Philo was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
Garnet didn’t answer. He waited. Soon Philo realised that something was expected of him, and began to reassemble his scattered wits. ‘Do you think people are using this spriggan?’ he inquired at last. ‘To – to make other people do things?’
‘What do you think?’
Philo tried to concentrate. Susannah had certainly believed that a demon could be living at Rat’s Castle – but Susannah was only nine years old. Was he letting her fears cloud his judgement? Could the spriggan be no more than a rumour, cleverly devised by the Dyott Street gang?
Garnet began to look impatient. ‘Only yesterday Christopher told us about a new force in Dyott Street,’ he reminded Philo. ‘And this morning I was approached by a lamplighter who claims that some occult threat has driven him to crime—’
‘—which would explain the plague of thefts,’ Philo concluded. ‘All the prigs are running scared. They’re busy filling someone’s coffers.’ Philo thought fleetingly of the encounter he’d witnessed between Nobby Cockle and Scamper Knaggs. Had Nobby been delivering his plunder to Rat’s Castle? Was Scamper acting as an agent for the new uprightman? ‘But that don’t mean there’s no spriggan!’ Philo burst out. ‘What if the new uprightman is a spriggan?’
Garnet’s lip curled. ‘You’d believe a man like Scamper Knaggs?’ he asked.
‘Belike I would not – if Gugg Worris wasn’t so scared,’ Philo retorted. ‘Sir, these are hard folk. I saw Nobby Cockle yesterday, passing a bundle to Scamper. Do you think a mortal soul could wring such an offering out o’ the Hellfire Gang?’
‘Fools are easily frightened,’ Garnet drawled, then started to cough. He coughed and coughed, while Philo waited for him to draw breath. At last, when the coughing had subsided, Philo said through his teeth, ‘I saw Jemmy Jukes. And Mr Bambridge.’
‘The fact that two men have fallen ill—’
‘Aye – with an illness that’s confounded a surgeon!’ Philo caught himself shouting, and quickly lowered his voice. ‘Mr Paxton cannot account for it. He has consulted his books, and can find no poison or distemper that would cause such a complaint.’
‘Indeed?’ Garnet’s eyes narrowed. ‘And when did you discuss this subject with Mr Paxton? You made no reference to it yesterday.’
‘I saw him last night. A cove got nailed in New Broad Court, so I had to fetch a surgeon.’ Convinced that they had strayed too far from the topic of spriggans, Philo promptly returned to it. ‘All I want is for our crew to be safe, Mr Hooke. If there is a chance that something might be out there on the street . . . sir, we must protect our boys!’
‘You are their captain, Theophilus. You must protect them.’ Before Philo could answer, Garnet lifted one eyebrow and said, ‘In fact I hear that you’ve already tried.’
Philo blinked, then swallowed.
‘Some kind of herbal protection, I gather?’ Garnet went on delicately.
Philo didn’t know what to say. The previous evening, before setting off to work, he had distributed Susannah’s gift among his crew. Had Fettler Ben reported this to Garnet? Or had somebody else mentioned it?
‘Who told you about St John’s wort?’ Garnet inquired, his gaze locked on Philo’s. ‘I know I didn’t recommend it.’
‘Because there’s naught you do recommend!’ Philo exclaimed. ‘Not to us! What should we use? Iron? Seawater? Should we wet our clothes? Should we turn ’em inside out?’ As Garnet began to massage the bridge of his nose, Philo took a step towards him. ‘What charm did you give to Brimstone Moll? What did Gugg need for his sprite-trap? Why won’t you tell me?’
Garnet took a deep breath. ‘I prefer not to tell you because if I do, you will feel safe, and then you will let your guard down,’ he said, his words as sharp and precise as a steel blade. ‘It is a mistake to put your trust in aught but your wits and your instincts. Charms will not protect you, Theophilus. Nor will swords, nor seawater, nor consecrated knives. What will protect you is—’
‘Consecrated knives?’ Philo interrupted, stiffening. ‘What do you mean? Why would anyone need a consecrated knife?’
‘For a sprite-trap,’ Garnet answered coolly. ‘Though why you should be interested—’
‘A midwife was robbed last night, near the Lying-In Hospital. She said a man as dark as a gypsy took her consecrated knife.’
There was a brief silence as Garnet absorbed this information. At last Philo said in a strangled voice, ‘Gugg stole the knife. On account of what you told him.’
‘I had deduced that.’
