‘I saw Dandy not a quarter-hour ago,’ said Val. ‘We passed him outside the Bedford Coffee House.’
‘Then we must hope he is there still.’ Philo turned on his heel and began to retrace his steps. He was worried about Dandy, because the Bedford Coffee House was in Covent Garden – and Covent Garden wasn’t far from St Mary’s burial ground. Suppose Dandy was escorting another pigeon through the very same neighbourhood, and fell foul of the same rogue who had chased Philo?
‘Wait! Philo!’ Val called from behind him. When Philo looked back, he saw that Val was hesitating. ‘Rab’s a friend,’ said Val. ‘I thought I could—’
‘What?’ Philo interrupted. ‘Hang Nobby Cockle from a gibbet? There’s folk enough to do that, Val – I’d lay odds he’ll not last as far as the watch house, if your friends have their way.’ Before Val could reply, Philo added, ‘You’re a part o’ this crew as much as you’re a part o’ that one. And we need you. We need each other. This place has gone to the devil – I’ve never seen it so bad. Thieves and mobs and cut-throats—’
‘And Dandy’s out among ’em,’ Lippy said.
‘And Dandy’s out among ’em,’ Philo agreed – just as it started to rain.
They all stood for a moment assessing the droplets, which multiplied quickly. Philo and Val exchanged glances. Heavy rain didn’t put out torches, but it certainly didn’t agree with them. And it greatly reduced the amount of business out on the street. Standing in the sudden downpour, Philo considered his options. It was past one and raining hard, and the parish was infested with footpads.
He decided to cut his losses.
‘Home,’ Philo decreed, hoping that Dandy and Kit and Fleabite would be heading in the same direction. He thought it likely – at least if the rain didn’t ease soon. So he set off down Long Acre, with the other two close behind him.
The rain was slushy and the wind bitter. Every house along their route was shut up like a fortress. There wasn’t a soul to be seen until they reached Cross Lane, where they were almost knocked over by a man who came charging down the street as if his life depended on it. Philo assumed, at first, that this man was trying to escape the weather. But the sound of frantic breathing – and the fact that he wasn’t trying to shield himself from the driving rain with a bowed head or a buttoned coat – made Philo stop and stare after him, eyes narrowed.
‘Who was that?’ asked Val, pausing alongside Philo. ‘Did anyone see his face?’
No one had.
‘He looked scared,’ Val remarked nervously.
Philo said nothing. He considered doubling back, but decided against it. There were three of them, after all, and each had a sturdy torch – though his own was flickering feebly, by this time. On reaching Castle Street, he paused at the corner, squinting through a thick curtain of rain. A distant oil-lamp was reflected in a growing puddle to his right. And to his left . . .
‘Kit!’ cried Lippy. ‘There, look!’
Kit and Fleabite were splashing towards them, grim-faced and soaking wet. But their expressions brightened when they spotted Val and Lippy and Philo.
‘Captain!’ Fleabite exclaimed. ‘Are you heading home too?’
‘Aye,’ said Philo, then addressed Kit. ‘Have you seen Dandy?’
Kit shook his head.
‘We need to get off the streets,’ Philo muttered. ‘There’s too much wickedness abroad tonight.’
‘Did you hear about Rab Riordan?’ Fleabite piped up.
‘I did,’ said Philo. ‘And I saw Nobby Cockle given the blame by a mob o’ Val’s friends. But Nobby’s not the only cut-throat out and about. I dodged another near Playhouse Passage.’ He crossed Castle Court, ahead of the others. ‘Where’s the watch?’ he asked fretfully. ‘I’ve not seen a single Charley since I started work.’
‘Charley Hurlock was pummelled earlier. We heard it from the doorman at that new gaming house on the Strand,’ Fleabite remarked.
Philo shook his head in disbelief. It was too much; the whole quarter seemed to be plunging down a black hole. How was he supposed to do his job in such an environment? What if things didn’t improve the following night, or the night after that? How were they going to make a living?
He was still wondering what to do when he reached Cucumber Alley, and saw something that brought him to a standstill. Heading towards him, down the alley, was a small knot of people: three men and a boy. The boy was Toby Mackett, from the Maidenhead Inn. He carried a lantern, and his dark hair was sticking to his scalp like grease. Philo was astonished. What was Toby doing in Seven Dials, wrapped in his pot-boy’s apron?
