I smoked another pipe as the turnkeys locked up the prison. The Common Side wailed its protest for another night.
‘Mr Hawkins?’
It was Jenings with his lantern and keys, come to lock up my ward. Jakes stood behind him, his massive bulk shadowy in the dark. I threw my spent pipe to the ground and headed wearily for the door. Jakes followed me up to Belle Isle and checked the room while Jenings hovered outside with his keys.
‘No hass . . . ash-assassins here,’ Fleet declared, then giggled. He and Trim had settled hard into the second bowl.
I poured myself a glass, anxious to catch up, and offered one to Jakes. He shook his head.
‘One of us should stay sober.’
‘Good man!’ Fleet cheered. He really was drunk.
‘I’ll stand watch downstairs tonight,’ Jakes said. ‘Any trouble, just call from the window.’
Jenings cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but I’ll need to lock you in now.’
Trim rose unsteadily and weaved his way to the door. He almost tripped when he reached the landing, and might have fallen down the stairs if Jenings hadn’t grabbed his coat and pulled him back. Fleet watched him leave, then shook his head. ‘Can’t hold his liquor,’ he said, then hiccuped.
Jakes frowned at me. ‘As I said. Just call . . .’
I was pleased to see there were still a few servings of punch left in the bowl, despite Trim and Fleet’s best efforts. Trim must have tipped the rest of his ‘recipe’ into the mix; it was more richly spiced than the first and stronger with it. All the better – my body still ached from its beating and nothing deadened the pain like a half pint of brandy.
I had intended to discuss plans for tomorrow with Fleet, but he was making little sense by this point and after two further glasses I was no better. At first I blamed the lack of food in my stomach, but when the room began to blur and I found I couldn’t stand, I realised at last that something was wrong. I reached for Fleet, who had slumped against the table, his head resting heavy on his arm.
Slowly, with great effort, he lifted his head. And for the first time, I saw fear glittering in his eyes. ‘Tom . . .’ he groaned, his voice dredged from the deep. ‘Drugged . . . Fetch help . . .’ He gripped my hand and dug his nails into my palm, the bite of it waking me a little. Then his head dropped again and his hand slid from mine.
Somehow I pulled myself to my feet and staggered across the floor, legs heavy as iron. If I could just reach the window and call Jakes. But the room was spinning and the words stuck in my throat. I stumbled, and fell. Pulled myself up and fell again. After that – nothing.
V) MONDAY. THE LAST DAY.
Chapter Twenty
I woke. Head pounding, mouth dry.
The room was in shadow, that strange grey light that comes in the hour before dawn. I was lying across my bed, fully clothed. Had I dragged myself there or had someone carried me?
Not dead. Not murdered. I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, relief washing through every cell of my body. Alive.
‘Fleet.’
I could just make out the shape of him across the room. He was still sleeping. I sat up and groaned as the room swayed and settled again, took a deep breath as my head cleared. Fumbled for a candle, for the tinderbox buried deep in my coat pocket. Struck the flint against the steel till the sparks flew. Lit the candle.
‘Fleet. Wake up.’
I picked up the candlestick and stumbled across the room. He was lying on his back, one arm stretched to the floor, the other over his heart. I held the candle higher.
His throat was cut. Red rivers across white skin.
Not Fleet. Please, God.
It wasn’t real. The gaping wound. The blood-stained sheets. Black eyes wide open and lifeless, staring at nothing. It was a dream. I touched his hand. Cold.
I ran to the door but it was locked tight. I beat upon it with my fists, shouting for help, kicked it till the wood splintered and the lock smashed open. I staggered out on to the landing as Jakes pounded up the stairs, Jenings moments behind him, lantern held high.
‘Mr Hawkins!’ Jakes cried. ‘What in God’s name . . .’ He looked into the room and froze. Then he turned and grabbed Jenings and pushed him towards the stairs. ‘Call the alarm! Fleet’s dead.’
The truth of it hit me like a fist. My legs crumpled and I slid slowly down the wall. I heard Jenings cry out across the yard; heard the prisoners yelling the news through the walls.
‘Fleet’s dead!’
‘Murdered!’
‘The devil’s gone back to hell!’
A riotous clamour of shouts and jeers rumbled up through the gaol.
