The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘Mr Wilson. Mary’s father,’ Gilbourne explained. ‘His daughter has danced circles round him for years.’

  ‘He was a prisoner on the Common Side, I hear.’

  ‘Astonishing!’ Gilbourne stepped back a little, marvelling at me. ‘So newly arrived and yet you have the measure of every man here.’ He waggled his finger at me. ‘You’re a capable man, Mr Hawkins. Observant.’

  Mary’s father was clutching his side and mopping the sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. ‘It must be hard for Mr Wilson,’ I said. ‘Returning again and again to the place where he suffered such misery and disgrace.’

  ‘I had not thought of it,’ Gilbourne frowned. ‘But now you say it, I see you are quite right. But then . . . perhaps he has forgotten his time as a debtor here? It was many years ago.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘From what I’ve heard of the Common Side, it is not an experience easily forgotten, Mr Gilbourne.’

  ‘That is true. And it’s worse under our host’s rule.’ He shook his head. ‘I only wish there were more I could do to help the poor wretches.’

  ‘I am sure you do your best, sir,’ I said, sorry to have brought the conversation to such a gloomy turn. ‘Shall we sit down together and try Mack’s feast?’

  We settled ourselves at the table and fell quickly into deep conversation. Gilbourne told me his family were farmers from Kent, but he had come to London as a lad to live with his uncle, a lawyer, who had no children of his own.

  ‘I can’t imagine you tending the fields,’ I said, nodding at his clothes. His suit was plain but expertly stitched to fit his lean frame and he wore a brand-new brown wig, lightly powdered. The warm, chocolate-coloured cloth of his jacket and waistcoat matched his eyes precisely and there was a crispness to his appearance that could only come from the very best tailoring.

  ‘And I cannot imagine you tending your flock in a Suffolk parish,’ he replied with a smile. ‘It seems we are neither of us cut out to be our fathers.’ He held up his glass and chinked it against mine. ‘Praise the Lord.’

  Gilbourne was a good companion, witty and perceptive for all his insistence to the contrary. It seemed to be a trait of his to admire other men’s talents while dismissing his own. And yet he had risen to the post of deputy prothonotary in just a few short years – a position which, I soon realised, was blessed with a good deal of power and reward. Every court case, every arrest or release for every debtor, came through his office to be ordered and approved. Every prison fee, every change in the rules or hiring of a new turnkey must be signed and agreed with Edward Gilbourne. He wore his position lightly and with a humble shrug of the shoulders but I saw now I had underestimated him. He was not just excellent company; he could be a powerful ally. Charles might have Sir Philip’s ear, but Gilbourne understood the inner workings of the Marshalsea better than anyone; save perhaps its governor.

  With Mary’s mother still grazing her way through the supper dishes we kept our conversation light, though she seemed more interested in her large slice of pound cake than our talk. Mary had trapped poor Mack in a dance while Acton was singing and swaying to the music, his arms about his father-in-law, squeezing him like a wet cloth on laundry day. Henry had somehow managed not to fall into the fire amidst all this chaos and had now reached the more dangerous destination of Mr Grace’s feet. The clerk was glaring impatiently at Acton, lips twisted in annoyance, the ledger now open and waiting on a table by his side. I watched in alarm as the boy attached himself to Grace’s stick-thin calf, perhaps mistaking it for a chair leg. Grace gave a shiver of revulsion, as if he had seen not a boy but a diseased rat clutched to his stocking. His gaze flickered to his master. When he was sure Acton wasn’t looking he gave a sudden, violent shake of his leg, kicking the boy into the middle of the room.

  Henry paused for a moment, as small children do when they are shocked and hurt and want the world to know it. He took a deep breath. And then he screamed. He screamed with such a piercing intensity that the musicians flinched and stopped playing. Mack clapped his hands to his ears.

  ‘Henry!’ Mary wailed, scowling at her young son. ‘Stop your caterwauling! Mama! Make him stop. Oh!’ She stamped her foot and then again, louder. ‘He’s ruining the party.’

  Mrs Wilson rose from the table and gathered her grandson in her arms, who shrieked and reached for his mother. Mary shooed them both away.

