Kitty threw her bucket and brush to the floor and stormed over to the cold hearth, averting her gaze from my side of the room. She took a tinderbox from her apron pocket and began striking the flint very hard against the steel.
Fleet gave a wicked grin. ‘Excellently done, Hawkins. I’ll wager you’ve warned Miss Sparks off men and marriage for two years at least. A good thing too, Kitty. I have greater plans for you than a life of drudgery surrounded by squalling brats.’
‘Drudgery?’ Kitty was on her hands and knees building the fire. She held up her palms, covered in greasy dark ash. ‘Perhaps I have my own plans.’
I slid from the bed, every muscle screaming in protest, and stood at the window, stretching as best I could. The yard was empty save for Jenings the nightwatchman finishing his shift, narrow shoulders hunched against the cold. The wind must have whipped through his old, thin bones last night. Joseph Cross appeared in the Lodge gate, swigging from a tankard. From this distance he looked small enough to squash beneath my thumb and fingers – a satisfying thought. He shouted something coarse at Jenings while grabbing at his cock, his baying laughter echoing off the walls of the gaol.
I watched for a moment longer but no one else came out into the yard though I could see from the sun that it must be past eight o’clock. I turned back from the window. ‘Are we not free to leave our rooms?’
Fleet was leaning against the wall by the hearth, watching Kitty as she worked. He behaved quite differently in her company, his expression lighter, indulgent even. Kitty had called him her guardian and he did seem protective of her, in his own fashion. But if she were indeed his ward, why keep her working here in the Marshalsea? Fleet was clearly not in prison for debt – he could afford to send her somewhere safe.
‘What news from the night?’ he asked her.
She paused in her work, leaning back on her heels. ‘Three pulled dead from the sick ward. And Jack . . .’ She turned back to the fire.
Jack Carter. Woodburn had said the boy would not last the night, but still the shock of it ran through me. He had been murdered in front of my eyes. The whole prison had stood and watched . . . and done nothing. ‘How does his brother fare, Kitty?’ I asked.
She blew softly on the kindling, the flames flickering and dancing along the wood. ‘He stayed by Jack’s side in the Strong Room all night. It shook him. Very bad.’ She glanced up at me for the first time. ‘But he is grateful to you.’
Fleet looked startled. ‘Benjamin Carter . . . grateful to you? What on earth for?’
‘There’s no mystery,’ I replied. ‘I gave the boy half a shilling to watch over his brother in the Strong Room last night.’
‘But . . .’ He stared at me across the jumble of the room, brows furrowed. ‘What on earth did you hope to gain from it?’
‘It was for charity, sir. To give them both some comfort before the end.’
Fleet scrunched up his face, as if he had just bitten hard into an unripe lemon. ‘Half a shilling? For charity?’ he yelped. ‘What the devil were you thinking, flinging your coins about in such a foolish manner? Fuck the stars and all the heavens . . . If I’d wanted a condescending idiot for a roommate I would have asked Mr Jenings.’
‘Well. Forgive me if I’ve caused offence, sir,’ I muttered.
Fleet grunted, irritable, as if he might consider it.
Kitty clapped the coal dust from her hands and rose from the fireplace. ‘Ben saw the ghost last night.’
‘What’s this?’ Fleet rounded on her at once. ‘When? Where?’
‘The stroke of midnight.’
‘The stroke of midnight. Impeccable timing.’
‘It walked right past the Strong Room, Ben said. Knocking on the walls and crying out for vengeance.’ She rapped her knuckles on the wall, knock . . . knock . . . knock. ‘Don’t laugh,’ she said, glaring at Fleet. ‘Poor Ben half-died of fright.’
‘Indeed? Which half?’
Kitty ignored him. ‘He ran out into the Common yard and there it stood, all pale and terrible in the moonlight, with a noose hung about its neck. It cried out, “Murder! Oh, dreadful murder! Avenge me!”’ (She acted this part very well, with her hands outstretched.) ‘And then it vanished in front of his eyes.’
‘In front of his eyes, Kitty?’
‘He called the alarm and Mr Jenings searched the whole Common yard. He found a handkerchief dropped by the wall, embroidered with the initials J.R. It was wet with blood.’
