Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask Read online

  Essex Street was quieter. A handful of maids and footmen strolled to and fro as they spun out their daily tasks, enjoying the sun. A couple of pedlars were also patrolling the street, selling strawberries and oysters. Mrs Cowley flapped one of them aside as the chairmen set her down in front of Lady Primrose’s front door.

  ‘Such a bother,’ she said fretfully, in a high little voice quite unlike her own. It made her sound stupid. ‘Go and ask if Lady Primrose will receive me,’ she continued, addressing Philo in the same shrill tone, pitched loud enough for the chairmen to hear. ‘I’ll not get out otherwise – the streets are too dirty.’

  Philo had already been told how to proceed. After knocking at Lady Primrose’s front door – which was painted black, and adorned with a big brass knocker – he stepped back a pace, wiping his hands nervously on his breeches. He was sweating heavily, and not just from the heat; fear was making his mouth dry and his palms damp. He truly didn’t think he was ready to ape a pageboy. He didn’t feel convincing in the role.

  When the door in front of him swung open, revealing a tall young footman in a blue coat, Philo blurted out the message that Mrs Cowley had given him. Then he pressed half a crown into the footman’s hand. Mrs Cowley had assured him that anything less would not get them over the threshold – and Philo believed her. Footmen were notorious for the size of their ‘vails’, or tips.

  This particular footman must have judged the coin by its weight, for he didn’t so much as glance at it. Nor did he look Philo straight in the eye. Instead his blank, brown gaze hovered somewhere in the vicinity of Philo’s right ear as he fired off a toneless request to wait for her ladyship’s response.

  A moment later, the door slammed shut.

  Philo remembered his training and didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there like a statue, keeping his face turned away from the street. It worried him that a member of Wat Wiley’s gang might pass by and recognise him. Nor was that his only worry; he happened to think that Mrs Cowley’s whole scheme was insane. But she hadn’t given him one moment to think up a good excuse for bowing out. On arriving at her rooms, he’d found himself in a white satin waistcoat almost before he could speak.

  Suddenly the door opened again.

  ‘Her ladyship will receive Mrs Cowley,’ said the brown-eyed footman, stepping aside. Philo peered past him into a handsome entrance hall, which was large and light, with a wide staircase and a chequered floor. The walls were painted pale green, and were hung with enormous, full-length portraits. The only furniture to be seen was a lacquered desk supporting a quill pen and a stack of paper.

  ‘Oh, how elegant!’ a fluting voice exclaimed. With a start, Philo realised that Mrs Cowley had shot up the steps behind him. ‘Go and pay the chairmen,’ she ordered, nudging him out of her way. Then, as Philo began to retreat, she fluttered into the house, gasping and cooing. ‘What a charming arrangement! And so clean! I find it impossible to keep out the dirt in this city …’

  Philo had already been given money for the chairmen. By the time he’d paid them and hurried back into the house, Mrs Cowley had somehow managed to slip into what looked like a dining room. The footman was trying to shoo her out of it but she ignored him, clasping her hands in wonder as she declared herself ‘enraptured by her ladyship’s exquisite taste’. Philo was certainly amazed at all the glitter in the room. There was gilding on the walls, the mirrors, the candlesticks – even the longcase clock.

  ‘I do admire French style,’ Mrs Cowley trilled, cleverly dodging the footman. Philo, meanwhile, had also drifted towards the dining room, anxiously aware that she might want him close at hand. But before he could follow her across the threshold, another footman appeared, barring his way.

  Both footman were soon herding Mrs Cowley back towards the vestibule. They were tall and well-built, so she couldn’t resist the pressure of their looming frames or their thinly veiled threats. ‘An’ it please you, Madam … her ladyship is not receiving in this chamber … you’d not wish her to take offence, I’m sure …’

  Mrs Cowley had been gazing up at the wall-sconces. When she turned, she did it so abruptly that she hit the side of the dining-room door. Then she clapped her hand to her nose and wailed, ‘Oh … oh … oh …!’

  Blood began to spill from between her fingers.

  Philo was as shocked as the footmen – but only for an instant. Seeing one of her eyelids flicker, he realised that Mrs Cowley was winking at him. ‘Oh, lord!’ she groaned, as her blood splattered onto the floor of the vestibule. ‘Oh, how dreadful! Clean it up, child, clean it up!’

