‘Aye,’ said Dandy, and Philo gave a snort. Rat’s Castle was a notorious, run-down inn on Dyott Street, crawling with thieves and cut-throats who sublet their rooms to other thieves and cut-throats. Jemmy Jukes and Scamper Knaggs both lived there, as did a great number of dog-skinners, shoplifters, silk-snatchers and freebooters. So anyone trying to dodge a rent payment was in peril of losing their lives. ‘If she’s burning the ken, no wonder she’s doing it in the dark,’ he murmured. ‘We must find out where she goes.’
‘Kit will know more,’ said Dandy, eliciting a grunt from Philo. Kit Maltman was well acquainted with Dyott Street, because those of his old cronies who hadn’t been hanged or transported could still be found in the neighbourhood. It was an area that Philo didn’t know as well as he should have. Few of its inhabitants ever had the money – or the inclination – to hire a linkboy. They did most of their work in the dark.
‘Have you seen aught o’ the lamplighters?’ Philo asked Dandy, who shook his head. ‘Well . . . stay watchful. Where are you heading, Dandy?’
‘To Lewknor’s Lane.’ Dandy cocked his thumb, which was poking out of a fingerless glove. ‘I just left a band o’ drunk porters at an alehouse in Coal Yard. They had me take ’em to three boozing-kens, one after the other, but they’re settled in now.’
‘How much did they pay you?’
‘A deuce.’ Smiling, Dandy tossed a twopenny bit in the air. Philo caught it with a lightning-fast reflex, then flipped it back into Dandy’s open palm
‘Off you whip, then,’ said Philo. ‘And if Lewknor’s Lane don’t yield naught, try Great Queen Street.’
‘Aye aye, Captain,’ Dandy replied, then gasped and ducked away. It took Philo a split second to realise that someone had emerged from the shop behind him.
Turning, he saw Mr Paxton standing there.
‘Who was that?’ asked the surgeon, his eyes on Dandy’s retreating figure.
‘A friend,’ Philo mumbled.
‘I’d no notion you had a company at your command, Captain Grey.’ When Philo flushed, Mr Paxton continued, ‘Here I thought you a common linkboy, when you’ve a company of footsoldiers under you! It behoves me to treat you with more respect.’
‘Nay, sir – ’tis naught but foolery—’
‘Lead the way then, Captain. Home again, an’ it please you. And let us hope no one awaits me there, with yet another tale of woe.’
They struck out for Parker’s Lane, both of them wrapped in thought. Philo was cursing himself for being so careless. At this rate, Mr Paxton would soon know more about him than he knew about Mr Paxton. Garnet was right. The surgeon was far too interested in Philo. Why should a gentleman concern himself with a common linkboy? It couldn’t be from pure kindness. There had to be some hidden motive.
‘That watchmaker is suffering from the same complaint as Jemmy Jukes,’ Mr Paxton suddenly observed. ‘Their symptoms are identical.’
Surprised, Philo glanced over at his companion, who was staring at the ground.
‘It cannot be a coincidence,’ Mr Paxton went on. ‘Shallow breathing, flaccid muscles, skipping pulse, no fever, no contusions, no palsy . . .’ He shook his head. ‘The only difference lies in the fact that Mr Bambridge wasn’t plastered with filth. I was able to see a smear of blood at his throat – the merest pinprick, I assure you. But he broke his spectacles when he fell, so whether a fragment of glass scratched him, or whether the wound came from some form of sharp instrument, used to introduce poison into his body—’
‘Poison?’ Philo interrupted. He stopped short. ‘You think he was poisoned?’
‘Not with any poison I know.’ Mr Paxton kept moving as he talked, his eyes still on the ground. ‘Whether ’tis poison or a distemper, there has to be a connection between these two men. Where did you say Jukes hailed from?’
‘Dyott Street,’ Philo said, hurrying to catch up again.
‘Dyott Street? Then they’re hardly neighbours.’ Suddenly Mr Paxton halted, so abruptly that Philo almost ran into him. The surgeon spun around. ‘Do you know?’ he said sharply.
‘Your honour?’
‘You must know. You know everything about everyone.’ Placing a hand on Philo’s shoulder, Mr Paxton stooped to peer into his eyes. ‘What connects Jemmy Jukes and Mr Bambridge?’
Philo gaped. ‘Your honour—’
‘Are they acquainted? Tell me.’ The surgeon’s grip tightened. ‘If this is poison, there is a murderer at large. And if this is plague, the city is in peril. The whole city, Theophilus!’