Fleet snorted, then began pacing the room in a restless way, kicking aside books and clothes in his path. ‘Captain John Roberts, returned from the grave.’ He stuck his hands in his banyan pockets. ‘I should like a word or two with him.’
I frowned. ‘You don’t believe this nonsense, surely?’
‘It isn’t nonsense,’ Kitty said, wounded.
‘Belief is not the issue,’ Fleet said. ‘Facts – we must have facts.’ He clapped his hands together sharply, as if summoning them to him. ‘Where’s Benjamin now, Kitty?’
‘Next door in the chapel. Mr Woodburn is saying prayers for Jack’s soul.’
Fleet curled his lip. ‘Damned meddlesome fool. We must bring the boy here at once, before the memory fades.’
I thought of Acton, his bloody fist wrapped about the gaol. ‘Before he’s silenced.’
‘Aye, indeed,’ Fleet grunted. ‘Kitty. Run and fetch him for me. Tell him I’ll pay if he comes to me right away.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe half a shilling is the current extortionate rate.’
With Kitty gone I summoned the courage to defy Fleet and closed the window, shutting out the icy chill at last. I soon realised my mistake. Fleet’s gentle, indulgent side had left the room along with Kitty. I swear I could feel his anger burning my skin even before I turned to face him.
‘Open it,’ he said, in a low, dark voice.
For one foolish moment I considered challenging him – just to see what he would do. I was twenty years younger and almost a head taller. Then I caught his expression and I thought, he’ll murder you, Tom. That’s what he’ll do.
I opened the window.
Fleet grinned.
I picked up the black coat Charles had sent me and stalked to the door with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘Well. I will not sit here and freeze to death. I shall take a turn in the Park.’
‘You’re half-frozen so you’ll take a turn outside? Hardly rational, sir.’ He shook his head like a disappointed tutor. ‘You can’t go out; it’s Friday. Sit yourself by the fire, smoke a pipe and I’ll call for breakfast. And stop sulking. Can’t abide it.’
‘Friday?’ I sat down by the hearth, pointedly rubbing my hands and holding my palms up to the flames.
‘Court day. No prisoners allowed in the yard. Upsets all those delicate gentleman lawyers. Poor, sensitive fellows.’ He stuck his head out of the window and called down to a porter to fetch us some rolls, milk porridge and coffee, then began prowling the room again. Once in a while he would pause, pick up some discarded shirt or tankard or letter and stare at it for a moment, before dropping it somewhere else. His idea of housekeeping, I supposed.
During one turn of the room he upended a boot and an old pistol clattered out on to the floor. He held it up by the barrel. ‘Here you are.’ He kissed it fondly, then dropped it back in the boot and returned to the window. ‘I am awake,’ he pronounced, stretching out his arms and yawning in an extravagant fashion. ‘I have been asleep these past weeks. Hibernating like a great, wild bear.’
‘Or a hedgehog.’
‘Indeed. Like a great, wild hedgehog.’
The porter arrived with our breakfast and Fleet joined me by the fire. I cupped the dish of coffee in my hands and blew gently on the surface, recognising its rich, bitter aroma; this came from Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse. The scent transported me back to the day before, standing by the window as Acton raised his whip for the first time. His boot crunching down upon the boy’s back.
Fleet nudged my plate. ‘You should eat, sir.
’
I picked up my porridge and ate slowly while my roommate lit a pipe and settled back in his chair. He’d said we had much to do today, but I chose not to ask him what he meant by it. I did not work for Mr Fleet and he did not own my time, no matter what he thought. But I was curious to hear Ben’s ghost story and until then we were trapped together. After that I thought I might take myself upstairs and spend the day with Trim – I couldn’t leave the ward building but our rooms were left unlocked, at least.
I glanced up to find Fleet studying me in that strange way of his. It really was the most uncomfortable experience. Something about those peat-black eyes, almost unnatural in their darkness. They were not truly black, of course – no man’s are. They would be brown, the darkest brown if you stepped close enough to look. But what sane man would do such a thing? There were secrets hiding in those eyes; private jokes and sharp observations. They were not the eyes of an innocent man.
