The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  As I settled down in a chair near the fire, Trim introduced me to the two other men at the table. Richard McDonnell was a quick-witted, garrulous Irishman known by all as Mack. He’d been a painter before he ran into debt. Now he ran Titty Doll’s, the prison chophouse, with his wife. He was already merry and red-cheeked when I arrived, his fine, musical voice carrying across the Tap Room. He spent much of the evening with an unsteady hand upon my shoulder, trying to persuade me I should buy all my meals from him. ‘Best meat in the Borough,’ he insisted, while Trim made a choking gesture over his head, eyes crossed, hands clutching his throat.

  The second man was Mr Jenings, the nightwatchman, a thin, long-limbed, fretful man of few words. ‘Did I pass you in the yard just now, sir?’ I asked. ‘I thought you might have started your rounds.’

  Jenings bit his lip. ‘I’ve been here a half hour, sir. Did you see something?’ He glanced nervously towards the window.

  ‘Oh, no more of that nonsense, I beg you.’ Mack yawned and stretched his arms above his head. ‘He thinks the prison’s haunted, Mr Hawkins. He’ll fill your head with ghosts and devils if you’ll let him.’

  Jenings frowned across the table. ‘I know what I saw. It was the captain, back from the grave.’

  Mack snorted. ‘Well, next time you see him, remind the old bastard he still owes me three guineas. I’ve asked Widow Roberts several times with no luck.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘Penny-scrimping harridan.’

  ‘Mrs Carey swore she heard something, a few nights ago,’ Trim said, scratching his jaw.

  Mack groaned. ‘For God’s sake, will you let it rest, the pair of you! John Roberts is not haunting the Marshalsea. He hated this damned place – wouldn’t come back if the angels themselves begged him . . . Ah! Here’s the punch.’

  And with that, the talk of ghosts was forgotten. Trim pulled out a set of dice and we played a few rounds of Hazard. As we played I recounted the adventures and misfortunes of my life and how they had led me to a cell in the Marshalsea. As the punch flowed and the rest of the ward joined us the stories grew wilder. I was part way through a somewhat intimate explanation of how to tell identical twin sisters apart when Jenings stood up, scraping back his chair.

  ‘Mr Jenings is a little out of sorts,’ Trim observed, settling down his punch with a slow, weaving hand. I was glad he’d offered to shave me at the beginning of the evening.

  Mack snorted. ‘Wouldn’t do for our church warden to approve of such things, now would it?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said. I hadn’t realised he was Woodburn’s assistant. ‘I trust I haven’t offended you.’

  Jenings loomed over me. ‘It is God’s forgiveness you should seek, Mr Hawkins. But I think you know that, in your heart. I should start my rounds.’ He picked up his hat and club and gave us all a short bow. ‘Gentlemen.’

  With my story told I sat back and let the rest of the company take over. Everyone was keen to offer advice and I was happy to take it – the more I understood about the running of the gaol the better. All was cantering along merrily enough until I mentioned my new roommate. The conversation stumbled to a halt.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, searching their faces. ‘What sort of a man is Mr Fleet?’

  The men looked at one another, hoping someone else might answer.

  ‘He’s . . . not as bad as he’s painted,’ Trim offered, eventually. The rest of the table groaned its protest. ‘Mischievous, perhaps.’

  ‘Mischievous?’ Mack’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘Would you call the devil mischievous, Mr Hawkins?’

  The table laughed along with Mack, though I noticed some of the men checked over their shoulders first. I cursed myself for mentioning Fleet at all. It had been a pleasant enough evening. I had almost forgotten that once it was over I would be escorted back to my cell and locked in with a man most of the prison feared and hated in equal measure.

  ‘I’ll tell you this,’ Mack said. ‘I wouldn’t share a cell with him. Not for a single night. Not if you paid off my debts twenty times over.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Mack,’ Trim said, nudging him in the ribs. ‘No need to scare him . . .’

  ‘A pox on it, Trim – he has a right to know!’ Mack shouted, banging his fist upon the table. He was very drunk. He leaned in, and wrapped an arm about my neck, liquor breath warm on my face. ‘Your new chum murdered Captain Roberts. Everyone knows it.’

