Acton was back in the turnkeys’ office in the Lodge, seated at his desk, running through the accounts. Grace leaned over his shoulder, pointing at some fresh soul marked for damnation.
‘Mr Acton.’
Grace glared at me. ‘The governor is busy.’
Acton leaned back on his chair and studied me for a moment. ‘Still hunting, then? Glad to hear it.’ He glanced at Grace, prodded the ledger. ‘Murder’s bad for business.’
‘I need a room where I may work. Somewhere quiet.’
He scratched his jaw. ‘My parlour’s free this morning. Mary’s busy tidying up the Tap Room.’
‘Mr Hawkins,’ Grace wheedled. ‘Pray tell me. Who will pay your rent, sir, now Mr Fleet is dead? I will need assurances . . .’
‘Damn you, sir, we’re not brutes!’ Acton roared, rounding on his clerk. He picked up the thick ledger and smacked it hard over Grace’s head. ‘In any case, Mr Hawkins will be leaving us tonight.’ He gave a slow, cruel smile. ‘One way or another.’
Up in Acton’s parlour, I ordered a fire to be lit and laid my paper upon a small writing table set in a corner by the window. I’d planned to write a short account of the night’s events in the hope of discovering some fresh clue, but I couldn’t settle. It seemed I had inherited Fleet’s restlessness, but not his precision of mind. For the life of me I could not fathom why Woodburn would have stabbed himself. There was a chance he was lying – to protect himself or someone else. But he had seemed so distressed and shamed by his confession I doubted it.
Whatever the truth behind the stabbing, I was sure of one thing. Woodburn knew who had killed Captain Roberts. Had someone admitted his guilt to the chaplain, then regretted it? I groaned, furious with myself for letting Woodburn escape without pressing the truth from him.
I pushed open the window and called out to a porter for a pot of coffee and some raw milk and bread. Then I sat down, picked up one of Acton’s quills, and dipped it in the ink.
Someone had tipped a sleeping draught into the punch last night. If I wrote down every possible suspect – no matter how improbable – perhaps the killer would reveal himself.
Mrs Bradshaw & Kitty prepared both bowls
A porter delivered the first bowl
I drank from the first bowl with Trim & Fleet
Joseph Cross took a glass from the first bowl
Cross delivered the second bowl, paid for by Charles
Trim, Fleet & I drank from the second bowl
Charles & Jakes were offered punch but neither accepted a glass
I dismissed Kitty at once, scratching out her name with the quill.
Fleet had not murdered himself, so his name was the next to go. The ink covered his name like soil over a coffin.
Could Charles have slipped a powder into the second bowl? Yes – it was just feasible. But for what possible purpose? And in any case he left the gaol before the front gate was locked. Whoever murdered Fleet must have stayed on the ward all night. Another name scratched.
The same was true of Jakes – he could have drugged the punch when no one was looking, and upon reflection he did refuse a glass from the second bowl. But then he knew he would be standing watch all night and would need his wits about him. And if he was the killer, why would he have encouraged me in my hunt for the truth? Fleet would have left Jakes uncrossed purely out of spite, but it did not make any rational sense. I drew a line through his name.
Mrs Bradshaw? She kept a supply of Mr Siddall’s sleeping draught in the Oak; she’d given some to Catherine Roberts just the other night to calm her nerves. It was no secret that she mistrusted Fleet and thought him a dangerous influence on Kitty. She could have poured the draught into the bowl before sending it up to us. I hesitated, quill hovering over her name. But then how could she have slipped past Jakes, standing at the main door? She did not have the figure to slip past anyone, even under the cloak of night. And in any case, it was a very large step from disliking a man to slitting his throat.
