Philo reached over to grab Davy’s cutlass, which lay on the ground between them.
‘Don’t touch the claw,’ said Mr Paxton, wrapping his free hand in the skirts of his coat. Seeing him crouch down, Philo picked up his own sword and thrust its point towards Davy’s left eye.
‘Move and I’ll blind you!’ Philo said hoarsely.
Davy moaned. His blood was pooling across the flagstones, soaking into the straw. ‘’Twasn’t my lay,’ he mumbled. ‘’Twas Cockeye’s notion . . .’
‘Where is Cockeye?’ Philo asked Mr Paxton, who had retrieved the claw and straightened up.
‘Do you mean that cowardly ruffian with the dagger? He ran.’ Mr Paxton was gazing in fascination at the tiny object nestled in the folds of his coat. ‘I could not stop him. I had to find you.’
‘But Kit – what about Kit?’ Philo demanded. Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to Davy and hissed, ‘Where’s Susannah?’
Davy was grimacing in pain. ‘Who?’ he said faintly.
‘Where is she? Where’s the little girl?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’ Davy cried, flinching away from Philo’s sword-point. Philo couldn’t help marvelling at Davy’s transformation; one small wound had turned the raging bully into a grovelling supplicant. ‘God save you, there’s no child here,’ Davy moaned. ‘There’s no one. Not a soul in the place – I scared ’em all off. Cockeye wanted it so.’
Philo was desperate enough to use the sword. He actually raised it. But Mr Paxton brought his own blade up to catch Philo’s and said, ‘Stay, lad. Think. The trap was laid for this man. He’d know naught of it.’
This made sense to Philo. Though distracted with worry and shaking like a palsied limb, he could see that the surgeon was right. ‘Where’s the well, then?’ he spat.
Davy stared at Philo, the whites of his eyes glinting against his darkened skin. ‘What well?’
‘The well, damn you!’
‘There’s no well here,’ Davy whined.
‘There must be!’
‘Aye, but you had this from Simon, Theophilus.’ Once again Mr Paxton interceded. ‘Could he have been mistaken?’
‘Not he.’ Philo was convinced of it. ‘There’s a well here.’
‘If there is, I never saw it,’ Davy insisted. ‘I’ve not been out o’ this cellar since I set foot in the place.’
‘When was that?’ asked Mr Paxton, before Philo could speak.
‘Two weeks ago,’ Davy replied, then added defensively, ‘’Twas Cockeye’s lay! He said we could make our fortune!’
‘By frightening even his own gang, so you wouldn’t have to share,’ said Mr Paxton, who seemed to be thinking aloud. ‘But where did he find the poison?’
‘That was mine, sir – never his.’ Davy’s voice was growing weaker. ‘I had it off a cull in Virginny, as a gambling debt—’
‘American!’ Mr Paxton exclaimed. ‘I thought as much.’
‘So you was in America? With Cockeye?’ Philo asked Davy.
‘We took the same passage back to England. That’s when we first met.’
‘And you told him about the poison, and he saw your face, and devised a cunning plan.’ Mr Paxton began to nod as the pieces fell into place. ‘What befell you, by the bye? A fire, was it?’
‘Please, sir, ’twas a furnace fire,’ Davy whimpered. ‘It all but killed me – and now I’m no fit company for man nor beast . . .’
But Philo wasn’t interested in Davy’s tale of woe. ‘Where’s Gugg?’ he snapped.
‘Gugg Worris? That slubberdegullion?’ By now Davy was talking through clenched teeth, rocking back and forth in obvious torment. ‘Ah . . . ah . . . Gugg whipped off. He’s gone . . .’
‘When the trap failed, he must have fled,’ Mr Paxton murmured. Then a distant rending noise caused him to grimace. ‘It sounds as if your mob is losing its temper, Theophilus.’
‘Someone must know where the well is!’ Philo was starting to panic. He waved his sword under Davy’s nose – or under the gap where his nose should have been. ‘Where’s Scamper?’ he cried, his voice cracking.
‘I don’t know!’ Davy retorted. ‘I’ve not seen him, nor any o’ the others! They don’t come down here. They’re too scared . . .’
‘What about Jemmy Jukes?’
Davy stared up at him blindly. ‘Jemmy Jukes? Is he still alive?’
‘Why not?’ Mr Paxton countered. ‘Did you bring him back here to slaughter?’
