‘That was brave of you, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, as we made our way to the chapel.
I frowned, remembering Samuel Fleet’s observation up in the Tap Room. Had I been brave? Or just foolish? Was there much difference in a place like this?
Thinking of Fleet, some instinct made me look back at the Tap Room window. And there he was, watching us from above, leaning over the balcony. As I caught his eye he grinned and clapped his hands, as if this had all been a play for his benefit. The applause echoed around the empty yard.
‘Look at him.’ Woodburn clenched his jaw. ‘The black-hearted fiend. God forgive me, but I’d wring his neck if I had the chance.’
Chapter Five
The chapel was quiet and clean, with smooth-plastered white walls and a large window facing on to the yard. Woodburn threw a fresh blanket on the floor by the altar and I settled Jack down carefully. I could feel him trembling in my arms as I laid him down.
‘Poor boy,’ Woodburn sighed. He heaved himself into the nearest pew and bowed his head in prayer.
Jack shuddered softly and coughed. A thin trickle of blood slid from his lips. I hoped Woodburn was praying for Jack’s soul – it was too late for the rest of him. The shock of it brought tears to my eyes. Thirteen years old. I blinked them back and kneeled down next to him, wondering how on earth I had become entangled in all of this. On a different day, in a different mood, Acton could have clapped me in irons or beaten me just as he’d beaten Jack – and who would have come running to save me?
Jack reached for my hand. ‘Ben. Where’s Ben . . . ?’
Kitty arrived with a bowl of hot water and a cordial. She shooed me away, loosening Jack’s grimy rags and examining his injuries with a speed and skill that surprised me. He was so dirty that it was hard to see where the bruises lay, but once the hot water had washed him clean the violence of Acton’s attack was clear enough. Thick red weals criss-crossed his body, deep, savage wounds that had torn almost to the bone.
Kitty cleaned them as best she could and put the bottle of cordial to his lips. ‘Just a few sips, Jack.’ She touched his hair softly.
‘Is he a friend of yours, Kitty?’
She nodded, setting the cordial to one side. ‘He cleaned bed sheets on the Master’s Side till he caught a fever. Then they threw him back over the wall.’ She ran her fingers across the boy’s battered body then glanced at Woodburn, still praying with his head down. ‘Look,’ she murmured, touching a large spread of green and yellow bruises running across his chest like countries on a map. ‘These are old beatings.’
I studied the boy with new eyes. Kitty was right; the bright red wounds from Acton’s whip were merely the climax to a brutal story that had played itself out for many weeks. Jack had been battered and beaten so badly that there was barely an inch of clear skin left. No wonder he’d tried to escape.
‘Why did they do this to him?’
‘He got himself into trouble with John Grace, Acton’s clerk,’ Woodburn said. He was slumped back in his pew, almost as grey as the boy.
‘Trouble?’ Kitty rounded on him. ‘His mother was starving to death on the sick ward! They left her lying in her own filth, no blankets, no bed. Nothing. Jack only asked for what he was owed. Just a bit of charity.’
Woodburn flinched, then turned a deep red. ‘Watch your tongue, girl,’ he cried, rising from the bench. ‘I did everything I could to help Jack and his family. I spoke with Mr Grace and Mr Acton on countless occasions.’
‘Little good it did them,’ Kitty snapped back.
Woodburn glowered at her. ‘This is Samuel Fleet’s influence,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Mrs Roberts tells me you’ve been spending far too much time in his company . . .’
Kitty pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ she said, her voice catching with remorse. ‘It’s just . . . the shock of . . . of seeing poor Jack . . .’
I almost laughed, it was so poorly acted. But Woodburn fell for it. He patted her head, all thoughts of Fleet forgotten. ‘You’re a good-hearted girl, Kitty. We just need to calm that temper of yours, eh? And my thanks to you, sir,’ he said, giving me a short bow. ‘If you would stay here I’ll have a quiet word with Acton about the Strong Room. Perhaps I can change his mind.’
He waddled down the aisle, closing the door softly behind him. The chapel fell silent for a moment.
‘Sanctimonious cock,’ Kitty said, rinsing her hands.
Even Jack cheered up at that.
I nodded at the boy’s bandaged ankle. ‘You’ve done a fine job there.’