  The other men were all nodding now, apart from Trim. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he declared. ‘Fleet isn’t capable of such a thing.’

  I took a fortifying swig of punch. ‘I’m glad to hear that, sir.’

  ‘He’s too short,’ he continued, oblivious. ‘Think on it for a moment, Mack. How on earth could Samuel Fleet carry a man as tall and heavy as the captain all the way down the stairs, across the yard, over to the Common Side and then hang him from a beam in the Strong Room by himself? And don’t forget, Roberts would have been a dead weight by this time.’ He held out his arms as if he had a body in them, then shook his head. ‘No, I’m quite certain he couldn’t have done it. Well.’ He paused. ‘Not on his own.’

  I pulled out my tobacco and lit a fresh pipe. Around us, all was bright, good cheer, men singing and shouting above the din, whores brought in from the local brothels calling for more drinks. But here, at this table, the air seemed to have turned cold. ‘You don’t really believe Fleet murdered Captain Roberts, do you, Mack?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ Trim answered hastily. And then, to Mack, ‘They’re sharing a room tonight, for God’s sake . . .’

  Mack ignored him. ‘What you must understand about Mr Fleet is, he never sleeps. He’s known for it. But the night Captain Roberts died, he slept right through till morning, so he says. Dead to the world. Convenient, eh? As far as I can see, either Fleet is lying, which he has been known to do every time he opens his mouth . . . Or, he slept right through, while another man burst into the room, beat Roberts to a bloody pulp and dragged him away to be hanged like a dog.’ He leaned back. ‘Which sounds most likely to you, Mr Hawkins?’ He smiled grimly. ‘And that’s where you’ll be sleeping tonight. “Belle Isle”, Fleet calls it. His idea of a joke, I suppose. I’ll tell you something for free. You should have taken that first room Mr Grace gave you. Better to die of smallpox than be murdered in your bed by that devil.’

  It was not easy to lighten the mood after such a conversation, but Trim did his best and most of the men rallied soon enough. Talk turned to money and creditors and legacies – the same refrain running back and forth across the table, that they would be free any day now . . . that a friend had promised them faithfully . . . that their lawyer was quite certain . . .

  I sat quietly, letting all their hopes and schemes wash over me. Unlike these men, I had no expectations, no promise of inheritance to come. Three years ago, I had returned home to Suffolk to take up my position as curate in my father’s church. This had always been his dream: for his son to join him and – in time – become vicar of the parish in his place.

  Sometimes I had been able to convince myself it was my dream, too. Other times I had wanted to scream the truth – that I was not my father. That I did not want to spend my life serving a quiet Suffolk parish, being dutiful and steady and good. That the very thought of such a life put an ache in my chest as if someone had placed a giant rock upon my heart. I buried this truth as deep as I could; tried to convince myself that I could change; swore that once I took my vows everything would be different. I would – miracle of miracles – transform myself and become the man my father wanted me to be.

  A month before my ordination, I sat among the congregation while my father warned that if any man knew why I ought not to be ordained, ‘by reason of any vice that he is addicted to, or any scandal he has given’, he must speak out. There was a soft hush as he looked about the church. Neighbours and friends smiled at me. For a moment my father’s gaze met mine, and I saw the tiniest flicker of pride. I have pleased him, I thought. For once in m
y life, I have done something right in his eyes.

  Then Edmund, my stepbrother, shifted a little in his seat next to me. And before I could stop him, he rose to his feet and in a high, tremulous voice told them all about my scandalous life at college, painting me as the most debauched and infamous rake who’d ever set foot in Oxford. In a few short sentences, he tore my reputation to shreds in front of the whole parish. Then he sat back down, his hands linked neatly in his lap.

  ‘Forgive me, brother,’ he whispered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘I have a duty to Father. And to God.’

  His mother reached over and covered his hands fondly with hers.