Philo was confused. He didn’t know how to respond. Intelligence was valuable, and shouldn’t be given away like alms for the poor – but how much harm would it do, if he dropped a few hints?
‘I’m in peril, damn you!’ the surgeon cried. ‘I’ve touched both men!’
‘Sir – your honour . . .’ Philo took a deep breath, trying to choose his words with care. ‘Jemmy’s a prig, sir. A thief. I told you.’
‘Ah! Of course.’ Mr Paxton jerked upright. ‘You think he might have robbed the watchmaker?’
‘Nay.’ Philo spoke bluntly. ‘I would have heard. But Mr Bambridge . . .’
‘What of him?’
‘I cannot be sure—’
‘Aye?’ Mr Paxton was beginning to sound impatient. ‘Tell me!’
‘Mr Bambridge might be a fence, sir. A receiver o’ stolen goods.’
Mr Paxton’s eyes widened until they were almost popping out of his skull. ‘The deuce!’ he exclaimed. ‘You think so? Why?’
Once again, Philo hesitated. He didn’t want to answer. But this time he didn’t have to, because the surgeon suddenly released him, flapping a hand to dismiss the question before surging forward.
Philo followed him.
‘A fence! Why not?’ Mr Paxton muttered. ‘’Twould fit – aye, for plague or poison. Indeed. Indeed. What if the other fellow came to him with stolen plate?’ He seemed to be thinking aloud, his brow furrowed and his free hand clamped to his chin. ‘I must pursue this matter. I must consult my friends and my books. And you, Master Grey – will you pass me news of any other cases you might stumble upon?’
Philo took a deep breath. He could almost hear Garnet speaking inside his head: Ask him how much he’d be willing to pay. But Philo knew what would happen if he mentioned money. He would look like a common street-hustler – like the parasites who demanded payment for pulling off gentlemen’s boots in coaching inns. And Philo didn’t want to lose Mr Paxton’s respect.
So he glanced away as they turned into Newton Street. And at that very instant, he spied a familiar figure melting into the shadows across the road.
‘You’d be rewarded for your efforts,’ Mr Paxton went on briskly. ‘But I’d have to insist that you spend your reward on good victuals. Fried fish. Ox cheek. You’re too thin for your height. You need fattening up for the winter, or you’ll perish. Heed me on this, for I am counselling you as a medical man. And I’ll not charge you for the advice.’ All at once his tone shifted. ‘What’s amiss? What do you see?’
Philo dragged his gaze away from the mouth of Star Court and hoarsely replied, ‘N-naught, sir. A passing fancy.’
But he was lying. Because he had spied Bluff Bob Crow, the lamplighter, passing in front of a gleaming window with a ladder on his back.
CHAPTER 9
A DISCOURSE
BETWEEN PHILO AND HIS CREW CONCERNING THE ODD BEHAVIOUR OF CERTAIN ROGUES
‘He saw me, but he didn’t recognise me,’ said Philo. ‘I’m sure of it. He saw a linkboy with a gentleman and he slunk away. I’d lay odds he was out upon the mill.’
Philo was sitting on his bed, which he shared with Dandy and Fleabite. Though it was close to noon, he had only just risen; his hair was in a tangle and his feet were bare. All around him, members of his company were scattered like nutshells. Lippy was propped against the windowsill, his nose still blotched and swollen. Val was rolling up his palliasse. Fleabite was draped across the second bed, his skinny arms wrapped a
round a bolster. Dandy was perched beside Fleabite, trimming his toenails with a clasp-knife that belonged to Kit. And Kit had planted himself on the sea-chest, which was the only other piece of furniture that could be squeezed into their cramped lodgings.
It was a damp and dingy space, tucked under the eaves like a swallow’s nest. The canvas that had been nailed across the roof-beams as a makeshift ceiling was spotted with black mildew. The windowpanes were cracked. The door was warped. The floorboards were unsealed. But the rent was only one shilling and threepence a week, and the bugs would have been far worse in a cellar.
‘Could Bluff Bob have been engaged in a living-room jump?’ asked Kit. He was referring to a common trick employed by burglars, who would pretend to be lighting oil-lamps when they were actually using their ladders to rob upstairs rooms.
‘Belike he was hiring out his ladder for a living-room jump,’ said Philo. ‘Else why be there, at that hour, so far from his beat?’
