Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask Read online

  ‘Roof-lead?’ Philo exclaimed, stiffening – and Mr Paxton looked up.

  ‘You know where it went?’ asked the surgeon.

  Philo nodded. He remembered that Fleabite had spotted a known thief with a bag of roof-lead. After waiting a moment, Mr Paxton resumed. He had a light, pleasant voice, but Philo found his attention wandering. There was too much else to think about. Wat Wiley, for example. Mrs Cowley. Fettler Ben. Philo was busily planning his exit when he suddenly realised that Mr Paxton had fallen silent.

  Looking up, he saw that the surgeon was watching him.

  ‘What ails you, Theophilus? I finished a good while ago, yet you haven’t stirred since.’

  Philo opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  ‘Your troubles seem to be preying on your mind,’ the surgeon added. But Philo shook his head.

  ‘Not overmuch,’ he mumbled.

  Mr Paxton narrowed his eyes, but didn’t pursue the matter. Instead he asked, ‘Have you seen aught of James Bourdieu this past week? Our friend at the Admiralty has been pressing me for news.’

  It was Mr Paxton who had referred Philo to the Admiralty. The surgeon had once collected intelligence during his stint in the navy, and though he was no longer a spy, he’d quickly recognised that Philo had the makings of one. Mr Paxton now acted as a go-between. He conveyed Philo’s information to the Lords Commissioners, then passed the Admiralty’s fee back to Philo.

  It was a measure of his kindness that he never took a cut for himself.

  ‘I saw Mr Bourdieu twice this week,’ Philo revealed. ‘Last night and on Tuesday. On Tuesday he was with a Dutchman named Heysen. They spoke English, for Mr Heysen had no French. They went to the Shakespeare’s Head, then to Haddock’s for a steam-bath.’

  Mr Paxton reached into the fireplace for a lump of charcoal, which he used to scribble notes on the newspaper in his lap.

  ‘What did they discuss?’ he queried.

  ‘Indian silk. Slaves. Spanish wool.’ Philo began to recite the fragments of conversation he’d heard, relieved that Mr Paxton was writing them down. It meant that Philo would be free to forget them.

  ‘And last night?’ asked the surgeon, when Philo had finished. ‘Who was with our friend last night?’

  Philo took a deep breath. ‘Mr Mark Giberne. Mr Zachary Fonnereau. And … ah …’ He hesitated before finally muttering, ‘… another gentleman.’

  Mr Paxton looked up. Their gazes locked. At last the surgeon echoed, ‘Another gentleman?’

  Philo found it impossible to lie to Mr Paxton. After a moment of private turmoil, he reluctantly continued, ‘A gentleman of about your age, sir. A little taller. Very soft-spoken. Mr Bourdieu called him “Gabriel”.’

  To his surprise, the surgeon didn’t make a note of this. There was a brief silence, during which Philo gnawed at a thumbnail. Then Mr Paxton said quietly, ‘What’s wrong?’

  Philo didn’t know where to start. His gaze skipped around the room, searching for help. He had to swallow and lick his lips before asking, ‘What was the worst thing you ever did when you spied for the navy?’

  Mr Paxton blinked. ‘The worst thing?’ he repeated. ‘Well – I didn’t kill anyone, if that’s what concerns you.’

  ‘Nay, sir, I …’ Philo took a deep breath. ‘Did you ever claim falsely to be someone you wasn’t, so as to enter a place?’

  The surgeon hesitated. He knew of Philo’s connection with the Secretary of State, because the Admiralty had given Philo’s name to Mr Bishop. But Mr Paxton had been told nothing more. He hadn’t wanted to be told.

  Now he studied Philo with his clear hazel eyes and said, ‘You fear you’re being led astray?’

  ‘For the country’s good,’ Philo assured him. ‘And for my crew’s, withal. Yet the deceit of it …’ He heaved a sigh, shook his head and murmured, ‘It likes me not.’

  Mr Paxton ran a hand over his scrubby jaw, his brow creasing. ‘I can hardly advise you, lad, not being fully apprised of your circumstances. But as to deceit, I am well acquainted with that, and must tell you …’ He offered up a crooked smile. ‘’Tis the handmaid of espionage.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Mr Paxton leaned forward. ‘The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together, and the road to virtue can be difficult to chart. But when it comes to finding that road, you have as good a compass as anyone I’ve ever met.’ Seeing Philo’s startled look, he smiled again, exposing a set of very good teeth. ‘Trust your heart – or your gut, rather. For I’ve an inkling you’ll find yourself unable to stomach aught that’s poison to the soul.’

