The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  Jakes settled his hat back on his head. ‘Best of luck, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

  Cross sniggered. In a flash, Jakes spun round and slammed him against the nearest wall, fixing an arm across his throat hard and heavy as an iron collar. ‘I lost a good friend in here,’ he snarled, blue-green eyes blazing with a furious intensity. ‘I will not let this damned place destroy another man the way it destroyed John Roberts. Never again.’ He pressed his arm harder against the turnkey’s throat, making him choke. ‘Is that clear?’

  Cross nodded, veins bulging as he tried to breathe. Jakes let go and he slid to the floor, panting hard.

  Jakes bent down to whisper in my ear. ‘If there’s trouble ask the Ranger to send a message. I’ll come if I can.’ He patted my shoulder then stomped back down the corridor, slamming the Lodge gate closed behind him.

  Cross pulled himself back on his feet. We glared at each other for a moment, a pair of tom cats fighting over . . . what, exactly? Then Cross sighed, deflated, as if he’d had the same thought.

  ‘Oh, bugger off,’ he said, and limped away back to his room.

  I pressed my hand to my chest, gave a deep bow, and did as I was told.

  Chapter Four

  I needed money.

  Hardly a startling revelation in a debtors’ prison, but it was true and it was urgent, nonetheless. I had seen enough of the Common Side – even that brief glimpse from the Tap Room balcony – to know I could not survive it. The certainty of it was like a blade at my throat.

  I sat down on Fleet’s bench beneath the Lodge and stared hard across the cobbled yard, weighing my choices. No, not the yard, I corrected myself – the Park. This was the same as school, or college; the sooner I learned the language of the Marshalsea the better. I could see now why Fleet favoured this bench. From here I could watch the whole of the Master’s Side go about its business, like old King Henry watching a tournament. It was the perfect place to gather information, and information was valuable currency in a prison.

  Thinking of Fleet made me wonder if I’d been too hasty in rejecting his company. Even here on the Master’s Side I would need a friend to watch my back, and he’d frightened the wits out of a man without lifting a finger. For some reason he had taken an interest in me. An unsettling interest – but perhaps one I could turn to my advantage.

  In the middle of the Park, beneath the lamppost, a debtor in a threadbare coat was deep in conversation with an older man of near sixty; a porter, I supposed, or perhaps another turnkey, given the set of keys at his belt. His clothes were mud-brown from his wig down to his stockings, save for a bright red neckerchief at his throat, which gave him the appearance of a giant robin. His brows, and the stubble on his cheek, were a mix of soft ash and honey, as if he were fighting his age bristle by bristle. He slipped a letter to the prisoner then waited, hands clasped behind his back, gnarled fingers twitching in anticipation.

  There was money being made here; I could smell it. I left the bench and approached softly.

  The prisoner tore open the letter with trembling fingers and read swiftly, his expression collapsing from hope to despair within a few lines. He groaned and crumpled the letter in his fist.

  The robin cleared his throat in a theatrical manner. ‘Bad news, sir? Very sorry to hear it. These are hard times, sir. Hard, cruel times . . .’ He cleared his throat again.

  ‘Indeed.’ His customer sighed, and pulled a ha’penny from his purse. ‘Well, Mr Hand. I suppose you must be paid the same, whether the news is good or ill.’

  Mr Hand inclined his head. ‘Regrettably, sir. Regrettably.’ His eyes, the colour of old pennies, opened wide in sympathy. ‘Hard times . . . We’re all suffering together, sir.’

  The man gave Hand a sour look as he handed over the coin and trudged away, head bowed, still clutching the crumpled letter in his fist. As soon as he had limped from sight, Hand flicked the coin jauntily in the air, caught it, and slipped it into some deep crevasse of his jacket.

  ‘Business goes well, sir?’

  He gave a start, then smiled broadly, presenting a small collection of ruined teeth. I introduced myself and he gave a bow so low it bordered on the sarcastic. ‘Gilbert Hand, sir. Ranger of the Park.’ He told me what I had already guessed, that he ran errands for the other prisoners. ‘Among other things,’ he added. There was a glint in his eyes that told me exactly what – or who – those things were. Mr Hand was a pedlar of gossip and sex. No wonder he seemed so cheerful; he’d made such a good profit he’d decided to stay even now his creditors were paid off. ‘I’ve a dozen boys working for me,’ he said, pitching his chin towards the Common Side wall. ‘Helps keep their families from starving.’

