Kitty shuffled slowly towards us, her face deathly white.
I frowned with concern. We may have fought this morning but I missed her temper. This new mood was not like her. ‘Are you not well, Kitty?’
She bit her lip. ‘I’m well. Thank you, sir,’ she whispered. It was the first time she had called me sir and meant it.
‘I see your future . . .’ Madame Migault crooned, scraping her long, blue-white fingernails against my palm. ‘Oui . . . très clair . . .’ Her eyes rolled back and she stared into the distance, as if in a trance.
You old fraud, I thought.
‘She’s possessed,’ Mrs Bradshaw whispered in awe. ‘Ooh, Lord, I will die of fright.’ She prodded Kitty eagerly. ‘What’s she saying?’
Kitty lowered herself down slowly into the chair between the madame and me and began translating in a shaky voice, her hands twisting her apron back and forth.
‘I see your family,’ Madame Migault claimed in a high, sing-song voice. ‘They live in the country . . . your father . . . he is a man of faith, yes?’
I smiled. ‘Easy enough to discover that, madame.’
‘You betrayed him. Lied to him. He has not forgiven you. And he never will.’ Her eyes snapped fast to mine. ‘You will not see him again in this lifetime, monsieur.’
Mrs Bradshaw, who was standing behind me, gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that, sir. Perhaps you can change that, now you’ve been warned.’
‘Non!’ Madame Migault smiled, triumphant. ‘The future will not change.’ She closed her eyes and continued. ‘You have a friend . . . He wants to help you but it is too late. Your secret has been discovered.’ Her eyes flung open. ‘Betrayed!’ she shrieked. And then, much lower. ‘By someone close to you. Very close . . .’ She began to chuckle, strange little hiccups, her shoulders jerking up and down.
Kitty translated, her eyes on the floor, her voice no more than a broken whisper. When she’d finished, Mrs Bradshaw gave a little squeal. ‘What can it mean? Oh, it sends a shiver down my spine. Can’t you find something more cheerful, Miggy? A wedding . . . ? A fortune . . . ?’
‘No wedding. No fortune,’ Madame Migault announced gleefully. ‘All your plans will fail. All your dreams will die. And you will die with them. Tonight!’ She laughed, and poured herself another glass of punch.
‘Well.’ I drummed my fingers lightly on the table. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a tip.’
To my astonishment Kitty burst into tears, sobbing into her apron. I touched her arm. ‘Come now, Kitty. It’s just a silly game.’
‘No game!’ Madame Migault cackled into her glass. ‘Pauvre monsieur. Tonight you die.’
‘Madame!’ Mrs Bradshaw yelped. ‘You mustn’t say such things! Oh, Mr Hawkins, I don’t know what to say! She’s never like this as a rule. She told me I’d get a little dog before the new year.’ She looked away, dreamily.
Kitty jumped up and ran from the room. Her feet pounded up the stairs, and then a door slammed somewhere above our heads in the Oak ward.
Mrs Bradshaw began to giggle and nudged me in the ribs, her elbow pushing hard on a bruise. I gritted my teeth at the pain.
‘Oh dear,’ she sniggered. ‘I’m afraid you’ve sent her a bit topsy-turvy. She took a bit of a shine to you, not that she’d admit it. Must have been those fine calves of yours. Then she heard you telling Mrs Roberts you didn’t care a fig for her. I said of course he doesn’t, you silly jade. He’s a proper gentleman! He won’t have given you a moment’s thought, why on earth should he? But she will go listening in and getting herself muddled up in things she’s no place to . . . Her father was a doctor, I’ll grant you, but her mother. Well. I blame Mr Fleet, filling her head with giddy ideas.’
Before I could even think of how to respond to this gurgling stream of gossip, Mr Grace entered the room, clutching the Black Book to his chest. ‘Mr Hawkins. You did not come to be assessed.’ He drummed his thin, maggot-white fingers on the book’s cover.
‘You know full well my rent is paid,’ I said, indignant. ‘Mr Fleet gave you the money himself.’
He gave a haughty little sniff. ‘There are rules, Hawkins. You’re not above them even with your powerful friends. You must come and explain yourself to the governor. At once.’
‘Very well.’ I stood up wearily. My letter to Charles was still in my pocket; I had most likely missed my chance to reach him before nightfall. Despite my best efforts, I would spend another night in this wretched place.
