Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

by Catherine Jinks

  Philo committed the names to memory. ‘I’ll look out for ’em,’ he promised.

  ‘You do that,’ said Wiley. ‘And when you see ’em, stay out o’ their way.’

  He and Philo didn’t exchange another word. Instead they parted slowly, without turning their backs on each other. Philo waited until Wiley’s crew had withdrawn into Devereaux Court before heading briskly up Essex Street, holding his breath.

  He only spoke to Kit when they finally reached the Strand.

  ‘That could have gone a lot worse,’ he remarked. ‘Wiley seems more solid than I gave him credit for.’

  Then they headed back into their own neighbourhood.

  THE UNEXPECTED

  ARRIVAL OF ANOTHER

  INFORMANT AT PHILO’S

  LODGINGS

  ‘What’s to stop Wiley from moving into Drury Lane?’ asked Kit.

  ‘We’ll stop him,’ said Lippy, who stank of lavender oil. Though he’d spent half the night washing his hair and clothes at a pump down the street, a lingering smell of sewage had driven him to the nearest apothecary’s shop at first light. ‘If he comes near me again, he’ll rue it.’

  ‘We could ask Val for help.’ Fleabite was draped over Philo’s bed, juggling a pair of peach-pits. As everyone stared at him, he dropped one of them, cursed, then added, ‘I’d lay odds those coves would run from an Irish chairman. Val could tell his friends to ding ’em if they stray.’

  ‘But will it matter if they do stray?’ Dandy piped up. Before Kit could take him to task, he said mildly, ‘I know Crab Jack. We grew up in the same workhouse. He’s a shag-bag, with no sense or manners. Who would hire him in this parish? No one who could hire us instead.’

  Philo said nothing. He was lying on his bed, his ankles crossed and his hands clasped across his ribs. Around him were scattered the remains of his breakfast – eggshells and pork-rinds, as well as a dusting of breadcrumbs. He was busy collating all the intelligence he’d just received from his crew: intelligence about local pickpockets, housebreakers, drunkards, gamblers, bullies, lovers, paupers and shopkeepers. Kit’s report had included an account of the meeting on Essex Street.

  ‘I’m friendly with a crippled shoe-binder who lodges in the Craven Buildings,’ said Kit, who was sitting next to Philo. Having been out to buy breakfast, Kit was fully dressed in his usual oversized coat and canvas trousers. All the other boys were still in their breeches and nothing else. ‘I could ask him to watch Wych Street for us, lest Wiley’s gang overstep it,’ Kit continued. ‘’Twould be no hardship for the shoe-binder, since he rarely leaves his window.’

  ‘If you think it worth your while,’ said Philo, who had more important things to worry about. Garnet Hooke, for instance. Caroline Cowley. Mr Bishop. ‘I saw Mr Bishop last night,’ he announced. ‘He was with James Bourdieu, in Covent Garden.’

  The other boys stiffened. Even Fleabite stopped juggling. They knew how important Mr Bishop was.

  ‘What was he doing there?’ asked Kit.

  Philo shrugged.

  ‘You don’t think he’s a French agent?’ Fleabite demanded breathlessly.

  Philo didn’t bother answering. He just gave a snort.

  ‘Belike the two gentlemen are acquainted,’ was Dandy’s contribution. It was his nature not to think ill of anyone – except the overseers of the local workhouse. ‘Could Mr Bishop live in the same parish as Mr Bourdieu?’

  Shrugging again, Philo said, ‘He’s never told me where he lives.’

  ‘Did he say aught to you last night?’ Kit queried.

  Philo shook his head.

  ‘Unmannerly,’ Fleabite muttered.

  ‘Could Mr Bishop be spying for the Admiralty?’ asked Kit.

  Philo heaved a weary sigh. ‘He could be a royal prince, for all I know. He tells me naught.’ For perhaps the hundredth time, Philo pondered the mystery of Mr Bishop. Though the man’s fingers were often ink-stained, they weren’t cracked or calloused, so he probably didn’t ride much. He spoke like an educated person. He had money enough to keep his linen well laundered and his wig freshly powdered. He worked for the Secretary of State.

  And that was all Philo knew about Mr Bishop – except that Mr Bourdieu had called him ‘Gabriel’.

  ‘Mr Bishop asked me to visit someone,’ Philo began, having decided that he should tell his crew about Mrs Cowley. But before he could go on, a breathless voice interrupted him from out in the corridor.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Philo Grey! Where are you hiding?’

