Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

by Catherine Jinks

  As she shut herself into the room next door, Philo slowly sank back down onto Mr Bishop’s coat.

  ‘You were seen, then?’ Mr Bishop pressed him. ‘By the whole company?’

  Philo nodded. The thought of it made him break into a sweat.

  ‘How unfortunate.’ Mr Bishop tapped his chin with one finger. ‘There is every chance your sudden appearance may drive them to greater concealment. Unless, of course, it scares them into abandoning their plot, though I am not hopeful …’

  ‘I can’t do this,’ Philo said abruptly.

  Mr Bishop raised his eyebrows. His finger stopped moving.

  ‘I told you what happened.’ Downing the rest of his drink, Philo coughed and said, ‘You owe me a guinea.’

  ‘And you shall have it,’ Mr Bishop replied, reaching into his coat.

  ‘This work don’t suit me. I haven’t the stomach. You should find another agent.’ Looking up, Philo saw that Mr Bishop was now standing over him, a golden coin pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

  Philo took the guinea and tucked it away.

  ‘We’re none of us immune to ill-timed coughs,’ Mr Bishop assured him. ‘I’m prone to them myself, on occasion.’

  ‘I can’t do this,’ Philo repeated, avoiding the man’s eye. Though Mr Bishop’s voice was as soft as swansdown, Philo still felt uneasy at the thought of defying him. ‘I’m not easy in my mind, on account of it,’ he added. ‘I’m no actor, sir. Nor am I a housebreaker.’

  ‘Theophilus—’

  ‘They’re wicked folk, to speak ill o’ the King. But it don’t sit well with me, all this skulking and lying.’ Philo set down his glass and rose to his feet again. ‘I’ll gladly bring you news from the streets, Mr Bishop, but I’m not bred to the rest. As for Lady Primrose – your honour, those Essex-Street glim-jacks don’t want me there at any price. They’d sooner drop my boys in the Thames than have us set foot on their patch. You need to hire them, not us.’

  ‘But I don’t know those people,’ Mr Bishop replied. ‘Nor do I trust them. And I am convinced that you underrate your skills, Theophilus.’ Seeing Philo open his mouth to protest, he hastily added, ‘I am in the King’s service – as you are. What shame can there be in that?’

  ‘None, but—’

  ‘Mrs Cowley has been singing your praises.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘She thinks you promising beyond all expectation.’

  ‘I cannot do it, sir. I’m sorry.’ Philo was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed that the incident in Hanover Square had left him so frightened. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be warm and dry and safe. ‘I’ll put Mrs Cowley in peril, if this goes on,’ he muttered, taking a step backwards. ‘I’ll make a mistake that will unmask her.’

  But Mr Bishop stopped him with a crisp question. ‘Would you continue the work for ten pounds?’

  Philo thought he’d misheard. He stared at Mr Bishop, wide-eyed. Ten pounds was a monstrous sum.

  ‘Ten pounds,’ Mr Bishop confirmed, answering Philo’s startled look. ‘Half now, half later.’

  Philo licked his lips. ‘When I’ve done what?’ he asked roughly. ‘Spent a night at the foot o’ Mr Murray’s bed?’ Before Mr Bishop could reply, he mumbled, ‘I can’t, your honour. Forgive me. I’ve not the mettle for it.’

  As he turned to leave, Mr Bishop addressed him in an easy, pleasant tone. ‘I cannot risk hiring boys all over town, Theophilus. I cannot have one boy for this and another for that. It raises the risk of discovery. If you cannot help me, I shall find someone who can. And if he brings me his daily intelligence, as you do, then I must needs favour him for the task.’

  Philo gave a sour little half-smile. He had been afraid that Mr Bishop would threaten him with a loss of income. Though ungracious, it was not unexpected.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said again. Then the bedchamber door opened.

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Cowley exclaimed, emerging in a cloud of pink silk. Though she had changed her filthy clothes and scrubbed her face and arms, her hair still clung damply to her skull. ‘I’m not too late! Are you setting off now, my dear?’

  She was talking to Philo, who said, ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  ‘Then I must entreat a service.’ Bustling up to him, Mrs Cowley pressed into Philo’s hand a piece of paper folded around a coin. Then she thrust her face close to his. ‘This note is for Miss Sophia Wainwright, at number thirteen Haughton Street. Will you take it to her? She must have it before six o’clock, or I shall suffer the most painful consequences.’

