‘Before you murdered him.’
‘It was an accident!’ Jakes cried – and I could see the torment in his eyes. ‘He’d promised to give back the money but Woodburn said to beat him again, just once more, so he would never forget. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what happened. I hit him and he fell back. And then . . .’ Tears streamed down his face. ‘He just lay there. I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear.’
‘And now he lies in an unconsecrated grave – for all your talk of saving him! Why the devil did you hang him? Why make it look like suicide except to hide your own guilt?’
Jakes rubbed the tears from his face. ‘I’d meant to leave him on the ground but the rats . . . They eat the eyes first, did you know that? I couldn’t . . .’ He swallowed. ‘I hanged him out of reach. He deserved that much.’
I said nothing, marvelling at a man who could kill his best friend, but was too squeamish to leave his corpse for the rats to feast on. Took another step back. ‘And what of Fleet? Did he deserve to be murdered in his bed?’
‘Samuel Fleet?’ Jakes spat. ‘I shall not lose a moment’s sleep for that black-hearted demon. Mitchell, I confess . . . that was a hard choice. But he would have died soon enough in that hell hole.’ He sighed, then gave a soft shrug. ‘He’s at peace now.’
‘And of course he can’t accuse you of murder from the grave.’
‘No. I suppose not.’ Jakes took a step forward.
I stumbled back, holding my blade high. ‘But why kill again? Why risk your soul for me? Let me run to the Mint and you will never hear of me again.’
‘You’re dying, Mr Hawkins. Gaol fever.’ He pointed with the tip of his blade to my chest, where my shirt had come loose.
I glanced down, then pulled at my shirt. My heart lurched. A dull red rash was spreading up from my stomach like an invading army. I knew what it meant. Fever. Delirium. Death. No need for Acton to send me to the gallows. I closed my shirt with trembling hands. ‘Then . . .’ I swallowed hard. ‘Then why kill a dying man?’
‘Because you have nothing to lose. You will tell them everything. And they will believe you.’
With that he lunged without warning. I parried, just in time, our blades clanging as they met. He swung a second time, the blow tearing the dagger almost from my grasp. I staggered back and he struck again, raining blow after blow as I parried weakly with my shorter blade. I did my best, fighting hard to defend myself – but I was no match for him. He swung again, harder this time, a shattering blow that almost threw me off my feet. The dagger flew from my hand. He punched me hard in the stomach and I fell to my knees.
He loomed above me, sword raised. I had no strength left; the sweat was pouring down my back and the world was spinning around me like a merry-go-round. The sky blazed red, caught in the last moments of sunset.
‘Have mercy,’ I said.
He brought the hilt down hard and I crumpled to the ground, barely conscious. He pulled me to my feet and slung me over his shoulder, carrying me as he must have carried Roberts, as if I weighed nothing at all. Ten, twenty, thirty paces, never breaking his stride. I was too stunned, too sick to comprehend what was happening. He flung me down then started dragging me across the ground towards the oak tree as if I were already a corpse. I felt the earth slide away beneath my feet and then I was falling, tumbling into a hole. I landed hard on my back, wind knocked from my lungs. Loose earth spattered over my face, in my mouth.
I was in a grave. He had dug a grave ready for me.
I spat the soil from my mouth. The earth was cold and dank beneath my fingers. The grave was deep – four feet at least. He must have spent hours on it. All this afternoon, when I’d thought he was out in the Borough. No need for him to ask people about the money; he already knew where it had been spent. All this time he’d stayed close, pretending to help, when really he was just making sure I never uncovered the truth.
‘I’ll say you ran off,’ Jakes said, softly, as I struggled and scrabbled to pull myself up. ‘They won’t come looking for you here. No blood on the grass. Not a sign of a struggle. I’m sorry, Mr Hawkins, truly. I’ll come and pray for you, when I can.’
‘Wait!’ I begged. I could have stood the blade at my throat but not this. Not to lie in an unmarked grave, never found, never mourned. I pulled my mother’s cross from my pocket, felt its familiar shape against my fingers. ‘Pray with me first, for pity’s sake.’
He hesitated, then nodded, as I knew he would. He thought of himself as a good Christian, after all.
