‘Governor wants to see you. Right away.’
Acton was dining in the Crown, so we must go to him. I was free of the prison for the first time in three days, but I was too busy bracing myself for another confrontation with the governor to enjoy my few brief moments out on the street. I thought of all the things I might say to him – all the things I might do. Weak as I was, I reckoned I still might have the strength to throttle him for what he’d done to me. I would enjoy the look of shock and surprise on that broad, ruby face of his.
And what would it achieve? A moment’s satisfaction before I was pulled away by Chapman and thrown in chains again. Charles wouldn’t arrive in time to save me again – Acton would make sure of that. I would die in that Strong Room with the rats swarming about me.
The pavement shifted under my feet and I half-stumbled. I would have fallen to my knees if Fleet hadn’t leapt forward and grabbed hold of me. I bent double and retched, but my stomach was empty. I spat out a thin trail of bile into a clump of weeds.
‘Hurry up,’ Chapman growled. ‘The governor’s waiting.’
Fleet rounded on him. ‘He’s sick, for God’s sake.’
I pushed him away, wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. ‘I’m well enough.’ I didn’t want Samuel Fleet’s pity.
Acton was dining alone in the Crown, tucked away in a private room upstairs. Chapman stayed at the bar while the landlady, Mrs Speed, escorted us up the stairs, chattering about the weather. I trailed behind, stomach rolling with nausea.
The room was small and oppressive, the walls hung with hunting scenes and the cracked skull of an old stag with a broken antler. Acton sat in front of a large window, the sun dazzling like gold at his back. In front of him, the table was laden with rich, half-demolished dishes: a boiled leg of mutton and greens; a pigeon pie; cod with oysters and enough bread and cheese to feed the Common Side for a week. There was a bottle of claret, too, and raspberry brandy. A fire blazed in the stove, heating the room to boiling point.
‘Gentlemen.’ Acton slurped back an oyster, wiped a glittering slug trail along his sleeve. He beckoned for us to join him. Fleet sat down at once at Acton’s right hand, helping himself to a thick slice of the pie and a glass of claret. I remained in the doorway, the room tilting queasily beneath my feet.
Acton took a swig of brandy. ‘So, Hawkins, here you are, alive and well. No hard feelings, eh?’ His ice-blue eyes fixed on mine, daring me to contradict him.
‘What do you want of me, sir?’
He cut himself a slice of bread and built it high with cheese. ‘It seems Roberts was murdered after all,’ he said, lips smacking noisily. ‘Mitchell too, I hear. I won’t have prisoners murdered in my Castle.’
‘Not without your blessing, at least.’
Fleet froze, waiting for the explosion. But Acton just laughed, slapping his thigh as if I had made a fine joke. ‘Well, well. Has my Strong Room made a man out of you, Hawkins?’ He settled back in his seat and pulled out Charles’ letter, dropping it on the table. ‘Buckley spoke to me this morning. He says you suspect Gilbourne.’ He smiled. ‘I can live with that.’
‘He feels the same about you, Mr Acton.’
‘Does he indeed.’ The smile faded. ‘Fleet.’ He kicked him under the table. ‘What do you make of this?’
Fleet, who was busy reading Charles’ letter, frowned absently. ‘It was Gilbourne,’ he said, as if he were talking of spilt milk, not murder.
Acton grunted and rubbed his jaw, considering me for a moment. ‘Trouble on two legs, you are.’ He scowled at Fleet. ‘No wonder he likes you. The sooner you’re out of my gaol the better; in a coffin or a carriage – makes no difference to me.’ He struck the table with his palm. ‘Here’s my offer, sir. Pin this on Gilbourne and I’ll gladly march you out through the Lodge myself.’
I stood a little straighter. ‘That’s no offer, and you know it.’ I had lost my fear, I realised – left it somewhere in the dark last night. ‘Sir Philip has already promised to release me if I discover the killer.’
A flicker of respect in Acton’s eyes. ‘Well then, sir, what is it you want?’
‘No more beatings, no bullying. And keep your trusties on a leash. Especially Cross.’
He took another bite of bread and cheese. ‘Anything else?’
