‘I swear to God, Charles – if you mention my father again I will push your face in those oysters.’
We stayed in Titty Doll’s for another two hours, sharing a pint of sherry and recalling happier times as the clouds rolled past in the high chophouse windows. Then Charles reached for his hat and declared it was time he called for a chair. I had the sudden urge to grip his wrist and beg him to stay. The truth was, I was afraid of spending another night locked up in here, at the mercy of Fleet and Acton and Cross. Some men seemed able to navigate these dangers – men like Trim and Mack. But Charles was right; I had always had a knack for trouble. Still, I could not cower in Titty Doll’s for ever.
The court was still in session as we stepped outside and the yard was empty save for Jenings, the nightwatch, lighting the lamp in the twilight. The darkening sky reminded me of what Ben Carter had promised – that Captain Roberts’ ghost would visit me tonight at midnight under the Palace Court. A very punctual ghost, as Fleet had observed. I told Charles. ‘I do hope he’ll tell me who murdered him. That would be tremendously helpful.’
Charles looked puzzled. ‘What the devil would Roberts’ ghost want with you?’
‘Perhaps he wishes to apologise for his widow. She slapped me across the face last night for no good reason.’
We had reached the Lodge. Charles paused, and considered me for a moment. ‘How long have you been locked in the Marshalsea, Tom?’
‘A day. And a half.’
‘A day and a half . . .’ he murmured, wonderingly. ‘I think you should go to your room. Hide under the bed for the rest of the night.’
‘I can’t. I’m invited to supper with the governor. And his wife, Mary.’ I grinned, peering up at the governor’s lodgings. The yellow curtains were closed, but there was a light glowing behind them. ‘Have you seen her . . . ?’
‘For God’s sake, don’t tell me you have designs on her? The governor’s wife?’ Charles spluttered. ‘Well, it would speed your way out of gaol, I grant you. Straight through the gate in a coffin . . .’
‘Well, then . . . Perhaps you should smuggle me out in your chair tonight? No one would blame you for it, surely.’
The blood drained from his face. ‘Tom,’ he said, gripping my arm as if I might jump up and run through the Lodge gate at that very moment. ‘If you escape, Acton will hold me responsible for your debt. I would lose everything. I could be thrown in gaol myself.’
‘Ah.’ If Moll were here, I knew what she would say: What of it? He’d find his own way out. You owe no debt to him; not really. Perhaps Sir Philip would take pity on him. Perhaps God would save him; he’d be more likely to save Charles than you, Tom Hawkins.
‘I’d best set off for home,’ Charles said sharply.
We paused at the Lodge gate while Cross grumbled out of his room, jangling his keys and spitting on the floor. Whatever he’d paid those whores, it wasn’t enough. While he was unlocking the door Charles drew me back a little way and whispered in my ear. ‘Watch for my letter tonight.’ He squeezed my arm then walked out to freedom.
Cross turned to face me. There were bruises blooming at his throat where Jakes had half-throttled him on my behalf, and his lip was split where I’d punched him. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.
‘D’you think your friend will save you, Hawkins?’ he asked.
I shrugged, determined not to let him bother me. ‘Perhaps.’
He grinned. ‘Well, don’t count on it. No such thing as friends in here.’
Chapter Nine
Back in the yard, Gilbert Hand was standing sentinel beneath his lamppost, stamping on the ground to keep warm. Waiting to squeeze me for information, I thought, from the knowing grin on his face. ‘You’re to meet the ghost tonight, I hear,’ he said.
‘Ben told you?’
‘Ben tells me everything, Mr Hawkins. He’s my boy.’
‘He must have dreamed it.’
Hand shook his head slowly. ‘He’s not a dreamer.’ He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close, bringing his lips to my ear. I felt the scratch of his grey and gold stubble against my skin. ‘If you see Roberts, ask him what happened to the money.’
‘Money? What money?’
But Hand was already walking away to share a pipe with one of the court clerks.
