The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘Mr Hawkins.’ A soft whisper in my ear.

  I opened one eye, and then the other. ‘Kitty.’

  She was dressed in her good Sunday clothes – a powder-blue gown tied with ribbons and a fresh white kerchief about her shoulders. Her hair was half-loose, copper ringlets falling about her face, and her chest was heaving; she must have run all the way across the yard to catch me. She put a hand to her stomacher as she caught her breath.

  ‘How pretty you look,’ I said, without even thinking.

  She blinked, taken aback. ‘You look rotten,’ she said, then touched her fingers to my temple, where the skull cap had bitten deep. Her eyes shone with tears. ‘There’s something you must know—’

  ‘Catherine Sparks.’ Fleet had returned. He looked angry – dangerously so.

  Most girls of eighteen would have squealed in fright, but not Kitty. She stood taller, put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll speak with him if I wish,’ she said, tilting her chin in defiance. ‘You’re not my father.’

  I waited for the caustic reply, but none came. His shoulders sank. ‘True enough.’

  Kitty ran to him, dismayed, and threw her arms about his neck. He whispered something in her ear and she shook her head. ‘It’s not fair,’ she pouted.

  Fleet glanced at me and rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll discuss this later, Kitty.’

  She stamped her foot. Fleet giggled and she punched him hard in the arm, then hugged him again before running back into the yard.

  I watched her go, baffled by the whole performance. ‘That girl changes faster than the weather.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Now why might that be, Tom?’

  I held my hands up in protest. ‘I’ve done nothing to encourage her.’

  ‘Handsome young men of twenty-five don’t have to do anything. Here.’ He handed me the dagger Cross had stolen from me the night before. ‘We’re free to leave once Jakes bothers to turn up.’

  ‘What do you have against Jakes? He’s a good man.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I slipped the blade in my belt. ‘I’m glad to have him with us. I can’t afford to lose another fight. It’s all very well for you, but I have my looks to consider.’

  Fleet laughed and scratched his bristles. He was more grizzled than ever, if that were possible. Another bad night’s sleep, no doubt. Perhaps he’d felt guilty for betraying me. But if it were guilt that kept Samuel Fleet awake, then he must have done something truly devilish. I’d not caught him sleeping once since I’d arrived. ‘We mustn’t discuss things in front of Jakes.’

  ‘Why ever not? You don’t suspect him, do you?’

  ‘Of killing Roberts . . . ?’ Fleet trailed away, contemplating the idea. His lips parted into a smile. ‘You know, he could have done it. He has access to the turnkeys’ room and all the keys. And he could have carried Roberts over to the Strong Room on one shoulder.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! Jakes it is.’

  ‘Well, here he is now.’ I nodded towards the Lodge. Jakes was barrelling down the corridor. ‘Would you like the honour of arresting him? Or perhaps he could arrest himself, as the warrant officer?’

  I thought that might curb his tongue. I should have known better.

  ‘Good day to you, sir!’ he cried as Jakes reached us. ‘Tell me, did you murder Captain Roberts?’

  Jakes stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘What did you say?’ he breathed, when he’d recovered his voice.

  ‘We were just debating the possibility. Tom thinks not, but then he is a very trusting fellow.’ He tapped my arm. ‘We must knock that out of you.’

  Jakes balled his hands into fists. ‘How dare you!’ he thundered. ‘How dare you accuse me! Captain Roberts was my friend. My brother! You think I would kill the man who saved my life? I’ve spent the last three months trying to prove he was murdered. What have you done in that time, you sly dog? You’ve sat on your arse and done nothing – nothing – to defend your reputation. While the whole prison calls you guilty.’ He grabbed Fleet by the collar and pulled him close. ‘Tell me, Mr Fleet. Did you murder Captain Roberts?’

  Fleet looked Jakes right in the eye. ‘And what would you do, sir,’ he asked, calmly, ‘if I confessed . . . ?’

  Jakes raised his fist.

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ I snapped, stepping between them and stopping Jakes’ fist with my hand. He glared at me for a moment, then lowered his arm slowly, eyes never leaving Fleet. ‘We don’t have time to spare for this! If you want to tear each other apart then you’ll have to wait until we find the true killer. I need his brains,’ I said to Jakes. ‘They’re no good to me smashed all over the yard.’

