The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  I drew back, heart thudding against my chest, grinning with relief. Now we were through and safe, I had a fancy to go again, as I always did – but the boatman drew up hard against the Tooley stairs. As I left the boat and clambered up the green, slippery steps, it struck me that perhaps Jakes told this story of his old captain to all his charges, in the hope of being paid off. Ghosts and devils, indeed.

  We left the river behind and headed for the Borough’s High Street. Back among the throng, I grew conscious of my chains again, clinking together with every laboured step. Only a week before I had come to Southwark Fair with a group of friends and walked down this street a free man. Now the fair, and my friends, were gone. We passed St Saviour’s and the long line of taverns stretching out of town, laughter and shouts from every window, every doorway. The scent of cooked meat and beer cut through the noisome stench of the street. As we passed the White Hart a man staggered out from the alley and spewed a thick gush of vomit across the pavement then collapsed into it. A young boy raced across the road, scavenged the drunkard’s purse then scampered away, back into the shadows.

  ‘Here we are.’ Jakes gripped my arm and guided me between two boarded-up shop fronts.

  We turned into the narrow, sunless alley. The clamour and life of the High Street bled away into a chill silence. Ahead of us, at the end of the alley, stood a high stone lodge – the entrance to the gaol. It looked like an old castle keep, flanked by twin turrets looming forty feet into the sky. I half-expected men in armour to appear at the top and throw burning oil on our heads.

  The Lodge gate comprised two large doors studded with iron, wide enough for a carriage to pass through when both were flung open. A hand-written sign had been nailed into the wood, paper curling at the edges:

  MARSHALSEA GAOL

  and COURT PALACE

  Southwark

  Under the Charge of His Majesty the Knight’s Marshal: Sir Philip Meadows

  Head Keeper: William Acton

  Underneath the keeper’s name, someone had scrawled BUTCHER in fresh ink.

  Jakes pounded upon the door with his club, the sound ringing back down the passageway. After a long moment there was a harsh scraping sound and an iron grate opened in the door. A pair of mean, bloodshot eyes glared at me contemptuously through the bars.

  ‘Who’s this son of a whore?’ a rough voice called through the gate.

  Jakes leaned down and whispered urgently in my ear. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing, Mr Hawkins? Nothing you can pawn?’

  And all of a sudden I remembered that there was, indeed, something: my mother’s gold cross, set with a small diamond at its heart. I had worn it about my neck for so long that I had almost forgotten it. It was the only thing I had left of her and I’d vowed to wear it always. But I had been a boy then, and boys make all sorts of foolish plans before they learn better. Shuffling beneath the chains I touched my fingers to my throat. By some miracle it was still there, unrobbed. I loosened my collar. ‘Will this do?’

  Jakes unclasped the fine gold chain and held it up to the light. ‘There should be some capital in it. Enough to keep you from the Common Side for a few nights, at least.’

  The turnkey slid back the bolts and flung open the door. He looked me up and down, taking in the mean cloth of my borrowed clothes and the low slump of my shoulders. He snorted, and shook his head at Jakes. ‘He’ll last a week if he’s lucky,’ he said, then laughed nastily and pushed me through the door. ‘Welcome to the Marshalsea, sir.’

  PART TWO

  MURDER

  THURSDAY. THE FIRST DAY.

  Chapter Three

  Jakes abandoned me at the Lodge gate with a promise to return that afternoon. I watched him stride away towards the freedom of the High Street, my mother’s chain tucked in his pocket. Should I trust him? The truth was, I had no choice.

  The turnkey slammed the door shut, the sound echoing down the corridor ahead. My heart sank. No chance of escape now. The corridor walls seemed to press closer and closer while the chains tightened about my chest, making it hard to breathe. I gasped for air, my head spinning.

  The turnkey’s face loomed in front of mine. ‘Feeling a little sick, are we, sir?’ he asked gleefully.

