The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  Fleet tilted his head. ‘I suppose it made perfect sense to Gilbourne. There he sits all day in his office, setting fees and making deals. A shilling for this, a guinea for that. Why not buy a man’s wife, if he’s willing?’

  There was a long silence. Fleet was right: Gilbourne was used to buying his way through life. He would snatch the bread from a starving man’s hand if it kept him in fine clothes. But was there not more to it than that? He had toyed with me that night at Acton’s for his own amusement. All that flattery and feigned modesty, drawing me in. Oh yes, Mr Hawkins, all this is foolish nonsense, but we see through it, don’t we? Fleet had called Gilbourne a predator, but he hunted for sport, not appetite.

  I had thought myself a man of the world, but this was too much. And Roberts wanted to blackmail Gilbourne for it? Was that all? Why not run him through with his blade, for God’s sake?

  ‘Roberts asked me for guidance,’ Fleet said, stirring me from my murderous thoughts. He smiled grimly. ‘A sign of his desperation, I suppose. It was clever of Gilbourne, to use Catherine. Roberts blamed her for convincing him to give up their son. And that money from her father . . . just enough each month to pay the rent, no more, when he could afford to free them a thousand times over. Roberts was very good at blaming everyone but himself.’

  ‘But you stopped him.’

  ‘I told him he’d burn in hell. It seemed to work.’ Fleet shrugged. ‘He wasn’t a sophisticated man.’

  ‘And Catherine never learned the truth.’

  Fleet shook his head. ‘A few days later he was dead. I presumed Gilbourne killed him out of spite. But if Roberts tried to blackmail him, that would give him a better motive, eh? Poor Roberts. He really was an idiot. I’ve met a lot of dangerous men – Gilbourne is among the worst of them.’ He paused, and I could see from his face that he was remembering old stories, narrow escapes. ‘We must be on guard. If he suspects we know the truth, our lives will be at risk. We know that he can come and go as he pleases, and that he has an accomplice, someone who works in the prison. We must—’

  A discreet cough, a few paces away. Fleet jumped up with surprising speed, pulling the blade from my side and raising it high. ‘A pox on you, sir,’ he growled, ‘sneaking up like that.’

  Jakes looked at the blade as though it was one of Mrs Bradshaw’s sewing needles. ‘I promised Cross I’d have you back by nightfall,’ he said calmly.

  Fleet relaxed. ‘Well. We wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr Cross, would we? Lead on, sir.’

  Walking back down Axe and Bottle Yard, I asked Fleet whether we should warn Mrs Roberts about Gilbourne. ‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘But it’s hard to make her understand without revealing the whole story. I don’t think she’s ready to hear anything bad about her poor, saintly husband.’

  We agreed that our next step must be to gather more evidence on Gilbourne before confronting him. Fleet’s word would count for very little on its own. ‘We must talk to Gilbert Hand,’ he said. ‘Roberts asked him for advice, too. That’s why he told you to ask the ghost about the money.’

  ‘He confided in Gilbert Hand?’ I marvelled. ‘It’s a wonder the story hasn’t reached the Americas by now.’

  ‘Gilbert knows when to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to be murdered in his bed like Roberts. And he was right, eh? Look at poor Mitchell.’ He frowned. ‘But he’ll tell the truth if Acton promises to protect him. We’ll have to pay him, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And none of this will secure my freedom,’ he added, gloomily. He stole a glance at Jakes, who was walking a few paces ahead. ‘Perhaps I should just knock him on the head and run.’

  ‘You’re not tall enough to reach.’

  ‘You could lift me.’

  ‘You’d never see Kitty again.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Fleet put a hand to his heart. ‘That’s true. She still has so much to learn. History, philosophy, anatomy . . .’

  ‘. . . good manners?’

  ‘Fie!’ Fleet stuck out his tongue. ‘What use are they? I’ve taught her how to curse in French; is that not manners enough?’

  ‘Anatomy?’

  ‘It’s my duty, Tom.’ He gave me his finest impression of sincerity. ‘All girls should be taught anatomy. We don’t send soldiers into battle without first teaching them how to fight.’

  I laughed and shook my head. I couldn’t decide whether Fleet was the worst guardian in the kingdom or the best. Both, perhaps. We were still laughing when we turned out of the yard and on to the High Street.