  Philo blinked. He knew every soul who lived at number thirteen Haughton Street, and there wasn’t a Sophia Wainwright among them. But when Mrs Cowley’s left eyelid flickered, he realised that she was lying.

  For some reason, she was making Mr Bishop the target of an elaborate hoax.

  ‘Aye, ma’am,’ Philo said hesitantly. ‘I’ll do that.’ He cast a sidelong glance at Mr Bishop, whose expression was perfectly serene. ‘Good day to you, sir. I’m – I’m very sorry.’

  Mr Bishop inclined his head. ‘Think about my proposal. It merits your consideration.’

  Philo didn’t respond. Instead he made for the door. He had just pulled it open when Mrs Cowley cried, ‘Wait! What of your hat? And your coat?’

  She quickly retrieved the rest of Philo’s clothes from the chair on which he’d left them earlier that day. ‘At least they’re dry,’ she remarked, helping him on with his waistcoat. Philo mumbled a few words of thanks. On his way out, he paused to address Mr Bishop.

  ‘Those gentry may have seen my face, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘If they did, I’m smoked, and would no longer be of any use.’

  Then he left, before Mr Bishop could disagree with him.

  It wasn’t until he had reached Drury Lane that he felt safe enough to examine Mrs Cowley’s letter. Though it had stopped raining, the air still felt damp, and the streets were awash with puddles. Droplets pattered down on Philo’s hat-brim from overhanging eaves as he noted that the letter wasn’t sealed, and that a careless ‘T’ was scrawled on the outside of the folded sheet. Did the ‘T’ stand for Theophilus?

  When Philo opened the letter, his payment fell out.

  He quickly pocketed the coin, frowning over two lines of swooping roundhand script that had been scribbled on the paper. He had to sound out every word, standing there in the street for ten minutes, as people hurried past him.

  You have too much honour for this trade, my dear, Mrs Cowley had written. Abandon it now, while you can.

  She hadn’t signed her name.

  Philo was astonished. What on earth did this mean? He was still working out exactly what Mrs Cowley was trying to tell him when he raised his troubled gaze from the message in his hand, and found himself staring straight into the eyes of Fettler Ben Thoroughgood.

  The sight of Fettler’s lank hair and woebegone expression gave Philo a terrible shock. He stuffed his letter into his breeches and scowled ferociously.

  ‘You’re like a bedbug!’ he snapped. ‘I can’t get rid of you!’

  ‘Philo—’

  ‘What’s your lay, for the love o’ Christ? And on a Sunday, too! Why don’t you tell Mr Hooke to do his own spying?’

  ‘I want to, Philo.’ Fettler looked miserable. He was damp and bedraggled; his calves were bare and his shirt was fraying at the cuffs. ‘I don’t give a cherry stone for Mr Hooke and his schemes.’

  Philo shot him a sour look.

  ‘On my honour!’ Fettler cried. ‘The man’s not what he was, Philo, I swear. He’s going mad. I can do naught to please him. He’s awake half the night, reading his sorcery books … he never used to throw ’em at me, but he does now … and he hates you so much! Beyond all good sense!’

  Philo felt a pang at this news. Despite Garnet’s many sins, he’d been a father to Philo, once.

  ‘Will you not take me into your crew?’ Fettler pleaded. ‘I’ good faith, Philo, I’d as lief work for you as for the King of England.’

  Philo didn�
��t know what to say. On the one hand, he’d known Fettler for years. They’d been raised as brothers. On the other hand, after spending months in Mr Bishop’s employment, Philo had become very canny. He couldn’t help asking himself: Was this one of Garnet’s tricks? Was Garnet trying to embed an agent in the very heart of Philo’s crew?

  Eyeing Fettler suspiciously, Philo searched for some hint of deceit in the set of his mouth or the angle of his head. But Fettler stared back in mute appeal, a hunched and pitiable figure, wringing his hands and chewing his bottom lip. He’d never been a good liar.

  ‘Would you tell me what Mr Hooke’s been doing?’ Philo said gruffly.

  Fettler nodded.

  ‘Come along, then.’ Philo jerked his chin. ‘Come and talk to the others.’

