‘Yes, that’s true enough,’ Trim nodded. ‘Fleet would shout down the scores, like a boxing match. Poor Fleet. I wish he were here.’ He scowled at me. ‘For all his faults, he was always a gentleman.’
I gestured to the bed at the other end of the room. ‘I heard Fleet arguing with Charles yesterday morning, when I was resting up here. I couldn’t make out every word, but then I was in the far corner.’ I walked over to the window, where a chair rested on an old rug; I moved them back to reveal the ancient, rotten floorboards hidden beneath. They were so ruined I could see down into Belle Isle through the cracks. ‘If I’d been standing here, I think I would have heard everything.’
I raised my boot and smashed it hard into the board, stamping down again and again as the wood splintered and cracked. Trim watched in dismay, but said nothing. I put all my rage into it, and when I was done there was a large, gaping hole – wide enough for a man to pass through. ‘There!’ I cried. ‘Is that not better? The next time a man is murdered in Belle Isle you will be able to see as well as hear it all.’
Trim groaned, and covered his face with his hands.
‘I am losing patience, sir,’ I warned. ‘What did you hear?’
‘I cannot say,’ he sobbed, his voice muffled by his hands.
‘Damn you!’ I cried, bearing down upon him. ‘I can break your head as easily as these boards.’ I shoved the table out of the way and pulled him to his feet, shaking him hard. ‘Fleet died because you said nothing! How many more deaths will your conscience carry?’ And with that I threw him to the floor in a fury.
He landed badly, crying out in pain and terror. He was close to confessing now, I could see it. Trim did not hoard secrets for profit. He’d kept quiet because he was afraid. I just had to make him believe it was more dangerous to say nothing.
‘Tell me. Or I will let Gilbert Hand know that you heard everything. It will fly round the prison by nightfall. How long will it take, do you think, before they come for you, like they came for Fleet?’
‘Very well,’ he sobbed. ‘Very well.’ He dragged himself to his feet, wincing as he put his weight on a twisted ankle. He poured himself a fresh glass of wine then hobbled slowly to the chair by the fire. He gave a long, weary sigh, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Has it never occurred to you that Captain Roberts deserved to die?’ He stared into the fire. ‘He sold his wife for ten guineas. Such a man should be hanged, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t give a damn about that.’ I paced the room, still clutching my dagger. ‘What did you hear?’
He scowled, and took a fortifying swig of wine. ‘They came for him at midnight,’ he said, at last. ‘I didn’t hear them enter the ward. They must have crossed the yard like ghosts, crept up the stairs and picked the lock. They pulled him from his bed to his knees – that’s what woke me. The thud as he hit the floor.’ He shuddered.
‘What next?’
He closed his eyes. ‘Coins, scattering and rolling across the boards. Lots of them. And then one of the men . . .’ He opened his eyes, took a deep breath. ‘One of them said, “D’you think this will save you?” The captain must have thrown the money at them – the five guineas Gilbourne had paid him in advance. But they hadn’t come for the money, Mr Hawkins.’
‘They’d come to punish him.’
‘No!’ Trim shook his head vigorously. ‘They’d come to save him.’
I frowned. ‘Save him? By murdering him?’
‘Save his soul. Roberts had changed, in those last few weeks – after he lost his son. He went to chapel every day. Prayed in his room for hours. Perhaps he thought it would bring Matthew back, somehow.’ Tears sprang in his eyes. ‘It was my fault he died. I heard Gilbourne come up to Belle Isle and pay Roberts the money. The captain would have left the gaol the next day and Mrs Roberts . . . D’you know what Gilbourne said, when he gave Roberts the money? “I’ll be doing you a favour, Roberts. She’ll be quiet and cringing as a mouse by the time I’ve done with her.” I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t stand back and let that happen.’
‘Who did you tell?’ Though I could guess, now.
He swallowed hard. Leaned forward a little in his chair and whispered the name.
Woodburn.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mid-afternoon and the shadows were growing longer in the Marshalsea yard. Another day was ending – leaving men with more debts to pay and less hope to live by. I felt like Captain Roberts’ ghost, drifting past the other prisoners. They looked at me as if I were a ghost too – as if I had the mark of death about me.
