Philo said nothing. Instead he walked away, his head in a whirl. So Civil Joe didn’t believe in the spriggan! That was bad news for Scamper Knaggs. Civil Joe’s crew was a fierce one, well armed with pistols and accustomed to using them. Scamper was simply a housebreaker, equipped with little more than picklocks and jemmies. He would not fare well against rank riders – unless, of course, he had a secret weapon.
Unless the spriggan really did exist.
Scamper must have threatened Civil Joe to his face, Philo thought, as he hurried back to Cucumber Alley, else Joe wouldn’t have known where to look for a culprit. He wasn’t surprised. Scamper was desperate. He was so scared of the spriggan, he wouldn’t have baulked at threatening King George himself. But Civil Joe wasn’t just any thief. He had once been acquitted of holding up three coaches in quick succession, with a single pistol and no help. He was the scourge of Hounslow Heath, yet hadn’t faced justice for most of his crimes because no one could be found who would prosecute. If anyone was a match for a monster, it was Civil Joe Constantine.
Philo couldn’t wait to tell Garnet about Civil Joe. He was even tempted to alert Mr Paxton, just to prove that his own theory about Jasper LeCourt had been the right one.
But when he arrived home, Philo discovered that he would not be seeing Mr Paxton that night. Because Garnet had decided to send Lippy in his place.
CHAPTER 20
A NIGHT-SCENE,
WHEREIN VIOLENCE ENVELOPED THE STREETS OF THE PARISH
Philo stood outside Tom’s Coffee House. It was nearly midnight, and the coffee-house always closed its doors on the stroke of twelve, forcing dozens of gentlemen into the street. Philo was hoping that one of these gentlemen might need a linkboy. He thought it likely, since the night was moonless. And though Russell Street was well lit, the alleys leading off it were as dark as graves.
So Philo waited by the coffee-house door, fretting about his crew. Since starting work that evening, he had spotted three people hurrying along Drury Lane with their coats turned inside out. Though one person might have been absent-minded enough to dress like that, it seemed too much of a coincidence that all three of them had made the same mistake. Philo could only assume that someone had been warning people about the spriggan.
But even that hadn’t unnerved Philo as much as an encounter he’d had in Castle Street. He’d been escorting a midwife to a childbirth when he’d heard shouting, and the thump of heavy footsteps. His first thought had been to usher the midwife out of harm’s way. Then he’d spied torches in the distance, and had been reassured; thieves, he knew, tended to shun the light. Even so, it wasn’t until a knot of Irish chairmen had erupted out of the shadows that he’d felt truly safe. Though large and angry and armed with chair-poles, they were all Val’s friends, and their anger hadn’t been directed at Philo.
They’d been searching for three footpads who had attacked a sedan chair, less than an hour earlier.
A man called Niall Donohoe – who’d recognised Philo – had stopped to tell him the news. Spluttering with fury, his wig askew and his livery smeared with mud, Niall had warned Philo that the gang of thieves now roaming the parish must be ‘desperate’, since only desperate rogues would assault a couple of Irish chairmen just to reach the lady who’d hired them. ‘Thrown from the chair and robbed of all but her stays and petticoats,’ Niall had growled, his pockmarked face red with anger. ‘And Pat Murphy with a broke jaw, and Rab Riordan coughing up blood, poor lad. ’Tis an outrage, so ’tis.’
‘Did anyone see their faces?’ had been Philo’s only question.
Niall had shaken his head. ‘Wearing masks, every man. But you must tread careful, and tell your boys the same. We’ve a mind to send young Val home, if we don’t come upon these rogues within the hour.’
He’d then run off to join his companions, leaving Philo with a hysterical midwife. And now, standing outside Tom’s Coffee House, Philo was wondering if he should cut his losses and go looking for the rest of his crew. Fleabite was with Kit, but Dandy was all alone. And though Lippy was sturdy enough, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the bullies who’d brought down a pair of Irish chairmen.
