Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask

by Catherine Jinks

  Philo had never been to St Paul’s, and rarely used Fleet Street. But he recognised the white spire of St Bride’s Church when he passed it. And he knew enough to turn right when they reached the Fleet Ditch.

  ‘Merciful heaven,’ Mrs Cowley muttered, covering her nose. ‘That’s a rare bouquet.’

  She was referring to the smell of the Fleet, which was always bad in warm weather. As they trudged along its paved bank, heading towards the Thames, Philo saw a dead dog keeping pace with them, surrounded by floating turds, fish guts and turnip tops. He was thankful when they reached the entrance to the hospital, just opposite Bridewell Bridge.

  The hospital itself seemed to stretch on forever. It was four storeys high and made of stone, with an arched gate tall enough for a horse but not wide enough for a coach. The keystone over this gate featured the bust of a boy in a flat cap. The porter in the guardhouse below it was reading a chapbook. He barely glanced up as Mrs Cowley swept past him with her head held high.

  Philo scuttled behind her, clutching his basket.

  They emerged into the vast, grimy expanse of the hospital courtyard, where Mrs Cowley immediately spotted a Bridewell boy in a blue smock. ‘Stay, youth!’ she called to him. ‘Dost thou know where I might find Barnabas Holt?’

  The boy, who had been scurrying along as if pursued by a wolf, stopped to gape at her. He had an old-looking face for one so young, all seamed and sallow and covered in pockmarks. Philo didn’t know him.

  ‘Barnabas?’ the boy echoed. ‘Aye, he’s gone to the fire.’

  Philo swallowed a curse.

  ‘What fire is this?’ asked Mrs Cowley.

  ‘Down by Billingsgate Market,’ the boy replied. He was about to set off again when Mrs Cowley detained him.

  ‘Wouldst thou pass a message to the lad?’ she requested, still using the old-fashioned speech of a plain Quaker. Then she clicked her fingers at Philo, who fished around in his pocket for a farthing. He had brought plenty of loose change, knowing that a certain amount of bribery was unavoidable in any prison.

  ‘For your trouble,’ Mrs Cowley continued, as Philo surrendered the coin. ‘Tell Barnabas this from me: that Philo Grey has a friend lately gaoled here, in need of all the help he can give. Her name is Anne Jenkins.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ the boy agreed, pocketing his fee with an air of satisfaction. But Mrs Cowley hadn’t finished.

  ‘Repeat the names,’ she said sternly. Only when he had done so did she allow him to leave. The moment he was out of earshot, she turned to Philo. ‘As you requested,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I hope I did well?’

  Philo gave a nod. He was disheartened, but not without hope. Though he would have preferred to speak to Barnabas, he knew that his friend wouldn’t fail him – not if Philo’s message got through.

  ‘The prison must be in there,’ Mrs Cowley observed, eyeing a wide archway near the south-west corner of the courtyard. To the left of this archway was a chapel with a squat tower. To the right was a wooden sentry box. The arch itself enclosed a solid iron gate, crowned by a line of spikes like spearheads.

  When Mrs Cowley approached the gate, the guard in the sentry box rang a bell. Then Philo heard the clunk of a bolt being drawn, and one side of the gate swung open.

  He was pleased, and a little surprised. He had thought that they might have to bribe their way in. As they entered another courtyard, even larger than the first, he wondered if Mrs Cowley’s Quaker disguise had given them free passage. She had mentioned before that people tended to trust Quakers – and she was certainly able to march by the next two guards without being challenged.

  The prison differed from the hospital, which had been older, with mullioned windows and carved stone doorways. Brick-built and severely symmetrical, the prison had twice as many windows, and a great many more doors. These doors confused Philo, but Mrs Cowley headed straight for the one in the very centre of the west wing. Here she addressed the warder on the threshold. Would it be possible, she asked, to visit a certain female prisoner, lately arrived?

  The warder nodded. He directed her to the women’s day-room, which was on the ground floor. Even before reaching it, Philo was puzzled by the steady thud-thud-thud that shook the foundations. Only when he entered the room did he realise that he was listening to the sound of prisoners beating hemp. Dozens of women were swinging heavy mallets at hanks of hemp laid out on tree-stumps. Some of the women were half-dressed. All were sweating. Most looked drawn and grey.