‘I must be allowed out of the gaol to investigate whenever necessary. Jakes will act as my guard,’ I added, before he could protest. ‘And the bodies in the Strong Room must be released for burial at once.’
Acton belched, set his shoulders. ‘No, no – not that. The families haven’t paid the fees.’
‘Then pay it from your own fat pocket, you greedy son of a cunt.’
‘Tom . . .’ Fleet warned, softly.
I rounded on him. ‘There are five bodies turning green in there – enough to breed a plague. I heard the rats feasting on—’
‘Oh, very well!’ Acton interrupted irritably. He waved at Fleet, who was tucking into a custard tart, quite unmoved by my little speech. ‘You’ll have to help him. He’s not sharp enough to work it out on his own.’
I bristled. ‘I would rather work alone, sir.’
‘I don’t give a damn what you would rather, sir.’ He poured himself another glass of brandy.
‘And what if he killed Roberts? Half the prison thinks it.’
Acton slid his gaze over my roommate. ‘Well. That is a fair question,’ he conceded. ‘Did you kill the captain, you wretched little dog?’
Fleet put down his spoon and looked at Acton. The room fell silent, save for the flames crackling and popping in the stove.
‘Answer me, damn you,’ Acton snapped at last. ‘Or I’ll have the truth beaten out of you.’
Fleet smiled, very slowly. A chill ran down my spine, though I was standing several paces away with the door at my back. ‘I would not advise that,’ he said.
Acton leaned closer, pointed a finger hard in Fleet’s face. ‘Do not threaten me, sir. I will not have it. I don’t care how much you pay me.’
Fleet laughed in Acton’s face. ‘Very well, Governor. I will keep my five guineas a month and you can chain me to your Strong Room and have Cross beat me as he beat that poor boy over there. Let him break my neck for all I care – leave my corpse for the rats and have done. And when the men who threw me in gaol decide they have need of my skills again . . . do you think they will reward you for it?’ He tilted his head. ‘What will you tell them?’
‘I am not afraid of them,’ Acton snarled. ‘I have my own connections—’
‘And then there is my brother,’ Fleet continued calmly, taking up his spoon again. ‘I’m not sure how he would react. He is only my half-brother, of course. Perhaps he would only cut out half your heart. He’s most precise with a blade.’
Acton had pulled back in shock. ‘He was transported,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘They said so in the papers.’
‘A remarkable ocean, the Atlantic,’ Fleet said, waving his spoon back and forth. ‘One can sail it both ways. Now – are we done with this tedious cock fight, Mr Acton?’
Acton seized the spoon from Fleet’s hand and flung it to the floor, where it gleamed dully in the firelight. ‘Your brother is in America,’ he decided, with a firm tone. ‘And he wouldn’t give a damn about you even if he were back. He’d spit on your grave like the rest of us. I want this business with Captain Roberts finished, Fleet – do you understand me? I’ve had enough of it. I’ll give you two days – after that I’ll swear blind you confessed to it yourself and have you hanged for it. And as for you, Hawkins, I’ll sling you back in the Strong Room faster than you can piss yourself. Now bugger off, the pair of you.’
We walked back without speaking, Chapman following behind with his face stuffed in a glass of ale he’d liberated from the tavern. The confrontation with Acton seemed to have pleased Fleet enormously and he hummed to himself all the way back to the gaol, pipe lodged between his teeth.
I cursed him silently, furious that Acton had forced us together
again. I was still angry with Fleet for betraying me with Charles’ letter – and I was angry with myself for not having the wit to keep it away from his thieving fingers. Why had I not destroyed it? I’d been too busy scolding Fleet for dressing me in Roberts’ clothes, of course. The man was a trickster and a cheat, confusing and unsettling everyone around him for his own amusement and gain. Thank God I’d never met him at the gaming tables.
Another part of me knew I should swallow my pride and accept his help. For all his faults, Fleet was clever and cunning – and as it was now in his own interest to find the killer, he might just stop playing games long enough to uncover the truth. Acton had only granted us two days; I should not squander any of that time in sulking.
‘How long do you intend to punish me, Tom?’ Fleet enquired politely as we walked up the stairs to Belle Isle. He had an uncanny knack for reading my thoughts.
