‘Fine puzzle, isn’t it?’
It was Fleet, appearing as if by magic at my side and making me jump in alarm. He was still dressed in his banyan and cap; in fact I was beginning to suspect this was his daily uniform. He had the smell of a man who washed irregularly. He gestured across the yard, pipe clamped between his teeth. ‘Must’ve been two of ’em, wouldn’t you say?’
I frowned, thinking it through. ‘One man could do it, if he were strong enough.’
‘Are you thinking of our dear governor . . . ?’ He shot me a sidelong glance. ‘Acton could manage it alone, I suppose. But he likes his cronies about him for the dirty work. Bullies are just men who don’t know they are cowards, of course.’ He pointed the stem of his pipe at the door in the wall. ‘Whoever it was, they would need a key to get through to the Strong Room.’
Out in the Common Side yard a fight had broken out, two men pushing each other to the ground and rolling in the dirt. A woman screamed at them to stop, a baby crying on her hip. A thin rabble gathered round to watch, jeering and shouting encouragements.
‘Perhaps they picked the lock.’
‘Aye,’ Fleet said, then chuckled. ‘You are determined to contradict me, aren’t you?’ He spread his hands out, assessing the wall’s height. ‘Perhaps there were ten of them, all clambered upon each other’s shoulders like tumblers.’
Four of Acton’s men tore out into the Common yard, cudgels raised high. They pulled the two men apart and clubbed them about the back and shoulders before dragging them away. The woman ran after them, yelling curses. One of the guards cuffed her as she reached him, knocking her hard in the mouth. She fell heavily to her knees, the baby sliding from her arms into the dirt.
‘There is another possibility,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Roberts really did hang himself.’
‘Nonsense,’ Fleet snorted. ‘He was a bloody mess when Jenings cut him down. Poor bastard.’
‘But he could still have taken his own life, after his beating.’
Fleet considered this for a moment, brows furrowed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he murmured. ‘Not likely, but possible. So tell me . . . why would he kill himself?’
Down in the yard, the baby was screaming. The woman gathered it up and staggered away, sobbing into her apron. ‘Guilt? Shame? Despair? I can think of a dozen reasons.’
‘Guilt . . . ?’ Fleet’s fierce black eyes fixed on mine. ‘For what?’
‘For giving up his son. Catherine said he was never the same again.’
‘Ah.’ He waved his hand, dismissing the whole notion. ‘No, no. Roberts loved himself far too much to end his own life. I’ve never known a man spend so much time staring at himself in the glass. With good reason, I suppose; he was a handsome enough fellow.’ He gazed at me for a long, uncomfortable moment, then grinned. ‘Catherine . . . ?’
‘She’s a fine woman.’
‘She’s a rich woman.’
‘She’s a fine, rich woman.’
Fleet laughed. ‘We are agreed on this, at least. But I’m surprised you haven’t yet asked me about Ben Carter. Are you not curious to learn what he saw?’
I kept my expression guarded; the same look I used when I had a pair of aces to play. ‘About the ghost . . . ? It’s all nonsense, isn’t it?’
Fleet tossed the spent pipe to the floor. ‘I’m afraid none of this is nonsense, Mr Hawkins. It is deadly serious. You would be wise to remember that if you wish to survive in here.’ He stepped closer. ‘There are two killers on the loose in this prison. And I believe you will be dining with one of them tonight.’
Chapter Ten
Fleet’s words unsettled me, but they also confirmed what I had guessed: that Acton could well have been involved in Roberts’ death. Once one dismissed the idea that Fleet had killed Roberts (and I was not sure I had entirely done that), then Acton was a natural suspect. He had the freedom of the prison – and the strength and temperament to commit a murder. If it was Acton, I presumed that money was involved. Perhaps Catherine’s father had paid Acton to kill his troublesome son-in-law. Whatever the reason, I had seen enough of Acton to know he was capable of just about anything if there was profit in it for him. Supper was becoming less and less appealing.
Back in Belle Isle, Fleet was in a strange mood, even for him. He seemed determined to cheer me up, scavenging through the driftwood of his belongings to find me a suitable costume for the evening. When I saw the quality of the suit he was proposing I was happy to oblige him: a well-tailored black coat with matching breeches, much finer than Charles’ old suit; a fresh pair of white silk stockings; good shoes with mirror-bright buckles and a blue silk waistcoat embroidered with silver thread. I caught myself in the glass and almost laughed. I had never been so poor in my life, and yet here I was, the very picture of an eligible young gentleman. I would marry myself if I could.