‘Nay, sir, ’twas Cockeye brought him back. Cockeye didn’t want him in the workhouse, lest he talk on waking. Talking about the spriggan was all right – Cockeye wanted that – but he was afeared Jemmy might peach on us for other matters—’
‘Hah! So you knew he might awaken?’ the surgeon cried. Then he frowned as Philo charged past him. ‘Where are you going? Theophilus?’
‘I need to help Kit. There’s no well down here.’ Philo ran for the staircase, his head in a whirl. He was still holding two weapons, and he could hear the noise of the mob outside growing louder and louder as he ascended. When he stuck his head through the hatchway in the buttery floor, he could see no trace of Kit – or of Cockeye. But he noticed that the cupboard door was closed, despite the damage that had been done to its frame. So he guessed what had happened even before he rapped on it with a gilded pommel.
‘Kit? Kit Maltman!’
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice whispered, ‘Philo?’
‘Aye! Let me in!’
As the cupboard door creaked open, a sharp crack and a loud cheer made Philo jump. Frowning, he shuffled sideways to peer into the entrance hall – where someone had not only kicked a panel out of the front door but was driving his heel into another one.
‘What’s amiss?’ asked Mr Paxton. Turning, Philo saw him climb out of the cellar.
‘They’re breaking in,’ said Philo.
‘Should we admit them?’ asked the surgeon. But Philo didn’t reply. He was already brushing past Kit, eager to see what lay inside the cupboard.
‘When I heard Cockeye coming, I hid,’ Kit remarked. ‘’Tis a stroke o’ luck he didn’t want to hide in here with me, the noise being so bad . . .’
‘For the love of Christ!’ said Mr Paxton. He had joined Kit on the threshold of the cupboard, which wasn’t really a cupboard at all. It was more like an old-fashioned closet – a very small room without windows, containing a bundle of rags on a pile of straw. It smelled like a privy.
Jemmy Jukes was stretched out on the rags, his eyes closed, his face grey.
‘This is unconscionable,’ Mr Paxton spluttered, covering his nose with one sleeve.
‘Someone left him here to rot,’ Kit observed. Philo gave him Davy’s cutlass, then crouched beside Jemmy and began to shake him.
‘Jemmy! Jemmy Jukes!’
‘Take care, lad, I beg you.’ Mr Paxton was still nursing the poisoned claw, but he sheathed his own sword before joining Philo at Jemmy’s bedside. ‘The poor man is in extremis. . .’
This meant nothing to Philo. ‘Jemmy Jukes!’ he shouted, giving Jemmy a tremendous shove. When Jemmy’s eyes snapped open, no one was more surprised than Philo. ‘Where’s the well, Jemmy?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me and we’ll bring you water!’
Jemmy’s jaw flapped a few times, but no sound emerged. Mr Paxton knelt down to feel his pulse.
‘The well! Where is it?’ Philo asked impatiently.
Jemmy’s head rolled to one side. ‘No . . .well . . .’ he rasped.
‘A hole, then! A pit! A drain!’
‘ . . . privy . . .’
‘What?’ Philo bowed his head, placing his ear close to Jemmy’s mouth. ‘A privy, did you say? There’s a privy?’
‘Up . . . stairs . . .’
‘Upstairs?’ Philo had never heard of an upstairs privy. But Mr Paxton had.
‘A garderobe?’ he suggested. ‘This is an old house, and a fine one. There may be a garderobe built into the wall, with a chute down to a cesspit.’
r /> ‘Where?’ Again Philo shook Jemmy, who seemed to be falling asleep. ‘Which wall?’
‘West . . . first . . .’
‘First floor up?’ Philo sprang to his feet as Jemmy nodded, and was about to leave the room when Mr Paxton grabbed his arm.
‘I cannot abandon this man,’ said the surgeon. ‘He needs my help. And the fellow downstairs—’
‘May do as he pleases,’ said Philo. Davy’s fate was of no interest to him. He didn’t care about Jemmy, either. Susannah Quail was his only concern. ‘You stay here, sir. You’ll be safe enough, for my friends out there know who you are.’ He jerked his chin at Kit. ‘Come,’ he said, raising his voice above the mob’s resounding cheer as another part of the front door was kicked in. ‘West wall, first floor up. I’ve a notion where to look.’
