The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  I pulled out Fleet’s watch from a hidden pocket, marvelling that it hadn’t been plucked from me in the scrabble by the wall. Two o’clock. No wonder my stomach was rumbling – I hadn’t eaten all day. With Jakes gone, I decided to find Fleet and tell him everything in the hope we could puzzle it all out together. Preferably over dinner. It was a dangerous strategy, trusting him with the truth. Trusting him with anything. But I needed his help. I realised now that Fleet had suspected Gilbourne all along. He’d known Gilbourne would be dining at Acton’s when he dressed me up in Roberts’ clothes. And thinking back, I remembered he’d been interested in Gilbourne’s reaction in particular.

  What else had he been keeping from me?

  I was just about to start looking for him when I heard a commotion coming from the Lodge. Walk away, Tom. Not your business.

  The Reverend Andrew Woodburn’s voice – sharp and shrill with fury. ‘Miserable, wicked boy! How could you? How could you?’

  Oh well, maybe just a quick look? Before I had taken another step Benjamin Carter flew out of the Lodge door and into the Park, tripping and falling to his knees in his haste to escape. As he fell he dropped a couple of wooden boxes he’d been carrying under his arm. They clattered to the cobbles, landing at my feet. I picked one up, curious, and shook it. A handful of coins rattled and bounced against the sides. A few debtors gathered nearby turned my way, attracted by the music.

  Ben was on his feet in a moment. ‘Give it back,’ he snarled, tearing it from my hands and hugging it to his chest. As he turned to pick up the second box Mr Woodburn rushed out into the yard, wheezing with the effort. Gilbert Hand sauntered behind, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Do leave the boy alone, Woodburn,’ he suggested, mildly.

  The chaplain raised his ebony cane and for one astonishing moment I thought he might actually dash Hand’s brains out. But then he caught my eye, and collected himself. ‘Well, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, limping over to me. ‘Here is an evil business.’

  ‘But it is business,’ Hand pointed out. ‘You can’t blame Benjamin for trying to earn an honest penny.’

  ‘Honest?’ Woodburn’s eyes bulged so hard I thought they might pop from his head and roll across the cobbles. ‘Stealing from a charity box? Honest?’

  ‘Well now.’ Hand rocked back on his heels. ‘Stealing is a strong word. What would you say, Hawkins? Young Mr Carter here,’ he squeezed the boy’s lean shoulder, ‘has paid the governor a shilling for the right to beg charity round the Borough. And for that honourable work he is allowed to keep one tenth of what he earns. Would you begrudge him that?’

  Woodburn tapped his cane irritably. ‘And the rest, Mr Hand. Where does that go, pray?’

  Hand affected an innocent look. ‘Why, it goes to the Common Side, of course.’

  ‘It does no such thing!’ Woodburn cried, outraged. ‘It goes straight into Acton’s purse. And yours too, Mr Hand,’ he added, jabbing a finger towards the ranger’s waistcoat pocket. ‘I know all about the deal you’ve made with him.’

  ‘That is quite an accusation,’ Hand observed. ‘Slanderous, I’d say. I wonder what Mr Acton would make of it?’

  Woodburn grabbed Benjamin’s arm and wrenched him away from Hand’s side, as if he were hauling him back from the edge of a cliff. He bent down so he could stare right into the boy’s face. ‘I gave you that shilling for Jack. To release his body. Benjamin . . . he’s still lying there in the Strong Room with all the . . .’ He paused, shook his head, unable to say the words. ‘He’s still lying there because of you.’

  A guilty shadow crossed Ben’s face. But then it passed. ‘Jack’s dead,’ he said in a flat, sullen voice. ‘I’m alive. I have to look after myself.’

  ‘Oh, Benjamin,’ Woodburn sighed. ‘The Lord will look after you, if you trust in Him.’

  Ben scowled. ‘He didn’t look after Jack, did He? Didn’t look after my mother, neither. I won’t end up like them.’ He tore himself from the chaplain’s grasp and sped off back towards the Lodge.

  Woodburn watched him go, then turned and rubbed the tears from his eyes.

  ‘You did your best, sir,’ I said, while Hand smirked at me.