‘So what are you going to do? Gugg stole the knife. Joe Billings has turned housebreaker. They’re your customers, sir – will you peach on ’em or no?’
Garnet took a deep breath. But he didn’t have to answer, because at that instant someone knocked at the door.
‘Who is it?’ he rasped.
‘Kit, sir. We’re ready, an’ it please you. All but Dandy – he’s following behind, being so hard to rouse.’
‘Come in,’ said Garnet.
Philo opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. He kept his eyes fixed on Garnet while the rest of the crew filed in – all except for Dandy Dodds, who appeared a little later. Everyone sat down quietly in their usual seats. At last Garnet murmured, ‘To answer your question, Theophilus, I shall give the matter some thought. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’
Then he reached for The Public Advertiser.
CHAPTER 15
HOW PHILO SET
OUT TO WARN HIS FRIENDS ABOUT THE DEMON THIEF
Philo didn’t say much during the next hour or so. He kept his mouth shut while Garnet was reading out advertisements – even though one of them mentioned a burglary in Star Court the previous Tuesday night. Philo was convinced that this theft had somehow involved Bluff Bob Crow, but remained silent. It was Kit who remarked, ‘That’s where you saw Bluff Bob, Captain! With his ladder!’
‘Aye, but Bob’s left London,’ Fleabite piped up. ‘Philo told us, remember?’
‘Which don’t mean he’ll not come back,’ said Val.
Still Philo didn’t speak. He now knew that the lamplighter had probably been forced to take part in a robbery engineered by Scamper Knaggs. But he also knew that Garnet must be aware of this, so he didn’t comment. Nor did he have anything to say about the remarkably high number of advertisements that Garnet had to plough through. Why there were so many seemed obvious to Philo; he assumed the reason was obvious to Garnet as well, so he didn’t bother pointing it out.
When Philo made his report, he kept it concise. He mentioned the incident on New Broad Court, but said very little about his conversation with Mr Paxton. He also mentioned the midwife’s consecrated knife, but didn’t air his opinion on who might have stolen it, or why. He was waiting to see what Garnet would say about the lamplighter’s visit. It was obvious to Philo that the whole crew was anxious about what they’d already heard – and he’d decided that, if Garnet didn’t say anything, he would do it himself. In private, if necessary.
It wasn’t until the conclusion of the last report that Garnet suddenly observed, ‘Before we finish, I want to discuss what you heard this morning, on the stairs. You may recall that yesterday Christopher told us about a new arch-rogue on Dyott Street. According to Josiah Billings, this rogue is not a creature of flesh and blood, but a member of what our Irish friends like to call the “Unseelie Court”.’ He glanced at Valentine, who was sitting in a corner, looking gloomy. ‘Myself, I think it likely that someone very cunning has devised this threat to enrich himself. But Theophilus is concerned that there may be some truth to the rumour. He believes you can all be protected with an amulet, or similar gewgaw. Hence his reliance on St John’s wort.’
Philo flushed as everybody looked at him. ‘There’s two men dropped like stones for no clear reason,’ he mumbled.
‘Which is to say, we don’t yet know what settled ’em,’ Garnet replied. ‘All we know is that the streets are not as safe as they once
were. To no manner of purpose do we ask ourselves where the greatest peril lies. Whether the threat is a spriggan or a desperate footpad, there is no better shield than nimble feet and a quick wit. I don’t want you thinking you’re safe. Because the worst dangers are always those that are not anticipated.’
‘But as a precaution—’ Philo began, before Garnet cut him off.
‘A precaution? Theophilus – do you know what many of these books contain?’ Garnet waved a hand at the shelves surrounding them. ‘Stories and rumours and the ravings of peasants. I am a conduit; I cannot pledge to the truth of what I read. When people come to me with a sore tooth, I tell them to take a new nail, make their gums bleed with it, then drive the nail into an oak. When they come to me with thrush, I tell them to take a frog and put its head in their throat until the frog dies. These are not my solutions. They are simply what people want to hear. As I keep telling you, there are too many fools in the world.’ He gazed at Philo, his eyes as bright as embers in his bleached death’s-head of a face. ‘Do you really believe that a scribbled chant or a sealed bottle will protect you from aught that could do you harm?’ he said. ‘I do not. For I’ve seen no proof of it.’
‘Yet folk still come to you for help,’ Philo objected, his thoughts swerving towards Susannah.