  I fought back my fear and stood taller. ‘I’m perfectly well,’ I lied. It would not do to show weakness in here. At the end of the corridor lay another set of double doors to match the Lodge gate. One had been propped open with a barrel of ale – I could just make out the entrance to the prison yard beyond. Without thinking I began to shuffle towards the light and open air, but the guard grabbed me roughly by the arm and shoved me back towards a small, overheated room next to the Lodge gate. This was where the turnkey on gate duty would sit, waiting for the next poor devil to come along. I saw now why this one was in such a foul temper – I’d interrupted an early dinner; a bottle of sack and a bowl of greasy mutton broth balanced precariously on a stack of papers. He tipped the last of the wine down his throat, examining my arrest warrant with a sour expression. Then he slammed open a black ledger filled with names and debts and scratched a fresh line on to the page.

  Thomas Hawkins, Greek St. Thurs. 21st September, 1727. 20l. 10s. 6d. Gent.

  ‘Soho,’ he grunted, narrowing his eyes as he wrote the address.

  ‘You know it well?’ I guessed.

  ‘Joseph Cross Wardour Street Tuesday 6th February 1725 ten pounds seven shillings Bricklayer.’

  All said in one breath, as if it were his full name.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Cross.’

  ‘Oh. Pleased are you,’ he snorted. ‘Well, fuck me.’

  Joseph Cross. I had never met a man more well-named; he was like the cauldron hanging over the fire at Moll’s, bubbling and roiling in a constant fury. He had the red, bloated face of a seasoned drinker and his thick brows met across the bridge of his nose, as if years of aggressive scowling had knitted them together.

  ‘So you’re a debtor too?’

  ‘Trusty,’ he corrected. ‘I work for the governor.’

  ‘I see.’ But you’re still a debtor, aren’t you? ‘Did you know someone’s written “butcher” under the governor’s name on the gate?’

  Cross shrugged. ‘They wrote “cunt” yesterday. Well, Thomas Hawkins, Gent. What are we going to do with you, eh?’

  I gazed longingly at the low chair by the fire. My chains felt so heavy now I was struggling to stand. ‘Perhaps I could wait in here until Mr Jakes returns?’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ Cross trilled, clapping his hands. ‘And perhaps sir would like a sugar cake and a pot of tea while he’s waiting . . . ?’ He dragged me back out of the room. ‘No money and no warning,’ he grumbled as he led me down the corridor. ‘Mr Acton won’t like this. He won’t like you,’ he added, with obvious relish.

  We headed towards the yard doors, sunlight glinting up ahead. Deep grooves ran down towards the yard where the carriages had rattled through, bringing in food and drink. And taking out the bodies. The ancient stone floor had been worn smooth by centuries of debtors trudging wearily through the gate. And now here I was to join them – just one in an endless line of wretched souls stretching on and on for ever, to the end of days, all pressed and pushed and prodded by men like Cross.

  Before we reached the yard he opened a door to the right and pointed up a set of dank stairs that smelled violently of piss and beerish vomit. I could hear laughter coming from the floor above, and music. ‘Tap Room,’ Cross said. He leaned down beneath the stairs and pulled open what looked like a cellar door, revealing a narrow coffin-shaped space below. A foul, rotten smell wafted up, even worse than the stairs. Cross grimaced and put an arm across his face. ‘The Hole. Punishment room. I’ve seen a man last three days in there. Couldn’t remember his own name when we pulled him out.’ He watched my face fall with a satisfied air.

  At the end of the corridor he unlocked a door to the left and pushed me into a small cell. ‘The Pound. You can wait here until the governor gets back.’

&n
bsp; The Pound was not as bad as the Hole – that much I was grateful for. But it was not much better. The air felt suffocatingly close and damp and the walls and floor were filthy, with just one tiny, barred window too high to look through. A line of chains and manacles of different weights hung from the ceiling, clinking softly in the breeze from the door.

  Cross gestured to a ghoulish collection of torture implements fixed to the far wall: thumbscrews, iron collars and whips. ‘D’you like our display, Mr Hawkins? The governor put those up himself.’ He turned to me with a straight face. ‘Mr Acton takes a keen interest in the history of the gaol.’

  I stared at them in horror. ‘They’re not used on the prisoners?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Cross pulled down an iron skull cap and gave it an affectionate pat, as if it were a child’s head. ‘That would be against the law, wouldn’t it?’ He scraped his thumbnail slowly against a thick crust of blood that had dried along the rim. ‘Well, then. Shall I remove your chains before I go, sir?’