  Every boy in the room jumped up. Philo grabbed his shirt and began to drag it over his head. ‘Don’t let her in!’ he said to Kit, who darted out the door, slamming it behind him. The other boys were dressing frantically, pulling on coats or shirts or stockings. Fleabite started to complain as he groped around for his shoes.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you meet her at the Dog tavern?’

  ‘I must be late.’ Philo fumbled with his waistcoat buttons. ‘I said I’d be there at noon …’

  ‘’Tis past that now,’ Lippy remarked. ‘I heard the bells earlier.’

  Philo muttered a curse, then began to tie his hair. Every Saturday for the past three months he had made time in his busy schedule for Anne Jenkins, a sixteen-year-old pamphlet-pedlar. Anne fed him intelligence about the literature that was out on the streets. Though she herself couldn’t read, she was friendly with a host of printer’s devils – young apprentices who fetched type and mixed ink. These boys knew all about the content, the writers and the publishers of the leaflets that Anne sold. And for a small fee, she was happy to pass this information on to Philo.

  ‘Philo!’ Kit spoke from out in the corridor. ‘She wants to come in!’

  ‘One moment …’ Philo pounced on his stockings.

  ‘I’m not going back to the Dog!’ Anne exclaimed. ‘I’ve been there long enough – the pot-boy was chaffing me!’

  ‘Come in,’ said Philo. Ignoring Fleabite’s wordless protest, he reached for the doorknob. But before he could touch it, the door burst open.

  ‘You slugabeds!’ cried Anne, who was standing on the threshold with a basket over her arm. ‘Woof! This room is like an oven. Why do you want to bake in here, when the street is so much cooler?’

  Anne Jenkins was a tall, strapping girl with a broad face, red cheeks and lots of thick, straight brown hair that was always coming loose from the pins and caps in which she tried to confine it. Her hazel eyes were small and bright; her clothes were all grey, though her petticoat was of a darker shade than her short gown or her kerchief. She had a big, booming hawker’s voice that sometimes made Philo flinch when they were together in public. Despite her noisy ways, however, Anne was surprisingly discreet. At first Philo had been worried that she might tell other people about their business, but she never had.

  ‘Why, here’s Fleabite!’ she crowed. ‘He looks like a fleabite, don’t he? His face is as red as his hair. ’Tis the heat, I’ll wager.’

  Fleabite scowled. He wasn’t fond of Anne Jenkins because she liked to tease him about his temper. Lippy didn’t care for her either, since she tended to behave as if he didn’t exist. But Dandy was always pleased to see Anne. The two of them shared a love of all things naval; Dandy had even shown her his collection of memorabilia, which included a piece of scrimshaw, a signal flag, and a thimble from the HMS Centurion.

  ‘I’d rather look like a fleabite than a—’ Fleabite began, but Philo cut him off.

  ‘Stubble it!’ Philo said shortly. Turning back to Anne, who was ruffling Dandy’s hair, Philo offered her a seat. ‘Unless you want to talk elsewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘And waste more time? I’ve little enough o’ that to spare.’ She dropped onto his bed and began to fish around in her basket. ‘There was a lady at Mr Owen’s print-shop, yesterday, making inquiries about a tract called A Letter from H__ G__ g Esquire,’ she said, licking her thumb as she flicked through her stack of pamphlets. ‘’Twas published last year, at another press, and condemned
as seditious. So Mr Owen never touched it.’

  ‘What was it about?’ asked Philo.

  ‘The Young Pretender.’ Hearing Fleabite hiss, Anne winked at him. Then she set aside a handful of brochures, tossing them onto the bedclothes. Philo saw a woodcut of a baby on top of the pile. ‘I’m told the lady’s name was Hetherington,’ Anne observed. ‘I don’t know her first name.’

  Philo did. Mrs Hetherington was one of Lady Primrose’s dearest friends. Though he’d never laid eyes on her, Mr Bishop had described her to him.

  ‘But this here is a new tract,’ Anne went on, plucking a leaflet from the sheaf in her hand. ‘The Case of Alexander Murray Esquire in an appeal to the People of Great Britain, more particularly the inhabitants of the City and Liberty of Westminster.’ Anne recited the words instead of reading them; as always, she had committed them to memory. ‘The ink’s barely dry, for it only came in yesterday. I’m to cry it like this.’ She took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘A fight for liberty! Mr Murray’s bid for freedom! An account of Alexander Murray’s firm resolve!’ Then, before Philo could do more than wince at this assault on his ears, she lowered her voice again. ‘Mr Owen’s boys told me ’tis a Jacobite text,’ she concluded.