  ‘Charitable of you.’ I hoped the boys just ran errands. Not a safe bet with a man like Hand.

  He grinned. ‘And how may I help you, sir?’

  ‘I need to send a letter. To Reverend Charles Buckley.’

  Hand gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Sir Philip’s curate?’ An avaricious look crossed his lined, lean face. ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘My oldest friend.’

  ‘That so.’ I could see his mind whirring, calculating the ways he might make a profit from such a connection. He gave a sharp whistle and three boys came racing from the other end of the yard, kicking up the dust as they ran. He sent two of them back, leaving a boy of about ten standing alone. His clothes were poorly patched and his skin was streaked grey with dirt, but he had the same restless energy as Hand, as if he had a hundred places to be at once.

  ‘Benjamin.’ Hand leaned down. ‘Chandler’s shop. Paper, ink, quill.’ He held his finger in front of the boy’s face. ‘No charge, d’you hear? The Careys owe me. Bring them to Mr Hawkins.’

  Benjamin nodded, gaze flickering over Hand’s shoulder to where I was standing. He was young, but life had already knocked him about – worse than that wretched little moon-curser by the looks of it. His head was shaved for lice and one of his front teeth was chipped. I smiled at him and he pursed his lips, brows furrowing with suspicion. ‘Which room?’ he asked.

  I glanced at Hand. ‘That’s for Mr Acton to decide.’

  Hand snorted. ‘Governor’s in the Crown. Won’t be back for hours. Suppose I could talk to Mr Grace for you. Acton’s clerk,’ he explained, and pulled a face. ‘Usually charge a hog for that pleasure.’

  I shrugged and smiled. If he thought I would pay him a shilling just to talk to some wretched clerk he could think again. Benjamin ran off towards the Lodge to the little chandler’s shop beneath the Tap Room. As I turned to watch him I caught sight of Samuel Fleet standing on the balcony, smoking a pipe. Watching. Hand cursed and grabbed my elbow, pulling me away towards the north side of the gaol.

  ‘He couldn’t hear us from up there,’ I protested.

  Hand’s expression had turned grim. ‘Wouldn’t put anything past that tongue-pad. I hear he’s taken an interest in you.’ He looked me up and down and snorted. ‘I’ll give you this advice for free, boy. No matter what happens, you stay away from Samuel Fleet.’ His lips curled in disgust as he spoke the name, but it wasn’t disgust I saw in his eyes. It was fear.

  While Hand left to speak with Acton’s clerk about a room, I continued my tour of the Master’s Side, heading for the grand brick building at the far end of the north wall, beyond the men’s wards – and a long distance from the Tap Room balcony. A crowd was still gathered beneath its porch, watching another game of backgammon. I propped myself against a column and studied the players for a while, noting their flaws for later use, then tapped my neighbour’s arm.

  ‘Forgive me, sir. What’s the purpose of this building?’

  The man smiled politely. ‘This is the Palace Court.’ He pointed to the long row of windows above the porch, stretching two storeys high. ‘They hear our cases up there in the Court Room. Are you visiting, sir?’

  I shook my head. ‘I arrived this morning . . .’ I said – and found I could say no more, confronted
with the truth of my imprisonment. I would spend the night in this place. And the next night. And the next . . . my God. How would I endure it? How would I survive?

  ‘I’m sorry for your misfortune,’ the man said quietly, as if he had read my thoughts, and turned back to the game.

  I drifted away from the crowd, feeling out of sorts and quite sorry for myself. Beyond the porch, the Palace Court had been built further out into the yard; more living quarters, I presumed, from the trails of grey smoke wafting up from the chimney. At the end of the building stood a sentinel’s box that I never once saw used save for pissing behind. It was quieter in this corner of the gaol, far away from the Tap Room and the Lodge. I could hear voices on the other side of the wall, the sound of hammering, men whistling and laughing as they worked. I felt a sudden crush in my chest at the thought of all those free men standing just a few paces away. Life flowed fast around this prison, like a river flowing round a boulder. I longed to jump the wall and swim away but it was no use – I was trapped. If I did not find some money soon I would die in here.

