Knowing that Susannah lived close by, Philo had decided that a quick detour wouldn’t delay him too much. Besides, he was keen to see her lodgings. But the further down Banbridge Street they went, the more reluctant he became. Though the street itself was no worse than many others, with its grimy shops and clutter of hawkers’ carts, the courts and alleys leading off it were lower than any Philo had ever seen. They were like open sewers, narrow and dark and choked with sludge; the people living there were so abject that they hadn’t even hung their washing out of the windows – perhaps because they had no clothes to spare. Philo was so used to dodging the drip-drip-drip of overhead laundry that its absence unnerved him.
‘So you think there is an amadan dubh at Rat’s Castle?’ he said, following Susannah into Horseshoe Yard. Here a new brew-house had been erected beside the old tavern, which was all sagging lintels and bulging walls. The whole yard smelled of porter-vats.
‘I cannot tell you,’ Susannah replied. ‘It could be all manner o’ wicked faery folk: a bwbach, or a far darrig. . .’
‘But do they all wield the stroke?’ asked Philo.
Susannah shrugged. ‘Some do. Some don’t. If my mother was alive, she could tell you.’ After a moment’s hesitation, Susannah glanced up at him shyly and said, ‘I’ve heard that your master has a hundred books, and can read Latin. My mother used to claim that all the most ancient lore was wrote in Latin. Does your master have no St John’s wort to give you, Philo?’
‘My master . . .’ Philo began, then trailed off. How could he explain Garnet’s wisdom, which was so detached and calculating? ‘My master doesn’t like me to talk about him,’ Philo said at last. By this time they had plunged into a passage so narrow that they couldn’t walk abreast in comfort; he had to fall behind Susannah as they squeezed between two fenced yards, which soon gave way to solid walls, and finally to a handsome door flanked by stone pillars.
‘That’s our chapel-of-ease,’ Susannah remarked. ‘’Tis a great comfort, having it so close.’
She turned a corner, then stopped at another door that opened onto a long, dark passage smelling of sour milk. At the end of this passage was a rickety wooden staircase leading to the floor above; beneath the staircase was a set of stone steps down to the cellar.
‘You should have brought your link with you,’ Susannah joked, as she disappeared beneath the floor. Philo hesitated for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He didn’t want to break his neck.
‘Who else lives in this house?’ he inquired. But Susannah didn’t hear him. She was talking to the girl who had met her at the bottom of the stone steps – a thin, stooped, fair-haired girl wearing a frayed white cap and several shawls. Philo judged this girl to be about fifteen, despite her drawn face and hunched shoulders.
‘You’re home betimes,’ the girl said. Then she looked up and caught sight of Philo. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Theophilus Grey,’ Susannah replied.
‘Oh.’
‘This is Nell, my sister.’ Before Philo could say ‘hello’, Susannah turned back to Nell. ‘Philo needs a sprig o’ wort. He’s afeared one o’ the Unseelie Court might be living in Rat’s Castle.’
‘Rat’s Castle!’ Nell echoed. Her voice was thin and exhausted, her eyes dazed and bloodshot. ‘That’s close by . . .’
‘Have you seen aught hereabouts that you might call a demon?’ Philo asked. ‘Or witnessed any signs of one?’
Nell shook her head as Philo joined her. The cellar was a low, windowless room lit by two candles. One of the candles stood on a table piled high with ruffled muslin; Philo could tell from the scattered bobbins, thimbles and scissors that a seamstress had recently been at work there. The other candle had been placed on the dirt floor, beside a large palliasse covered in cloaks and blankets. There was no fireplace. There wasn’t even a brazier.
In one corner, on an empty butter cask, a girl with a blank white face sat rocking back and forth, humming to herself.
‘That’s my sister Jane,’ Susannah remarked quietly. While she crouched beside the palliasse, feeling around underneath it for something, Philo removed his hat. He felt very uncomfortable.
‘Have you seen the demon?’ Nell asked him.
‘I have not,’ Philo answered. ‘But I’ve heard folk speak of it.’
Nell turned to Susannah, who had found what she was looking for. ‘Could it have been summoned by magic, Susie? There are black hearts enough on Dyott Street . . .’
Suddenly Jane made a honking noise. Philo jumped. Susannah scrambled to her feet again, holding a bunch of dried herbs.