I hurried towards the chapel, left unlocked in all the chaos of the riot the day before. I lit the candles and sat down on a pew near the front, took my mother’s cross from my pocket and bowed my head. Fleet was dead; Charles had abandoned me; my family and friends were beyond my reach. When the sun set tonight I would be accused of murder. I closed my eyes, and asked for guidance, comfort – anything. A cold, bleak silence grew around me.
I opened my eyes. I was wasting time. I should act, before it was too late. But my head felt as if it were back in that damned skull cap, and I was feverish, my shirt slick with sweat, my body flushing hot then cold. The effects of the sleeping draught, perhaps – and all the other trials of the day. But thinking back, I realised I had felt out of sorts ever since Charles and Trim had dragged me from the Strong Room. Hardly surprising – the very air had been poison; and I had breathed it in all that night.
There was a small patch of Woodburn’s blood left unscrubbed by the altar. Trim had confirmed the strange truth that the chaplain had stabbed himself with Captain Roberts’ blade; he’d stumbled upon him in the act, and wrestled the knife away before Kitty arrived. Woodburn had never intended to kill himself, I was sure of it. Trim had agreed with me.
‘The wound was deep but it missed the heart. The shoulder is a good place to cut if you aim to recover. But still – to stab himself . . . what madness! I can scarce believe it, though I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Not madness, Trim. Cunning. He wanted to deflect attention. Why would we suspect him, if he were a victim himself?’ Woodburn had dissembled from the beginning, offering to help me in my search for the truth while pointing me towards Acton, then Gilbourne, knowing all along that they were innocent of this one crime at least. I could see how he would have squared it with his conscience; they were cruel, wicked men, whereas he had been doing God’s work, saving Captain Roberts from committing an unforgivable sin. What was it Woodburn had said to me, when we first met? There’s so much good work to be done here. So many souls to save.
‘There are other ways to play the victim, without stabbing yourself,’ Trim remarked. ‘I fear his guilt is sending him mad. He was raving about ghosts when I found him. He’s convinced that Roberts is haunting him.’
‘The ghost wasn’t real.’
Trim tapped his head. ‘I think he’s conjured up his own spirit, Mr Hawkins.’
That was true enough. Woodburn had seemed half-mad this morning. It was his own conscience that had summoned up a ghost to plague him. ‘Well, I pray it haunts him to his grave.’ I paused. ‘Could he have killed Fleet?’
‘No, no. We gave him Siddall’s strongest sleeping draught. The same one we drank, I suppose. He only woke when I did. We heard you banging on the door and he said . . . He said, Oh, merciful God. He’s killed again.’
And for all of this, I was still no closer to learning who ‘he’ was. Trim only heard Woodburn’s voice on the night of the murder – the beating must have taken place in the Strong Room as the men had only stayed in Belle Isle for a few minutes. After Woodburn stabbed himself, Trim begged him to confess everything but Woodburn had refused. He kept saying it was his fault, that he was to blame for it all, and that they had never meant to hurt Captain Roberts – just frighten him. But when Trim asked him who the other man was, Woodburn had looked frightened and said Harry Mitchell had died for knowing less. And so they both kept quiet – and Fleet had paid for their cowardice.
/> I slipped my mother’s cross back into my pocket. As I did so my fingers brushed against the silver crown I’d plucked from the dust in Belle Isle. I took it out and held it in my palm. Woodburn had swept up the money that night while his companion removed the body and now he was distributing it among the sick and starving of the Marshalsea Common Side. Five pounds. The missing crown would have made it five guineas. The only time Gilbourne had ever given his money to charity – albeit unwittingly.
If only I had managed to force the truth from Woodburn. Perhaps I could persuade Acton to come with me to interrogate him again. The sight of the governor might just frighten the chaplain into giving up the name. That is if he had not lost his wits entirely. But I doubted Acton would agree to it. There was no time, damn it. No time.
There was a soft rustle behind me, like feathers.
‘Monsieur.’
Madame Migault, in her old black silks, her white hair a nest for yellowing ivory combs and faded ribbons. I had not heard her come in.