‘Aye. Well . . . I can’t stop ’em – and don’t charge ’em for aught but supplies, as you all may claim if ever challenged on it in court. But every one of those people is a noddy.’ Garnet glanced around the room. ‘I hope you do not count yourselves among them.’
Slowly, one by one, the boys shook their heads, until only Philo hadn’t submitted. For a moment he sat studying his hands, his stomach churning. Then he looked up at Garnet and said in a tight voice, ‘If we paid you for a charm, would you give it to us?’
Garnet’s jaw muscles clenched. ‘You want to spend your shot of the takings on something utterly worthless?’ he said at last.
‘I don’t,’ Val chimed in.
‘Nor I,’ said Fettler.
No one else spoke. Kit was still staring at the floor. Fleabite looked fretful.
Garnet continued, ‘I don’t accept payment for advice, as you know. I’m like a chandler; I sell only bottles and herbs.’ Then he began to cough until he was blue in the face. When he finally caught his breath, he turned to Fettler and wheezed, ‘Fetch me the Spanish licorice.’
It was a dismissal as plain as a slap. Philo stood up and headed straight for the door. He was so furious that he felt numb, as if his blood had turned to ice.
He was halfway downstairs when Kit caught up with him.
‘Philo—’
‘I need to do something.’ Philo tried to steady his voice. ‘I’ll not be long.’
‘Where are you going?’
Philo turned his pale gaze on Kit, who flinched slightly. ‘I’m going to warn Susannah about the spriggan. And Toby Mackett.’ Philo was also going to warn Mr Paxton, but he didn’t want to say so. ‘They should be told exactly what’s amiss.’
Kit caught his breath. He flashed a nervous glance over his shoulder.
‘There’s no shame in being careful,’ Philo added under his breath. ‘If Mr Hooke takes your wort, you should go and buy an iron nail.’
Then he headed straight for Goldsmith’s Alley, hoping to intercept Mr Paxton there.
It was nearly noon. The sky was low and grey, and the streets were still sodden, though the snow had melted long since. Having left home without his hat or his mittens, Philo clenched his teeth and tried to ignore the cold. He did this by distracting himself. Two sedan chairmen were passing; he mentally checked off their names, addresses, wives, children and favourite haunts. He did the same for a butcher, an apothecary and a coachman. But then his mind began to wander. He found himself fretting about his crew. If the streets were becoming more dangerous, maybe he should start pairing people off – Lippy with Fleabite, Dandy with Kit. It would halve their takings, but it would protect both them and their patrons.
He arrived at Mr Bambridge’s shop just a few minutes after the clocks had struck twelve. The shop was shut, its shutters tightly bolted. Goldsmith’s Alley looked even more dismal than it had in the middle of the night. The ditch running down its centre was clogged with filth. The houses were old and decrepit, with hardly a straight line among them. Every wall was sooty, every painted shop-sign dulled by smoke and rain.
Philo took up a position opposite the watchmaker’s house, since he didn’t want to knock on the door. As he stood waiting for Mr Paxton to appear, he rehearsed what he was going to say. Not too much – just enough to warn the surgeon that investigating these mysterious stupors might put him in peril of his life.
Susannah Quail and Toby Mackett deserved the same consideration. Like the rest of Philo’s crew, they had to know exactly what they were up against. Philo didn’t want Susannah wandering around by herself at night, when there was a possible spriggan on the loose. Besides, he wanted to ask her if she knew how a spriggan might be dealt with. Could spells be cast that would destroy the creature?
If it did exist, it couldn’t be allowed to remain in London. Not on Philo’s patch, at least.
Suddenly the Bambridges’ front door opened. Mr Paxton backed out of it, talking earnestly to a shadowy figure who stood on the threshold. Philo identified this person as Mrs Bambridge, though he was startled by the change in her. She looked yellow and haggard. Her hair was a bird’s nest. Her dark gown swamped her body, as if she’d shrunk.
She closed the door as Mr Paxton turned on his heel. The street wasn’t busy, so he saw Philo at once. ‘Master Grey!’ he said with a grin. ‘I almost mistook you, in broad daylight.’ Then his grin faded; he tapped his jaw with one finger. ‘Did someone beat you?’
Touching his own face, Philo realised that Mr Paxton had noticed the bruise left by Gugg Worris. ‘’Tis naught,’ Philo mumbled. ‘A misstep.’