  The room was very large, with two rows of windows facing each other, but there wasn’t much of a cross-draught. It was a stuffy, dirty space that smelled of rancid beef. Bare-bottomed children were crawling around. A mangy dog shared the floor with them, nosing at scraps. A man with a rattan cane, who wore a striped apron and a cap shaped like a giant doorknob, paced up and down barking orders.

  When he spotted Mrs Cowley, he stopped short.

  ‘Name?’ he snapped at her.

  ‘Uh …’ Mrs Cowley looked a little less confident than usual. ‘My name is—’

  ‘Not your name!’ the warder interrupted. ‘Which prisoner?’

  ‘Oh! Um … Anne Jenkins.’

  ‘Anne Jenkins!’ the warder said roughly. ‘Anne Jenkins, present yourself!’

  There was a flurry of movement down the other end of the room. Then a familiar figure stepped out of the dimness, a wooden mallet dangling from her right hand.

  It was Anne Jenkins.

  Philo bit his lip. Then he realised that the porter was waiting.

  ‘Oh!’ Fumbling in his pocket, Philo drew out the sum that his crew had agreed on. Without money, a person could starve in prison.

  The warder seemed satisfied. After taking his share, he said to Anne (in a more civil tone), ‘You may use the night-room.’ Then he turned on the other prisoners, his cane snapping against a wall. ‘What are you gawking at? Get to work, all o’ you!’

  Two minutes later, Anne was heading for the night-room upstairs. Philo followed her, remaining silent until they reached their destination – which was a dormitory with no beds. Instead the room was lined with stalls, each containing a mouldy heap of straw to sleep on. Only two women were present, huddled like pigs in their wooden boxes.

  ‘They’re ill,’ was the first thing Anne said, glancing in their direction. She didn’t sound like herself. Her voice was muted, her expression strained. Though her colour was still high – thanks to the heat – she moved without her customary bounce, dragging her feet like an invalid. ‘I daresay I’ll be ill, soon,’ she added, then turned to regard Mrs Cowley. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘A friend.’ Philo didn’t want to be too specific. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he blurted out, ‘Forgive me – I’d no notion you’d offend Mr Fielding …’

  Anne shrugged. ‘You’re not to blame. I sell what I’m given.’ Before Philo could apologise further, she continued, ‘Mr Owen’s taking care o’ me. He and the other printers keep up a bank, to maintain their hawkers when we’re shopped. Not that I’d refuse your basket,’ she hastened to add. ‘Nor any chink you can spare.’

  As Philo handed over his food and money, he assured Anne that he was working to get her out. ‘There’s folk I know who can help you,’ he insisted, reluctant to name names while he was in earshot of two perfect strangers. ‘I swear, I’ll not rest till you’re free.’

  Anne snorted. ‘What can you do?’ she said glumly. ‘You’re no magistrate. If you was a governor, I might be better placed.’ Suddenly she lowered her voice, her eyes filling with tears. ‘We’re not to set foot outside. We work from six till six, every day but Sunday. And there’s a whipping post in the court o’ justice where they flog anyone who sets a foot wrong.’

  Philo felt utterly helpless. ‘I’ll get you out,’ he said feebly. But he could see that Anne wasn’t comforted. No matter how reassuring he tried to be, she remained unimpressed. All her noisy confidence had deserted her. She was shaken to the core – and that, in turn, shook Philo
.

  He didn’t know what to say. Jokes seemed out of place. Promises seemed pointless. It was all so difficult that he left much earlier than he’d intended. And by the time he did, after fifteen minutes of awkward conversation, his stomach was churning. It was as if he couldn’t digest what he’d just witnessed.

  The smell of the Fleet Ditch soon finished him off. As Mrs Cowley stood by, he vomited into the filthy water, oblivious to everyone around him.

  ‘You have a deal of sensibility, for a boy of no breeding,’ Mrs Cowley said at last. She didn’t seem put out, though she made no move to help.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Philo muttered, wiping his mouth.

  ‘Your friend seems sturdy enough,’ Mrs Cowley continued. ‘Don’t suffer her to unman you.’

  ‘Aye, but she’s not the only one …’ Climbing to his feet, Philo found himself blurting out a few disconnected sentences about Mr Paxton – how he was the best man alive, how he’d been left for dead, how responsible Philo felt for his misfortune. When Mrs Cowley asked why, Philo said, ‘There’s a crew o’ glim-jacks down by Hutchinson’s Wharf who would gladly throw me in the river. And since my friend was acting for me, I’m inclined to think they felled him, though I can’t be sure. If only I could be sure …!’ He wrung his hands, filled with despair at the thought of his own failures.