‘My father was a doctor,’ Kitty said, without thinking, then gave a start, as if surprised by the confession. She turned away and began scrubbing the blood from the chapel floor.
With Jack cleaned and bandaged there was little more we could do for him, but we were loath to call for assistance. As soon as he left the chapel he would be clapped in chains and locked in the Strong Room, over on the Common Side. Kitty wouldn’t say much about it, except that Mr Acton was a bastard for sending him there.
We sat side by side on the front pew, not saying much. I felt numb with shock, the force of what I had witnessed only now hitting me. Kitty was trembling a little, fighting off the tears. Jack had fallen unconscious again.
‘He might live,’ I said.
‘No. He won’t.’ She pulled off her cap and shook her hair loose, red locks tumbling down about her shoulders.
‘He was asking for someone called Ben.’
‘His brother. There’s just the two of them. Their mother died of gaol fever a month back.’ She covered her face with her hands.
I headed down the stairs and back out into the yard. It was late afternoon and the sun hung low above the Lodge gate, casting long shadows. Woodburn was sitting on a bench by the chapel door, prodding at the weeds growing up around the cobbles with the end of his cane. He looked miserable and distracted; clearly his talk with Acton had not gone well. As for the rest of the Park, it was as if nothing had happened. A game of ninepins had resumed beneath the Court’s porch and Gilbert Hand was back at his station by the lamppost in the middle of the yard.
‘What a parish, eh?’ Woodburn said, rubbing his temples. ‘Do you think if I prayed very hard the Lord would take pity and transfer me to Mayfair?’ He stuck a finger through a hole in his jacket. ‘The truth is I wouldn’t change it for the world. There’s so much good work to be done here. So many souls to save.’ He glanced up, shyly. ‘Does that sound foolish to you, Mr Hawkins? I fear it’s not the fashion for clerics to talk about souls these days.’
I smiled, understanding better than he realised. I had spent three years at Oxford studying to join the clergy. Three years of rising at dawn to pray, daily seminars in classics, divinity and logic. Long hours hunched over my desk translating Greek into Latin and Latin into English before rushing back to church for evening prayers . . . and finally to bed. Unfortunately, it was in that gap between ‘evening prayers’ and ‘finally to bed’ where I was tested; and failed magnificently. If only God had put fewer hours in the day. And not invented twins.
‘Well, well. I must call for a chair to take me home,’ Woodburn said, heaving himself up from the bench with the help of his cane.
I rose and bowed. Lucky man, to come and go as he pleased.
He cleared his throat. ‘And will I see you at chapel on Sunday, sir?’
‘Naturally,’ I said, and watched as his face glowed with delight. I had not attended church in months, but there was no harm in keeping the chaplain on my side. ‘As a matter of fact, I studied divinity at Oxford . . .’
‘Indeed?’ Woodburn’s eyes shone, as I thought they might. ‘That was always a great dream of mine. Alas, the fees . . . But you did not take the cloth?’
I hung my head. ‘I’m afraid I was led astray.’ By myself.
‘Ah.’ Woodburn nodded his understanding. ‘Well – there is still hope for you, sir. The good Lord loves a prodigal son.’
Yes . . . and so do good-natur
ed old chaplains. I’d hooked him with it; I could see it in his eyes. There is nothing more irresistible to an honest clergyman than a penitent sinner. Even more so a penitent student of divinity. He was doubtless already dreaming of long nights by the fire discussing the finer points of theology as he dragged my soul slowly but steadily from the brink of damnation. I almost felt guilty for deceiving him. Almost.
Woodburn clapped his hat to his head. ‘D’you know, I believe you have been brought here for a reason,’ he said, in a quiet, earnest voice. ‘God has plans for you, Mr Hawkins. I am sure of it.’
The chaplain left me frowning in suspicion at the darkening sky, grey clouds drifting slowly by. ‘Well, He can choose someone else,’ I muttered.
After my encounter with Mr Acton, I longed to retreat to some quiet spot to recover, but there were no private places in the Marshalsea; no escape from the curious gaze of others. I returned to Fleet’s bench by the Lodge and closed my eyes, reaching out beyond the prison walls, a bird released from its cage. It was a trick I had learned as a boy and I did it now without thinking. For a moment I was not sealed up in gaol – I was in Suffolk, running along the coast road towards Orford and the sea, the wind fresh and cold on my skin, the taste of salt in the air.