I was feeling a little out of sorts from all the drink I’d taken with Charles, so I headed to Bradshaw’s for a bowl of coffee. Mrs Bradshaw herself was asleep in her chair, leaving Kitty in charge at the hearth, her back to the room. A couple of elderly court lawyers were seated by the window, picking at an unsatisfactory late dinner, lifting the gristle up with their forks as if expecting to find a choice cut of steak hiding shyly beneath. Otherwise the coffeeshop was empty, the prisoners still locked in their wards even now at the end of the day. I wondered if it were the same for the Common Side – after all, there was no need to keep them locked in as all the court business was conducted on this side of the wall. No need except spite – and Acton was full of that.
I felt something press on my foot and discovered little Henry, Acton’s son, crawling along the floor, chubby fingers slapping against the boards. He dribbled a long trail of spit at my feet then took himself exploring through the forest of chair legs, chattering to himself.
Kitty smiled brightly when she saw me then covered her mouth, feigning a coughing fit.
‘A pot of coffee please, Kitty.’
That stopped her coughing. She glowered at me. ‘Am I your slave, then?’
I looked about me. ‘This is a coffeehouse, is it not? And you do work here?’
‘I suppose,’ she conceded, grudgingly, and began fixing a fresh pot. When it was ready she poured a bowl for herself and joined me. ‘So. Are you ready for tonight?’
‘Tonight?’ I stared at her over my coffee. Had she heard about the ghost too?
‘Oh, have you forgotten?’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Supper with the governor? Dancing with the governor’s wife?’ She drew a line across her throat. ‘You’re in for it.’
‘Well, thank you, Kitty. You’re a great comfort.’
‘Why, sir, do you need comforting . . . ?’ She fluttered her eyelashes saucily. ‘I’m sure Mrs Acton would oblige.’
‘Should Henry be that close to the fire?’
She leapt up at once and pulled him roughly away from the hearth. Henry screamed in protest, mouth wide, tears streaming down his face. Mrs Bradshaw woke with a loud snort and stared about her, blinking. ‘Oh Lord, Henry,’ she groaned, and rose wearily from her chair. She plucked the boy from Kitty’s arms and cuddled him until he was half-smothered, his cries stifled in her ample bosom.
In the midst of all this chaos Mrs Roberts stepped into the room. I supposed she could come and go as she pleased even on court day, as she wasn’t a prisoner. She nodded at Mrs Bradshaw who gave a chilly smile in return, and pulled off her black shammy gloves. ‘A bowl of coffee, Kitty.’
Kitty scowled but turned back to the fire, slamming together a fresh pot with the delicacy of a blacksmith hammering a horseshoe.
I expected Mrs Roberts to snub me, but instead she walked straight up to my table. ‘Mr Hawkins.’
I rose and bowed. ‘Madam.’
‘May I . . . may I join you?’
I reeled back in mock fear. ‘Do you promise not to strike me?’
A half-smile. ‘No, indeed. Do you promise not to provoke me?’
‘No, indeed,’ I smiled back, gesturing for her to sit down.
She did so, smoothing her skirts and sitting with her back quite straight as if she were at court and not a modest coffeehouse in a debtors’ prison. ‘I must apologise for my behaviour last night, sir.’
‘I’m sure I deserved it.’
‘I’m sure you did not,’ she said, then laughed, eyes brightening for a moment. ‘We are quarrelling again.’
‘So we are.’ I smiled back at her. ‘But let me set your mind at ease; I have no designs upon Kitty Sparks, and never will. I do not make a h
abit of chasing little servant girls about the place.’
‘No, of course not.’ She put her hand to her cheek, embarrassed. ‘I was too quick to judge you. It’s a failing of mine. And you were right; I fear I was thinking of my late husband. There is a resemblance, you see . . .’ She pulled a gold locket from her skirts and opened the clasp before slipping it into my hand. On one side was a miniature of a young boy, no more than four. On the other was the portrait of a man in a black coat, a short wig and a mustard waistcoat. ‘It was commissioned after his death, when I came into my fortune and could afford it. But it is a fair likeness.’
