‘Here,’ I said, placing the coin in his hand. ‘You’re working for me tonight. Go to your brother, I’ll square it with Mr Hand. Go on, run, damn you! Before I change my mind.’
Fleet’s quarters were on the first floor. The room was bigger than the one I had just fled, with two beds and a large window overlooking the rackets wall and Acton’s house beyond. But it was so cluttered that I could scarce move without treading on something. It was more like a pawnbroker’s than a living space – a pawnbroker’s ransacked by lunatics. Towers of books teetered alarmingly against the walls, and the floor was a tussle of abandoned clothing jumbled with old wigs, dented tankards, spent pipes and what appeared to be an ivory tusk protruding from beneath a pair of leather breeches.
I picked my way across the room to what I decided must be my bed and cleared it of a small library of chapbooks, broadsides, novels and even – to my surprise – a bound and printed sermon. I had not taken Fleet as a man of faith. There was a short, hand-written message on the inside cover:
This usefull Discourse is
given to be seriously perused
and to be lent
about to other persons
gratis but must not
be sold, pawn’d or kept
too long nor be ill used
by any Reader
Rev’d Andrew Woodburn, 1725
The next several pages had been torn out, with some force.
I took out the coins Jakes had secured for me along with Moll’s half a guinea and laid them out upon the bed. I had walked out into the Park with the urgent intention of increasing my funds and two hours later was short almost a shilling. No more good turns, I warned myself again sternly. I couldn’t afford them.
I pulled off my jacket and lay down, closing my eyes. When I came to, the sun was setting, and a bell was ringing somewhere out in the Borough. I swallowed painfully, mouth dry and heavy. My head was pounding and my body ached from my beating the night before.
I ran my fingers carefully along my ribs. I had been lucky – there was no serious damage. At times the night’s attack felt like a fevered dream, so much had happened in the hours since I’d walked down that cursed alley. But now it felt close again, the memories playing round and round in my head, my cuts and bruises tingling and throbbing as if freshly made. If I had not gone with that link boy. If I had paid more attention to where we were going . . .
I made myself a pipe and limped across to a chair by the window. Outside, the nightwatchman was lighting the lamp in the middle of the yard while the prisoners wandered past in the long shadows. For the first time since my arrival, a kind of peace descended on the Marshalsea.
I was just beginning to doze off again when there was a smart rap at the door. I sat up, startled, to find a fit, dapper man of about thirty leaning against the doorway, studying me in a friendly way. He was well turned out, with a spotless lace-trimmed shirt and good wool breeches. He stepped like a dancer through the piles of Fleet’s belongings and offered his hand, his small, soft brown eyes shining with good humour. Some men one likes at once. I liked Trim at once.
‘How do you do, sir.’
‘How do you do, Mr . . . ?’
‘Trim. Just Trim,’ he smiled. ‘The barber.’ He jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. ‘We’re neighbours.’
Trim’s cell was on the next landing, directly above mine. He’d rented a large, well-proportioned room with two neatly made beds tucked against the far wall, though the second lay empty. The last of the sun’s rays gleamed off the spotless floor and large bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling, the clean, fresh scent of marjoram and meadowsweet masking a faint trace of tobacco and the fusty smell of damp wood that clung to all the prison quarters.
Trim placed a chair in the centre of the room, and motioned for me to sit down. I walked over, the floorboards creaking and bowing underfoot. It was clear that he took pride in his business – the room was as neat and clean as a barber’s in Mayfair, but he could do nothing about the general rottenness of the wards. He brought over a copper bowl of steaming hot water scented with lavender, laying it carefully on a small table next to a block of soap and a mirror with an ebony handle. He tied an apron about his waist and pulled a silver razor from its case.
Remembering my vow not to lose any more money, I leaned forward. ‘This is kind of you . . . but I’m not certain I can afford . . .’
He stopped me with a wave of his hand. ‘On the house. We’ll be drinking at your expense tonight, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, throwing a sheet across me and tucking it into my collar. ‘You should look your best for the occasion.’