The porter arrived with my breakfast. I watched him closely as he laid out my bread and milk and poured me a dish of coffee. He was from the Common Side – I could tell from his hollow cheeks and tattered clothes. Most of the porters came from over the wall, glad to earn a few extra farthings and breathe the fresher air on the Master’s Side. No one gave them a moment’s notice; not even Fleet. Servants came through Belle Isle every day for one reason or another – to deliver coal or clear the dishes or empty the chamber pots; the hundred little chores we all took for granted. I handed the man a farthing and he bowed and left.
It could have been the porter. No one paid them any heed. He could have hidden himself in one of the stairwells after delivering the first bowl, waited for the drug to take effect then stolen back up to Belle Isle when everyone was sleeping. No need to pass Jakes at the main door. And though porters didn’t carry keys, I wagered many of them knew how to pick a lock in the dark. After that he could have returned to his hiding place and waited for the panic of discovery the next morning. No one would notice a porter slipping back out in those first chaotic moments.
I drew a ring about the porter’s line, then hesitated. There was every reason to suspect him, but I knew, in my heart, this was not Fleet’s killer. I closed my eyes, heard Fleet’s voice at my ear as if his spirit were in the room with me. Don’t know it in your heart, Tom. Know it in your mind. Why was he not the killer?
Because it was the second bowl contained the sleeping draught.
I opened my eyes. The draught only began to work after we drank deep from the second bowl. And Cross had taken a glass from the bottom of the first bowl, where the draught would have been strongest. Enough to make him feel out of sorts, had it been dosed.
I drew a line through the porter and considered the two names that remained.
Joseph Cross
Trim
Of the two men, I knew who I wanted it to be. But that did not make it the truth. A cold, unhappy thought stole into my mind, like a cloud across the sun.
A sharp rap at the door made me start from my seat. A moment later Edward Gilbourne entered the room, followed closely by Acton.
I leapt up, confounded. I was not ready to confront a man as clever as Gilbourne – not without clear proof of his guilt. I glared at Acton, silently signalling my alarm as Gilbourne removed his gloves and tossed his tricorn carelessly on to a chair. Acton ignored me, closing the door with a soft click and leaning his back against it, hands tucked in the pockets of his red waistcoat.
‘Well, sirs,’ Gilbourne said, settling himself by the hearth and running his fingers down his legs, caressing the fine, dark brown silk of his breeches. He seemed calm but it was an act, I could see it now. He had noted my expression when he arrived and now he was preparing himself for battle. ‘I am glad to see you were not hurt in the riot.’ He turned to me with an open, friendly expression that made the blood freeze in my veins. For a moment, I thought I could hear Fleet’s voice, whispering in my head. Careful with this one, Tom. Careful.
‘Mr Acton tells me you are close to solving the murder. I take it this means our good governor is not a suspect.’ He shot me a knowing, complicitous smile. ‘I would be obliged if you could explain why I have been summoned at such short notice. Am I here to order an arrest warrant? That would be fast work indeed. But you are a very capable man, of course.’
His flattery bounced off me like hail off a roof. I did not know what to do, or say. Should I confront him with Mr Woodburn’s accusation? But what use were the ravings of an old man who had just confessed to stabbing himself in his fear and madness? Curse Acton for springing this upon me! At least he’d had the wits not to tell Gilbourne of my suspicions – he was so quick-minded he would have found a thousand answers on his walk from the Lodge gate to Acton’s parlour. I crossed to the window, thinking hard. And then I realised there was one thing I could test him on. ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure why you were summoned here, sir. But you should know that Mr Fleet was killed last nig
ht.’
Gilbourne sat back, startled. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am sorry to hear it. He was killed in the riot?’
I frowned. Gilbourne did seem genuinely surprised by the news. ‘Someone cut his throat while he was sleeping.’
‘Murdered in his bed! Poor devil.’ Gilbourne shook his head. He twisted in his seat to look at Acton. ‘But then, I suppose he did have many enemies. In and outside the prison . . .’
I couldn’t bear the hypocrisy another moment. ‘Yourself included, Mr Gilbourne.’
