by Diana Norman
Makepeace considered him. An extra pencil was stuck behind his ear. Despite better cloth and a smarter cut to his coat, he’d ruined its shape with too many documents in the pockets. He still managed to look like the man who’d come to do the plumbing.
‘While I was risking my damn neck on your errands last night, I rousted Hedley out,’ Beasley said. ‘He says he’ll travel back north with you. Bloody sight more than I’d do.’ He was truculent from lack of sleep. ‘Why didn’t you use those vaunted pistols of yours, woman? Save all the trouble.’
‘I was keeping them for men who put their boots on my tablecloth. Thank you, Mr Hedley. I have to make two calls in the City first, perhaps we could go on from there.’
‘Where?’ demanded Beasley.
‘The Fleet.’
‘God, Andra, she’s going to smile. Lord save us from vengeful women.’
‘I thought you wanted me to shoot him,’ she said.
‘Better than smiling at the poor sod.’
The source of the Fleet was the Hampstead Ponds nearby. The river began life as an eager little rivulet that leaped down the hill to London, gathering less pleasant waters as it went until it became a reluctant sewer flowing under the reclaimed ground called Fleet Market. Here it followed the line of Farringdon Street, a wide, well-favoured thoroughfare, made less impressive by the stink of the gaol that ran along most of its length.
The Great Fire of London had destroyed the original Fleet prison but it had been such a profitable enterprise for the previous five hundred years that its keepers, royal appointees, hadn’t wanted to kill a golden goose by altering it, and rebuilt the place virtually unchanged.
Up again went the long wall of miniature brick with its arched doorway and the grille through which prisoners could beg for alms from passers-by. Up again went four storeys of wards and cubicles for the better-off inmates. In again went the Master’s Side with its spacious and comfortable rooms for the very richest. Down again went the cellar known as Bartholomew Fair where those with no money at all lived—and died. And back came the centuries-old smell of too many people in too small a space with too few facilities looked after by too-greedy, too-lazy warders.
Common criminals incarcerated in it were either hanged, or released after serving their sentence. Debtors, on the other hand, the majority of the prison’s population, were in for life unless their creditors relented. And for their sake there was one delicate addition to the new Fleet: the figure ‘nine’ was placed above the entrance gates so that they could write and receive letters under the euphemism of ‘9, Fleet Market’.
Makepeace’s coach drew up on the other side of the road and its three occupants peered across at the immense wall opposite.
Her business with Mr Hackbutt had taken longer than she’d expected—it would be late now before they reached Barnet.
‘Aw, dear me,’ said Hildy, ‘is there poer creeters enough to fill it?’
Sanders had opened the door and let down the step.
‘Howay,’ wailed Hildy, ‘I’m feored o’ goin’ in.’
‘You’re not coming,’ Makepeace said.
‘Best not go in alone,’ Hedley said, following her out.
‘Sanders is coming with me.’
He stood and watched her as she picked her way through the mud of the road, refusing Sanders’s proffered hand.
She was surprised at how busy the entrance to the prison had become, with people going in and out, wearing everyday expressions as if it was the usual thing.
A woman squatting on a stool was doing a good trade in orange pomanders at the gate. ‘Keep off infection, ladies, gents.’
On the other side of the entrance, hands were reaching through the grille; the one stretching through the largest aperture had a hat in it. A babble of voices echoed the words carved round its arch: ‘Pray Remember Poor Debtors Having No Allowance’.
Makepeace bought two pomanders, one for her, one for Sanders. ‘Is this a good trade?’
The woman was instantly suspicious. ‘Keeps me an’ the young ’uns, what’s it to you?’
Makepeace gave her double the price. ‘Another businesswoman,’ she explained to Sanders.
A tipstaff took them to the office of Mr Amos Middleton, Assistant Keeper, a well-dressed man with spectacles. ‘Ah yes, madam. They came in last night. Your complaint, I understand. A high-spirited couple, very debonair, very humorous.’
So Catty had stopped screaming and put on a show. You had to admire her.