  CONCERNING THE

  MANY RESPONSIBILITIES WITH

  WHICH PHILO WAS BURDENED

  The other boys were all at home, digesting their dinner. Wet Sundays always left them sluggish. Even Fleabite wasn’t as restless as usual.

  ‘We’ve eel pie for you, Captain, but not for him,’ Fleabite said with a scowl, when he spotted Fettler. ‘We didn’t expect company.’

  ‘He’s not here for the eel pie.’ Philo ushered Fettler into the hot little room where Philo’s crew were lolling about. The room smelled of sweat and jellied eel. Kit and Lippy were throwing dice, while Dandy had his modest collection of naval memorabilia spread out before him on Philo’s bed: his signal flag, his piece of scrimshaw, his thimble, his brass captain’s button, his portrait of Admiral Vernon on a broken plate.

  ‘Fettler has something to tell us,’ Philo went on, flopping down beside Fleabite, who was lying on his back, trying to juggle an old mutton bone with his feet. Philo grabbed the mutton bone and tossed it across the room, adding, ‘Mr Hooke’s been having me trailed …’

  ‘’Twas never my doing!’ Fettler insisted. No one had invited him to sit down, so he stood by the closed door, shifting from foot to foot. ‘He bade me!’

  ‘And you truckled like a beaten cur,’ Fleabite growled contemptuously.

  Kit shot him an impatient glance. ‘You’d have done no different.’

  ‘I would!’

  ‘Stubble it,’ Philo snapped. Conscious that all eyes were on him, he began to summarise Fettler’s news. ‘Fettler followed me on Friday night. He heard me talking to Wat Wiley on Essex Street. Then he told Mr Hooke we’d been watching Lady Primrose’s house.’

  Kit glared at Fettler, who flinched.

  ‘Yesterday Mr Hooke sent Fettler back to Essex Street, with a letter for the lady.’ Philo’s face was grim as he looked around the room. ‘So if she didn’t know to watch for us before, she does now.’

  There was a murmur of disgust. Dandy flicked an anxious look at Philo. Kit’s dark eyes narrowed to gleaming slits.

  ‘You sneaking tool,’ he spat, his gaze on Fettler – whose own eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Enough o’ that,’ Philo said. ‘We’re none of us over-brave where Mr Hooke is concerned. You all know it.’

  ‘But if he’s told Lady Primrose what we’re doing—’ Kit began, before Philo cut him off.

  ‘It don’t signify. I’m finished with that job.’

  Kit frowned. Fleabite said, ‘Why?’

  Philo didn’t want to explain why. He was reluctant to talk about Mr Bishop in front of Fettler Ben. In fact he didn’t want to discuss Mr Bishop with anyone until he’d had time to mull over what had just happened in Mrs Cowley’s drawing room.

  He knew that the loss of Mr Bishop’s business was going to unnerve his whole crew, and he was anxious that Fettler shouldn’t witness their dismay.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Philo retorted. ‘What I’m saying is this: Fettler’s done us wrong, but is keen to make amends. He wants to leave Mr Hooke—’

  ‘And come here?’ Fleabite blurted out, then caught Philo’s eye and mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Mr Hooke’s health has worsened, and his temper with it,’ Philo continued. He took off his hat and pushed his fingers through his hair, feeling suddenly exhausted. He had risen early and run halfway across London; now all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. ‘A sharp tongue is one thing. A stick is something else.’

  ‘He beats me every day now,’ Fettler interrupted, and would have raised his shirt to show the bruises if Philo hadn’t stopped him.

  ‘We’re not asking for proof,’ said Philo. Turning back to the other boys, he fixed each of them with a stern, lingering look. ‘Fettler made his choice last year, but that don’t mean he can’t make another. We’d none of us wish him thrashed like a dog, for all his sins. Mr Hooke might be frail, but there’s every chance he’s going mad. To pursue me like this is pure madness. I say we give Fettler bed and board for now, and he can work off his debt to us.’

  Philo wasn’t expecting an enthusiastic response. So it didn’t surprise him when Kit pulled a sceptical face and Fleabite snorted.

  ‘Mr Hooke won’t like it,’ Dandy observed. ‘He’ll make trouble.’

  ‘He can hardly do more than he already has,’ said Philo.

  ‘But Fettler’s brought no dunnage!’ Fleabite protested. ‘And we’ve naught to spare!’