‘How much o’ this do you want, Philo?’
‘Ah . . .’ Philo’s gaze flitted around the room, from the damp stone walls to the cluttered table to the girl in the corner. ‘I’ll have tuppence worth,’ he said.
Susannah smiled. ‘You’ll not pay for it.’
‘I shall.’
‘You cannot.’ Before Philo could protest, Susannah explained, ‘Herbal charms must be paid for in silver or not at all, lest the charm fail. And I’ll not take a shilling from you, Philo.’
Philo was reluctant to accept any kind of gift from Susannah. She had little enough to call her own. But at last he said, ‘There’s seven of us. And an extra sprig for Toby, since he works at the Maidenhead. I’d be heartsore not to pay, though . . .’
‘And I’d be heartsore if any one o’ your boys fell foul of an amadan dubh,’ Susannah rejoined, causing Nell to gasp in alarm.
‘An amadan dubh!’ she cried. ‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!’
Jane stopped humming and began to whimper. Susannah told Nell, ‘There’s no knowing what the creature is, at present. All we know is, it wields the faery stroke.’ As Nell went to comfort the distressed girl in the corner, Susannah turned back to Philo. ‘I’ll keep my ears pricked. The folk hereabouts do naught but gossip.’
‘Thanks, Susie.’ Philo accepted a bunch of dried wort, tucking it between his coat and his shirtfront. Then he asked, ‘Who else lives in these lodgings?’
‘A slew o’ McCauleys. Margaret Mears used to, but now that she’s dead, her children have gone to the workhouse.’
‘A fellow called Stoat just took Margaret’s room,’ Nell volunteered.
Philo rounded on her. ‘Stoat Grocott?’ he said sharply.
‘Aye.’
‘Stoat came from Rat’s Castle,’ Philo informed Susannah. ‘If you can find out why he left, we’ll be closer to knowing what’s amiss there.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Susannah promised. Seeing Philo retreat to the bottom of the steps, she followed him, still clutching a handful of the St John’s wort. ‘Are you going now?’
‘I must.’ Philo paused for a moment. Though he was anxious to get away from the cold, dingy room, it pained him to think of Susannah living with no fireplace or bedstead, burdened by a sister who couldn’t seem to talk. No wonder Susannah was out at all hours, in all weathers. ‘Take care,’ he warned her. ‘Don’t seem too curious. For these are heartless folk, who don’t like their business talked of.’
Susannah smiled and nodded. ‘I’ll tread very light,’ she assured him. Philo could believe it. With her wispy hair and cloudy eyes, she looked as insubstantial as thistledown.
‘Goodbye,’ he said to Nell, who nodded wearily. He didn’t bother speaking to Jane. The last he saw of Susannah was her little white hand waving farewell in the shadows.
Outside, the light was fading. Philo had to pause for an instant and consult his mental map. Instead of retracing his steps, he decided to push on towards Dyott Street, since it was the fastest route home. And he wasn’t too worried about what he might encounter there. For one thing, it wasn’t dark yet. And for another, he had a bunch of St John’s wort stuffed down his coat.
So he headed straight for Banbridge Street, turning left instead of right when he reached it. Lamps were already being lit inside some of the shops; a butcher was putting up his shutters. Most of the doorsteps had been cleared b
y a sudden drop in the temperature, though half a dozen barefoot children were still clustered around the pump-well near the Rose and Crown. As Philo turned into Dyott Street, he saw a woman with a willow-switch rounding up her pigs for the night.
Rat’s Castle stood on the corner of Ivy Lane. It was a big stone building under a steeply pitched roof, with generous windows and a grand entrance. But many of the windows were smashed or boarded up. Pigeons were nesting in the gutters. There were scars where copper downpipes had been ripped off the walls.
Philo rarely passed the house, since there was no telling what might happen in its immediate vicinity. A chamberpot might land on your head. A mad drunk might attack you with a cleaver. Normally the whole place was lit up and seething with customers; music could always be heard leaking from the upstairs windows while screaming women spilled from the front door. Now, however, the building was silent. Its windows stared blankly. Even its chimneys weren’t being used, despite the chill in the air.
Philo paused for a moment to survey the grim façade, wondering what was going on behind it. Then he moved on, anxious not to arouse anyone’s suspicions. He was drawing level with Ivy Lane when a yelp of protest caused him to turn his head.
