They were open.
‘How many?’ he demanded. ‘Kit? How many?’
‘Two.’ Kit’s answer was a breathless squawk. Lippy was slowing. His bloody nose and staring eyes had already scattered the few passers-by who’d displayed any interest. Even Susannah was backing away.
Philo pointed at the church. ‘In there!’ he barked.
Fleabite blinked. ‘But—’
‘You too! Now!’ Philo pushed Fleabite through the gate, but grabbed Lippy as he pounded past. ‘Wait. Give me your coat.’
‘Wha—?’
‘Take mine! Quickly!’ Philo swapped hats as Lippy shrugged off his coat. Kit had already vanished into the church. No sooner had Philo shed his own coat than Lippy snatched it away and dived past him.
Philo just had time to pull on Lippy’s blood-spattered garment when two familiar figures burst into view. They paused for an instant before spotting Philo.
‘There!’ one of them shouted. ‘There’s the sneaking cur!’
Philo turned and bolted.
CHAPTER 6
AN ACCOUNT OF
PHILO’S BID TO ESCAPE TWO RUFFIANS LONG KNOWN TO HIM
The lamplighters working around Soho Square didn’t think much of Philo’s crew. They accused all linkboys of being dishonest, claiming that the streets would be safer once every building in London was ablaze with oil-lamps. According to the lamplighters, linkboys were a dying breed who weren’t dying fast enough.
The linkboys called the lamplighters lollpoops, though not to their faces.
Philo had never let the lamplighters trouble him, until they’d started spitting on his company from the tops of their ladders. Even then, he’d told his friends to ignore the taunts of numbskulls like Bluff Bob Crow and Josiah Billings. Bluff Bob was a leering, pockmarked jackass of nineteen, with no parents, no sweetheart, no education and no permanent address. Was it any wonder that he found his only pleasure in tormenting those who were smaller and smarter? Joe was even worse. He was twice Bob’s age, with a sly manner and a permanent sneer. Philo knew for a fact that he beat his wife, so when Joe had started spilling oil on any linkboys who passed beneath his ladder, Philo hadn’t been surprised. And he’d managed to persuade the other boys that they shouldn’t retaliate, since it would only make things worse.
But then the lamplighters had started smearing manure onto snuffers and linkstones, and Fleabite had lost his temper.
Linkstones were still common in the city, especially near theatres and taverns, where linkboys had been rubbing charred bits of linen from their torches for several hundred years. The cone-shaped snuffers were even more common, since without them it was hard to extinguish a flaming link. Fleabite hadn’t been the first linkboy in St Giles to shove his torch into a snuffer that was coated with manure. But he had been the first to take revenge. Hoisted up on Lippy’s shoulders, he’d filled dozens of street-lamps with water, dampening their wicks and adding greatly to the workloads of people like Joe Billings and Bluff Bob.
The lamplighters had reacted violently. They’d gone straight out and dusted ten snuffers with black powder. Luckily, a heavy rain had soon washed the powder off – though not before Dandy’s right arm had been singed in a small explosion. And when an outraged Kit had slapped goose-grease on some of the lamps around Soho Square, Philo had decided that enough was enough.
‘This has to stop,’ he’d told his crew. ‘You could kill someone, greasing cross-bars like that, and then you’d hang for it. I’ll not have you dangle for the likes o’ Joe Billings.’ In response to the loud protests of his company, he’d added, ‘Leave those culls to me. I doubt there’s an honest lamplighter in London – they’re all of ’em filching or fleecing. If I can get the worst of ’em shopped for it, they’ll not trouble us again.’
But Philo had yet to devise a plan for gaoling Josiah Billings. And now the lamplighter was heading straight for him, with Bluff Bob trailing behind.
Philo had to think fast.
Darting back into Lloyd’s Court, he tried to lose his pursuers in the maze of alleys between the church and Seven Dials. It didn’t work, though; the lamplighters kept pace with him. He couldn’t seem to shake them off. By the time he’d reached Browns Gardens, Philo thought that he must have lost Bluff Bob, who wasn’t pounding along behind Joe anymore. But then it occurred to Philo that the two men might have split up deliberately. What if they’d decided to form a pincer movement?