He looks scared, Philo thought – then realised why. One of the men behind Toby was Civil Joe Constantine, the highwayman. The other two were his confederates, Hulks Doughty and Dan Lawler, who were carrying Civil Joe between them. Civil Joe hung as limp as wet washing, his eyes closed, his arms dragging, his head slumped onto his chest. He must have been a dead weight, because even Hulks looked unsteady on his feet, and Hulks was a big man, almost as wide as he was tall. The greatcoat he was wearing added to his bulk. Water was cascading off the point of his cocked hat, which sat crookedly on a skull the size of a small butter-churn. In front of him, Dan Lawler was supporting Civil Joe’s feet, which were encased in gleaming jackboots. Dan was smaller and slimmer than Hulks, with the long neck, beaky nose and narrow, sloping shoulders of a greyhound. Like Civil Joe, he always dressed in rich satins and velvets. But his clothes were now so dirty and waterlogged that they looked like rags.
‘Blood an’ ’ounds,’ Kit murmured. Philo hushed him, watching as the highwaymen and their escort shuffled right up to Garnet’s front door. When Toby knocked, Philo stepped forward – and the movement alerted Hulks, whose head snapped around.
‘Move on!’ Hulks barked, with infinite menace. But then Toby intervened.
‘Sir – please – that’s Philo,’ Toby squeaked. ‘H-he lives here . . .’
‘What’s toward?’ asked Philo, shielding Fleabite with his body. Hulks didn’t answer. Instead he gave the door several kicks: bang-bang-bang.
‘Toby—’ Philo began.
‘We hoped that M-Mr Hooke might be able to help Mr Constantine,’ Toby stammered. His big grey eyes were fixed beseechingly on Philo. ‘’Tis a faery stroke, you see – the spriggan got him . . .’
Fleabite hissed. Philo said, ‘Where?’
‘That don’t concern you!’ rasped Hulks, who kicked the door again. Philo saw Toby mouth, ‘Rat’s Castle,’ and immediately understood what had happened. Civil Joe had gone to challenge Scamper – and the spriggan had punished him for it. Then the other two highwaymen must have carried Civil Joe to the Maidenhead Inn, where Toby Mackett had obviously told them where to find the nearest cunning man.
‘You saw the spriggan?’ Philo demanded.
‘We did,’ Dan croaked. Philo, who had been drawing closer to him, suddenly realised that Dan was trembling. The droplets of rain hanging off his nose and hat-brim caught the light as they shook.
‘Open the damn door!’ Hulks bellowed.
Philo was about to protest, but before he could speak he heard Fettler’s muffled voice from inside the house.
‘Who is it?’ Fettler bleated. ‘What do you want?’
‘’Tis Philo, Ben! And some o’ Civil Joe’s company!’
There was a stunned silence on the other side of the door.
‘They want to consult Mr Hooke,’ Philo continued. ‘They want a cure for the faery stroke.’
‘I’ll ask,’ said Fettler. He wasn’t about to open the door, and Philo didn’t blame him. But in case Hulks took offence, Philo tried to distract the man with questions – questions to which Philo himself wanted answers.
‘What did it look like? The spriggan?’
Dan shook his head. Hulks growled, ‘Big.’
‘How big?’
‘Big! Tall! Hairy!’ said Hulks.
‘With a devil’s face,’ Dan whimpered.
Feeling Fleabite’s free hand
slip into his, Philo took a deep breath and licked his lips. ‘It had a face, then?’
‘Scarred. Twisted. With a muzzle like a dog’s,’ said Dan.
‘One touch. One.’ Hulk’s voice cracked. ‘Joe fell like timber . . .’
In the pause that followed, the only sound was the splish-splash of rain. Then Philo heard something else – the patter of approaching footsteps.
He turned just as Kit said, ‘Dandy!’
Sure enough, Dandy Dodds was trotting towards them, torch in hand. His pace slowed when he saw the crowd gathered at Garnet’s door.
‘What the . . .?’ he began. Then he caught Philo’s eye and trailed off.
Hulks was cursing under his breath. Suddenly he cried, ‘What’s keeping him? This will give us our death! Open the damn door, you jackass!’
As if on cue, there was a clunk of bolts being drawn, and the door creaked open an inch or two. Philo saw a wedge of Fettler Ben’s face framed in the crack.