It took him half a second to recognise Scamper Knaggs, who was arguing with Nobby Cockle halfway down the lane.
‘. . . can’t . . . tried . . . no better off . . .’ Scamper muttered, his voice so low that only one word in ten was audible. He was easy to identify because he favoured an ancient, full-bottomed wig like a rat’s nest, which he’d bought for threepence on Holborn Street. According to Kit, Scamper wore this wig so that people wouldn’t recognise him when he didn’t wear it – for example, when he was jemmying doors. Under the wig, Scamper’s face was puffy and pale, with small, forgettable features: squinty little eyes, a blob of a nose, a mouth like a smudge of jam.
That mouth was now flapping away as Scamper pleaded with Nobby. Though Philo couldn’t hear much, it was obvious that Nobby was upset, and that Scamper was trying to placate him. The ginger-haired footpad held a fistful of Scamper’s neckerchief, while Scamper kept throwing his hands in the air, as if to show that he was unarmed. Though Scamper was taller than Nobby, the footpad was compact and well muscled, like a bulldog, whereas Scamper was flabby and middle-aged, with a paunch that strained the buttons of his waistcoat.
When Nobby shoved Scamper against the wall of Rat’s Castle, Philo braced himself for the worst. But Nobby didn’t punch Scamper. Instead the footpad stepped back suddenly, releasing Scamper’s neckerchief.
‘Damn your eyes, you snivelling coward!’ Nobby spluttered. Then – to Philo’s astonishment – he shoved a small bundle into Scamper’s arms, before stalking off down Ivy Lane.
For a few seconds Scamper didn’t move. Propped against the sooty wall, he clasped Nobby’s bundle to his chest, breathing heavily as he stared into the shadows. Finally he straightened up, adjusted his wig, and turned towards Dyott Street.
When he caught sight of Philo, he stiffened.
Philo didn’t linger. He ducked and took off, hoping that Scamper hadn’t seen his face. Not that Scamper was a violent man; as a housebreaker, he didn’t normally attack people. But Philo wasn’t about to take any chances. He pounded past the Turk’s Head and swerved into Hampshire Hog Yard, hoping to dodge any possible pursuers among its coaches and barrels and straw-bales.
Only when he’d reached Broad Street did his feel safe enough to slow down. And as he threaded his way through the crowds, heading back home, he puzzled over what he’d just seen.
Nobby had been threatening Scamper – yet it was Nobby who’d surrendered his bundle to the housebreaker. Why? What business had united them in the first place? They were from different gangs, pursuing different targets; the Hellfire Gang trawled the streets, while Scamper’s gang plundered houses. It was all very odd.
Philo didn’t know what to think.
CHAPTER 13
CONCERNING A
ROBBERY IN WHICH THE HELLFIRE GANG MAY HAVE BEEN IMPLICATED
That night it snowed. The ashy flakes began to descend at around seven o’clock, when Philo was escorting a furrier home from the White Hart Inn. By the time the theatres let out, there was slush building up on the cobbles, and the flurries of snow meant that Philo had to keep ducking under overhanging eaves to save the flame on his torch.
Weather like this was generally bad for business, because people tended to stay by their firesides. Philo played it safe by hanging around Covent Garden, where he was finally hired by Mr Rowe, a retired ship’s captain, who had been enjoying himself at The Beggar’s Opera. Mr Rowe was a stout, cheerful, prosperous-looking man wearing a white wig, a small sword, and lots of shiny blue satin under his black greatcoat. Having spent several hours drinking porter (and throwing oranges at the stage), he was in rowdy mood, and insisted on singing ‘Let Us Take to the Road’ at the top of his voice as Philo guided him back home.
‘Let us take to the road;
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The hour of attack approaches—
To your arms, brave boys, and load. . .’
Luckily, the streets were almost deserted, so Mr Rowe didn’t cause too much offence. Philo managed to steer him all the way to New Broad Court without attracting more than a couple of glares and a single muttered insult. But as they turned into the court, someone lurched out of the shadows and threw himself at Mr Rowe.
‘Hoi!’ Mr Rowe cried.
