord Carpenter scoffed. ‘Burn down a watch house?’

  ‘Seize St James’s Palace.’ Raising his voice over the sudden babble of protests, Mr Murray added quickly, ‘They would not be alone. The Earl of Airlie would send a portion of his regiment from France. And if we could persuade the Scots to rise again—’

  ‘Aye – if,’ said the Earl of Westmoreland.

  ‘The Camerons are loyal. As is MacDonald of Lochgarry,’ Lord Elibank pointed out. ‘And General Keith might be persuaded to land in Scotland with some of his troops. For you know he serves with the Prussian Army, and could raise ten thousand men, at a pinch.’

  ‘You seem to have given this matter a great deal of thought,’ Lord Carpenter rasped. ‘But it is fresh news to me …’

  ‘You truly believe that you could seize the palace with five hundred men?’ the Earl of Westmoreland interrupted. He sounded sceptical, but interested.

  ‘And the Tower of London.’ Mr Murray spoke with almost feverish confidence. ‘It requires only a staunch heart and a good knowledge of the sentries’ movements, both of which I have.’

  Someone grunted.

  ‘And having stormed the palace, what then would you do?’ the Earl wanted to know.

  ‘Why, clap the Elector in irons!’ Mr Murray exclaimed. ‘Or better still, bury him!’

  Philo knew that ‘the Elector’ was a nickname for King George. He could barely smother a gasp.

  ‘Nay, we’d not offend our good Prince Charles with such a crime,’ Lord Elibank said hastily. ‘The Elector would be sent to France.’

  There was a brief silence. Someone said, ‘Hum.’

  Then Philo felt the tickle in his throat again.

  ‘You think you could garner enough support in London o
nce the deed was done?’ asked the Earl of Westmoreland. ‘Assuming it could be done.’

  ‘We have many friends,’ Mr Murray pointed out. ‘The Duke of Beaufort, for one. And we know how much support there is in Westminster.’

  Philo clapped a hand over his mouth. The cough was building, making his eyes water and his face grow hot. Frantically he tried to swallow the sound, wondering all the while what he should do if it escaped him. How was he going to get out, with all those people in the way?

  ‘Of course our main forces would come from Scotland,’ Mr Murray went on. ‘But a carefully timed plot, relying on speed and surprise, would certainly carry the day—’

  Philo coughed. He couldn’t help it. Having done so, however, he didn’t wait to see what would happen next.

  Instead he burst out of the cupboard, barely noticing the six startled faces that turned towards him. Thanks to the nature of the topic being discussed, every servant had been banished from the room. So no broad-shouldered footmen were waiting along the walls to grab Philo as he shot past the diners, who were still struggling to their feet with a great clatter of chair legs.

  ‘Hoi!’ cried Lord Carpenter. But Philo had already yanked open the door to the entrance hall, surprising the footmen who stood on either side of it. One of them lunged at him, missing his head by inches.

  Philo ducked and skidded across the floor.

  ‘Stop that maid! Stop her!’ someone cried.

  Though the front door was bolted, the bolt was well-oiled; it snapped back at a single touch. Philo pulled open the door so sharply that it struck the outstretched hand of the footman pursuing him. There was a howl of pain as the footman’s knuckles slammed hard against a wooden panel.

  Philo charged out into the street. He was flying along, gulping down air, his face red and his skirts hiked up. There weren’t many people in Hanover Square. He couldn’t hide himself in any crowds, nor duck down any winding alleys, since all the streets leading off the square were wide and uncluttered.

  ‘Stop! Thief!’ a man’s voice bawled. Then, as various porters and milkmaids turned to look, another voice joined in – a woman’s voice.

  ‘I’m no thief! I’ve stolen naught! I am falsely accused!’ It was Mrs Cowley, screeching like a cockerel. ‘Sir, I implore you! Search my basket! This man calls me a thief—’

  ‘Nay – not you—’

  ‘Oh! Now you withdraw your accusation? You slander me without apology, and would leave me to the mercy of this mob?’

  She was causing such a fuss that Philo risked a glance over his shoulder. He saw that she was standing toe to toe with one of the Earl’s footmen, and that the small crowd gathering around her was blocking the path of another footman.

  Philo knew what she was up to; she was giving him extra time. So he slowed down a little, trying to suppress the sobs of panic that were tearing at his throat. He didn’t want to attract attention.

  Then he had a stroke of luck.

  Up ahead he spotted a sedan chair carried by two men he knew. They were friends of Val Brody, a long way from home, and they seemed to be waiting outside one of the corner houses.

  ‘Rab Riordan!’ Philo croaked, swerving towards the younger of the two men. Rab was dark, wiry and handsome, with flashing brown eyes and a gleaming smile made disreputable by one missing tooth. His friend Pat Murphy was smaller and older, but as solid as a rock; Pat’s salt-and-pepper hair was still thick, and he had the shoulders of a carthorse.

  ‘Rab. Do you know me? Philo Grey.’ Philo spoke nervously, scanning the street behind him.

  Rab blinked and frowned. ‘What in the—’

  ‘God help me, Rab, if I’m smoked, I’m done for,’ Philo babbled. ‘Will you let me use your chair for a spell? Two minutes …’

  ‘Philo Grey?’ Rab’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘There’s tuppence to earn.’ Philo sounded as desperate as he felt. ‘Please, Rab!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Rab, ‘but yon black-coat will return directly—’

  ‘Two minutes,’ Philo repeated. Then he flung himself into the sedan chair, hastily drawing the curtains so that he couldn’t be seen from the street. Because the chair was sitting on the ground, he didn’t make the chairmen stagger as he began to wriggle out of his petticoat, which had a drawstring at the top. By pulling the string tight, and upending the garment, Philo was able to turn it into a bag.