It sounded like applause.
‘Mr Hawkins.’ Jakes touched my shoulder and I flinched. He kneeled down, brought his lips to my ear. ‘Did you kill him?’
I stared at him.
He jerked his chin towards Belle Isle. ‘The door was locked. No one would blame you, if he struck first.’
I shook my head, rubbed my hand across my scalp.
‘Then who . . . ?’ Jakes frowned. ‘I stood guard at the ward entrance all night. No one came past.’
I dropped my hands and rose wearily to my feet. We faced each other across the landing.
‘You are sure of that?’ I whispered. ‘No one came into the ward? Not a soul?’
‘Upon my life.’
A cold chill ran through me. If no one had come into the ward from the yard in the night, then the killer must have been hiding in the ward all along, waiting for the best time to strike. He dosed the punch then stole up to Belle Isle once he knew it had taken effect. ‘He must have picked the lock,’ I said. I could hardly bear to think of the rest. I had lain there fast asleep while Fleet’s killer had drawn his knife and . . .
Fleet’s eyes had been open. Had he woken, in those last few moments? Had he cried out for help? I shuddered and rubbed my eyes. And then a thought struck me. I peered down the stairwell and then up to the landing above. ‘Jakes. Has anyone left the ward this morning?’
He shook his head. ‘The cells are still locked.’
I stared at him in alarm. ‘Then he is still here. He’s still on the ward. We must keep the whole building locked. And stand guard. We mustn’t let him escape.’
Jakes was about to reply when there was a loud crash downstairs, followed by a short scuffle. Then a girl’s voice cried out. ‘Let me through! For God’s sake let me through!’
Kitty. A moment later and she was on the stairs, followed closely by Acton himself. She shoved past me and flung herself towards the room. Jakes tried to grab her but she kicked him hard in the shin and slipped through his grasp. He sprang after her but I stopped him. ‘Go back to the main door. He’ll use the confusion to slip past us.’
Jakes nodded and pushed his way past Acton, pulling out his club as he ran down the stairs to the main entrance. I heard Kitty cry out, once, on the other side of the door – a low, terrible moan of grief. As Acton reached me I held out my hand, blocking his path. ‘For shame, sir. Give her a moment.’
He started to protest then saw the look in my eyes and shrugged. ‘Why not? A moment.’
The room was quiet. The early-morning light streamed through the unshuttered window, spilling on to Fleet’s body. The candlelight had spared me the worst of it, but the sun was pitiless in its glare. There was blood everywhere: pooled beneath the bed; soaked into the bed sheets. The smell of it hung in the air. All that life, bled out and gone.
But it was the stillness I couldn’t bear. Fleet was never still; he was always reaching for his pipe, or pacing the floor, or leaning forward to press his point home. Four days, I had known him. But I felt the loss as if I’d known him a lifetime, deep and hard in my chest like a knife.
Kitty was kneeling at his side, his cold white hand pressed to her cheek. Her petticoat was stained with his blood. She gathered herself up as I moved towards her, tears streaming down her face. I opened my arms and she collapsed into me, sobbing
against my chest as I held her tight.
I led her gently from the room to Mrs Bradshaw, who was waiting on the landing. She shook her head at me as she bundled Kitty into her arms.
‘Terrible business, Mr Hawkins,’ she said, craning her neck to get a better view through the door. ‘Quite terrible . . .’
I walked back inside, numb with shock. Acton was glaring down at the bed, fists balled on his waist. ‘Well. What a mess,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘We can’t call that a suicide, can we? He’s been bled like a pig.’
My hands clenched into fists, nails biting hard into my palms. ‘It was someone on this ward. Had to be.’
‘Is that so . . . ?’ He frowned. ‘Well, he’ll pay for it, damn him. I squeezed a lot of money out of Samuel Fleet these past few months. Whoever killed him owes me a fortune.’ He slapped a hand down hard upon my shoulder. ‘It wasn’t you, was it, Hawkins? Did he get a bit too friendly in the night?’ He leered at me. ‘Wouldn’t put it past him. Wouldn’t put anything past that whore’s son.’
I shrugged his hand away. ‘Fleet was murdered because he was hunting for Roberts’ killer – and at your command. It’s a wonder they didn’t cut my throat, too.’