He laughed, feigning astonishment. ‘Good heavens! You are not accusing me, surely? I was one of the few who defended him! My dear Mr Hawkins, forgive me. You seem a little frantic. I fear your grief is affecting your judgement.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you liked Mr Fleet a little too well? I believe he had that effect on certain . . . gentlemen.’
I said nothing. What could I do? I needed Fleet’s help to catch a snake such as Gilbourne. What use was I on my own?
‘Well,’ Gilbourne sighed, reaching for his gloves. ‘This has all been most diverting. But if you would excuse me, gentlemen, I think I shall return to town. I’m meeting friends for dinner.’
Acton stepped forward and shoved him back into his chair, holding him firm. ‘This is my Castle, Mr Gilbourne. I’ll say when you can leave.’
Gilbourne’s face darkened but he was no fool – he held still and waited.
When Acton was sure his point was made, he stepped back to guard the door again.
Gilbourne turned his gaze on me, cold and contemptuous. ‘So. You wish me to defend my honour, is that it? A butcher and a failed rake. Very well, sirs. I could not have killed Mr Fleet last night. I was at a lodge meeting at the Anchor and Crown in Shorts Gardens until three, then took a room in a bagnio for the rest of the night. I have friends who will vouch for me. Powerful friends.’
I raised my hand to stop him. ‘I know you did not kill Mr Fleet.’
Gilbourne blinked in surprise. ‘Then what, pray, is all this nonsense?’
I hesitated. The room was stifling and I could hear the blood roaring in my ears.
‘For God’s sake, Hawkins,’ Acton growled. ‘Show your hand, you cork-brained fool. He says you murdered Captain Roberts, Gilbourne. And I swear to God if you’re the reason my Castle’s been in uproar these past months I’ll hang you myself.’
For a second I caught a glimmer of fear in Gilbourne’s eyes. And then he smiled and shuffled back in his seat, like a child waiting to be told a bedtime story. ‘So, I murdered John Roberts, eh? Well, well – how astonishing. And why would I do such a thing?’
I rubbed the sweat from my brow, cursing Acton under my breath. There was nothing for it; I would have to accuse him and hope to God I could force him to confess. ‘Mr Gilbourne. I know that you offered Captain Roberts a sum of ten guineas to rape his wife. When he refused, and threatened you with blackmail, you slipped into the prison through the cellar and killed him, with the help of an accomplice.’
And there it was. The simple, ugly truth.
‘Son of a whore,’ Acton whispered, though he was probably just thinking of the ten guineas. Gilbourne said nothing.
I leaned against the mantelpiece, mouth dry, sweat sticking my shirt to my back. ‘Roberts told Fleet everything. You guessed that, but didn’t care so long as he kept his mouth shut. But when you heard he was helping with my investigation you sent your accomplice to cut his throat.’
I waited. This was the moment for confession, for Gilbourne to break down. And then I would have him. But something was wrong; the moment was slipping away from me. I had expected rage, denial – violence, even. But Gilbourne seemed quite unmoved. He brushed a piece of dust from his breeches and gave me a thin, condescending smile. ‘And you have proof of this?’
I stood a little straighter. ‘Mr Woodburn accused you of it this morning, sir. In front of witnesses.’
‘Did he?’ Gilbourne frowned. ‘How strange. Well, the fat old fool never did like me. He accused me of stealing charity money once, can you imagine that, Mr Acton . . . ?’ He fiddled with a lace cuff. ‘I suppose I stabbed poor Mr Woodburn, too?’
‘No. He . . . stabbed himself.’ I felt my face flush. It sounded ludicrous, even to me.
Gilbourne sniggered. ‘He stabbed himself . . . ? Extraordinary!’
My heart sank. It was no use – Gilbourne had defeated me, without leaving his chair. I couldn’t even avenge my friend’s murder, unless I simply ran my blade through Gilbourne’s black heart before he drew another breath. I confess, in that moment I considered it.