As I left the coffeehouse Madame Migault cackled into her hands, her eyes glittering with malice. ‘Tonight, monsieur,’ she crowed. ‘I promise you. Tonight!’
Chapter Sixteen
As I climbed the stairs to see the governor, I tried my best to remain cheerful. It was not an easy task. John Grace walked stiffly ahead of me as if I were being led to the executioner’s block. I told myself that I didn’t believe in fortune tellers, particularly old baggages like Madame Migault. But her prediction, followed so swiftly by a summons from Acton, was unsettling.
Grace led me into a long, low room that ran beneath the main Court Room. A quiet place for the judges and lawyers to retire, untroubled by poor debtors or their pleading, desperate families. Their robes of ceremony hung on pegs like sloughed-off skins. There were no windows.
Acton sat behind a table at the far end of the room. Cross stood to one side with a stretch of chains slung over his shoulder, flanked by Chapman and Wills, another turnkey. My mouth turned dry. So many guards, just to settle the rent? Behind them, three prisoners drooped in a sad little huddle: a man and his wife clutching one another and weeping quietly while the third – the gentleman I’d seen with Gilbert Hand on my first day – seemed struck dumb with shock. He clutched his battered old tricorn, staring blindly at the floor.
It was a long walk to the table. Acton watched me approach without a word, hands clasped in front of him, bright blue eyes cold and unblinking.
I bowed. ‘Mr Acton.’
‘You’re late.’
I glanced at the men behind him. Cross caught my eye then looked away over my head. ‘My apologies.’
‘The book, Mr Grace.’
Grace stepped forward and placed the Black Book open in front of the governor. He tapped a line then stepped back again. Acton made a play of studying it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You have not paid your rent, Hawkins.’
‘I assure you I am paid up for the whole of next week.’ I frowned. ‘Mr Grace will vouch for that.’
Acton glanced at his clerk in mock surprise. ‘Have you made a mistake, Mr Grace? That will go ill for you, sir. I don’t tolerate mistakes in my gaol.’
Grace’s pale lips drew into a nasty smile. ‘I think it is the prisoner who is mistaken, Governor.’
My heart sank. This was no game. Something evil was happening here. ‘Mr Acton. I fear there has been some confusion. Mr Fleet paid my rent to Mr Grace on Thursday afternoon – the day I first arrived here. If we could call Mr Fleet to explain . . .’
Acton slammed his fist on the table. ‘I run this prison, not Fleet!’ he yelled, voice booming off the walls. He curled his lip. ‘And not Charles Buckley.’ He watched as the fear took hold, eyes glittering with the power of secret knowledge. ‘Well, Hawkins?’
I swallowed hard. ‘I swear to you, sir, upon my life. Fleet paid the money to Mr Grace.’
Grace gave a cough. ‘And you have a receipt for this transaction?’
I glared at him. ‘You know I do not.’
Acton gave a nod. Cross and Chapman grabbed hold of me and pinned back my arms, wrenching my shoulders as I struggled against them.
Acton walked over, slowly. He raised his fist and punched me hard in the jaw. I sank to my knees, head reeling.
‘Pull him up, Mr Cross,’ Acton ordered, rubbing his knuckles.
They yanked me from the ground and held me firm.
‘You can’t do this!’ I cried hoarsely, spitting blood on to the floor. ‘I have paid—’
He hit me hard, again, and I stumbled back. The trusties pulled me back to my feet. ‘I can do whatever I damn well please,’ Acton said softly. He brought his face close to mine. ‘This is my Castle. No one keeps secrets from me.’ He put one large, calloused hand about my throat and began to squeeze. ‘Poor Mr Hawkins. Strutting about, making trouble.’ He squeezed harder. I started to choke. ‘You’re just a little mouse, aren’t you? A little mouse trapped in a lion’s paw.’
Blood roared in my ears. The room darkened.
‘Governor.’ Cross’ voice, coming from far away. A warning.
He threw me to the floor.
I lay there for a moment half-stunned, lungs burning, taking in deep, grateful gulps of air. Chapman kicked me to my feet. I stared about the room wildly, at Cross and Wills and the other prisoners. And Grace, watching me with smug satisfaction in his cold eyes. I cursed and took a half-step towards him but Chapman grabbed me and held me fast.