The idea had barely crossed his mind before he burst into Monmouth Street and came face to face with Bluff Bob. Quick as lightning, Philo dropped and rolled when Bob lunged for him. Then Josiah Billings caught up. But Josiah was running so hard that he couldn’t slow down in time; he collided with the other lamplighter, giving Philo a head start. While the two men disentangled themselves, Philo charged across the road, knowing that he had only a few seconds’ advantage.
He almost lost this advantage in another alley so narrow that one stray pig was enough to block it. When Philo saw the pig ahead of him, he took a running jump and barely cleared its back. The pig’s startled squeal followed him into Little Earl Street, where he glimpsed the familiar face of a passing churchwarden. The churchwarden gaped at him, but Philo couldn’t afford to stop and explain. The lamplighters were gaining on him too quickly.
Philo wondered if they’d trampled the pig in their eagerness.
By this time he was pouring sweat and gasping for air. But his pursuers were no better off – and in any case, he had a plan. Instead of diving into another dingy side-passage, he put on an extra burst of speed. His next left turn was so abrupt that he skidded in a puddle of sludge, and nearly fell. He only managed to right himself because someone grabbed his arm.
‘Thank you!’ he said with a gasp, then shook himself free, knowing that he had to reach his destination before Joe Billings turned the corner behind him. There were all kinds of obstacles in his way – carts and potholes and strolling gentlemen. But Philo didn’t let them slow him down. Though he had to duck under the belly of a standing horse, he covered the last five yards with seconds to spare, hurling himself into the Golden Key tavern just in time.
The Golden Key was no gentlemen’s haunt. Its taproom was dark and crowded and full of smoke. It smelled of beer and sweat, and the floor was sticky. Philo paused for a moment to scan the place, busily flipping through a mental checklist. Then he threw himself at the bar and wriggled through a press of customers.
‘Mr Woodman? Mr Woodman!’ he cried.
Bill Woodman was the landlord. Philo knew a lot about him – and about his establishment. Mr Woodman bought his beer from the Woodyard brew-house. He was a widower, with a son in the navy and a daughter married to a cordwainer. He didn’t like Irishmen, he was feuding with his next-door neighbour, and he adored his two-year-old grandson (who was quite ill at present, according to Susannah). Mr Woodman looked like a bulldog, all shoulders and jowls. His wig was the colour of tobacco stains.
He was standing behind the bar, and swung around to glare at Philo.
‘Who’s that?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘’Tis Walter, sir! Your grandson!’ Philo exclaimed. ‘Your daughter sent me—’
‘Why? What’s amiss?’ All the colour drained from the landlord’s face. ‘Tell me, damn you!’
‘He’s mortal sick. Your daughter wants you there—’
‘Jack! Custom!’ yelled the landlord. For such a heavy man, he moved with astonishing speed. Before he had even finished calling for his pot-boy, he’d torn off his apron and was halfway across the taproom floor.
But Philo waited. Even though he could see the pot-boy coming, he waited until Mr Woodman was actually outside before slipping behind the bar and heading for the hatch in the floor. This hatch was heavy, but not too heavy for Philo to lift. He flung it back and scurried down eight wooden steps into the cellar, which smelled so strongly of spirits that he had to hold his breath.
There was a lamp in the cellar. Philo saw it at once, thanks
to the light pouring in from upstairs. Although the lamp wasn’t lit, this didn’t matter; Philo always carried his tinderbox, with a flint and charred linen inside. So he snatched up the lamp and hurried past a great stack of casks, heading for the tunnel that simply had to be there.
And sure enough, it was.
Philo kept a tally of every tavern supplied by the Woodyard brew-house. There were at least twenty of them, all joined to their supplier by a network of underground passages. The beer was rolled through these passages in perfect safety, away from the crime and chaos above ground. But although Philo had heard about the network, he didn’t know its exact layout. He had to hope that he could find another exit before someone found him. Now that he was trespassing, it wasn’t just the lamplighters he had to dodge. It was Mr Woodman’s staff as well.
Philo kept his ears pricked as he fumbled to light the lamp. Since no one seemed to be following him, he could only assume that he’d managed to slip downstairs unseen. Perhaps the whole taproom had been watching Mr Woodman’s exit. But any second now, Mr Woodman’s pot-boy would spy the open hatch, and wonder what it meant. He might even send someone after Philo, though it probably wouldn’t be a patron. Why let loose a drunkard in your master’s cellar? And the pot-boy couldn’t chase Philo himself, because it would mean leaving the bar unattended . . .
