‘Here they come,’ Philo told Susannah.
Pedestrians scattered before the advancing parade, hooting and yelling. The first carriage was a four-wheeled chariot drawn by two bay horses, with a footman and a velvet-draped coachbox. Philo could see the sweat on the horses’ flanks as they passed. He could also see two men perched stiffly inside the chariot wearing fur-trimmed scarlet robes.
‘Sheriffs of London,’ remarked one of the St Giles churchwardens, who had joined Philo at the fence.
The next carriage was moving more slowly, thanks to the press of bodies that surrounded it. There was a coat-of-arms emblazoned on its doors, and the coachman’s livery was bright with gold braid. Philo saw an arm emerge from the coach and salute the crowd. He heard the crowd roar its approval. And he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the man who was waving – because he knew it had to be Alexander Murray.
‘Lord Carpenter’s coach,’ said the churchwarden, who was obviously trying to impress the young lady beside him. ‘Lord Carpenter is the stout gentleman in green with the handkerchief pressed to his nose.’
Philo was more interested in Alexander Murray. As the coach passed, he scanned the four men who occupied it. One of them was George Vandeput, whose face he recognised from the hustings at the last by-election. Mr Vandeput had a long jaw, a crumpled mouth and sandy eyelashes. His white wig was so stiff that the three ‘pipes’ sitting over each ear looked like miniature cannon, stacked one on top of the other.
Beside him was a man of perhaps forty, with a large nose and big brown eyes. Philo took particular note of this man, whose sallow complexion hinted at long days spent shut up indoors. He had thick, dark, wavy hair, and he flashed a generous grin as he rattled past the church, waving and nodding. ‘Murray and liberty! Murray and liberty!’ the crowd bellowed, waving back.
‘That must be Mr Murray,’ said the churchwarden. ‘He’s older than I thought him.’
Philo didn’t have time to study the other two men in the coach before it had swept past. A third coach followed close behind, drawn by two magnificent grey mares. Framed in its window was a familiar face; Philo recognised Samuel Johns, the lawyer. Beside him sat a majestic-looking gentleman in lavender silk and a huge, heavily powdered white wig.
‘That must be the Earl of Westmoreland,’ muttered the churchwarden, in a reverent tone. ‘What a compliment to Mr Murray!’
The crowd closed in behind this carriage, which was the last in line. Philo began to retreat, yielding his place at the fence. He felt suddenly overwhelmed by such a parade of nobility. Lord Carpenter! The Earl of Westmoreland! Lord Elibank’s brother! How could Philo ever hope to find out what these lofty creatures were doing, saying or thinking? They were as far above him as the moon. He’d never so much as handed a nobleman into a carriage, let alone spoken to one, because true aristocrats rarely needed the services of a linkboy. Instead they used coaches, or their own footman, or occasionally (if they were hard up) sedan chairs. Yet Mr Bishop wanted him to report on the movements of people who might as well have been the King of England.
Philo could only hope that Mr Bishop was right – that Caroline Cowley might be able to help him.
‘Philo?’ Susannah tugged at his sleeve. ‘Philo!’
She was limping along at his side, her face upturned and her brow furrowed. He realised suddenly that he was back near the church, heading for the Resurrection Gate.
‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘Hello.’
‘What’s wrong?’ she demanded. ‘You look worried.’
‘I’m not. Not overmuch.’
‘Philo,’ she said reproachfully, as if his lack of trust had wounded her. Then her expression brightened. ‘I’ll get you some valerian,’ she proposed. ‘And some lavender to sleep on.’
‘Don’t fret about me.’ As far as Philo was concerned, Susannah already had enough trouble in her life. She was lame, she was underfed, and she lived in a damp and dingy cellar room with a sister who couldn’t even talk. Philo had no intention of adding to her burdens. ‘You were right,’ he remarked, in an attempt to distract her. ‘You don’t notice the stench o’ the poor-hole, after a time.’
‘Will you not let me help you, Philo?’ Susannah pleaded. ‘Is there aught I can do?’
‘You already do enough,’ Philo said, touched despite himself. Then he gently detached his arm from her eager grip. ‘I must get on,’ he said. ‘I’ve someone to visit.’