  ‘Mr Hawkins!’

  I turned to see a plump, silver-haired woman leaning out of a window on the ground floor of the Palace Court. She whisked off her cap and flapped it at me. ‘There you are!’

  I offered her a short bow, wondering how she knew my name. ‘Madam.’

  ‘Ahh, bless you.’ She laughed and gave a mock-curtsey in return, pulling up her coarse woollen skirts and twirling them about. ‘Moll said you were a gent.’

  I drew closer. She had a broad, pleasant face but her complexion was poor, and her cheeks were pitted with old pox scars. It was a face one could read in a moment – guileless and open, but not foolish, with clever, greyish-blue eyes that missed nothing. ‘You’re a friend of Moll’s?’

  She fixed her cap back on. ‘Does Moll have friends . . . ? Come on in, my dear; I’ll serve you a pot of coffee on the house.’

  Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse was tiny, with rickety, mismatched old chairs and tables, but the floor was swept clean, the fire was blazing in the hearth and there were pots of fresh flowers on each table. Prisoners sat talking and drinking idly, wrote letters or read the paper. Gilbert Hand’s unlucky customer sat in one corner, weeping quietly. No one paid him any mind.

  Over by the fire, a young maid in a light blue calimanco gown tended the cauldron, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her face was flushed from the flames and damp straggles of red hair stuck to her cheeks. She paused, and poked them back beneath her cap, frowning with irritation. A chubby boy of about three years of age sat at her feet, gazing up at her in unfocused adoration, holding tight to a corner of her apron with one dirty little fist. I smiled, watching the girl for a moment. She was in a foul temper, clanging the pots and muttering curses under her breath. But she had a quick, capable manner I liked very much; she reminded me of the young maids who worked at the vicarage when I was a boy. I’d whiled away many happy hours in their company. A memory I’d buried long ago suddenly came back to me. Lizzie Smith. I was home from school, trying to keep out of my stepmother’s way. Lizzie followed me into the woods one day. Pushed me up against the nearest tree and kissed me, took my hand and slid it beneath her skirts . . .

  The girl must have felt my eyes upon her. ‘I’m not for sale,’ she warned, glaring at me.

  ‘I’ve no interest in hiring you, hussy!’ I snapped back, annoyed by her cheek.

  She raised an eyebrow, gaze dropping to my breeches. ‘Then you should tell your cock, sir,’ she muttered, and turned back to the fire. A couple of men at the nearest table sniggered into their coffee bowls.

  ‘Kitty Sparks . . .’ Mrs Bradshaw tutted, bustling me away from the girl towards a seat near the window. ‘I do apologise, Mr Hawkins.’

  I laughed and shook my head; she had caught me fair and square. ‘Moll would hire her in a flash, would she not?’

  ‘Aye, she might. But she’d have to slit my throat first.’ There was a hard tone to her voice; had Moll really told her I was a gentleman and left it at that? A sin of omission if ever I’d heard one.

  Once I was settled, Mrs Bradshaw eased herself down into a chair by the door, resting her feet on a low footstool. A clever spot, where she could keep watch on her customers and still observe all the comings and goings on the stairwell. She took up a half-made quilted cap and began stitching with a neat, practised air, casting glances into the passage beyond whenever someone walked by. When Benjamin – Gilbert Hand’s boy – came by with paper and ink for my letter, she watched us sharply from beneath lowered lids, never missing a stitch.

  I had just begun my letter to Charles when Kitty appeared with my coffee, slopping half of it upon the table. She mopped it up with her apron, cursing to herself. She was younger than I had first thought, eighteen at most, with a pale complexion and freckles all across her face and arms, as if God had flung them at her in a rage. I smiled at her and she responded with a complicated look, as if to say – what the devil have you to smile about?

  I leaned back in my chair. Her ill-humour was intriguing, like the sharp tang of lemon in a syllabub. ‘Tell me. Are the rooms above us here for prisoners?’

  ‘This is the Oak ward.’ She shifted her weight to one leg; the familiar tilt of a girl humouring a man against her wishes. ‘This floor and the two above us. The women’s quarters are on the next landing.’

