The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  She tilted her head, studying me with the cold black eyes of a raven about to tug a worm from the ground. And then she shuddered, flapping her black lace shawl tighter about her bony frame. ‘Pas beau,’ she sneered. ‘Il est trop pâle. Comme un fantôme.’

  Well, that’s rich coming from you, you old baggage, I thought.

  Mrs Bradshaw leaned back and raised her eyebrows at Kitty, who was sitting by the fire, bouncing the little boy violently on her knee while he squealed in a mixture of delight and alarm. To my surprise, she translated at once. ‘Too pale. Like a ghost.’

  ‘A ghost? Well, now . . . she would know, I suppose.’ Mrs Bradshaw glanced about anxiously, as if the air might be alive with spirits with nothing better to do than listen to her chatter. ‘Madame Migault is a fortune teller, Mr Hawkins. She’ll read your future if you like.’

  ‘No, thank you, madame,’ I said. I preferred to make my own future, not have it spat at me in riddles by a bony old witch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t hold with fortune telling.’

  ‘Well said, sir.’ The chaplain, still sitting by the fire, closed his Bible with a snap. ‘Only the Lord Himself knows our path through this world. The rest is devil’s work.’ He removed his spectacles and peered across the room – then gave a startled cry when he caught sight of me. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, heaving himself up from his chair. The blood had drained from his face, turning it a sickly tallow colour. ‘Is it . . . are you . . . ?’

  ‘Captain Roberts, returned from the dead? No, sir.’ I smiled, but this only served to heighten his alarm. I hurried to give him my name before the poor man expired from shock, explaining that I had arrived only this morning.

  The chaplain pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted the sweat from his face. His hand was shaking. ‘Of course. Forgive me.’ He gave a weak little laugh, the flesh about his neck jiggling softly. ‘Now I look closer . . . it is just a passing resemblance.’

  Madame Migault cackled to herself. ‘Pauvre Monsieur Woodburn. Thinks he sees a ghost.’

  Mrs Bradshaw threw her a sharp glance as she pulled out a chair. ‘Sit yourself down here, sir,’ she said, pushing the window wide in a vain attempt to bring fresh air to the room. ‘You’ve given him quite a shock, Mr Hawkins.’ I started to apologise but Mrs Bradshaw patted my shoulder. ‘Not your fault you look like a dead man,’ she said generously. ‘You’ve heard the story, then, have you?’

  ‘I met his widow.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A pinched expression fixed upon Mrs Bradshaw’s face, the look of a woman failing – quite intentionally – to hide her dislike. ‘Poor Catherine,’ she said.

  ‘She told me her husband had been murdered.’

  Mrs Bradshaw nodded. ‘Terrible business. There was uproar, wasn’t there, Mr Woodburn? A man dragged from his bed and killed – and no one caught. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?’ She took the opportunity to place a hand on my knee. ‘You must sleep with a blade in your hand in here, Mr Hawkins.’

  Good advice, I was sure, but my blade had been taken from me last night. And for a moment I could feel the cold hard bite of it against my throat again, and the weight of my purse, the smooth leather pressed to my skin. I had been so close to freedom . . . Still – at least I was alive, which was more than could be said for Captain Roberts. ‘The coroner called it suicide, I believe?’

  ‘He was murdered,’ Woodburn muttered, almost to himself.

  ‘Well, it’s a shame the court didn’t agree with you, sir,’ Mrs Bradshaw replied. ‘And do you know what they did with his body, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Everyone knew what happened to the corpses of those who committed self-murder. It was not pleasant. ‘In truth I’d really rather not—’

  ‘They buried him at a crossroads, with a stake plunged in his heart,’ Mrs Bradshaw said with some relish, pounding a fist to her huge chest. ‘Not even a bier to keep the worms from his poor body. And now his spirit haunts the gaol, never to rest. Mr Jenings the nightwatch saw him standing by the governor’s house in the middle of the night, all pale and grim with a noose still wrapped about his neck. And Mrs Carey swears she heard footsteps and a terrible groaning beneath the chandler’s window but when she looked out there was no one there. I’m scared to walk the yard at night in case he looms up out of the dark—’

  ‘Enough!’ Woodburn bellowed, making Mrs Bradshaw flinch and stutter to a halt. He gave a low moan. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot bear to think of it . . .’