Acton snorted. ‘No need, was there? Fleet was the clever one.’ He pulled at the neck of Fleet’s shirt and whistled in appreciation. ‘Very neat,’ he said, examining the wound.
I staggered to the window and opened it wide, taking deep breaths to fight back the sickness. It was no use. I had barely enough time to find a chamber pot before I threw up the contents of my stomach. The fine dinner I had shared with Fleet and Trim last night. The punch, dosed with a sleeping draught. Trim . . . and Woodburn! My God, I had forgotten – I must speak with him. But when I tried to stand I fell back to the floor, my head in my hands. It was pounding hard – the effects of the drugged punch, no doubt. I leaned back against the wall and felt despair wash over me. Acton was right – Fleet was the clever one. How would I ever survive in this cursed place without him?
‘You done?’ Acton asked, tipping his chin towards the chamber pot. He wiped the blood from his hands on to the bed sheets. ‘I wonder what they’ll think of this.’
I rubbed the sweat from my brow. ‘Who . . .’ My voice sounded cracked. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘The men he worked for. The men who locked him in here. “Too dangerous to live and too useful to die”, that’s what I heard. They won’t like it, I reckon. I could be in trouble for this.’ He glanced at me thoughtfully, then grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll tell them you did it.’
My stomach lurched. He would do it in a flash, I knew. ‘I was drugged.’
‘So you say.’
‘You still need me,’ I blurted, in desperation. ‘I can solve Roberts’ murder. I know it was Gilbourne, I just need to find the second man.’
Acton grunted in surprise. ‘You think there’s two of ’em?’
I gestured to the bed. ‘Whoever killed Fleet also helped kill Roberts. Gilbourne couldn’t have carried the body on his own.’
‘True enough,’ Acton muttered. ‘That dandy-prat can barely lift his own cock to piss.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘So who’s this friend of his, eh?’
I have no idea, I thought, helplessly. Woodburn knew, I was sure of it, but he had been half-mad last night. ‘I am almost certain. I just need more time to gather evidence. Give me a week—’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Acton growled. ‘I gave you two days and you’ve had one. I’m losing patience, Mr Hawkins. Find this other man by lock-up tonight.’ He gestured at Fleet’s body. ‘Or I swear you’ll hang for this.’
He left and the room fell silent. Nothing felt right in here. Too still. I pulled myself to my feet and gathered the things I needed: the silver watch; my pipe and tobacco; my blade. A few sheets of paper. I threw a blanket over Fleet’s body – the same square of grey-blue wool he had stretched out upon on Snows Fields just the day before. He would have laughed at such a foolish, irrational gesture. Waste of a good blanket, Tom.
I reached down and closed his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-One
Out on the staircase I paused for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath. When I was calm enough, I leaned over the staircase and called down to Jakes, standing guard at the main door of the ward.
‘Are they all locked up?’ I shouted over the din. The prisoners were still calling out the news of Fleet’s death all around the gaol.
Jakes turned his battle-scarred face up to mine. ‘The whole prison. Governor’s orders. Doesn’t want another riot.’
I heard banging from the floor above. ‘Is that you, Hawkins?’ Mack bellowed. ‘Tell them to let us out, damn it. I’ve a business to run!’
I hesitated on the landing, listening to my neighbours clamouring to be released, their voices raised in fear and outrage. One of them was dissembling. One of them had picked the lock and slipped into Belle Isle last night while I lay sleeping. Had they thought of murdering me too? Had they placed the blade to my throat? And if so – what had stopped their hand?
‘Mr Hawkins?’ Trim called down, banging on his locked door. ‘Is it true? Is Fleet murdered?’
I took a few steps up towards his landing. ‘Trim! Is Mr Woodburn awake?’
There was a short pause, then Trim’s voice called again through the door. ‘He wouldn’t stay. I tried to stop him – he’s much too sick to leave . . .’
I gave a shout of alarm and slipped down the stairs as fast as I could. Jakes unlocked the main ward door in time for me to catch sight of the round, shabby figure of Mr Woodburn, limping his way across the yard towards the Lodge, leaning heavily on Joseph Cross for support. I glared at Jakes. ‘You let him out?’
