Theophilus Grey and the Demon Thief Page 3

  ‘Hollo, Captain! What’s toward?’ asked Kit. ‘I’d lay odds there’s no chink to be had from the workhouse.’

  ‘I’m waiting,’ said Philo.

  ‘For?’

  ‘Paxton. The sawbones from Parker’s Lane.’

  ‘Aye. You was with him earlier.’ Kit nodded. ‘But what ails Jemmy Jukes?’

  With a shrug Philo answered, ‘We found him in Middlesex Court. Not a mark on him. Paxton says ’twas apoplexy.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘At death’s door.’ Philo got straight to the point, fixing his friend with a gimlet eye. ‘What I want to know is: was he out upon the mill when he was settled? For I saw Cockeye McAuliffe not a half-hour earlier, and that within shouting distance.’

  ‘Cockeye McAuliffe?’ Kit echoed. ‘Is he back?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Kit frowned.

  When it came to the thieving fraternity, there was no opinion Philo respected as much as Kit Maltman’s. Only six years earlier, at the age of five, Kit had begun working for Cockeye’s gang of housebreakers, climbing through windows to open doors. He was still famous, in certain circles, for escaping from a house by climbing up its chimney. But he’d grown too big for the job, and would have begun picking locks, if he hadn’t fallen ill with prison fever when he was eight years old. The housebreakers had promptly abandoned him, and Kit had been reduced to begging for crusts. That was when Philo’s master had taken him in.

  It was Kit’s knowledge of his former cronies that made him so useful. That was why Philo wanted to ask him about Jemmy Jukes.

  ‘Jemmy was out upon the mill, I’ll be bound,’ said Kit. ‘Stripping houses is his game. But he don’t work alone – he’ll have been with the rest o’ that crew. Scamper Knaggs, or Gugg Worris. They’ll know what befell him.’ After a moment’s hesitation, Kit added, ‘If Cockeye was about, then it’s likely he’s rejoined Scamper’s gang. For they were all quite thick, before Cockeye was roasted.’

  ‘You don’t think Cockeye dinged Jemmy?’ Philo asked.

  Kit shrugged. ‘Jemmy never peached on him, far as I know.’

  ‘If Jemmy is ill, it might be a plague picked up from Cockeye,’ Philo mused. ‘They say you cannot trust foreign air.’

  ‘Were there boils on Cockeye? Or cankers?’

  ‘Not so much as a rank sweat.’ Hearing the sound of bolts being drawn on the doors behind him, Philo lowered his voice. ‘You’d best whip off now. Why not visit Coal Yard? It should be busy a few hours yet.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Kit agreed. He darted away just as the workhouse door swung open. When Mr Paxton emerged, looking tired and dishevelled, he spotted Kit’s torch disappearing down the lane.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘A friend,’ said Philo.

  The surgeon gave a grunt, jamming his cocked hat onto his head. His hair had come loose from its riband; it hung around his face in ragged brown wisps. ‘Did the watchman leave?’ he inquired.

  ‘Aye, your honour. Some time ago.’

  ‘With all haste, no doubt. And who can blame him?’ Mr Paxton heaved a weary sigh. ‘What a chapter of chances! This place has me in its thrall. No sooner do I leave than I am back again.’

  Philo said nothing. But he fixed the surgeon with such an inquisitive look that Mr Paxton said, ‘I secured our friend a bed in the mortuary.’

  Philo suppressed a shudder. ‘He’s dead, then?’

  ‘Not yet. But there was no other place for him. They’ll send for his kin, betimes.’

  ‘He has none that I know of.’

  The surgeon shrugged. Then he started off down Vinegar Yard, heading east. He was a small man, so his stride wasn’t long; Philo quickly caught up with him. As they walked together in silence for a few minutes, Philo scanned the shadows for possible threats.

  It wasn’t until they reached Crown Alley that Mr Paxton finally remarked, in a distracted voice, ‘Apoplexy can occur when blood is effused into the substance of the brain from a blow to the head. But I saw no evidence of such an injury.’ He subsided for a moment, then began to mutter about worms and ‘strumous disorders’.

  ‘Can you cure him, your honour?’ Philo queried at last. He was genuinely interested.

  ‘What – that Jukes fellow?’ Mr Paxton gave a sudden, mirthless laugh. ‘I doubt it. There’s little can be done for a victim of apoplexy. There’s little can be done for most of my patients. I could not save my own wife from a hectic fever, so what hope can I offer anyone else?’