  My father had no choice but to pass the matter on to the bishop. An investigation was made. Edmund’s claims were discovered to be exaggerated . . . but not unfounded. On the day the bishop’s letter arrived at the vicarage my father called me to his study. He had not spoken two words to me until then – conducting all necessary communication through my poor sister Jane, caught between us as ever. I stood with my head high, jaw clenched, as he told me that I had brought shame upon the family. ‘I have worked ceaselessly for this parish all my life,’ he said, with a trembling voice. ‘Now they laugh at me behind my back.’

  ‘Father, that is not true . . .’

  His eyes flashed with rage. ‘And what would you know of truth?’ he cried. ‘Your whole life is built on shame and deceit.’

  As I walked away from my father’s house, Jane ran after me and collapsed in my arms, tears streaming down her face. She had suffered more than anyone under my stepmother’s subtle tyranny, and now I was abandoning her for ever.

  ‘Promise you’ll write, Tom. Send word that you’re safe and well.’

  I smiled and kissed her softly on her forehead. ‘I promise.’

  But I never did. God forgive me, I broke my promise. When I arrived in London I vowed that I would never contact my family again. My father had disowned me; well, then, I would disown him too. I would make my own way in the world. And that – I decided – meant abandoning Jane, too. I forced myself not to think of my beloved sister, or the man I might have become if my stepbrother had not spoken out against me. I made new friends, and fell in love with London, and told myself it was all for the best.

  Now that I was here, locked up in the Marshalsea, it was harder to convince myself of that. The thought of my father discovering my wretched condition filled me with a sort of bleak horror. I would rather die, I realised, I would rather be murdered in my bed by Samuel Fleet than be revealed to him as such a miserable failure. But Jane . . . thinking of her now, I felt ashamed of myself. She couldn’t run away, as I had – she had no choice but to stay and suffer. She’d been a prisoner long before I passed through the Lodge gate.

  I felt a light tap on my arm. Trim was peering at me with a worried expression. ‘Are you well, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, shaking myself from my thoughts. ‘A little tired, perhaps.’

  He smiled gently. ‘The first night is always hard. Things will seem much better in the morning, I’m sure.’

  I thanked him, and bowed to the company, who bid me goodnight before returning to their drinks and their dreams of freedom.

  If I had not been so out of sorts I might well have stayed in the Tap Room all night rather than return to my lodgings and confront Samuel Fleet. I took a turn about the yard in the moonlight, trying to clear my head and delaying the moment I had to return to my cell. Belle Isle indeed. How on earth would I sleep tonight?

  This morning, in the daylight, the prison had reminded me of my old college. But now I knew the walls were steeped in blood. Only a few hours ago I had watched the governor beat a boy almost to death in this yard. Now he sat behind the yellow curtains of his lodgings having supper with his family. The apparent order and respectability of the Master’s Side now seemed sinister and unsettling, especially in the dark. A thin veneer hiding the violence and corruption beneath. I could only guess at this on my first night in the gaol, but I would experience the truth at first hand soon enough.

  As I reached the lantern in the centre of the Park a short, sturdy figure stepped into its warm glow. I gave a start. ‘Mr Hand. I thought you were a ghost.’

  He chuckled. ‘Have they been filling your head with stories in the Tap Room? It’s not ghosts you have to worry about in here, Mr Hawkins.’

  We talked for a while and he offered to light me to my room. As we walked towards the prison block a sudden scream rent the air.

  ‘God have mercy!’

  I stopped dead, chilled to the bone. The cry had come from the other side of the wall. In all my life I had never heard such a desperate sound. The man cried out again, joined by another voice, and another – a hundred or more shouting their grief up into the night sky. I caught a few distinct voices. ‘Spare me, Lord!’ ‘God help a poor sinner!’ ‘Save us! Oh, God – save us!’ But the rest was just a heart-shredding din, that seemed to shake the very walls of the prison – the lamentation of souls trapped in a hell on earth.

  ‘My God,’ I said. ‘What ails them?’

  Gilbert Hand spat on the ground. ‘It’s lock-up, poor devils. Acton has ’em packed so tight they can scarce breathe. It’s worse in the summer heat; I’ve seen ’em pull out a dozen each morning.’

  ‘A dozen sick?’

  ‘A dozen dead.’