‘Our Father, who art in heaven . . .’ How many times had I said those words? They poured from my fevered lips, little more than a whisper. Jakes bowed his head, murmuring the words to himself. As his gaze slid from mine I gathered the last of my strength and pulled myself from the grave, heaving myself over the lip and dragging myself free. I staggered to my feet and ran blindly towards the trees ahead.
Jakes cursed and chased after me, boots pounding the earth. I stumbled into the small copse, heart racing. He was only a few paces behind, I could hear him crashing through the bushes. I ducked behind a broad ash tree and held still, chest heaving.
‘You can’t hide for ever,’ he called. ‘I will find you!’
If I ran, he would hear me. If I stayed, he would find me. The bark was sharp against my sweat-soaked back, the air fresh and sweet. Perhaps this was not such a bad place to die after all. Better than rotting in gaol. I pushed away from the tree and started to run.
A gunshot rang out – loud and hard as a thunderclap.
I stopped, and turned, dizzy with fear and exhaustion. Lantern light glinted through the trees. I fumbled desperately towards it, branches tearing at my skin, calling for help – and ran straight into Joseph Cross. He held the lantern up to my face.
‘Hawkins. Bloody hell. You look like Death.’
‘It was Jakes,’ I panted, clutching his coat. ‘He murdered them all.’
Cross snorted. ‘He won’t be doing that no more.’ He gestured towards the small clearing up ahead. I let go of his jacket and dragged myself forward, grabbing at branches to keep myself from falling.
The clearing was like a stage, lit silver by the rising moon. Jakes lay in the middle on his back, groaning in agony. His hands clutched feebly at a gaping wound in his stomach, blood streaming through his fingers. And standing over him . . .
The breath caught in my throat.
Standing over him was Kitty, Fleet’s pistol in her hand.
Our eyes met briefly across the clearing. Then she looked away, pouring a fresh measure of powder down the barrel with a steady hand. I stumbled a few more paces towards her, Cross following, the lantern casting its soft light upon the bloody scene. Kitty finished reloading in silence then turned back to Jakes.
‘No,’ Jakes whispered hoarsely. ‘I’m not ready. I beg you . . . Send for a priest . . .’
She raised the pistol, aimed it at his head. Cocked the hammer. ‘Give my regards to the devil, Mr Jakes.’
Fired.
A haze of gunsmoke drifted slowly up into the sky.
‘Fucking hell,’ Cross muttered.
She dropped the pistol and strode towards me. ‘Tom. You’re safe.’
I held out my hand to stop her. ‘Keep away. I’m sick. Gaol fever.’ But then, I had kissed her, only a few hours before, up in Belle Isle. Lips pressed hard against mine.
The fever had taken over. I could feel myself falling. Dying, perhaps. It felt like dying. I slid to my knees, then to the ground. Darkness rushed towards me like the roaring waters of the Thames and I was lost.
PART THREE
LIFE AND DEATH
Chapter Twenty-Five
I woke in a small, cramped cell.
I was lying on my back on a narrow bed, the cloth mattress damp and reeking with sweat. The shutters were closed but a candle stub flickered and sputtered on the table beside me. A wooden cross hung on the wall. I rubbed my face and scalp, long bristles rasping against my fingers. I must have been here for
days.
Memories slipped in and out of reach. The fever had been the worst of it, burning through my body, heat like the furnaces of hell. A sharp, heavy pain in my head as if my skull were back in the iron cap. Delirium. Days melting into each other. Anxious voices, faces covered with scented cloths hovering over mine. Prayers chanted in another room. A soft, cool hand holding mine.
Stay, Thomas. Please stay with me.
I had been a whisper away from death. I could feel it in my bones.
Peeling myself from the sheets I sat up slowly, head spinning. The air smelled faintly of piss and vomit, mingled with lavender. Someone had tied a fresh sprig to the bed. I crushed the leaves between my fingers and breathed in the thick, warm scent.