  Noting the surgeon’s compressed mouth, Philo added another nugget of intelligence to his mental store: Wife dead. Hectic fever. It was clearly a tender point for Mr Paxton, and Philo was wondering whether to offer his condolences when a movement ahead of them caught his eye.

  They had already reached Shorts Gardens, and were now walled in by aged, half-timbered buildings that leaned drunkenly into the street. Philo, who knew at least half of the people inhabiting these buildings, soon realised that the two men emerging out of the darkness were from farther afield. One of them was a stunted, raw-boned, ginger-haired bully called Nobby Cockle, who’d been branded on the hand for killing a man in a fist fight. The other was Beans O’Neill, whose lean, gristly frame had been wrapped in an oversized greatcoat that was probably lined with concealed pockets. Though he claimed to be a gaming-house doorman, Beans – like Nobby – belonged to a notorious crew of footpads called the Hellfire Gang, who were commonly seen drinking at the Fox alehouse on Drury Lane. Both men were big drinkers. And both were very, very dangerous.

  Philo’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that he had to act quickly. While the two men might not have been out on the prowl, they were never entirely off-duty; a satin waistcoat in a darkened lane was bound to spark their interest. So before they could even register that Mr Paxton’s coat was silk-lined, Philo said in a loud voice, ‘Hollo! Nobby Cockle! You was being talked of in the Turk’s Head tavern earlier!’

  The two men froze in their tracks. Without giving either of them a chance to speak, Philo breezily added, ‘Jemmy Jukes is in a stupor – found on his face not far from here. Cockeye wants to know where you was, Nobby.’

  Nobby’s jaw dropped. Beans said, in a voice like the scratch of iron filings, ‘Who is that? Do I know you?’

  ‘The devil a bit!’ Nobby cut in. ‘I never laid a finger on Jemmy Jukes!’

  ‘Where’s Cockeye now?’ Beans demanded. Seeing Philo shrug, he exclaimed, ‘We never left the Fox all evening! You tell Cockeye he can ask the landlord!’

  ‘I’ll tell Cockeye, by damn!’ growled Nobby, then stormed off down the street. After a moment’s hesitation, Beans followed him – though not before shooting a furious glance over his shoulder.

  Philo seized Mr Paxton’s arm, and was relieved when the surgeon didn’t baulk or ask questions. Together they plunged into Drury Lane, moving at a rapid pace but not actually breaking into a run. Rats skittered out of their way as they hurried past Brownlow Street, where the bathhouse was still open. Philo saw light spilling from its windows.

  ‘You diverted them,’ Mr Paxton said at last.

  Philo nodded.

  ‘They were footpads?’ the surgeon continued, keeping his voice low.

  ‘There’s not a stitch on their backs that was bought with honest coin,’ Philo answered. ‘All the fraternity come out at night.’

  ‘Like owls on the hunt?’

  Again Philo nodded. By this time they were level with Turnstile Alley, which was now full of happy people. Philo deduced that they must have poured down a back passage from the Red Lion Inn.

  ‘What if those ruffians discover that you misled them?’ Mr Paxton asked, as if he was really concerned.

  Philo dismissed the idea. ‘They didn’t see my face.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Philo paused in mid-stride, then swung around to address the surgeon. ‘Can you see my face, sir?’

  He knew that, with his broad-brimmed hat and raised torch,
his features were cast into deep shadow. It was one reason why he wore a hat.

  ‘Well . . . no,’ Mr Paxton admitted. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘There’s few folk pay any heed to a glim-jack. You’ve no cause to fear for me, your honour,’ Philo assured him, before setting off once more.

  They reached Parker’s Lane soon afterwards. Mr Paxton lived towards the east end, near Shelton’s School, in a solid, handsome building of brick and stone. There was a linen-draper’s shop on the lowest level; Mr Paxton occupied the rooms above it.

  As he produced a key to the front door, Mr Paxton said, ‘Would you consider a permanent appointment, Master Grey?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I have regular rounds at the workhouse. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I leave there shortly after six o’clock. By which time it is quite dark, at this time of year.’ The surgeon regarded Philo with a measuring look, then added, ‘If I was to give you a shilling a week, would you light me home of an evening? On those particular days?’

  For a moment Philo was speechless. But he recovered quickly enough. ‘Aye, your honour! With all my heart!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Here is the shilling in advance.’ Mr Paxton produced it from some hidden pocket. ‘You may deduct the penny I owe you.’