A few minutes later he was hurrying through Seven Dials. It was quite a distance between St-Giles’s church and Windsor Court, where Mrs Cowley lived; Philo was going to have to pick up his pace if he wanted to arrive on time. One glance at a watchmaker’s window told him that he would have to cover a quarter of a mile in less than five minutes. But as he turned into Castle Street, he caught sight of Valentine Brody – and immediately stopped in his tracks.
‘Val!’ he called. ‘Val Brody!’
Valentine’s head snapped around. He was a solid twelve-year-old with muddy green eyes and a fair, freckled face, who liked to wear old chairmen’s livery even though he was only a linkboy. He also favoured a moth-eaten wig that Fleabite had named ‘Quibble’. For some reason, however, Val wasn’t wearing his wig that day. Perhaps it was too hot.
‘Philo!’ he exclaimed, without a trace of wariness. Doffing his hat, he said, ‘What’s toward? I’ve not seen you about of late.’
‘I’ve seen you,’ Philo countered, taking the bull by the horns. ‘I spotted you at St Clement’s coach stand last night, talking to a Scotch chairman with a drunkard’s nose.’
‘That clunch!’ Val’s face creased into a furious scowl as his cheeks reddened. ‘By my fig, I’d like to burst that plum he calls a nose, so I would!’
Eyeing Val’s furious expression, Philo felt as if a tight knot in his chest had unravelled. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘The dog owes me money,’ Val spat. ‘Which is to say, he owes Niall money, and Niall owes me, so … in the end, ’tis my chink.’
‘What’s his name?’ said Philo.
‘Gregor MacLure, curse him.’
‘What linkboys does he use?’
‘Not this one, by God!’ Val prodded his own chest with his thumb, then added, ‘He uses a riverside crew, for the most part. I don’t have much to do with ’em – they’re a low fraternity. Not worth a cherry stone.’ All at once Val paused; he peered at Philo and said, ‘Why do you want to know?’
Philo took a deep breath. He’d decided to trust his instincts, because he needed more information. And it was hard to get information without giving it. ‘I’ve fallen out with a cove called Wat Wiley,’ he confessed.
‘Him!’ Val grimaced. ‘Stay away from him. He runs with river pirates, so they say.’
Philo swallowed. ‘River pirates?’
‘That rob the boats on the wharves. They’re most of ’em lumpers and lightermen – or so Niall tells me.’ Valentine had always liked flaunting what he’d heard from the Irish chairmen, because he prided himself on their friendship. So he was happy to continue. ‘Wiley’s own brother was branded for stealing canvas off a barge at Summer’s Quay stairs. The only reason he wasn’t lagged – or worse – was because he turned King’s evidence against his cronies. Now he’s a bully for hire, though I don’t doubt he’s still prigging.’ Valentine paused for a moment, studying Philo’s blank face. ‘Even my friends don’t trifle with those villains,’ he finished. ‘They’d not baulk at throwing your corpse in the river. You should give ’em a wide berth, Philo.’
‘Aye – well – thanks.’ Philo didn’t know what else to say. His fears about Val had been laid to rest, only to be replaced by an even greater worry. ‘I have to go. Give my compliments to Niall, won’t you?’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Val, then set off towards Seven Dials. Philo headed in the opposite direction. Normally he remained alert when he was moving about the city, taking note of every face and cry and gesture. He rarely missed a pickpocket’s signal or a housemaid’s new gown. But Val’s ta
lk of river pirates was distracting him. As he threaded his way through the pedestrians on Cross Lane, he was only vaguely aware of passing a goldsmith’s shop, a hawker’s cart, and a knot of chattering brewers in leather aprons. His mind was on other things.
Val, at least, was no turncoat. After speaking to him, Philo was sure of that. Anything that Wat Wiley might know about Philo’s crew hadn’t come from Val. I should never have given that ruffian my name, Philo thought – though he doubted that he would have acquired Wat Wiley’s name without revealing his own. Wiley struck him as someone who understood the value of information.
Crossing Long Acre, Philo asked himself whether Dandy Dodds should be sent to Essex Street. Would it be safe? Philo didn’t think so. And by the time he reached Covent Garden, he’d decided that he wouldn’t be sending a linkboy after all. Instead he would send a beggar – Lippy – whose disfigurement would be enough to convince most casual passers-by that he was the genuine article. Lippy would station himself outside the Essex Head, and would remain there until all the lights went out in Lady Primrose’s house. If he was shooed away from the tavern, he could always find another post further down the street. Philo thought it unlikely that Wat Wiley would fret about a beggar with a hare-lip. Why should he, when he would be looking for a linkboy?