Captain Roberts. I had always imagined him in uniform. I squinted at the portrait, holding it up to the light. There was a resemblance, it was true. We shared the same clear blue eyes and dark brows, the same pale, Scots complexion that I had inherited from my mother. But his jawline was weaker, his forehead too high, and he seemed to enjoy his dinner a good deal more than I. The honest truth was that of the two of us, I had been blessed with the better looks. I did not make this observation to his widow.
I touched the other side of the locket. ‘Who is the little boy?’
She lifted the chain from my palm and stared tenderly at the picture for a long moment. ‘That is Matthew,’ she said, softly. ‘My son.’
‘Was he . . .’ I faltered. There was a pain in her eyes, so deep I feared she must be mourning not one death but two.
‘Yes, he was taken from me.’ She clipped the locket closed. ‘But not in the way you are thinking, Mr Hawkins.’
Kitty arrived with a pot of coffee. Mrs Roberts acknowledged it with a slight nod then waved her away again.
‘I was very young when I married John,’ she began again, after a short pause. ‘My father was furious. He had promised me to a friend; it was all arranged. It would have been an advantageous match; there was land, property. A title, even. I was seventeen. His friend was close to sixty.’ A frown of distaste. ‘I ran away. My family disowned me, of course. I didn’t care. I was in love.’
She shut her eyes and laughed mockingly at the notion.
‘It is not a crime to fall in love,’ I said.
‘Not a crime, no.’ She frowned at me, as if I were a child, but then her expression softened. ‘No, you are right,’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘After all that has happened – it is easy to forget that we were happy for a time.’
‘Did he . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘Betray you?’
‘Oh, no doubt!’ she laughed bitterly, tossing back her head. ‘Isn’t that what men do?’ I began to protest but she stopped me, touching her fingers softly to my wrist. ‘Please, Mr Hawkins, I know what you would say but forgive me. I have learned to judge a man by his actions, not by his words.’
The touch of her hand sent a spark through me and I was seized with the desire to take it in mine, to press it softly to my lips. I wonder what would have happened if I had? Another slap, I shouldn’t wonder. She moved her hand away and the moment passed.
‘So. You fell out of love with your husband.’
‘No!’ She frowned, suddenly defiant. ‘We ran out of money. Some men have a knack for making it; John had a talent for losing it. By then I was with child. I wrote in secret to my mother. She sent me what she could; what would not be missed.’ She swallowed hard. ‘My father would have been very cruel to her, if he had found out.
‘I thought things might improve once the baby was born, that John would want to do his duty as a father. Matthew was so sweet; such a good boy. John doted on him, but . . . he was a reckless man. In truth he was all the things I had been warned about before I married him. And yet I loved him. Always. Even at the end, when I had every reason to hate him. We survived for a couple of years, while John was still in the army. Then his battalion was disbanded and we lost everything, very fast.’ She looked up, her clear grey eyes haunted by the memory. ‘You know how it is, Mr Hawkins.’
‘When did you come to the Marshalsea?’
‘In January. I had written to my mother begging for help but had heard nothing for weeks. And then at last I received a letter, a few days after we arrived here. It was from my father.’ She paused, this time for much longer, and stared off into the distance. When she continued her voice was flat and drained of feeling, as if she were telling someone else’s story and not her own. ‘My mother was dead from a fever. When she fell sick, her maid brought my letters to my father and confessed we had been in contact for several years. She was afraid for her position, I suppose; or perhaps she hoped for some reconciliation before it was too late. If so, she did not know my father at all.’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘He waited until my mother died and then he wrote to me with a proposition. I will never forget his words, Mr Hawkins, even though I burned the letter. You are ruined by your own hand. I have no pity for you or that damn’d scoundrel you call a husband. But I will not have you disgrace the family name by dying in gaol like some common slut.’ She stopped, and covered her mouth with her hand. Those last words had brought her back to herself, back to the coffeehouse.
‘A wicked thing to say.’
‘Yes . . .’ She rallied herself. ‘He offered to grant us a small allowance. Just enough to keep us locked up here, safe on the Master’s Side. His offer came with one condition. I was his only child, you see. He had no heir. He would send us the money, but in return, we must give him Matthew.’