‘It’s a shame Mrs Roberts won’t be there tonight,’ I said, fiddling with my cravat.
‘Hmm. . . .’ Fleet was staring at me in a very peculiar fashion, even for him. ‘D’you know,’ he said, changing the subject with a speed I did not think to find suspicious until later, ‘Ben Carter said that Roberts’ ghost was dressed in a mustard waistcoat and good leather boots last night. Carrying a lantern that cast strange shadows upon his face . . .’ He held up an imaginary light and pulled a suitably ghoulish expression. ‘Does that not strike you as odd?’
‘Which part?’
Fleet dropped the invisible lantern impatiently. ‘The waistcoat, of course . . .’
I was about to ask him why this detail in particular bothered him rather than, say, the fact that a dead man had risen from the grave and was floating about the prison terrifying young boys when there was a knock at the door. It was one of the porters, carrying Fleet’s supper and a letter from Charles. I abandoned my roommate to his odd fancies and headed out to the yard. The Park was quieter – almost peaceful – now the last of the sun had gone, and a warm light spilt out from the rooms on the Master’s Side as prisoners lit their fires and started their suppers. I had no money, the governor was a brute and I was sleeping in a dead man’s bed – but I had survived my first full day in gaol, at least. A small triumph to celebrate. One flight up from Belle Isle, Trim was at his window smoking a pipe. I saluted him before settling down on the bench beneath the lantern to read Charles’ letter.
As I removed the note I spied something glinting at the bottom of the envelope. I pulled it out and stared at it in wonder. My mother’s cross. Charles must have seen it in the pawnbroker’s window on the High Street and recognised it from its shape and the diamond at its heart. I touched her initials etched into its back: M.H. My heart lifted at Charles’ generosity – but my gratitude was tinged with shame. He knew more than anyone what the cross meant to me. He slept in the next bed to mine at school and had heard me crying softly into my pillow in the months after my mother died. He’d never told a soul – boys were bullied without mercy for much less – but he reached out once, in the night, and touched my wrist. That was all – one brief moment – but it was enough.
What must he think of me now and the wreck I had made of my life, that I had been forced to pawn the one thing I had left of her? Holding it now in the palm of my hand it seemed an impossible piece of luck that it had returned to me so soon – as if she were looking down on me. My God, what a thought. I slipped it back around my neck vowing never to part with it again. But even as I did so, a cold whisper ran through my head. You have promised that before.
The letter began with a few kind words renewing our friendship. ‘You are more a brother to me than my own flesh and blood, Tom; and always will be.’ There was also rather a lot about divine providence and another request for me to write to my father, which I ignored. The second page offered more tangible hope, expounding on Sir Philip’s offer.
Sir Philip is most concerned about these Rumours of a Spirit haunting the Prison. There were tales of a Ghost appearing in the Fleet gaol this summer that sparked such Terror th
at Bambridge, the Governor, feared a Riot. Acton in his Arrogance believes he has his prisoners on a tighter Leash, but Woodburn and others tell Sir Philip otherwise. In truth, it would take very little for the Common Side to erupt into Revolt and Violence. If it does – God help us all.
Tom: I will be frank with you – Sir Philip makes a great Profit from the Marshalsea, ever more so with Acton in charge. He does not wish to see those profits drop by one farthing. An ugly truth, but there it is. He has also grown tired of Mrs Roberts and her friends petitioning him day and night for an Investigation into Roberts’ death. Affairs of State keep him busy and he dislikes being troubled with what he sees as trifling matters.
As you know, I have spoken with him on your Account; if you prove able to resolve this matter of Roberts’ death and put an end to these Dangerous Rumours then your Release is assured. But you must be quick about it, Tom; Sir Philip is not a patient man.
A word of Caution: Sir Philip would be most reluctant to believe in Acton’s involvement. To be blunt – a confirmation of Suicide or proof of Samuel Fleet’s guilt would be the preferred outcome. You must follow the Truth where it leads you, of course, and if it leads you towards the Governor, so be it.