‘Mr Hawkins.’ I opened my eyes. A thin, pallid face loomed over me, cold blue eyes peering over a pair of spectacles. ‘Twenty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence?’
I blinked, not sure how I was expected to reply.
He pushed his spectacles up his nose with a long, bony finger. ‘Twenty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence is your debt, is it not?’
‘Well . . . yes. Thank you for reminding me, Mr . . . ?’
‘John Grace.’
‘Ah!’ I jumped up. ‘Mr Acton’s clerk, of course. Do you have a room for me, sir?’
‘Head clerk to the head keeper. And chief steward,’ Grace replied and turned sharply on his heel.
I followed him across the Park, passing the main prison quarters nearest the Lodge. He was leading me towards the east wall – and the poorest lodgings.
We walked by the coffeehouse, where Acton had beaten Jack Carter just an hour before. Fresh spots of blood glistened on the cobbles. Grace walked through them.
‘You went to that Common boy’s aid,’ Grace called over his shoulder. He had a flat, empty way of speaking, as warm and human as a creaking door. ‘A waste of time and money.’
I glared at his back. ‘I doubt he’ll last the night.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, without a trace of interest. And then, ‘His mother owed five pounds, three shillings and fourpence. She’s dead.’
Grace had – no doubt with a good deal of pride and effort – managed to find me a bed in the meanest room in the filthiest ward in the worst building on the Master’s Side. The landings were filled with rubbish, full chamber pots still waiting to be collected by each door, fouling the air. As we passed one room I heard the familiar sound of a bed slamming against a wall, followed by a long, guttural grunt of release. Grace’s mouth tightened to a thin line. ‘O’Rourke. Nine pounds, twelve shillings.’ A final grunt. ‘And tuppence.’
‘We take our pleasures where we may, Mr Grace,’ I said, skirting round a pool of dried vomit on the top-floor landing.
‘As long as we pay for them, Mr Hawkins,’ he replied, pulling out a silk handkerchief and clamping it to his nose and mouth. He gestured to a door at the end of the corridor. ‘Your room,’ he said, his voice muffled through the cloth, then left without another word.
I thought this was a little odd, but I had already prepared myself for what lay behind the door. Sharing a small, close room with four or five other men would never be a pleasant experience but I had boarded at school and I knew what to expect. I needed a bed, and a place to be locked up for the night, but for the rest of the time I could always sit in the Park, or Mrs Bradshaw’s coffeehouse.
There was no answer to my knock so I opened the door slowly. A hideous, sour-sweet smell poured out into the corridor. Unwashed linen, shit, sweat . . . and underneath that something much worse. Meat. Decay – as bad as the Common Side. I gagged, the stink catching in my throat.
If I breathed through my mouth it was almost bearable. I would just find my bed and go; the next time I came up here I’d make sure I was too drunk to care about the stench.
As I stepped into the room something stirred in the furthest bed. It was hard to see through the gloom: the window was covered with a tattered, grime-smeared sheet and the candles were unlit. The hearth was cold. I made my way across, squeezing past three other beds covered in filthy linen. Teeming with lice, no doubt. I shuddered, and scratched at my skin.
When I reached the final bed I saw that a man lay curled on his side under a thin blanket, his face to the wall. As I edged closer he coughed and shook, phlegm rattling deep in his chest.
I stood over him for a moment, not certain what to do. Something was not right here – I could feel it in my bones. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
Slowly, painfully, like a figure in some fevered nightmare, he turned towards me. A thick, raw mass of oozing yellow pustules covered his face and spread down his neck across his body. His lips, his eyelids – every inch was infected.
Smallpox. I gave a jolt of terror and staggered back, flinging my arm up to cover my nose and mouth.
‘Please . . .’ He reached out his hand, delirious with pain and fever. ‘Who’s there? Oh, God, have pity, sir. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, I beg you . . .’
I fled the room, stumbling back along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the yard. I ran so fast that I almost collided with Grace, who was walking back to the Lodge with a firm tread and a straight back. I grabbed hold of his coat and spun him round to face me. ‘Smallpox! There’s a man . . . dying . . .’