  Woodburn sighed and trudged away without a word, head bowed. He looked wretched, as if his house had collapsed about his ears.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Poor Woodburn,’ Hand said, smiling broadly. ‘He will keep putting his faith in the wrong people.’ He gave me a sly look and wandered off.

  Fleet was not on his bench by the Lodge so I headed upstairs to the Tap Room. Mary was at the bar with Mack and a few other admirers. The singing and laughter was as loud as ever, holding the room in a drunken bubble. No doubt or worry or regret allowed in here; not until later when the bubble burst and all that was left was the grubby truth, men crying into their last drink and wondering how they had lost money yet again to the warden and his wife. I smiled at Mary and she glared at me then whispered something in Mack’s ear. He slid off his chair and weaved his way towards the door.

  ‘Trouble, Hawkins,’ he murmured as he passed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  My heart sank. Could I not get five minutes of peace in this damned place? How on earth had I managed to offend Mary? I’d danced with her, hadn’t I? At least I hadn’t trodden on her foot like Mack.

  It took me a moment to find Fleet – he was not sitting at his usual seat by the window but huddled in a dark corner with a companion, who had his back turned to the room. Fleet was also fully dressed, and in clothes that fitted him for once. His journal was open on the table between them and they were deep in conversation; so deep I was only a couple of feet away when Fleet spied me. He closed the journal with a slam and signalled to the other man with his eyes.

  ‘Hawkins,’ he said. His gaze slid from me to the stranger, but he didn’t introduce us, and the man didn’t turn round or show his face.

  ‘Fleet. I must speak with you. I have news.’

  He leaned back and smiled at me. ‘Of course you have news. You always have news. You are a veritable magnet of news. Have you dined? Let me finish my business with Mr . . . Smith here and I will join you at Bradshaw’s.’

  ‘I’m banned from Bradshaw’s because of you, sir. I am universally hated because of you. Mrs Bradshaw, Mrs Roberts, Mrs Acton . . . even Kitty Sparks has turned against me.’

  ‘Four queens!’ Fleet exclaimed. ‘Now there’s a hand. But I can’t take the credit for all of them.’ He tilted his head. ‘Is there a chance you may have upset Kitty all by yourself?’

  ‘I’ll wait for you in Belle Isle. It’s a most pressing matter, Mr Fleet.’

  Fleet nodded, then shooed me away with a little flick of his hand. I gritted my teeth and turned to leave. As I walked away, I heard Fleet’s companion mutter, in a gruff tone, ‘That boy’s trouble, Sam.’

  ‘I know,’ Fleet replied. He sounded pleased.

  There was a sense of relief about the prisoners in the yard; people stood around laughing and chatting. It reminded me of the atmosphere at college after exams, or outside my father’s church after one of his more thunderous sermons; a sort of giddy joy at having survived, for now. The same could not be said of the men and women queueing on the stairs leading up into the Palace Court, most of whom stood with eyes fixed firmly to the ground, lost in melancholy thoughts. Husbands and wives clutched one another tight, shuffling together as the queue moved up the stairs. A man pulled out his coins and counted them over and over, as if hoping they might multiply in his hand.

  ‘The weekly rent,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned and dipped a short bow. ‘Mrs Roberts.’

  She rolled back her veil. ‘John and I would stand in that queue together,’ she said quietly, her eyes on the slow march of debtors trudging their way into the Court. ‘He would hold my hand so tight. Even if we had the money, we were always afraid . . . Mr Grace is a demon at finding new fees, new debts, if Mr Acton demands it. There is so much fear in this place sometimes I think it has seeped into the walls.’ She p
ut a gloved hand upon my arm. ‘I owe you an apology, sir. Mr Fleet told me it was his idea to put you in John’s clothes. He also said . . .’ she bit her lip ‘. . . you know the truth about the ghost.’ She put her hands to her face. ‘What must you think of me?’

  ‘Does my opinion matter to you, madam?’

  She lowered her hands. ‘Very much,’ she whispered. ‘Would you walk with me, sir?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  She slipped her arm through mine, leading me across the yard. ‘You are angry with me.’

  ‘You used me, Mrs Roberts. If you had come to me honestly, I would have been glad to help you.’

  We passed Gilbert Hand, smoking a pipe by the lamppost. He grinned as we passed, and nodded his head.