‘A misstep into a closed fist. Aye – I’ve seen many such.’ But Mr Paxton didn’t pursue the matter. Instead he cocked his head and asked, ‘What can I do for you, Master Grey? Did you come to inquire after Mr Bambridge? He took some water this morning, and his eyes moved, so there is cause for hope.’
‘Nay . . .’ Philo hesitated, glancing up and down the street. A woman was standing on a doorstep nearby, watching them with frank curiosity. Though he didn’t know her, she had the bad colour and unkempt appearance of an avowed drunkard.
‘I saw no sign of our friend with the earring,’ Mr Paxton continued, lowering his voice to a murmur. He looked younger than he did at night, when fatigue and deep shadows added years to his face. ‘Nor of Mr Storer’s missing clothes.’
Philo shrugged. He hadn’t been feeling too hopeful; if his suspicions were correct, the stolen articles had probably been taken straight to Dyott Street.
‘I did, however, see my friend Winthrop this morning,’ Mr Paxton continued. ‘We discussed Mr Bambridge’s condition, since Winthrop is something of a chemist, with a particular interest in poisons.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Philo’s interest was piqued. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Something quite remarkable.’ Mr Paxton hesitated, then glanced around. ‘Before I continue, I need to know: is there a cookshop in this quarter that you would recommend?’
Philo gaped at him, then groped around for an answer. Coal Yard was full of cookshops, none of them respectable. ‘The closest is up on Broad Street,’ he said at last. ‘Mrs Maine’s, on the corner o’ Drum Alley. You’ll get a good shin o’ beef there.’
‘Excellent! I’ll hold you to that.’ Mr Paxton jerked his chin. ‘Come.’
‘Your honour . . .?’
‘I’m hungry, and don’t wish to discuss my business in the street. You can join me for dinner, Master Grey.’
‘But—’
‘As my guest, of course.’ By this time the surgeon was already heading north, towards Coal Yard. He didn’t look back – perhaps because he realised that the lure of fresh information (and boiled b
eef) would drag Philo after him, like a fish on a line. But Philo didn’t walk with the confidence he felt at night, when he had a torch in his hand. Instead he stayed three steps behind Mr Paxton, acutely conscious of the contrast between his shabby, hatless figure and the surgeon’s snowy stockings, lace-trimmed cravat and silver-plated shoe-buckles.
‘My friend Winthrop is a physician,’ Mr Paxton remarked, as he turned into Coal Yard. ‘Do you know him? He lives near Clifford Inn, and does much of his work at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’
Philo shook his head. He rarely made it as far east as Clifford Inn, let alone St Bartholomew’s Hospital.
‘I went to him in the hope that he might have encountered some reference to a paralysing poison,’ Mr Paxton went on, ‘for he has a well-stocked library. But he had not.’ As Philo’s heart sank, the surgeon glanced at him and said, ‘Yesterday, however, Winthrop encountered another case identical to Mr Bambridge’s.’
Philo gasped, then increased his speed until he’d caught up with Mr Paxton. ‘Another?’ he echoed. ‘Where?’
‘At the George Inn, off Long Acre. ’Twas an ostler who works there, by the name of Jasper LeCourt.’ As Philo stopped short, Mr Paxton did the same. ‘You know him, do you not? I thought it likely.’
Philo did know Jasper – or ‘Junks’, as he liked to be called. Junks was the stablehand who liked to gamble with highwaymen. Specifically, he kept company with Civil Joe Constantine and his crew, whose speciality involved robbing people at gunpoint on quiet, country roads. Civil Joe himself didn’t often pass through the parish of St Giles. He tended to lodge in Snow Hill and Smithfield, though he never stayed anywhere for long. But he was so notorious that he needed no introduction, no matter where he went.
Three times he had been tried for highway robbery – and three times he had escaped the gallows.
‘Aye,’ said Philo, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘I know Junks LeCourt.’ Suddenly he spotted someone else with a dubious reputation – a fellow named Derby Sinnock, who always seemed to be hovering in the vicinity when people were robbed, though he’d never been charged with anything. Derby looked innocent enough; he was a willowy youth with a hangdog appearance, all sad brown eyes and drooping posture. But he was with Black Jenny Jones, and Philo definitely didn’t trust her. She often paired up with pickpockets to plunder pedestrians in a variety of imaginative ways: blinding them with pocketfuls of dust, then pretending to help them; pushing heavy, round whetstones down the street, then jostling those who had leapt aside; using counterfeit wounds to attract a crowd of concerned citizens with deep pockets.