CHAPTER 27
AN ACCOUNT
OF PHILO’S QUEST TO SAVE SUSANNAH
Philo reached the first landing just as the front door disintegrated.
‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us,’ murmured Kit, who was three steps behind him. ‘Do you hear that? They’ll tear the place down . . .’
The noise was fearsome: shouts and cheers, clangs and crashes. Philo’s thoughts strayed briefly to the disfigured man in the cellar. What would the Irish chairmen do to him, if they got that far? But then Philo remembered the pile of gold and silver, and was reassured. A treasure trove like that was bound to distract even the most bloodthirsty Irishman.
‘I hope they don’t lose their wits and attack the surgeon,’ Kit went on, as he pursued Philo into the northern passage. ‘He don’t look like a gentleman in those duds . . .’
‘He might not look like one, but he sounds like one,’ said Philo. ‘Mr Paxton can take care of himself. He told me so.’ At the very least, Mr Paxton was better equipped than Susannah; though every bellow from downstairs made Philo wince, he kept reminding himself that Mr Paxton had been in the navy, and had probably seen a fair amount of action in his time. There was no point worrying about Mr Paxton.
Susannah, on the other hand, would need all the help she could get.
The western wall of Rat’s Castle lay to their left. Philo checked every room he passed – including Simon Edy’s – but saw nothing of interest until he reached the end of the passage. Here a door opened onto a very large room that spanned the width of the building. It would have been a bright and airy space, if so many of the windows hadn’t been boarded up, and if the stench of urine hadn’t been so strong. Most of the wall-panels had been torn away (for fuel, perhaps), revealing large expanses of damp grey stone. A massive fireplace stood opposite the door, choked with ash and bits of rubbish. There was a hole in the floor nearby, though someone had attempted to patch it with a cask-lid and a couple of nails.
Everywhere he looked Philo saw stains and scratches, broken glass, nutshells, gnawed bones and candle-stubs. And in the western wall he saw an alcove the size of a sentry box, with a stone seat built into it.
‘There!’ cried Kit, pointing at the alcove. He started forward, then realised that Philo wasn’t following him. ‘Captain?’ he said, stopping to look back.
Philo stood frozen to the spot. Suddenly he was terrified; the thought of gazing down a shaft and seeing Susannah dead at the bottom of it was so appalling – so unspeakable – that he simply couldn’t face it. He couldn’t even find his voice to call her name.
It was Kit who yelled, ‘Susannah?’
There was a long, tense pause. But just as Philo was beginning to despair, he heard a tiny voice like a mouse’s squeak. ‘H-hello?’
The relief was so great that for a moment Philo felt dizzy. He had to bend over, gulping down lungfuls of air, as Kit dashed towards the alcove shouting, ‘Susannah Quail? Is that you?’
‘I’m here,’ the little voice croaked. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Kit Maltman! And Philo Grey!’
‘Philo . . .?’
Philo dropped his sword and staggered over to the privy, which was a slab of stone with a hole chiselled through it. When Philo fell to his knees and thrust his head into the hole, he couldn’t see a thing. The shaft beneath it was pitch black.
The smell was foul.
‘That chute must have been filled up long ago, or she would have fallen to her death,’ Kit remarked, edging out of the way to give Philo more room. The alcove was barely big enough for both of them.
‘Susannah?’ Philo’s voice was so hoarse that he had to clear his throat before continuing. ‘Are you hurt?’
There was a brief silence. ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said at last.
‘We have to get her out.’ Philo jumped to his feet and looked around for a rope or stick. There was a stick near the alcove: it was leaning against the wall, and it had a copper wire wound tightly around it, as well as a length of red silk. Beside it stood a bellarmine jug that Philo recognised instantly.
It was the same bellarmine jug that Gugg Worris had bought from Garnet Hooke.
As Philo realised this, a series of images flashed across his mind – images that left him reeling. The jug downstairs had also been Garnet’s. For months it had sat on Garnet’s bookshelf, its misshapen face glaring down at Philo’s crew as they filed in and out. Then, about two weeks previously, the jug had vanished. Philo distinctly remembered noting its absence, days before Jemmy Jukes had surfaced in Middlesex Court.
So how had the same jug ended up in Rat’s Castle, where Philo had been forced to throw it at Davy’s head?
‘Blood an’ ’ounds,’ he whispered. ‘Blood an’ ’ounds . . .’
