The Disgrace of Kitty Grey

by Mary Hooper

  I put the wooden spur from the chair on the fire. The wood, being hard, did not catch immediately, but when it did, it began to throw out merry little flames all along its length.

  There was no going back now. I removed all four legs from the chair, wriggled the seat so that the struts holding the cane fell out, then did the same for the backrest. In no time at all, it seemed, the chair was in pieces on the floor in front of me. I moved closer to the fire and began to feed the chair, piece by piece, on to it. As the flames burned up I thought of home, and sitting in front of the fire with my ma and pa on cold nights, as well as the huge marble fireplaces at Bridgeford Hall and the great logs they brought in every winter. Mostly, though, I thought of Will and how he’d come up to the big house one evening and, the other servants being already abed, we’d opened the front of the kitchen range and toasted chestnuts on a little brass shovel. How happy we’d been then.

  When the cane seat went on to the fire, I felt I wanted to wake Betsy to see the sight, for the cane crackled and sparked and the orange, yellow and blue flames flared and danced, making the whole room light up and giving it an almost cheerful aspect.

  I held my hands out to the heat, feeling them warm for the first time in days. If Betsy recovered quickly, I thought, maybe it would still be all right. We could search along the river for Will or members of his family – and perhaps be able to discover a way of earning a little money while we did so. Perhaps, if I made myself presentable, I might even get a job in the beautiful dairy in the Strand.

  But as I sat there musing, disaster came – smoke began coming back down the chimney, first creeping into the room and then billowing out in great clouds of acrid black and making me cough.

  I jumped up and flapped my skirts at the smoke a bit, not knowing what else to do. There came the sound of heavy feet crashing up the stairs, and Mr Burroughs burst into our room.

  ‘You’ve set my chimneys on fire!’ he shouted. ‘You stupid jade! Who said you could have a fire?’

  Startled and frightened by his sudden appearance, I didn’t reply, merely waved at the smoke to try and disperse it.

  ‘If you wanted a fire you should have paid for a climbing boy to sweep the chimney!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know,’ I said. I glanced at Betsy on the bed: miraculously, she was still asleep. ‘But, anyway, I can let the fire go out now.’ I stood up and shook out the still damp blanket, more as a distraction than anything else, for I didn’t want him to see that his chair was missing.

  ‘If that smoke has blown back into my other rooms, spoiling people’s clothes and such . . .’

  ‘I’ll pay for the damage,’ I said quickly, knowing exactly how much money I had in my purse and thinking that Betsy and I would have to make a run for it. I edged towards the last piece of the chair: the curved back strut which was lying on the floor. If I could just push it under the bed with my foot . . .

  ‘And there’s to be no more fires here until –’ His glance suddenly fell to the floor. ‘What is it that you’ve been burning?’

  Betsy began whimpering in her sleep, then opened her eyes.

  ‘Firewood,’ I replied quickly, ‘and some newspaper and fish bones.’

  ‘What’s that on the floor, then?’ He pointed at the chair strut.

  ‘Just firewood,’ I answered.

  ‘That’s not firewood – that’s my chair. My fine dining chair!’

  ‘ ’Twas not fine!’ I said immediately. ‘It was an old, broken-down kitchen chair, only fit to be used for a fire.’

  He picked up the strut, regarding it as you would a bar of gold. ‘Oh, the deceit of the girl!’ he shouted. ‘She has set light to my furniture!’

  Betsy, struggling to free herself from the shawls that swaddled her, stared at him, terrified.

  ‘I’ll pay for the chair,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Oh, yes, you will pay for it. Indeed you will!’ He crossed to the small window, opened the shutters and leaned out. ‘You, boy!’ he shouted down. He pulled a coin from his pocket and threw it so that I heard it strike the cobbles. ‘Here’s a penny. Go for a constable, will you?’

  ‘Is it a fire, sir?’ I heard the boy call back.

  ‘Not a fire, a thief! Arson! A malicious destroyer of furniture! Find a constable or go and ask the magistrate to send a Runner! Quick as you like.’

