Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘The deuce!’ Philo jumped up and began to pace around. ‘Wat Wiley’s not to blame!’ he cried. ‘Wat didn’t send those bullies after me, Mr Johns did!’

  Dandy frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Samuel Johns! The lawyer! He must be acting for Lady Primrose! He hired the watermen! I dare swear he went down to the river and engaged the first bullies he could find!’ Philo began to curse his own stupidity. He had set Richard Norris onto Crab Jack for no good reason – and if Wiley ever discovered it, there would be hell to pay. ‘Blood and ’ounds, this is a sorry turn! A sorry, sorry turn!’

  He was stamping his foot and muttering oaths when it dawned on him that he was alarming his friends. They were gazing at him dumbly, shocked at his loss of control. So he took a deep breath and said in a calmer voice, ‘This is Mr Hooke’s doing. He has told Lady Primrose that Susie works with us, and Lady Primrose has told Mr Johns. But if I speak to Mr Fielding, he’ll protect you, Susie. He is a magistrate. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘What about the license?’ Susannah whimpered.

  ‘There’s naught to fear on that score. For we’ll be going nowhere near Essex Street again. Not one of us.’ Glancing around the room, Philo caught Fettler’s eye, and was jarred by a sudden pang of doubt. What if Fettler was spying for Garnet?

  Philo had been on the brink of telling his crew that they had lost Mr Bishop’s business. But after a moment’s thought, he decided – once again – that he shouldn’t. Even if Fettler wasn’t a spy, Susannah knew nothing about Mr Bishop. And Philo wanted to keep it that way.

  ‘I’ll not apply to Mr Fielding now,’ he told her, trying to keep his tone easy and encouraging. ‘’Tis likely he’s at his Sunday dinner, and would take against me for spoiling it. But tomorrow I’ll seek him out as soon as I can. Until then, you should keep away from St Giles’s church.’

  Susannah’s face fell. ‘But Philo—’

  ‘You’ll not lose by it,’ Philo promised, knowing full well what her income meant to her two sisters. He fished around in his pocket, but found only Mr Bishop’s guinea. So he clicked his fingers at Dandy Dodds. ‘Have you sixpence on you?’

  ‘Sixpence?’ Kit protested. ‘But Captain—’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ Philo snapped. ‘I was just paid a guinea, so we’ll not miss sixpence!’

  ‘You’ve a guinea, Philo?’ Fleabite sounded flabbergasted. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Will Fettler get a share?’ Lippy inquired – causing Philo to lose his temper.

  ‘Blood an ’ounds!’ he cried. ‘I’m trying to do my best for you all, yet you’d cavil at your share of a guinea that I earned?’ Before anyone could do more than flinch, he flapped his hand in a furious gesture. ‘Do what you will, then! Cast Fettler onto the street! Snatch the food from Susie’s mouth! But don’t call me Captain if you won’t follow my lead!’

  A hush fell, leaving Philo time enough regret his outburst. The stunned expressions of his crew made him blush with embarrassment – and when Susannah rose to pat his arm, he was even more ashamed.

  ‘Don’t fret, Philo,’ she said softly. ‘You’re not to blame. You always try to do your best for everyone. We know how hard it is.’

  There was a mutter of agreement, even from Fettler Ben. Kit said cautiously, ‘Is something amiss, Captain?’

  Philo cleared his throat. ‘I – I had a stroke of ill-luck today,’ he stammered. ‘But I’ll put things right, don’t fret.’

  Though he didn’t really believe this, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that his friends were reassured, and felt safe.

  It was his job to keep them well and happy.

  WHY PHILO

  ENDED UP IN BOW STREET

  MAGISTRATE’S COURT

  That night Dandy Dodds was attacked while guiding a tipsy lawyer down Wych Street. Someone flying past them in the darkness threw a handful of black powder onto Dandy’s flaming torch.

  The flash singed his hair.

  A few hours later, just before dawn, Lippy suffered a similar fate. This time it was his client’s feather-trimmed hat that was scorched. The attack happened on Holywell Street, not far from St Clement’s church – and Lippy caught a glimpse of the culprit, who was wearing a knitted Monmouth cap.

  When Philo heard about the cap, he knew at once who was responsible.

  ‘Wat Wiley’s fighting back,’ he said, once the last of his crew had arrived home at daybreak. Philo himself hadn’t been pelted with black powder, perhaps because he’d been working north of Covent Garden. Kit and Fleabite had also escaped injury. And though Fettler Ben had spent a couple of hours within spitting distance of the Strand, he obviously hadn’t been recognised as part of Philo’s crew.