There was a murmur of agreement from everyone except Valentine. Kit said, ‘He was turning into Star Court?’
‘Aye. So if there’s a notice in The Public Advertiser tomorrow, about a ken stripped around Newton Street, we’ll have something to sell.’
‘But unless Bluff Bob took a share o’ the plunder, there’ll be naught to roast him with,’ Val pointed out. Then he added, reluctantly, ‘Though someone might peach on him, of course.’
At that instant, Philo decided to visit the Fountain alehouse, to see what Bluff Bob might have stowed under his bed. But he didn’t reveal his plans to the others. He was sure that they wouldn’t approve.
Walking into the Fountain would be like walking into a lion’s den.
‘There’s something else I need to know,’ he said. ‘If you hear of anyone fallen into a stupor, like Jemmy Jukes, tell me.’
‘Why?’ asked Fleabite. He was a great one for asking why. Most of his friends had got out of the habit, since Garnet didn’t encourage it.
‘Jemmy’s not the only one struck down – there’s been another,’ Philo explained. ‘We might have the makings of a plague, or so Mr Paxton says.’
‘A plague?’ Fleabite echoed. Around the room, heads jerked up and hands stopped moving. Dandy dropped the clasp-knife.
‘Plague or poison,’ said Philo. ‘Mr Paxton don’t know which, yet.’
‘Who’s the other case?’ Val queried.
‘Bambridge. Watchmaker.’
‘Oh, aye.’ Kit nodded. ‘Goldsmith’s Alley. Drinks at the White Hart.’
‘I think he’s a fence,’ Philo declared, then explained why. His crew listened intently, before agreeing that the signs were all there. No honest watchmaker would have allowed Hellcat Nan Dooley to stay in his house for three minutes, let alone three weeks. And a watchmaker would be well placed to melt down any gold or silver plate that fell into his hands . . .
‘If Bambridge is fencing for Beans O’Neill, he’ll be doing it for the rest o’ the Hellfire Gang,’ Kit observed.
‘Aye, and who’s to say he isn’t fencing for housebreakers like Scamper as well?’ Philo caught his breath suddenly. Turning to Kit, he asked, ‘How well does Jemmy Jukes know Brimstone Moll?’
‘Brimstone Moll?’ Kit frowned. He had always been Philo’s main source of intelligence about people like Moll Wapshot (who mixed with the kind of housebreakers responsible for raising Kit). Though Philo had seen her flouncing around in her taffeta cape and silk-trimmed hat, he had never once observed her shoplifting – which was her speciality, according to Kit. She would also pretend to faint in crowds, while her light-fingered friends picked the pockets of those who rushed to help her. And she liked to steal wet linen, too.
But it was her ability to charm children that had earned her the devilish nickname ‘Brimstone’. In the eyes of those who knew her habits, she deserved to go to hell for tricking parcels off young apprentices, or luring toddlers into alleys to rob them of their clothes. There was even talk that she’d played a part in abducting children for slavery on tropical plantations.
She always got away with her crimes because little children made such poor witnesses.
‘I know Moll never used to run with Scamper’s crew,’ Philo went on, when Kit didn’t answer. ‘But if Jemmy’s been lodging in Rat’s Castle, and Scamper with him, they must have passed her on the stairs, sometimes. Would she have taken up with any of ’em? For she’s left Rat’s Castle, and I’m wondering if her leaving had aught to do with Jemmy’s fate.’
Kit narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you say Brimstone Moll has left Rat’s Castle?’ he exclaimed.
‘Aye.’ Dandy nodded. ‘Last night I saw her wheeling a bundled barrow on Broad Street.’
‘Well, last night I saw Stoat Grocott at the top o’ Hog Lane, burdened with cloak-bags,’ Kit announced. As Philo racked his brain, trying to recall what he knew about Stoat Grocott, Kit continued, ‘Stoat’s been lodging in Rat’s Castle, Captain. And now he’s hopped the twig. What’s going on up there to drive ’em all out?’
Philo and Kit stared at each other. In the sudden silence, even Lippy looked thoughtful. Then Fleabite observed, ‘Brimstone Moll came here last night.’
Every head in the room snapped around.
‘What?’ said Philo.
‘I saw her,’ Fleabite explained carelessly. ‘Going out as I was a-coming in.’
‘When?’ asked Kit.
Fleabite shrugged. ‘Early. I was first home. Lippy arrived next.’ Rolling onto his back, he added, ‘Mr Hooke was still awake. I saw his light burning.’