  At last. Jakes had promised they would come off once I was inside. ‘If you would,’ I said, holding out my hands.

  Cross took a key from the ring at his belt and slotted it into the lock at my chest. Then he pushed his face up close to mine, his breath reeking of bad gums and worse liquor. ‘Oh. That’ll be sixpence, sir.’

  And then he laughed.

  I had been beaten. I had been robbed. I had lost everything and now I was trapped in the most notorious debtors’ gaol in London. Anything would have provoked me in that moment; his laughter was more than enough. Without thinking, I raised my fists and swung them hard against his jaw, the iron cuffs about my wrists adding weight to my punch. He staggered back, blood bursting from his mouth, then leapt at me in a fury, hands tearing at my throat.

  ‘Mr Cross!’ A voice cut the air between us. ‘Stop this at once!’

  A small, slender woman stood in the doorway – a widow, dressed in deep mourning. Her husband must have left her rich, judging by her fine black bombazine gown and hood. I lowered my fists.

  ‘Mrs Roberts.’ Cross gave an ill-tempered bow. ‘Didn’t see you there. Madam,’ he added, forcing the word from his lips with great effort.

  ‘Evidently,’ she murmured. She was turned from me, hood shielding her face, but I could tell from her voice and bearing that she was a gentlewoman. I could not imagine what she was doing here in the Marshalsea of all places.

  ‘My apologies, madam,’ I said, and bowed as best I could while wrapped in chains. ‘I fear we have startled you.’

  ‘I’m not easily startled, sir,’ she replied, tilting her head towards me.

  My heart jumped. She was still young – close to my own age of twenty-five – and exceptionally pretty, with a fair complexion and delicate features. Her eyes were most striking – a clear grey, fringed with dark lashes – but there were deep shadows beneath them, from grief and lack of sleep I supposed. Her husband’s death must have been recent; she was still wearing a pair of dull black shammy gloves. Beneath her hood and cap, her hair was dark brown, laced with auburn that burned bronze in the light from the window. I caught myself wondering how it would look tumbling about her shoulders.

  She did not seem as pleased by my appearance. Her gaze flickered over the shabby coat Moll had lent me, my mud-spattered stockings and patched breeches. She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring in disapproval. You would make a fine abbess, I thought; chilly and severe. A shame. I was rather fond of widows, in the main. Especially rich ones.

  ‘Why is this man still in chains, Mr Cross?’ she demanded.

  I smiled to myself. I had misjudged her – it was my chains she disapproved of, not my tattered clothes.

  ‘He hasn’t paid the fee,’ Cross growled, fists clenching impatiently at his side. Then he leered at me. ‘He can’t afford it.’

  I felt my face grow hot. It was shaming to be unmasked as a man without six pennies to his name. I had the sudden urge to explain my story – to make her understand that I came from a good family, the eldest son of a respected gentleman. (The disgraced and disinherited eldest son, admittedly, but there was no need to trouble her with such trifling details.) ‘I can assure you, madam, I’m expecting the money at any moment—’ I began, then stopped in surprise. There were tears shimmering in her eyes.

  ‘I have heard those words before,’ she said, her voice tinged with grief. She took three pennies from her purse and handed them to Cross, who pocketed them at once. The low, cheating bastard had tried to rob me of double the fee.

  I thanked Mrs Roberts profusely, promising to return the money as soon as I had it.

  She waved a black-gloved hand. ‘I have heard that many times as well,’ she said, wearily. She gestured to Cross to unchain me. He muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, shoving the key into the lock then pulling hard at the chains that ran about my chest. Whoever Mrs Roberts was, she was used to being obeyed. She nodded with a satisfied air as the iron links slid to the floor. ‘What is your name, sir?’

  I stepped neatly from the pile of chains and bowed again. ‘Thomas Hawkins, madam. At your service.’

  A sparkle of amusement lit her grey eyes. ‘And what service might that be, I wonder? Do you mean to pummel another turnkey for me?’