  Philo dropped to his knees, his heart pounding like a drum at a parade. He pulled out his handkerchief, and was about to start mopping up the blood-spots when Mrs Cowley promptly tripped over him. A terrible crack reached his ears. Next thing he knew, she was stretched out limply on the floor, being supported by a maid in a starched white apron.

  ‘Feathers!’ the maid cried frantically. ‘We must burn some feathers!’

  She was addressing the two footmen, as well as a middle-aged man in livery who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, carrying a lighted candle. Two more people were clattering down the stairs: a respectable-looking woman in a plain blue gown and a boy of about Philo’s age, in a leather apron and rolled-up shirtsleeves.

  Philo sprang to his feet, making for the desk near the front door. He was very concerned about Mrs Cowley. She looked terrible. Her face was covered in blood, her mouth was hanging open, and the whites of her eyes were showing between her half-closed lashes. Had she hit her head on the floor? Was she still breathing? What was he going to do if she’d killed herself?

  Finish what we started, he thought grimly, reaching for the quill pen.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked the woman in blue.

  ‘She’s breathing,’ the maid replied.

  ‘I’ve hartshorn.’ The lady in blue bustled up to Mrs Cowley, detaching a smelling-bottle from the bunch of keys at her waist. By this time the maid had found Mrs Cowley’s fan, and was flapping it wildly. The footmen were standing around like dumbfounded statues. Every eye was on Mrs Cowley, so no one noticed when Philo lit his quill on the candle’s naked flame.

  ‘Here,’ said Philo. ‘Here’s a burning feather.’

  But just as he began to wave it under Mrs Cowley’s nose, her eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘Oh … oh, where am I …?’

  A babble of voices answered her. Glancing up, Philo realised that even more people had poured into the vestibule. He recognised Lady Primrose at once; she was making her stately way downstairs. A plump woman of about forty, with grey hair and clear blue eyes, she wore a lace shawl, an orange gown, a black silk cap and slippers. She didn’t look happy.

  In the commotion that greeted her arrival, Philo was able to place his smouldering quill back on the desk, so that it nudged against the stack of paper. Then he returned to Mrs Cowley’s side.

  ‘Such an unfortunate accident,’ Mrs Cowley quavered, turning her head feebly this way and that. ‘Forgive me – how mortifying…’

  ‘You are an actress, I believe?’ Lady Primrose said coldly.

  ‘And such an admirer of Flora MacDonald.’ Mrs Cowley sat up, dabbing at her nose with her neckerchief. There was a blood-speckled purse in her right hand. When she thrust this purse at Lady Primrose, one of the footmen snatched it away as Lady Primrose took a sharp step backwards.

  ‘Twenty pounds for your subscription,’ Mrs Cowley continued in a pleading tone, as the footman removed several gold coins from her purse and passed it back to her. ‘I wish it were more …’

  ‘How very charitable.’ Lady Primrose’s smile was as stiff as her spine. ‘I shall pass your compliments to Mrs MacDonald. Of course you must be feeling too ill to return home at present. Sarah!’ She turned to the maid. ‘Show Mrs Cowley into the housekeeper’s room. And bring her some warm water so she may wash her—’

  ‘Fire!’ yelled one of the footman.

  Philo had been waiting for this ala
rm. A quick glance showed him that flames were now licking along the lacquered desktop. Sarah screamed. One of the footmen tore off his coat and tried to smother the fire with it. The other seized the burning desk and dragged it towards the door. As Lady Primrose was ushered away, the man with the candle began to fire off orders. He told Sarah to fetch water from the kitchen. He told the boy in the leather apron to follow her. He told the knot of servants on the stairs to stop screeching.

  He may have said something else as well, but Philo didn’t hear him. Because Mrs Cowley was already tugging him into the street. Together they plunged through a cloud of smoke, and past the smouldering desk.

  They didn’t slow down until they reached the Strand.

  ‘A thoroughly successful performance,’ Mrs Cowley declared cheerfully. ‘I would have wished to retain the twenty pounds, but I’ll not repine.’

  ‘Your nose …’ Philo began, but Mrs Cowley cut him off with a smile.

  ‘Merely a bladder of blood,’ she revealed. ‘Made of sheep’s intestine pulled tight enough to burst at the slightest pressure.’ Leaning towards Philo, she pinched his cheek, still smiling. ‘The fire was a clever notion. I salute you for it. Mr Bishop told me you had the wit for such pursuits – I can see now that he was right.’

