The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  I nodded swiftly. ‘Pain. Retribution. I understand. What happened?’

  ‘I was . . .’ He winced. ‘I was outwitted.’

  I bit my cheek, stifling a laugh. I think he would have confessed more willingly to murder if he could. ‘Outwitted,’ I repeated, enjoying myself for the first time all evening. ‘Impossible, surely.’

  He gave me a sour look. ‘Someone tipped a sleeping draught in my punch.’ He paused, scratched his stubble with the tip of his dagger. ‘I’d shake the rogue’s hand if I could. First time I’ve slept well in years.’ He looked away, then poked about until he found a half-empty bottle of wine.

  ‘Then why not tell people?’ I asked, as he handed me a glass filled dangerously close to the brim.

  ‘And ruin my reputation as a cold-hearted devil?’ Fleet gestured to the window. ‘It helps to be feared in a place like this. Better to be thought a murderer than a fool.’

  ‘Whoever drugged the punch must have killed Roberts.’ I peered into the glass and gave it a suspicious little sniff. ‘Or perhaps you’re lying. Perhaps you drugged yourself.’

  Fleet blinked, incredulous. ‘Drugged myself? For what possible reason?’

  ‘Perhaps you knew Roberts would be murdered that night.’

  ‘I see.’ Fleet frowned. ‘I drugged myself to avoid witnessing the terrible crime, is that it? Tell me – if you knew someone was planning to sneak into your room one night and murder your roommate, would you knock yourself unconscious?’

  I felt my grand theory dissolving. ‘Then who was it?’

  Fleet gritted his teeth, as if he were trying to imprison the next three words that escaped his lips. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you must have some notion,’ I protested. ‘Perhaps—’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fleet hissed, then collapsed miserably on the bed. He sank his head in his hands. ‘I have thought it over day and night for three months,’ he said, wearily. ‘It could have been anyone.’

  ‘Have you not asked about the prison?’

  He dropped his hands. ‘And how might I do that, without explaining what had happened?’ He rubbed his thumb deep into his palm. ‘It would spread through the gaol in moments. And everyone would know that I could be tricked. Beaten.’ He scowled. ‘I would rather let a dozen murderers go free than that.’

  ‘You jest,’ I said, without thinking.

  ‘No, Mr Hawkins,’ he replied softly. ‘I am quite serious. If you wish to survive in this gaol . . . in this world, then you must make people believe that you are the most ruthless, calculating, treacherous man they know. They must believe that you are capable of anything – the worst imaginable outrages. If your enemies learn that you are weak, they will destroy you. That is the way of the world.’

  ‘I do not wish to be thought of as ruthless or trecherous,’ I said. ‘And I don’t believe I have any enemies. Apart from Cross. And Grace.’ I frowned. ‘I suppose there may be others I don’t know about.’

  ‘Those are the most dangerous,’ Fleet said, crossing to the fire.

  I knocked back my wine then started unbuttoning the captain’s shirt and breeches. The sooner I was out of these corpse clothes the better. I slung them in a dark corner with the waistcoat and hunted out an old nightgown, wrapping it close with a wide sash. It was not as fine as Fleet’s banyan, though it was a good deal cleaner – and at least no one had died in it. ‘Why did you put me in those damned things?’ I asked, gesturing at Roberts’ clothes.

  Fleet was intent on building up the fire. ‘I thought it might provoke a reaction.’ He glanced up at me, waving the poker at my face. ‘You share a resemblance, especially in candlelight. The same colouring, the same bearing.’

  ‘What,’ I snorted, pouring myself another glass. ‘Are we in Hamlet? Did you think the killer would take one look at me and run screaming from the room, wracked with guilt?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Fleet shrugged and turned back to the fire. ‘In any case, it passed the time.’

  ‘Passed the time? You warn me that I’m dining with a murderer and then you send me off in his victim’s clothes, just to help you pass the time?’

  He blew on the kindling. ‘Passing the time is very important in gaol, believe me.’

  I glared at his back, furious. ‘Acton could have broken my neck, damn it. Thank God he didn’t even seem to notice . . .’

  ‘Acton?’ He grunted to himself. ‘No, I don’t suppose he would.’

  ‘And what must poor Catherine think of me, parading about in her dead husband’s clothes?’