  ‘Take him for a walk about the Park. Hurry about it!’ she snapped. Then she caught my eye, and pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I cannot bear to hear him cry, Mr Hawkins,’ she sniffed. ‘It breaks my heart.’

  Mary’s father looked worried. ‘It’s a cold night, dearest . . .’ he ventured, timidly.

  ‘Take him to the Tap Room and give him some whisky,’ Acton commanded his mother-in-law. ‘And tell Chapman to send over two more bowls of punch, damn it; we’re almost dry.’

  Mrs Wilson did as she was told and took the screaming child away, his cries growing fainter as they headed across the yard. The party resumed, though Mack was now so drunk he had surrendered command of his flailing limbs and Mary was still sulking over her son’s selfish behaviour.

  Grace cleared his throat. ‘The ledger, Mr Acton . . . ?’

  Acton scowled at him. ‘Very well, very well. No rest for the wicked, eh?’ He prodded a line in the book with a thick finger. ‘He can go.’

  ‘Very good, sir . . .’ Grace took up his quill and marked something on to the page.

  Gilbourne watched them with a hand propping up one cheek. ‘And so a life is scratched out,’ he murmured.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I asked him.

  ‘Marking the Black Book. Grace keeps tally of each prisoner’s debts to the warden. It’s rent day tomorrow so they’re checking to see who has fallen behind. They’ll grant a week’s respite to the lucky ones, if they think they can squeeze more from them later. The rest will be flung over the wall. Monstrous. But what can one do?’

  Grace dipped his quill and put a mark in the margin with a satisfied smile. The nib squeaked as it scraped across the paper, making my stomach turn. I’d heard enough about the Common Side to know that he was signing a death warrant for most of those unlucky prisoners. Worse still – it could so easily be my own name he was scratching out. Samuel Fleet struck me as a fickle friend – the moment he tired of me I would be discarded, tossed aside like the rest of his belongings.

  I couldn’t afford another week’s rent on the Master’s Side, not even for the poorest room. For all of Acton’s good cheer and back-slapping, once he’d squeezed me of my last farthing he would throw me over the wall and leave me to rot with the rest of the poor Common Side wretches. How long before I caught a fever, or a blade in the ribs? How long before they were pulling my corpse out into the yard?

  There was only one chance of escape. I had to solve Captain Roberts’ murder – as soon as possible. But where to start? Perhaps I should ask Gilbourne for help; he seemed a sharp, astute man and he would know more of the prison’s secrets than most, given his occupation. But could I trust him? Could I trust anyone?

  John Grace drew a line through another name, sharp and straight. And then he looked up from his book and gazed at me for a long moment. The glass in his spectacles was shining in the candlelight so that I could not see his eyes – just the reflection of the flame.

  The room grew hot, and I found it hard to breathe. I fumbled at my cravat, loosening the knot with trembling fingers.

  ‘Mr Hawkins.’ Gilbourne touched my arm, his dark brown eyes filled with concern. ‘Let’s step outside for a moment. You need fresh air, I think.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there is a private matter we must discuss.’ He gave a discreet nod towards Acton and Grace. When Mack obligingly trod on Mary’s foot we used the distraction to slip outside.

  ‘Peace . . .’ Gilbourne sighed. He leaned against the tree outside Acton’s door and closed his eyes for a moment.

  I lit a pipe and took a long draw of tobacco. My hands were still shaking.
There were moments when I forgot the danger I was facing. It was an easy thing to forget, with all the drink, the music and the cheerful company of debtors like Trim and Mrs Bradshaw who had somehow made the Marshalsea their home. But that was just a thin layer of ice glittering across the lake. One false step and I would plunge into the black, freezing waters beneath. Charles was trying his best to protect me, and I loved him for it – but he was outside the prison walls. A man needed friends inside if he were to survive. For now, Acton had decided to like me, but I had made enemies of both his head clerk and his chief turnkey. Joseph Cross was an ill-tempered, mean-spirited bastard, but at least he attacked with his fists. John Grace was another matter. I wasn’t even sure why he disliked me so much, but I could sense it all the same; a cold, unwavering hatred that bided its time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The thought made the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  There was a light fog in the air, softening the gaol and leaving a damp trace upon the skin. The moon was still rising in the sky, shimmering behind the mist, and I could just make out the weak glow of the lantern in the middle of the Park. Out in the Borough, a clock struck ten, very faint. I peered out across the yard. The Palace Court, way down at the other end of the Park, was barely visible in the fog. Sam had said the ghost would meet me there at midnight. Well, it can wait all it wants, I thought, irritably. I shan’t be there. I had enough to worry about without chasing after phantoms.