  I heard the boy shout something in reply and the landlord gave a satisfied grunt and closed the shutters.

  ‘Very keen on catching criminals, the Runners. A most efficient policing system.’

  I began shaking all over. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I know I shouldn’t have . . .’

  ‘Save your pleas for the court,’ he said, and so saying he turned on his heel and went out of the room, locking the door behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was too angry to cry, too bewildered, too frightened – and too worried about Betsy. I took her on my knee and tried to comfort and reassure her, but even at five years old she could tell that I was just uttering meaningless words and it was not going to be all right. The awfulness had begun the moment we’d arrived in London and it had got steadily worse. I was too scared to think of what might happen to us now.

  Mr Burroughs returned with two men: two officious, stout men in navy serge suits who came pounding up the stairs and, on the door being unlocked, came one each side of where I was sitting on the bed, took Betsy away from me and pulled me to my feet. I would have liked to have been brave in front of Betsy but I could not manage it, and began to weep.

  ‘This is the wicked girl, is it, sir?’ the first Runner asked the landlord.

  ‘I am not wicked at all!’ I cried, and I struggled with them and kicked out at their shins. I know now this was the worst thing I could have done, for if I had acted meek and repentant it would have gone better with me and they would not have been so rough.

  ‘Why, I have never had anyone more wicked under my roof!’ Mr Burroughs said. ‘Burning my furniture . . . stealing my chickens –’

  ‘Chickens!’ I cried, stopping my struggles. ‘What would I be wanting with chickens? I haven’t even seen any chickens.’

  ‘But you admit to burning furniture?’ asked the second Runner.

  ‘I burned a rickety old chair,’ I said. ‘It could have only been worth a penny or two.’

  ‘She wantonly destroyed good furniture,’ said the landlord. ‘She came to my house and set fire to my things! That’s arson.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked the first Runner.

  ‘ ’Twas only one thing that I burned, and that just because it was fierce cold in the room and the child was not well –’

  ‘I had five chickens when she arrived – now they’re nowhere to be seen,’ Mr Burroughs interrupted. ‘I do b’lieve she’s taken them up and sold them!’

  ‘I have not!’ I cried. ‘There are no chickens and never have been!’

  ‘But, anyway, arson alone is surely a hanging offence,’ added the landlord.

  I was terrified by this last remark and hoped that Betsy wouldn’t understand what it meant. ‘I burned a small, old chair for firewood!’ I protested, as images of the scaffold rose up before me. In my mind’s eye I saw myself kneeling to take a last blessing from a cleric, having a hood fitted, the noose being placed over my head . . .

  The first man nodded towards Betsy. ‘Is this your own child?’

  I shook my head. ‘She is my friend’s sister.’

  ‘Then why is she with you?’

  ‘Have you kidnapped her to use for begging?’ the other wanted to know. ‘If you have, it would be as well to confess it now.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’ I began incredulously.

  The landlord made a gesture with his hands, as if to say he’d heard quite enough. ‘Just take her away! We are not able to sleep easy in our beds with such wickedness in the house.’

  ‘Do you admit that you burned furniture?’ the first Runner asked.

  ‘Valuable furniture,’ put in Mr Burroughs.<
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  I nodded. There was not much else I could do, seeing as the charred remains of the chair were still smouldering on the fire.

  ‘She is guilty as charged; a wicked and wayward girl who has no place in an honest and God-fearing house.’

  Suddenly, realising that the Runners’ grip on me had loosened a little while they’d been speaking, I slipped and wriggled out of their grasp and made a dash for the door. I had only reached the top of the stairs, however, when Betsy gave a piercing scream and I stopped in my tracks. How could I go? How could I even think of running away and leaving her?

  ‘You were going without me!’ she wailed as the Runners took hold of me once more.

  ‘Of course I wasn’t.’

  ‘You were! You were!’

  ‘I was going to escape, then come back and get you later,’ I said, already deeply ashamed of myself.

