He quickly sat down at the dressing table, his head in a whirl. His own face stared back at him from the mirror, flushed and wide-eyed and gleaming with sweat. It wasn’t as familiar as it could have been, because Philo didn’t have a mirror of his own. He usually caught glimpses of himself in shop windows – and every time he did, he was disappointed. There was always a spot on his chin or a smudge of soot on his jaw. His cheeks weren’t pink enough. His nose was too long. His eyes were set too far apart.
Gingerly he reached for the jar of ivory black and gave himself a big bruise over his left eye. Then he fished around in a box of mouse-skin eyebrows, until he found a pair that pleased him. They were thick and dark and heavy, and he stuck them to his face with gum.
He was trying to give himself a drunkard’s nose, using equal parts carmine and burnt cork, when Mrs Cowley emerged from behind the screen. She had returned to her usual trim shape, and wore a yellow sack-back gown over a quilted petticoat. Her skin was now as white as a swan’s feather, though her hair was still a mess.
‘Lud!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a frightening object!’ As Philo jumped to his feet, blushing furiously, she added, ‘Nay, my dear, you’ve done very well. I particularly admire the black eye, though when you next assay such a sham, you should employ just a dab of grease on the blueish portions. Examine any such injury and you will see a definite sheen to it, like silk. Now …’ She moved over to Philo and placed a hand on his spine. ‘Let us address the matter of your back and shoulders. Then we will proceed to your gait, which is of prime importance. But to master your legs, you must first learn how your back controls them …’
For the next three hours, Philo was dragged about like a bolster. He was made to walk hobbled. He was made to dance while keeping a book balanced on his head. He had to do all kinds of things with a wooden stick strapped to his back – kneel, bow, serve tea, open doors. Mrs Cowley tickled him. She slapped him. She pretended to be an army colonel, and berated Philo, who was pretending to be a drummer boy. She showed him various items of clothing – a hat, a coat, an apron, a shawl – and told him to imagine their owners. When he couldn’t do that well enough, she peppered him with questions that drew more details out of him. So this shawl belonged to a middle-aged chandler’s widow? Well and good. But was she married? Was she in good health? Did she have children? Were they in good health?
‘You cannot play a part unless you know what it is,’ Mrs Cowley told Philo, after he had wondered aloud why they were making up stories. ‘If you inhabit your role, you will find that you are more convincing. Consider the humble tailor. You will often see him rubbing his eyes. Why is that?’
‘Because he’s going blind,’ said Philo.
‘Correct. And if that is his affliction, will he be walking like other men? Will he be confident, or will he be anxious? Will he hail his friends across the street, or squint hard at every piece of fruit he buys, turning it carefully in front of his face?’ Mrs Cowley mimicked the squinting tailor, her shoulders hunched, her brows knitted. Philo marvelled at her skill.
‘He’ll be anxious,’ said Philo. ‘And walking slowly, with small steps.’
‘He will indeed! So playing a tailor is more than just a matter of rubbing your eyes and putting a thimble in your pocket. You must consider every facet of his existence.’
All this was very tiring, though they didn’t work solidly. At about half-past three, Mrs Cowley’s maid brought some dinner up from the stationer’s kitchen. The maid was a pretty girl, but Philo was so hungry that he barely noticed her. His attention was focused on the oyster soup, veal cutlets, pickled mushrooms and almond pudding – which were served on a cloth-covered round table, in the most beautiful crockery he’d ever seen.
Unfortunately, even dinner didn’t stop Mrs Cowley from giving advice. ‘If you are ever to play a gentleman,’ she said, ‘you must learn to distinguish yourself at table.’ She told him not to blow on his soup – not to lean on his elbow – not to convey meat to his mouth with a knife in his hand. She instructed him in the proper use of forks, napkins and salt trenchers. By the time he’d finished eating, Philo felt exhausted.
Mrs Cowley, however, remained cheerful and encouraging until the moment she bade him goodbye. Philo was amazed at her energy. He thought that she was probably older than she looked – at least as old as Mr Paxton – but she ran around like a child, throwing herself onto the floor, leaping up again, dancing, hobbling, bowing, curtseying. Philo’s awkwardness quickly melted away in the heat of her enthusiasm. ‘That’s not a bow, that’s a paroxysm!’ she would say – or, ‘What are you doing with your hands, boy? Put them away at once!’ After a while, Philo found himself answering back. When told, at the end of their meeting, that he had ‘done very well’, he replied flatly, ‘For a caw-handed, green-headed pigwidgeon?’