  Philo nodded eagerly, extending his open palm. Mr Paxton laid the shilling in it, saying, ‘Did you ever work in a gentleman’s house, Master Grey?’

  ‘I, your honour? Nay, your honour.’ Philo whisked the coin away before the surgeon could change his mind. ‘I’ve never been aught but a glim-jack, sir.’

  ‘Indeed? I would have thought otherwise. You have a nimble tongue in your head.’

  Philo understood exactly what Mr Paxton was talking about. He knew that he didn’t speak like a normal linkboy – and he knew why, too. It was because, from the age of six, he had been raised by a gentleman named Garnet Hooke.

  But Philo didn’t explain this to the surgeon. If there was one thing that Garnet had taught Philo, it was that you didn’t just give away valuable intelligence.

  You either kept it or you sold it.

  CHAPTER 4

  CONCERNING

  PHILO’S CREW, MR GARNET HOOKE, & THE COLLECTING OF INFORMATION

  Garnet Hooke paid two shillings and sixpence a week for a single furnished room in Cucumber Alley. Like his other expenses, it was funded not only by his own income as a lawyer’s clerk. but also by the earnings of Philo’s crew – all of which went into a common pot. The room itself contained a tester bed with brown curtains, an iron stove, a gate-legged table, an oak chest and an assortment of chairs. Every wall was covered in bookshelves stacked with journals, ledgers and printed texts.

  Because it was the front room on the first floor up, the windows were large and generous, with deep sills. On these sills were arranged Garnet’s bottles and jars, labelled in his spiky handwriting. His razor, pint-pot, vinegar vial and wig-stand were kept on the chest. His pens and paper lay scattered across the table, which also supported various cups, plates and cruets.

  Garnet spent most of his time in this room, sitting up in bed. He was there, as usual, the day after Philo met Mr Paxton, propped against a pile of bolsters and wrapped in a dressing-gown of faded blue silk that made his skin look yellow. On his head was a cap shaped like a turban, and sliding off the end of his long, thin nose was a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles that hooked over his ears.

  He was reading aloud from The Public Advertiser, in a low, precise, wheezy voice.

  ‘Stolen on Saturday last from Elias Tilbury in King Street, Seven Dials, a scarlet montero cap lined with white fur, a steel pencil-case engraved with a star emblem, a silver watch with a brown chain and pinchbeck seal, and a French small sword, with silver clamshell decoration on the guard. If offered to be pawned or sold, stop them and the party and give notice to Mr Henry Fielding or the said Elias Tilbury and you shall receive three guineas reward from Mr Tilbury aforesaid.’

  Garnet paused and coughed, then looked up. Around him, listening hard, were all seven members of Philo’s company. Some were perched on chairs. One was sitting on the floor. Kit Maltman was leaning against a bookshelf, while Ben Thoroughgood – ‘Fettler Ben’ – was tending to the stove. Philo wished that Fettler would stop fidgeting. There was no need to keep poking the fire; what on earth was he trying to prove? Five years before, when he’d been selling oysters in the street, Fettler had known the byways of St Giles so well that, after only two chance meetings with him, Garnet had gone straight to his grandparents and taken him off their hands (for a fee). Lately, however, Fettler had become a kind of quasi-nurse, mending Garnet’s clothes, emptying his chamber-pot, mulling his wine, trimming his wicks and sorting his laundry. He even slept in Garnet’s room, on a straw palliasse, in case Garnet should need medical assistance during the night.

  Philo thought it a terrible waste of hard-earned skills, though Fettler didn’t seem to care. In fact the ten-year-old was starting to behave as if he owned the place. Having taken custody of the matches, the candles, the lamp-oil, the sewing needles and the key to Garnet’s linen-chest, Fettler seemed to think himself a cut above the other boys – despite being taunted for becoming ‘a damn lady’s maid’. Philo was withholding judgement. As long as Fettler Ben remembered who was really in charge, Philo had no objection to being ordered about when it came to food or coals or dirty linen.

  Philo himself was sitting on Garnet’s bed, leaning against a foot-post. His eyes were glued to Garnet’s face, with its hollow cheeks, bloodless lips and skin like parchment. Only Garnet’s bright, black gaze was as vigorous as a young man’s; the rest of him looked sixty, though he was a good fifteen years younger. Beneath the impact of that gaze, Philo always felt as if he were up before a magistrate’s bench.