  ‘Did Mrs Roberts see you? Oh dear. What a pity,’ Fleet said, with a distinct lack of remorse.

  ‘I doubt she will ever speak to me again,’ I sulked. The thought of that struck me again, harder than before. I’d begun to care for her, more than I liked to admit. Fate had been cruel to her. I wanted to help her find justice and win back her son, not for her fortune but because she deserved to be happy after all the suffering she had endured. Well. Perhaps I was a little interested in her fortune, to be honest – but it was hardly my fault that I had fallen in love with an extremely wealthy woman. The heart must be free to fly.

  ‘She near fainted with the shock,’ I added. Fleet remained unmoved. ‘It was lucky Gilbourne was there.’

  ‘Gilbourne . . . ?’ Fleet tipped a shovelful of coal on the fire, stoking it slowly. ‘And how did he react to your costume?’

  ‘He was angry on Catherine’s behalf.’

  Fleet thrust the poker deep into the fire. ‘How gallant of him,’ he muttered.

  ‘You don’t like him.’

  ‘I can count the number of men I like on one hand. Without letting go of my cock.’

  ‘I think he’s a good man. He rather likes you.’

  ‘Does he indeed . . . ?’ Fleet blinked. ‘How peculiar.’

  ‘He also warned me not to trust you.’

  ‘Quite right. You shouldn’t trust anyone in here.’ He picked up his old boot and pulled out his pistol, waving it in the air with a grin before slinging it on to his bed. ‘Vile den of filthy liars. But this is all most interesting. Fascinating!’ He beckoned me towards the fire. ‘Sit down. Tell me everything.’

  I put on a blue velvet nightcap then settled down in the chair nearest the hearth. ‘I thought you said the mind worked better in the cold.’

  ‘I don’t need you to think,’ he said. ‘In fact I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Just talk.’

  I described the whole evening at Acton’s in detail, which to my surprise was a good deal more enjoyable than the night itself. Fleet revelled in the horror of it, from Grace kicking Henry flying to Mack lying dead drunk under the table to Mary flirting and pouting and sulking her way through it all. When I came to our dance, Fleet jumped up and twirled about, capturing her perfectly. ‘Why, Mr Hawkins, your hands are like silk!’ he trilled, running his fingers down his chest and miming an indecent fit of ecstasy. Then he dropped back on the bed, fanning himself saucily with one of his pamphlets.

  ‘I thought Acton would kill me,’ I said, laughing despite myself.

  ‘Oh no, not while you can pay your rent. He guards his profits more jealously than he guards his wife. And Buckley is a powerful friend; Acton wouldn’t risk angering him. That’s why I knew it was safe to send you over in Roberts’ clothes.’ He leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘I would not put you in real danger, Tom. You must know that.’

  Of all the things Fleet had ever said to me, that surprised me the most. Stranger still – I almost believed him.

  He thrust a hand into his banyan pocket and pulled out a piece of string, a half-eaten roll, a pair of aces of the same suit and a silver watch. He tossed the first three over his shoulder and held the watch up to the light of the fire. ‘Almost two. What a day you’ve had. You must be tired.’

  ‘A little.’ I yawned and put my hands behind my head.

  He studied me for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘There’s more, isn’t there . . . ? What do you kno
w, you dog? What have you been keeping from me?’

  I grinned back at him. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘Very.’

  He rubbed his lip with his thumb, thinking, then reached out and dropped the solid silver watch into my palm. I stared at it, astounded. It was very fine, ticking quietly in my hand like a small, living thing. The outer case was intricately engraved with two birds and the initials J.H. Stolen, no doubt, or won in a cheat’s game of cards. I opened it up, squinting at the workings in the candlelight. I couldn’t find the maker’s mark in such low light but I could see and feel enough to know that the whole piece must be worth two or three pounds at least. I snapped it shut. It was wrong, I knew, to take it from Fleet, whatever his reasons for giving it. But I was twenty pounds in debt and trapped in gaol. I couldn’t afford to refuse a gift that could keep me from the Common Side for weeks. I slipped it in my pocket.

  ‘I saw the ghost.’

  He was thrilled. Jubilant. New drama to keep the boredom at bay; that was a better gift than a solid silver watch. He jumped up and began pacing the room as I described what had happened.

