Jakes chuckled quietly. ‘True enough. John spent half his life dreaming up ways to make money. Never came to nothing.’
‘That’s what I thought, Mr Jakes,’ Mitchell called over from the bed. ‘Just another one of the captain’s stories. But he says, “Just you wait, Harry. I’ve got something on Gilbourne that’ll finish him. I’ll squeeze every last farthing from him.”’ Mitchell grabbed the edge of his greying, stained shirt and twisted it sharply.
‘Blackmail,’ Jakes grunted. He didn’t look surprised by his old friend’s behaviour.
A roll of thunder grumbled its way across the sky. ‘What had Gilbourne done?’ I asked Mitchell.
‘The captain said it was best I didn’t know. But it was wicked, he said. Truly wicked. Enough to destroy Gilbourne’s reputation.’ He paused. ‘You won’t . . . you won’t tell anyone I told you this, will you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I haven’t dared say nothing until now. I don’t want to get my throat cut . . .’
‘Who would cut your throat?’ I frowned.
Mitchell stared at me. ‘Gilbourne, of course.’
I laughed, incredulous. The thought of Edward Gilbourne slitting someone’s throat . . . it was ridiculous.
Anderson looked at me sharply. ‘You don’t believe us?’
‘Well . . . look.’ I hesitated, wondering how to reply without offending Anderson, or implying that Mitchell wasn’t being entirely honest. ‘I didn’t know Roberts, but by all accounts he was a liar and a cheat. Even his best friend admits that,’ I added, shrugging at Jakes. ‘But I have met Edward Gilbourne. He doesn’t strike me as a killer.’
‘And why’s that, damn you?’ Anderson cried, suddenly angry. ‘Because he rides a fine horse? Because you like the way he ties his cravat?’ He leapt from his chair and flung it hard against the wall. To stop himself throwing me, I thought, shrinking back. It broke into pieces and clattered to the floor.
‘Ralph,’ Jakes said, mildly, but we all heard the warning in his voice.
The two men faced each other across the room. Another roll of thunder. A stutter of lightning. I watched them both, worried. Jakes could beat the older man in a fair fight. But there were three hundred prisoners locked on this side of the wall with us – quite enough to tear us limb from limb if Anderson asked them to.
‘Captain Anderson,’ I said, holding up my hands. ‘Forgive me, I meant no offence. I can see you are a man of honour. If you tell me Mr Gilbourne is not to be trusted, then I must believe you.’
Anderson studied me for a long moment, then sighed. He found himself another chair. ‘Pour us all a drink, Harry.’
Mitchell brought out some cheap beer. Across the room Jakes relaxed, rolling his shoulders and unclenching his fists. He caught my eye and winked his approval.
‘To Edward Gilbourne . . .’ Anderson said, raising his mug of beer.
‘. . . May he rot in hell,’ Mitchell finished, cheerfully. ‘We should tell him about the charity money,’ he added, pointing to a spot on the wall close to where Anderson had thrown his chair. ‘He’ll believe us then.’ I could just make out the remnants of what looked like an old shelf, with iron brackets screwed into the wood. They seemed to have been bent back with some force.
Captain Anderson shifted gloomily in his seat. ‘Jakes – you tell him. I can’t face it.’
Jakes poured himself some more beer and wandered over to the broken shelf. He touched the bracket, rubbed smears of dark orange rust from his fingers. ‘The Common Side has six wards. Each ward has a constable, a leader.’ He gestured at Anderson. ‘Then there’s a steward. The prisoners elect him to represent their interests and distribute donations. Food, money, clothes, medicine. The last steward was a man called Matthew Pugh. He wasn’t a prisoner himself but he was on their side. Had a cousin who died in here, I think, or a friend.’ Jakes waved his hand. ‘Well – either way. He promised the prisoners he would petition the governor and Sir Philip for better conditions.’
‘A good man,’ Anderson declared, lighting a pipe. ‘Only good man to work in this stinking place.’
‘This all started, what . . . five years ago?’ Jakes said.
‘Aye,’ Anderson scowled. ‘Acton was chief turnkey back in those days. What Cross is today but worse if you can imagine it. Striding about as if he were lord of the manor, even then. “Keep the choice cuts on the Master’s Side and throw the shit over the wall, lads.” ’
Jakes frowned. ‘Pugh began to suspect something was wrong with the charity donations.’
I leaned forward. ‘How so?’