  Mrs Bradshaw patted his shoulder, clearly thrilled by the drama. ‘Mr Woodburn saw the body,’ she mouthed in a stage whisper over the chaplain’s shoulder. ‘They found it hanging in the Strong Room over on the Common Side, all beaten and bloody. Barely recognised him, did you, sir?’

  Woodburn gave a little sob and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. ‘God rest his soul,’ he whispered.

  Mrs Bradshaw patted his shoulder again. ‘A man doesn’t beat himself black and blue before hanging himself, does he, Mr Hawkins?’

  I frowned. ‘I hope Mrs Roberts discovers the truth, for her own sake.’ As the widow of a suicide, she would be shunned by all decent society. I felt a surge of pity for the proud young woman who had saved me from Joseph Cross earlier that morning. Her reputation had been ruined through no fault of her own. ‘Does she suspect someone in particular?’

  Mrs Bradshaw laughed. ‘Oh, we all suspect someone in particular.’ Her laughter died away and she glanced about her with an anxious expression. For a moment her gaze settled on Kitty, her maid, who was still playing with the little boy by the fire. She lowered her voice. ‘Captain Roberts had a roommate. He was there the night of the murder, lying in the very next bed just a few paces away. He says he didn’t hear a thing – claims he slept through it all. But the devil never sleeps, does he? How does it go . . .’

  The words of St Peter rose to my mind unbidden. ‘Be sober, be vigilant: because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’

  When I looked back the chaplain was staring at me, his mouth a little ‘o’ of surprise.

  ‘A roaring lion?’ Mrs Bradshaw sniffed. ‘A hissing snake’s more like it, slithering about the place, studying you with those nasty black eyes of his.’

  Samuel Fleet. It had to be. I shifted uneasily in my chair.

  ‘Mrs Bradshaw,’ Woodburn tutted. ‘You cannot accuse a man of murder just because—’

  ‘He’s not a man,’ she cried. ‘He’s a demon!’

  ‘What’s this?’ Kitty called from across the room. ‘Do you speak of Mr Fleet?’

  ‘Mr Woodburn,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you believe it?’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘I cannot say, sir. But I fear he is capable of the very worst crimes.’ He held my gaze. ‘The very worst.’

  I was about to reply when a terrible cry rose from the yard. A second later one of Gilbert Hand’s boys rushed into the room.

  ‘What news, Jim?’ Kitty asked sharply.

  ‘They’ve took Jack Carter!’ the boy replied, hopping from foot to foot in a mix of fear and excitement. ‘He fell off the wall trying to escape!’

  Kitty pushed past us to reach the window. I joined her, more curious than alarmed, and saw Joseph Cross dragging a small heap of rags into the middle of the yard. A tall, broad-shouldered man in black breeches and a bright red waistcoat strode behind them, holding his jacket in one meaty hand. Prisoners and guards leapt out of his way, scurrying to the far corners of the yard. Within a few moments, the Park was empty.

  Only one person could command such power in a prison. I glanced at Kitty.

  ‘Mr Acton,’ she muttered, her face twisted with hatred.

  Woodburn rose a little from his chair and put on his spectacles before peering out into the yard. ‘Drunk.’ He sighed and returned to his seat, pocketing his spectacles. ‘This will go badly for Jack.’

  Kitty turned and glared at him. ‘Then do something.’

  The chaplain rubbed
the back of his neck. ‘He won’t listen to me,’ he muttered, looking shamefaced.

  Out in the Park, Cross threw the prisoner to the ground. He gave a sharp scream of pain, and clutched his ankle. It looked broken. ‘Oh, please! Oh, God,’ he sobbed in a cracked voice, dragging himself along the ground and staring desperately at all the windows. ‘Please! Someone help me!’

  Acton said something to Cross and they both laughed.

  ‘He’s just a boy,’ I said, shocked.

  ‘Thirteen,’ Woodburn whispered to the floor. ‘He’s thirteen.’

  Acton threw his jacket at Cross and began to roll up his sleeves. I knew then what would come next. ‘Dear God,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘He cant . . ., he won’t . ..’

  Acton took a short, hard whip from his belt, a savage thing made to drive cattle. Enough to tear flesh from a young boy’s bones.