‘He took your son.’ I frowned, struck by the cruelty of it – to break the bond between a mother and son out of spite and vengeance. Or perhaps he thought he was being generous. I could imagine my own father offering something similar, and convincing himself it was all done out of charity.
She nodded, face drained of colour. ‘We refused at first. But what choice did we have? We would have starved to death, all three of us. I couldn’t let that happen. John and I argued about it for days. So I told him to visit the Common Side to see how they lived. How they died.’ She shivered. ‘And then he agreed. But it broke him, Mr Hawkins. And he blamed me, for changing his mind. Things were never well between us again. Everything was ruined. Lost.’ She covered her face with her hands, just for a moment. ‘My father sent his land manager down to collect Matthew. As if he were livestock, not a boy of three. I have not seen him since. My boy. My son.’ She touched the closed locket, resting on the table between us.
‘But . . . forgive me. Are you not wealthy, now? Could you not go to him?’
‘My father refuses all contact.’ A single tear slid slowly down her cheek. ‘He is Matthew’s legal guardian now; I cannot even write to him. Oh! It was all planned so cleverly. Do you not wonder how I came by my fortune? It was an inheritance bestowed upon me by an aunt on my mother’s side. She died last December; a few short weeks before we came to the Marshalsea. If we had known of the money, we would have been spared all of this. John would be alive. I would never have let my son go.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘My father bribed my aunt’s executor. He only came forward with the will after John’s death. And now my son is being raised by that . . . oh!’ she shuddered.
‘Can nothing be done? If you put this to the courts, surely there would be great sympathy for your story?’
She sighed wearily. ‘My lawyer believes I have a case. But I know my father. He is powerful and ruthless and he always gets his way. He would do anything to keep me from my son. He is still punishing me, you see, for running away. After all these years . . . He would use the shame of John’s death.’ A wince of pain and grief. ‘His lawyers would say I drove my husband to it. That I am not fit to take care of Matthew. The disgraced widow of a man who took his own life.’
‘That’s why you’ve stayed here,’ I said, understanding at last. ‘Not for your husband. For your son.’
‘Yes.’ She gazed out of the window. The court had ended for the day, the last of the carriages rumbling out through the Lodge, the turnkeys opening up the wards at last. ‘Lord knows I loathe every brick of this foul place, but the truth is buried somewhere here. John wa
s not perfect, but he did not hang himself. He was murdered by someone in this prison.’ She narrowed her eyes at all the debtors rushing out into the yard. ‘And I will prove it.’
Outside, everyone was making the most of their late release, stretching their legs and catching up on the news. Trim and Mack took up a game of rackets against the wall next to Acton’s lodgings, Mack all arms and legs and cursing as Trim won. A reminder that I should always bet on Trim, given the opportunity. I nodded to them both then stuck my hands in my waistcoat pockets and strolled over to the Tap Room, thinking about Mrs Roberts. Catherine. I was glad we were on good terms again.
If I could only discover the truth about Roberts’ death! Not only would I fulfil Sir Philip’s task, but surely I would earn Catherine’s respect and gratitude. And love . . . ? The thought crept stealthily into my mind. Love and freedom – a tantalising prospect. Mr Woodburn believed I had been thrown in gaol for a reason. (Aye, a snide voice sounded in my head. For owing twenty pounds.) But what if he were right? What if this were my fate – to find the murderer and begin my life afresh, with Catherine at my side?
I ordered a glass of beer from the ever-surly Chapman and smoked a pipe out on the balcony, looking down upon the two yards divided by the high brick wall. It seemed more brutal from above – a long thin line separating hope from despair, life from death. Jenings had found Roberts hanged in the Strong Room over on the Common Side. Belle Isle – the room I shared with Fleet – was way over by the northwest corner, close to where Trim and Mack were playing rackets. I let my gaze travel across the yard. The two points could hardly be further apart. I saw now what Trim had tried to explain the night before in the Tap Room; Fleet could not possibly have carried or even dragged Roberts all the way across the gaol by himself.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 13