  ‘If you was sure, then you could act against these ruffians,’ Mrs Cowley agreed. ‘I understand.’ She pondered for a moment, then picked up the basket that Philo had set down. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘I’ll find out who beat your friend. ’Tis easily done. And if I succeed, you must promise to help me get my letter back.’

  IN WHICH PHILO

  SET OFF ON AN ADVENTURE,

  AFTER CONSULTING WITH

  HIS FRIENDS

  Philo didn’t want Mrs Cowley going anywhere near Hutchinson’s Wharf. But she dismissed his fears with a careless little wave.

  ‘My dear, I’m not about to descend on these ruffians waving a drawn sword,’ she said. ‘There’s more to me than meets the eye, as you should know.’ Swerving into a dingy court off Fleet Street, she found herself a dark corner overlooked by nothing but bricked-up windows. Then she began to pull off her hat, her hood, her gown and her apron. ‘Give me your coat,’ she told Philo. ‘And your hat. Hurry, now. You may put on your waistcoat again.’ Within seconds, she had transformed herself into a coarsely dressed romp of a woman – a real ‘roaring girl’ – with Philo’s coat buttoned over her stays and petticoat, Philo’s hat perched rakishly over one eye, and her bosom so prominently displayed that Philo didn’t know where to look.

  He was worried about his coat, which was a little too small for Mrs Cowley. It could be fastened only across her waist, where it was straining at the seams.

  ‘Now – a touch of spice,’ she murmured, rubbing herself against the nearest soot-stained wall. Soon her grey petticoat was several shades darker, and her white skin was smeared with filth. ‘Take my clothes,’ she went on, thrusting the laden basket at Philo, ‘and I’ll meet you at your lodgings when I’m done. Where do you live, by the by?’

  Philo hesitated. He didn’t want her running any kind of risk – and he certainly didn’t want her to see his squalid garret.

  ‘Ma’am, those rogues are half of ’em river pirates,’ he protested. ‘They stole my friend’s sword. A lady like yourself – you shouldn’t be going amongst ’em.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘Do you know how I spent Michaelmas eve last year? Serving ale to a gang of smugglers at the Devil’s Tavern in Wapping.’ Seeing Philo’s jaw drop, she added briskly, ‘So you see, I’m no stranger to the flash mob. Now tell me where we should meet.’

  Philo told her.

  ‘Good.’ She gave a satisfied nod. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I should have news by sunset. Your gentleman friend – you said he was wearing a sword?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  Philo did his best, explaining that the sword was a short-bladed hanger with an ebony grip, a brass guard, a pommel shaped like an urn and an inscription engraved on its blade. ‘It says What shall separate us, nothing but death,’ he informed the actress.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘And what of the scabbard?’

  ‘Black leather with brass at the top and the tip,’ Philo informed her, then frowned. ‘Why?’

  Mrs Cowley fixed him with a knowing look. ‘Let us simply say that I might be in the market for a cheap sword, bought under a tavern table.’ Before he could reply, she asked, ‘How was your friend clad?’

  ‘In a scarlet waistcoat, a blue stuff coat with silver buttons, and no wig.’

  ‘Ah. So the colour of his hair is …?’

  ‘Brown. He has hazel eyes and good teeth and a ready laugh.’

  ‘Lud! You must introduce me to this paragon. He sounds quite the ornament.’

  ‘Ma’am—’

  ‘Be easy, my dear. I shan’t disappoint you.’ Mrs Cowley smiled, then whirled around and strolled away, her skirts and shoulders swinging. Philo watched helplessly as she joined the foot-traffic on Fleet Street, ambling along as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Remembering the straight-backed, grim-faced Quaker of half an hour before, he marvelled again at her extraordinary talent.

  Then he headed for Cockpit Court, checking the time in watchmakers’ windows. It was close to midday, and he was due at the Golden Cross in two hours. The trouble was, he didn’t know how long it would him take to get there. Charing Cross lay somewhere beyond St Martin’s Lane, but he wasn’t quite sure how far. He’d never been near the place.