  After returning to Garnet’s lodgings, Fettler had snuck out again in the early hours carrying his clothes and his hair-comb, which he’d dumped at Philo’s place. He’d then taken one of the spare torches and gone to earn his keep, bringing back a penny for the common pot. Philo had thanked him for his efforts, but had made a mental note to send him out only with one of the other boys in future. He didn’t want Fettler sneaking off to see Garnet.

  ‘Crab Jack spied me at the fire in Covent Garden, and might have seen me talking to Richard Norris,’ Philo went on, as he peeled off his stockings. ‘I dare swear Wiley made the connection. He’s no fool.’

  ‘So what shall we do?’ asked Kit. ‘Return the compliment?’

  Philo shook his head. ‘I’m the one at fault. I jumped to conclusions. It behoves me to make amends.’ Climbing into bed beside Fleabite, he added wearily, ‘I need to apologise, and strike a new bargain. I need to tell Wiley that he shan’t be seeing us in Essex Street again.’

  Firstly, however, he had to apply to Mr Fielding for help with Susannah’s licence. So after a restless six-hour sleep, Philo rose just before noon, ate a cold boiled egg, listened to his crew’s daily report, and set off for the watch house at Covent Garden.

  He didn’t head straight for Bow Street because he understood that he couldn’t just walk through Mr Fielding’s front door and ask to see him. Their association was supposed to be a secret. But a handful of parish constables did know about it, so Philo decided to use this to his advantage.

  On arriving at the watch house, he asked Constable Meeks to drag him to Bow Street like a captured felon. If people thought he was under arrest, he explained, no one who saw him being hustled into Mr Fielding’s house would find it odd.

  ‘And what will I gain?’ demanded Constable Meeks, after hearing Philo’s request. Meeks was large and greasy, with sticky-looking corkscrew ringlets the colour of overcooked mutton.

  ‘A shilling.’ Philo knew that no self-respecting parish constable would accept a bribe of less than one shilling.

  ‘I’ll take it now,’ said Meeks.

  Philo handed over the money. Meeks took it, heaved himself to his feet, and grabbed a handful of Philo’s coat. Then he trudged out of the watch house, yanking Philo along with him.

  Together they crossed Covent Garden market and ploughed their way through the crowds on Russell Street, where they caused a bit of a stir. People who knew Philo turned to stare at him, open-mouthed. Some were troubled. Some were merely curious, wanting to know what he’d done. Some were outraged. One pot-boy spat at the constable’s feet.

  Philo could only imagine the kind of gossip he was generating.

  ‘If folk should ask what I did, you must say you was mistaken,’ he muttered to Constable Meeks, who snorted.

  ‘I’ll tell ’em what I like,’ the constable drawled, ‘unless you give me another shilling.’

  But Philo was having none of that. ‘If you tell ’em what you like, Mr Meeks, I’ll tell Mr Fielding what I like,’ he said. ‘And you’ll not like what happens when I do.’

  ‘Now, now. I spoke in jest.’ The constable loosened his stranglehold on Philo’s collar. ‘Why so hoity-toity? You’re as sour as a lemon.’

  Thanks to the fac
t that Mr Fielding had turned his parlour into a courtroom, his house was usually teeming with people between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon – after which time he would retire to his private quarters for dinner. Philo was hoping to catch him on his way from bench to table, and perhaps have a quick word behind the door of a wig-closet or scullery. But when he and the constable turned into Bow Street, Philo saw that Mr Fielding was standing on his front doorstep, waving a wad of paper at a crowd of people.

  There was a fire burning on the cobbles in front of him.

  ‘Hollo.’ Constable Meek lurched to a halt. ‘What’s toward?’

  Mr Fielding looked angry. His face was red and his voice was pitched high as he harangued his audience.

  ‘… a false, scandalous and seditious libel!’ he cried, shaking the pages in his hand. ‘I pass over its ignoble treatment of a truly noble personage, whose character is too firmly established to be hurt by the impotent attacks of so puny an assailant! I say naught about its treatment of my efforts in support of this illustrious nobleman! But I deplore the many fallacies and misrepresentations that it imposes on you, the citizens of London!’

  Drawing closer, Philo saw that the object of Mr Fielding’s disgust was a pamphlet like the ones commonly sold by Anne Jenkins.