  I followed him in a daze as he led me back up to my room. Twelve prisoners dead each night? Surely that was not possible. But why would Hand lie? I felt sick to my stomach, and had to press my hand against the wall as we mounted the stairs so as not to fall. It was the thought of all those men and women dying for no good reason. And the thought that I could so easily find myself among them. In the lurching good cheer of the Tap Room I had forgotten for a moment how easy it would be to find myself thrown over the wall. I must not forget.

  When we reached Fleet’s room I staggered to my bed and buried my head in my hands.

  ‘How’s business, Mr Fleet?’ Hand asked, cheerfully.

  Fleet’s voice drifted across the room. ‘What ails the boy? Drink?’

  ‘Nah. Just the evening chorus.’

  ‘I see.’

  I heard the chink of coins and Gilbert Hand’s light footsteps as he left the room. I looked up, dizzy with shock. Fleet was pouring cordial into a fine crystal glass. He crossed over to my bed and pressed the glass into my hand saying nothing, for once. He watched me carefully as I drank.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, when I had finished. I rubbed my forehead slowly, my hands still shaking. ‘Does it become easier?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Mr Hawkins.’ He poured a glass himself, knocked it back in one gulp like medicine. ‘Your heart will break in here, or it will turn to stone. It’s your choice.’

  ‘And what happened to yours, sir?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ He drummed his fingers against his chest. ‘I don’t have one. Did they not tell you in the Tap Room?’

  We were both quiet after that. I could still hear the cries from the Common Side – carried on the wind at first and then just in my head, churning round and round. That could be my voice, I thought. A few shillings less and I could be locked away with them. I stayed awake for as long as I could, afraid to sleep with Fleet so close by. Afraid to sleep in a dead man’s bed. And when at last I slept my dreams were cruel and filled with dread. A dark alley. A man in black stepping out of the shadows. A blade gleaming blue in the moonlight.

  I awoke to the pungent scent of good tobacco. The room was dark, and there was a stillness in the air that only comes at the very dead of night. Fleet sat crouched like a hobgoblin in his chair by the window, clutching his journal to his chest and staring intently out into the yard. I moved softly under the sheets, heart hammering hard against my chest. He glanced at me, his face shadowed by the candle burning beside him. He pulled the pipe from his lips.

  ‘Go back to sleep, Mr Hawkins. You’re safe enough,’ he said, smoke wreathing about his face. And then he smi
led. ‘For tonight.’

  II) FRIDAY. THE SECOND DAY.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning dawned bright and cold; so cold my breath clouded the air. I lay on my hard, thin mattress, scarcely able to move. It was as if a dozen horses had ridden across me in the night: the beating in St Giles playing out across my body.

  Up. I must get up. I could not afford to lie here. I would not fall to the Common Side; I would not join those voices crying out in the dark. I dragged back the blanket and sat up slowly, rubbed my hand across my face. Sunlight sliced bright lines across the bed.

  ‘Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead.’

  Fleet: already up and standing sentinel at the window, wrapped in his banyan. The open window. No wonder the room was so cold.

  I shivered, then groaned as my bruised ribs protested. ‘Close the damned window and light a fire, for God’s sake.’

  Fleet gave a low chuckle. ‘I don’t remember that in Ephesians. But you’re the student of divinity, Mr Hawkins. Best to stay cold. Keeps you moving. Keeps you thinking. Alert.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘We have much to do today.’

  We?

  There was a light rap at the door.

  ‘Come in, Kitty, come in! We are unlocked,’ Fleet called and before I could make myself decent she had done just that, bucket and brush in hand, a couple of books tucked under one arm. She gave a little scream at the sight of me – half-naked and only half-awake – and covered her face with a dictionary of thieves’ cant.

  I cursed and swung my legs back under the cover.

  Fleet laughed to himself as I pulled my breeches on under the sheets. ‘And so we continue your education, Kitty,’ he declared, sweeping his arm in my direction. ‘Behold: Noble Man in his natural state.’ He tilted his head. ‘More like a wild boar than a man, hmm? Snores like a pig, too – I can vouch for that. How much did you see? Perhaps a drawing lesson is in order . . .’