Acton had returned to his desk. He smiled, as if nothing in the world had happened, and held up a letter.
My stomach lurched. It was the note Charles had sent the day before, charging me with my task. How had it fallen into Acton’s hands? Where had I left it? I closed my eyes and groaned, remembering. I’d tucked it in Captain Roberts’ waistcoat pocket. The waistcoat I’d thrown to the floor in Belle Isle last night.
This was Fleet’s work, yet again. That was why he’d been so keen to leave the room this morning. A new game to play – and no matter the price I would have to pay for it. How could I have been such a fool?
‘I’ve run the Marshalsea for a long time, Mr Hawkins,’ Acton said. ‘Long before I was governor. I make the rules. I decide who lives. And who dies.’
‘Mr Acton,’ I said, my voice a thin rasp in my bruised throat. I could taste blood in my mouth. ‘If I might explain . . .’
At a gesture from Acton, Cross punched me hard in the stomach.
Acton laced his fingers together. ‘You have falsely accused Mr Grace of bribery. A serious offence, sir. Mr Grace is a loyal and trusted official of the gaol. Chief clerk to the governor. Elected steward of the Common Side prisoners. He would never dishonour his position.’
Grace gave an obsequious little nod.
‘I will not let this go unpunished,’ Acton continued, leaning back in his chair. ‘Mr Cross. Chain the prisoner and throw him in the Strong Room. Use the skull cap and collar. Fix him tight.’
Cross locked a pair of manacles upon my wrists, cold and heavy. ‘Gagged?’
‘No, no. Let him scream with the rest of them.’ He chuckled. ‘And no food – be sure of it. I don’t want those scum over the wall taking pity on him.’
‘How long for, Governor?’
Acton narrowed his eyes and considered me as if I were a piece of meat waiting to be hung. ‘As long as it takes.’ He picked up Grace’s quill and dipped it in the ink. ‘I shall scratch this one out for you, Mr Grace.’
He dragged a thick line through my name. It felt like a knife scraping across my throat.
Grace watched, unmoved. He gestured to the three prisoners huddled in the corner. ‘And those, sir? The Common Side . . . ?’
Acton considered them for a moment, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘No. They’ll keep for another week.’ He rose and patted the woman’s shoulder. ‘I’m a generous man.’ He dismissed them with a wave and they hurried away before he changed his mind. Not one of them looked me in the eye as they passed.
Cross and Wills led me down into the yard while Chapman ran to the Pound to collect the skull cap and collar. We could have sheltered in the porch beneath the Palace Court but Cross wanted his revenge and he took it. He pulled me right out into the middle of the Park, displaying me like a piece of livestock at Smithfield market. Shocked, excited faces peered from windows, while those standing out in the yard gathered in groups to gossip and stare.
My mind raced, trying to think of some way to stop this – to stay on the right side of the wall. But I was too shocked to think straight. They were locking me in the Strong Room – where Roberts and Jack Carter died. Where they stored the dead. My knees buckled. ‘Come on, Hawkins, be a man,’ Cross said cheerfully, grabbing me before I slid to the ground. ‘I gave you a week, didn’t I?’ he murmured in my ear. ‘Might need to revise that one.’
Gilbert Hand was standing with Mack by the lamppost a few paces away. ‘Bad luck, Hawkins,’ he called, without a glimmer of fellow feeling. Mack gave me a distant nod. Neither drew any closer. I was no longer part of their world.
Only Trim came to my aid. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, staring in horror as Chapman returned with the heavy iron skull cap and collar under his arm. ‘You can’t mean to use those on him?’
Cross began pulling me towards the Common Side wall. ‘Governor’s orders.’
Trim trailed after us. ‘Let me see to his injuries first. What’s happened to his throat? He looks half-strangled! Damn it, Cross, where’s your conscience?’
‘Can’t afford one.’ He gestured at Wills to unlock the door.
‘Trim,’ I called out. He came closer and I managed to slip my letter to Charles beneath his jacket. ‘Tell him what’s happened. I beg you, tell him—’
Cross cuffed me hard across the head. ‘No messages.’ He pushed a finger in Trim’s chest. ‘Watch yourself, barber. Do you want to be thrown in with him?’ He grabbed my shoulder and was pushing me through the door when Fleet jumped out on to the Tap Room balcony.