  ‘If he punches me again I’ll hang him up here until he chokes,’ Cross snarled, slinging the chains over a hook on the ceiling. He pointed to his cut lip. ‘The governor will hear of this.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mrs Roberts raised an eyebrow. ‘And what will you tell him, I wonder? That his head turnkey was bettered by a chained, unarmed prisoner? Well, well. I’m sure Mr Acton will find that most . . . diverting.’

  Cross scowled and unlocked the manacles, pulling them off so sharply he scraped my wrists. He glowered at me as he left, as if to say, we are not done yet. I stared back as evenly as I could, cursing my hot temper. I had not even stepped out into the yard and I’d already made an enemy of the head turnkey – and doubtless every guard who served under him.

  Still, at least I was free of my chains. I rubbed my wrists and stretched out my back, my body aching and sore from the heavy irons and the night’s rough beating.

  Mrs Roberts gave a little gasp, and covered her mouth.

  ‘Madam – are you well?’ I took a step towards her.

  She gave a start, then looked down, smoothing her skirts. ‘Quite well, thank you. It is just . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘You remind me of my late husband. You have . . . the way you . . .’ She stumbled to a halt, blushing with embarrassment.

  I remembered the story Jakes had told me on the river about his old friend Captain Roberts, who’d died in the gaol. You look the spit of him. But Roberts had been a penniless debtor. Where had his widow found the money for such fine clothes, cut in the latest fashion – and why the devil would she be haunting the Marshalsea now that her husband was dead?

  ‘Forgive me – are you visiting friends inside the gaol?’ I asked. ‘I can see you are not a prisoner here.’

  ‘Oh, but I am, sir,’ she replied, and gave a bitter laugh. ‘You cannot see my chains, but they are wrapped about me even now.’ She moved closer, the hem of her dress brushing softly against the stone floor. ‘My husband was murdered in here a few short months ago. Whoever killed him is still hiding within these walls. I have vowed never to leave until he is discovered.’ Her lips tightened to a thin, determined line. ‘I shall see the devil hanged for it – if I must do it myself.’

  I stared at her in alarm. It was hard enough to be slung in prison – harder still to learn I was trapped in here with a murderer.

  ‘So, Mr Hawkins,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Do you still wish to be of service?’

  I groaned inwardly. That was the trouble with gifts, even thrupenny ones. They always landed you in debt. ‘Of course.’

  She laughed – and for a moment her face was transformed, the cares and sorrows of her life dissolved away. ‘I don’t believe you. But perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps yo
u are more than you seem.’

  I frowned at the insult. ‘You don’t know me, madam.’

  She lifted her chin and studied me for a moment. ‘Oh, I think I do. I think I know you very well, sir.’ She pulled her hood low over her face and stepped back, shoulders high. It was as if she had slammed a door in my face. ‘May God protect you in this wretched place,’ she said, a stranger again, then turned and left.

  I stood alone, astounded by the exchange. What right did she have to judge me when we had just met? Very well, I was not the most reliable of men, but she didn’t know that. And it was true – I liked to drink and gamble and spend time (and money) with accommodating women of the town. What of it? From what Jakes had told me, I was no worse than her husband.

  Ah. So there it was. I reminded Mrs Roberts of her husband – and not just because of my looks. How had Jakes described him? A rake, a gambler and a drunk. Still, she’d married him all the same. I rubbed my jaw. Perhaps it was not so bad to be mistaken for Captain Roberts after all . . . except that someone in here had murdered him. Both Jakes and Mrs Roberts had been moved to help me because I reminded them of a dead man – a man who had been killed here within the prison grounds. I gazed about the Pound, at the thumbscrews and skull caps and iron collars hanging from the wall. And then I turned and left, as fast as I could.

  I was grateful there was no one to see me enter the prison yard for the first time. As I stepped out of the Lodge my father’s last words came to me unbidden; the Reverend Thomas Hawkins’ final sermon to his prodigal son. Three years ago he had summoned me to his study and forced me to stand there, waiting like a child, while he sat gazing into the fire.

  ‘The path you have chosen leads but one way,’ he said, eventually.