  ‘You are right,’ she sighed, once we were beyond earshot. ‘But I was desperate and I have . . . I have lost the capacity to trust. It’s easy for people to dismiss Mr Jenings and Mrs Carey. And they could only catch a glimpse of the ghost – they both knew John too well to be fooled by . . . But if you saw it. If you saw his face and swore it looked just like his portrait . . . I think people might have listened.’

  ‘And what of Ben Carter? You scared the boy out of his wits.’

  She blushed. ‘That was ill done of me, I know. But he is a sharp, clever lad; I knew he would recover. Oh!’ she cried, gripping my arm tight. ‘How to explain . . . just how desperate I have become? To discover the truth and be free of this place at last. To hold my son in my arms again. I believe I would do almost anything for that.’ She shivered.

  We walked on for a while in silence, until we reached the tree by Acton’s lodgings. ‘This is where you slapped me,’ I said.

  She stopped and touched a hand to the bark. ‘It is also where I saw you dressed in John’s clothes. I almost died of fright.’

  ‘What a strange muddle we have made of things.’

  She laughed. ‘Perhaps we should begin again, Mr Hawkins.’

  We turned and headed back towards Belle Isle. When we reached the entrance to the block she slid her arm from mine. ‘So. Are we friends?’

  I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She smiled, grey eyes sparkling with relief and pleasure. Yesterday it would have made my heart race; today I was wiser. If Acton or Gilbert Hand or anyone else learned that she had invented the ghost that had caused so much fear and unrest around the prison, she would be thrown out of the gate in disgrace. She needed my friendship more than she wanted it. In short, I was still being played, but I didn’t really mind. I understood her motives, even if her methods were a little naughty, as Moll might say. And who was I to judge anyone, after all?

  ‘One thing I don’t understand. How did your ghost slip out of the prison?’

  She smiled. ‘Poor Mr Simmons. He’s an old gambling friend of John’s. I offered to pay his debts if he would help me. He’s an actor. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. But he knew how to play the part. The white face was his idea. Flour, I believe.’

  ‘But where did he go? We searched every corner of the gaol.’

  ‘Mr Fleet asked me the same thing. He was quite insistent.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Must you share a room with him, Mr Hawkins? His reputation is very wild. Are you not afraid he will corrupt you?’

  ‘Mrs Roberts,’ I warned, sternly. ‘Catherine. Tell me. How did Mr Simmons escape?’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she said with a frown. ‘But you must promise not to breathe a word.’ She glanced about her to be sure no one was looking, then tapped her foot on the ground. ‘The store cellar.’

  I pressed my toes against the wooden trap door at our feet. Acton kept all the Tap Room drinks in the cellar; it was packed to the ceiling with crates of wine and barrels of cheap ale that he sold for thrice their worth. ‘But we searched down there last night,’ I protested. ‘We didn’t find a soul.’ I didn’t tell her that Jenings had been so frightened he’d nearly dropped his torch and set the whole place alight. Or that I’d managed to smuggle out three bottles of wine beneath my coat.

  ‘There’s another door at the far end that leads out onto Axe and Bottle Yard. No one knows it’s there; it’s been sealed up for years. It’s so dark in the cellar, and no one has ever thought to look . . .’ She caught my expression and stopped. ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘I could escape. Tonight, if you’d help me.’

  ‘I don’t hold the key. And where would you go, Mr Hawkins? You know Acton would be held responsible for your debt if you escaped; he would hunt you down and . . .’ The tears sprang in her eyes. If she was acting, she was far better than Mr Simmons.

  What would Moll pay for information like this, I wondered? She could find someone to pick that lock in a flash. Free, secret access in and out of the Marshalsea? Oh, that had to be worth a great deal.

  ‘Please,’ Catherine whispered. ‘Promise you won’t tell a soul. Swear it!’

  ‘Who loans you the key?’

  She groaned. ‘If I tell you, will you swear?’

  ‘Very well.’

  She leaned closer and put her lips to my ear. ‘Edward Gilbourne.’

  She left me then, gathering her skirts and whisking away towards the Palace Court and her room in the Oak ward. The transaction was done after all – my silence for her information. Gilbourne. Of course. He was at the black heart of everything in this prison, perhaps more than Acton himself. He must have been handing her the cellar key when I spied them from the window yesterday. Thinking back, there had been something odd in Gilbourne’s expression when he talked to her. He looked at her the way I might look at a good hand at cards: possessive, secretive. Sly.

