‘Don’t come in,’ he croaked. ‘You mustn’t come in.’
‘My dear—’
‘Don’t!’ Tears of frustration pricked at Philo’s eyes. ‘Do you think me a fool? If you’re seen with me here, you’ll suffer for it! Please heed me on this. Stay or go, but don’t follow me in. For your own sake.’
He didn’t wait for Mrs Cowley’s response. Instead he turned and plunged inside, where the familiar smell of cabbage, pine pitch and worsted stockings made him feel sicker than ever. But he managed to drag himself upstairs by clinging to the bannister rail – and was pleased to discover, when he reached the first landing, that Mrs Cowley was nowhere to be seen.
The house was very quiet. If Val or his friends were at home, Philo couldn’t hear them. And when Philo at last found the courage to knock on Garnet’s door, the only answer was a silence as thick as pease porridge.
Philo knocked again, more loudly. Still there was no response. He couldn’t understand it. Surely Garnet was at home? He’d been out no more than once in the last two years.
Taking a deep breath, Philo gave the door a push. It creaked open. The air that rushed past made him cough; it was hot and thick and raw with sickroom smells.
‘Hello?’ he said.
No one answered. He stepped into the room and saw dust floating in the rays of sunlight pouring through the front window. He smelled urine and sour milk. Everywhere he looked were tangles of soiled linen, candle-stubs, empty bottles, dirty plates, crumpled paper.
Garnet Hooke was lying in bed. His eyes were shut. His face was grey.
‘Mr Hooke?’ squeaked Philo.
Garnet didn’t move. Philo’s heart began to race. As he approached the bed, he felt as if he were wading through mud. But when he touched Garnet’s arm, it was warm. And Garnet’s chest lifted, just a little.
‘Mr Hooke?’ Philo shook him. ‘Mr Hooke!’
It was like shaking a bolster. Garnet didn’t react. But Philo kept shaking him anyway. ‘Wake up! Wake up, damn you! Don’t do this! I need you! I need your help!’ Philo’s voice rose to a screech. Standing in his old home beside the man who had raised him for so many years, he felt suddenly abandoned. It was like being six again. It was like watching his mother die.
The difference was that he’d never fallen out with his mother. He’d never stood by her deathbed knowing there would be no reconciliation. ‘Don’t you dare!’ he cried. ‘You can’t do this to me! Not now! Not yet!’ A doctor, he thought. I must fetch a doctor.
He turned and rushed out onto the landing. As he did so, he seemed to hear Garnet’s voice whispering in his ear. Have no fear, Theophilus. You’re far too quick to be caught out. But he ignored it.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he spied Mrs Cowley pushing through the front door. The look on her face revealed that she must have heard his cry. ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘A doctor,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We need a doctor … or a surgeon …’
Then his legs gave way beneath him, and the darkness closed in.
A SURPRISING
INSTANCE OF HOW
LIFE GOES ON
When Philo woke up, he knew he wasn’t in his own bed. Somehow he’d already worked this out. Though he couldn’t be sure how much time had passed – though he had no idea how he’d got there, or what was wrong with him – he understood that he was lying in Mr Paxton’s parlour, surrounded by shells and skulls and ivory statuettes.
The parlour had been transformed into a sick-room. There were towels draped over the chairs and herbs scattered across the floor. Philo himself was curled up in some kind of rickety folding bed, under several layers of linen. When he turned his head, he caught sight of Mrs Cowley.
She was sitting by the fireplace with a dish of tea in her hand, wearing her yellow sack-back gown, her straw hat, and her most charming smile. ‘For you must know how mad the English are for any French fashion,’ she was saying. ‘But time and again, the mob has come to our defence, refusing to countenance any French player who would take bread from the mouths of London’s struggling actors.’
‘Oh! So I’m to be cast as one of those gentlemen, am I?’ It was Mr Paxton who answered. Shifting his head a little, Philo saw that the surgeon was straddling a nearby stool, dressed in his scarlet waistcoat over rolled-up shirtsleeves. Though the skin around Mr Paxton’s left eye was still swollen, it was no longer black. Instead it had faded to a greenish-blue.
Philo couldn’t understand this. It frightened him. Why was Mr Paxton up and about? How many days had passed?
‘Having dared express a liking for French theatre, I am to be flung into Lord Trentham’s camp,’ the surgeon continued, leaning towards Mrs Cowley. ‘You now regard me as one of those tulips who drew their swords in defence of the French players, because apparently they had no better cause to champion.’
