The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  I laughed and raced down the stairs towards Charles and freedom. It was only later that I questioned the wisdom of stirring a hornet’s nest. As for clever games, I should have guessed that Fleet was the master of those. But by the time I realised that, it was much too late.

  Chapter Eight

  When I reached the yard Charles threw his arms about me. ‘Tom. My God, what ill luck. I can scarce believe it. Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, though in truth I was bruised from head to foot, and the bump at the base of my skull still throbbed whenever I turned my head. ‘Thank you for these,’ I added, sweeping a hand over my black suit. ‘I look almost respectable.’

  ‘Almost,’ Charles smiled, but his eyes were sad. ‘Mr Acton.’ He turned to the warden and gave a polite incline of his head. ‘Would you permit me to take Mr Hawkins out into the Borough – perhaps to the George?’

  Pleasure sparked in Acton’s cunning blue eyes, quickly dampened. Oh, to be asked a favour by a man of true standing and good reputation! To have the power of yea or nay over him! ‘My regrets, Mr Buckley.’ He widened his hands as if the decision were not of his choosing. ‘Mr Hawkins was only brought in yesterday and I don’t yet have his measure. I’m sure he’s an honest gentleman . . .’

  Charles looked offended. ‘There is no doubt of it,’ he shot back, which was good of him under the circumstances, and not entirely accurate.

  ‘. . . but I can’t permit him to wander in and out of my Castle as he pleases, especially on court day. The other prisoners . . .’ Acton gestured at the men and women peering out from the windows above us. Many of them were indeed glowering in envy at my release into the yard. But this was not the real reason for Acton’s refusal. This was about exercising his control over Sir Philip’s man. Reminding everyone who was truly in charge of the Marshalsea.

  Charles, however, seemed oblivious to this. ‘Would a donation to the prison reassure you, Mr Acton?’ he asked, pulling half a crown out of his purse. My fingers began to itch. ‘I will vouch for him.’

  ‘And will you vouch for his twenty pounds of debt, Buckley? If he runs?’ Acton tilted his head, genuinely interested.

  Charles sighed – in truth his whole body seemed to sigh in upon itself, so that he appeared to shrink a good few inches before my eyes.

  Acton bared his teeth, amused. ‘Perhaps not such great friends, after all . . . ?’

  I suppose it was too much to dream – to be allowed to walk out of the Lodge gate and back into the Borough on my first day in gaol. Trim had explained to me the night before that Acton allowed some of the more trusted prisoners out into the town – with a guard – so they could manage their affairs and keep enough money flowing into their pockets to pay him their rent. It made good sense in other ways – gave him a reputation for gentlemanlike behaviour to counter all those rumours in the Southwark bars of cruelty and sickness and worse. And it kept the prisoners on their best behaviour, on the Master’s Side at least. No one wanted to lose their privileges.

  On the other hand, if a prisoner escaped from the Marshalsea then as governor Acton would be held responsible for their debts. And to be fair he was right to mistrust me. Now I had spent a night in his Castle I would have fled to the Mint or back to Moll’s . . . anywhere, given the chance. I was only one small stumble away from the Common Side. If Acton took against me. If Fleet grew tired of me. I had not forgotten those pitiful cries rising up into the sky last night – the screams of the damned. So yes, I would have run if Acton had let me out of the prison that morning. My God, I would have run and never looked back.

  As all the wards were locked and the Tap Room closed, we had no choice but to head for the Palace Court building. Passing beyond the Court porch we found that Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse was also closed, so we carried on upstairs towards Mack’s chophouse, Titty Doll’s, squeezing past lawyers and clerks and creditors waiting to be called back to court, arguing on the landings, papers clutched to their chests or waved as weapons in each other’s faces. Their voices echoed from the walls and all said the same thing. Money. Who has it, who owes it, how can we make some more? Your client owes me three pounds and ten shillings. We were promised three guineas last month. To sign this document? Threepence, sir. He expects his aunt to leave him twenty pounds and I have it on good authority she is taken ill, very ill indeed. One would think there were no other conversation to be had in the world, no other thought in a man’s head. And there wasn’t – not here.