I swung my legs to the floor, shuffling over to the window like an old dog. The room faced out on to a busy street – I could hear the clop of horses, the whisk of carriage wheels, shouts and laughter. I pulled back the shutters and sunlight poured into the room, half-blinding me. With a few hard shoves I opened the old casement window and peered down into the bustling high street. Tradesmen rattled carts along the cobbles to market; a farmer guided a small, skittering flock of sheep towards the bridge. Across the road, two girls of the town lay stretched out on the brothel steps, wiggling their toes and basking in the autumn sunlight.
Dawn in the Borough and I was alive. My heart lifted.
On the pavement below my window, Charles and Trim were arguing with one another. Charles gestured to a hackney carriage waiting nearby. Trim shook his head, hands planted firmly on his hips.
‘Charles.’ My voice was hoarse, broken. I cleared my throat and tried again.
He looked up, then grinned and ran into the house, thumping up the stairs. A moment later he bounded into the room, Trim following close behind. I almost wept upon his shoulder, I was so grateful to be alive. But the simple act of walking to the window had left me dizzy. I swayed upon my feet and would have fallen if Trim had not seized hold of me.
‘Settle him down,’ he said to Charles, before heading to the door to call for a jug of small beer.
Charles ushered me slowly back to the bed. As we sat together, side by side, he explained that this was a sponging house owned by one of Acton’s cronies. If the Marshalsea was hell, then this was purgatory – where debtors with just enough capital to stay out of prison were kept under the watchful eye of the bailiffs. Some marshalled enough money to return home, the rest were squeezed of their last pennies then thrown into prison. A place of lost causes and low odds.
‘What do you remember?’ he asked.
I tried to think back but the fever had left me weak and confused and I had not eaten in many days. It was only later that I remembered it all: the chase through the trees, Kitty in the clearing with a gun in her hands and Jakes, clutching the gaping wound in his stomach. Perhaps my mind was trying to spare me from the memories, until I was well enough to endure them. ‘Jakes . . .’ I whispered, through cracked lips. ‘It was Jakes.’ I began to shake violently.
Charles put an arm about my shoulder. ‘You’re safe now, Tom.’
Trim returned and poured me a mug of beer. ‘Slowly,’ he warned, placing it between my trembling hands.
‘Who brought me here?’ I asked.
Charles explained that I had been carried from Snows Fields back to the Marshalsea. Acton had taken one look at the fever tearing through me and refused to take me in, for fear I would poison the Master’s Side and ruin his profits. ‘We’ll sling him over the Common Side if you like,’ he’d said. It had been Cross, strangely enough, who had reminded Acton of Sir Philip’s promise of freedom. Acton’s compromise had been to send me here, where I could sweat the fever out or die from it – and I could guess which outcome he would have preferred.
I could not understand then why Cross had spoken for me. He gave me his reasons later, the last time I saw him – said he didn’t want me poisoning the Common Side with my sickness. It was Cross, after all, who had to pull the bodies out each morning, not Acton. Some days I think there was more to it than that – a moment’s charity, perhaps. On other days I think he just wanted me gone from the prison.
‘How long have I been here?’
Charles smiled grimly. His eyes were bloodshot, shadowed with dark grey circles. ‘Almost a week. It’s Sunday today, the first of October.’ He paused. ‘You were very sick. Trim has been tending you these last few days – he’s had the fever before so it was safe for him. We didn’t think . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘They administered the last rites just three days ago. I wasn’t allowed in the room for fear of infection.’ He glanced at me curious. ‘Do you not remember?’
I closed my eyes. Yes; there had been voices in the darkness. Words of comfort and peace. I had drifted away upon them, glad to be free at last. Something had brought me back. Something sharp and bright. Something worth fighting for . . .
‘Tom?’
. . . A dream, perhaps. The memory faded. I opened my eyes, shook my head.
‘Well. Perhaps that’s for the best,’ Charles said, glancing carefully at Trim. ‘Let’s talk of more cheerful matters. I have some excellent news.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Sir Philip has paid off all your debts.’
It took me a moment to understand what this meant. I clasped his arm. ‘All of them? I’m free?’
He grinned. ‘As promised, Tom.’
‘And Jakes? Woodburn?’
Trim cleared his throat. Charles gave him a sharp look, and shook his head. ‘Sir Philip has dealt with everything. Don’t let it concern you.’