  Over by the stove, Fettler murmured, ‘Three guineas! That’s a handsome reward.’ Then, as the others studiously ignored him, he flushed from his receding chin all the way up to the roots of his lank, black hair. Everyone knew that rewards were out of bounds. By collecting rewards, you became known as a thief-taker, and would soon lose every source of intelligence open to you.

  ‘I seem to recall your mentioning that the doorkeeper at the Hoop gaming house had a new montero cap,’ Garnet said to Dandy Dodds, who was sitting in one of Garnet’s bow-backed chairs, his feet barely brushing the floor. Dandy was only nine years old, and small for his age. Thanks to his modest size, wispy blond hair, artless blue eyes and round red cheeks, he was welcome everywhere, by everyone, and never suspected of anything. That was why Garnet had taken him in.

  ‘I didn’t see the cap myself,’ Dandy replied, in his high, piping voice. ‘I heard of it from Dick Groundwell. He’s an usher at the Hoop.’

  ‘What colour was the cap?’ Garnet inquired.

  Dandy shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then find out,’ said Garnet. ‘You must go there tonight for custom, Daniel – see what you can see.’ Shaking out the newspaper in his hands, Garnet began to read from it again.

  ‘Stolen from the premises of Abraham Figtree, apothecary at Holborn, one half-pound weight of tea in a white stone jar painted blue, three gallons of oil, a copper saucepan with a wood handle, two silver spoons marked “1 oz”, a glass vial with a silver lid, and a Turkish tobacco pipe of leather and gold wire, tipped with ebony. If offered to be disposed of, stop them and the party and give notice to Mr Henry Fielding and you shall receive a guinea reward.’

  ‘A Turkish pipe!’ Lippy Whittle exclaimed. ‘I saw Gugg Worris smoking a pipe like that yesterday!’

  Kit pricked up his ears. ‘Gugg Worris? He’s one o’ Scamper’s gang. Runs with Jemmy Jukes.’

  ‘Jemmy was left for dead last night in Middlesex Court,’ Philo volunteered. ‘Not a mark on him. I picked him up myself.’

  ‘You picked him up?’ said Garnet, peering at Philo over his spectacles.

  ‘I was with Mr Pax—’ Philo began.

  ‘Wait. If we’re to hear this, you must begin a
t the beginning. Let me finish these advertisements before you make your daily report.’ Garnet looked around the room. ‘Does anyone wish to comment further on the robbery at Holborn?’

  There was a brief silence. At last Fleabite spoke, from down on the floor.

  ‘I’ve seen a dead snake in a glass bottle at that Holborn shop,’ he announced.

  Kit smirked. Fettler rolled his eyes. Garnet eyed Fleabite for a moment, as Philo held his breath. But Garnet didn’t unleash the blistering scorn that such a remark would usually have drawn from him – perhaps because Fleabite was the baby of the group.

  ‘Very well,’ said Garnet. ‘Let us proceed.’ He then read aloud an advertisement for a lost dog called Muff, which had disappeared in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Market. Only when he was sure that no one in the room had seen the dog, nor heard any gossip about it, did Garnet ask Philo to make his report. ‘Quick as you can, Theophilus – ’tis a good way past noon.’

  Philo took a deep breath as he marshalled the facts in his head. Garnet liked a clear, linear narrative with no detail left out, so Philo began with his first job of the night. He had gone straight to the White Hart Inn, to meet the coach from Grantham. There he had been hired by a woman called Dinah Bugg, who was visiting her sister in Tower Street. Dinah had brought three children with her, and seemed to be fleeing from her husband.

  ‘What of the children?’ Garnet queried. ‘What do they look like?’

  He took copious notes as Philo described each child. Garnet was always interested in children, because he passed regular reports to the churchwarden in charge of relief for the poor. And since some people who applied for parish relief claimed to have extra offspring – even though the children they presented to the churchwarden weren’t really theirs – Garnet tried to keep a thorough record of every child who lived in the parish.

  ‘After that, two gentlemen on Castle Street wanted to go to Sam’s Coffee House,’ Philo went on. ‘One was a law clerk, the other an army ensign.’ He gave Garnet their names and addresses, before adding, ‘I didn’t linger at Sam’s. Everyone there was deep into supper, and the theatres were letting out. So I went to the Royal, and Mr Barnwell hired me to light his way.’