Satisfied with this solution, Philo turned his thoughts to Caroline Cowley. Mrs Cowley lived in an alley that ran between Drury Lane and Crown Court. To reach it, Philo turned off Russell Street, passed the Scottish Presbyterian church, and made for the end of a dark, narrow, smelly passage that bristled with creaking shop signs. He then turned into the Halfway House tavern, where a corridor at the rear of the taproom led to a flight of stone steps.
At the top of these steps lay Windsor Court.
Philo could name almost everyone who lived in Windsor Court. Mrs Cowley, he knew, lodged halfway down the street in a plain, three-storeyed house with a stationer’s shop on the ground floor. It was a very clean house. The brass was polished, the windows gleamed, and the walls were limewashed. When Philo reached the door at the top of the stairs, he raised his hand to knock.
But he didn’t get the chance. Suddenly the door was yanked open by a stout, middle-aged woman wrapped in a cocoon of shawls and petticoats. She had a swarthy complexion, a faint moustache, a wart on her lip and a squint in one eye. Her steel-coloured hair was escaping from beneath a ruffled muslin cap.
‘Would you be Theophilus Grey?’ she asked hoarsely.
Philo nodded, struck dumb by the woman’s appearance.
‘Come in, then.’ She shuffled backwards to admit him, her gaze on the floor. As he passed her, taking off his hat, Philo noticed that she smelled very strongly of beer and tobacco.
He grimaced and said, ‘Is Mrs Cowley in?’
‘Of course,’ the woman replied. ‘Don’t you recognise her?’ Then, to Philo’s astonishment, she began to laugh.
WHAT MRS COWLEY
HAD TO TEACH PHILO ABOUT
THE ART OF DISGUISE
Mrs Cowley’s parlour was very elegant. Its walls were covered in slate-blue wool, and there were damask curtains hanging at the windows. Every stick of furniture had a delicate look about it, as if a heavy weight might cause chair legs to buckle or a tabletop to snap in two. Glancing around, Philo spotted an inlaid workbox, a silk cushion, an embroidered firescreen and an upholstered footstool. The walls were covered in pictures of Mrs Cowley: pastel studies, watercolours, engraved prints. There was even a gilt-framed oil painting.
But Mrs Cowley herself was nowhere to be seen. And her cackling maidservant was beginning to alarm Philo.
‘Where is Mrs Cowley?’ he asked, then pointed at the only other door in the room, which was firmly shut. ‘Is she in there?’
‘She’s in here.’ The servant squared her shoulders, straightened her spine and repeated, in a low, musical voice, ‘I’m Caroline Cowley.’
Philo blinked. Then he turned to peer at the painting on the wall. It showed a lady with a long white neck, dressed in blue satin and lots of lace. Her russet hair was pulled back from her face into a wispy little cap. Her dark blue eyes were long and heavy-lidded. Her full lips bore the trace of a mischievous smile. Everything about her was elegant, from her pearl earrings to her tapering fingers.
Philo knew this lady. He had seen her on the streets. But he didn’t know the woman standing in front of him. He could have sworn that she was a stranger.
The look on his face made her laugh again. ‘Don’t you believe me? Here. I’ll prove it,’ she said. Then she yanked off her muslin cap and her stringy grey hair. ‘Come! Let me show you how I put old Grizel back in her box,’ she added, before disappearing into the next room.
Philo hesitated for a moment. But when she called to him, he followed her – past the fireplace, through the inner door, into a dressing room that also seemed to be a bedchamber. A tester bed occupied one corner, its curtains drawn. There was a mirror hung over the fireplace, and another sitting on the cloth-covered dressing table. Everywhere he looked Philo saw piles of clothes – silks and muslins, satins and velvets – draped over chairs and couches and painted screens.