  ‘Take up your possessions,’ the first Runner instructed. ‘We are going to the courthouse so you can be formally charged.’

  ‘With arson, that will be,’ the landlord said, giving a nod and a malicious smile. ‘As I said before, a hanging offence.’

  Betsy looked at me. ‘What does that mean?’

  I didn’t reply, but the landlord – that evil man – replied for me, by putting his hands around his neck and, pulling a grotesque face, pretending to choke himself. Betsy shrank back from him in terror.

  ‘Bring your things and come with us,’ said the first Runner.

  Turning my back and weeping heartily, I prepared to leave. Packing did not take more than a few seconds, for we had only Betsy’s cloth bag and her corn dollies to think about; we were wearing everything else.

  We were bundled downstairs, forced out of the house and pushed and pulled through the lanes with the landlord coming up behind. I would have gone quietly so as not to draw attention to ourselves, but Betsy – who was back in full voice – shrieked and struggled with each step she took, so that passers-by turned to stare and even crossed the street to get a better look at whoever-it-was being carted off to Bow Street. Not everyone was on the side of law and order by any means, however, for several women patted Betsy’s head and murmured, ‘Shame on you’ to our captors, and one old man gave me two apples, saying, ‘Poor child’ with the utmost pity.

  The way to the magistrates’ court was, unfortunately, past Mr Holloway’s dairy, and seeing that he was standing outside, I lifted my shawl and swathed it around my face in the hope that he wouldn’t recognise me. It didn’t work, though, because he came to ask the Runners what I had been involved in.

  The landlord spoke first, butting in rudely to say, ‘By speaking to this drab you address an arsonist and a thief. This wicked creature has set fire to my home and stolen my chickens!’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Holloway said. ‘I’m most surprised to hear it.’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t do such a thing!’ I said to Mr Holloway.

  ‘Don’t be deceived by her innocent looks,’ the landlord returned. ‘She’s wicked through and through.’

  ‘Mr Holloway!’ I said quickly. ‘I’m very sorry about your cows. Betsy was ill and I couldn’t leave her.’

  ‘Ah. I thought it might be something of that nature,’ he replied, and to my astonishment he pressed two shillings into my hand and said to the Runners that I had been a good and hard-working girl and that he would give me a character reference if it was needed. I was quite overcome at this and would have liked to thank him properly, but there was no time for such a civility before the Runners had hold of me again and I was being marched along with Betsy sobbing and clinging to my skirts.

  The next few hours passed in a blur. I just could not believe what was happening to me – to us – on account of such a seemingly small offence. I knew I’d done wrong in breaking up the chair and burning it, but to say that I had committed arson! Surely the magistrate, when I told him about Betsy being ill and the necessity of getting her warm, would make allowances for us? And as for the chickens – well, that was probably some underhand trick played by Mr Burroughs to try and obtain money from the courts. As far as I knew there wasn’t even a yard in the lodging house for any chickens to run about in.

  We spent several hours waiting in a tiny, windowless box room in the magistrates’ court in Bow Street. I was left alone with my thoughts at this time (and you can imagine that they were very dark ones) because the two Runners had been sent to apprehend other criminals and the beast of a landlord had gone away. Betsy fell asleep, and I was pleased about this for it meant I didn’t have to keep up the pretence that everything was going to be all right.

  At some stage a man wearing a black gown and grey powdered wig came in to say that the charge against me was too serious to be heard by the magistrates and would need the deliberations of a judge and jury.

  ‘Your offence, if deemed to be arson, may be a capital one,’ he said. ‘Do you understand what that means?’

  I nodded, terrified.

  ‘Although ’tis unlikely you will suffer the noose,’ he added as an afterthought. A rush of relief ran through my body, but this didn’t last for long, for he went on, ‘Depending on who the presiding judge is, your offence will probably be commuted to a spell in a pillory or a number of lashes.’

  I began to shake, for either punishment sounded terrible. To be in a pillory: to have dead dogs and cats and the contents of latrines thrown at my head! Or to be lashed on my bare back in public!