  So: Roberts was intent on blackmailing Gilbourne. And Gilbourne had secret access to the prison, able to slip in and out any time he pleased. I blinked. There it was. Solved! And without Fleet’s help, damn him. Gilbourne murdered Roberts to silence him – and in the bargain made a widow of Catherine Roberts. Now he was slowly, assiduously wooing her, helping her with all this foolish nonsense with the ghost to earn her gratitude and place her in his debt. And all the while knowing that Mr Simmons would never scare the murderer into revealing himself. Because he was the killer.

  There must have been a second man, of course; Gilbourne couldn’t have carried the captain’s dead weight across the Park and over to the Strong Room on his own. Someone with a key to the Common Side, I supposed. My money was on Joseph Cross. Well, they could press Gilbourne for that if need be. There were ways of squeezing the truth out of a man.

  I must send a letter to Charles at once. But who could I trust to send it? Jakes was gone until Monday and Gilbert Hand would read the contents. Mr Jenings, perhaps? I was still standing at the trap door considering all of this when Sarah Bradshaw cantered down the yard towards me. ‘Oh! Mr Hawkins, sir! Oh, can you ever forgive me?’ she gasped, clutching my hand and pressing it to her heaving bosom. ‘I should have known it was all Mr Fleet’s doing, dressing you up like that. The devil! Come and let me fix you dinner on the house. No, no, I insist!’ she said, though she hadn’t given me time to refuse her. ‘You poor dear, what a time you’ve had. What must you think of us?’

  I followed in her wake. At the Palace Court the rent queue had dwindled away. A man I recognised from the Tap Room was the last in line, turning his hat round and round in his hand.

  ‘Sit yourself down, sir,’ Mrs Bradshaw commanded, pushing me into the coffeehouse and clearing a table by the window. Kitty was at the hearth and a few prisoners were playing backgammon in one corner. Madame Migault was at her usual table, pecking at a dinner of calf’s head and salad. A large bowl of punch lay half-finished at her side; she seemed to have drunk it by herself, though where she had put it on that sparrow-frame of hers I couldn’t say. She looked cheerful. It didn’t suit her.

  Mrs Bradshaw ordered a knuckle of veal and a belly piece of pork from Titty Doll’s and told Kitty to make me a fresh pot of coffee. Kitty still seemed out of sorts from our fight this morning and would not catch my eye – but I was too busy writing my n
ote to Charles to pay her much mind. If the letter reached him soon enough, perhaps he could secure my release tonight. The thought made my heart leap. Charles had promised to help me in any way he could once I was free. Well, I had learned my lesson. I would start afresh, find a good, respectable job. Or one that paid well, at least. I took another piece of pork. Perhaps I could take Gilbourne’s position, once he was arrested. I could reinstate . . . what was his name? Matthew Pugh to handle the charity money – for a small fee, of course. Thomas Hawkins, deputy prothonotary . . .

  No, that didn’t sound well at all. A glorified clerk? Oh, something would turn up, I supposed.

  ‘Madame Migault. You tell fortunes, do you not?’ I took a coin out of my pocket. ‘Would you read mine?’

  She squinted at me for a moment then beckoned me over. ‘Rien à payer,’ she said as I sat down opposite her. She popped a calf’s eyeball in her mouth with a festive air, rolling it from cheek to cheek before chewing down hard. Now I was this close her breath confirmed that she had most certainly not shared the punch bowl. She gripped my hand in both talons and turned it palm upwards, scraping her nails across the skin. ‘Kitty,’ she shrieked, making the coffeehouse flinch. ‘Translate.’

  ‘I speak French, madame.’

  ‘Kitty!’ she shrieked again, ignoring me.

  ‘Ooh, a reading!’ Mrs Bradshaw cried, clapping her hands and squeezing her way over to madame’s table. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of such things, Mr Hawkins? Kitty, come here and translate for me, my love.’

  Kitty turned from the fire. ‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered, wrapping her arms about her waist.

  ‘Come along, sweetheart,’ Mrs Bradshaw trilled, but there was a sharp edge behind the request.