‘There weren’t any,’ Mitchell and Anderson answered in unison.
‘Stolen?’ I guessed.
Jakes nodded. ‘The steward was supposed to have his own special seal – it proved to the charities that the money was reaching the prisoners and not just lining the governor’s pockets. But Acton and Darby, the old governor, had stolen it. They took the money and divided up the donations between them.’ He held my gaze. ‘One hundred and fifteen pounds a year.’
My mouth dropped.
‘More than that!’ Anderson cried, flinging his pipe to the floor. It bounced and clattered into the hearth, broken in two. ‘Twice that much, I’d bet my life on it! Those bastards stole the money, Mr Hawkins – and let the prisoners starve to death. Day after day, week after week. Hundreds of them!’
‘Strange, eh?’ Jakes gave a bitter laugh. ‘Kill a man in the street and they hang you at Tyburn. Kill a hundred debtors in prison and they make you governor. Pugh spent three years fighting for justice. He tried asking Gilbourne first . . .’
Mitchell stretched himself on tiptoes, pretended to fuss over his filthy shirt cuffs. ‘“Oh, Mr Pugh, if only I could help!”’ he sighed, in a passable impression of Gilbourne – if the Palace clerk were fifteen years older and a foot shorter. ‘“Alas, my hands are tied! Ah, sir, it pains me how little I can do for you.”
‘He tried Sir Philip, too,’ Anderson said, waving at Mitchell to stop. ‘Begged an audience for three years and was refused every time. Then Mr Buckley joined the household.’
Charles. I looked up, startled. Oh, no, please God – if they told me Charles was involved in this scheme I couldn’t bear it. I turned to Jakes. ‘He knows of this?’
Jakes took a swig of beer. ‘Pugh wrote to him asking for help. He persuaded Sir Philip to order a new charity seal.’ He glanced at Anderson, eyebrow raised. ‘Pugh wasn’t the only good man in all this, Ralph.’
‘Buckley’s not so bad, I suppose,’ Anderson conceded. ‘Only reason I’m talking to you,’ he added, glowering at me. ‘But what difference did it make, eh?’
The room fell silent, rain clattering softly on the roof. The beef stew mumbled to itself in the pot. The storm had drowned out any sound beyond our own voices, but now it was passing I could hear prisoners calling to one another in the yard. I felt a sudden urge to jump up and leave – to run to the wall and bang on the door until I was let back on to the Master’s Side. This story was not going to end well. ‘What happened?’
Anderson stirred as if from a dream. ‘Once we had the new seal, Pugh began collecting the charity money himself. We decided to keep it here, on the Common Side, where we could defend it. Pugh had a chest built with seven locks, one key for each constable and a seventh for the steward. We fixed the chest to the wall over there,’ his eyes flickered to the broken hinges, ‘and we all swore an oath to use the money fairly, for the good of the whole gaol. It worked. For a few weeks. No one starved. Acton was furious. Do you remember, Mitchell? Storming and raging about the gaol. Cursing us for stealing his money. His money!’
‘And then?’
‘And then?’ Anderson snorted. ‘He complained to the Court. And what do you think, Mr Hawkins? This time the deputy prothonotary found his hands weren’t tied. Not one little bit.’
Mitchell muttered something in Cornish. It didn’t sound friendly.
Anderson got to his feet and pulled a battered, rusty old box from under his bed, the lid
scraping as he lifted it free. He plucked out a letter and handed it to me. It was from the office of the deputy prothonotary, dated July 1725 and marked with the Court’s seal.
Upon information given to this Court by the Keeper that one Matthew Pugh has very often behaved himself very turbulently in the Prison, frequently occasioning disturbances amongst the Prisoners, and because of this impudent Behaviour, as well in this Court as the Office of Prothonotary, it is this Day ordered that the said Matthew Pugh be no longer permitted to have Access to the Prison of this Court, and that the prisoners be at Liberty to appoint another Person to receive the Gifts and Legacies belonging to them.
By the Court
Edward Gilbourne
Deputy Prothonotary
I shook my head. ‘But why would Gilbourne help Acton? He loathes him.’ And then I remembered Fleet’s Law. ‘Money.’
‘The next time Pugh came to the prison he was attacked by five of Acton’s men. They grabbed the charity seal and tossed him out into the street.’ Anderson slumped in his chair. ‘That poor bastard spent three years fighting for us and they kicked him out the gate like a dog. He was coughing blood for a week.’