‘Except bergamot hair-powder,’ Mrs Cowley joked.
‘Except that, of course. And Spanish-leather pumps.’
‘With enormous buckles.’ Mrs Cowley stopped suddenly when her eye caught Philo’s. ‘S’death! The boy is with us!’ she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
‘So he is.’ Mr Paxton reached down to lay the back of his hand against Philo’s forehead. ‘As cool as marble,’ he observed in a satisfied tone. ‘Do you know me, lad? Can you tell me your name?’
Philo stared at him in utter confusion. ‘Why am I here?’ he croaked. ‘Who – who brought me?’
‘Winthrop did,’ said Mr Paxton. ‘For which I am eternally grateful. He saw at once that you couldn’t stay in your own lodgings.’
‘But how did … I was …’ Philo tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He realised suddenly that the actress was now hanging over him, scenting the air with rosewater. ‘You was there,’ he mumbled, squinting up at her. ‘At Mr Hooke’s …’
‘Indeed I was, by a mercy,’ she replied. ‘I had you carried home in a sedan chair, whereupon your friends sent for Dr Winthrop.’ Dimpling at Mr Paxton, she murmured, ‘I dare swear they would have sent for this gentleman, had he not been indisposed.’
‘Dr Winthrop!’ Philo was appalled. Dr Winthrop charged a guinea a visit.
‘Stop,’ said Mr Paxton. ‘Stop fretting.’
‘But—’
‘Everything is settled. You’ve no cause to worry.’ Though Mr Paxton’s voice was stern, he pressed Philo’s arm in a comforting manner. ‘I could not be better pleased with your progress. The fever broke last night. Desquamation has begun.’ He lifted Philo’s wrist, where the skin was starting to peel off a mealy-looking red rash. ‘Skin loss is always a favourable indication, in the course of scarlet fever. You are a very lucky boy.’
But Philo wasn’t interested in his own state of health. ‘How long have I been here?’ he demanded.
‘Five days,’ Mr Paxton replied.
‘Five days?’
‘A quite remarkable recovery.’ Seeing Philo’s horrified expression, the surgeon tried to reassure him. ‘And none of your friends have succumbed in the meantime, so their health needn’t concern you.’
‘Aye, but Mr Hooke! Mr Hooke was very ill!’ Philo turned back to Mrs Cowley. ‘Did you fetch a doctor for Mr Hooke?’
The actress hesitated. As she and the surgeon exchanged glances, Philo was gripped by a terrible feeling of despair.
‘I’d best take my leave,’ said Mrs Cowley. ‘I’ve lingered too long as it is.’
‘Nonsense. You are always welcome here.’ Mr Paxton rose to detain her, but she was already making for the door.
‘Good morrow, my dear,’ she continued, blowing Philo a kiss. ‘I rejoice to see you recovering apace, though I had no other expectation. What a comfort it is to know that I leave you in such good hands!’
She smiled, waved and left. But even after she had disappeared, Mr Paxton stood staring at the door. He seemed to be in a daze.
It was Philo who recalled him to his senses.
‘H-he’s not dead, is he?’ Ph
ilo whimpered. ‘Mr Hooke … he didn’t die … all alone …?’
‘He did not,’ Mr Paxton said firmly. ‘He is neither dead nor alone, though he is unlikely to improve.’ After hesitating for a moment, the surgeon added gently, ‘Winthrop is treating him, but cannot perform miracles.’
‘I took Fettler away.’ This sorry fact had been troubling Philo, even in his fever-stricken state. The guilt of it had haunted his dreams. Now he felt it more strongly than ever. ‘With Fettler gone, Mr Hooke had no one—’
‘And only himself to blame,’ the surgeon finished. ‘But he has someone at present, if that eases your conscience.’
‘Fettler? You mean Fettler’s gone back?’
The surgeon shook his head. ‘Susannah Quail.’
‘What?’
‘And her sisters.’ Mr Paxton dropped onto his stool again. ‘I thought it the neatest solution. Having heard you bewail their circumstances often enough, I had them move to Mr Hooke’s lodgings, which are more airy than their own. The eldest sister now divides her time between sewing and nursing. They seem content. And they have good reason to keep Mr Hooke alive for as long as possible.’