Philo halted for a moment at the brick-lined mouth of the tunnel, which was low, black and slimy. Then he took a deep breath and plunged in. Though he didn’t mind the dark, he hated underground spaces. He always felt suffocated in cellars and crypts. So he moved along as quickly as possible, telling himself that the rats down here were no worse than the rats above ground.
Suddenly he heard a far-off rumble, and he realised that someone, somewhere, was rolling a barrel down a passage.
Quickening his pace, he waved his lamp from side to side, looking for an escape route. The air smelled of beer and mildew. The floor was sticky with mud. At last he came to a T-junction. But as he stopped to peer down the tunnel to his left, a voice came echoing out of the tunnel to his right.
‘Who are you?’
Philo gave a start and spun around. A man had emerged from the darkness, carrying a lamp that was almost identical to Philo’s. In the glow of this lamp Philo could make out a pale, stocky figure in a leather apron and shirtsleeves. Though Philo racked his brain, he couldn’t put a name to the man’s face; it was the smell of sour mash that told Philo he must be looking at a brew-house worker.
Fearing that he was going to be challenged, Philo blurted out the first lie that sprang into his head. ‘Have you seen a little dog?’
The man frowned. ‘What?’
‘A dog came down here. A spaniel called Muff. It belongs to the Earl of Walegraves.’ As the man’s jaw dropped, Philo added, ‘There’s a half-guinea reward.’
‘I’ve seen no dog.’
‘It escaped from the Golden Key.’ Philo jiggled his lamp, hoping that it would be recognised. Then he pointed down the nearest tunnel. ‘I’ll check this one. Where does it lead?’
‘To the Black Moor’s Head, but—’
‘Muff! Come, boy! Here, Muff!’ Philo gave a piercing whistle, then dodged all further questions by hurrying off towards the Black Moor’s Head. He began to run as soon as he’d turned the next corner. It wasn’t easy, because of the darkness and the muck underfoot, but he managed to reach the cellar of the Black Moor’s Head without doing himself any serious damage. One minute he was careening down a damp, smelly tube, the next he was standing in a wider, brighter space full of sacks and barrels.
Peering around, he saw a rough wooden staircase leading up to a closed hatch. There was also a very small, high, barred window. Philo took one look at this window and knew that he would never get through it. So he took a deep breath, blew out his lamp, and concealed himself behind a stack of casks, right near the bottom of the staircase.
Then he began to bark like a spaniel.
It was a risky plan; he knew that well enough. He was afraid that the brew-house worker might hear his noisy barking before the people upstairs did. Though he’d made sure that he couldn’t be seen from the window – or from the hatch – he would certainly be visible to anyone appearing at the mouth of the tunnel. And what about the lamp? Would that be returned to its rightful owner? He wasn’t a thief. He didn’t want to be gaoled for stealing a three-shilling oil-lamp.
Suddenly the hatch above him creaked open. He fell silent as a voice said, ‘Can you hear it?’
Another voice said, ‘No.’
‘I swear, I heard a dog.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘I’m not.’
Philo gave another yip.
‘There! I told you!’ the first voice exclaimed.
‘Hang it!’ growled the second voice – and the light was suddenly blocked. Philo heard stairs creaking and the sound of heavy breathing. He saw a shadow move across the freestone floor. But he waited until the intruder’s footsteps had crossed to the other side of the cellar before he jumped to his feet and ran upstairs, leaving the lantern behind him.
‘Hollo!’ someone squawked. For a moment Philo was blinded by the light at the top of the staircase. He didn’t stop, though; he didn’t have to. He knew the layout of the Black Moor’s Head.
‘The dog!’ he cried, batting aside a couple of hands. ‘Did you see it? Where did it go?’ Before anyone could reply, he added, ‘It came up here! I saw it!’ Then he staggered out from behind the bar, casting around frantically as if he’d dropped a diamond on the floor. ‘’Tis the Earl of Walegraves’s dog! There’s a half-guinea reward! It came up here, I tell you!’
All around the taproom, customers pricked up their ears at the sound of ‘half-guinea’. ‘I did hear a dog,’ one of them said. Another began to whistle, as a third suggested, ‘Look under the tables! It might be there!’