The eyes of a killer, then . . . ? Perhaps – but not a reckless one. Not a bold and vicious bully such as Acton. Fleet was not a hot-tempered killer. If he wanted a man dead he would plot and plan and wait patiently for the perfect moment to strike. This is what I believed of my cell mate after one night in gaol. And in this – if nothing else – I was proved right.
‘Why are you locked away here, Mr Fleet?’ I asked, if only to break the spell of his stare. ‘Not for debt, clearly.’
‘Clearly,’ he acknowledged, through a stream of smoke. He scratched his jaw, fingers rasping against days-old black and grey stubble, before selecting a book from the floor. He opened it at the frontispiece:
THE TRUE AND GENUINE
ACCOUNT OF
MATTHEW DANCE
HIGHWAYMAN AND THIEF
After a short passage expounding upon Dance’s infamous life and death, came the following words:
LONDON:
Printed for, and Sold by, S. FLEET in Russel-Street, Covent-Garden; MDCCXXV.
‘You’re a printer.’
‘Printer, bookseller, translator. Scribbler.’ Fleet tossed the book back on the floor. ‘Purveyor of obscenity, murder and perversion in the main.’
And then I remembered the little shop with the green door at the far end of Russell Street, only a short stride from Moll’s. Books and pamphlets piled high in the window and strewn across the floor, just as they were here. ‘The Cocked Pistol!’ I exclaimed, recalling the sign above the door. Proprietor, S. Fleet. ‘You have an excellent shop, sir.’
Fleet inclined his head in regal acknowledgement.
‘How did it lead you here?’
He paused, recalling some painful memory – or composing a fresh lie. ‘I printed a pamphlet for a friend last winter. It was regarded as somewhat . . . inflammatory. When I refused to give up his name I was charged with seditious libel and slung in here to rot.’
A pretty story, I thought, and probably no more than that. I was not sure I believed in Fleet’s loyalty to anything save himself. ‘Libel? Against whom?’
Fleet shrugged. ‘Parliament. The Church. The king.’ He sucked his pipe with a thoughtful air. ‘It was my own fault. Gave them the excuse they’d been waiting for. I know too much, Mr Hawkins. Too many years spent taking down confessions from murderers and thieves and whores . . . and hearing all about the fine ladies and gentlemen who crossed their paths and their beds. It’s not wise, to know so many secrets.’ He smiled. ‘But it keeps life interesting.’
At nine o’clock the doors to the Lodge were pushed open and carriages and horses began to stream through the gates, clattering into the cobbled yard. Turnkeys and porters rushed about as the lawyers chattered idly to one another, black robes billowing in the sharp September wind. Acton strolled among them in his bright red waistcoat, patting shoulders, shaking hands and laughing, the very image of a genial host – though I saw a couple of men turn away to avoid his greeting. John Grace, Acton’s head clerk, followed stiffly behind his master, clutching the black ledger from the Lodge and snapping orders to the servants. There was something thin and bloodless about him that turned my stomach; or perhaps it was just the memory of him sending me into that pox-infected room the day before – his cold indifference to another man’s fate.
A few minutes later a gentleman of about thirty years of age rode through the gates on a fine black stallion, grinning and waving cheerfully at those he passed. The whole gaol seemed to sit up straighter as he jumped down from his horse. His clothes were well-cut and of the latest fashion, with good lace cuffs and fine stitching at the pockets. He carried a gold-topped cane, which he used to get the attention of a nearby lawyer, prodding him in a playful way. They talked for a moment, the lawyer whispering in the other man’s ear. Then they laughed and shook hands.
Fleet had joined me at the window. ‘Edward Gilbourne. Deputy prothonotary.’
‘What the devil does that mean?’
‘Glorified clerk.’
I frowned. ‘I thought John Grace held that position.’
‘Grace is head clerk of the gaol. Gilbourne works for the Palace Court. Process must be followed, Mr Hawkins. You can’t just throw men into prison and let them rot. That would be cruel. They must have their time in court. Their case must be heard, their creditors must be called to account . . .’ He gave a mirthless grin. ‘Then they can rot.’
Men were crowding round Gilbourne now, eager to secure his attention. He nodded politely to them all, but seemed anxious to leave the yard. ‘He’s popular with the lawyers.’
‘Powerful,’ Fleet corrected. ‘He controls the order of the day. Which he can change, if he chooses. For a fee.’