‘Tom! What’s this? What’s happened?’
I glared at him, hatred burning like a furnace in my chest. I would have torn him to pieces if I could.
Trim ran towards the balcony. ‘What have you done, Fleet? They’re taking him to the Strong Room!’
Fleet turned pale, stunned into silence. And then he swung over the balcony and clambered two storey to the ground, agile as a cat. ‘Wait! Mr Cross. I have money!’
Too late. Chapman shoved me through the door. I fell to my knees in the dirt. The door slammed and a key turned in the lock.
For a few moments I could hear Fleet’s voice faintly through the wall, calling my name. He might as well have been calling from another country. And then a cry went up around the Common Side, drowning out any noise from the other side of the wall. They shouted down from cracked windows and came from every corner of the yard to gather round me, eager to see what fresh meat had been thrown into the pot. Chapman and Wills drew their clubs and kept them at bay.
‘He’s back.’
‘Couldn’t keep away.’
Roars of laughter. As they pressed closer I caught the stench of rotting, unwashed bodies. I flung my arm about my mouth.
‘Ahh, do we offend you, sir? You’ll be as bad as us in a few days,’ a woman with rotting gums called out, and they all roared again. ‘Even gentlemen stink in here.’
Cross raised his club. They stepped back, mute and sullen, but I could feel the tension pulsing in the air between us.
Chapman kicked me in the ribs. ‘Get up.’
I staggered to my feet. A few of the stronger men had started to creep closer again, watching me keenly. I could feel their eyes upon my shoes, my clothes, the gold cross about my neck.
‘Oh, they like the look of you,’ Cross snorted. He spied the dagger tucked in my jacket and pulled it out, weighed it approvingly. ‘Who gave you this? Jakes?’ he asked, grunting when he saw he’d guessed correctly. He held the blade to my throat. ‘Not so brave on your own, eh?’ He pushed the tip harder and a trickle of blood slid down my skin. ‘If I were a merciful man, I’d slit your throat right here.’
‘Mr Cross . . .’ I began to shake, despite myself.
‘Oh, it’s Mister now, is it . . . ?’ Cross smiled. He traced a line across my throat, playing with me. The tip of the blade caught against the cross around my neck. He hesitated, then lowered the dagger, slipping it into his belt. ‘Lock him up.’
Wills and Chapman grabbed my arms and dragged me across the yard. F
or a brief moment I saw Captain Anderson standing in the doorway of his ward. Our eyes met; then he stepped back into the shadows, shaking his head.
The Strong Room was a rough wooden hut squeezed in the furthest corner of the yard. As we drew closer the hot, putrid stench of the common shore caught in our throats, making us gag. The rain had turned the shit and piss into a slimy, mustard-yellow slop and sluiced it out into the yard, mixing with the rubbish and the mud. Fat flies buzzed low over the mess.
An old man lay with his back against the door of the hut, indifferent to the stink. He looked feverish, and was scratching at a livid rash running across his chest.
‘Gaol fever,’ Wills muttered.
Cross stepped back. ‘Move him out of the way.’
Wills scowled. ‘I’m not touching him. Let him do it.’
I backed away but they pushed me forward with their blades. What could I do? I couldn’t fight them and I couldn’t run. I might as well have been on the cart to the gallows for all the choice I had. I kneeled down and pulled him out of the way as best I could with my hands chained. As I settled him by the wall he grabbed my wrist. His skin was hot. ‘Am I dead?’ he whispered, voice slurred with delirium. ‘Am I dead, sir?’
I pulled myself free and staggered back. As I did so I heard a splashing sound, followed by a loud, angry squeal. Rats. The narrow gap between the hut and the Common wall was teeming with them, splashing in a pool of stagnant water, fighting and scrabbling across each other’s backs.
‘Oh, God,’ I cried. The men laughed and pushed me into the hut.
I stared about me, trembling softly. The stench was terrible. Rotten meat. Death. There were rats here too – I could hear them scuffling in the shadows. This was where Jack Carter had died. Where his body now lay, somewhere in the dark. I sank to my knees.
Cross lit a torch and entered the room, holding a cloth to his mouth. I could see the bodies now, wrapped in old sheets and piled in the far corner like pieces of kindling. The rats were swarming over them, squealing and biting, tearing the cloth. Tearing and shredding.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 21