I ignored him and called down for a late dinner from Titty Doll’s. Fleet could damn well pay for it, after all the trouble he’d brought me. I waited for it by the window, while he lay on the bed and smoked another pipe. I could feel his eyes on my back, could hear the light tick tick tick of the silver watch in his pocket. How had he retrieved that from Cross? And where was his journal? I wondered, then cursed myself for caring. This was the way he drew you in, like a fisherman setting his bait then waiting patiently for a bite. Or impatiently, in Fleet’s case; I could tell from the sharp way he sucked on his pipe that I infuriated him as much by my silence as he had infuriated me by his thoughtless betrayal. Good, I thought, then shook my head. I had only known him three days and already we were like an old married couple.
A door creaked open in the building next door and Mr Woodburn emerged into the yard, round belly first. He patted his hat down upon his long wig and leaned upon his walking stick, surveying his flock. I called down to him, in the main because I knew it would annoy my roommate. The chaplain glanced up in surprise, holding a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun.
‘Mr Hawkins!’ he cried. ‘You are recovered!’
‘Of course he’s not, you old fool,’ Fleet muttered behind me from the bed.
‘Much recovered, sir, I thank you. I enjoyed your sermon this afternoon.’
A choking cough from the bed. ‘Perjury!’
Woodburn smiled and stood straighter, rocking back on his heels. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ He craned his neck and called a little louder. ‘I’m sorry Mr Fleet was unable to attend service today. But then I’ve often observed that those who most need the Church’s instruction are the ones who most obstinately refuse it . . .’
‘Well, Mr Woodburn,’ I said, tilting my head and giving him my most pious look, ‘you will be pleased to learn that Mr Fleet owns a copy of one of your sermons . . .’
‘. . . which I use to wipe my arse . . .’
‘. . . which he reads each night for solace.’
‘Is that so?’ Woodburn’s face crinkled as he tried to take in this astonishing fact. ‘Well, well. I am glad to hear my words bring him some comfort.’ He stepped closer. ‘And what of the other matter, sir?’ he asked in a stage whisper. ‘Your investigation? I suppose the governor has put a stop to it?’
‘No indeed, sir,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘He’s just now given us leave to continue our search.’
Woodburn looked taken aback. ‘Indeed? And you are working with Mr Fleet, you say?’
I was about to confirm this when Fleet leapt from the bed and slammed the window shut. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘Should I find you a trumpet to herald the news across the Borough?’
I rounded on him. ‘The whole prison already knows what I’m about, thanks to you. If you hadn’t stolen that letter my investigation would have remained a secret.’
‘Hah!’ He plucked the letter from his coat pocket and waved it in my face. ‘If you’d only confided in me I would have burned it before it fell into the wrong hands.’
‘Meaning yours,’ I snarled, snatching it from him and tossing it on the fire. ‘I was going to tell you everything in the Tap Room yesterday, but you shooed me away like a dog. What was that business about, by the way? Who was that man you were speaking with?’
‘A family matter,’ Fleet said, airily. He paused. ‘We appear to be talking again.’
I folded my arms. ‘I haven’t forgiven you.’
‘Of course you have. You just haven’t noticed it yet.’ He held out his hand.
I knew I shouldn’t take it. I’d only be cursing him again tomorrow – if I lived that long. He was a devil – there was no question of it. I should have Mrs Bradshaw embroider ‘Do Not Trust Samuel Fleet’ upon my handkerchief and pin it to my chest. But the truth was, I needed him. And worse than that, the gambler in me was whispering intently in my ear. Take his hand. Take the risk. Because for all the dangers of his company, there were rewards to be had and not just silver watches and rent money. Life was – quite simply – more interesting. A good deal shorter too, no doubt – but interesting.
‘I suppose it is safer to be your friend than your enemy.’
‘Not necessarily.’
I took his hand.
‘Excellent!’ he cried, seizing it and shaking it vigorously, the sleeves of his banyan slipping down over his knuckles. ‘I was sure you would sulk for another hour at least. Let’s order a bowl of punch,’ he added hurriedly, catching my expression. ‘It will help us concentrate.’