  ‘It’s not a real spirit.’

  ‘Well, of course it’s not!’ he cried, waving his arms. ‘That’s why it only appeared in front of terrified young boys and credulous beanpoles like Jenings.’

  ‘It had a noose round its neck and blood on its shirt . . .’

  ‘. . . but it was wearing the wrong waistcoat!’ Fleet finished, triumphantly. ‘Roberts was murdered in those clothes.’ He pointed at the blue silk waistcoat lying crumpled on the floor. ‘Which I won – with great genius I might add – in a card game the next morning. More to the point, Roberts hated that mustard waistcoat. Wouldn’t be seen dead in it. Literally.’

  ‘There are two things I don’t understand,’ I confessed. ‘Whoever that man was, he was real, flesh and blood. I picked him up and knocked the breath out of him.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘But somehow he managed to disappear into thin air. He didn’t go through the Lodge and he wasn’t in the Park, we searched everywhere. Even in the fog, we would have found him. I thought perhaps he could be a prisoner who somehow managed to slip out of his cell . . . But he looked exactly like Roberts. Someone would have spotted the similarity by now. Which brings me to the other matter. Fleet – he didn’t just look like Roberts. He was Roberts. Is it possible he has a twin brother? I can think of no other explanation.’

  Fleet smiled. ‘Can you not . . . ? Tell me, how do you know what Roberts looks like?’

  ‘From his portrait. Catherine showed it to me this afternoon; she wears it on a locket round her neck.’ And then I stopped, and thought, and the hard truth fell like a stone. The picture in Catherine’s locket wasn’t a portrait of Roberts. It was a portrait of the man hired to play his ghost. ‘Oh God. I’m an idiot.’

  ‘I’ve suspected her for a while,’ Fleet admitted. ‘But I thought it best to let the whole thing play itself out. Didn’t see any harm in it.’

  ‘But why did she do it? What on earth possessed her?’

  ‘She wants justice. She wants her son back! She’s desperate enough to try anything. What better way to keep everyone fretting about her husband’s death than to have his ghost wandering through the gaol? Now it’s in everyone’s interest to find the killer, is it not? Who wants to be trapped in prison with an angry spirit? And perhaps she hoped to shock the killer into a confession. Just as I did tonight.’

  I frowned, thinking back to my conversation with Catherine in the coffeehouse. She’d sought me out – to apologise, she’d said. I should have realised then that I was being tricked. Since when has a woman ever apologised for slapping a man about the face? It was just a trick to give her time to show me the false portrait. She had played me better than one of Moll’s girls, damn it.

  ‘Well. I’m glad she almost fainted tonight,’ I said. ‘Bloody woman.’

  ‘Good for you!’ Fleet cheered. ‘But one has to admire her courage. And her perseverance.’

  ‘No, one hasn’t,’ I grumbled.

  ‘D’you know, it’s strange.’ Fleet cocked his head. ‘I believe she loves him more in death than she ever did in life. They used to have the most appalling rows; I’d escape upstairs to Trim’s and we could still hear everything through the ceiling. Ah, well. Now she’s free to remember him the way she wanted him to be. A good, honest gentleman in an ugly waistcoat. Poor old Roberts. He’s so obedient now he’s dead. Not like him at all.’

  III) SATURDAY. THE THIRD DAY.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I woke before dawn to the sound of a key grating in the lock. Fleet was already at the door, hopping from foot to foot in his impatience to be free. Did he ever sleep? As soon as the door swung open he was gone, trailing a musky scent of tobacco, sweat and stale wine. The turnkey slammed the door closed again without a word, moving on to the next room.

  I sighed and groped for my new silver watch, enjoying the solid weight of it in my palm. Not yet six. I lay dozing a while, waiting for daylight in blissful silence. Fleet was such a restless heap of pacing and talking and twitching; I’d almost forgotten the peace and pleasure of my own company.

  I also needed time to think. Today I would begin my investigation into Captain Roberts’ death. I rolled on to my back and stared at the ceiling, wondering where to start – and was struck with the thought that Roberts had lain in this very bed the night of his murder. He had not shared a room with his wife. Mrs Roberts had kept a separate room in the Oak as she did now. What did that say of their marriage?