  ‘It is,’ said Philo. He reached for the pamphlet, which was badly printed on rough paper. It opened with the words ‘old men’, but Philo didn’t have enough time to sound out the rest of the first paragraph. ‘Who wrote it?’ he queried.

  ‘No one’s claimed it in print,’ Anne replied. ‘But I know who the author is.’ She began to repack her basket, carefully sorting the pamphlets into bundles. ‘’Twas penned by a cove named Paul Whitehead. He’s been in Fleet Prison for debt, so they tell me.’

  Philo made a mental note. ‘You must remember who buys it,’ he urged her. ‘I’ll need descriptions.’

  ‘Aye, don’t fret, I know the lay,’ said Anne.

  ‘Tell me next week. On Wednesday, at the Dog.’ Philo was anxious to pass this information to Mr Bishop. ‘I swear, I’ll be there betimes.’

  ‘More empty promises?’ Anne pouted at Philo, who was sitting on the bed opposite. ‘You lads are all the same. You swear this and you swear that and then you break a young maid’s heart.’ As Philo flushed, she pointed at Kit and said, ‘This lad snubbed me in the street, yesterday! Walked by without a word!’

  Kit made an impatient noise. Though he was always civil to Anne, he distrusted her. He distrusted most people. ‘You shouldn’t be making a show of our acquaintance,’ he retorted.

  ‘Oh, you lads! Heartbreakers, all o’ you!’ Anne turned back to Philo. ‘If we’re to meet at the Dog, rosy-gills, I’ll need chink for my dram.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Philo, who had been counting out her fee. When he laid it in her open palm, she closed her fingers around his, jerked him forward, and gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth. She was always doing things like that. As far as he could tell, she thought it the greatest joke in the world to unsettle him.

  ‘Well, I’m done to a turn,’ she announced, jumping to her feet. ‘One more minute in this oven and I’ll be overcooked. You lads are looking a little scorched yourselves – which o’ you is going to show a lady out?’ Seeing Dandy raise his hand, Anne beamed and said, ‘My little rum-bob! Shall we cast off, then?’

  ‘Are you too drunk to find your own way downstairs?’ Fleabite asked waspishly, then yelped as Philo flicked his cheek.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Philo told Anne. ‘I’ve a call to pay.’

  Kit frowned. ‘A call?’ he echoed. ‘What call?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I come back,’ said Philo, who didn’t have time to explain. Mrs Cowley was expecting him at one, and he wanted to check the time on the clocks in the nearest watchmaker’s window.

  So he accompanied Anne Jenkins down to the street. As they descended, arm in arm, she talked about a recently published pamphlet called The Scandalizade, which had been very popular. She also talked about another pedlar who’d been arrested for selling pamphlets that hadn’t been officially ‘stamped’. But she hadn’t done more than touch on the topic of her feud with a local ballad-singer when they stepped out the front door, and Philo caught a glimpse of someone he was very surprised to see.

  Cockpit Court stretched from Drury Lane to Great Wild Street, but it didn’t get much through-traffic. Most of the people who used it actually lived and worked there. So when Philo spotted Fettler Ben Thoroughgood loitering near the eastern corner of Great Wild Street, he knew at once that it was no coincidence.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ asked Anne, who must have felt him stiffen beside her.

  ‘Naught,’ said Philo – just as a distant chorus of bells began to chime one o’clock. With a muttered oath, he turned abruptly towards Drury Lane. Normally it wouldn’t have troubled Philo that Garnet had sent Fettler to spy on him. But he didn’t want anyone knowing about his visit to Mrs Cowley. ‘Would you do me a service?’ he mumbled.

  Anne raised her eyebrows. ‘If I can. What’s toward?’ she inquired.

  ‘There’s a cull back there in a green coat, skinny and sallow, with black hair worn loose.’ Philo was pleased to note that Anne didn’t glance over her shoulder to check; she wasn’t stupid. ‘I need to dodge him.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Anne smiled slyly. ‘A bailiff, is it?’

  ‘He’s my age,’ Philo retorted, before adding, ‘He’s not to see where I go. Can you block him when he reaches Drury Lane? Keep him occupied for a minute or two?’

  ‘I’ll sell him a tract, if I must,’ Anne said breezily. ‘Who is the cove?’