I dined lightly on toasted bread and butter with poached eggs, though it was hard to eat much with my bruised and swollen throat. I was still out of sorts from the night before. I tried not to think of the putrid fumes I’d breathed into my lungs all night. The thought alone was enough to turn my stomach.
Fleet drank most of the punch.
When I’d finished we settled by the fire and smoked our pipes. The food and the tobacco had gone some way to restore my nerves, the horrors of my beating and imprisonment beginning to fade at last. I yawned and stretched, as much as I could bear with all my cuts and bruises.
Fleet propped his hand upon his chin. ‘Tell me. Why do you suspect Gilbourne?’
I told him of Mrs Roberts’ confession about the trap door into the prison, and how her actor friend Mr Simmons had slipped in and out of the gaol thanks to Gilbourne’s key. Fleet listened carefully, fingers steepled, black eyes gleaming like polished jade. ‘So Gilbourne could have stolen into the yard without being seen, even by the turnkeys. And you’re certain he holds the only key?’
I nodded. ‘He must have had an accomplice, though – don’t you agree? Someone with a key to this ward, and to the Common Side. Someone strong enough to help him carry the body across the yard. My money’s on Cross.’
Fleet chuckled. ‘Of course it is – and wouldn’t you love to see him hang for it. But why would Cross kill Roberts? They barely knew each other.’
‘Money. It’s always about money; you said so yourself.’
‘Well, I can’t always be right about everything . . .’ He trailed away, unconvinced by his own argument.
‘Gilbert Hand told me to ask the ghost what happened to the money,’ I persisted, but Fleet dismissed this irrelevance with a wave of his hand. ‘Harry Mitchell said—’
‘Harry Mitchell?’ Fleet interrupted sharply. ‘The recently murdered Harry Mitchell? You spoke with him? When?’
‘Yesterday morning on the Common Side.’
‘Yesterday morning on the Common Side. Of course. How foolish of me. So what did Mitchell tell you? When I questioned him he told me he didn’t know nothing.’ A frown. ‘I paid him half a shilling for that astonishing revelation.’
‘Well, he told me for free that Captain Roberts was planning to blackmail Gilbourne.’
Fleet sighed, and put his head in his hands. He sat like that for a long while, rubbing his fingers across his eyes as if he were tired beyond all expression. I had never seen him so . . . defeated. It was the shock of it, I realised later. Fleet prided himself on expecting the worst of
people but he had not prepared himself for this. ‘Roberts,’ he whispered at last. ‘You fool. You damned fool.’
‘Mitchell said he knew what Gilbourne had done. He offered to tell me if I could secure his freedom. He was too scared to tell me anything while he was still trapped in gaol. He was afraid Gilbourne would have him killed. And now he’s dead.’
A door slammed on the next landing and footsteps thudded across the floor above, the boards groaning and creaking. Trim, returning to his room. Fleet peered up at the ceiling with a worried frown. ‘Mitchell was right to be cautious,’ he said. ‘We can’t risk talking in here.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I said, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘Though I’m sure we can trust Trim.’ I pointed to a damp patch near the window, where the boards were split and sagging. ‘It’s a wonder he doesn’t fall through and break his neck, it’s so rotten there.’
Fleet put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s rotten everywhere,’ he muttered.
Chapter Eighteen
Fleet refused to say another word until we were safely out of Belle Isle. Even then he would not be drawn, except to acknowledge he had something pressing he wished to discuss, and that we must leave the gaol to do so.
‘Then we must find Jakes,’ I pointed out. Acton had agreed we could leave the prison to investigate but only under guard.
‘Jakes will be in church,’ Fleet said, sniffing with disapproval. ‘Probably spends all day on his knees. And not in any useful fashion.’ He coughed back a laugh. ‘Why don’t we take Cross or Chapman?’
‘I don’t trust them.’ And I don’t trust you. The thought of Cross and Fleet working together was quite disturbing.
He frowned. ‘It will take too long.’
‘He only lives a few streets away.’
Fleet planted his feet and opened his mouth to argue . . . then caught the expression on my face. It must have been dark because even he looked taken aback. He held up his hands in defeat then went in search of one of Hand’s boys to send out a message. I sat down on an ale barrel by the door and closed my eyes. And there I was, back in the Strong Room in the dead of night . . .
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 23