  ‘Indeed . . .’ Several delicious, indiscreet questions began to form in my mind. How many women were housed there? What were their ages? Their circumstances? How many were there to a bed? I shifted in my seat. ‘And why is it called the Oak?’

  She met my gaze, green eyes steady and shrewd. ‘There’s thick oak doors off each corridor.’ She mimed the doors with her hands, fingertips touching in the middle. ‘The ladies close them when they don’t want visitors. But they’re spread wide open most of the time,’ she added, parting her hands. ‘And then a gentleman can enter as often as he likes. If he’s wanted.’

  Behind me, men were coughing into their drinks again. ‘I see. Well, thank you, Miss Sparks, I’m obliged to you.’

  She offered me a half-smile, pleased I’d taken her teasing well. ‘What you in for?’

  The question caught me by surprise. The Marshalsea was a debtors’ prison, with only a handful of prisoners in for other crimes. ‘What do you think I’m in for?’

  She shrugged. ‘How should I know? Sedition? Piracy? Sodomy—’

  ‘Debt. I’m in for debt.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She winked and headed back to the fire.

  I finished my letter to Charles, explaining what had happened to me. What he could do to help I wasn’t sure; the money he’d lent me was now being spent somewhere in St Giles – and not in a way he would approve, I was sure. I asked if he might speak with his patron, though I doubted Sir Philip would feel inclined to help. Once I was done I called to Benjamin through the window and paid him a ha’penny to deliver the letter to St James’.

  After that there was nothing I could do but wait for Gilbert Hand to return with news of my living quarters. As I waited the prison chaplain appeared at the door and greeted Mrs Bradshaw in a vague fashion before limping breathlessly to a seat by the fire. He was a large man with a goutish look about him that made it hard to guess his age, even more so as he wore a long wig in an old-fashioned style. Fifty, I decided. A large roll of fat wobbled over the edge of his white neckerchief, which had yellowed with age and sweat. His black waistcoat and jacket were badly faded and in need of a tailor’s needle – more through absent-mindedness than poverty, I guessed, as his hat and cane were both new and well-made. He reminded me of my old divinity tutor at school; he had the same kind but distracted air and – by the look of him – the same quiet devotion to port wine.

  I was about to introduce myself when he pulled out a Bible of all things, settled a pair of glasses on his nose and began scribbling his thoughts down in a little notebook. A Bible in a coffeehouse? Very bad form. I frowned at his offence and returne
d to my coffee. After a little while Mrs Bradshaw put down her needlework and joined me in a fresh pot, squeezing her way between the tables to reach me. She might have been in debt but she certainly wasn’t starving. In fact she didn’t seem like a prisoner at all. She laughed when I told her this.

  ‘I’ve been here six years,’ she said, rolling the little vase of flowers on the table round and round in a wistful fashion. ‘Came in with a debt of fifty and I’ll leave in a box still owing it, no doubt.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s home to me now. I’m free to come and go as I please, as long as I’m back for lock-up. The Careys are the same, and the McDonnells. They run Titty Doll’s, the chophouse upstairs. Tell Mack you know Moll and he’ll give you the better cuts. Oh! I forgot!’ She magicked an envelope from her voluminous skirts and tipped a half-guinea into my palm. ‘She must like you, Mr Hawkins. I’ve never known Moll give money freely to anyone.’

  I tucked the coin away. I doubted it was given freely – Moll would call in her debt sooner or later – but I was grateful for it all the same. I nodded at the envelope. ‘What does she say?’

  Mrs Bradshaw held the letter out in front of her, leaning back and narrowing her eyes. ‘Please keep watch for a friend of mine, an honest gent fell on hard times,’ she read, mimicking Moll’s low, commanding tone. ‘He’s a tall, fine-looking boy with dark brows, blue eyes and good calves.’

  We both studied my legs for a moment, then laughed together.

  ‘What do you make of that, madame?’ Mrs Bradshaw called out to a dusty old woman muttering to herself in a dim corner. She was dressed all in black and white like a living chessboard: white hair stabbed with black combs and tied up in a series of tiny black ribbons; face powdered bone-white, black velvet patches only half-covering old pox scars. Flecks of spittle clung to the corners of her thin grey lips.