Grace flinched and knocked my hand away. ‘Did you touch him?’
‘No.’ I thought of his hand, reaching out for mine. Oh God. ‘No, of course not.’
Grace straightened his coat. ‘Well, then, what of it, sir?’
‘What of it?’ I stared at him in horrified disbelief. Grace shrugged, indifferent, and began to turn away. I seized his jacket again, this time with both fists, and pulled him closer. He was a good head shorter than me, and very light. Hollow. ‘What of it? You must find me another room!’
Grace pursed his thin lips. ‘That is the room you have been given. It is the room you can afford.’
I let go of his coat. There was not a shred of fellow feeling in him. He would let me die in that room without a thought – without a flicker of conscience.
‘Mr Grace.’ Samuel Fleet leaned over the balcony of the Tap Room, a glass of punch in his hand. ‘What’s the matter?’
Grace frowned up at him. ‘Mr Hawkins is not satisfied with his accommodation.’ As if I’d been complaining of the view.
‘My roommate is dying of smallpox,’ I called up, though I was sure he had heard every word. ‘I am being charged two and six a week to murder myself.’
‘How unfortunate.’ He leaned his chin on his hand, coal-black eyes fixed upon mine. Smiled slowly. ‘There is a bed free in my room. You are welcome to it, sir.’
A shiver of dread ran through me. Lock myself in a room each night with a man who killed his last cell mate? I might as well share a cage with a tiger. ‘I . . . I thank you sir, but I—’
‘I insist.’
I had never heard such menace in two short words. Fleet had not taken his eyes from mine for a moment. Had not even blinked. I swallowed hard, then bowed my agreement. What else could I do?
Well, Mr Woodburn, you were quite right, I thought bleakly. God does have a plan for me. I am to be murdered in my bed on my very first night.
‘No, no, this will not do,’ Grace tutted.
‘There must be another room,’ I said, seizing my chance. ‘If I might just speak with Mr Acton . . .’
‘There are procedures. There are rules.’
Fleet raised an ey
ebrow. ‘Money is the only rule in here, Mr Grace.’ He held his hand over the balcony and poured a stream of coins on to the ground by the clerk’s feet. ‘That should cover the shortfall.’
Grace blinked at the coins for a moment before scooping them up, wiping each one clean with his handkerchief and then pocketing them. He studied me for a long moment with a puzzled expression, as if I were a sum he had added up incorrectly and even now could not make work. ‘Well. It seems you are in Mr Fleet’s debt, sir,’ he said at last, and stalked off.
I stared up at my unexpected benefactor. It was hard to feel grateful, given his reputation. ‘Mr Fleet,’ I said, offering him a short bow. ‘How am I to repay you?’
Fleet grinned. ‘By staying alive, Mr Hawkins. And keeping me entertained.’ Then he drew back from the balcony into the shadows.
A few moments later I felt a tug on my coat tail. It was Benjamin, Gilbert Hand’s boy, returned with a large parcel of items wrapped in an old blanket and a hastily written note from Charles.
‘My dear Tom,’ he wrote. ‘Do not despair. I will find a way to help you. Until then I have given the boy some spare clothes, a cooking pot and a few other small items. For God’s sake be careful. I will pray for you. Your loving friend, Charles.’
I tucked the letter in my pocket. Benjamin had already crossed the yard towards my new quarters. Fleet’s room was in the first of the prisoners’ blocks, in the northwest corner of the gaol. As I strode after him I realised this must be Jack Carter’s brother. He’d been asking for Ben and now I looked I could see the resemblance. I stopped him at the main ward door and tried to take the parcel from him.
‘You should go to your brother,’ I said. ‘He’s asking for you.’
He snatched the parcel back and kicked the door open. ‘I’m working.’
And proud of it, too. Proud to be earning his keep. Benjamin had no need to climb the wall to escape the gaol like his brother Jack – he had found himself an occupation. But he couldn’t afford to stop working, even though he knew Jack would die tonight. Before I could stop myself, I pulled out half a shilling, vowing this would be my last good deed in this rotten place. The boy’s eyes widened and he went very still, holding his breath.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 8