‘Do you have any wort?’ Scamper wanted to know.
‘I do.’ Garnet hesitated before adding hoarsely, ‘’Twill cost you tuppence.’
‘That it will not.’ Scamper narrowed his eyes, which were small and mud-coloured. Though his face was doughy and white, like suet, there was something strangely forbidding about it. ‘You’ll give it to me free of charge, in recompense for our failed trap. And if the gold don’t work as bait, I’ll come back here to take the rest o’ your stock.’
As the housebreaker glanced towards the nearest windowsill, with its load of bottles and jars, Philo stepped forward, glaring at him. Fettler clenched his fists. But Garnet waved them back weakly.
‘I cannot prevent you from taking my herbs,’ he told Scamper, ‘but I would advise you not to use them. Such things can be very . . .’ He paused for an instant, regarding the housebreaker with a gleam in his eye. ‘. . . very dangerous to the uneducated,’ he finished, then turned to Fettler and croaked, ‘Fetch my St John’s wort.’
While Fettler Ben scurried to obey, Philo watched Scamper like a hawk, alert to his every move. But the housebreaker didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. When he finally received his measure of St John’s wort, he snatched it from Fettler Ben without a word of thanks, heading for the door in what looked like a fit of bad temper. Even so, he refrained from making any more threats – to Garnet, at least.
To Philo he said, on his way out, ‘You’d best keep a civil tongue in your head, my young glim-jack. Gugg don’t fancy being called a prig to his face. I’d stay out of his path, for the present.’
Philo was tempted to retort that he wasn’t so easily frightened. On reflection, however, he decided not to. He didn’t say anything until he heard the front door slam.
Then he turned to Garnet and growled, ‘What are you going to do?’
Garnet began to cough again. He coughed until tears leaked from his eyes. Finally, after gulping down a few mouthfuls of air, he responded to Philo’s question – though not with an answer. ‘Why were you at the Maidenhead Inn?’ he rasped.
Philo glanced at Fettler Ben, wondering if he’d had time to make a full report. Or had this nugget of information come from Scamper Knaggs? ‘I went to warn Toby about the spriggan,’ said Philo. ‘And to give him some o’ Susannah’s wort.’ As Garnet expression became steely, Philo burst out, ‘Didn’t you hear Scamper? He believes in the spriggan! This is not some clever lay designed to fill his pockets!’
‘Not his pockets, perhaps.’ Before Philo could protest, Garnet added wearily, ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t go about robbing me of business by distributing free herbs. Was that why you met with Mr Paxton? To give him some of your wort?’
Philo glared at Fettler, who coloured and looked away.
‘You should have sent Fleabite to follow me,’ Philo muttered. ‘Fettler’s not quick enough. I flushed him on Broad Street.’
‘Francis has gone with William to buy fish for dinner.’ Garnet choked back a cough, then gasped out, ‘Though I gather you’ve already dined – at Mrs Maine’s cookshop, no less. Shin of beef, was it?’
Philo ignored this sharp little dig. ‘Mr Paxton told me there’s been another case like Jemmy,’ he declared, ‘and ’twas none other than Junks LeCourt.’ Seeing Garnet frown, Philo finished, ‘Belike the spriggan’s taken aim at Civil Joe Constantine’s gang o’ rank riders. So there’ll be even more treasure for the hoard.’
Garnet was hooked. He could always be distracted by an offer of information. ‘Have you confirmed this?’ he asked.
Philo rolled his eyes. ‘Why would Mr Paxton lie about it?’
‘You tell me. You claim to know him.’
‘I know him well enough to believe what he says.’
‘You don’t know him at all,’ Garnet snapped. ‘Do you know he spent time in a debtor’s prison?’
Philo blinked. At last he said, ‘Who told you that?’
‘Daniel did. Six months ago.’ Garnet groped feebly for the ledger that was lying open on the bed beside him. Laying a claw-like finger on one of the scribbled entries, he rasped, ‘Daniel was listening to the linen-draper on Parker’s Lane, and heard her express doubts about her new lodger. He was a surgeon whose drinking had driven him to penury. He’d pawned his instruments before being gaoled for debt. But an old friend had rescued him, and a spell in the navy had improved his prospects. The linen-draper was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.’
Philo swallowed, trying to absorb this news. It was startling, but not unheard-of. Many a decent gentleman had ended up in a sponging-house. ‘I don’t remember that . . .’ he admitted.