The trouble was that Philo didn’t know where any of his friends actually were. At six o’clock Lippy had been outside the St Giles workhouse, waiting for Mr Paxton – but that had been all of six hours ago. Since then, Philo hadn’t spotted Lippy once, though he’d been keeping a sharp lookout. Philo wanted to know how the surgeon had reacted, on being told that Lippy was taking Philo’s place. Had he been disappointed? Unconcerned? Suspicious? Philo himself wasn’t too happy about it, though he’d decided not to defy a man who could barely draw breath to speak – especially since Garnet had promised to warn the Bow Street magistrate about recent developments just as soon as he was strong enough hold a pen.
Philo hoped that Garnet would recover. The prospect of losing him was unbearable; Philo always refused to think about it, even when the man was too sick to rise from his bed. But these bad spells never failed to leave Philo badly shaken, like someone trying to cross a plank over a precipice. And his sense of unease was heightened by the atmosphere in the streets all around him. There was something strange in the air. Something wrong.
‘By heavens, ’tis frosty!’ a loud voice suddenly blared. Turning, Philo saw three gentlemen emerge from Tom’s Coffee House: a stout naval officer in blue, a thin army officer in red and a very young man in pearl-grey silk. The young man had a pale, fresh, gentle face that seemed to glow in the torchlight. He wore a wig as white as thistledown, and his voice, when he spoke, was as soft as spun silk.
‘Are you coming my way, sir?’ he asked the naval officer, who clapped him on the back and said, ‘Not I. But take this linkboy – Saunders and I will sally forth with a rushlight.’
‘If you’re sure . . .’ the young man murmured.
‘Aye, we’re old campaigners, never fear.’ The naval officer patted the hilt of his small sword, as his craggy-faced companion smiled forbiddingly. They parted from their young friend with many compliments and professions of goodwill; after listening to them, Philo deduced that the young man’s name was Ignatius, and that the naval officer was his godfather.
‘I wish to go to New Inn, on Wych Street,’ Ignatius told Philo, who had never seen such a pigeon in all his life. Everything about the gentleman said rob me, from his silver buttons right down to his shy smile and gleaming white teeth. Normally, Philo would have taken a few short cuts to reach Wych Street, but since most of these short cuts involved dark alleys – and since he had a new-hatched chick like Ignatius under his protection – Philo wasn’t about to take any risks.
So they headed down Russell Street, and would have gone as far as Drury Lane if Ignatius hadn’t suddenly remarked, in his quiet fashion, ‘Would it not be quicker to skirt the playhouse?’
‘Aye, your honour,’ Philo agreed. ‘If you’ve no objection to seedy, ill-lit passages—’
‘The sooner we get there, the happier I’ll be,’ said Ignatius, blowing on his chilled fingers.
With a nod, Philo turned down Bridges Street, which was another broad thoroughfare, busy and well lit thanks to the presence of several taverns and gaming houses. But Philo had no sooner ducked into Little Bridges Street than he began to feel uncomfortable. This street was no more than an alley lined with pawnshops, and it led straight past St Mary’s burial ground. Philo didn’t like the playhouse quarter. It was a warren of a place, full of dead ends and bolt-holes and mean, unhealthy gin-shops. What’s more, it smelled bad, thanks to the graveyard it was wrapped around.
He was within spitting distance of this graveyard when he suddenly realised that they were being followed. Though he couldn’t hear or see anything odd, he could smell tobacco in the air, consistently, as if a heavy smoker was trailing them.
Up ahead, there was a right-hand turn. Philo wondered if someone was waiting behind that corner. ‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘do you know the hole in the wall of St Mary’s burial ground?’<
br />
‘I do,’ Ignatius replied, lowering his own voice to match Philo’s. ‘Why?’
‘We must head for it, your honour, and then you must take the passage back onto Bridges Street.’ Before Ignatius could do more than gasp, Philo added, under his breath, ‘There’s someone at our heels, sir, and he don’t want us knowing it.’
‘The deuce!’
‘I’ll lure him away. If you lose me, stay on Bridges Street. Take it as far as the Strand – both streets are busy, even at this late hour, and well supplied with hackney coaches.’ Philo spoke calmly, because his mind was working so hard that he didn’t have time to feel scared. ‘Whatever happens, sir, keep running. Don’t stop for aught. I’ll guard your back.’
‘But—’
‘Please, sir. I’ve my link to protect me.’