  Philo didn’t know how to respond to this. Luckily, Mr Paxton didn’t seem to require an answer. He launched himself out of his chair, slapped Philo on the arm, and suggested that they start the evening’s lesson. ‘Shall we return to the New Riddle Book? Or would you prefer the Psalms?’ he inquired.

  ‘The New Riddle Book,’ said Philo. Fleabite always liked to hear riddles from The New Riddle Book.

  So Mr Paxton went to fetch the cheap little book, with its clumsy type and crude woodcuts, while Philo glanced out the window into the street. He couldn’t see Fettler Ben. But that didn’t mean Fettler wasn’t out there, waiting.

  And it would be harder to see him when night fell …

  IN WHICH

  PHILO MET WITH SEVERAL

  UNKNOWN RUFFIANS

  Philo took a roundabout route to Essex Street that night.

  He began by climbing through Mr Paxton’s bedroom window, out onto the roof of the kitchen downstairs. Mr Paxton didn’t ask why. ‘More of your troubles, I’ll wager?’ was all that he said. But he stood watching until Philo had dropped into Whitcomb Alley.

  From there Philo headed for Great Queen Street, where he used the passage through number sixty-six to enter a makeshift chapel that was tucked behind the house. This chapel was always open for choir practice on Saturday evenings, so Philo was able to slip in unseen while the choristers were busy rehearsing their hymns. He then squeezed through a vestry window, scrambled into the stable yard next door, and made his way to the dense tangle of lanes around Clement’s Inn.

  By the time he reached the Strand, dusk had settled over the city like a black veil. He was pretty sure that Fettler Ben hadn’t followed him, since he’d been very careful with his route, and hadn’t even lit his torch. But he did light it at the top of Essex Street. Then he straightened his hat, dusted off his clothes, and made for the Essex Head.

  Despite his visit earlier that day, he’d decided to appoint himself the Essex Street lookout. For one thing, he doubted very much that Lady Primrose would recognise him without his white wig and face paint. He also wasn’t sure if Wat Wiley could identify the rest of Philo’s crew. Wiley knew Lippy Whittle, of course. But Philo wouldn’t have trusted Lippy anywhere near Wat Wiley’s gang – not since the chamber-pot incident. There was too much bad blood. And what if Wiley mistook Kit or Dandy or Fleabite for a lone linkboy invading his territory? What if he launched an attack?

  Philo had weighed all the risks, and thought it wiser to station himself outside the Essex Head. He felt sure that it would be the safest option.

  But he was wrong.

  As he approached Devereaux Court, he saw two men hovering on the tavern doorstep. One looked like a Thames lighterman. His skin was weathered, his palms were calloused and there was a tattoo of an anchor on the back of each wrist, yet he didn’t wear a seaman’s pigtail or short coat. Instead his oilcloth coat was cut very long, and his steel-grey hair hung loosely about his shoulders.

  His friend was clad in a waterman’s red coat and pewter badge. He was stout and sandy-haired, with huge hands and a face that looked sunburned even in the light of the tavern’s oil-lamp. In his mouth was a clay pipe, but it wasn’t smoking.

  Philo reduced his speed when he spotted these two men. He was concerned that they might try to hire him. Glancing around, he took note of all the other people bustling by in the dimness, his
eyes peeled for a likely customer. At last he settled on a plump, ink-spattered gentleman who was probably a lawyer’s clerk. Philo used him as a shield, keeping to his right and pretending that they were together.

  As soon as they passed the Essex Head, the lawyer’s clerk turned left into Devereaux Court. Philo had been hoping that this would happen. His plan was to linger in Devereaux Court until the coast was clear. But even as he slowed, allowing the lawyer’s clerk to outstrip him, he spied a hulking figure emerging from the darkness ahead.

  It was another waterman.

  The waterman spotted Philo and grinned. The grin wasn’t friendly. Nor was the cudgel in the waterman’s hand. He raised it as soon as he had passed the lawyer’s clerk, then charged at Philo with his teeth bared and his eyes glittering.