  ‘This scurrilous document does Mr Alexander Murray no favours!’ Mr Fielding continued, causing Philo to catch his breath. ‘By its reasoning, obstinacy in vice would usurp the name of virtue! Such poison will not be tolerated by those who have any concern about the welfare of this country!’ Flinging his copy of the pamphlet into the fire, Mr Fielding roared, ‘Anyone who has been involved in the production or distribution of this wicked treatise will suffer the same fate as the woman Anne Jenkins, who has been sentenced to one month’s hard labour for selling it on the street! Beware! Be warned! No mercy will be shown!’

  He paused for breath as Philo stared at him, appalled. But Mr Fielding didn’t notice Philo. He nodded at two of his constables, who had been standing by with pails of water. And as the fire on the street was doused, a great cloud of smoky steam engulfed the magistrate before he could turn back inside.

  ‘Your honour! Mr Fielding!’ Philo exclaimed. He was too horrified to remember that he was supposed to be keeping their acquaintance a secret. But Mr Fielding did remember. Though he paused for a split second, he didn’t speak or look around. Instead he chose to ignore Philo – who quickly appealed to Constable Meeks.

  ‘Hurry!’ croaked Philo, jerking his chin at the magistrate’s front door. Constable Meeks heaved an impatient sigh. But he did as he was told, hauling Philo into Mr Fielding’s courtroom.

  This apartment still contained a fireplace, a chandelier and a set of built-in cupboards – but an arrangement of benches and iron railings now occupied the space where a couch or table might once have stood. Several people were scattered about: a couple of lawyers, a watchman, a clerk, and a shabby woman perched on a bench, weeping into her apron. They looked like stragglers rather than people waiting for help.

  ‘Mr Fielding, sir!’ Constable Meeks hailed the magistrate, who paused on his way to the rear of the house. ‘I thought I’d best deliver this lad into your custody,’ the constable continued, ‘it being such an urgent matter.’

  He winked at Mr Fielding, who scowled in response. Philo realised, with a sinking heart, that he had never seen the magistrate in such a bad mood. The man’s face was so red, it was almost purple. His eyes seemed to be shooting sparks. His wig was trembling with suppressed emotion.

  ‘Thank you, constable,’ he said at last, keeping his voice low with an obvious effort. Glancing at the lawyers – who were studiously ignoring him – Mr Fielding sighed, grimaced, and finally muttered, ‘In there.’ He pointed at a door across the room, which was standing slightly ajar.

  The door led to a kind of closet, which contained a book-cupboard stuffed with papers, a set of robes hanging from a wall-peg, a wig-box, a bundle of goose-quills, and a stack of Windsor chairs. Constable Meeks didn’t even cross the threshold. He simply pushed Philo over it and took his leave with a casual salute.

  Mr Fielding joined Philo a second later.

  ‘Well?’ the magistrate snapped, all jutting jaw and narrowed eyes. ‘What’s amiss?’

  Philo had to swallow and lick his lips before blurting out, ‘Sir – please, your honour – Anne Jenkins—’

  ‘Anne Jenkins?’ Mr Fielding spat. ‘Anne Jenkins is bound for Bridewell Prison!’

  ‘Sir, she’s my friend!’ Philo pleaded. ‘She gives me information—’

  ‘Your friend?’ the magistrate echoed in disbelief. ‘Then let me tell you, Theophilus Grey – you should choose your friends with more care!’

  ‘I swear to you, sir, she’s no Jacobite. She cares naught for such things. But what she has to say about her wares—’

  ‘Is of no interest to me!’ said Mr Fielding.

  ‘Aye, but there’s another gentleman—’

  ‘An example must be made!’

  ‘Sir, if you’d only hear me out—’

  ‘That pamphlet is Paul Whitehead’s handiwork. It stinks of his black bile!’ Mr Fielding snarled. ‘He deplores the “villainy” of my proceedings! He accuses me of bias and corruption! He says I am a tool of the Duke of Bedford!’

  ‘Anne Jenkins never said that, sir—

  ‘Anne Jenkins can rot in hell!’ Mr Fielding barked. Then he turned on his heel and limped back out into the courtroom, swinging his cane as if he wanted to behead somebody.

  ‘Ah! Mr Fielding!’ one of the lawyers began. But the magistrate’s curt response was, ‘I’m late for dinner.’

  Watching him waddle away, Philo realised that any further conversation with Mr Fielding would be pointless – at least for the time being. It would only make things worse. The magistrate was in a towering rage, and Philo had no wish to aggravate it.