  I was still angry with Catherine for tricking me, but I was half-asleep and the thought of her alone in her bed in the Oak sent my thoughts rolling far away from my investigation . . .

  I was in a state of some disarray when there was a knock at the door. I had barely enough time to cover myself and turn to the wall before Kitty entered to clean the room, slopping water from her bucket.

  ‘Mr Hawkins,’ she hissed. ‘Are you awake?’

  I feigned sleep, silently cursing the interruption. Was there no privacy in this damned place?

  ‘Lazy dog,’ Kitty grumbled to herself and began to work about me. Once I had settled, I turned quietly as if in my sleep and watched her through half-closed eyes as she folded Fleet’s clothes and sorted his papers, creating order from his chaos. I was struck again by the quick, capable way she went about things. I couldn’t say why it appealed to me quite so much, only that I was happy to lie there as she whirled about the room. Catherine was right. She would make an excellent lady’s maid, if she could learn to curb that tongue of hers. Perhaps Charles could find a position for her in Sir Philip’s household. I would speak with him about it. Better that than staying Fleet’s ward – hardly a suitable reference.

  Kitty began to sweep the grate, sending a cloud of dust into the air. I made a show of coughing and yawning as if freshly wakened then pulled on my breeches and slipped a waistcoat over my shirt. The floor was almost clear of Fleet’s clutter, his books and papers, clothes and curios stacked in neat piles against the walls. It would be scattered again by nightfall, but still, it was an impressive feat. ‘You’ve done a fine job there, Kitty.’

  She froze, back stiffening at the compliment, then carried on with her work. ‘Will you need a fire, sir?’ she said, without turning round.

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll take breakfast at Bradshaw’s.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ She knocked ash from her brush, smacking it hard against the grate. Clack, clack, clack.

  I paused, frowning at her back. She seemed ill-tempered this morning, even for her. ‘Is something wrong, Kitty?’

  She dropped her brush with a loud clatter, wiped the ash from her hands. Then she rose and looked me up and down. ‘And what is that to you, sir?’

  ‘Well, indeed! Your welfare is of no consequence to me, I’m sure,’ I snapped, irritated. ‘And you should mind your tongue when you’re speaking with a gentleman
.’ Oh, good God in heaven. Why did I say that? I sounded like my father.

  Kitty pressed her lips together, swallowing the words she so clearly wished to say. She looked me straight in the eye, chin high. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  It was such a churlish apology, so lacking in conviction, that I burst out laughing. ‘An elegant apology, Miss Sparks. You are forgiven.’ I bowed and left the room before she could answer. When I reached the stairs I glanced back and saw that she was staring after me, brows furrowed in confusion. I gave her a wink and was on my way.

  A tempting smell of coffee, fried bacon and fresh-baked rolls wafted from the doorway at Mrs Bradshaw’s but as I reached the threshold she hauled herself from her chair and laid siege to the room, arms folded across her wide bosom. ‘There’s no room,’ she sniffed. ‘Try upstairs at Titty Doll’s.’

  I peered past her to the empty chairs and tables and raised an eyebrow. ‘Have I offended you, madam?’

  ‘Oh! As if you didn’t know! You should be ashamed of yourself! Poor Mrs Roberts, she was in agonies last night,’ she scolded, looking pleased at the memory. ‘She thought the captain had come back from the grave, God rest his soul. I had to give her a sleeping draught just to calm her nerves. How could you, sir? Dressing up in the clothes he was hanged in. Well. I am vastly disappointed, Mr Hawkins. I thought better of you, I really did. But I should have known. A friend of Moll’s.’ She shooed me out of the door and slammed it behind me.

  I was about to try my luck upstairs with Mrs Mack when I caught sight of Jakes striding across the yard beneath heavy black storm clouds. I’d forgotten Charles’ promise to send him over this morning. I stepped outside and met him beneath the Court porch.

  ‘Mr Jakes,’ I said, clutching a large paw. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins.’ He grinned. ‘Busy night, I hear.’

  ‘Oh. I suppose it’s all around the prison.’ Was that why Fleet rushed out this morning?

  Jakes shrugged. ‘Mr Buckley says you have a talent for trouble. Asked me to give you this. You’ll need to keep it tucked away or the turnkeys will take it.’ He pulled a bundle from a bag at his side and handed it to me.