Philo was amazed. He stared up at Mr Paxton with such a flabbergasted look on his face that the surgeon grinned – revealing his newly chipped tooth.
‘You see how burdens can be shared?’ said Mr Paxton. ‘One need not shoulder them alone. Why, your friend Fettler played an important part in the arrangements for Mr Hooke. And I have done my best to help Anne Jenkins.’
Philo caught his breath. ‘How – who—?’
‘Mrs Cowley told me about Anne.’ The surgeon coloured slightly, glancing at the door with a crooked half-smile. ‘You have a good friend there. Mrs Cowley is a lady of great distinction—’
‘Did you talk to Mr Fielding?’ Philo interrupted. ‘Did he release Anne?’
Mr Paxton’s smile faded. ‘I did approach Mr Fielding, but he was not swayed by my arguments. I rather think the matter has been taken up by the Attorney-General, who wants to have the printer of the offending pamphlet charged with sedition.’ As Philo groaned, the surgeon gazed down at him sympathetically. ‘You have strayed into the realm of politics, my lad. Anne Jenkins is caught between the Whigs and the Tories – or the King and the Jacobites, if you prefer.’
‘Curse Mr Fielding!’ Philo quavered, blinking the tears from his eyes. Once again he had been betrayed by someone who was supposed to be a friend. ‘The mangy cur! The prating villain! I’ll never work for him again, never!’
‘Aye, but you’re not to worry,’ Mr Paxton insisted. ‘For Winthrop is a favourite of Dr Bamber, who has Tory leanings and a place on Bridewell’s Board of Governors. Winthrop has persuaded Dr Bamber to appoint your friend a “trusty”, and that means she’ll not go without.’ The surgeon sighed as Philo turned his face away. ‘’Twill be for no more than six months, lad. And a trusty can live better in gaol than many folk do on the streets.’
Philo said nothing. He was feeling useless – and a little unnerved. Mr Paxton had done more than just improve Anne’s lot in prison; he had saved Philo from having to blackmail Dr Bamber. Thinking about it, Philo was dismayed at what he’d been planning to do. Was he really the kind of person who would threaten a doctor? The kind who would punish a linkboy without first finding out if he was guilty?
‘Who dinged you?’ he finally asked, to distract himself. ‘Can you recall?’
‘I’ faith, are you still fretting about that?’ Mr Paxton rolled his eyes. ‘As it happens, my memory of the incident did return, and I can tell you that no linkboys or watermen were involved.’
‘Then—’
‘My own past returned to haunt me,’ Mr Paxton confessed. He then went on to explain that he had made a few enemies during his naval career, and that one of them – a former bosun with a grudge – had spied him in Tweezer Alley. ‘He was drunk and vindictive,’ Mr Paxton related. ‘Called me a peaching rogue and struck me on the face. I don’t recall what befell me thereafter.’
‘But will you prosecute?’
‘With great delight! Though the man will have to be found, first.’ Before Philo could respond, Mr Paxton changed the subject. ‘How do you feel? Is your throat still painful?’
Philo hardly knew. He hadn’t been paying attention. ‘A little,’ he said.
‘I shall give you a dog-rose linctus,’ Mr Paxton announced. ‘And you must drink every drop.’
‘My arm is sore.’
‘I had to bleed you. And blister you. You have been very ill, Theophilus.’ The surgeon went to pour a glass of purple syrup, which he brought to Philo’s bedside. ‘So I hope you’ll listen, now, when I tell you that you must eat, and rest, and not allow the weight of your friends’ troubles to ruin your health. For make no mistake – we all fared well enough while you was ill. Our only trial has been watching you suffer.’ He thrust the glass at Philo, then said, ‘You must learn to ask for help. That is the best advice I can offer for your future wellbeing. And I have an interest in that, since my parlour has been your sick-room, these past five days.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Philo mumbled. After a pause, he added, ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Aye, well – we’ve both been on our backs, of late, each tending the other. It seems our friendship can survive even the strain of sickness.’ A knock on the door made Mr Paxton frown. Looking up, he said loudly, ‘Who is it?’
It was Kit Maltman – and he wasn’t alone. With him were Fleabite, Lippy, Dandy and Fettler. Clustered on the threshold, they kept trying to push each other aside. They had come, Kit explained, because Mrs Cowley had told them to.
‘She said that Philo was much better,’ he explained. Though he was speaking to the surgeon, his gaze was on Philo. ‘She said he could talk.’