‘I didn’t recollect it myself, until I consulted my records.’ Garnet flipped the ledger shut. ‘So you see – you don’t know Mr Paxton as well as you might think.’
Philo was barely listening. ‘Belike he took to drink after his wife died.’
‘No doubt.’
‘It don’t mean he’s a liar.’
‘It does mean he’s a stranger,’ said Garnet. He was watching Philo from beneath drooping eyelids, his head lolling against a pillow. ‘You don’t know him, Theophilus. Remember that. Knowing anyone takes time. Trusting anyone should take even longer. Ask yourself: what does he want from me? That is the question that should always be uppermost in your mind.’
Suddenly Garnet exploded into a fit of coughing that turned him grey, and made him gasp like a drowning man. Philo stood by helplessly, wondering what he should do. He was relieved when Fettler said, ‘Laudanum, sir?’
Garnet nodded. Then he turned back to Philo. ‘Go to the George Inn. Satisfy yourself that Mr Paxton is telling the truth about Jasper LeCourt. If he is, I’ll send word to Mr Fielding.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Worried and confused, Philo turned to leave. But as he opened the door, Garnet called to him, ‘Theophilus! Don’t fret about those housebreakers. They’ll not hurt you, for fear of offending me.’
Philo paused for a moment. ‘Are you sure o’ that, sir?’ he rejoined. ‘I’m inclined to think they’re doubting your power to curse ’em, now that your trap’s failed.’
‘Perhaps my trap is failing because there is no spriggan to catch,’ Garnet drawled. ‘Mr Knaggs may be dense, but the possibility is bound to cross his mind sooner or later.’ Closing his eyes, he concluded, ‘Have no fear, Theophilus. You’re far too quick to be caught out, no matter who – or what – might be chasing you.’
He was swigging down his laudanum by the time Philo closed the door.
CHAPTER 19
HOW PHILO
ESTABLISHED THAT MR PAXTON WAS TELLING THE TRUTH
When Philo emerged from his lodgings, he moved slowly and cautiously, fearful that Gugg Worris might be lying in wait. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen on Cucumber Alley. The rain was much heavier now, and had driven most people inside. Even the beggars had vanished.
So Philo hunched his shoulders, pulled his hat down all the way to his nose, and set a course for the George Inn. He hugged the side of the street, trying to shelter beneath overhanging eaves and second storeys as the thoughts tumbled around in his head. Perhaps it would be wise to check his facts before acting on them. He owed Garnet Hooke so much, and had known him for so long; was there any real cause to doubt him? Mr Paxton, on the other hand, was a virtual stranger. For all that he was so generous and amiable, was he indeed worthy of Philo’s trust?
Up ahead, a figure suddenly turned into the alley from Great Earl Street. Philo recognised Kit at once, though his wild mop of hair was plastered to his hatless skull. Kit was eating whelks out of a rag. When he spotted Philo, he quickened his pace.
They met up outside a milliner’s shop.
‘Where did you go earlier?’ were the first words out of Kit’s mouth. ‘And what happened to your stockings?’
‘I was waylaid by Gugg Worris. He’s nursing a grudge.’
Kit grimaced.
‘But that’s not the worst of it.’ Philo began to de
scribe what had happened in Garnet’s room. ‘Scamper’s as scared as anyone,’ he finished. ‘This never was his lay. He’s seeking help.’
‘So—’
‘So whose lay is it?’ Glancing uneasily over his shoulder, Philo remarked, ‘Belike ’tis no lay at all.’
‘Mr Hooke thinks it is, and he’s a cunning man,’ Kit pointed out. Then he offered Philo a whelk.
Philo shook his head, making the raindrops fly off his hat-brim. ‘I’ve had my dinner.’ Seeing Kit’s look of alarm, he added, ‘You’ve not missed yours. I dined early. Can you think of any prig in London wily enough for such a scheme as this? A scheme that’s fobbed even a fox like Scamper Knaggs?’
Kit hesitated. Philo could tell from the absent look in his eye that he was running through a mental list of names.
‘Civil Joe Constantine?’ Kit finally suggested.
‘I doubt it.’ Philo explained that he was on his way to the George Inn, to check on Junks LeCourt. ‘They say he’s been felled by a faery stroke. If he has, I’d lay odds someone’s trying to scare Civil Joe.’