  ‘Has Mr Buckley written to you yet, sir?’ Gilbourne asked quietly.

  I gave a start. Charles’ letter was still tucked in my jacket pocket.

  ‘Sir Philip sent a message,’ he explained. ‘He’s ordered me to assist you in any way I can.’ He smiled at this, and gave a little bow. ‘I’m at your service.’

  I returned his smile, but the news made me anxious. Gilbourne seemed honest and his position and power in the gaol could be helpful. But the fewer who knew about my investigation the better – news travelled fast around this prison. ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone?’

  Gilbourne looked affronted. ‘Not a soul. Upon my honour.’

  ‘Forgive me, I meant no offence. It’s just . . . this is my only chance to escape this place. I can’t afford to fail.’ I swallowed hard. ‘My life depends on it, sir.’

  ‘I understand.’ His face was hard to read in the mist, but he sounded perfectly sincere. ‘And you are wise to be cautious. If Roberts was murdered, his killer is most likely still here in the prison. And should he discover that you’re hunting for him . . . Well. It’s all too easy to murder a man in the Marshalsea.’

  I frowned and took another draw from my pipe. There was a burst of laughter from the Tap Room and a small drunken gang scuffled their way out into the yard; dark, murky shapes in the fog. ‘Light us, Mr Jenings!’ one of them called through into the Lodge and a moment later a lantern light appeared. The men weaved behind it, singing and sniggering to one another. A group of Acton’s trusties, heading for the turnkeys’ room under the chapel, with a couple of girls from the town. They didn’t notice us as they stumbled past. Jenings tipped his hat, silently.

  ‘There are men who would sell this information without hesitation,’ Gilbourne continued quietly, after they were gone. ‘They wouldn’t think or care about the danger to your safety. Mr Hand, for example. Your roommate for another.’ His gaze slid to the room I shared with Fleet. A dull light glowed from the window, but it was too dark and misty to see if Fleet were at his usual post. ‘D’you know, I happen to like Mr Fleet. He’s a queer, unpredictable fellow, but he’s decent company when he’s not in one of his dark moods. But he is not to be trusted. Not this much.’ Gilbourne pressed his thumb and finger together, leaving no space between them. ‘Belle Isle . . .’ he said, then laughed. ‘Have you caught the joke yet? Run the words together.’

  I thought for a moment. Belle Isle. I had assumed it was merely a sarcastic reference to a shabby room. Belle Isle. BelleIsle. ‘Belial,’ I muttered. Of course. Belial, hell’s most worthless, lascivious, sin-drenched demon. A spirit more lewd fell not from Heaven.

  ‘Clever, eh?’ Gilbourne said. ‘But I would take it as a warning, if I were you. He’s a clever man, and good company in his way . . . but don’t rely on him for help. He’s just as likely to betray you.’

  I frowned, uneasy. ‘He doesn’t need the money.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do it for the money. He’d do it for the sport.’

  I sighed and tapped the spent tobacco from my pipe. For sport. Yes, that sounded like Fleet.

  ‘Work quietly on this case, Mr Hawkins,’ Gilbourne murmured. ‘And work fast. All this talk of murder and spirits haunting the gaol; it frightens people.’ He tilted his chin towards the Common Side wall. ‘There’s trouble in the air. I can almost taste it. You do not want to be sleeping on either side of the wall if the Common Side erupts.’

  ‘How bad is it over there?’

  ‘I’ve never visited.’ He caught my surprise. ‘It’s not safe. I’ve heard the tales, of course. Shocking. They stabbed a man to death last week for nothing. A crust of bread. Gentlemen like us wouldn’t last the night.’

  A broad, squat figure emerged from the mist, startling us both.

  ‘Chapman,’ Gilbourne snapped. ‘Damn you, skulking up in such a weaseling manner.’

  Chapman leered at us. ‘Just delivering the punch, gentlemen. No law against that, is there?’ He strode past us into Acton’s lodgings.

