‘Nay, sir, you misheard.’ Philo felt a pang of shame, but quickly stifled it. He had other things to think about. ‘’Tis the child needed rescuing, not your lady.’
‘Which must come as a great relief to you, sir,’ Kit added brightly, ‘Miss Clive being safe, and no more in peril than the Queen of England. That must set your mind at ease, and fill your heart with joy.’
‘I . . . ah . . . true . . .’
Downstairs, the hall was in a state of chaos – and Philo soon worked out why. Someone had discovered the treasure trove. People were waving their arms, jabbering excitedly about gold and silver. Charles Storer and his friends were heading for the cellar, along with several other folk who had come to retrieve their stolen property. From his elevated vantage point, Philo spotted Black Jenny Jones and Derby Sinnock sneaking after this group, drawn by the promise of wealth lying in great heaps underground. It occurred to Philo, as he descended the great oak staircase, that every single soul in the hall was there because of him.
It was a discomforting thought.
Mr Paxton had left the buttery. He was now standing near the shattered front door, talking earnestly to William Coverdale – the landlord of the Blue Bell – and to Tristram Fry, the printer from Russell Street. Between them, Mr Fry and Mr Paxton were supporting Jemmy Jukes, who was barely conscious. But when the surgeon spied Susannah, borne triumphantly in Niall Donohoe’s arms, he broke away from Jemmy and crossed the room, where he met Philo at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Is that the little girl?’ Mr Paxton asked Philo.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Well done.’ Noting Susannah’s bewildered expression, the surgeon added, ‘I think she needs a word of comfort.’
‘Will you take charge of her, your honour?’ Philo begged, as he was bumped and jostled by a crowd of eager chairmen. ‘She says she’s not hurt, but—’
‘She must be affected,’ Mr Paxton finished. ‘I agree.’ Then he began to shout like a man accustomed to the howl of an Atlantic gale. ‘You, there! I am a surgeon! Let me through!’
Philo watched the crowd part as Mr Paxton made his way towards Susannah, whose pale, frightened face relaxed a little at the sight of Mr Paxton’s reassuring smile. She’ll be all right in his care, Philo thought, knowing that he should have felt better because of it. But he didn’t. He felt battered, as if his heart had dropped down to his stomach and his guts had been tied in knots.
Turning away, he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Valentine.
‘What’s all this talk about a pile o’ plunder?’ Val demanded. ‘Is it true?’
‘True enough,’ Philo mumbled, pulling on his coat – which he’d managed to rescue before it fell into the privy. Though some of its seams were starting, it was still in one piece. ‘Where’s Lippy? And Fleabite?’
‘We all went our separate ways, searching for you,’ Dandy volunteered, from somewhere near Philo’s elbow. ‘This is a big house.’
‘They’ll be back soon enough when they hear o’ the gold,’ Val remarked, with a greedy look in his eye. ‘Where is it?’
‘In the cellar.’ Philo grabbed Kit, who was hovering nearby. ‘Fetch a constable. We need a constable here, for these folk will start to fight when they see the hoard downstairs. And they’re like to string up any one o’ Scamper’s crew they might come upon, in addition.’ As far as Philo was concerned, fetching a constable was all he could do for Davy; his fleeting concern was soon overlaid by other worries. ‘Val – I want you and Dandy to mind Mr Paxton. Stay close. And when you see Fleabite, tell him to scour this place for Simon Edy’s boxes. Mr Paxton dropped ’em somewhere, and he’ll want to give ’em back. Oh – and tell Fleabite to find my hat, if he can. ’Twas knocked off in the cellar, I think. My tinderbox will be close by, too—’
‘Where are you going, Captain?’ Kit interrupted. He was gazing at Philo with a concerned expression on his face. ‘Is aught amiss?’
Philo hesitated. He knew that he shouldn’t be leaving – not while Susannah still needed him. Not while the constable hadn’t been fetched, and Rat’s Castle was still swarming with Irish chairmen. But he also knew that if he stayed, he would be of no use to anyone.
His mind was elsewhere, struggling with something he could barely comprehend.
‘I have to go,’ he insisted. ‘I have to consult Mr Hooke.’ To Val he said, ‘Make sure Mr Paxton don’t forget his fire iron.’
Then he hurried outside, bound for Cucumber Alley. By the time he reached Broad Street, he was running like someone pursued by a spriggan.