  As we stepped into the bustle of the High Street again my heart lifted with joy. The Marshalsea was like an island, set in its own time and space. In the three days since I had been locked away I had almost forgotten there was a world outside of it – and I had been too distracted on my way to and from the Crown to appreciate those brief moments of freedom.

  The street was packed with visitors who had crossed the river eager to enjoy Southwark’s disreputable pleasures: bear fights and cock fights; theatre and gambling; acrobats and fortune tellers; cheap beer and even cheaper Flemish whores. It was probably not quite what the good Lord had in mind for His day of rest. Fleet looked almost dizzy with happiness.

  ‘If we ran off in opposite directions,’ he asked Jakes, brows raised in curiosity, ‘who would you chase?’

  ‘Look at all these people,’ I sighed, watching the Southwark street boys darting between the wheels of carriages; the chairmen weaving in and out of the traffic; the women parading in their Sunday best. ‘Do they know how lucky they are?’

  ‘Don’t pontificate, Tom.’ Fleet tugged Jakes’ jacket. ‘I’m quite serious – who would you run after?’

  Jakes clapped a hand on Fleet’s shoulder and squeezed hard. ‘Acton has cronies in every tavern. If either of you run, they’ll chase you. And when they find you . . .’ He squeezed harder. Tears of pain sprang in Fleet’s eyes. ‘Well. They’re not gentle like me.’ He let go.

  Fleet rubbed his shoulder theatrically then winked at me.

  ‘Speaking of taverns . . .’ I said. ‘The George?’

  Fleet shook his head. ‘You heard him. They’re full of Acton’s spies. No better than the Marshalsea. We need somewhere quiet, where we can’t be overheard. Snows Fields will be empty.’

  Jakes grunted his approval.

  Fleet stared at him in alarm. ‘Good God, are we in agreement, Mr Jakes? Now that is worrying.’

  We turned right into Axe and Bottle Yard, which ran along the north wall of the Marshalsea. We passed the cobblers I’d heard from the other side of the wall, closed for the day; an apothecary and a confectioner’s, and a grocer’s. Somewhere along this wall was the hidden door to the cellar, where Mrs Roberts’ ghost had slipped in and out of the gaol. It must have been well disguised as I couldn’t see it. Further down the yard I caught the warm, tantalising scent of freshly baked bread and stopped dead, stomach rumbling.

  Jakes pointed to the baker’s up ahead. ‘Nehemiah Whittaker’s. Best bread in Southwark,’ he said as we walked over. Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear. ‘A friend of the governor’s. Mind what you say.’

  I bought myself a couple of rolls and ate them on the spot with a bowl of chocolate while Jakes chatted to Nehemiah’s wife. Back in the yard Fleet strolled back the way we had come.

  Jakes touched his sword. ‘If you’re thinking of running, Mr Fleet . . .’

  ‘I’m thinking of picnicking, Mr Jakes,’ Fleet said, heading into the grocer’s.

  At the end of the alley we clambered over a low wooden gate into a deserted field. I paused and gazed out at the wide acres of Snows Fields, a vast common space that reached all the way to Bermondsey. Ahead of us were orchards and little vegetable plots, some well-kept while others had grown wild and boggy. In the distance I could make out a tenter ground, its large squares of cloth pegged and stretched out to dry in the late
afternoon sun.

  As I turned into the field I tripped and almost lost my footing. The open ground was uneven, small humps of grass and earth undulating across the field. I looked about me. ‘Is this a burial ground?’

  Jakes blew out his cheeks. ‘Looks like it, don’t it? Mr Woodburn thinks so. He comes out here to practise his sermons.’

  ‘He practises?’ Fleet looked astonished.

  The sun was low against our backs and cast long shadows across the grass. Jakes settled down beneath an old oak tree and leaned against its trunk. The tree was gnarled with age, scarred and weather-worn. One of its thickest branches stretched further than the rest, as if pointing at something far in the distance, in warning or in accusation.

  ‘You could hang a man on that,’ I said.