Kit snorted. ‘Good luck to ’em,’ he said through a mouthful of whelk. ‘Civil Joe don’t scare easy.’
‘A real spriggan might do it.’ Philo and Kit looked at each other for a moment. Then Philo observed, ‘Mr Hooke thinks his trap likely failed because there is no spriggan. Though he told Scamper to try a different bait.’
‘What should we do, Captain?’
‘I don’t know.’ Philo could feel the cold rain soaking through his shirt. ‘Mr Hooke has promised to tell the Bow Street magistrate. Not that Mr Fielding can do aught against a spriggan. Nor against an uprightman, come to that – not unless someone decides to prosecute.’
‘The Duke o’ Bedford might,’ said Kit. ‘He owns a good portion o’ this parish.’
It was Philo’s turn to snort. ‘Oh, aye. The Duke o’ Bedford. I can just see Mr Fielding applying to him about a demon on Dyott Street.’ As Kit wiped his wet face, Philo felt a pang of guilt. ‘You should get out o’ the rain. I’ll be back shortly.’
‘Let me come with you,’ Kit offered. ‘Lest you fall in with Gugg Worris.’
‘Gugg Worris couldn’t keep up with me,’ said Philo, his thoughts flitting briefly to the pitchfork at the livery stables. Then he patted Kit on the arm and headed for Castle Street, trying to marshal all the facts he’d collected about the George Inn.
The inn’s landlord was a morose man with a wife but no children. He employed three post-boys, a pot-boy, three chambermaids, an ostler, four grooms, a boot-boy, a housekeeper, a cook and a couple of general servants. It was such a busy establishment that its stabling required a separate yard. Philo was sure that Jasper LeCourt would be found somewhere near the coach-house, but decided to try the taproom and parlour first – because the pot-boy, Ephraim, was an acquaintance of his.
Sure enough, Ephraim was clearing tables in the parlour, wearing an apron and wielding a wet rag. At sixteen, he already had the kind of height and width that made him invaluable when dealing with angry topers. Though he was a good-natured youth, with a sunny, open face and springy blond curls, his broken nose, missing teeth and scarred chin marked him as someone who never backed away from a fight.
‘Hollo!’ he exclaimed cheerfully, on spotting Philo. ‘What’s toward, moon-curser?’
‘I came to see Mr LeCourt,’ Philo responded. ‘Where can I find him?’
Ephraim straightened, tossing his rag across his shoulder. ‘Junks is very ill, at present. You’ll find him in his room above the coach-house. But he’ll not speak to you.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Philo tried to sound concerned. ‘What ails him?’
Ephraim shrugged. ‘Some foul distemper. I’ve not laid eyes on the man since yesterday. Why did you want to consult Junks? I didn’t know you was acquainted.’
Philo did a quick mental inventory, which yielded the perfect answer. ‘Mr Sterne has charged me with giving him money, to pay off a debt.’
‘Not the famed three-guinea debt! But poor Junks is lying in a stupor!’ Ephraim burst out laughing. Then, with a guilty glance around the room – which was dark and smoky and filled with the smell of beer and boiled cabbage – he pulled a solemn face and said, ‘He’s oft talked o’ that debt. But from what I hear, he’s not fit to take charge of it. You’d best give the money to me, and I’ll convey it to him when he’s well again.’
Philo grimaced. ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t doubt your honesty, I undertook to deliver the sum into his keeping. Mr Sterne was very particular. Belike I should return the money to Mr Sterne, and tell him what’s amiss—’
‘Nay, nay!’ Ephraim cried. ‘Return the money? Junks would gut me, if ever he heard! He’s been waiting for it this twelvemonth, and would be loath to let it go.’
‘If I cannot lay it in his hand, I shall come back later,’ Philo insisted, before bidding the pot-boy a hurried goodbye. But instead of retracing his steps towards Cucumber Alley, Philo headed in the opposite direction. Though he didn’t have a plan in mind, he wanted to know more. So he made his way through a steady drizzle to the coach yard, where the George Inn’s stables were to be found.
Unlike the inn itself – which was a handsome building four storeys high, with galleries stacked around an inner court – the inn’s stabling was just a collection of small, mean structures, all propping each other up like drunkards. Manure was piled everywhere, among bales of straw and broken cartwheels. Philo identified the coach-house easily, thanks to the post-chaise that occupied its lower level. An external staircase led to the floor above, which had a rickety look about it. Two tiny windows peered out from under the thatched eaves like a pair of spectacles shaded by heavy eyebrows. Smoke poured from the crooked chimney set above them.