  Suddenly he had an idea. It occurred to him that a letter from Mr Bishop might persuade Mr Fielding to change his mind. Gentlemen were always willing to listen to other gentlemen. And Mr Bishop could simply explain that Anne Jenkins was one of his informants – that her intelligence about Jacobite pamphlets was vital to the safety of the realm.

  But then Philo remembered that Anne wasn’t Mr Bishop’s informant. Not anymore. Because if Philo was no longer working for Mr Bishop, then neither was Anne Jenkins.

  With a silent curse, Philo wondered if he was going to have to pay dearly for any letter penned by Mr Bishop, who knew how to drive a hard bargain. There was every chance he would demand another job from Philo in exchange for his help.

  One job, Philo decided. That’s all. One job for one letter.

  Then he realised that he’d forgotten to ask about Susannah Quail’s licence.

  ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, Mr Fielding, sir …!’

  Mr Fielding, however, had already vanished. When Philo burst out of the vestry into the courtroom, he found himself confronted by two staring lawyers and a bemused clerk, but no magistrate.

  The sobbing woman was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘If you’re looking for Mr Fielding,’ one of the lawyers remarked smoothly, ‘he has gone to dinner.’

  ‘And I’d not interrupt him, if I were you,’ the other lawyer advised. ‘Not until he’s finished his pudding.’

  Philo felt like kicking himself. As he escaped into New Broad Court, he lined up all his problems in his head. There were a lot of them. Susannah needed a pedlar’s licence – but not if Philo kept away from Essex Street. Wat Wiley was attacking Philo’s crew – but if Philo spoke to him, a truce might be negotiated. Anne Jenkins needed rescuing from Bridewell Prison – and Mr Bishop might be able to do it, as long as Philo was willing to pay. The trouble was that Philo had no idea how to reach Mr Bishop.

  I’ll ask Mrs Cowley to write me a note, Philo thought, hoping that she could deliver it for him. He also wanted to talk to Mr Paxton. The surgeon might know something about licences: how much they cost, for example, and where they
came from. Susannah would probably need one, if Mr Bishop sent Philo back to Essex Street. For that might be the price Philo had to pay, to save Anne Jenkins.

  ‘I’ll not do it,’ he muttered to himself. ‘If Mr Bishop asks it of me, I’ll think of something else.’ There had to be another way of freeing Anne.

  Philo decided to head for Mr Paxton’s house before tackling Mrs Cowley. This meant turning left when he reached Drury Lane. But he’d barely taken half a dozen steps in that direction when he heard someone say, ‘Theophilus!’

  And he looked up to see Garnet Hooke emerging from Long Acre.

  OF PHILO’S ESCAPE

  FROM GARNET HOOKE, WHICH

  WAS ENGINEERED BY A FRIEND

  Garnet looked deathly ill. He was bent over his two sticks, shell-backed and shuffling, his face grey and his breath noisy. His clothes looked dusty and old-fashioned in the harsh light of day.

  Philo hadn’t seen him outside in years.

  ‘Why, Theophilus!’ Garnet stopped short, bearing his teeth in a savage smile. ‘The very man …’

  Philo’s heart was in his throat. ‘You shouldn’t be out on the streets,’ he squawked, shocked by Garnet’s appearance.

  ‘I’d not be, if my servant hadn’t vanished.’ Garnet pinioned Philo with his hard, bright gaze. ‘But I’m inclined to think you might know where he is.’

  Philo shook his head. Though cowardly, he wasn’t being untruthful. He didn’t know where Fettler was. Not at that very instant.

  ‘Do you know where he was last night?’ Garnet continued. Seeing Philo hesitate, he gave a short, breathless, hacking laugh. ‘I thought as much. In fact I was on my way to pay a call—’

  ‘Theophilus!’ Suddenly a familiar voice interrupted Garnet. It was Mr Paxton himself, striding south down Drury Lane. He had spotted Philo from the other side of the street, and was threading his way through a stream of pedestrians to reach him.

  Philo heard Garnet hiss like a snake. His expression made Philo feel sick.

  ‘Well, Mr Hooke!’ the surgeon continued in his heartiest tone. ‘I’ve seen you looking better! As a medical man, I would advise you to go to bed.’ Dodging a porter with a barrel of oil, Mr Paxton stationed himself between Philo and Garnet, all glowing skin, breezy smile and clean white linen. He made Garnet look sicker than ever. ‘You should not be abroad in your present state, sir.’