‘Madame.’
She studied me with those beady eyes of hers, a smile playing across her thin, cracked lips. ‘You are sick.’ Triumphant – as though she had brewed the infection herself.
I tried to step past her but she blocked my path, clutching at my arm with gnarled fingers. ‘I know what you are,’ she hissed. ‘I’ve watched you from the shadows. Nothing but a boy in a man’s clothes.’
I remembered my first night in the gaol and the low, mocking laughter I’d heard in the darkness of the yard. I’d thought it was a ghost, back then. What a credulous fool I’d been. I pulled my arm free.
‘You cannot have her,’ she spat. ‘She is mine. She works for me now. Le diable est mort, et Kitty est à moi.’
‘Kitty?’ Anger burned in my chest. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘Sharp eyes, quick hands. She brings me secrets. Steals things I can use . . .’ Something cruel gleamed in her eyes. ‘How do you think your letter fell into my hands? Did it drop from the sky, perhaps?’ She fluttered her fingers.
‘Fleet stole it from me. He confessed it.’
‘Ahh . . . le diable!’ she cackled. ‘Even he has a weakness! Non, non. He was protecting his dear little Kitty. She stole your letter and brought it to me.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I said, dismayed.
She laughed in delight. ‘I told you, monsieur. She is mine. And you will not take her from me.’
Out in the yard, Mack was letting Acton win at shuttlecock while Cross looked on with a sly grin. Cross had played no part in Roberts’ death: I was certain of that now. If it had been about money, or revenge, then I could have believed it of him a thousand times over. But Cross was not interested in saving a man’s soul. And if Cross had been involved, Gilbourne’s money would never have reached the Common Side. Whoever killed Captain Roberts – whoever dragged his body across the yard and hanged him from a rafter in the Strong Room – had believed he had God on his side.
In the middle of the Park, Jenings was lighting the lamp as the afternoon drifted towards twilight. The large ring of keys at his belt jangled as he worked. I was about to approach him when the door to the coffeehouse swung open and Kitty emerged, hitching up her skirts and smiling as she ran towards me. As she came closer she faltered and slowed her pace. Her smile dissolved. ‘Tom. You’re so pale. What ails you?’
I stared down at her. She’d betrayed me – and I’d nearly died because of it. I should hate her. I forced myself to hate her. ‘You stole the letter.’
I wanted her to deny it – more than anything. But I could see the guilt burning in her eyes. ‘I . . . I wanted to explain before,’ she stammered. ‘Samuel wouldn’t let me.’ She paused at the mention of Fleet’s name, then took a deep breath and continued. ‘He took the blame for me . . .’
‘There is no need to explain, Kitty.’
‘Oh, Tom! I’m so glad! Madame Migault caught me reading it and she snatched it from me – to play a game, she said. I’d only read the first few lines – I’d no idea any harm would come of it. When they sent you to the Strong Room I almost died. I only thieved it as a game – to pay you back for calling me a little servant girl to Mrs Roberts.’ She bit her lip at the memory. ‘As if I were nothing. Worthless.’
I smiled. ‘Well, that was wrong of me. You are much more than a servant girl.’
She smiled a heartbreaking smile and reached for my hand. ‘Am I?’
‘Naturally.’ I pulled my arm away. ‘You are also a fine thief and an excellent liar. And I’m sure that soon enough you will learn to spread your legs and make a decent whore as well.’
She flinched, as if I’d struck her. Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Do you think you are the first man to say such things to me?’ She looked me up and down, and it was as if her sharp green eyes were taking in every inch of me, from my borrowed clothes to my empty pocket, right to my very core. ‘I thought better of you,’ she said. ‘So did Samuel.’ And then she turned and walked away.
I thought of running after her. I thought of catching her in my arms and telling her the truth – that I had forgiven her the moment Madame Migault had told me. In a heartbeat. And the fact that I had forgiven her so easily terrified me. I could lie and swear it was the fever burning in my blood that made me cruel. In truth I had wanted to hurt her. Her theft – her betrayal – had given me the excuse I had been looking for to push her away, like a boat nudged out from the shore to float out and disappear to the horizon. I had tasted what Kitty wanted from me when we kissed, though she’d tried to hide it. More than I could give. More than I could afford to give a servant girl. A kitchen maid.