Philo frowned, pondering this curious coincidence. Then something else occurred to him. ‘I saw the strangest creature in Goldsmith’s Alley last night,’ he observed. ‘’Twas like a bear, but human. At least, I think it was human . . .’ It crossed his mind that he might have spotted the very ‘lurking shadow’ against which Cockeye McAuliffe had warned him – but then he dismissed the idea. Cockeye was hardly a reliable source.
Suddenly the door swung open and Fettler Ben stepped into the room. He wore a loose shirt covered in stains and scorch marks. His hair looked greasy. There were dark circles under his eyes.
‘Grub,’ he said, thrusting a wooden bowl at Philo. The bowl was piled high with chunks of bread. ‘Mr Hooke says you can come in now.’
As the rest of his crew jumped on the bread like starving puppies, Philo raised his voice to address Fettler. ‘Bad night?’
‘Long,’ Fettler replied. ‘I had to give him laudanum for the cough.’
‘And there was some late business, too, I hear,’ said Philo, his gaze locked on Fettler’s. The two of them remained perfectly still for a moment, while the others jostled and argued and stuffed their mouths with bread and dripping.
‘You’d better ask Mr Hooke about that,’ Fettler said at last. He sounded cagey, and Philo knew why. Though Garnet Hooke often received visitors, he didn’t talk about all of them. Those who came during the day usually wanted him to write letters or petitions, for which he was paid a tidy fee; he often mentioned these visitors when asked how he earned a living. But the ones who came at night mostly wanted other things – charms, spells and recipes – for which Garnet asked no payment at all, unless (as he put it) he had to ‘supply any item or ingredient for which it seems proper to be recompensed’.
For Garnet was a professional cunning man, frequently consulted about missing property, curses, ailments and affairs of the heart. Not that he actually claimed to have magical powers. According to Garnet, he simply passed on whatever information he could extract from a well-stocked library of sorcerers’ texts. ‘If I pretended otherwise, I could be prosecuted for defrauding people by the false exercise of skill in witchcraft,’ he would say, with a sly look. ‘A man cannot be gaoled for giving advice to a friend.’
Philo, however, knew there was more to it than that. Garnet’s reputation was partly founded on his uncanny ability to uncover the names of secret lovers, unknown thieves or anonymous vandals. As Garnet himself had once said, wit
h a twinkle in his eye, ‘Every soothsayer should have an army of spies at his command.’ He was clever enough to wear several hats, all of which fitted neatly into one another. By writing letters and petitions, he was kept well informed about people’s affairs. By running a band of linkboys, he collected further intelligence. And he used all this information in his role as diviner, which gave him access to even more information.
He rarely discussed this kind of business with Philo, who had always shied away from such things – much as he shied away from the books on Garnet’s shelves. Like Garnet, these musty volumes were impenetrable and mysterious, full of ancient knowledge that frightened Philo. Even Susannah unnerved him sometimes, when she talked about the cunning arts. Her mother had been a noted faery doctor, consulted by many of the country folk marooned in London, so Susannah and her sisters were well versed in subjects that Philo preferred not to think about.
After the death of Susannah’s mother, some of her customers had turned to Garnet for help.
‘Are you not hungry, Captain?’ Fleabite asked, reaching for the last piece of bread in the bowl. Philo slapped Fleabite’s hand away, then picked up the bread and shoved it into his own mouth as Fettler Ben turned to go.
‘Hold up!’ said Val, giving the chamber-pot on the floor a nudge with his foot. ‘You’d best take this with you.’
‘Not I,’ Fettler retorted. ‘I emptied it yesterday. The duty is Fleabite’s.’
‘That it is not!’ Fleabite yelped, spraying crumbs everywhere. ‘’Tis Lippy’s!’
Lippy squawked in protest. ‘Sunday is my day! Every Sunday I toss the pot!’
‘Which should not be your burden,’ Val drawled, ‘when there’s one here who scarce brings a penny into the house.’
Philo’s mouth was so full of bread that he couldn’t speak. He chewed frantically, desperate to head off what he saw was coming. For weeks now, Val and Fettler Ben had been bickering about Fettler’s contribution to the common purse. Though it wasn’t a sore point for anyone else, Val kept harping on it, claiming that a person who earned his keep by making beds and sweeping floors should not baulk at any domestic task, however humble, that would otherwise be done by those engaged in more ‘profitable’ work.