Philo swiftly surveyed the coach-house, then looked around the yard. There weren’t many people about. A groom was leading a horse across the cobbles. Two post-boys were sitting on a sack of oats just inside the stable door. They were smoking as they watched rain drip off the eaves.
‘Where may I find Mr Jasper LeCourt?’ Philo asked one of the post-boys, who was a squat, ill-featured youth in a grubby wig and ragged livery. Though Philo knew quite well that this young man was called Steward, he wasn’t sure if Steward knew his name.
‘What’s your business with Junks?’ Steward inquired, removing the pipe from his mouth.
‘I’ve a message for him.’
‘He’s up there.’ Steward waved his pipe at the top floor of the coach-house. ‘But he’ll not hear you, no matter how loud you speak.’
‘Why?’ said Philo.
The post-boy didn’t answer. And when Philo followed his gaze, he saw that Steward was watching a man who had just begun to descend the coach-house stairs – a tall man wrapped in a long black riding cloak. As this man hurried towards them, his cloak flapping open, Philo caught a brief glimpse of what lay beneath: a green velvet coat, an embroidered silk waistcoat, a lace cravat and a small sword. Beneath his cocked hat (which was trimmed with a sodden scarlet plume), the man’s face was strong and ruddy, with high cheekbones, thick brows and hazel eyes tinged with yellow.
Philo recognised the face of Civil Joe Constantine.
‘You! Bill Steward!’ The highwayman’s voice was like a trumpet blast. Ignoring Philo, he marched straight up to the post-boys and addressed Steward as if the two of them were alone in all the world. ‘What befell that ostler? Tell me.’
Steward shrugged. ‘I didn’t see,’ he replied, his expression wary and sullen.
‘Then what did you hear?’
Steward glanced at his mate, who said, ‘One o’ the grooms found Junks in the stables this morning. Flat on his face like a dead man.’
‘Did he speak? Did he say aught?’ Civil Joe demanded.
Both of the post-boys shook their heads.
‘Was anyone seen here last night? A stranger?’
This time Civil Joe’s question seemed to confuse the post-boys, who excha
nged glances again. Then Steward growled, ‘There’s never no shortage o’ strangers at a coaching inn.’
Civil Joe made an impatient noise between a snort and a sigh. ‘’Tis a particular set o’ strangers that interests me,’ he declared, before describing – in precise detail – Scamper Knaggs, Gugg Worris, Jemmy Jukes and Cockeye McAuliffe. The Dyott Street gang.
Philo recognised them instantly, though the two post-boys clearly didn’t.
‘I saw no one like that last night,’ Steward mumbled. ‘But I was abed, for a good portion of it.’
‘The doctor said ’twas apoplexy that felled Junks,’ his friend added, peering up at Civil Joe through his pipe-smoke. ‘He said there wasn’t a mark on him that would account for it, so ’twas likely a rupture of the vessels—’
‘’Twas an attack.’ Civil Joe spoke sharply. He kept shifting and fidgeting, as if his barely suppressed anger was making his muscles twitch. ‘’Twas an attack,’ he repeated, spitting the words out, ‘and there will be reckoning – mark that. A hard reckoning.’ He paused for a moment, breathing heavily as he glared around the yard. Then he swallowed and made a visible effort to calm himself. ‘You’ve witnessed naught here that troubles you, of late? Strange shadows . . . odd noises . . . peculiar scratches or footprints, as if left by some unseen creature?’
Steward looked at Civil Joe as if he were mad, then slowly shook his head again.
‘What manner of creature?’ asked the other post-boy. But Civil Joe dismissed this question with an impatient wave.
‘None that exists,’ he muttered. ‘A faery tale. A lie. I’ll teach ’em to lie to my face, by damn . . .’
He stormed off, his hand on his sword-hilt. Philo watched him intently, but knew better than to follow him. Only when the billowing black cape had disappeared from sight did Steward remark sourly, ‘I always thought that cull as mad as Bedlam. Unseen creatures! Does he think a rat dinged Junks?’
‘That doctor who came here was university-trained,’ his friend observed. ‘A physician. Cost all o’ two guineas. He wouldn’t have missed a wound.’