‘Didn’t see any harm in it,’ he said. His eyes were red from standing watch all night. ‘He didn’t kill Fleet, did he?’
‘No – but I think he knows who did. He’s running away.’
Jakes’ jaw dropped. I raced down the yard, shouting for them to wait.
Woodburn turned as I reached them. He looked as if he had aged twenty years in the night. His eyes were glazed and unfocused and there were strange, fresh scratches on his hands as if an animal had torn at them. ‘Oh! Thank God!’ he cried, grabbing at my coat and bunching it weakly in his hands. ‘You are safe.’
Cross began to pull him away. ‘Come along, sir. Your chair is waiting.’
I glared at him. ‘Leave him be! I must speak with him at once.’
‘On whose orders?’ Cross snarled.
‘The governor’s. Run and ask him if you wish.’
Cross pulled a sour face, then took a step back, folding his arms. ‘Go on, then.’
I cursed under my breath. The last person I wanted standing over me now was Joseph Cross – but there was nothing I could do about it. Mr Woodburn still had hold of my coat.
‘You’re safe,’ he mumbled, patting my chest. ‘I couldn’t save him. I tried but I was too late . . . too late. So much wickedness . . .’
‘Mr Woodburn, please, I beg you.’ I took hold of his shoulders and gave him a little shake. ‘Do you know who killed Roberts?’
‘Roberts . . .’ he breathed, staring at a patch of air behind us. ‘Roberts . . . who killed Roberts . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘Do you see him?’ he cried, of a sudden. ‘Look! Do you see him with the noose about his neck?’
‘He’s raving,’ Cross muttered.
‘Mr Woodburn.’ I tightened my grip on the chaplain’s shoulders and he blinked, his eyes clearing for a moment. ‘Please, just tell me the truth. It was Gilbourne, was it not?’
Woodburn’s round, florid face crumpled in bewilderment. ‘Gilbourne . . . no . . . although . . .’ He looked away and then he started to nod eagerly. ‘Yes! Yes! You are right, sir! He’s to blame! Edward Gilbourne!’
My heart leapt – here was the truth at last. ‘And the second man, sir. Who was it helped Gilbourne? Who killed Samuel Fleet last night?’ I looked him deep in the eyes, trying to reach the kind, ge
ntle man I had met on my first day in the gaol. The man who returned again and again to the Common Side and smuggled food to the prisoners – at the risk of his reputation and even his life. ‘Sir. Who was it stabbed you yesterday? You saw him, did you not?’
Woodburn gave a start and backed away. His eyes darted wildly back to the prison wards and Belle Isle. He scratched anxiously at his hand, nails raking through the skin. ‘I cannot say,’ he whimpered. ‘I cannot . . .’
I seized his jacket. ‘You must!’ I cried. ‘My God, I will beat it from you if I must—’
‘Leave him be!’ Cross yelled, tearing us apart. He called for Wills and Chapman, who were drinking beer under the lamppost. I was shouting by now, screaming at the chaplain to tell me the truth. He covered his face with his hands, blood pouring from the deep scratches in his skin, and sobbed wretchedly.
‘I stabbed myself!’ he wailed. ‘God forgive me!’ He pulled his hands away, his face filled with horror and revulsion. ‘I stabbed myself.’
There was a moment’s shocked silence. Cross was the first to recover. ‘Take the chaplain to his chair,’ he ordered Wills and Chapman. They obeyed at once, leading Woodburn away through the Lodge while Cross held me back. I fought him as hard as I could but he was too strong, flinging me hard on to my hands and knees on the cobbles. By the time I had picked myself up Woodburn was gone.
‘He knew Fleet’s killer!’ I screamed, voice shredded with despair. ‘For God’s sake bring him back.’
Cross held up a finger and tapped the small cut on his lip where I had hit him four days ago, the morning I had arrived in the Marshalsea. And then he turned, put his hands in his pockets and sauntered towards the Tap Room, whistling.
I must keep moving. If I stopped for a moment, the rage and the grief would knock me down. My body was feverish and my head felt heavy – some lingering taint from the sleeping draught, perhaps. No matter. I would work my way through it. Woodburn had given me one name at least. The second I would have to discover for myself – and before sunset.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 27