  Philo turned and ran. But he hadn’t gone three steps before two large, shadowy figures appeared, blocking his path to Essex Street. It was an ambush. A trap. The lighterman and his friend had moved to intercept him.

  They were big men with long arms, and the mouth of the alley wasn’t very wide. So Philo brandished his torch. When the lighterman lunged, Philo ducked, using the torch to beat him off. But then the sandy-haired waterman grabbed Philo’s collar.

  Luckily, the lighterman’s neckerchief had caught fire. His frantic cursing distracted his friend, giving Philo a chance to fight back. Reaching for his smelling-bottle, Philo hurled its contents straight into the eyes of his captor.

  The bottle contained hartshorn. Mr Paxton called it ‘carbonate of ammonia’; he’d warned Philo that it wasn’t something you wanted to get in your eyes. As soon as it hit its target, there was a roar of pain. The grip on Philo’s collar relaxed. He pulled free and hurtled down Essex Street, heading for the river.

  He was at a terrible disadvantage. His flaming torch shone like a beacon. He didn’t know the streets and had no friends living nearby. Though a few stray people were scattered about, not one of them was going to intercede for him – not against a band of bullies. As he charged through the water gate, he could hear pounding footsteps behind him, but no yells. No growls. The silence of his pursuers frightened him more than anything else. It meant that they were organised. It meant that they had agreed not to rouse the neighbourhood.

  At least two men were running after him. Philo couldn’t risk glancing over his shoulder, because it would have slowed him down. He nearly tripped as he descended a steep flight of stone steps; ahead of him lay the river, black and oily and speckled with light. But there was a cross-street at the foot of the steps, and Philo used it, making a sharp right before the men behind him had even reached the top of the stairway.

  He found himself in a dark alley lined with coal-sheds. Most of these buildings had shingled roofs. Many were separated by nothing more than a low arch or a wooden gate. The tiny yards in which they stood were full of kindling and kitchen refuse. They offered no escape, except through the houses behind them.

  But then Philo noticed a water butt under a downpipe. It was sitting in one corner of a yard that was cluttered with broken barrels. Philo dashed into the yard and doused his torch. He was dragging it back out of the water when the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. They were heavy and rapid, and they belonged to a single person.

  Philo ducked down behind the water butt. He wondered if his pursuers had separated. If they had, it was bad news. It meant that no matter which way he went, he was likely to run into one of them …

  His torch was dripping onto his breeches, because the charred tow was sopping wet. Passing his hand over it, Philo had a sudden idea. He began to rip the tow loose from the elmwood shaft, knowing that he didn’t have much time. Working feverishly in the dim light from an upstairs window, he dragged the riband from his head and wove it through the thatch of blackened tow, creating a makeshift wig. Then he lifted the brim of his hat in the front and rear, joining the two raised portions with his court-plaister. The result looked rather like a cocked hat – at least from a distance. Having tied his hair up in his handkerchief, he placed the tow on top of it and pulled his hat down over that.

  Next he rubbed dirt into his face and hands, hoping to disguise his pale skin. After taking off his coat and waistcoat, he wadded the coat into a bundle and tied the bundle to his back under his shirt, using one of his own stockings. The other stocking was dragged through the filth underfoot. When it was as brown as snuff, Philo wound it around his neck like a muffler.

  Finally he turned his waistcoat inside out, so that the stripes were showing. Though he couldn’t button it because of his hump, its stripes served as a kind of camouflage. When he rose to his feet he leaned heavily on his staff as if it were a walking stick, his back hunched and his knees bent.

  It is our posture and speech that define us. Mrs Cowley’s words came back to him. If you have a good ear and well-trained limbs, you will always be able to disguise yourself. Though Philo’s limbs weren’t particularly well trained, he remembered what Mrs Cowley had told him about his back and his stomach, and how they controlled his legs. He also remembered what she’d told him about inhabiting a role.

  I’m a crippled beggar with a hump, he thought. My name is Samuel Smith. I used to be a silversmith until a bout of rheumatic fever laid me low…

  As he limped back out into the alley, he kept his head down. The temptation to run was overwhelming, but he fought it. He knew that his pursuers would be looking for a light-footed fugitive – not a hunchbacked figure plodding slowly along, coatless and swarthy, in a cocked hat, a striped waistcoat and a brown neckerchief. The important thing was to inhabit the role. That mean not hurrying, not hiding, and not stealing looks over his shoulder.