A servant arrived with tea and breakfast. I watched hungrily as he laid out the dishes but when I sat down to eat I could barely finish half a roll.
Trim watched me with a worried expression. ‘D’you see now, Mr Buckley? He’s not well enough to travel yet.’
Charles frowned. ‘What choice do we have? If he stays another day in this hole he’s liable to catch another contagion.’
‘Then we should find him a good, clean room in the Borough,’ Trim argued. ‘They’ll take him at the George now his fever’s passed.’
‘The George?’ I looked up from my roll with renewed interest. ‘Should we go there now?’
‘Yes, thank you for that suggestion, Mr Trim.’ Charles glared at the barber. ‘But as you know Sir Philip has invited Tom to stay at his lodge in Richmond while he recovers.’ He turned to me. ‘There’s a carriage waiting to take us to the river.’
‘Could we . . .’ I thought of the two whores sunning themselves on the steps outside. ‘Might we go tomorrow? I am a little tired.’
Charles placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Tom, please, I beg you. You need peace and rest. Let me take care of you. When you are well we will hit the taverns together, I promise.’
I nodded my consent. I had missed Charles these past few months – and he had saved me from prison. If this was what he wanted, I would go with him.
‘Good. We should leave at once, as soon as you are dressed. There are fresh clothes on the chair here.’ He pulled out his purse and tipped a stream of coins into his palm. ‘Mr Trim, sir, would you be kind enough to pay the bill? You may keep the change.’
‘It’s just Trim,’ he muttered irritably, but he took the coins. ‘Take care, Mr Hawkins.’ He gave a short bow and left before I had a chance to thank him.
I would like to say it was the effects of the fever, or the speed with which Charles scooped me up from my sick bed and bundled me into the waiting hackney coach that made me forget. Perhaps it was these things, or perhaps it was just that I did not care to think deeply enough. Whatever the reason, we had almost reached the river and Tooley stairs when I realised what I had forgotten.
‘Charles, wait. We must turn back.’
He stuck his head out of the carriage to peer down the street. ‘We’re almost at the river.’
‘Charles!’ I clutched his arm, pulling him round to face me. ‘I must find Kitty. She saved my life. I can’t leave without seeing her.’
>
Charles said nothing, just stared at me sadly, his body swaying as the carriage swung round a corner.
‘We must go back,’ I called to the driver. I knew something was wrong. I could see it in Charles’ face. But I refused to understand. I clambered from my seat and grabbed the driver by the shoulder. ‘Stop, damn you!’
The hackney pulled to a violent halt, half-flinging me from the carriage. The driver turned and glared at me. ‘Grab me again and I’ll break your jaw, you bloody fool.’
‘Turn around at once! Take us to the Marshalsea.’
‘Tom,’ Charles said, softly.
I shrank back against the carriage seat. ‘Don’t say it. Charles, don’t say it, I beg you.’
He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. She’s dead.’
She’s dead. She’s dead. I don’t remember the rest of the journey to the Thames, just those words turning round and round with the wheels of the carriage. It wasn’t possible. Not Kitty. She’d saved me. She’d killed Jakes for me. She was my reward for everything I’d been through. Wasn’t she? She couldn’t be dead. What plans could I make without her? What life could I possibly have worth living?
Sir Philip had sent his own personal yacht from Richmond to collect us. His daughters Mary and Constance had sailed down with a picnic, no doubt curious to see Mr Buckley’s infamous friend. They were met with a hollow wreck of a man, bludgeoned with grief.
‘I’m afraid Mr Hawkins has just received some bad news,’ Charles said, gripping me tightly and steering me on to the boat.
To their credit the young Misses Meadows seemed honestly concerned for my welfare and found me a quiet, shaded corner to rest. ‘Cushions,’ Mary said firmly, as if they were a remedy for all misfortunes, from disease and death to the apocalypse.
I lay down and covered my face with my hand. I could not weep, not here, as much as I wanted to. Charles sat down next to me. I dropped my hand. ‘How did she die?’
‘Let’s talk of this later, Tom. You must rest.’ Beneath the concern I caught the faintest hint of impatience. No one else would have heard it, but I knew Charles too well.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 32