Mrs Cowley laughed. ‘Oh, my dear, did I say so indeed? How cruel. But you must not take it to heart, you know – rehearsals are always heated. You really have done very well. In fact …’ She retrieved his hat from a chair and placed it neatly on his head. ‘You have done so well, methinks you may be ready for a modest excursion tomorrow.’
Philo blinked. ‘Tomorrow? But—’
‘Come back tomorrow at one o’clock, and you will earn yourself a shilling.’ Mrs Cowley cocked her head and fixed him with a challenging gaze. She was only an inch or two taller than Philo, so they were almost eye to eye. ‘I hope you’d not be so ungallant as to refuse a lady’s invitation?’
Philo didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing. Mrs Cowley laughed again, then patted his cheek with one hand as she opened her parlour door with the other.
‘The correct reply would be, Madam, I am ever at your service, in this as in all things,’ she said suavely. ‘You will have to sharpen your tongue, my dear. And to smile, also. A smile is your key to the strongbox of trust.’ As Philo stepped onto the landing, she flashed him a dazzling smile of her own. ‘’Til tomorrow,’ she trilled. ‘I shall watch for you, betimes. And for the love of Christ, practise your bows in the interval!’
She disappeared before Philo had a chance to obey her; he found himself bowing at the blank, white panels of her door.
He could hear her laughing to herself behind that door as he made his way downstairs, into the street.
OF AN ENCOUNTER
WITH A FRIEND AND
A PROPOSAL MADE TO
AN ENEMY
That night, Philo saw Mr Bishop in Covent Garden market.
They hadn’t planned to meet. Philo was there because Covent Garden was always busy in the early hours. It was a large square flanked by three rows of terraced houses, two of which had long porticos attached to them. St Paul’s church lay at the western end, opposite Hummum’s bathhouse. And Philo was waiting outside Hummum’s when he spied Mr Bishop.
The bathhouse was always surrounded by linkboys. But they were usually ragged, shuffling amateurs with ill-made torches, or budding footpads with sly expressions. Philo’s clean face, neat clothes and respectful manner gave him a huge advantage over them – as did his reputation around the neighbourhood. Philo knew most of the people who lived and worked in Covent Garden. He also knew many of the visiting clerks, painters, brewers, journalists and army officers who spent their evenings in its taverns and coffee-houses. These people were his regulars. Some of them remembered his name even when they were drunk. And given a choice, they would always hire him over any other linkboy
So Philo could be sure of picking up clients whenever he went near St Paul’s church. But the client he valued most was a French importer called James Bourdieu. Mr Bourdieu was suspected of being an agent of the French East India Company. He also liked to entertain foreign merchants in the bathhouses around Covent Garden. That was why one of Mr Paxton’s friends (who worked for the Admiralty) had asked Philo to report on the Frenchman’s movements.
Philo was delighted to see Mr Bourdieu at the door of Hummum’s. But when Mr Bourdieu’s party appeared, Philo’s greetin
g died on his lips. There were three men with Mr Bourdieu. One was Mark Giberne, a wine merchant. Another was Zachary Fonnereau, a rich gentleman whose friends always listened respectfully when he spoke.
The third man was Mr Bishop.
He was a little flushed, as if he’d been drinking – or perhaps sitting in a steam room – but otherwise he looked the same as ever in his dark clothes and white wig. Philo didn’t know what to do. Mr Bourdieu was a prime target, but Mr Bishop might not want Philo around. It was even possible that Mr Bishop was spying on Mr Bourdieu. Philo was wondering whether to advance or retreat when Mr Bourdieu turned to Mr Bishop and said, ‘What think you, Gabriel? Sam’s Coffee House? Or straight to Haddock’s?’
Gabriel, thought Philo. Gabriel Bishop?
At that very instant, Mr Bishop glanced around and caught his eye – then looked away as if he didn’t exist. Philo realised at once that he wasn’t wanted. So he faded back into the shadows, letting one of his competitors take the fee.