I read Gilbourne’s note again. ‘It says here that the prisoners have the right to appoint a new steward.’
Anderson gave a dry laugh. ‘Oh, yes. Acton gave us liberty to vote for Mr Grace. You’ve met him?’
I thought of Acton’s clerk at supper, scraping a line through a man’s name. It had seemed cruel last night, but now I had witnessed first hand where he was sending them, it seemed crueller still. A thin shiver ran down my spine. ‘I’ve met him.’
‘We refused to give him the keys to the charity chest. So Acton stormed in with twenty men, ripped the chest from that wall over there and carried it away on his shoulders, laughing. “Mr Gilbourne’s orders,” he said. A year later he’d saved up enough funds to buy the position of keeper from Darby. And Gilbourne had a fine stallion to ride in to Court.’
I stared at the Court letter in my hands, at the large, confident signature at the bottom. Signed with a flourish – no doubt, no hesitation – though Gilbourne must have known he was signing a death warrant for countless men and women starving on the Common Side. I felt sick. How easily he’d fooled me with his flattery and charm! All those empty, cunning, worthless words. Of course he had his fingers in the pie; why should that be surprising? I’d admired his horse and his fine clothes, I’d seen the way the lawyers fawned about him. I’d always prided myself on reading a man’s lies in his face but he had played me like a boy fresh in from the country. ‘Damn him. I should have seen it.’
Mitchell patted my shoulder. ‘You’re not the first he’s fooled,’ he said, kindly. ‘He acts the gentleman on the Master’s Side, you see. I’ve seen him. He’ll be whatever you want him to be. But it’s all lies. A mask he hides behind. He’d fuck his own grandmother if he had to,’ he asserted, with an air of authority.
I folded the court order. ‘Perhaps that’s what Roberts had on him.’
Mitchell cackled. ‘Hah! Perhaps! Well, one thing I do know, sir. Whatever Gilbourne was up to, it had nothing to do with the Common Side. No one gives a damn what happens in here. We could all die tonight – each and every one of us – and they’d just shrug and find another three hundred wretches to take our place.’
True enough. I wondered what Roberts had discovered. An affair, perhaps. Would that be scandalous enough? I remembered the first time I’d seen Gilbourne, talking with Catherine Roberts out in the yard. I had wondered then if they could be lovers. Was that it? Was Roberts prepared to ruin his own wife’s reputation to escape prison? Catherine said he’d never forgiven her for persuading him to give up their son. Perhaps there were other things he couldn’t forgive. Perhaps he’d decided to take revenge on Gilbourne and Catherine together . . .
‘I told the captain to be careful,’ Mitchell sighed. ‘I told him Gilbourne was dangerous. He wouldn’t listen. “I don’t care, Harry,” he says. “I’ll take that risk if it gets me out of this wretched hole. One last gamble.”’ He paused. ‘Then a few days later they found him hanging in the Strong Room. Poor bugger.’
‘Maybe he was lucky,’ Anderson muttered. ‘A quick death.’
Jakes frowned, and peered out of the window. ‘The rain’s stopped. We’d best head back before Mr Woodburn starts to worry.’
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, remembering Woodburn’s message. I told Anderson that the food would be sent round to the begging grate that evening.
Anderson sighed with relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘I heard a rumour of this,’ Jakes said. ‘Woodburn said he’d been given money in secret. A friend of the Common Side – that’s all he’d tell me. I thought it might be Matthew Pugh.’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Pugh doesn’t have that sort of money to spare.’
‘How much was it?’ I asked.
‘Five pounds,’ Anderson replied. ‘But we daren’t keep it in here. Acton would sniff it out in a flash. Mr Woodburn buys food and medicine and slips it through the begging grate once a week. Should last us the rest of the year, if we’re careful. Save a few people from starving, at least.’ He gripped my arm and pulled me close. ‘Swear you won’t breathe a word.’
‘I swear!’ I said, wincing. Anderson was even stronger than he looked. He let go, satisfied. ‘Would Acton really steal food from the Common Side?’ I asked, rubbing my arm. ‘Surely there’s no profit in that?’