  ‘What are you doing in there, Philo?’ Rab muttered. ‘Sure, you’re jumping about like a March hare!’

  ‘If you’ve a mind to conceal yourself, lad, that’s not the way to go about it,’ Pat growled. ‘You look like a pig in a poke.’

  Philo didn’t answer. He stuffed his cap and stays and apron into his bag, then donned the shirt that has been tied around his waist, under the petticoat. His hands were shaking so much that it was hard to unpick all the knots. But he finally managed to button his cuffs and unpin his hair.

  When he scrambled back onto the street, he looked more like himself – though he didn’t usually carry a white sack. And he was ashamed to be seen bare-headed in public.

  ‘Bless you both,’ he murmured, fumbling in his breeches. When he peered across the square, he saw that the knot of people outside number eighteen was starting to disperse. Mrs Cowley was still shouting at one of the Earl’s footmen.

  But two of the other footmen were beginning to range around the square. And one of them was heading in Philo’s direction.

  ‘For your trouble,’ said Philo, slapping a twopenny bit into Rab’s outstretched palm. The Irishman, who was no fool, gave him a nod and a wink in return.

  ‘I’ve seen no lass pass by in a check apron,’ he assured Philo. ‘Believe me, I’d ha’ noticed.’

  ‘You’re a good friend, Rab.’ Philo threw his sack over his shoulder and headed east, acutely conscious of the footman behind him. He knew too little about the neighbourhood to risk losing himself in the nearest tangle of alleys. And he had a vague notion that if he turned left at the next intersection, he would soon find himself back on Oxford Street. So when he reached the end of the road, he set off in a northerly direction, walking briskly but not daring to glance back. His knees felt like wads of unspun wool.

  By the time he reached Oxford Street, it was starting to rain.

  HOW PHILO MADE

  A DECISION REGARDING

  HIS FUTURE

  Philo was drenched when he finally arrived at Mrs Cowley’s lodgings. He would rather have gone straight home, but he hadn’t yet received his guinea. And he wasn’t about to run the risk of not getting paid. Not after what he’d just been through.

  He was still shaking as he climbed the stairs, his sodden bag sitting heavily on his back. When he reached the top, he thumped on the door with a closed fist, wondering if Mrs Cowley’s servant was at home. He doubted very much that the actress herself had beaten him back to Windsor Court. Not unless she’d hired a carriage.

  He was surprised to see Mr Bishop open the door.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Bishop, who looked him up and down, then stepped aside. ‘Come in.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Philo blurted out.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for Mrs Cowley’s report.’ Mr Bishop was as neat as a pin, dressed in spotless linen with not a hair out of place. Beside him, Philo felt like a dead gull washed up on a mudbank. ‘But your own report will suffice,’ Mr Bishop continued, ‘if you’ll oblige me with it.’

  ‘I want my guinea!’ Philo snapped. He let his bag fall to the floor as he crossed the threshold. ‘I was promised a guinea for this job!’

  ‘Which you will receive, once I hear how you fared.’ Moving across to a nearby cabinet, Mr Bishop added over his shoulder, ‘Where is Mrs Cowley?’

  Philo shook his head, making drops of water fly about the room.‘The last I saw of her, she was in Hanover Square,’ he replied.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was chased from the house.’ Philo closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing. When he opened the
m again, he saw to his surprise that Mr Bishop was handing him a glass of liquor.

  ‘Have some brandy,’ Mr Bishop suggested. ‘It will warm you.’

  ‘I’m not cold,’ said Philo. But he took the glass and sipped at the brandy, which made him cough until his eyes ran.

  It burned his throat like a red-hot poker.

  ‘Sit down,’ Mr Bishop went on, ‘and tell me what’s amiss.’

  ‘I cannot sit.’ Eyeing the chairs scattered about, which were upholstered in satin damask, Philo remarked dully, ‘I’m wet. I’ll spoil ’em.’

  Mr Bishop promptly picked up what appeared to be his greatcoat, flinging it over the seat of a nearby couch. ‘Use that,’ he said.

  Philo obediently sat on the coat, clutching his glass with both hands. His heart was still racing. Water was trickling down his back, inside his shirt.

  ‘Are you injured?’ Mr Bishop asked him.

  Again Philo shook his head. He began to describe how he had entered the Earl of Westmoreland’s house, and what he had heard from inside the Earl’s court cupboard. He had just recounted the story of his flight into Hanover Square when the sound of footsteps caused him to break off with a frown.

  Someone was climbing the stairs outside.

  ‘Hush,’ said Mr Bishop. He had been listening intently to Philo, his arms folded and his expression thoughtful. Now he straightened, shifting his gaze to the door.

  When it opened, Philo had already jumped to his feet. He was relieved to see Mrs Cowley walk in. It had occurred to him, on his way back to Windsor Court, that she might have been dragged off to a watch house.

  ‘Thank heaven!’ she cried, on catching sight of him. ‘I didn’t know where to search for you! But I was hoping you’d made your escape.’

  ‘I didn’t know that you had,’ said Philo. ‘When last I looked, you was talking to a footman …’

  ‘Who did not detain me.’ Closing the door behind her, Mrs Cowley moved swiftly towards her bedchamber. She was soaked to the skin; her petticoat was plastered with mud, and the ruffles of her muslin cap hung dripping about her face. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but I am in no fit state to receive. Take your ease, I beg – I shall be with you presently.’