Philo’s reaction was lightning-fast. He had suffered more than one such assault in his life, and he knew what to do. Mr Rowe was still fumbling for his sword-hilt when Philo lashed at the attacker with his burning torch, almost setting the man’s hair alight. But at the very last instant, Philo pulled back.
He had spied dark blood on a white shirt.
‘Help me . . .’ the stranger croaked, hanging off Mr Rowe’s collar. Then he slid to his knees.
Philo grabbed Mr Rowe and cried, ‘Stay! Don’t draw. He’s hurt.’
‘What the deuce . . .?’ Mr Rowe stared down at the wounded man, who had pitched over onto the cobbles. Philo quickly scanned the court in which they stood. It was lit by a single oil-lamp, and appeared to be deserted. But there were shadows enough to hide in.
‘He’s been robbed,’ said Mr Rowe, swaying slightly as he tried to focus.
‘Aye.’ Philo had noticed that the wounded man was wearing only a shirt and breeches. Squatting down beside him, he quickly assessed the damage. There was a nasty cut on the man’s temple, which had bled so profusely that it took Philo a moment to recognise the face under the gore. It was a familiar face, with fine features and good teeth.
Philo gasped. ‘’Tis Mr Storer!’ he exclaimed.
‘Who?’ said Mr Rowe.
‘The actor.’ Philo jumped to his feet. ‘He lives nearby, sir – his wife may be at home—’
‘Fetch her, then, for the love of Christ!’ Mr Rowe gave Philo a shove, then drew his sword with a flourish. ‘I shall mount first watch!’
Philo darted across to Mr Storer’s lodgings, which were directly above an upholsterer’s shop. Feeling anxious about Mr Rowe’s safety, Philo hammered on the locked door and closed shutters of the narrow brick house, yelling for Mrs Elizabeth Storer.
At last a window slid open above his head. ‘Who is it?’ a woman demanded. ‘What do you want?’
‘Mrs Storer!’ There was no mistaking Elizabeth Storer, who was an actress with a striking crop of frizzy red hair and a deep, sonorous voice. ‘Mr Storer has been attacked!’
‘W-what?’
‘Across the way, an’ it please you!’ Squinting up at her, Philo had to blink away the snowflakes that were falling into his eyes. ‘He’s been robbed and beaten—’
‘Oh, my lord!’
‘Ma’am—’
‘Wait there! Don’t move!’
Mrs Storer wasn’t dressed for the snow. Philo saw this at once when she burst out of the house. She wore a flimsy silk dr
essing-gown over her stays and petticoats, and her bare feet were shoved into a pair of list slippers.
By the time she reached her husband, these slippers were sopping wet.
‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ she wailed, falling to her knees beside him. Philo was relieved to see the man’s eyes open in response to her voice.
Mr Rowe said, ‘He’s alive!’
‘Aye, but this snow will give him his death,’ Philo muttered, glancing around. He saw that Mr Maxwell, the upholsterer, had followed Mrs Storer out of her house. Mr Maxwell was fully dressed and solidly built; Philo took one look at him and bawled, ‘Hi! Mr Maxwell! Over here!’
‘There were two of ’em,’ the injured man croaked. His head was now cradled in his wife’s lap. ‘But I saw only one.’
‘Hush. Don’t speak,’ his wife sobbed. Then she spotted the upholsterer. ‘Oh, Mr Maxwell! Please help us!’
‘He was a skulking, wizened fellow,’ Mr Storer continued. ‘The bottom part of his face was covered, but he wore a gold earring in his left ear . . .’
Philo inhaled sharply. Mrs Storer, meanwhile, was trying to lift her husband – without success. He was a dead weight. It was Mr Maxwell who finally sought Mr Rowe’s help in carrying the injured man back home. Soon a little cluster of people was shuffling along, supporting the actor as gently as possible.
Philo went ahead, lighting their way. He was wondering if Beans O’Neill might have been responsible for the assault. Though wasted in appearance from years of hard drinking, Beans O’Neill was a dab hand with a bludgeon, and blackhearted enough to use it. He also wore a gold earring in his left ear. But Philo couldn’t be sure that Beans was the culprit; a lot of landed seamen wore earrings.
Philo didn’t reveal his suspicions to the Storers. For one thing, he might be wrong – and for another, such intelligence was valuable. Garnet wouldn’t want him blurting it out on the street.