  She meant it as a compliment, but Philo wasn’t sure that he took it as one. What had possessed him? Creating a diversion was all very well, but setting Lady Primrose’s house on fire? That was something else entirely.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Cowley, after he’d blurted out his misgivings. ‘There was no danger. You excelled yourself.’ Suddenly a hard glint flared in her eyes, startling Philo because it seemed so at odds with her placid expression. ‘That’ll teach the old cat not to shuffle me off to the housekeeper’s room,’ she growled.

  Then she hailed the nearest sedan chair, her voice once again as sweet and light as a macaroon.

  WHAT PHILO’S

  FRIEND THE SURGEON HAD

  TO SAY ABOUT SPYING

  It was six o’clock, and Philo was waiting by Nathaniel Paxton’s front door.

  On winter nights he always met Mr Paxton outside the St Giles workhouse, to escort him home. But in summer there was no need for that. So Philo would simply turn up at Mr Paxton’s lodgings in Parker’s Lane, hoping that the surgeon’s rounds wouldn’t keep him busy for too long.

  Mr Paxton lived above a linen-draper’s shop near Shelton’s School. It was a respectable street, so Philo always worried about loitering there. But no one bothered him as he sat on Mr Paxton’s front step, pondering the events of the day. He had a lot to think about. On returning home from Mrs Cowley’s, he had been questioned about the traces of white lead on his jaw – which Kit had spotted at once. Forced to give an account of himself, Philo had felt guilty at the other boys’ reactions. Fleabite had been the only one to come right out and ask why Mrs Cowley hadn’t been mentioned before. But Philo had sensed, from Lippy’s silence and Kit’s clipped remarks, that he’d hurt their feelings. And though he’d loudly blamed Mr Bishop for forcing him to be ‘secretive’, this excuse had sounded feeble even to his own ears.

  He felt that he’d let his whole team down.

  Then there was Fettler Ben. On his way to Mr Paxton’s house, Philo had spotted Fettler ducking into Princes Court. Clearly, Garnet Hooke wanted to know what Philo was up to. But why? Was he trying to find out what business Philo had in St Clement’s parish? Or was there some other reason?

  Philo hadn’t tried to dodge Fettler. He didn’t care if Fettler knew that he was visiting Mr Paxton, since it happened every week. But he would have to be more careful once he left Mr Paxton’s house – especially if Fettler was lurking nearby. To avoid him, Philo would have to find another exit.

  He wondered if it would be simpler just to walk right up and ask Fettler what was going on.

  Philo also wondered what he should do about Mrs Cowley. He was still feeling shaken by the incident on Essex Street. For years he’d secretly collected information, so that thieves could be arrested and shams unmasked. But disguising himself was different. It involved a whole new level of deceit. Philo didn’t think he was up to it – or that he approved of it, either. Mrs Cowley had asked him to come back the next day, and Philo had agreed. Now he was starting to have second thoughts. Would Mr Bishop take offence if he refused to continue down this path? Would it mean losing the man’s business?

  ‘Theophilus Grey!’

  A jovial voice suddenly hailed him. Looking up, Philo saw Nathaniel Paxton strolling down the street, all billowing coat and messy brown hair. The sight of Mr Paxton’s compact figure instantly cheered Philo. He sprang to his feet, assessing the surgeon’s mood with a practised eye. Sometimes Mr Paxton left the workhouse looking very grim, his clothes spattered with blood, his jaw set, his eyes dull with sorrow and fatigue. But when he walked away with a spring in his step, it always meant that his rounds had gone well – that there had been no dying mothers or suffering infants in the workhouse infirmary.

  ‘Why, what’s toward?’ Mr Paxton exclaimed, clapping Philo on the shoulder. ‘You look as if you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence!’

  ‘Troubles,’ Philo said shortly.

  ‘Troubles! Aye, we all have those.’ Mr Paxton pushed open his front door. ‘Come. Let us drown ’em together. For I’ve a rare thirst, and didn’t stop at a single alehouse on my way home.’