  Fleet shot me a sidelong glance – the appraising look of a doctor whose patient has just revealed an alarming new symptom. ‘Let’s walk further out,’ he said, wrapping his fingers about my arm and leading me away.

  ‘I’ll be watching you, Fleet,’ Jakes warned.

  ‘How delightful for you.’

  When we reached a flatter patch of ground Fleet threw down the grey wool blanket he had been carrying under his arm and stretched himself out upon it. He put his hands behind his head. ‘It is good to see the sky unfettered,’ he said, quietly.

  I sat down next to him and ate an apple. ‘What was that business with Kitty?’

  Fleet watched the clouds drift by, and said nothing. The birds chirped and called to each other in the branches above our heads, the wind ruffled its fingers through the grass. We could be anywhere, if we did not turn and look back towards the Borough, towards the gaol. I set my gaze straight ahead. Perhaps those white squares far in the distance weren’t stretches of cloth drying on the tenter ground but the great sails of a fine fleet of ships. I could race to the shoreline and watch them glide past, silent and majestic, as I did when I was a boy. And then the memory took me by the hand and I was running down to the coast at Orford, the sky infinite above my head, the taste of salt in the air, the roar of the waves, the gulls wheeling and soaring on the wind, higher and higher.

  When I woke the sun was low and there was a chill in the air. Fleet still lay on his back, staring up at the sky. I sat up, feeling groggy but well-rested. ‘You let me sleep?’

  ‘You needed it. And your snoring helps me think.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  He passed me his silver watch. Almost six o’clock. When I tried to give the watch back he pushed my hand away.

  ‘Have you ever been in love, Tom?’

  Only Fleet would ask a man such a question, with no warning or apology. It was a clever trick; he could read the answer on my face the moment he asked it. There is a second, before the mask goes up, when you can read the truth in a man’s eyes – but you must ask quickly when he is not expecting it, and accept that he may well punch you in the jaw straight after.

  ‘Not truly. Not in earnest,’ he murmured, answering for me. He was right, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so. He reached for the bottle of wine and took a long swig. ‘Kitty’s the daughter of an old friend of mine. Nathaniel Sparks. He died five years ago.’ He rubbed the gold band on his wedding finger as if he were Aladdin, summoning a djinn.

  It took me a moment to realise he was answering the question I had asked him almost an hour earlier. ‘Kitty said her father was a doctor.’

  ‘Yes. He was an excellent physician. And very rich from it. All gone now, I’m afraid.’ He pulled up a handful of grass and scattered it to the wind.

  ‘What happened?’

  He laughed, sourly. ‘Kitty’s mother, Emma. Quite pretty as a girl, and not without charm. But she needed Nathaniel to keep her steady. When he knew he was dying he made me promise to take care of her and Kitty.’ He paused, and bowed his head.

  I’d never seen Fleet like this before; there was no play in him. This, I realised, was where it all stopped. I waited.

  ‘Nathaniel was the very best of men. Brave and loyal.’ He touched a small scar on his temple. ‘He would have been content to live quietly, especially once Kitty was born. But Emma wouldn’t leave London and I . . . I had to have him near me, you see. Selfish . . .’ he muttered at the ground. ‘I didn’t own the print shop back then. I was . . .’ He looked back to where Jakes was sitting under the tree.

  ‘You were a spy,’ I said. I’d gathered as much from his conversation with Acton, back in the Crown.

  ‘And worse,’ Fleet muttered. ‘And I loved it, Tom. It was a game – dangerous and exhilarating. If I died playing it, so be it. You understand.’

  I nodded.

  ‘But I should never have taken Nathaniel down with me. He was not suited to it. I didn’t realise . . . no, that’s not true,’ he corrected himself. ‘I realised well enough. But I didn’t care. I was not prepared to give up the game and so I took him with me. And he died.’

  He fell silent, staring hard out into the distance.

  ‘Grief will drag you to some dark places,’ he said at last. ‘But guilt is like a whip upon your back, urging you on. Nathaniel’s death was my fault and so I ran off in search of my own. By the time I returned to London five years had passed. The house was sold and mother and daughter had disappeared. I found Emma easily enough, though I barely recognised her, she was so altered. She was selling herself for gin in St Giles.’ He grimaced. ‘I paid her rent, bought her some food and clothes. Any money would have gone down her throat.’