‘Captain?’ said Kit. ‘What’s toward?’
‘I . . . ah . . .’
‘She’s not too deep. We could tie our coats together.’ Kit stared at Philo, who was trying to formulate a response. ‘Are you ill? You’re white as a dove.’
Philo shook his head and shrugged off his coat. But instead of passing the coat to Kit, he returned to the privy and called down to Susannah.
‘Susie? I’ve a coat here – can you catch the end of it?’ Without waiting for an answer, he lowered his coat into the shaft, until both of his arms had been thrust down the privy up to his shoulders. The garment twitched a couple of times, as if Susannah’s questing hands had brushed against it. Then Philo felt a sharp tug that nearly jerked the left sleeve out of his grasp.
He tightened his grip, praying that the stitches would hold.
‘Can you climb?’ he asked. ‘Have you strength enough?’
‘Climb?’ came the weak response.
‘I’ll pull, but you must push with your feet . . .’
‘There’s someone coming,’ Kit murmured into Philo’s ear. Then, as Philo leaned backwards, hauling Susannah out of the privy, Kit dropped his sword and fastened his hands around Philo’s coat. The two boys heaved with all their might, their ears tuned to the creak and snap of straining fabric.
They ignored the sound of footsteps, which was growing louder and louder. But when Philo heard someone shriek, ‘Captain!’, he caught his breath.
‘That’s Dandy!’ said Kit. ‘Dandy! In here!’
‘She’s close.’ Philo could feel Susannah’s weight near the lip of the privy, stretching his coat to breaking point. ‘Catch her. Catch her now!’ he cried.
Kit flung himself forward. When Philo saw him drawing Susannah’s left arm out of the hole, he released his coat and went to grab her other arm. Seconds later she was hanging over the privy seat, with her legs dangling down the shaft. That was when Dandy spied her from the door of the alcove.
‘Mercy!’ he exclaimed. ‘She is here! I thought it a fetch, to rouse the chairmen.’
‘Lend us a hand, for God’s sake!’ Kit barked. Dandy rushed to help, and together the three boys pulled Susannah onto the floor of the alcove, where she lay grimy and gasping, her tears making track-marks down her grubby face.
She wouldn’t let go of Philo.
‘Was it Gugg?’ Philo asked her in a tight, harsh voice.
She nodd
ed.
‘Did he hurt you?’ was Philo’s next question.
This time she shook her head. ‘I’m so thirsty . . .’ she quavered.
‘We must find Mr Paxton,’ said Philo. But even as he tried to raise Susannah, the thunder of massed footsteps reached his ears. It sounded as if a herd of cattle was stampeding down the passage towards them.
‘I was a-coming to tell you, there’s a mob of Irishmen heading this way,’ Dandy muttered. The words were barely out of his mouth before a knot of Val’s friends burst into the room, waving their chair-poles.
Philo rose to confront them. ‘We found her!’ he cried. ‘Here she is!’ He was suddenly afraid that the wild-eyed chairmen – who had been shouting themselves into a frenzy – would forget who he was and set upon him as one of Scamper’s gang. ‘We pulled her out of the privy,’ he added, shooting an anxious look in Dandy’s direction.
‘We found her!’ Dandy confirmed, all rosy cheeks and round blue eyes. ‘She was down the privy and we pulled her out!’
For an instant the looming pack of red-faced men stood staring at Dandy, absorbing what he’d just said. Then his innocent appearance had its usual disarming effect; they began to shake their heads and click their tongues.
‘Ah, poor lass!’
‘Sure, she looks perished!’
‘Acushla, ’tis a mortal sin, so . . .’
The Irishmen all started talking at once. There were at least half a dozen of them in the room, and more were coming down the passage. Philo had to raise his voice to be heard over the din.
‘She needs water!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s thirsty!’
‘Sure, she must be,’ the Irishmen all agreed, suggesting that she should drink a drop of small beer, or a nip of brandy for her nerves. A flask made its way towards Susannah, who was now on her feet, still clinging to Philo’s arm. But when she tried to move, her dragging foot caused another uproar; one of chairmen insisted on carrying her downstairs. Philo soon found himself in the rearguard of a noisy procession, along with Dandy and Kit and a very confused-looking John Barnwell, who was searching for his sweetheart, the actress Kitty Clive.
‘I thought Kitty was here,’ he kept saying. ‘I thought Kitty was in the well.’