Makepeace told Mr Middleton what she wanted and signed several documents to effect it. It was an expensive procedure; virtually every activity in the Fleet had a price to be paid by inmates or their visitors—she’d even been charged for coming through the gate—the money going into the pocket of Mr Middleton and his superiors.
When it was all done, Mr Middleton took off his spectacles and tapped them on his desk, like a doctor about to deliver an opinion. ‘We do receive creditors as visitors, of course,’ he said, ‘but I always advise them not to enter the room of the debtor alone. Ah, you have a manservant with you—good. Our clients have the right to inspect the warrant, you see, so they know who has sent them here. You may find Major Conyers keeps himself well in hand—alternatively, he may not.’
There was a fee for being led along the passages and climbing urine-scented stairs. ‘Sixpence in advance is the usual, ma’am,’ her turnkey escort told her, holding out his hand. ‘Shillin’ if you want me to wait.’
‘D’you charge for breathing?’ Makepeace asked as she paid him.
‘Air’s free,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Diseases extra.’ He was a jolly man and proud of his prison.
Despite the law forbidding spirits to be sold in prisons, there was a taproom on both second and third floors offering, so Makepeace’s trained nose told her, rum and gin as well as ale. Vomit along the passageway outside suggested trade was brisk.
A child inmate—there were several around (‘Proper family prison, this’)—was trotting ahead of them, carefully balancing a tray on which was a Dutch bottle and glasses. She was about Philippa’s age. Makepeace watched her go into one of the wards shouting: ‘Here we are, Papa.’
There was a skittles alley, a meeting-room, a food hall (‘Best hot-pot and dumplings in London’), a chapel where a wedding was in progress . . .
Sanders was impressed and resentful. ‘It’s a ruddy villains’ palace.’
‘This part’s for nobs,’ the turnkey told him. ‘You ain’t seen the cellars.’ As they reached the top floor, he slapped his leg with his keys: ‘Number Four, o’ course. I remember them. Come in last night, lady pretty, gentleman humorous. Ordered visitin’ cards to be printed immediate with this address. Got to admire ’em.’
There was a quarrel in progress at Number Three where two women were screaming at each other while some men traded half-hearted pushes. ‘Keep it down now,’ the turnkey told them mildly, ‘we got visitors.’
Number Four was quiet, its door closed.
‘Nice room this,’ the turnkey said. ‘They ain’t purchased any pieces yet, but lovely view.’ He raised a circular disk attached by a nail to the door and peered through the hole behind it, then nodded to Makepeace to take his place. ‘Nice ’n’ quiet.’
Conyers sat on the bare boards of a truckle bed, both arms round Catty who was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes closed. As Makepeace watched, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the spittle from her mouth.
When he heard the door opening, he disengaged himself and laid Catty gently on the bed, standing carefully in front of her. His face went blank on seeing Makepeace, then he smiled. ‘I missed, did I?’
‘You did.’
‘Ah well.’ He turned, eased Catty nearer the wall and sat himself on the edge of the bed so that her head was hidden behind him.
Surprisingly, it was a nice room—somewhat cold and with flaking plaster, an empty grate, but the ceiling sloped down to enclose an open dormer window beyond which Make
peace could see the masts of small trading boats in the Fleet inlet. A seagull had perched on the outside sill. She was reminded of the Roaring Meg.
‘Close that window, will you?’ Conyers said. ‘It’s chilly in here.’
Makepeace closed it. The turnkey brought her a stool to sit on and returned to join Sanders in the passage outside, leaving the door open.
Conyers brushed some dust off his knee. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that brings us to Plan Two. We sell Grosvenor Square.’
‘No.’ Makepeace reached into her reticule for her account book. ‘You passed that alternative on . . . March the twenty-second. The loans and interest overtook the value.’
‘Nice house,’ Conyers said, persuasively.
‘I know. I lived in it.’
‘So you did. One forgets.’
The row next door had ceased and was replaced by the sound of someone screaming on the floor below. Sanders and the turnkey had lit their pipes and were chatting quietly.