  ‘Mr Hawkins!’ Mr Woodburn called, peering down from the highest landing. He waved his broad-brimmed hat over the banister. ‘And is that the Reverend Charles Buckley I spy with you? Bless my soul! You are acquainted, sirs?’

  Charles gave a low curse then called out, pleasantly, ‘Why, Mr Woodburn! A good day to you, sir.’

  We pushed our way towards him, up the stairs and past the Oak – the women’s ward. I cast a longing glance towards the thick double doors. I had yet to meet the more genteel women debtors – the Tap Room was too low a place, fit more for ladies of the town. I didn’t expect them to visit Fleet for afternoon tea, either. Sadly the entrance to the Oak was locked tight while court was in session.

  I supposed at some point my own case would be heard and I would be forced to throw myself on the mercy of Mr Fletcher, my landlord, who was furious with me for fucking his wife – or for not fucking her. Either way, I did not expect him to be in a forgiving mood. I wondered again who could have written that poisonous note to him . . . but then it slipped my mind, and I did not think of it again. It was foolish of me to forget it.

  ‘My dear sirs,’ Woodburn sighed when we reached the final landing. He had an arm about young Ben Carter’s shoulder, clutching him tight as if he might slide to the floor. I didn’t recognise the boy at first, he was so hunched in upon himself. They made quite a pair: the old, well-fed cleric in his wilfully shabby clothes and the boy, too thin, too serious, too wary for his age.

  Woodburn clasped both of Charles’ hands in his, releasing Ben who swayed on the spot, exhausted.

  ‘I’m sorry about Jack,’ I said in a quiet voice. ‘He was a brave lad.’

  He gazed up at me, with red-rimmed eyes. I had the impression he did not share my opinion of his brother. ‘I’ve a message for you.’

  ‘From Mr Hand?’

  ‘No, sir.’ There was a slurred, vacant tone to his voice, as if shock and grief had wrung all the life from him. ‘From the ghost. From Captain Roberts.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I stared at him, astonished, and started to smile.

  A flash of anger. ‘I swear it! On my soul!’ His fists bunched at his sides.

  ‘Very well, Ben,’ I said, gently. The poor boy had been through enough – it cost nothing to humour him. ‘And what did he want with me?’

  His fists unclenched a little. ‘He said he must speak with you tonight. Midnight – beneath the Court porch. Alone. You mustn’t tell a soul.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Woodburn glanced over, curious.

  ‘We were just speaking of poor Jack,’ I said, remembering Fleet’s description of the chaplain. Meddlesome. ‘I’m sure he was glad to have his brother there, at the end.’

  Woodburn’s expression softened. ‘Aye, and all thanks to you, sir.’ He turned to Charles. ‘Your friend understands the true meaning of charity – a rare gift in this wicked world.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Charles coughed back the laugh forming in his throat. ‘Tom’s a veritable Lot in Sodom.’

  Woodburn nodded absently. ‘Well, I’m afraid we must leave you,’ he said, pushing the boy towards the stairs. He lowered his voice. ‘We are to visit Mr Fleet. He insists on hearing this business about a ghost and I will not have Benjamin see him alone. The man’s wicked. Wicked to the core.’

  ‘My cell mate,’ I explained to Charles.

  He stared at me in alarm. ‘You’re sharing a room with Samuel Fleet?’

  ‘Do you know him, Charles?’

  He shook his head a fraction, as if t
o say, not here.

  Woodburn was fidgeting with his collar, ill at ease. ‘What do you make of this ghost story, gentlemen? I can scarce believe it, but it is not like the boy to lie.’ He gave an anxious frown. ‘Perhaps he did see something. Scripture teaches us—’

  ‘He has just spent the night watching over his dying brother, all alone in the dark,’ Charles interrupted mildly. He patted the chaplain’s arm. ‘We would all see ghosts, would we not?’

  Woodburn did not look convinced, but he nodded all the same. ‘Aye, I’m sure you’re right. Well, best not keep the devil waiting, eh?’ He bowed and excused himself, pulling Ben along silently in his wake.