CHAPTER 28
THE TERRIBLE
CONSEQUENCES OF WHAT PHILO LEARNED AT RAT’S CASTLE
Philo met Fettler Ben on the stairs outside Garnet’s room. Fettler was carrying a covered chamber-pot down to the street.
He stared in dismay at Philo’s filthy coat. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
Philo didn’t answer. He stormed upstairs, brushing Fettler aside like a cloud of gnats. Garnet’s door was standing open, so Philo marched straight through it. He found Garnet in bed, propped against a tower of pillows and scratching away in a journal that lay open on his knees.
Garnet looked up and stopped writing. He studied Philo over the tops of his spectacles. At last he said drily, ‘You’re late for our morning convocation.’
Breathless from his run and choking with anger, Philo couldn’t speak at first. But at last he managed to croak out, ‘You sold a bellarmine jug to Cockeye McAuliffe!’
Garnet didn’t even twitch. He kept staring at Philo, who added, ‘You talked to him – you must have! What did he tell you?’
Garnet closed his journal, marking the place with his quill pen. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Naught. But I’ve been to Rat’s Castle. I saw the jug. I saw both jugs.’ Philo’s mind was working furiously. ‘Did you tell him about spriggans? About faery strokes?’ When Garnet didn’t respond, Philo shouted, ‘Was this his lay, or yours?’
‘Do you think I would collude with a scabby clunch like Fergus McAuliffe?’ Garnet’s tone was one of lofty disdain. ‘He came here to make inquiries. I answered them.’
‘And sold him a witch-bottle!’
‘He asked for one, so I gave it to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he paid for it,’ Garnet replied coldly. ‘Where are the other boys?’
Philo ignored this question. He was shaking with fury, but managed to blurt out, ‘What else did he want? Advice about spriggans? What they look like? How to make one?’
Garnet heaved a sigh. He began to knead the bridge of his nose, as if Philo was giving him a headache by being so tiresome. That was when Philo lost his temper.
He picked up Garnet’s pint-pot and hurled it straight at its owner, who ducked just in time to avoid it.
‘Answer me!’ Philo yelled. ‘How much did you know?’
‘Know? Know? I knew naught, you stupid creature! How could I?’ Red flags were flying in Garnet’s cheeks, and his dark eyes flashed a warning. Anger had suddenly taken years off him. ‘McAuliffe had heard of faery strokes, and wanted to hear more. He asked me if a spriggan could be caught in a witch-bottle and released when the seal was broke. When I told him it could, he bought a jug from me—’
‘Then you must have known!’ Philo interrupted. ‘As soon as Joe Billings spoke o’ the spriggan, you must have realised!’ He squinted at Garnet, trying to comprehend how anyone could be so detached – so furtive – so lacking in common decency. ‘How could you know and not tell us?’ he spluttered. ‘How could you recommend a sprite-trap when you knew it wasn’t even going to work?’
‘Such things never work,’ Garnet said through his teeth. ‘I believe I’ve made myself quite clear on that point. I simply give the fools what they want.’
‘Gugg used Susannah Quail to bait his trap!’ Philo shouted. ‘He stole a consecrated knife to build it! Three people are at death’s door, the streets are a battleground, and you could have stoppe
d it! But you didn’t!’
‘Nonsense.’
Staring at Garnet, Philo felt as if his heart’s blood was being wrung out of him. For the first time, he was seeing the real Garnet – and what he saw made a mockery of all the days he had spent at the man’s feet, treasuring every word that fell from his barbed tongue. ‘You knew and you didn’t care,’ Philo murmured, stunned that he could have been so wrong about so many things. ‘You kept it to yourself.’
‘I had my suspicions, Theophilus,’ Garnet countered. ‘But suspicions are very far from certain knowledge.’
‘Then why did you tell Hulks that the foxglove would take a week to cure Civil Joe?’ Philo narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because you knew the poison wouldn’t kill him. Cockeye must have told you its properties – belike when you was discussing faery strokes, and he wanted to match the poison to a likely creature.’ As Garnet shook his head, Philo hissed, ‘All you care about is chink. There are thieves more honest than you – at least they admit to being thieves!’
‘Mind what you say, boy,’ Garnet ground out. Then his breath caught, and he began to cough. He coughed and coughed while Philo stood unmoved. At last the coughing eased, and Garnet croaked, ‘Benjamin!’