  Someone came in with two bowls of gruel and I woke Betsy so that she could drink hers. It was so thin it could not have had much goodness in it, but at least it was hot. After what seemed like another long time we were taken out into a yard and I had shackles placed on my lower legs. They were made of rusty, stone-cold iron, were tight around my calves and bit into the bones of my ankles. Wearing them was a horror for I felt like a proper and wicked criminal. We were put into a cart with about ten other prisoners, all similarly chained, and I saw that these pitiable wretches were the very poorest of vagabonds and beggars, all smelling foul, some lacking shoes and most wearing repellent, tattered clothing. Seeing this, and knowing that I must look and smell badly, too, I shed a few tears, thinking of how neat and clean I had always kept myself as a milkmaid: my nails scrubbed, my wayward hair coiled and my petticoats snowy white. How quickly my life had changed!

  At home I had always enjoyed a ride in a farm cart, jigging along with two dray horses afront, sitting on a hay bale and singing in time to the clip-clop of their hooves, but this ride was very different. None of us miserable travellers on the prison cart looked any other in the eye, and folk in the street jeered at us as we went along, catcalling and shouting such things as ‘Look! Here comes the King and his court!’. I kept my eyes down the whole time, huddled inside my shawl and spoke to no one.

  Betsy was the only one who was not shackled, so sat on my lap during our shameful journey, pressed against me and hardly speaking a word. It would have been possible for me to lift her over the side of the cart so that she could have run away, but I knew this would not have helped her, for there was nowhere safe for her to run to. Having only just begun to recover from the sickness, she would not have been strong enough to survive on her own and would either have died of cold, been picked up by a gang of thieves and trained as a pickpocket, or suffered the perhaps worse fate of being placed in an orphanage. No, I thought, I could not take what would be the easiest path for me, just put her over the side and tell her to run away; I must keep her with me and look after her as well as I could.

  After about half an hour’s travelling, the cart stopped outside two windowless square blocks, grey-bricked and several storeys high. In front of these was a large open area where, I found out later, public hangings were conducted. We prisoners were driven to a gatehouse in front of one of these blocks, then clambered out of the cart as best we could and stood in a speechless huddle staring around us.

  ‘What is this place?’ Betsy asked in a whisper, but I just shook my head, too fraught to reply. />
  Someone overheard her, though, and a man I later discovered to be a turnkey gave a low, mocking bow. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are at the doors of London’s finest. I bid you welcome to Newgate Prison!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I had heard about Newgate Prison, of course; knew of it as the most terrible of all prisons where only the very wickedest of people ended up. The thought that I was actually to be inside it, and with a child dependent on me, felt akin to being in a nightmare.

  All natural light had gone by the time we were taken below to the cells, and our way down the long stone corridors was lit by flaming torches on each side of the wall. The light from these didn’t carry very far, however, so most of the vast space about us remained in darkness, with who-knew-what lurking in the depths of its murky corners. The stench of filth was indescribable, and a faint, cloying mist hung in the air.

  ‘It smells!’ Betsy said, taking hold of her nose.

  ‘It does.’ I nodded, breathing in as shallow a way as possible.

  ‘You’ll get used to that, dearies,’ said the turnkey who was leading us through. ‘Soon you won’t remember there was any other aroma ’cepting a bad one.’

  I did not respond or even glance in his direction, for I had already looked at him once and been horrified to see that he had but one ear, the other having been sliced away, leaving a dreadful, knotted scar. Whether this missing ear was as a result of a brawl, or as punishment for some wicked deed or other, I never found out.

  I trudged on with the others, the leg irons gnawing at my skin, and at last came to a large barred area containing perhaps a hundred or so filthy, stinking and unshaven men standing around a brazier, pushing and fighting with each other in order to obtain some warmth from the fire. Here a gate was opened and the men in our little party were left, with one fellow receiving a farewell shove from the earless man which sent him sprawling on to the floor.