He washed my face with the scented water and began working the soap into my skin with firm, expert fingers. I closed my eyes and settled back, relaxing for the first time since stepping through the Lodge gate that morning.
And then he put the blade to my throat.
‘Mr Hawkins . . . ?’
I opened my eyes. My hand was squeezed tight about Trim’s wrist, the blade shoved violently away from my neck. For a second I fought the urge to dash the razor to the ground and strike him hard.
‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said again, softly. Carefully. ‘Is all well, sir?’
I blinked, and took a deep breath. Dropped my hand. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. My face flushed with embarrassment.
‘Nothing to forgive,’ Trim smiled, his eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and concern. ‘You’ve had a shock, I think?’
My fingers reached for the bump on my head. ‘I was set upon, last night. A cutpurse put a knife to my throat.’
‘Ah.’ He put the razor down with a soft clatter. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
My story tumbled out – everything that had happened to me since I’d left Moll’s for home the night before. A great deal, it transpired.
Trim shook his head in sympathy. ‘You are bearing up remarkably well, under the circumstances. Admirable. But here, I have something that may help.’ He poured some wine into a small pan and placed it on the stove, then stepped over to a set of shelves filled with glass bottles and stone pots. He ran his fingers over the jars then began tipping ingredients into a pestle and mortar. ‘What bad luck you’ve had,’ he commiserated over his shoulder.
‘It was my own fault. I should have been more careful.’
He added the ground-up powder into the pan. A warm, spiced aroma filled the room. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself. You weren’t to know the boy would trick you.’
‘Perhaps God is punishing me,’ I muttered, surprising myself. Those were my father’s words falling from my lips.
‘Punishing you . . . ?’ Trim ladled the wine into a wooden bowl and handed it to me with a frown. ‘What on earth for?’
I breathed in the steam, caught the soothing scent of cloves and cinnamon. I smiled. ‘For having too much fun.’
‘Hah!’ He eyed me appraisingly. ‘I can imagine.’
Whatever Trim had mixed into the wine it did me good, as he’d promised, and I was soon relaxed enough to bear the touch of his razor against my skin without flinching. Once I was shaved he trimmed my hair close to my scalp to keep away the lice and then he washed and dressed the worst of my cuts and bruises, applying a soothing balm of his own recipe. For all this he wouldn’t take a farthing. No wonder he was in a debtors’ gaol.
Trim was busy sweeping the floor when a porter arrived with his supper carried over from Titty Doll’s, the chophouse above the Oak. Trim asked me to join him and I accepted gratefully, mouth watering as the porter slapped down dishes of dressed mackerel with gooseberries, boiled beef and artichokes and cold ham with salad. The meat did not look in its prime but I hadn’t eaten all day – and it had been a very long day.
While we were eating I asked Trim about some of the people I’d met in the gaol. After all, who knows more about a man’s true character than a barber? Who sees a man at his most vulnerable and yet his most relaxed? This is the way stories are spilt – drowsily, in a scented room.
Perhaps because they were his customers, Trim was more charitable in his observations than I might have been. The Reverend Andrew Woodburn was a good man who did his best for the Common Side. A little weak? Oh . . . (a tilt of the head, a gentle prodding of the mackerel) perhaps, but his heart was in the right place. Widow Roberts – you found her proud, Mr Hawkins? Aloof? But then she had suffered a great loss. And the stain of the poor captain’s suicide . . . one had to admire her for holding her head high. Joseph Cross was unruly and coarse, yes – but that was the drink. If he were ever sober he might be a different man altogether; who could say? And of course Gilbert Hand was as slippery as an eel but what energy! what industry! As for Acton, well, there was no denying the man was a bully, and could be vicious, yes – truly vicious. A short pause. A large swig of beer. But . . . another pause. Well, they say Bambridge up at the Fleet gaol is worse still.
‘You’re a generous man, Trim,’ I said, helping myself to a sugar cake. ‘And what of Mary Acton? Is she . . . cheerful company?’
‘She’s . . .’ Trim thought for a moment. ‘Spirited.’
I licked the sugar from my fingers. ‘Indeed.’