Anderson dipped his finger in the beef stew to taste. Pulled a face. ‘He likes to keep us hungry, Mr Hawkins. We’re easier to control that way. And the worse it is in here, the more he can charge over on your side of the wall. Why do you think the Tap Room looks out over the Common Side? He wants all you gents and ladies to see us, doesn’t he? Living in the filth. Sick and starving. You take one look at us and you’ll pay Acton anything to avoid the same fate. Did you know there are five wards over here standing empty? There’s no need to pack us in like animals. But the more of us die in here, the more rent men like you will pay. Clever, eh?’
It was all true, I was sure of it. And the horror of it was – it worked. I would give just about anything, do just about anything, to avoid being thrown in here. I could still taste the vomit in the back of my throat. ‘Perhaps things will change. If I talk to Sir Philip. If I can prove that Acton or Gilbourne killed Captain Roberts . . .’
‘Fuck all the saints!’ Anderson cursed. ‘You don’t let him talk like that on the Master’s Side, do you, Jakes? If the governor heard him . . .’ He paused, looked me dead in the eye. ‘Last summer they chained a man to a corpse in the Strong Room for three days, for daring to stand up to Acton. I saw him when they pulled him out again. They took off his chains but it made no difference. He could still feel the corpse flesh against his skin. Scratched a hole in his arm the size of a hen’s egg. He said he was trying to gouge out the dead man’s touch.’
Jakes cleared his throat. ‘No need to frighten him.’
Anderson looked at him. ‘Isn’t there?’
Jakes frowned and moved to the doorway, scouting the yard with a hand on his sword. Anderson pulled me back. ‘Hawkins,’ he hissed in my ear. ‘Take my advice. Find another way out of here. You’ll get yourself murdered, boy.’ He released me back into the yard with a friendly shove and lumbered back into his ward.
Jakes and I pushed our way through the crowds of feverish, listless prisoners, back towards the wall. Inside, in the ward, we had been under Anderson’s protection. But now we were vulnerable – two men against three hundred desperate souls. They snatched at our clothes as we passed, thin fingers poking into pockets, under shirts, snaking and grasping and pulling. I clasped my mother’s cross hard against my chest, afraid it might be ripped from my neck.
When we reached the door there was no one on the other side of the wall to let us through, and we passed an anxious few minutes knocking and calling to be released. Joseph Cross, having his revenge on us both. While Jakes slammed on
the door with his club I pushed another grabbing hand from my arm only to discover it belonged to Harry Mitchell. He leaned in close, breathing stale beer breath into my face. ‘I know Gilbourne’s secret,’ he said. ‘The blackmail. I’ll tell you for a price.’
I would have seized him by the throat and shaken the truth out of him if I could, but there were too many people pushing and shoving around us. I didn’t want to be ripped to pieces for throttling Harry Mitchell. ‘How much?’ I muttered, reluctantly.
‘Freedom. Same as you.’
The door swung open and Cross poked his head through. ‘Come on, then, come on!’
Mitchell clung to me, suddenly desperate. ‘Gilbourne’ll kill me if he finds out I told. Get me out of here, Mr Hawkins. Settle it with Sir Philip. I swear I’ll tell you everything.’
I pushed him away. ‘I’ll see.’
He fell back into the crowds. Jakes shoved me back through the wall while Cross closed and bolted the door again as fast as if he were barring the gates to hell. I suppose he was. I had never felt so glad to take three paces in my life. Back on the Master’s Side. And alive! I could have kissed the cobbles with relief.
Chapter Fifteen
The storm had passed as quickly as it had come, the sky a clear, bright blue, as if the rain had washed it clean. The cobbles were slippery and the whole prison smelled mossy and damp, but the air was fresher, the east wind bundling the Common Side stench away with it. For the first time in a long while I wished I had stayed safe in the country, leaping over silver puddles, mud spattering my stockings as I made my way home to the vicarage. A safe, quiet, peaceful world. My father’s world. And then a stray, traitorous thought – perhaps he had been right, all along. Perhaps I should never have left . . .
‘So I’ll return on Monday,’ Jakes said again, waving a hand in front of my face. Tomorrow was Sunday. ‘Can you stay alive until then, do you think?’
I nodded absently and he left, unconvinced. Losing Jakes was like losing a blade or a full purse. I would miss his protection. But I could not expect him to stay locked up in gaol with me. He had his own life out in the Borough – a wife and two young daughters. He would never in his life have brought them into the Marshalsea. I wondered briefly what his girls looked like and had an image of two miniature Misses Jakes in skirts, with squashed noses, scarred brows and meaty arms.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 19