  Titty Doll’s was a large, dingy, smoke-filled room at the back of the Court Palace, on the top floor. Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse made the yard its own theatre. The Tap Room offered views – wanted or not – of the Common Side. But the windows in Titty Doll’s were high up by the ceiling, granting only snatches of sky and the occasional bird wheeling and swooping far in the distance. Of all the places to dine in the Marshalsea, this was the place to hide, to forget where you were. For that reason alone the prices were higher. Luckily for me, Charles was paying.

  With most of the prisoners locked up in their rooms the chophouse was quiet, just the soft murmur of court business and low gossip passed among a straggle of customers. A fat, sweating lawyer was slobbering over a late breakfast of glistening, fricasseed tripe and calves’ feet, while a pale-faced clerk ordered raw milk and bread from Mrs Mack.

  ‘Long night,’ he explained, rubbing his forehead with inky fingers. ‘I’m paying for it, Mrs Mack.’

  ‘No sympathy,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Lord and master’s groaning into his pillow this morning, same reason. Every morning,’ she corrected herself and smiled at us. ‘Settle yourselves, gents. With you in a moment.’

  As we moved towards a quiet table by the fire we passed a trio of young whores recovering from a night locked in with the turnkeys, ladling out glasses of punch and miming scenes from the night to one another. They nudged each other and stifled giggles as Charles passed by in his black suit and white neck scarf, but he just smiled and raised his hat.

  ‘Ladies.’

  They laughed more warmly at that and called out a menu of services, prices discounted for kind-hearted clerics such as himself. He shook his head politely. I bowed to them with a flourish once his back was turned.

  Mrs Mack returned to take our order. She was, in essence, Not Mack – tiny, round, calm, sober. Short on words. We ordered a bottle of wine from her, after which Charles lapsed into silence.

  I lit a pipe and waited. He had grown into his looks these past few years. I always thought of Charles as he was at school: plump-cheeked and bashful, brows drawn into an anxious expression, as if he were afraid of the things he did not know. But he was a man now, certain of himself and his place in the world, all his childhood worries smoothed away. Or buried, perhaps.

  The wine arrived. Charles poured himself a glass and stared into its red velvet depths. ‘I have spoken with Sir Philip.’

  Ah. I took a long gulp of wine and waited.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. He refuses to help.’ Charles pushed his wine away. He looked wretched. ‘I begged him . . .’

  ‘Please, Charles.’ I touched his arm. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m afraid he remembers you. A little too well.’

  I frowned in confusion. I was sure I had never spoken with Sir Philip in my life . . . And then I remembered – a warm spring morning a few months before. I’d been weaving my way home via Mayfair when I saw Charles from a distance, standing outside Sir Philip’s house with a boy of about sixteen, about to step into a fine carriage. I had spent the night drinking out on the river and it had seemed a tremendously good idea to shout his name down the street.

  ‘The Reverend Charles Matthew Buckley!’ I yelled heartily, just as Sir Philip puffed his way down the path.

  Charles had turned, startled. I held up my hand, and a bottle, in greeting.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ I said now, groaning at the memory. ‘What on earth did I say to him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Charles sighed. ‘I rather foolishly introduced you to his son. He told you he would be attending Oxford shortly. You asked if I had furnished him with a list of the cleanest brothels.’

  ‘A practical question.’

  Charles did not smile. ‘I bundled him into the carriage before you could do any more damage, but Sir Philip heard you. It took a long time to convince him I had never attended a brothel in my life.’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘That is not the point,’ he hissed. ‘I was a student then. A foolish boy.’ And then he chuckled, despite himself. ‘And you led me astray.’

  ‘Willingly, as I recall.’

  ‘But I could have lost my position, Tom,’ he added, softly. ‘D’you know, I swore I would have nothing more to do with you after that.’ He threw up his hands in mock despair. ‘Yet here I am.’

  ‘You’re a good friend, Charles.’

  ‘And you’re a wretched one,’ he said, then laughed and took a swig of wine. ‘But heaven help me, I’ve missed your company.’ He huddled closer. ‘So. What is to be done? How are you to pay your debts?’

  ‘I have plans . . .’ I replied, sounding vague even to myself. ‘They play backgammon under the porch here . . .’

  ‘No,’ Charles sighed, drawing the sound out until it transformed from a word into a low, exasperated moan. ‘No, no. That will not do, Tom. You cannot live in such a desperate, haphazard fashion – look where it has brought you!’