He was still reeling half an hour later, as he returned from a trip to New Inn. Walking along Black Moor Street, he tried to figure out if he’d done the right thing at Covent Garden. Should he have pressed his claim after all? The Admiralty might have paid good money to know what Mr Bourdieu had been discussing with his friends. As it was, Philo could only report that the four men had been seen together, in Hummum’s bathhouse, at a certain time.
But even if he did report it, should he mention Mr Bishop? Philo couldn’t decide. What if Mr Bishop had been doing business for the Secretary of State?
‘Hi! Philo! Over here!’
It was Kit Maltman’s voice. Turning, Philo saw that Kit and Lippy were heading up Drury Lane. By this time it was so late that the wide street was practically deserted.
‘Hey dey! What’s toward?’ said Philo. Even from a distance he could see that something was amiss. Lippy’s shoulders were hunched. His gait was slow and awkward. For one horrible moment, Philo thought that he must have suffered a beating. But then, as his two friends drew closer, Philo caught a whiff of something so horrible that he had to clap his hand over his nose.
‘They snilched him and doused him in nightsoil,’ Kit explained hurriedly, from behind his own sleeve. He waved his torch in Lippy’s direction, so that Philo could get a clear look at the filth plastered all over Lippy’s hair and coat and shoes. ‘Dropped a chamber-pot’s worth from a high window, then crept up and threw a bucket in his face. I came upon him in Wych Street, near the Angel.’
‘Who did it?’ Philo demanded, his guts clenching.
‘Wat Wiley’s crew,’ Lippy mumbled. ‘They didn’t stand their ground. I heard ’em howling like wolves, but they dodged me when I tried to fight ’em. Then I was chased from the Essex Head. ’Twas on account o’ the stink, the landlord told me.’
‘You should go home and clean up,’ said Philo. He was furious, but trying to remain calm. ‘I’ll see to this matter myself.’
‘Not alone, you won’t.’ Kit shoved his torch into Lippy’s hand. ‘You take this. I’ll attend Philo.’
‘Kit—’
‘I’m well enough, Captain,’ Kit said shortly. ‘And I’ll not let you go undefended.’
So when Philo set off for St Clement Danes, Kit Maltman was at his side. Together they marched down Wych Street, past the bay windows of Lyons Inn, as Philo pondered his next move. He wasn’t planning to start a war. Though he was very angry, he knew that a series of running battles would do nothing but ruin his business. No; he had to be smarter than that. He had to negotiate a solution.
‘I’ve a knife with me,’ Kit murmured, ‘and you have your link. We’re not defenceless.’
‘Touch that knife and I’ll use it on you!’ Philo snapped. Kit was in many ways a superb lieutenant. He was smart, loyal, stealthy and well-informed about the criminal gangs that haunted St Giles. But because he’d been raised by housebreakers, he was willing to go just a little too far when it came to protecting his crew. ‘There’ll be no fighting – we’ll have to make a trade,’ Philo went on. ‘A treaty between Wiley’s crew and ours. We’ve no choice, for Mr Bishop wants Essex Street at all costs.’
‘Belike they’ll not listen when you try to reason with ’em,’ warned Kit. He was right. Philo knew that. But it so happened that Philo had recently decided to improve his service. In his pocket he now carried a small piece of court-plaister (for sticking on wounds), a wooden smelling-bottle full of vinegar and hartshorn (for anyone feeling faint) and a clean white linen handkerchief.
‘They’ll know what this means,’ he declared, plucking the handkerchief from his breeches. ‘There’s not a soul in England who wouldn’t understand a white flag.’
Kit looked doubtful, but didn’t argue. Instead he asked, ‘How will we find the rogue?’
‘On Essex Street,’ Philo answered. ‘I’ll lay any odds he’ll come to us.’
They pressed on past the Angel Inn – which was still quite busy – then crossed the empty expanse of St Clement’s churchyard. As soon as they reached the Strand, Philo started looking for the linkboys he’d seen in Devereaux Court. He had an inkling that they probably found a lot of their late-night business at the St Clement hackney stand.
But there was no sign of Wat or his offsiders. So Philo took a deep breath and guided Kit into Essex Street, waving his white handkerchief.
Essex Street was as quiet as a grave. The Essex Head had closed its doors. Lady Primrose’s house was dark; even the oil-lamp above her door had gone out. The only light burning in the whole street was Philo’s.