In the flurry of movement that followed, Philo was able to dodge the spluttering landlord, weave his way between a couple of booths, and rush out the door, pointing and shouting. ‘I see it! Here, Muff! Good dog!’ But there was no dog in Castle Street – just a scattering of surprised faces, which turned towards Philo as he darted across the road and threw himself into the dark little passage known as Earls Court.
From there it was just a hop and a skip to Cucumber Alley. Philo made it in about a minute and a half, even though he had a stitch in his side.
By the time he stumbled up the stairs to Garnet’s lodgings, he was ready to kill someone.
CHAPTER 7
CONTAINING A
DIALOGUE ABOUT THE HARM DONE BY SUPERSTITIOUS BELIEFS
The clear day had turned into a clear night, bitterly cold. Standing outside the St Giles workhouse, his coat buttoned up to the neck and his hands tucked into worsted mittens, Philo reviewed the day’s events, trying to decide what he should do now.
He regretted losing his temper that afternoon. On arriving home after his dash through the Woodyard tunnels, he had stormed upstairs to the garret room that he shared with his company. There he had found Kit staunching Lippy’s bloody nose with an equally bloody rag – and the sight of their relieved expressions had filled him with rage. He had let fly at both of them, using some of Garnet’s choicest insults. How could they have been so stupid? What had they done to aggravate the lamplighters, after he’d specifically warned them to back off? ‘We can none of us ply our trade in Soho now! Not if we want to keep our heads on our shoulders!’ he’d stormed. ‘You jingle-brained nincompoops!’
Kit had borne the blame without flinching, but Lippy had begun to protest. Bluff Bob had seen Lippy in the pillory crowd and thrown an egg at him, then turned away just as someone’s brickbat had come sailing through the air, straight at his head. Bob had blamed Lippy for the brickbat and had hit him in the face. Then Kit had rescued Lippy with a kick to Bob’s shins.
‘We did naught but run!’ Lippy had insisted, over and over again, his voice thickening as his nose swelled up. At last Philo had calmed d
own. But the problem remained.
How were they to deal with the lamplighters?
Philo picked slowly through the store of intelligence in his head. Bluff Bob and Josiah Billings worked for a man who hired out oil-lamps from a shop near the church of St Giles. Bluff Bob currently lived at the Fountain alehouse. Josiah Billings lived in Orange Court, off Drury Lane, close to the Fox alehouse.
How was this useful to know? How could it help?
Philo heaved a sigh, his breath hitting the frosty air in a white cloud. He was at his wits’ end, and his feet were freezing. What’s more, Mr Paxton was late. Philo had started to wonder if he should knock at the workhouse door when it suddenly swung open, and Mr Paxton himself appeared.
‘Ah! There you are.’ The surgeon’s smile was a little frayed around the edges. He looked tired and dishevelled, and there was blood on his neckcloth. There may have been some on his coat too, but it was such a dark shade of grey that no stains were visible. He carried a leather bag in one hand and a cocked hat in the other. ‘Come,’ he said, pulling on the hat. ‘A trifle brisk, is it not? I need a tot of rum.’
‘Rum, your honour?’ Philo was startled; for some reason, he hadn’t associated Mr Paxton with hard liquor. By this time the surgeon was striding down Vinegar Yard, so Philo scampered after him, swerving to avoid a dead cat on the road.
‘Aye, rum should answer well enough.’ The surgeon’s voice was flatter than usual. Before Philo could suggest a likely place to buy spirits, Mr Paxton asked, ‘Have you parents, Master Grey?’
Philo blinked. ‘I have not, your honour.’
‘My commiserations. When did you lose them?’
‘Uh . . .’ Philo hesitated, wondering how much he ought to reveal. At last he said reluctantly, ‘I lost my mother six years ago. She died o’ consumption.’
Mr Paxton gave a grunt. ‘And how did you fare thereafter?’ he inquired.
‘Well enough, sir.’ Philo had been lucky. With her dying breath his mother had entrusted him to Garnet Hooke, their neighbour, whose laundry she’d washed before her health failed. At the time, Garnet was already falling ill; having been discharged by his employer, he had decided to build up a profitable network of agents – and had chosen Philo as his very first one.