‘Mr Hooke’s not well,’ Fettler said hoarsely. ‘He offers his apologies. But he told me to give you this foxglove. You’re to make tea from its leaves and have your friend take it daily for a week. Or bathe him with it, if he cannot drink.’ Fettler offered up a small linen bag tied with a leather cord. ‘There’s to be no charge, Mr Hooke says.’
Hulks stared at the bag for a moment, but couldn’t spare a hand to reach for it. So Toby stepped forward to grab it instead.
‘If this don’t work a cure,’ Hulks threatened, while the bag was being tucked into his breeches, ‘I’ll be coming back to ask why.’
Fettler opened the door a little wider. ‘Mr Hooke says give it a week,’ he quavered, beckoning to the rest of his crew. Val immediately shot past him, quickly followed by Lippy, Dandy and Fleabite. But before Kit went inside, he glanced questioningly at Philo – who was holding back, his gaze on the pot-boy.
‘Toby,’ said Philo, ‘you wasn’t about to light these folk all the way to Snow Hill? They’d be better taking a hackney coach from the nearest stand—’
‘How did you know we were on our way to Snow Hill?’ Dan said sharply, cutting him off. ‘Are you a fore-speaker, like the cunning man?’
Philo took a deep breath. ‘Nay, sir. I don’t need to be. Everyone knows Mr Constantine.’
‘Knows him and respects him,’ Kit added.
Dan gave a grudging nod, apparently satisfied. Then Hulks demanded, ‘Where is the nearest coach stand?’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Philo, resigned to the inevitable. There was a coach stand at St Giles-in-the-Fields, by the livery stables; he could drop Toby back at work on his way to the church, then return via the widest, lightest streets available. ‘You’ll have to restore that lantern to your master, I dare swear?’ he asked Toby, who nodded. ‘Then let me help you. The streets are perilous tonight.’
But Toby turned him down – probably, Philo thought, because he didn’t want to share the fee that he was expecting from Hulks. So Philo let him go, trusting that Susannah’s sprig of wort would keep the pot-boy safe.
On his way upstairs, Philo asked Fettler if foxglove really was a cure for the faery stroke.
‘The books say so,’ Fettler replied with a shrug.
‘Then why did Mr Hooke not tell us earlier? When he first heard about Jemmy?’
‘You think he tells us everything?’ Fettler cracked a mirthless smile. ‘I’d lay odds he don’t believe it himself – else he’d have charged for the foxglove.’
‘But if the cure don’t work? What then?’
‘Then he’s got a week before Hulks comes back,’ Fettler said, as he disappeared into Garnet’s room.
Philo wondered if he ought to tell Mr Paxton about the foxglove, before it occurred to him that he wasn’t supposed to be talking to Mr Paxton. Besides, he couldn’t imagine the surgeon having any interest in a cunning man’s cure.
So he dismissed the idea and went in to join the rest of his company.
CHAPTER 22
A DISPUTATION
BETWEEN MR PAXTON AND MR HOOKE
Philo was awakened by a knock on the door. Rat-tat-tat! He roused himself from a deep, dreamless sleep just in time to see Fleabite tumbling out of bed. Sunlight was filtering into their room, but it wasn’t the bold, bright glare of midday. Philo judged it to be quite early in the morning – not much later than nine.
‘Who is it?’ he mumbled.
Fleabite didn’t answer as he lurched to the door and yanked it open. Then he fell back with a start.
‘Good morning to you,’ a pleasant voice remarked from out on the landing. ‘I’ve been told that Theophilus Grey lives here.’
Philo sat bolt upright. He recognised that voice.
‘If he is at home, would you tell him I have some news? The name is Paxton. Nathaniel Paxton.’
Fleabite glanced speechlessly at Philo, who began to scramble out of bed. He had hung his wet shirt from a bedpost the night before, so he quickly dragged it on, then pulled his coat over it. Fleabite, meanwhile, was goggling at the surgeon in disbelief, his shirt flapping around his knees, his red hair sticking up all over his head.
‘You’re one of Master Grey’s company, I dare swear,’ Mr Paxton observed. ‘What is your name?’
‘Flea – Francis.’
‘Flea-francis? A most unusual name.’
‘Francis,’ Fleabite corrected. ‘I’m Francis. But folk call me Fleabite.’
‘He knows,’ Philo said grimly. ‘He’s sporting with you.’ Though his own hair was exploding off his scalp and his breeches were still draped across the sea-chest, Philo felt ready to face Mr Paxton. He buttoned his coat and stepped into the doorway. ‘You sported with Lippy too, did you not?’ he continued, addressing the surgeon. ‘I don’t thank you for it.’