  I looked about me and caught the eye of one of the turnkeys’ whores. She winked and raised her glass.

  ‘There is nothing else to be done,’ Charles was saying, oblivious. ‘You must write to your father.’

  My eyes snapped back to his. ‘I will do no such thing.’

  ‘He would forgive you in a heartbeat . . .’

  ‘Would he indeed,’ I muttered, glaring at Charles across the table. ‘How generous. You have stayed in touch, I suppose? He always loved you best.’

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ Charles cried, exasperated. ‘Listen to my advice for once, I beg you! Don’t you understand? Your life is in danger! You are hanging by a thread.’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘If we do not pull you to safety now you will fall so far and so fast you will be lost for ever.’ He swallowed hard, then continued, more quietly. ‘Write to your father. Apologise for your mistakes and I promise you, he will welcome you back with open arms.’

  ‘My mistakes?’ I pressed my hand to my chest. ‘Mine? And what of his mistakes? My mother was not cold in her grave when he brought that woman into our home and that wretched son of hers, that venomous snake in the grass . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Charles groaned. ‘I remember. But you are the one locked in prison, not your father. Forgive me, Tom – but you can’t afford to be proud.’

  I scowled but said nothing. Charles should have known better than to mention my father. I fiddled grumpily with my pipe, packing the tobacco as he gave me his well-meaning advice. It took me a moment to realise he had stopped speaking. I glanced up to see him watching me, tears in his eyes.

  ‘I should not have abandoned you. You looked after me at school.’ He looked away. ‘I should look after you now.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I shrugged, lighting my pipe. ‘You’re not my keeper. We chose different paths, that’s all; you mustn’t blame yourself for that.’

  ‘But I’m afraid for you, Tom. Men die so quickly in this place and you have a knack for trouble. You must watch yourself with Acton; he can turn like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Do you know what he was, before he came to the Marshalsea? A butcher! Fine training for a governor. You have no idea, the blood on that man’s hands.’

  I poured myself another glass of wine and drained it quickly. ‘So why does your dear patron employ such a monster?’

  A delicate flicker of shame crossed Charles’
face. ‘He keeps the peace.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And makes a profit,’ he admitted, reluctantly. ‘More than you can imagine.’ He was about to say more when Mrs Mack arrived with a fresh bottle of claret. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. ‘Sir Philip did have one suggestion on that score.’ He bit his lip. ‘But are you sure you will not write to your father, Tom?’

  I scowled at him through the pipe smoke.

  ‘Very well,’ he sighed. He looked about him and lowered his voice. ‘You have heard about Captain Roberts?’

  ‘I am sleeping in his bed, Charles.’

  He shivered. ‘Yes, of course. Well. Sir Philip is under a great deal of pressure from his widow to look into the matter.’

  ‘The matter of his murder.’

  Charles hushed me with a look. ‘It’s not wise to speak of this in here,’ he muttered. ‘But yes, he would like the business resolved. All this talk of ghosts and murder . . .’

  ‘Bad for profits?’ I suggested in a sour tone. ‘Poor Sir Philip.’

  Charles blushed. ‘You’re right. I should not have mentioned it—’

  ‘No, no,’ I interrupted hurriedly. ‘If there is a deal to be made I’ll hear it. Tell me. What does he want of me?’

  ‘He . . . he wants you to unmask the killer.’

  I blinked, surprised. ‘Unmask the killer? How in God’s heaven would I do that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Charles confessed. ‘But I would start with your roommate.’ He pursed his lips in disgust. ‘Of all the men to share a cell with . . .’

  ‘And if I succeed?’

  Mrs Mack returned to the table again, this time with our dinner: a plate of oysters and a shoulder of lamb with cauliflowers. She must have noticed that we stopped talking whenever she appeared but she paid us no mind.

  ‘It’s no good speaking in here,’ Charles said, after she’d gone. ‘I will send a letter through Gilbert Hand tonight. Be sure the seal isn’t broken.’ He chewed unhappily on a bit of gristle then washed it down with a mouthful of claret. ‘I still think you should write to your father.’