‘Her father was a prisoner here some years back. On the Common Side.’
‘Yes, Mr Fleet told me.’
Trim’s shoulders stiffened. He pushed away his plate. ‘Mr Fleet . . . Yes.’
I waited, the silence hanging in the air. When Trim didn’t elaborate I leaned forward. ‘I’ve heard a great deal of my cell mate.’ None of it good. ‘What sort of a man is he, Trim? Can I trust him?’
Trim picked up his knife and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Fleet is a fine gentleman,’ he said loudly, while jabbing his knife towards the floor in a pointed fashion. ‘Most agreeable.’ And then, under his breath, ‘With excellent hearing.’
Of course. I had forgotten Trim’s room was directly above my own. And the floorboards were rotten.
Supper over, we scraped our chairs back from the table. Trim patted his stomach with a contented air. ‘Not bad for Mrs Mack,’ he conceded, and burped behind his hand. ‘Good preparation for a night’s drinking.’
‘Will my six shillings cover the whole ward?’ There were twenty men at least in my building, and the garnish was meant to buy a drink for every one of them.
‘It will add nicely to the pot,’ he smiled.
‘And if I refuse to pay?’
Trim rose and stretched. ‘Then I’m afraid we let the black dog walk.’
‘The black dog . . . ?’
‘Old gaol tradition. Your ward mates grab hold of you, pin you to the ground, tear all your clothes off and, well . . .’ He grinned. ‘Then you pay your garnish.’
‘Ah.’
‘Funniest one I ever saw was your new chum, Mr Fleet,’ he added.
‘He refused to pay?’
Trim shook his head. ‘Refused to call it garnish. Stood in the middle of the Tap Room, stripped himself naked then strode up to the bar and ordered two guineas’ worth of drinks for the whole room.’ He paused. ‘I must say, for a man of his years, he’s kept himself in good order.’
I promised Trim I would join him shortly in the Tap Room and returned to my room to change my shirt. Fleet was lying stretched out upon his bed, thankfully still dressed in his banyan, though his stockings and breeches lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He was smoking a pipe and reading a dog-eared pamphlet called
A TREATISE on the USE of
FLOGGING
In Venereal Affairs
Translated into English
By a PHYSICIAN
To which is Added
A TREATISE OF HERMAPHRODITES.
He had made notes in the margin, with exclamation points.
I could feel his eyes upon my back as I stripped off my shirt and took out the clothes Charles had sent.
‘You’ve taken a nasty beating, Mr Hawkins.’
‘I was attacked last night.’ I turned to face him, buttoning up the plain white shirt. ‘They took my purse. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Is that so.’ He breathed out a long stream of smoke. There was no surprise in his voice; no question. ‘Fate can be cruel.’
‘I don’t believe in Fate,’ I said, crossly.
My response – or perhaps my ill-temper – seemed to please him enormously, but he said nothing, just stared at me in that strange, intense way of his. I felt a sudden desire to strike him, or run from the room. I had never met a man who could provoke so easily, with just a look, or a knowing smile. But I had brewed up enough drama for one day. I held up the suit Charles had sent over. The coat was a little worn but the breeches and waistcoat were new and all were a better quality than the clothes Moll had lent me. They were also black – without a gold button or silver stitch to be seen. I slipped them on and was confronted with a terrible truth.
‘My God. I look like a country parson.’ I fixed my wig and hat and turned away from the glass before I saw my father in it. ‘Will you join us in the Tap Room, Mr Fleet?’
‘And ruin your evening? No, I think I shall stay here and work.’ He gave me a sly smile and returned to his pamphlet.
Chapter Six
It was dark as I crossed the Park towards the Tap Room and I didn’t see Kitty until she called out to me. She was standing hidden beneath the tree outside Acton’s house.
‘How’s Jack?’
She pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders and gave a tight shake of her head.
‘Are you heading for home? When do the turnkeys lock the gates?’
‘Soon,’ she said, her glance sliding towards the Lodge. ‘But I sleep here in the prison. Mrs Bradshaw lets me bed down in the coffeehouse.’