  We had only walked a few paces when Fleet stopped dead and gave a low curse.

  A tall, well-dressed man was riding towards the gaol on a glossy black stallion. Gilbourne. My heart sank. How unsettling it was to see him again, now his true nature was revealed! He had not changed in appearance; he was the same handsome, elegant figure I had dined with two nights before. But my perception of him was so reversed that it was a wonder to me now that I had not seen through the amiable manner and fashionable clothes in a heartbeat. He was like a poorly counterfeit coin that you pull from your pocket in consternation, astonished that it could have fooled you for a moment.

  As he reached the narrow entrance to the gaol he spied us and raised his hat.

  ‘Bow . . .’ Fleet prompted, and somehow I persuaded my neck to bend. Gilbourne jumped down from his horse and approached me with his hand outstretched, friendship in his eyes. I shook his soft white hand with its perfectly shaped fingernails, feeling wretched.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, his voice dripping with sincerity. ‘This is a most fortunate meeting. I wish to apologise for doubting you, sir.’ He glanced over my shoulder at Fleet. ‘But is this not the scoundrel who dressed you in Captain Roberts’ clothes?’

  ‘The very same, sir,’ Fleet acknowledged with a low bow.

  Gilbourne gave Fleet a wary look, as if recognising a loathsome yet somehow worthy opponent. ‘You have forgiven him, Mr Hawkins? I’m not sure that is wise.’

  ‘I have, sir. Mr Fleet may act the rogue, but I believe his intentions are honourable.’

  ‘A generous assessment,’ Gilbourne murmured, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Much too generous,’ Fleet agreed. ‘Call me shrewd or cunning and I’ll own it. But honourable? Honourable men die much too fast for my liking.’ He smiled at Gilbourne. ‘That’s why there’s so few of them, no doubt.’

  We stepped between the two closed-up shops into the dead, dank alley that led to the Marshalsea. Gilbourne’s horse snorted and stamped its feet, forcing its master to pull hard upon the reins. I couldn’t blame the poor thing; I would have joined it if I could.

  We had not quite reached the Lodge when the gate flew open and Ben Carter dashed out, followed closely by Gilbert Hand. They pushed past us, making Gilbourne’s horse rear and buck furiously. We pressed ourselves tight to the wall, afraid we might be kicked to death.

  ‘What the devil . . . !’ Gilbourne cried, fighting to calm the beast.

  Gilbert Hand had already reached the mouth of the alley. ‘Fast as you can, boy!’ he shouted down the street. ‘His life depends on it!’

  ‘Whose life?’ Fleet asked quickly, still pinned to the wall. ‘Mr Hand! In God’s name, what’s happened?’

  Hand flinched, as if seeing us for the first time. His face was white as chalk and his shirt was covered in blood. ‘Mr Woodburn. He’s been stabbed.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The gaol was in uproar, turnkeys fighting to lock everyone back in their wards while the prisoners shouted their protest. Acton’s trusties arrived just as we did, wading into the chaos with whips and clubs, beating anyone unlucky or foolish enough to stand in their path. There were screams, and curses, and glasses being smashed in the Tap Room and beneath it all, the low, thunderous rumble of the Common Side rising up on the other side of the wall. Woodburn was one of the few men who spoke out for them. He smuggled in food and medicine from their secret benefactor. They’ll tear the wall down if Acton doesn�
��t stop them, I thought. I had a sudden urge to rush up to the Tap Room balcony and cheer them on, even took a few tentative steps across the yard. Jakes grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the safety of the Master’s wards.

  Gilbourne took one sharp look about him and flung himself back on his horse, forcing prisoners and trusties alike to jump out of his way as he galloped out of the gaol. At the same moment Acton rushed into the yard and threw himself into the fray, seizing prisoners and slinging them about like carcasses. He would have stuck them on meat hooks too if he could, I’m sure.

  Fleet turned to me, his eyes glittering with excitement. ‘It’s a riot, Tom!’ He picked up an abandoned club and twirled it in his hand. ‘God bless the Reverend Andrew Woodburn! An achievement at last!’ A prisoner staggered past him, bleeding heavily from a cut above his eye. Jakes led him to the shelter of the Court porch before fighting his way back to us.

  A wild clamour rose from the other side of the wall. The riot was spreading. I heard a voice cry out above the rest. ‘One and all! One and all against the Butcher!’ Captain Anderson.