She’d forgotten what a pleasant face Conyers had; apart from the wide eyes, which seemed to stretch round the corner to his temples, it was trustworthy, not too handsome, not plain, very English.
As much a mask, she thought, as the one he’d worn last night when he tried to kill her.
‘Did you buy all the debts?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Yes.’ She consulted her book again. ‘Except the shirtmaker, he wants to come after you himself.’
‘Coal trade must be profitable.’
‘Very.’
‘Couldn’t spare a few lumps, I suppose?’ He laughed a little shyly because he meant it. He got up, took off his coat and laid it tenderly over the unmoving Catty. Rubbing his upper arms, he sat down again. ‘That rather brings us to Plan Three. We recognize your marriage as legal.’
Makepeace shook her head. ‘You can if you like, but I’m advised I’ll win the case anyway. My estate marches with that of the Chief Justice.’
‘Well, well, the nouveau riche.’ Conyers examined his fingernails. ‘Plan Four then.’ He leaned forward suddenly so that his face was near hers. She smelled sweat. ‘Cancel the debts, set my wife free and I confess—before witnesses—to attempting to murder you.’ He sat back. ‘My final offer.’
It was love of a sort. Hadn’t Dapifer once said Conyers was the better man?
No he ain’t, Pip. The man was acting, not for her, but to some unseen audience applauding in his mind: old schoolfellows, university cronies, regimental officers, fellow-gamblers, playing to a conception of honour that precluded the paying of bills and murder.
She shook her head. ‘I doubt you’d hang and there’d be a term to your sentence. This way you’re both in for life.’
Should’ve put on the black cap, she thought, it’s death for him; he’d rather hang. He’d make a good end, too: the gallows for a stage, brave, a debonair speech to win the crowd.
She watched the long eyes flicker towards the doorway and assess the chances of gouging out her windpipe before Sanders and the turnkey could stop him, and saw the regretful rejection.
Suddenly she placed him. He’d always confused her but, of course, he was a pirate. He didn’t belong; he’d been born to the wrong society in the wrong time—the golden years of piracy were over. Pip and Ffoulkes had mistaken him for one as enlightened as themselves, whereas the man should have been striding the deck of robber ships, adventuring across the seas, his ruthlessness subsumed in the legends that would have grown around a short, dramatic life. He had no business in the Mechanical Age.
She said: ‘That’s what I intended.’
He leaped at the past tense. ‘You changed your mind?’
She reached into her reticule for papers tied together with black ribbon. She took them with her to the window and pointed.
‘Sooner or later,’ she said, ‘there will be a schooner in the Pool out there. Her captain will be handed some money you can survive on for a while when you reach your destination. If you two will be aboard her when she sets sail, and if you sign these papers now, I won’t pursue the debt.’
‘Where’s she bound?’
‘The Carolinas.’
He laughed; you had to admire him. ‘Kill us now.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Other criminals have prospered over there. I’m sure you will.’
‘And what are the papers?’
They damned him. There was an acknowledgement that Major and Mrs Conyers owed Lady Dapifer, otherwise known as Mrs Makepeace Burke, the sum of £190,000 exclusive of interest, the debt to be pursued if they returned to England. Another acknowledgement by Major and Mrs Conyers that they had committed adultery while Mrs Conyers had been married to Sir Philip Dapifer and a recognition of Sir Philip’s subsequent divorce. That Sir Philip’s second marriage had been legal and that his daughter, Philippa, by this second marriage was therefore the true owner of all his estates.
‘They’re hers by default now anyway,’ Makepeace pointed out, helpfully.
The last document was the one he balked at. ‘I’m not signing this.’ It was a confession that he had attempted to defraud his ward, Lord Ffoulkes, of moneys from the property known as Barton Wood.
‘Then you can rot,’ Makepeace said without heat.
He was blustering; he had to sign and they both knew it. There were men and women in the Fleet who had served twenty years for a debt of a few pounds and would serve another twenty unless their creditors relented—and they lived so long.