‘He’s downstairs,’ Philo said grimly. ‘He cannot help you.’
‘Fetch me the Spanish licorice.’
‘Fetch it yourself.’ Philo folded his arms. His face was white and his eyes were as pale as a wolf’s.
Garnet studied him for a moment, intently and with calculation, before wheezing, ‘Would you have me speak or no? For I cannot do it without my tincture.’
There was something in his gaze – a kind of ironic challenge – that infuriated Philo. On the other hand, Garnet was right. He couldn’t talk while he was coughing.
‘Tell me the truth, and I’ll fetch your draught for you,’ Philo said. When Garnet nodded, Philo retrieved the little vial of Spanish licorice from the windowsill. Garnet received it with a grunt, then swallowed a few mouthfuls and sank back onto his pillows. He looked old again, and very sick. His eyes were closed.
‘Did Cockeye ask you about spriggans?’ Philo demanded. ‘Did he ask you what they look like?’
Garnet nodded. ‘And what they smell like.’
‘What do they smell like?’
‘Foul. Sulphurous.’
Philo thought of the brimstone stench in the cellar of Rat’s Castle. Cockeye must have contrived it, somehow. ‘What else did he ask?’
‘Naught,’ said Garnet, then changed his mind with a cough. ‘Stay – he asked me if an apothecary might be tempted to toy with the black arts. I told him I couldn’t answer with any certainty. Whereupon he asked if a necromancer might preserve dead creatures in glass jars—’
‘Blood an’ ’ounds!’ Philo was hit by a sudden memory of Fleabite sitting on the floor just a few feet away, talking about a dead snake in a bottle. They had been discussing the robbery at Abraham Figtree’s shop. ‘Why, that must have been part o’ the same fetch!’ Philo exclaimed. ‘We know ’twas Scamper’s crew that robbed the apothecary on High Holborn last week, for Gugg was seen with the stolen Turkish pipe. Belike Cockeye claimed to have found the witch-bottle there – and opened it after, hoping to trick the rest of his crew . . .’ With a gasp he realised what else this meant. ‘And you must have known,’ he said flatly, glaring at Garnet. ‘The instant you heard about Fleabite’s dead snake, you must have recalled Cockeye’s question. Yet you said not a word.’
‘You flatter me, Theophilus.’ Though Garnet’s voice sounded like a squeaky hinge, it managed to convey a fair amount of scorn. ‘My powers of penetration are not so keen, I assure you.’
But Philo didn’t believe him. ‘You said not a word,’ he repeated, almost in wonder. Gazing down at the wizened body in the bed, he thought of the many times Garnet had poured contempt on the people he monitored: the footpads, the beggars, the drunkards, the gamblers, the housebreakers, the unfaithful husbands. ‘You always told me you made an honest living. And I believed you.’
‘It being the truth.’
Philo shook his head, overwhelmed by a terrible sense of desolation. ‘You let us all suffer while you sat back and watched,’ he said. ‘You may not be a thief or a coiner, but you’re a false, hard-hearted rogue. And I never knew it. I never knew . . .’
Garnet’s eyes fluttered open again. There was a menacing glow in their depths. Before he could speak, however, Fettler Ben entered the room.
On spying him, Garnet sat bolt upright – so abruptly that Philo jumped, and Fettler nearly dropped the empty chamber-pot in his hand. For a moment Philo thought that Garnet must be having a fit.
‘Where are the other boys?’ Garnet snapped. ‘Did you send them to Rat’s Castle?’
He was addressing Philo, who saw Fettler’s eyes widen. Rat’s Castle was a place they tried to avoid.
‘I had to,’ Philo insisted, more for Fettler’s benefit than for Garnet’s. ‘I had to save Susannah—’
‘From what?’ Garnet inquired.
‘From the depths of a privy! And from the spriggan too, though ’twas naught but a man – a man with a poisoned claw—’
‘And you left your friends in the company of this man?’ Garnet interrupted, his gaze boring into Philo. ‘At the mercy of his poisoned claw?’
‘Mr Paxton is with them—’
‘Ah! Mr Paxton. Of course. Somehow I deduced that Mr Paxton might be involved.’ Garnet’s voice dripped with venom. ‘’Twas Mr Paxton, I dare swear, who urged you to attempt this scheme?’