I will not pretend this task is without risks – but as I cannot afford to pay your Debts I believe this is the best way I can help secure your Release. I have also taken the liberty of hiring Jakes, the warrant officer, to help you. He is anxious to discover his friend’s killer and will assist you in any way he can. He visits the Prison tomorrow and will meet with you then.
My Dear Friend: I Pray this opportunity gives you Hope in a Dark hour. I only wish I could do more – it breaks my Heart to see you confined in such a miserable way. When you are released – and you will be released, Tom – we must find you a good Position. It is not right that a man of your Talents and Education should find himself in such a Woeful Condition and I will do everything in my Power to rectify this.
Until that Cheerful day, I will pray for you and offer all the help at my Disposal to ensure your Freedom.
I am yours, sir, etc
Charles Buckley
Postscript: I enclose your Mother’s cross. If you pawn it again I will never forgive you.
‘Good news I hope, Mr Hawkins?’ The tall, lean figure of Mr Jenings emerged from the gloom, lantern lit ready for the nightwatch.
I thought of Fleet, acting the ghost, and stifled a smile. ‘Mr Jenings. Would you light me to the governor’s rooms?’
He led the way, lantern swinging. As we reached Acton’s quarters next to the Lodge I thought of the strange, mocking laughter I’d heard the night before. ‘Mr Jenings, sir. Tell me. Was it here you saw the ghost?’
Jenings pointed into the gloom with a long, bony finger. ‘Right there,’ he whispered shakily. ‘Terrible thing, it was; all pale and grey like a corpse. Moaning and wailing as if the hounds of hell were on its back . . . Then it vanished.’
‘Vanished?’ I peered into the darkness. ‘How so?’
‘Disappeared into the shadows. I searched for it for an hour or more, up and down the Park and all, but it was gone. They can walk through walls, of course.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘You saw something last night, didn’t you? Right on this spot.’
‘I thought I heard something . . . It had been a long day.’ I touched the back of my head; there was still a large bump where I’d been knocked senseless by the footpads in St Giles. ‘The mind can play tricks in the dark.’
‘No,’ Jenings said, firmly. ‘There’s something out there; watching us. Watching everything we do. Good and bad.’
He gave me a short bow and returned to his rounds, abandoning me in front of Acton’s door. A touch of habit made me reach for my mother’s cross, finding comfort in the familiar shape beneath my fingers. I wondered what my mother would have made of Jenings’ story. She had been raised a Catholic and though she converted when she met my father, she had clung to some of the old beliefs. Miracles and wonders, mysteries and spirits; these were things she had whispered to me at night when I couldn’t sleep. Popish nonsense, my father would have called it, if he’d known; but I’d loved her ghost stories as a boy. And now . . . ? I straightened my shoulders and rapped on Acton’s door. Now I should forget all about them. The real world was dangerous enough.
‘Mr Hawkins! Welcome, sir, welcome!’ Acton’s rough, powerful voice boomed out across the Park, bouncing from the prison walls. He had opened the door himself, in high spirits, a mug of ale in one hand. I could hear music and chatter coming from next door, Mary’s girlish laugh cutting through it all. Acton clapped an arm about my shoulder and pulled me inside. He was already loud and unsteady with drink – ‘in his fucking altitudes’, Moll would have muttered had she been there – and restless as a bull, roving us down the hall and kicking out at a chair that dared get in his way.
‘Thank the devil you’re here,’ he growled, grabbing me tight as if I might jump his grasp like a frightened hare. To be fair, the thought had crossed my mind. ‘Here he is!’ he said, thrusting me into the room. ‘Fresh meat!’
Acton’s parlour was warm – stifling, even – crowded with too many people and too much furniture. The air was heavy with tobacco and sweat and smoke from the fire. A pair of half-drunk musicians – debtors from the Master’s Side brought in for the night and without question honoured and delighted to play for free – were playing a fiddle and pipe in a hectic manner, changing the tune whenever Acton shouted for it. In one corner an older couple finished their supper; the woman was plump and merry, sucking on a chicken leg and clapping her hands along to the music, while the man seemed sick and ill at ease, glancing at the door from time to time as if to assure himself it were still there and still working.