  Kitty clutched my arm so tight I almost cried out, but she didn’t look away.

  Acton grabbed the boy’s shoulder and hauled him to his knees. He raised the whip in the air.

  One silent moment.

  The whip came down. Then again. And again.

  The boy screamed, holding up his hands to shield himself.

  A ripple of sympathy spread across the room, but no one moved. The beating went on and on, relentless. I could hear Acton grunting softly with the effort. Sometimes he would pause, and wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Plant his feet a little wider. And then he would begin again. Woodburn covered his face with his hands.

  The boy’s cries faded to whimpers, then silence, as the blows came down.

  Slowly, without a word, people moved away from the window. Only Kitty remained, still clutching my arm, her fingers digging in with every lash as if she could feel it ripping her own skin. A tear slid down her cheek.

  You must act, a voice spoke in my head. You must do something, for pity’s sake. He’s just a boy, and they’re beating him to death in front of your eyes.

  He was on his knees, now, crawling through the dirt. Acton raised his boot and stamped down hard on his back.

  ‘Henry. Oh God, no!’ Kitty cried, bringing me to my senses. Her tiny charge – forgotten in all the confusion – had wandered out of the coffeehouse and was now toddling across the yard towards Acton and the whip, arms outstretched and giggling.

  Before I could even think to stop her Kitty dropped my arm and ran after him. Mrs Bradshaw flung herself in front of the door. ‘You can’t stop it, sweetheart,’ she cried in a panic. ‘You’ll only bring trouble on yourself.’

  ‘He’s just a baby, Sarah,’ Kitty hissed. ‘He thinks it’s a game, don’t you see? He thinks they’re playing a game!’ She pushed her way past Mrs Bradshaw and darted outside.

  A moment later I found myself chasing after her.

  What possessed me? To this day, I still wonder. One moment I was standing in the coffeehouse, the next I was outside, the prison buildings spinning about me like a carousel, the blood roaring in my ears. Kitty ran out and I followed her, as if there were a chain tying us one to the other.

  Some men are wise. Some men are cowards. In dangerous times, both stand back and think hard before they act. A coward would have let Kitty stand up to Acton alone and swallowed down the shame of doing nothing. A wise man would have realised that Kitty didn’t need his help – all she was trying to do was catch Henry before he witnessed a bloody, violent act no child should see.

  Prison taught me many things about myself, and here was my first lesson, something I had not suspected. I could not stand back and let things happen. I had to act, no matter the consequences. Those few steps from the coffeehouse into the yard sent a pulse through my life and nothing would be the same again. I had moved out of the audience and taken my place on the stage. Or on the gallow steps. Perhaps that is a better way to put it.

  Every eye in the prison was upon us.

  Little Henry was only a few short steps away from Acton, who was still bringing his whip down hard on the boy as Cross watched. Kitty shouted for Henry to stop, to come back inside and play with her, but he just carried on toddling towards them, chattering to himself, his feet pattering on the cobbles.

  Kitty would never reach him in time. I leapt forward and snaked my arms about her waist, dragging her away. She gave a scream and kicked at my shins, beat my arms with her fists. ‘Let me go. Let me go, damn you!’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ I whispered hard in her ear. ‘Don’t look.’ She slumped against me, defeated, but she didn’t turn away.

  I was close enough to see Acton clearly now. This was not a man to reason with. He was beating a child to death, and yet there was no expression on his face, no malice, no pleasure, just the dogged concentration of a man doing his job.

  Henry tottered closer, then stretched out his arms. I held my breath.

  ‘Papa!’

  Acton spun round, whip raised high in his fist. For a moment I thought he would bring it down upon the little boy. But then his face transformed, brightening with pleasure. ‘Henry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bless my soul! Where did you spring from?’ He tossed the whip to the ground and swung his son up into the air, setting him firmly on his shoulders. Henry squealed and laughed, grabbing at his father’s wig with chubby fingers.

  ‘That’s his son?’ I whispered.

  Kitty bowed her head. ‘I didn’t want him to see,’ she whispered.

  ‘He’s too young to understand. He won’t remember this.’

  ‘I pray to God you’re right.’

  I took her hand and backed away quietly towards the coffeehouse.

  ‘Stay where you are, sir,’ Acton barked, lifting his son from his shoulders. He glanced at his deputy. ‘Who’s this?’