‘He’s young for such a post.’
‘A prodigy,’ Fleet shrugged, sarcastic, and sat back down by the fire. He had seen enough, it seemed. A few moments later Mrs Roberts crossed the yard, weaving her way through the huddles of clerks and lawyers straight towards Edward Gilbourne. They spoke briefly, urgently, Gilbourne’s face filled with concern. For a moment he touched her arm and Mrs Roberts placed her black-gloved hand on his. Then Acton joined them, clapping Gilbourne hard on the back. Gilbourne dropped his hand at once, but I noticed he and Mrs Roberts shared a brief, knowing glance before she bowed and moved away. Were they lovers, I wondered? I touched my cheek, remembering the sharp slap she’d given me the night before.
The lawyers and clerks were drifting towards the Palace Court when a large, gilded carriage raced into the yard, followed closely by a gentleman in a black suit and hat, riding a chestnut colt. As the carriage rolled to a halt, liveried servants jumped down and opened the door, pulling the steps to the ground and clearing a path to the Court. Acton stood to one side, bowing deeply as a heavily wigged and powdered gentleman squeezed his way out, the carriage tilting with his weight as he stepped down. Flunkies hovered about him, ready to be flattened if he fell.
‘Sir Philip Meadows,’ Fleet intoned from the fireplace. ‘Knight’s Marshal.’ How he knew this without looking I couldn’t say. Perhaps he recognised the rattle of the carriage.
I was so preoccupied with Sir Philip’s grand entrance that I barely noticed the gentleman in the black suit as he swung down from his horse. It was only when he removed his hat and peered up at the prison windows that I realised who it was.
‘Charles!’ I cried, leaning out of the window.
He grinned when he saw me, and waved his hat, hand shielding his eyes from the sun. And then he paused, and I watched his smile vanish, as he remembered where we were. ‘One moment,’ he called, holding up a finger. ‘I will speak with the governor.’
I nodded, unable to speak. Charles was my friend and my brother. His good opinion mattered to me more than anyone else’s in the world. For him to see me like this, reduced to a common debtor, trapped in his patron’s gaol, was so shaming it was as if I had been grabbed by the throat and shaken.
Charles and I had taken different paths in life but until today I had considered us as equals. Indeed I had thought myself the luckier soul – living by my wits
and free from the stultifying life of a curate. I could never be the man he was – I didn’t have his patience or his even temper – but I had always planned to turn my fortunes around one day. Well, planned is perhaps too strong a term. I had dreamed of turning my fortunes around. Talked of it. Swore I would do it. But planned it? That would have required time and concentration and work, God help me. It would have meant making a decision one day and keeping to it the next. How was that to be achieved? I couldn’t fathom it.
And so here I was, a prisoner in a debtors’ gaol – relying on the kindness of an old friend who had already given me all his savings. Savings I had lost and had little hope of returning. Standing at the cell window, watching as Charles pleaded with Acton to let me out into the yard, I understood at last how far I had fallen. How deeply I had failed.
‘Sir Philip’s curate,’ Fleet said, startling me. He had slipped behind me without making a sound. ‘You know him?’
Charles was gesturing up at the window while the warden shook his head and shrugged his apology. Even Sir Philip himself paused and frowned up in my direction for a moment, before lumbering away with a fat pout of disapproval on his face.
There was a dance of silver from Charles’ hand to Acton’s and suddenly the warden was nodding and smiling. ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he boomed, and beckoned me down.
I needed no further encouragement. I sprang from the window and gathered up my jacket.
Fleet nodded his consent. ‘Very well, run along. I shall interrogate the boy alone.’
I had almost forgotten Benjamin Carter and his ghost story. I was sure it would be diverting, but it could not compete with seeing Charles, and escaping my cell. I grabbed Fleet’s hand, suddenly grateful now that I was free to leave his company.
‘Don’t be too long,’ he warned. There was a sharp edge to his voice, a reminder of the debt I owed him. ‘This talk of Roberts coming back from the dead is foolish prattle. But someone is using it to play a game with us – and a clever one at that. Things are moving at last, Mr Hawkins, I can feel it. We shall stir this hornet’s nest together, you and I!’
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 11