At the centre of it all was Mary Acton, dancing gaily with little Henry at her feet, a glass of punch raised high above her head. I was glad to see Mack standing by the fire, talking with Edward Gilbourne, the young Palace clerk I’d spied earlier in the yard with Catherine Roberts. Gilbourne seemed good company – he had a pleasant, easy manner about him. He caught my eye and nodded politely. I made my way towards them in such a hurry that I cracked my shin against a low table.
‘Mind yourself, Hawkins,’ Acton cried, shoving it away with his foot. ‘Can’t have you going lame. Not when you’ve promised to dance with Mary.’ He caught my alarm and roared with laughter. ‘Dance with her all you want, sir,’ he snorted, beckoning Mary over. ‘Can’t stand the damned business myself.’
A servant pushed past me with a fresh bowl of punch, liquor slopping over the brim on to the floor. Acton grabbed two glasses and plunged them into the bowl before it was even set down, handing one to me as Mary danced up to us, swishing her skirts.
‘Well now, hussy,’ Acton grinned, pulling her close. ‘What do you make of Mr Hawkins in his fine gentleman’s outfit?’
Mary smiled up at her husband, arms wrapped tight around him. Her gaze flickered over my clothes from the ribbon in my wig to the buckles of my shoes. ‘I know that waistcoat . . .’ she frowned, narrowing her eyes.
‘It’s on loan from Mr Fleet,’ I explained.
‘Ugh,’ she sneered, mock-shuddering in Acton’s arms. ‘Horrible little toad, sliming about in other people’s business. William . . .’ She stroked her husband’s chest and put on a high, babyish voice. ‘Surely we can find a better roommate for our guest.’
Acton kissed the top of her head. ‘That’s up to his purse, my love, isn’t it?’ A sudden gleam entered his eyes. ‘So. You’re a friend of Buckley’s, eh? I’ll wager Sir Philip pays him well enough . . .’ He licked his lips, already stained red with punch. ‘Did he offer to help with your fees?’
It was at this very moment that the musicians put down their instruments to rest and take a glass of punch, leaving Acton’s question to fall heavily upon a quiet room. It was also at this moment that I spied Acton’s clerk, John Grace, sitting by himself in the darkest corner of the room, far away from the fire. He did not ea
t or drink, just sat, silently, still clutching the black ledger, bony hands stroking the surface as if it were a purring cat. He leaned forward to catch my response, wintry blue eyes unblinking behind his spectacles.
To my great relief, Edward Gilbourne slipped across the room to join us. ‘Mrs Acton, would you introduce me to our new guest?’ he said, darting a friendly glance in my direction. Acton, seeing the conversation move away from money, wandered off in search of more punch. John Grace sat back, stiff as an old hinge, glaring at Gilbourne with unguarded hatred. So – it would appear that the two clerks were not on good terms. Another reason to like Gilbourne.
‘This is Mr Gilbourne, our deputy prothonotary,’ Mary trilled, announcing him as if he were some foreign diplomat new at court.
Gilbourne rolled his eyes. ‘Palace clerk,’ he muttered in my ear. ‘You don’t have to kneel.’
‘This is Mr Hawkins,’ Mary continued, quite oblivious. ‘He’s a . . .’ She paused, lips pouted in thought. ‘What is it that you do, Mr Hawkins?’
‘I’m a gentleman, madam. I do as little as possible.’
Gilbourne laughed. ‘An excellent ambition,’ he said, with mock solemnity. ‘But I don’t believe a word of it. You seem an industrious fellow to me, Hawkins. You’ve only been here a day and the whole prison speaks of you. Kindly, of course,’ he added swiftly. ‘Mr Woodburn has been singing your praises to the skies.’
Mary puffed out her cheeks with irritation and stormed over to the poor musicians to harangue them for stopping. They put down their drinks and took up their instruments again with a dejected air.
Gilbourne winked, mischievous. ‘Our dear governess finds the chaplain tedious company,’ he smiled. ‘Too many sermons and not enough dancing. Just the mention of his name is enough to rile her. Perhaps that was wicked of me . . .’ he pondered, taking a small sip of punch. ‘But at least we are free to talk for a while.’
As the music resumed Mary twirled about the room searching for a partner. Acton and Grace were hunched over the clerk’s ledger, plotting, while Mack suddenly found that he needed to send out for more food, so she settled for the thin, elderly gentleman sitting at the table. She pulled him to his feet and shuffled him into a reluctant, doddery minuet.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 14