  Cross scowled. ‘Hawkins.’ He touched a hand to his swollen jaw. ‘The one I told you about.’

  Acton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood and sweat from his hands. He had the fleshy, pock-marked face and heavy jaw of a brothel bully, but his piercing blue eyes were sharp and clever as they looked me up and down. He swaggered closer, until I could feel his breath upon my face, hot and tangy with liquor. There were spots of blood on his shirt. ‘Hawkins.’ He spat my name out as if he didn’t like the taste of it. ‘Why did you punch my head turnkey?’

  Behind us, his last victim was curled up on the ground, shuddering softly. Still alive; just. I swallowed hard. The wrong answer would kill me, I knew it. I took a deep breath. ‘Because he’s an arsehole, sir.’

  Acton blinked in surprise. And then – thank God – he roared with laughter. ‘Aye, that’s the truth!’ he agreed, and laughed again.

  I almost sank to my knees with relief.

  ‘Why did you come after my boy?’

  Henry was throwing pebbles at the ground, oblivious to the drama playing out above his head. I could see his father in him now. The same square face, the same wide, full lips. ‘I thought he might hurt himself, Mr Acton.’

  He grunted, pleased. ‘Henry’s always safe in the Marshalsea,’ he said, rolling down his sleeves and picking up his whip. ‘But I’m obliged to you, sir. Always happy to welcome a proper gent to my Castle.’ He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously.

  I looked at my hand in his and felt my stomach turn. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Acton gestured to the house next to the Lodge. ‘You must join me and the governess for supper tomorrow night.’

  Cross started to protest, thick brows drawn in fury. Acton silenced him with one glance. He pointed at the body on the ground. ‘Lock young Carter here in the Strong Room. Chains and the collar. Tighten the screws, Mr Cross. Let’s remind our little pigeons what happens when they try to fly away.’ He looked up at the prison quarters, at all the white faces peering down upon the spectacle, and gave a low chuckle. Then he took Henry’s hand and strode towards the bar.

  As soon as Acton had left, Kitty ran over to Jack Carter and cradled him in her arms. His face was swollen, his shirt shredded and drenched with blood. His ribs would be
broken, I was sure of it – there was barely any flesh on him to cushion Acton’s blows. It looked bad, very bad. He raised his head weakly, eyes flickering open.

  Cross pushed me aside and stood over Kitty, his shadow falling across her face. ‘Move, hussy. You heard Mr Acton, he’s for the Strong Room.’

  She gripped the boy tight. ‘Just you try it, Joseph Cross,’ she snarled. ‘I’ll rip your eyes out their sockets and shove ’em up your arse.’

  Cross blinked, then shot her a grudging look of respect.

  Woodburn appeared from the coffeehouse, eager to help now that Acton was gone. ‘Come now, Joseph,’ he said, gently. ‘Let’s clean the lad up first, eh? Fetch the nurse, perhaps . . . ?’

  ‘Thoughtful of you, sir,’ Cross sneered. ‘Will you pay her fee?’

  ‘I’ll tend him,’ Kitty said firmly. She was already checking her patient, fingers prodding and testing along his sunken ribcage.

  Cross glanced back towards the Lodge. ‘Governor won’t like it.’

  ‘Governor won’t like it,’ Kitty mimicked. ‘You wouldn’t rub your own prick without asking him first, would you?’

  The turnkey laughed, despite himself. ‘Oh, go on, take him if you must,’ he said with a shrug. ‘We’ll sling him in the Strong Room once he’s cleaned up.’

  I lifted the boy to his feet, wrapping his arm about my shoulder for support. As he stood up he gave a scream of pain.

  ‘His ankle’s broken,’ Kitty said. ‘What were you thinking, Jack?’

  He sank hard against my side. ‘Acton saw me climb the wall. He made them cut the rope.’

  ‘We can tend to him in the chapel,’ Woodburn said, gesturing to the house next to the Palace Court. ‘Run and fetch water, Kitty.’

  ‘Oh, am I your servant now, sir?’ she muttered, but she did as she was told.

  Woodburn took Jack’s other arm and we lifted him together. The boy was so thin I could have easily carried him on my own, but now that Acton was gone the chaplain seemed almost desperate to help.