‘Forgive the disarray,’ his hostess remarked pleasantly. ‘My maid is a slattern.’ She plumped herself down at the dressing table, which was littered with all kinds of tubs and vials. ‘Now – watch what I do. The colour on my face is made of walnut juice mixed with goose-grease.’ She plunged her hand into a porcelain butter dish, then began to apply the butter to her forehead. ‘It can be removed with butter, but only if the butter is fresh. The moustache, as you see, is merely burnt cork. If I wanted a full moustache, I would use mouse-skin.’ Glancing at Philo, she paused for a moment – and Philo saw that Mrs Cowley’s refined face was slowly emerging from beneath a gleaming, greasy mask. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Poor boy. You look like a calf in a pillory. Has Mr Bishop not explained what we’re to do here?’
‘I … uh …’
‘Come.’ Mrs Cowley reached out to grab a chair, then patted its tapestry seat. ‘Sit down and tell me about yourself. All I have is a name and a profession. You are Theophilus Grey, a linkboy. Am I right?’
Philo nodded as he settled himself gingerly into the chair.
‘You look familiar,’ Mrs Cowley continued, studying his face. ‘Have I hired you before?’
‘Aye, ma’am. Many times. On James Street and Drury Lane and Long Acre and—’
‘I thought I recognised those eyes.’ All at once she cocked her head, still mopping at her cheeks with a pad of Spanish wool. ‘James Street and Drury Lane? You do have a good memory. Mr Bishop warned me of it.’
Philo had been slowly recovering his wits, though the mixture of strong perfumes in the room was making him dizzy. ‘Mr Bishop said you was going teach me some o’ your tricks,’ he mumbled.
‘Good. So you know that much.’ Again she surveyed him from top to toe. ‘Those eyes may hinder us. They’re so pale. People will remember them.’
Philo immediately donned his hat, tugging its brim down. ‘Folk never see ’em,’ he said. ‘Not when I wear my hat.’
‘Ah, but you may be hatless.’ Mrs Cowley reached over to remove his hat, which she placed on her dressing table. Then she took his chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning his face this way and that. From there she moved to his hair, gently tugging at one of his curls and rubbing another as if she was testing a piece of fabric. ‘Show me your teeth,’ she said. As Philo obediently bared them, feeling like a horse, she picked up his right hand and clicked her tongue. ‘Scars,’ she murmured, releasing him. ‘What a pity. Stand up, now.’ Philo rose to his feet. ‘Walk to the window. Wonderful. And back to me? There’s a good lad …’
Philo had never felt so self-conscious. Mrs Cowley was behaving like someone buying livestock at a market. But suddenly she smiled, her detached expression softening into one of sympathy.
‘My dear, don’t look so glum,’ she said. ‘You are going to break hearts when you’re grown, I sw
ear. Six foot in your stockings, if I’m not mistaken, and what a pair of eyes! Hard to conceal, of course, but they may be reddened with dust.’ Leaning back in her chair, she propped her chin on one hand and said, ‘I can tell at a glance that you do not fence or ride. You move without discipline. Unless you’re aware of what your body does, you cannot learn to correct it. If you are to dance like a gentleman, or slouch like a paver, or stumble like a drunkard, you must understand how your own limbs work.’
‘But why would I need to dance like a gentleman?’ Philo protested.
‘Who knows? Only Mr Bishop. And he has asked me to show you how to become another person.’ Mrs Cowley spread her arms wide. ‘Nature did not form me in this unlovely shape, my dear. ’Twas done with buckram and feathers. There’s a deal you can do with stuffing and greasepaint, not to mention clothes. Above all, however, it is our posture and speech that define us. If you have a good ear and well-trained limbs, you will always be able to disguise yourself.’
‘Is that what Mr Bishop wants?’ asked Philo. ‘Does he want me to disguise myself?’
‘When circumstances demand it.’ All at once Mrs Cowley surged to her feet, startling Philo, who stumbled backwards. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘while I step behind this screen and remove the rest of dear old Grizel, I want you to sit down and change your face. Use whatever you wish – carmine, or white lead or ivory black. If you want to flatten your hair, there are pins and pomatum. When I finish dressing, I expect to find a complete stranger in the room.’
With another charming smile, she withdrew behind one of the painted screens, where Philo heard her rustling and creaking and occasionally grunting. He was appalled. He’d heard that actresses were often careless of their privacy, and that they sometimes had to make quick changes in backstage corridors. But he never would have imagined himself in the same room as a lady disrobing behind a screen.