  ‘An old friend,’ Philo answered. Then, without offering her a salute or a word of farewell (which might have alerted Fettler Ben), he suddenly darted across Drury Lane, straight into a crowd of French weavers. He didn’t bother to look back, because he knew that Anne was reliable. She would station herself at the entrance to Cockpit Court, ready to bar the way of anyone who tried to pass her.

  He could hear her calling her wares – in a loud, hectoring voice – as he headed for Mrs Cowley’s front door.

  AN INSTANCE OF

  MRS COWLEY’S CUNNING AND

  PHILO’S QUICK WIT

  ‘Perfect,’ said Mrs Cowley, stepping back to regard Philo. She wore a white gown printed with a pattern of pale pink roses. Ruffled lace foamed around her neck and elbows, and her lace cap was trimmed with pink ribbon. ‘How lucky it is that I can measure any man at a glance,’ she added, ‘for I could not have borrowed more than one costume from our wardrobe master.’ Grasping Philo’s arm, she swung him towards the mirror on her dressing table. ‘What a poppet! Your own mother would scarce recognise you.’

  ‘Blood an’ ’ounds!’ Philo exclaimed, horrified. In his white wig and blue satin coat, he looked like one of the porcelain figurines on Mrs Cowley’s mantel. She had even powdered his face and rubbed carmine into his cheeks, turning him into a painted doll. ‘This won’t fadge!’ he protested. ‘I’ll be laughed off the street!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Cowley. ‘I know a dozen ladies who parade their pages up and down New Spring Gardens like pet pugs, all decked out in the prettiest livery.’

  ‘Aye, but we’re not going to New Spring Gardens.’ In fact they were about to set off for Essex Street, where Mrs Cowley was planning to visit Lady Ann Primrose. The scheme, she’d told Philo, was to create a diversion while somebody else – ‘a friend of Mr Bishop’s’ – broke into one of her ladyship’s attic bedrooms. ‘I have a pretext,’ Mrs Cowley had explained. ‘I’m to offer her ladyship twenty pounds for the subscription she’s raising on behalf of Flora MacDonald, who helped the Young Pretender escape from Scotland after his defeat. That should get me through the front door.’

  ‘And then?’ Philo had asked.

  ‘Then I shall lure the entire household downstairs.’ Mrs Cowley had spoken with breezy confidence. ‘All you have to do is follow my lead. The more havoc we wreak, the better. And don’t for heaven’s sake lose your head – entering the house is all ve
ry well, but we must leave again without arousing suspicion.’

  Philo couldn’t imagine anything more suspicious than his page’s disguise, which he thought made him look like a figure of fun. But when he followed Mrs Cowley out into Drury Lane, very few people glanced at him twice. It was a busy time of the day, and the street was crawling with well-dressed people – army officers in red coats and gold lace, lawyers in black silk and fine muslin neckcloths, rich merchants in embroidered waistcoats and silver shoe-buckles. In such a moneyed crowd, Philo’s white satin smallclothes didn’t look out of place.

  Still, he was nervous about hailing a sedan chair. He knew most of the chairmen in the parish. What if he was recognised beneath all his paint and powder? But when he finally did flag down a chair, the men carrying it did no more than sneer in his direction. They certainly didn’t look puzzled or surprised.

  ‘Essex Street,’ he told them, his voice squeaky with nerves. They were a shabby pair, one nuggetty and cheerful, the other wiry and sullen. Glancing at their leather-clad chair, Philo saw that it had mildew growing on its walls. But Mrs Cowley didn’t seem to mind. She inserted herself gracefully into it, leaving Philo to close the hinged roof over her head. Then she gave a nod.

  As the chairmen began to lurch forward, she fluttered her ivory fan, defending herself against the heat and the stench of mould. She didn’t draw the curtains. ‘When one is engaged in a covert affair,’ she’d told Philo, ‘one does not skulk like a footpad. One parades oneself before the public eye with an air of unconcern, as if one hadn’t a secret in the world.’ After a moment’s thought, she had added with a smile, ‘Of course, it helps if one looks utterly witless.’

  They set off at a brisk pace, along streets dusty with dried mud and ashes. The chairmen were too busy dodging and weaving to pay much attention to Philo. They barely glanced his way, except to snarl at him occasionally for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Philo kept his head bent and his eyes cast down, in case anyone should recognise him. In the Strand he spotted Mr Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate. But Mr Fielding was across the way, limping along on a gouty foot. He was far too preoccupied to notice Philo.