He felt like a sheep in a field, waiting for wolves to attack.
‘If we’re forced to run, then we should part,’ he murmured, positioning himself near Devereaux Court. From there he had a choice of four possible escape routes, though he was hoping he wouldn’t have to head towards the river. ‘You should make for the Strand,’ he went on. ‘I’ll assay to lose ’em in the alleys.’
‘Shh!’ Kit grabbed his wrist. ‘Do you hear that?’
Philo listened hard. Sure enough, he caught the faintest patter of footsteps coming from somewhere near the water gate. He stiffened, staring vainly into the shadows, expecting any moment to be drenched in urine – or something worse. But no hinges were creaking above him. He couldn’t feel the air shifting on his skin. Nor could he smell sweat or grease or perfume through the faint odour of burning tow …
‘You’re the biggest rum-duke in London, showing your face here,’ a rough voice suddenly announced.
It came from behind Philo, who turned with a start. Somehow Wat Wiley had crept out of Devereaux Court. Kit and Philo hadn’t seen him because they’d been too busy peering down Essex Street. And they hadn’t heard him because Wiley was barefoot.
He carried his shoes but no torch.
‘Truce!’ Philo exclaimed, flapping his handkerchief. ‘We came to parley.’
‘Parley? For what?’ Wiley was still wearing his scarlet coat, but his cocked hat was missing. He stepped forward so that Philo could see the sneer on his face. ‘If you take our business, we’ll do worse than douse you in nightsoil.’
‘We’re not here to take your business,’ Philo countered. ‘But we’ll give you a portion of our own, if you’ll settle with us.’ He was keeping a close eye on the figures sidling up behind Wat Wiley; there were two of them, though Philo only recognised the buck-toothed spindleshanks in the Monmouth cap. The other linkboy could have been a gypsy, because he had a swarthy complexion and eyes so dark they looked like holes in his face. He wore a red handkerchief tied around his wavy black hair.
The torches in their hands were made with rags instead of tow.
‘All we need is Essex Street,’ Philo continued, with a quick glance over his shoulder. But no one was closing in from the south. ‘If you’ll let us post one man here in Essex Street, you can have Wych Street for yourselves.’
Kit gasped. Wat Wiley narrowed his eyes.
‘All night?’ he asked.
‘All n
ight,’ said Philo.
Wiley cocked his head, then smiled without showing his teeth – or at least, without showing the gaps where his teeth should have been.
‘Why is that ken so important to you?’ he remarked, jerking his chin towards Lady Primrose’s house. ‘Does some cove think he’s being jilted by the lady inside?’
Philo scowled. Wat Wiley was sharper than he’d thought.
‘Belike this clunch is heartsick for the wench!’ cried the gypsy. His buck-toothed friend laughed.
But Philo ignored them. ‘I’ve made you an offer,’ he reminded Wat Wiley. ‘Will you take it or no?’
Wiley pondered. His cronies glared at Kit – who glared right back. At last Wiley said, ‘I want Wych Street and everything south of it. Including Lyons Inn and the Five Bells tavern.’
‘Done,’ said Philo.
‘And Holywell Street,’ Wiley added.
Kit gave a hiss. Philo frowned at him, then turned back to Wiley.
‘Aye,’ Philo agreed, ‘but not St Mary’s. The watch house there is mine.’ Hearing Wiley sniff, he leaned forward until they were nose to nose, aware that he had the advantage over Wiley, who carried no flaming torch. ‘Those watchmen know me. They’ll know what to do if you step outside your bounds.’
‘Aye … well … watchmen.’ Wiley pronounced the word with disdain. ‘I’d have no dealings with charleys – they’re all of ’em doddering, crouch-backed scrubs.’ He glanced back at his boys, but their vacant expressions offered him no help. So he shrugged and said, ‘Done.’
Philo held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Wiley shook it. Then Philo asked, ‘How did you know my boy Lippy wasn’t a beggar?’
‘I made inquiries,’ Wiley retorted. ‘I was told you had a sorry sight in tow.’
His cronies snickered. Kit scowled, but Philo said, ‘How many boys are in your gang? These two, the dwarf and who besides?’
‘That’s the lot.’ Wiley gestured at his buck-toothed friend. ‘This here is Calvin. Our gypsy is Fred, and our little ’un is Crab Jack.’