  ‘How long would it take to reach Charing Cross from here?’ were the first words out of his mouth when he walked into his own lodgings, a few minutes later. The rest of his crew were eating a breakfast. They set up a clamour the instant they caught sight of him.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Fleabite exclaimed, ignoring Philo’s question. ‘I thought you was spending the night at Mr Paxton’s, not the whole morning!’

  ‘Is he at death’s door?’ asked Dandy. ‘Is that why you stayed?’

  ‘We were beginning to think Wat Wiley had got you,’ Lippy added, as Philo pounced on the food. Having eaten nothing since the previous day – except for a few spoonfuls of Mr Paxton’s beef broth – Philo suddenly realised that he was faint with hunger.

  ‘There was something I had to do,’ he explained through a mouthful of bread soaked in milk. ‘How long would it take to reach Charing Cross?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kit, his solemn eyes searching Philo’s face. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s something else I have to do.’ Philo paused for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. None of his friends seemed to bear any fresh scars, except for Fettler Ben. But the burn on Fettler’s hand was the kind of thing they had all suffered, from time to time. ‘How was your night?’ he continued. ‘Did you fall foul o’ Wat Wiley’s crew?’

  ‘We stayed away from the Strand,’ Kit replied. ‘Do you want to hear our reports?’

  ‘In a moment.’ Philo set down his overstuffed basket. ‘I’m expected at Charing Cross shortly. If Mrs Cowley arrives here after I leave, you’re to give her this. And she’ll give you my hat and coat.’

  ‘Mrs Cowley?’ Fleabite echoed. ‘The actress?’

  Philo nodded, stuffing more bread into his mouth. As his crew exchanged glances, he said thickly, ‘She’s doing us a great service. When she comes here, she’ll know who dinged Mr Paxton.’

  ‘How?’ Kit demanded. But Philo waved the question aside.

  ‘You’re to tell her I’m busy, and ask her what she has for us. If she points a finger at Wat Wiley’s gang …’ He trailed off, then chewed, swallowed, and fixed Fettler Ben with an apologetic look. ‘If that happens, Fettler, I’ll need you to go to Lady Primrose’s house with a message from Mr Hooke.’

  Fettler blanched. Fleabite cried, ‘What?’

  ‘You told me you went there be
fore, on the same errand,’ Philo reminded Fettler. ‘You had a letter from Mr Hooke, signed in his own name.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘This time you won’t. You’re to say Mr Hooke was too ill to write a letter. You’re to say that Wat Wiley’s crew has been hired in our place, because Mr Johns scared us off.’

  There was a brief silence as Philo’s friends pondered this plan.

  ‘Mr Johns has engaged wharfside bullies in the past,’ he pointed out. ‘I’d lay odds he’ll do it again—’

  ‘And set ’em on Wiley’s boys,’ Kit finished. ‘I understand.’

  ‘This is our best defence,’ Philo argued, having caught sight of Dandy’s doubtful expression. ‘What chance do we have against river pirates? It takes a waterman to settle a waterman.’

  ‘Aye, but would they turn against each other?’ Kit wondered aloud. ‘I’ll wager those bullies all drink in the same kens—’

  ‘And would kill their own mothers for a fee,’ Philo concluded. ‘Val once told me that Wiley’s brother peached on his cronies, when they were snapped for stealing canvas off a barge. There’s no honour among thieves – not when it comes to chink. You know that.’ He turned back to Fettler. ‘And you’ll be safe on Essex Street, for nobody there has any notion you’re a part o’ my crew now. The Jacobites will think you’re still Mr Hooke’s creature, and Wat Wiley won’t know you at all.’

  Fettler didn’t look convinced. ‘All I did last time was hand a letter to a footman,’ he muttered. ‘I never spoke to no one.’

  ‘And this time you must,’ said Philo. ‘I’ll tell you what to say.’

  ‘But what if Wiley wasn’t to blame for Mr Paxton?’ Kit asked him.

  ‘Then we’ll tell Mr Paxton who was, so he may prosecute the rogue.’

  Philo didn’t want to waste any more time on the subject. Instead he sat down to hear everyone’s daily report, before making Fettler memorise a detailed description of Wat Wiley’s crew. It all took time, and Philo’s concentration began to suffer. For one thing, the heat was distracting; he had to keep wiping the sweat from his eyes. He was also becoming more and more anxious about Mrs Cowley. What was taking her so long?