By this time they were rounding the next corner. Philo braced himself for a frontal assault, holding his torch in both hands like a sword or cudgel, ready to strike. But no one was waiting for them.
‘Now!’ he snapped, and bolted. Directly ahead of him, the crumbling wall of the burial ground had partially collapsed, leaving a hole that was commonly used as a short cut. Philo pushed Ignatius through this hole, then jumped after him and pointed out the Bridges Street exit, which was a narrow passage separating two shops. Thanks to the many oil-lamps in Bridges Street, Philo could see that the corridor was empty of lurking footpads. Anyone hiding there would have been silhouetted against the light.
‘Go!’ whispered Philo. ‘Run!’
Ignatius ran. Though he stumbled once on a fallen gravestone, he made it as far as the passage without injuring himself. And that was when Philo abandoned him. Heading towards the Russell Court exit, Philo was keenly aware of the dark shadow now clambering through the hole that he himself had just used. The graveyard ploy had bought Philo only a four-second lead; whoever was chasing him had overshot the graveyard, but must have doubled back when he realised that he’d lost sight of Philo’s torch. Clearly, he was following the torch. Philo had been hoping that he might. Most footpads did, because they could never believe that any linkboy would willingly give up a halfpenny fee by cutting his client loose. But without a client to hamper him, Philo could outrun every footpad in London. He was quick, he was cunning, and he knew the neighbourhood better than he knew his own face. Weaving between the holes and grave-markers that made the burial-ground such an obstacle course, he decided that the mess of alleys in this quarter might just work to his advantage.
He passed the chapel at a sprint, then reached Russell Court – which was utterly deserted. No help here, he thought. A right-hand turn would have taken him straight back to Bridges Street, but he was worried about endangering Ignatius. So he took a sharp left, and then another, trying to put a lot of corners between himself and the man behind him. Though Philo passed a handful people on his way, they were skulking, shifty-looking types who didn’t inspire confidence. One of them was so drunk he could barely stand. And one of them gave a malevolent chuckle when Philo ran past him, as if he knew what was happening and thought it a great joke.
So Philo didn’t appeal for help. He just kept running.
The next intersection was a tricky one. Philo knew that if he proceeded in the same direction, his pursuer would get a good look at him – and would see that Ignatius had disappeared. On the other hand, turning left again would take Philo straight back to the graveyard. So he turned right, into an alley that led him past a sponging-house and a chandler’s shop. Both were as dark as coal-cellars. No help here, either, he concluded. The Cheshire Cheese tavern stood just beyond the sponging-house, its door wide open, but even as Philo swerved towards it, he began to have second thoughts. The Cheshire Cheese wasn’t respectable. For all he knew, the footpad had actually come from there.
I should have stayed on Russell Street, thought Philo, as he pounded past the Cheshire Cheese. I should have argued against the quicker route. By this time he was panting and footsore, and starting to flag. Turning left onto Drury Lane, he told himself that there would be no more short cuts tonight. But he was pretty sure that he had shaken his pursuer, who might have realised that Ignatius was gone. Glancing back over his shoulder, Philo could see nothing suspicious. And the few people left on Drury Lane looked decent enough. One man in livery was moving away from Philo. Another was leaning on a stick. As for the figure up ahead . . .
‘Lippy!’ Philo exclaimed. Lippy’s stumping gait was easy to recognise, as was his broad-brimmed Quaker’s hat. Though his face was in shadow, he raised it when he heard Philo’s voice – and immediately quickened his pace, so that they came together not far from the Russell-Street intersection.
‘Captain!’ Lippy gaped at Philo, who was staggering along, bent double and gasping for air. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘Lurker,’ Philo wheezed.
‘What?’
‘Near the burial ground.’ Philo explained what had happened as his breathing settled. He described Ignatius, and his own flight through the graveyard, before telling Lippy about the chairmen he’d met in Castle Street. ‘There’s not one of us should be alone tonight,’ he finished. ‘Come with me to find Dandy. Have you seen him?’
Lippy shook his head. ‘But I saw Kit and Fleabite. By the White Hart, on Broad Street.’
‘When was that?’
‘Early. After I . . .’ Lippy paused for a moment, then took a deep breath before concluding, ‘After I left Parker’s Lane.’