  The alley was deserted. Philo headed away from the river, groping along in the dark, until he reached Milford Lane. Here several oil-lamps were still burning, so Philo recognised the street at once. The houses in it were very old, with bulging walls and sagging roofs. The street’s southern end fanned out into four separate alleys, all narrow and dim. One led to Hutchinson’s Wharf, but Philo had no idea where the others ended up.

  So he turned north towards the Strand, keeping his pace slow while his heart raced. He’d decided that Wat Wiley was to blame for his predicament. Wiley must have ordered some of his friends to attack Philo – and Philo couldn’t work out why. It made no sense. Yet it had happened, and Philo was still too shocked to be angry.

  I’ll think about it later, he told himself.

  There were a lot of gin-shops and alehouses scattered along Milford Lane, most of them notorious. Philo had heard that these drinking dens were popular with river pirates, so he tried to give them a wide berth as he stumped past. An alehouse full of river pirates was exactly the kind of place where Philo might fall foul of Wat Wiley’s friends. The whole street might be full of Wat Wiley’s friends. Yet Philo kept his eyes firmly on the cobbles in front of him, partly because he was inhabiting his role, partly because he could barely see. It was so dark without a torch and he didn’t want to break his neck.

  The closer he drew to the Strand, the better he felt. Once he was past the coach stand, he would be safe – though he still wasn’t sure about Wych Street. Would Wiley’s crew be patrolling Wych Street? Would they have the bare-faced gall? But he had to stop worrying about Wat Wiley. He had to inhabit his role, and that didn’t mean planning his revenge on Wiley’s crew. It meant thinking like a crippled beggar.

  I live in a cellar off Swan Yard, he decided – just as someone large and heavy galloped past him, heading north. Philo caught a glimpse of an oilskin coat. He heard muttered curses and heavy breathing, but he didn’t lift his head or increase his speed. Though shaking with fear, he kept putting one foot in front of the other, determined not to expose himself.

  Soon he was within spitting distance of the Strand. Yet Wiley’s friend the lighterman was now blocking his way, scanning the street like an armed guard, looking for Philo. The entrance to Milford Lane wasn’t very wide. There would be no way of getting past th
e lighterman without breaking cover.

  Philo’s heart sank. What was he going to do? He’d just decided that he might have to use his staff as a weapon when he heard the furious clanging of a distant bell, and realised that a fire-engine was heading towards him.

  Everyone in the Strand stopped to look. Some people moved aside. When the lighterman’s head snapped around, Philo seized his chance. With the road rapidly clearing, and all eyes turned to the east, he leaped forward and ran for his life.

  As he charged towards St Clement’s church, he heard a furious roar behind him. Luckily, the churchyard ahead was as familiar as his own bedroom. Though ill-lit, it was also large and flat and empty, with nothing in it to trip him up. He crossed the dusty yard as if he had wings, then plunged down the passage into Wych Street.

  It wasn’t long before he hit a milling crowd of people.

  ‘The fire is in Covent Garden,’ someone was saying. ‘A watchman told me.’

  Philo didn’t linger to hear more. He wriggled through the press of bodies, pushing aside lanterns and rushlights, until he stumbled out onto the road. ‘Move! Quick!’ an urgent voice yelled.

  Philo suddenly realised that he was standing in the path of the Bridewell fire-engine, which was bearing down on him at top speed.

  He hurled himself towards the Angel Inn, where a knot of spectators had gathered. Some were in nightgowns. Some were drunk. Some were holding candles, but only one had a flaming torch.

  ‘Fleabite!’ Philo raised his voice over the din of the fire-bell. As Fleabite turned his head, frowning, Philo waved at him – and saw Fleabite’s blue eyes grow as round as coins.

  ‘Captain?’ Fleabite exclaimed.

  At that instant a horse went galloping past, dragging the Bridewell fire-engine behind it.

  AN ACCOUNT OF

  THE CONFLAGRATION THAT

  TOOK PLACE IN COVENT

  GARDEN MARKET

  The Bridewell fire-engine was a four-wheeled cart that contained a large tank attached to a hose and a hand-pump. It was manned by a crew of ‘Bridewell boys’ – poor apprentices who lived in Bridewell Hospital. They wore blue smocks, baggy blue trousers and round white hats, and they were the best firefighters in London. But they were rowdier than any of the parish crews.