Acton had it right. I was an idiot.
I pulled out Fleet’s silver watch. It was almost five o’clock. I had so little time left to save myself – and yet I could almost feel the truth ahead of me, just beyond my grasp. Who was Woodburn’s accomplice? Not Cross. Not Trim. Then who? How had he killed Fleet – and Mitchell for that matter? They had both died the same way: murdered in a locked room while others slept about them. Oh, God. The cobbles danced and spun before my eyes as I realised what I must do.
I had to speak with Captain Anderson. I had to go back over the wall.
A few minutes later I held the key to the Common Side door tight in my palm. Gilbert Hand had a key for everything but there was suspicion in his copper eyes when he pulled this one out for me. ‘You want to go back over there? What for? Not gone mad, have you, Hawkins? I hear old Woodburn’s half a step from Bedlam . . .’
I couldn’t afford to pay him anything for the loan of the key. The only coin I had left was the silver crown I’d found in the dust of Belle Isle – but I needed that as evidence. And I was damned if I would give him Fleet’s watch. So I traded in the only other currency Hand understood – information. I told him everything I knew about Roberts’ murder apart from Trim’s involvement, and promised more once I’d spoken with Anderson.
‘Anderson?’ Hand frowned and scratched beneath his brown wig. ‘He’s chained up in the Strong Room for starting the riot.’ He grabbed my sleeve. ‘Ten minutes, no more. And if they catch you, I’ll say you stole it from me.’
So now I stood within the shadow of the wall, just as I had the first time I’d stepped into the prison yard. It felt as if twenty years had passed since then, not four days. A soft breeze blew through the Park, bringing with it the scent of tobacco. Without thinking I glanced up towards the Tap Room balcony. Fleet was not there, nor ever would be. There was no one to pull me back from the wall, to clap an arm about me and drag me upstairs for a glass of punch. And there was no one to see me slot the key into the lock, or slip through the door and into the Common Side.
I closed the door as quietly as I could and rested my back against the dank wall. I could hardly breathe, the weight of terror pressing on my chest as if a house had collapsed on me. I was risking my life in here. If Acton found me breaking into the Common Side he would beat me to death in front of the w
hole gaol.
Fortunately for me the yard was empty, the prisoners still locked in their wards as punishment for the riot. I crept down the wall towards the Strong Room, stealing glances at the Tap Room balcony in case someone should step out and see me – a solitary figure in the empty yard. I inched my way forward, the sweat trickling down my back. As I drew closer a dozen rats rushed squealing from the stinking water that ran between the wall and the Strong Room, as if they remembered my scent. I kicked at them as they scrabbled about my feet, then hurried to the door.
I’d thought it would be locked – that I would have to call to Anderson through the small hole carved above it. But it swung free when I pushed it, letting out a familiar warm stink of death and decay. I shrank back, my arm across my nose and mouth, fighting the instinct to turn and run.
Anderson was chained to the wall just as I had been two nights before, the iron cap screwed tight to his skull and the collar biting into his thick neck. Rain had seeped through the roof in the night and the ground about him was churned to a soupish mud. His face was crusted with blood and he had two black eyes, but he seemed calm as I approached, as if resigned to whatever Fate might fling at him next.
‘Hawkins,’ he growled, then coughed, spitting an oyster of phlegm into the darkness. ‘I told you not to come back here.’
‘Who killed Harry Mitchell?’
Anderson closed his eyes for a moment and gave a short, dry laugh. ‘Suppose I knew. Why should I tell you?’
‘Acton has given me until sunset to discover the truth. He wants me to fail.’ I squatted down and looked him in the eye. ‘You could help me to disappoint him.’
He smiled briefly. He’d lost a tooth in the fight – the gum was raw and bloody. ‘What’ll he do to you? If you do fail?’
‘He’ll charge me with Fleet’s murder. And Fleet will be blamed for Roberts’ death.’
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 30