Philo shot him a piercing look. ‘After you left the surgeon?’
‘Aye.’
‘What did Mr Paxton say, when he first saw you?’
‘He said “ah”.’ Lippy’s thick voice was harder than ever to understand; he was mumbling into his neckcloth. ‘I told him I was there in your stead, and he said, “ah”.’
‘No more?’
Lippy hesitated just a little too long before answering. ‘He wanted to see where we live.’
‘What?’
‘I had to show him,’ Lippy whined. ‘He said I could be reported to the Commissioners if I refused to take him where he wanted to go.’
‘The Commissioners?’ Philo spluttered. ‘What Commissioners?’
‘The Commissioners for the . . . the Licensing of Hackney Coaches and Sedan Chairs.’ Lippy recited these words with care, stumbling over some of the consonants. ‘He said Mr Hooke would lose his licence if I didn’t.’
‘Mr Hooke don’t have a licence!’ Philo exclaimed. ‘We none of us do! ’Tis the chairmen who need ’em, not us!’ Philo was suddenly furious at Mr Paxton for tricking Lippy Whittle, who had an in-built reverence for anyone older or smarter and tended to believe almost everything he was told. ‘He was gulling you, Lippy,’ Philo said through his teeth. ‘I wish I knew why.’
‘He gave me tuppence.’
‘Hah!’
‘He said he had news for you,’ Lippy offered.
Philo opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a distant roar reached his ears.
It was the sound of massed voices, raised in anger and defiance.
CHAPTER 21
HOW PHILO
AND HIS CREW MET WITH ANOTHER CASUALTY OF THE DEMON THIEF
‘There!’ cried Lippy, pointing at a distant collection of dancing lights that had suddenly spilled onto Drury Lane. Some of the lights were lanterns and some were torches. The roar of voices was growing steadily louder.
‘Come!’ Philo said, and took off at a run. Lippy followed. As they dashed up the road, they were joined by other people who emerged from doorways and alleys to see what was going on. Philo recognised some of them, including Mr Rowe, the retired sea captain.
But the two boys were faster than any of these men. Even Mr Rowe, with his head start, reached the edge of the crowd a few seconds behind Philo – who by that time was already hurling questions at every familiar face he could see.
‘What’s amiss? Where are you going? Who’s being chased?’
‘Philo!’ A shrill voice suddenly hailed hi
m from the heart of the crowd, which was made up chiefly of Irish chairmen. Scattered among them were other Irish folk – porters and laundresses and watermen – together with the usual collection of London-born beggars and bullies who always turned up when there was trouble on the streets. All of them were waving lights, chair-poles or cudgels. All of them were in a ferocious mood.
‘Val?’ Philo scanned the torch-lit faces until his gaze snagged on Val, who was already pushing through the tightly packed bodies in an effort to reach him. It was like swimming against a tide, because the crowd was still moving; from its fringes, Philo could sense that something was happening in the vanguard, where most of the lights and chair-poles were concentrated. But he couldn’t make out exactly what was going on.
‘Philo!’ Val exclaimed breathlessly, on joining his friends. He looked sooty and dishevelled; his bloodshot eyes were gleaming with excitement.
‘What is this?’ Philo asked him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Pat Murphy—’
‘Was nailed. With Rab Riordan. I heard it from Niall Donohoe.’
‘We’ve got Nobby Cockle,’ Val revealed, jerking his chin at the head of the crowd, which was pushing towards Broad Street. ‘We’re taking him to the watch house.’
‘Nobby Cockle?’ Philo’s mind began to race. ‘Do you think he did it?’
‘Rab gave one o’ the footpads a good pounding. They found Nobby hiding in a coster’s cart, crippled by a blow to the knee.’ Val flashed a fierce look over his shoulder. ‘He says he was robbed, but we don’t believe it.’
‘If Nobby Cockle is your man, he’s not the only one out on the prowl,’ said Philo. ‘I just dodged a lurker in Little Bridges Street.’
‘Belike ’twas Beans,’ Val suggested. ‘Or another one o’ the Hellfire Gang.’
By this time the bulk of the crowd had already passed them, leaving only stragglers. ‘We must find Dandy,’ Philo declared, ‘and keep together while we do it. These streets are not safe.’