‘He did not,’ Philo retorted. ‘He tried to stop me.’
‘By joining you on your quest? How persuasive.’
Philo knew it was pointless arguing with Garnet about Mr Paxton. So he assured Fettler, ‘The others are safe enough. Val’s friends are there, and the rest o’ the mob won’t trouble ’em—’
‘The rest of the mob?’ Garnet broke in. ‘You raised a mob, Theophilus?’
Fettler looked alarmed. ‘What mob? Where? Not at Rat’s Castle?’ he exclaimed.
Philo suddenly felt as if he were under attack. And before he could answer, Garnet unleashed another broadside.
‘So you raised a mob to trap a dangerous man in a dangerous place, then left your crew guarding Susannah so you could . . . what? Take me to task for keeping my own counsel?’ Though Garnet’s voice was still weak, he spoke with a precise and concentrated malice. ‘It seems to me that you have abused our trust. It seems to me that your loyalties are divided.’
Looking at Fettler’s confused expression, Philo suddenly grasped what was going on. Garnet was trying to defend his own territory with every weapon he could muster. He didn’t want Philo converting Fettler Ben.
‘After all, this surgeon has put himself out to win you over, has he not?’ Garnet went on. ‘Feeding you – flattering you – rewarding you with unmerited payments. No wonder your allegiance has shifted. But we must ask ourselves – can a man serve two masters?’
At that very instant, the truth dawned on Philo. It hit him with such force that he took a step backwards.
He realised that Garnet was afraid of him.
‘Clearly Mr Paxton has some scheme in mind for you, Theophilus. The question is: what? Does he wish to make you his servant? His valet? His footman? I think not. Benjamin here would be better equipped. Nay . . .’ Garnet shook his head. ‘’Tis my belief that Mr Paxton wants to take charge of our business. From what he said this morning, it is quite clear that he has made a study of it, and is determined to wrest the reins from my hands by every means in his power – from calling me “repellent” to befriending the leader of my crew. No doubt his next gambit will be to offer you an education. But please recall that promises are like piecrust, and that you do not know this man. You do not know this man.’
Though Garnet was addressing Philo, he was really talking to Fettler. Philo understood that. He understood that he was witnessing the first manoeuvre in a long campaign to win the
hearts and minds of Philo’s friends.
It was a campaign that he had no desire to witness; the thought made him feel close to despair. So he took a deep breath, looked Garnet straight in the eye and said, ‘You’re not afraid o’ Mr Paxton, sir. You’re afraid o’ me.’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘If you think I would ever turn the others against you, Mr Hooke, then you don’t know me and never have. I’d not fight you, sir. I owe you too much. But you don’t trust me anymore – and I don’t trust you. ’Tis better we part.’
He stood waiting for a response, his eyes fixed on the worn, sickly, familiar face in front of him. But Garnet’s expression was blank. He seemed lost for words – speechless with shock, perhaps, or with something more complicated. It was Fettler who cried, ‘You’re not leaving us, Captain?’
Philo swallowed. ‘I must.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll collect my baggage and find new lodgings, then send you the particulars.’ Philo paused to glance at Garnet, who still didn’t speak – though his colour was deathly. His silence pained Philo, but it also came as a relief, since Philo didn’t have the energy to wrangle with Garnet. He felt suddenly exhausted, and desperately hungry. He needed to get away and think. He needed to make some decisions.
‘What’ll I tell the others?’ Fettler protested.
‘You’ll not have to tell ’em a thing,’ said Philo. ‘I’ll tell ’em myself, when I see ’em – for I shall see ’em. Fleabite has my tinderbox.’
The thought of Fleabite made Philo waver, for an instant; he knew that he had to leave before he changed his mind. So he turned and made for the stairs, half expecting Garnet to call him back. It didn’t happen, though. Garnet didn’t even fling a threat at his retreating figure.
All the same, Philo glanced over his shoulder when he reached the door. ‘Don’t think you can punish me for this,’ he warned, pinning his ice-blue gaze on Garnet. ‘You’ll not succeed if you try.’
Then he went upstairs to pack his belongings. He packed his comb and his clasp-knife, his Sunday shirt and his mother’s coral cross. He also retrieved the guinea he’d kept hidden behind the canvas pinned over the roof-joists.