  ‘Insolent brute,’ Gilbourne grumbled. ‘But this is what happens when a prison is run by a butcher. We’d better head back before we’re missed.’

  ‘Gilbourne.’ I clutched his arm to stop him. ‘Do you believe Roberts was murdered?’

  He hesitated for a moment. ‘I suppose I do. Yes.’

  ‘Who was it killed him, do you think?’

  He stepped back and stared at me in surprise. ‘Acton, of course. Who else?’ Then he turned and headed back into the warden’s house.

  Back in the parlour, the evening rolled along in its lurching, drunken fashion. I danced with Mary under the red-eyed, stony gaze of her husband while Mack vomited in a chamber pot and Mary’s father dozed fitfully by the fire. The musicians played on, raising their voices when the time came for lock-up and the Common Side prisoners cried out their nightly song of misery and dread. We played cards – ‘let him win,’ Gilbourne hissed in my ear as we sat down, so Acton won every game and I lost the half-guinea Moll had sent me. Just after eleven Cross came in to remind Acton the Master’s Side was ready for lock-up and should he escort Hawkins to his room? Acton belched and cursed his turnkey for insulting his wife’s guest and shoved him out of the door, then fleeced me of another half a crown. Several times I suggested I should return to my lodgings and was shouted down and mocked for my womanish mewling. And all the while Mr Grace watched from the corner, eyes narrowed, watching the flow of drink and money and conversation and saying not a word.

  ‘Smile, damn you, Hawkins,’ Acton shouted as he won another game. ‘You’re not on the Common Side yet.’

  Mary begged another dance and I agreed readily enough. Another hour of playing this new game of Let Acton Win and my pockets would be empty. I drank another glass though I had already drunk too much; I could see no other way of making the night end faster short of passing out, which Mack appeared to have done beneath the table. We danced and the room seemed to dance with us, the candles sputtering low and Acton banging his fist in time to the music, making the punch glasses jump and judder and waking his father-in-law with a start. He bellowed something at Gilbourne, who smiled politely and nodded before glancing at the clock. Mary was telling me something about her husband, about his hands and how rough and cracked they were from years of butchery.

  ‘Not like your hands, Mr Hawkins,’ she breathed, her fingers rubbing against my palm. She stared unsteadily into my eyes. ‘We make quite the pair, don’t we? A pair of aces,’ she giggled, tossing back her yellow locks. ‘D’you know, I think you are the handsomest man in
the prison. I liked Roberts . . .’ She twirled her skirts coquettishly. ‘But I like you better.’

  ‘Mary.’ Acton’s low voice rumbled across the room. He had stopped pounding the table, but his hand was still curled into a fist.

  Mary jumped, then pouted like a child and flounced to a chair by the fire. I found myself alone, abandoned in the middle of the room. The governor’s eyes were cold, his face set in a deep frown. The song came to a hurried end and still Acton studied me beneath heavy lids. ‘Some reward for my hospitality, sir,’ he said, voice heavy as stone. ‘Taking liberties with my wife. Do you think she’s a common slut you can ride behind my back?’

  I swallowed hard, mouth dry. The air between us seemed to thrum with violence, the way it had in the yard the day before, Jack Carter curled like a baby on the cold ground as Acton raised the whip. By the fire, Mary’s father was clutching his hands together as if in fevered prayer.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I stammered. ‘I meant no . . .’

  ‘Hah!’ Acton jumped up, pointing a finger at me. Then he clapped his hands, threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Oh, that was good.’ He wiped the tears from his eyes. No one else in the room was laughing. ‘Did you see him, Gilbourne, whimpering like a dog? Well. Perhaps we should send him back to his kennel, what do you say?’

  Gilbourne gave a weak smile and poured himself another drink while Acton swaggered towards me. He hugged me tight to his chest. ‘I like you, Hawkins,’ he announced. ‘You’re a good sport. We’re friends, eh?’ He brought his lips close to my ear. ‘And you have some powerful friends, don’t you? Lucky boy. Do you think they can protect you without my blessing . . . ?’

  I shook my head tightly. My heart was still racing and I could feel myself shaking beneath his grip. He could feel it too, of course. I was not a coward but Acton was playing with loaded dice. Let him win, Gilbourne had said. It was good advice.