‘Do you intend to publish these?’
‘Only if you come back.’
Odd, she thought, that he should bridle at the admission of a crime involving considerably less money and hurt than that committed against her and Philippa. But young Andrew was of his own set; it was the one offence his audience would not forgive.
They waited for the turnkey to bring pen and ink. Conyers, showing agitation for the first time, left the bed to pace the room, leaving Catty exposed.
Makepeace looked and then looked away. The woman’s eyes were half open but fixed on a point in the ceiling; saliva came from the corner of her mouth.
Don’t pity her; she didn’t pity you. Yet to see the damn woman vulnerable was like watching a wolf limping. We’ve hated each other too long; we’re fixtures in each other’s mind.
She said gently: ‘Let me get her a doctor.’
Conyers turned and Sanders came forward from the doorway in case he attacked. ‘How dare you,’ he said. ‘How dare you. She’s merely tired. And you’re not fit to lick her shoes.’
The turnkey came back and, with Sanders, witnessed Conyers’s scribbled signatures. When he’d finished, he threw the pen on the floor.
Makepeace put the papers in her reticule; they were as watertight as Mr Hackbutt had been able to make them in the time. She was also putting her trust in the two tipstaffs and Mr Hackbutt himself who were to take the transportees on board when the ship came, only leaving it themselves as it passed Tilbury for the open sea.
She’d promised herself she wouldn’t say it but she did. She said: ‘Did you ever wonder what happened to us when you turned us out? Did you care at all?’
He was calm again. He considered it. ‘Do you know,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I did. Somehow one doesn’t attribute feelings of any depth to the lower classes.’
As she readied herself to leave, Conyers said, idly: ‘What made you change your mind?’
He doesn’t want me to go, she thought. He loathes me but I’m still an audience; when I leave he won’t have one.
Mr Hackbutt had asked her the same question that very morning. Why had she decided to let her catch off the hook?
There’d been so many reasons. Because revenge was not, after all, a dish better eaten cold; it palled. Because she had personally lost so much in pursuing it. Because she had found a completion in herself that this diminished couple before her would never know. Because she knew what love was. Because Jesus would have forgiven them—and so would Pip Dapifer.<
br />
She searched now for explanations that would hurt—she wasn’t that much of a Christian—while at the same time being true.
She shrugged and made for the door. ‘Actually, you did me a good turn. If you hadn’t robbed me, I’d never’ve found out how clever I was at making money.’
Did that sting? Well, here’s another. ‘And Pip found you pitiable. Even when he caught you swiving his wife, he pitied you both.’
‘God,’ he said, ‘you’re a barbarian, aren’t you? Sheer gutter-slush. What did he ever see in you?’
She whipped round. ‘What did he ever see in you?’
He was shaking but he smiled. ‘It’s called style.’
‘It’s called shit,’ she said, and left.
Hedley was waiting for her in the street and, with unspoken consent, they walked together down to the mouth of the Fleet to breathe the clean, cool air coming upriver from the estuary.
‘Did you smile?’
‘I meant to,’ she said wearily. ‘But there wasn’t much to smile about.’
‘Relieved at the thought of Carolina, were they?’
‘Not much.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘The money they’ve cost me. It’ll be the most expensive voyage in history—I should send ’em steerage.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘No.’
He nodded and turned away to look at the shipping.
Not just the money, she thought. They’ve cost me everything. Or I’ve cost me everything.
A voice behind them said: ‘We won’t make Barnet ’less we go now, missus.’
Six days to Newcastle—five, if the going was good.
‘All right, Sanders. Just one more delay tomorrow.’ To Hedley, she said: ‘There’s somebody I must say goodbye to.’
‘As you please,’ he said.
It was no better in the coach; he was pleasant and unapproachable, talking mostly in dialect to Hildy, who adored him. Ever since he’d once told her she was named for St Hilda, the girl had thought better of herself. ‘Tha’s followin’ in t’line o’ grand Northumbrian women,’ he’d said.