Mr Paxton ducked his head, his mouth twisting into a rueful half-smile. He looked very bright and brisk in his brave scarlet waistcoat and crisp white linen; his hair was neatly tied, his shoe-buckles were gleaming, and he wore a small sword under his coat. For the first time ever, Philo could actually imagine him in the navy.
‘I had to find out where you lived, Master Grey – else how was I to pass on my news?’ Before Philo could ask ‘What news?’, Mr Paxton forestalled him. ‘Mr Bambridge has fully recovered. In light of this, and of certain facts extracted by my friend Winthrop from a book written by Sir Walter Raleigh, we are convinced that the poison affecting Mr Bambridge is from South America.’
Philo blinked. South America? He had heard of America; was Virginia in the north or the south?
‘The natives of South America use a poison on their arrows that paralyses the game they shoot,’ Mr Paxton went on. ‘Its properties appear to be very similar to those of the substance affecting Mr Bambridge and Mr LeCourt.’
Philo took a deep breath. ‘Aye, but—’
‘’Tis a mercy they were not killed, for such poison can affect the contraction of the lungs. That is why it is so dangerous. That is why it cannot remain in the hands of whatever murderous fool presently has it.’ Mr Paxton’s gaze shifted slightly, to where Kit and Lippy and Val had all gathered behind Philo, dragged out of bed by the sound of a strange voice. After briefly scanning their faces, Mr Paxton turned his attention back to Philo. ‘You must tell me where this rogue is to be found, so I may hunt him down and secure the poison. I’d lay odds you know his whereabouts, Master Grey. You know everything about this parish.’
‘Your honour—’ Philo began, but didn’t get a chance to finish, because Fleabite interrupted him.
‘’Twasn’t poison,’ Fleabite said frankly. ‘’Twas faery stroke. Dan Lawler saw the spriggan.’
Mr Paxton smiled down at him. ‘Nay, lad, I assure you—’
‘It felled Civil Joe!’ Fleabite insisted. ‘’Twas big and hairy, with a devil’s face!’
‘Mr Paxton – sir – you must stay clear o’ the spriggan’s lair, or you’ll not come back.’ Philo quailed at the thought of Mr Paxton stepping into Rat’s Castle. ‘Please, si
r – three highwaymen were bested there last night, and one of ’em had to be carried away. Don’t think about going, I beg you.’
Mr Paxton leaned forward and laid a hand on Philo’s shoulder. ‘I can make my own judgements,’ he said. ‘You are not responsible for my safety, lad.’
‘Aye, but—’
‘I was called out twice last night: to the scene of a violent robbery and an altercation at the watch house. Something must be done. Can you not see that?’ Mr Paxton locked eyes with Philo. ‘If any citizen of London witnesses a felony, he is legally obliged to apprehend the culprit – because we all have a duty to uphold the law. I believe it is my duty to stop these poisonings, as a citizen and as a medical man. Will you help me?’
Philo hesitated, torn between the desire to speak frankly and the fear of what his company would think if he did. It was Garnet who saved him from having to reply.
‘Mr Paxton, is it?’ Garnet said breathlessly, from somewhere around knee-level, as he hauled himself up the last flight of stairs. ‘What an unexpected pleasure . . .’
The strain of the climb showed on his face. Somehow he had found the strength to throw on his purple coat and his wig, though he was still wearing slippers. But with his grey complexion and hollow cheeks, he looked like a walking corpse.
‘You have the better of me, sir,’ Mr Paxton said coolly, removing his hand from Philo’s shoulder and placing it on his sword-hilt.
‘I believe I do,’ Garnet wheezed. ‘May I ask why you have come here?’
‘You may. Whether I answer or not will depend on who you are.’
‘My name is Hooke. I live downstairs.’
Mr Paxton bowed. So did Garnet. Fleabite snickered, then yelped as Philo jabbed him in the ribs.
‘My interest in these boys extends to their guests—’ Garnet began, but was interrupted by Mr Paxton.
‘Ah! You must be the gentleman who had the raising of Theophilus. You must be the gentleman responsible for feeding and clothing him.’ The surgeon shot a quick glance at Philo’s skinny, bare calves, before turning back to Garnet. ‘I doubt not you have taught him his letters, it being no chore for a man of your education.’