  ‘I’ll go back,’ Fettler promised. He looked weary and beaten, and a little dazed. ‘I’ll fetch what I can smuggle out, and return tonight.’

  Philo regarded him doubtfully. ‘Do you think you can, without alerting Mr Hooke? He don’t sleep well.’

  ‘I’ll tell him I’m taking clothes to be cleaned.’

  But Kit was shaking his head. ‘You should face him staunchly, or you’ll bring him down on the rest of us. He’ll come here in search o’ you if he don’t know where you’ve gone.’

  Fettler looked frightened; all the colour drained from his face. Before he could speak, however, a timid knock on the door ended the conversation.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Philo. Half a dozen unwelcome possibilities flitted through his head: Mr Bishop, Wat Wiley, Garnet Hooke, Val Brody, a parish constable …

  He wasn’t expecting to hear Susannah Quail’s soft voice on the other side of the door.

  ‘Philo? Is that you?’ she squeaked.

  Philo jumped to his feet in alarm. Susannah rarely strayed from her usual haunts – and had certainly never paid him a visit. Something was wrong.

  ‘Susannah?’ He yanked open the door to find her waiting in the dingy hallway outside. Her old grey shawl was draped over her head to protect her from the rain. One fold of it was shielding her basket of rosemary.

  She looked paler and more anxious than usual, though she offered up an apologetic smile when she saw Philo. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, but Philo cut her off.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I’ll not keep you—’

  ‘We’ve time enough.’ Philo cleared space for her on his bed by pushing Fleabite and Dandy further apart. ‘There’s cider. Is there cider?’

  Dandy winced. ‘We drank it,’ he admitted sheepishly. But Susannah was shaking her head.

  ‘I don’t want cider,’ she assured Philo in a faltering tone. She smiled at Dandy and Fleabite, nodded at Lippy and Kit, then surveyed Fettler with a wary look – perhaps because they’d never met.

  ‘Don’t mind him. That’s Fettler Ben Thoroughgood,’ said Philo. Fresh from Mrs Cowley’s handsome parlour, he couldn’t help wishing that his own lodgings weren’t so stuffy and smelly and crowded. He also wished that there wasn’t a mutton bone in one corner of the room. ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked, sitting down opposite Susannah.

  ‘Oh, Philo …’ Her voice cracked and she bit her lip. Philo would have reached over to press her hand if his entire crew hadn’t been huddled around them. Instead he hazarded a guess.

  ‘Did someone steal your takings?’

  Susannah shook her head again. ‘I don’t know what to do …’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ said Philo.
>
  She took a deep breath, her gaze on the floor. At last she murmured, ‘I need a licence.’

  ‘A licence?’

  ‘Or I’ll be sent to Bridewell Prison.’ She lifted her eyes imploringly. ‘That’s what he said. Is it true?’

  Philo frowned. ‘Who said this?’ he demanded.

  ‘A gentleman. A very fine gentleman in black.’ Susannah took a deep breath, clutching her basket. ‘He came to me after the service this morning, and gave me money. But then he asked to see my licence.’ At this point she had to blink back tears. ‘When I told him I didn’t have one,’ she continued, ‘he said that unlicensed pedlars are like vagrants – that they belong in Bridewell Prison, beating hemp.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Philo scoffed.

  ‘I thought so too, but he said he was a lawyer. He said he knew these things.’

  ‘A lawyer?’ Lippy echoed, before Philo could.

  ‘He said he would report me if … if you didn’t … um …’ Susannah took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and began to recite the phrase from memory. ‘If you didn’t cease and desist from your harassment of the lady residing on Essex Street.’ Her eyes snapped open again. ‘That’s what he said, Philo. So I thought I’d better come here …’

  Her mouth crumpled, but Philo was speechless. He couldn’t find the breath to comfort her. He was too busy rearranging facts in his head.

  ‘What lawyer knows aught of us?’ Kit exclaimed, then turned to Fettler and growled, ‘Is this Mr Hooke’s doing?’

  Fettler spread his hands in confusion. But Philo had already worked it out.

  ‘Was the lawyer a small man with a harsh voice and a beaky nose?’ he asked Susannah, who nodded. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘That you would fare worse than you did last night, if you strayed near Essex Street again.’

  Philo gasped. He felt as if he’d been punched in the belly.

  ‘What is it?’ said Kit. He was staring at Philo, just like everyone else in the room. ‘Philo?’