  Philo said nothing. He followed Mr Paxton upstairs to his lodgings, which consisted of a parlour and a bedroom. Philo was very fond of Mr Paxton’s parlour. He liked its generous windows and high ceilings. He’d spent hours examining the pictures on the walls, the books in the bookcase, and the contents of a glass-fronted cabinet that contained all manner of strange things: statues, shells, pickled creatures, a skull, a giant egg, a petrified seahorse. There was always something new to see, because Mr Paxton had once been a naval surgeon, and retained an interest in far-flung places. He had told Philo about a fish with a sword attached to its nose, and birds that could talk like men, and men who could lie on beds of nails without harming themselves. Mr Paxton’s parlour was a magical place, full of wonderful objects and fascinating stories. Philo felt safe there.

  ‘God ha’ mercy!’ the surgeon exclaimed, as he stepped over the threshold. ‘This place is an oven! Open the windows, will you? I’ll fetch some ale. Or would you prefer small beer?’

  ‘Small beer,’ said Philo, who was thirsty. He raised the windows while Mr Paxton went to rummage beneath his bed for a corked jug. The newest addition to the parlour was a large pile of pamphlets. Philo recognised the topmost one, which featured a picture of a baby. Anne Jenkins had been selling it.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking it up as Mr Paxton emerged from the bedroom with two pewter tankards. The surgeon had taken off his hat and coat, and had rolled up his sleeves. His face was damp with sweat.

  ‘That?’ he replied. ‘That, my lad, is a steaming heap of sirreverence.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ This didn’t tell Philo much. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be telling me? I thought you was here to learn your letters?’ Seeing Philo’s shoulders slump, Mr Paxton laughed and took pity. ‘That is an essay entitled The Petition of the Unborn Babies to the Censor of the Lying-In Hospital. It accuses man-midwives of killing infants.’

  Philo gasped. Mr Paxton was often called to the Lying-In Hospital, where he had delivered many children.

  ‘I’ve not been accused directly,’ the surgeon added, as he set down Philo’s small beer. ‘The writer uses false names like “Dr Pocus” and “Dr Barebones”. Which makes me think his guns are trained on physicians, rather than on humble surgeons like myself …’

  ‘But – but you don’t kill babies!’ Philo spluttered, enraged that anyone should suggest such a thing.

  ‘I do my best not to,’ Mr Paxton agreed. He dropped into a high-backed chair that stood by the fireplace. ‘I’ve a suspicion that “Dr Barebones” might be Dr John Bamber, f
or the writer attacks medical instruments, and Dr Bamber prides himself on his instruments. Especially his secret instrument.’

  ‘Secret instrument?’ said Philo, all at sea.

  ‘He employs it to deliver babies,’ Mr Paxton explained. ‘I’ve never seen it. Few have, save the women he treats. He keeps it closely guarded, and reaps the rewards. He has built his reputation on that instrument.’ Mr Paxton’s smile was more of a grimace. He looked suddenly tired, and his gaze wandered absently around the room. ‘The damned thing has bought him a manor in Essex and a townhouse in Mincing Lane. Which he needs because he’s still eagerly welcomed at Bridewell, though he’s all of eighty …’

  ‘Bridewell Prison?’ Philo interrupted.

  ‘Aye, he’s a governor there thanks to his renown as a physician and man-midwife.’ Mr Paxton sighed. ‘O, to be a varsity man! If I’d been to university, belike I would own half of Cornwall by now.’ Raising his tankard, he cried, ‘Here’s to the physicians! May they forever serve the rich and mighty, so that surgeons needn’t.’ He laughed again, swallowed a mouthful of beer, and waved Philo into a nearby seat – which was an old-fashioned, leather-covered chair fringed with worsted bobbles. ‘Give me The Public Advertiser, and I’ll read you the advertisements,’ he went on, pointing at a pile of newspapers.

  Philo obeyed, then sat down to listen with his unlit torch in his lap. He had a week of advertisements to memorise – dozens of them, all pleading for the return of stolen goods. As Mr Paxton worked his way through the newspapers, one by one, Philo concentrated hard on every detail.

  ‘Stolen on Saturday last, out of the grounds of Thomas Layard, butcher at Clapham, a bay horse, fifteen hands, two white feet behind and one foot before…’ Mr Paxton read, skipping the reward offered, as usual. ‘Stolen from the house of William Howell, butcher, of Brownlow Street, St Giles, on Thursday night last, eighty pounds of roof-lead—’