‘Oh! Are you a prisoner? Locked in with your family?’ I had assumed Kitty had family in the Borough, and only worked in the gaol during the day.
‘I have no family. Mr Fleet takes care of me.’ She caught my expression. ‘Not in that fashion. Ugh! He’s my guardian. And five and forty,’ she added, sticking out her tongue in revulsion. ‘He’s providing me with an education. Oh, stop looking at me like that,’ she said, smacking my shoulder. ‘A proper education. History, natural philosophy, languages. Trade. He’s promised that when we’re done there won’t be a single man in England who’ll marry me.’
It took me a moment to catch her meaning. ‘You don’t wish to marry?’
‘Of course not. I shall take lovers and—’
The door to Mr Acton’s lodgings opened and Mrs Roberts stepped out, her hood thrown back from her face. She flinched when she saw us together then frowned in disapproval, drawing herself straight. ‘Kitty. How many times must I scold you for this? You should not be out here alone, speaking with strangers. It’s not seemly.’
I bowed. ‘Good evening, madam. Thomas Hawkins. We met this morning.’
She stared at me as if I were an ill-made suit she would like to return to its tailor. ‘I know who you are, sir. And what you are, more to the point. Kitty, run along. I have something I wish to say to Mr Hawkins. Run along, child.’
Kitty rolled her eyes at me then ran off towards the Oak ward, lifting her skirts out of the dirt and showing a fine pair of ankles.
‘She’s a lively girl,’ I said.
Mrs Roberts narrowed her eyes. ‘She’s not as worldly as she pretends. And still a maid,’ she added, sharply. ‘I hope to make something of her, if I can keep her unspoiled.’ She took a step back as if to view me better. ‘Are you a gentleman, sir? I hear wildly differing reports. Mr Woodburn seems quite taken with you, and yet you’ve been seen with that . . .’ She glanced up towards my cell window. ‘Mr Fleet is a poor choice of companion. It does not reflect well upon you.’
I gave a sigh of frustration. ‘I have little choice in the matter, madam. We’re not all rich widows. In any case, I’m sure you are wise enough to ignore idle gossip.’
‘I am also wise enough to see beyond surface charm, sir,’ she replied. ‘One day, when I am free of this place, I hope to take Kitty with me. She will
make an excellent lady’s maid.’ She set her jaw. ‘But not if she is ruined by some unscrupulous rake who will toss her aside like a spent pipe the moment he’s done with her.’
I laughed in astonishment. ‘Mrs Roberts. I can assure you . . .’
‘You do not fool me, sir,’ she snapped.
‘And you should not judge me by your husband’s poor standards, madam.’
She slapped me hard across the cheek.
We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. And then she flung her hands to her face. ‘Oh! Why did I do that? It is just . . . you are so . . .’ She backed away, then turned and fled across the yard, her black silk skirts trailing behind her.
I was still rubbing my cheek when I heard a low, mocking laugh cut through the darkness. I peered into the gloom. Something rustled quietly – a whisper of a noise – then fell still. The hairs rose along my neck.
‘Is someone there? Fleet? Mr Hand?’
Silence. A cold breeze swept through the yard, lifting clouds of grit and dust into the air. Perhaps I had imagined it. I turned on my heel and walked quickly to the Tap Room. If someone was there, let them play their games alone in the shadows.
I was greeted with a loud cheer as I entered the Tap Room, Trim slapping my back and drawing me inside with a flourish as if to say, ‘Here he is! The man of the moment.’ Anyone might think I had passed an exam, or won some profitable new position, not been thrown into one of the most notorious gaols in London. Yes indeed. Well done, Mr Hawkins, I thought wryly to myself. You have excelled yourself.
I went straight up to the bar, where Henry Chapman, the tapster, was waiting for me. He was by no means as pleasing on the eye as Mary Acton – he had a low, surly manner and a piggish face. And he was Acton’s man; I could tell just by the swagger of him. A ‘trusty’, like Cross – prisoners who worked for the governor. I slapped down my six shillings garnish and he slid it quickly into his palm as if it might dissolve before his eyes.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 9