  I stared about me in panic. I knew how to defend myself but I was still weak from the battering inflicted upon me the night before. I had just enough sense to pluck the short blade from my side and stand firm while Fleet cleared a path with his club and Jakes shielded us from behind. By the time we reached the entrance to Belle Isle the trusties were winning the fight on the Master’s Side, and Acton was preparing his men to venture through the wall and deal with the rest. The trusties would win, I knew that much from my brief stint on the Common Side. What they lacked in numbers they made up for in strength. Easy enough to fight ten or twenty poxy skeletons when your own belly’s full of mutton and good ale.

  We collided with Chapman on the stairs. Fleet grabbed him and pressed him against the wall. ‘Where’s Woodburn?’

  Chapman jerked his chin to the next landing, and Trim’s room, before clattering out to join the fight. We ran up to the next floor and burst through the door.

  Woodburn was lying on the bed I had slept on just a few hours before, recovering from my own injuries. Trim had stripped off the chaplain’s shirt and was holding a cloth to his left shoulder to staunch the bleeding, Woodburn’s fat chest juddering with each painful breath. A bowl lay on the floor beside them, full of discarded, bloody rags.

  Kitty was at the stove boiling water. Fleet crossed over to her and she looked up, her face softening with relief to see him. She slid a long, vicious dagger from her apron pocket. It had been wiped clean but there were still a few dark smears of blood upon the blade. She handed it to Fleet, who ran his fingers along the steel.

  ‘That’s a soldier’s blade,’ Jakes said, pulling it from Fleet’s hand and taking it to the window to examine more closely. Fleet rubbed the dried flakes of blood from his fingers.

  ‘Trim found it by the altar,’ Kitty said. ‘Dropped in the fight. We didn’t see anyone go by on the stairs.’

  Fleet nodded, and squeezed her hand before hopping eagerly to the bed to inspect Woodburn’s wounded shoulder. I might have missed that quiet, private gesture before, but now I knew their history I understood it at once. Fleet was not Kitty’s guardian or teacher; it was more equable and more important than that. They were fellow mourners – and both understood, profoundly, what the other had lost. A different, better life.

  ‘What happened?’ Fleet asked the chaplain, from the foot of the bed.

  Woodburn’s eyes flickered open. Seeing Fleet, he groaned and shut them again.

  ‘He was stabbed,’ Trim said, twisting round to face us. His shirt was stained with Woodburn’s blood.

  ‘No, indeed?’ Fleet muttered. He rapped Woodburn’s foot. ‘Who was it attacked you, sir? Did you get a fair look at him?’

  Woodburn moaned and shuddered. ‘I was praying . . . the chapel . . .’ He winced, fingers grasping the bed linen.

  Trim murmured something reassuring and put a cup to Woodburn’s lips. ‘Someone stole up behind him.’

  ‘Will he live?’ I asked quietly.

  Trim rocked his hand back and forth. ‘It’s not deep, but it may fester. I’ve sent for Stephen Siddall – he’s the best apothecary in the Borough.’ He stood up and rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘How can this have happened?’ he asked the room. He dabbed a wet cloth to the blood stains on his shirt. ‘Why would anyone want to hurt Mr Woodburn?’

  ‘Perhaps they heard one of his sermons . . . ?’ Fleet murmured.

  Jakes had been standing at the window, watching the riot die down, but now he spun round in one fluid movement and without any warning punched Fleet once, very hard, in the face. Fleet’s legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the floor.

  ‘Blasphemous dog!’ Jakes cursed, sucking the blood from his knuckle. And before I could react he pulled the half-stunned Fleet to his feet and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of laundry.

  ‘Bâtard!’ Kitty cried, grabbing a poker from the hearth and smacking Jakes across the back and legs with vicious swipes.

  Trim ran over and tried to wrestle the poker from her fist while Fleet – who seemed quite content to be carried down the stairs on Jakes’ shoulder – shot her a look of affectionate pride. The four of them bundled down the stairs together and I found myself alone with Mr Woodburn. He was barely conscious now. The wound on his shoulder was still oozing blood, but the worst of the flow had stopped. Trim was right, it wasn’t deep, but it was precise and most definitely a stab wound, not the light slash of a blade. An inch lower and the point would have pierced his heart.