‘Not to all of you,’ warned Mr Paxton. ‘He’s not strong enough.’
‘But I am!’ Philo protested, pushing himself upright. He was overjoyed to see Kit’s awkward smile, and Fleabite’s gap-toothed grin. He was even happy to see Fettler Ben, who was hovering in the background, as if ashamed to show himself. They all looked well enough; Philo could make out no fresh bruises. ‘Wat Wiley,’ he said to Kit, getting straight to the point. ‘What’s he doing? Is he chasing you, still?’
Kit looked surprised. It was Fleabite who blurted out, ‘Oh, you needn’t fret about him! There’s a truce now – didn’t you know?’
Philo stared at Kit, who nodded and said, ‘Aye, it fell out thus. Barnabas Holt arranged it.’ Seeing Philo’s jaw drop, he added, ‘I thought he’d likely know Wiley, Bridewell being on the edge o’ Wiley’s patch. And he did. The Bridewell boys often clash with Wiley’s crew, who never triumph. Bridewell has the numbers, you see.’
Philo frowned. ‘So …’
‘So Barnabas had his friends seek out Wiley and warn him off. ’Twasn’t hard. Even Thames watermen respect Bridewell firefighters.’ Kit paused before admitting, ‘We had to give Barnabas a few drinks in return.’
‘And a soused hog’s face with cabbage,’ Dandy interposed.
‘Aye, and that,’ said Kit.
Philo fell back against his pillow. His astonishment was almost greater than his sense of relief. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Barnabas might come to their rescue? Was it because the fever had addled his brain? Or because he hated asking for help?
‘We’ve snapped more business, too!’ Fleabite weighed in eagerly. ‘The churchwarden at St Giles has had no news o’ the parish for months – Mr Hooke’s health being what it is – so he found his way to us—’
‘And now we’re to pass on whatever we know, for three shillings a week,’ Dandy finished, beaming. ‘Only we cannot write it down, so we’re to meet him in the Vestry House. Secretly. On Thursdays.’
Philo blinked. ‘Is this true?’ he asked Kit.
‘Aye, we’re back on poor relief,’ Kit said drily. For years Garnet had delivered intelligence to the churchwardens of St Giles, who were keen that their charity go to honest parish
ioners in genuine need, rather than doubtful cases with bad backgrounds. On leaving Garnet, Philo had agreed not to take the churchwarden’s business. But now, apparently, it had fallen into his lap.
‘There’s something else, too,’ Kit went on. ‘The churchwarden has been speaking to the High Bailiff’s poll clerk. It seems that at the last elections, there were men who cast their votes unlawfully. The High Bailiff needs someone on the hustings who knows the taxpayers in this borough, and who can challenge any false claim.’ Kit smiled his jagged smile. ‘The churchwarden thought o’ you, Captain.’
Philo was speechless. Propped against his pillows, he scanned the faces around him. They were scarred and worn, but they were also full of strength. Strength and loyalty. His friends had soldiered on without him, and done it well.
I don’t have to worry about them, he thought in amazement. I really don’t.
It occurred to him, however, that he did have to worry about himself. Because there was one remaining problem that no one else in the room knew about, or could solve.
You’re unwise to make an enemy of me, Theophilus Grey, Mr Giberne had told him. Philo remembered the threat very clearly.
And he was smart enough to know that he couldn’t disregard it.
BEING THE LAST,
IN WHICH PHILO EMBARKED
UPON A NEW ADVENTURE
Philo had never been so scared. Though he’d been chased all over London by footmen, lamplighters and housebreakers – though he’d fought off a man disguised as a monster, and had climbed over rooftops in the dark – he had never felt as frightened as he did standing in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, outside the gates of Newcastle House.
The Duke of Newcastle’s town residence was an enormous mansion made of red brick and white stone. It was set well back from the street, behind twin gatehouses. Only one of these gatehouses contained a porter. As Philo watched, the porter turned away three people and admitted two.
Philo took a deep breath. He was carrying Mr Giberne’s golden guinea in one hand and Mr Giberne’s scarlet breeches in the other. The breeches were neatly wrapped in canvas. The guinea was more than just a bribe. It was proof that Philo had connections. No ordinary street urchin would be offering a guinea to a porter. Philo was hoping that the guinea would act as a key.
Theophilus Grey and the Traitor's Mask Page 22