  ‘And Kitty?’

  ‘Run away. Years before. Emma could barely remember her name, let alone where she’d last seen her. I spent months searching to no avail. Then last February I was thrown in gaol for safe-keeping – until the men who hired me decided whether to use me or kill me. And there she was, like a miracle, in Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse. It was as if she’d been waiting for me all that time. And untouched – my God!’ He rubbed a hand across his scalp.

  A sparrow flew down from a nearby fence. I threw it some crumbs and it hopped a little closer. ‘Perhaps her father’s spirit was watching over her.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘I only meant—’

  ‘You meant to excuse me for abandoning her. Well, don’t,’ he snarled. ‘I deserted her, Tom. She survived through her own wit and courage and nothing else. Don’t deny her the credit of it.’

  The sparrow bounced across the grass and flew away. ‘Is she yours, Fleet?’ I asked, softly.

  Fleet’s dark brows furrowed. ‘Mine?’

  I flushed. ‘You talked of love, just now. I couldn’t help but wonder . . .’

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, black eyes wide with astonishment. ‘What the devil are you thinking? I held her in my arms when she was but a few hours old! No, no, no! She is not mine. She is not anybody’s.’

  ‘Then what did you mean, about being in love?’ I frowned in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Fleet stared at me sadly. ‘No matter.’ He glanced back at Jakes, still dozing beneath his tree, and lowered his voice. ‘Another time, perhaps. But I must tell you about Roberts and Gilbourne. Build yourself a pipe first. You’ll need it.’

  ‘Roberts was not a bad man,’ Fleet began, once I had lit my pipe. ‘A fine officer, by all accounts. Brave and not without honour.’

  ‘He saved Jakes’ life.’

  ‘Well. Let us not hold that against him.’ Fleet snatched up the second bottle of wine, pulled the cork out with his teeth. He took a swig then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘He was not a bad man, but he was a fool when it came to money. If he had two shillings in his pocket he’d speculate with three. He was quite certain that his fortune was waiting for him just around the corner, and then the next, and the next. Ridiculous, of course. The only things waiting round the corner for Captain Roberts were his creditors.’

  The gambler’s desperate faith in providence. I knew that well enough.

  ‘It was the remorse I couldn’t bear,’ Fleet continued
, rolling his eyes. ‘All those wasted hours spent sobbing into his pillow. Oh, what have I done, what have I done? Hours on his knees in the chapel, wailing to the heavens. Oh, forgive me, Lord! I swear I’ll change! Give me one last chance, I beg of you! Pffrr! I doubt the Lord in His infinite wisdom fancied the odds on that promise. I told him – Roberts, you have brought this upon yourself. Don’t bother God with your racket, you will only vex Him.’

  ‘That must have been a great comfort.’

  Fleet chuckled. ‘He was no different from most, I suppose,’ he conceded. He jerked his thumb back towards the prison. ‘There are men locked away in there who’ve been waiting ten years for their fortunes to turn. I’ll win my case tomorrow. My debts will clear tomorrow. Tomorrow Great Uncle Whatsisname will die and leave me his fortune and I will be free at last!’

  I sighed the smoke from my lungs, remembering what Moll had said to me, the night before I was thrown in gaol. Always tomorrow with you, Tom.

  ‘Then tomorrow arrives, carrying nothing under its arm. Horror. Fury. Despair!’ Fleet threw up his hands. ‘After that, the poison. Hope, snaking its way into your veins. And so it begins all over again. It’s a prison men make for themselves. Gilbourne understands that. A predator knows its prey better than it knows itself.’

  ‘What did Gilbourne want with Roberts?’

  ‘His wife.’ He took another swig of wine. ‘I came back to Belle Isle one day to find Roberts collapsed on the floor with his head in his hands. Gilbourne had made him a proposition. He would pay Roberts ten guineas – enough to secure his release. In return Roberts would grant Gilbourne access to his wife. A guinea a time.’

  ‘My God,’ I whispered. The cunning and cruelty of Gilbourne’s offer took my breath away. Catherine could cry rape but without her husband’s support, who would believe her? And Roberts could only defend her honour by admitting his own guilt.