  I perched carefully on the edge of the bed, watching the chaplain’s chest rise and fall fitfully. Was this how God rewarded an honest servant? Woodburn had dedicated his life to the poor debtors in this miserable place. He had done everything he could to save their souls and now here he lay, cut down cruelly for his efforts.

  I glanced down and was startled to see Woodburn was in fact perfectly awake, his gaze resting upon my face. I picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. He drank gratefully, but then a look of abject horror flooded his face. ‘Ohh!’ he groaned. ‘Oh Lord, have mercy.’ He pointed to the corner of the room, where one of Trim’s coats was hanging over a chair. ‘Oh, forgive me, forgive me!’ he cried in a cracked voice, his eyes filled with terror. ‘Do you not see him, sir? Oh, God!’

  ‘Mr Woodburn,’ I said, shaking him softly. ‘There is no one there.’

  ‘I should have stopped him. Oh God, have mercy on my soul.’ He cried out again then collapsed against the pillow. The wound in his chest had begun to bleed more freely.

  ‘Stopped who? Mr Woodburn?’ I could hear footsteps, someone running up the stairs, moments away. ‘Stopped who?’ I leaned closer and whispered in his ear. ‘Gilbourne?’

  He didn’t answer, and for a moment I thought he hadn’t heard. But then he reached out and gripped my wrist. ‘I thought I could save him.’

  Trim bustled into the room, followed by Siddall, the apothecary, carrying a large leather bag in the crook of his arm. He hurried over to his patient.

  I moved aside, too stunned to say a word. Trim touched my arm. ‘You’ve turned pale,’ he said. ‘Must be the blood. Why don’t you rest? I’ll join you for a drink later.’ He gestured over to the bed, where Mr Siddall was examining Woodburn’s shoulder. ‘I think we’ve earned ourselves a debauch, don’t you?’

  Down in Belle Isle, Fleet was settled comfortably by the fire smoking a pipe, a pot of coffee in easy reach. The left side of his jaw was red and swollen from Jakes’ punch, but apart from that he was the very picture of contentment. In truth I had never seen him so cheerful – the chaos of the riot and the puzzle of Woodburn’s stabbing were like two whores arriving at once on Christmas Day; the only problem being he wasn’t sure which one to fondle first.

  Kitty was lying on my bed reading a book, her copper hair unpinned and flowing loose about her shoulders. She had not heard me enter and her eyes were cast down upon the page, so that she looked half-as
leep. Her lips were curved into the softest smile and there was something so sweet and restful about her in that moment that I had the sudden desire to lie down at her side, my chest against her back, my arm about her waist, my face buried in that warm mass of curls.

  ‘Samuel . . . ?’ she said, eyes studiously upon the page.

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘Is it true that a man’s prick looks like a white hog’s pudding?’

  Fleet coughed out a staccato of pipe smoke. ‘Well . . . I suppose it does, in a manner of speaking.’ He slid his gaze to mine. ‘Why don’t we ask Mr Hawkins for a practical demonstration?’

  Kitty sat bolt upright, green eyes bright with alarm. When she spied me standing in the doorway she gave a scream of indignation and ran from the room, skirts whispering across my legs as she passed.

  Fleet laid down his pipe, put his knuckles to his mouth, and laughed until the tears ran down his face. I picked up the book that had fallen to the floor and read the frontispiece:

  THE SCHOOL OF VENUS

  OR, THE LADIES’ DELIGHT,

  REDUCED INTO RULES OF PRACTICE.

  Being the Translation of the French,

  L’Ecole des Filles

  By S. Fleet

  I flicked idly through the pages and arrived upon a rather cheerful drawing of a couple fucking on an ottoman.

  ‘All my own work,’ Fleet called out proudly. ‘And it’s the full translation, mind – not like that scoundrel Curll. I fervently believe there is a special place in hell for booksellers who promise a volume crammed with filth and don’t deliver on it.’

  I dropped the book back on my bed for later. ‘Mr Woodburn said something strange to me, after you’d left.’

  ‘Well, that has certainly removed any frisson from the room,’ Fleet observed, waving me to the chair opposite his. He steepled his fingers and narrowed his eyes while I relayed the chaplain’s confession. ‘Was he talking of Gilbourne, do you think?’ he asked, when I was done.