Gilbourne rested his chin on his hand. ‘D’you know, I could almost pity you, Mr Hawkins.’
Acton was growing impatient, rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘Is any of this true, Gilbourne? God knows you’re capable of it.’
Gilbourne sneered at him. ‘Oh, that is precious, coming from you . . . Yes. As it happens I did offer Captain Roberts ten guineas for his wife. What of it? It was a generous offer, I thought.’ He smirked. ‘Lady Roberts, gliding about as if the whole world should kiss her feet. She’s just a common slut who ran away with the first man who charmed her legs open. I thought it would be amusing to fuck some sense into her.’
This was too much, even for Acton. ‘You planned to rape Mrs Roberts for sport?’
‘It’s hardly rape, sir, if the husband consents. Oh, he refused at first, I grant you. And he did try to blackmail me, poor fool – but once I explained to him it would be his word against mine, and how many of my friends were lawyers, and magistrates . . . he soon had a change of heart. A man will do just about anything to stay alive. The trick is knowing his price, isn’t that so, Mr Acton?’
Acton shrugged his agreement.
Gilbourne stood up and stretched, considered his reflection in the glass and began adjusting his cravat. He caught my eye in the mirror and smiled. ‘Roberts sold his only son to escape the Common Side. Why not sell his wife to buy his freedom? So we shook upon it and I paid him the five guineas in advance. Unfortunately someone murdered him that same night and stole the money.’ He picked up his hat and gloves. ‘If you ever do find the real killer, I’d be most obliged if you could return it. I have my eye on a new pair of boots for the winter. Or perhaps you might explain to Mrs Roberts that her husband has sold her to me for a guinea a fuck?’
I could take no more. I drew my dagger and held it across his throat, pushing him back to the mantelpiece.
‘Acton!’ Gilbourne cried. ‘For God’s sake pull him off me!’
Acton chuckled. ‘Let him murder you, what should I care? They’ll hang him and I’ll be done with the pair of you.’
I lowered the blade slowly, keeping the tip at Gilbourne’s chest. Acton’s words had struck home. This man was not worth hanging for. ‘Why did you help Catherine with her ghost?’
Gilbourne raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh . . . you know of that?’
‘What’s this?’ Acton asked sharply. ‘What do you know about Roberts’ ghost, damn you?’
Gilbourne rolled his eyes. ‘There is no ghost. It was all a foolish hoax, plotted by Mrs Roberts. I helped her, Mr Hawkins, because she paid me to. And she is so very grateful. I must confess I have laughed long and hard about that.’
I dropped the dagger, sickened by every word. My shoulders sagged. What more could I do?
‘Ohhh,’ Gilbourne simpered. ‘Am I free to go, sir? You’re too kind.’ And with that, he gave me a low, mocking bow, and left the room.
Acton considered me in silence for a moment. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered, and followed Gilbourne through the door.
I sank to the floor and put my head in my hands. What a fool. What a stupid fool. All my hopes, all my efforts . . . all my dreams of escape. Of avenging Fleet’s death. Ruined by my own hand. Gilbourne could never have beaten Fleet in such a humiliating fashion. His scorn was like acid; my whole body burned with the shame.
It must have been an hour or more before the sound of footsteps on the
stairs roused me from my stupor. It was Charles, breathless and hot, come all the way from Mayfair to comfort me. Or so I thought.
‘My God, Tom,’ he said. ‘I am not sure my spirits can stand another shock like this! How do you fare?’ He squinted at me for a moment. ‘Not well,’ he decided. ‘You’re pale as ash.’
I told him of my meeting with Gilbourne. ‘Good God! He admits it all?’ Charles exclaimed, scandalised. ‘Shameless devil. Sir Philip will know of this – once you are safely released, of course.’
‘Released?’ I laughed, bitterly. ‘I doubt I shall ever escape this place. Not without Fleet’s help.’
Charles didn’t answer for a while. He wandered about the parlour, coming to rest in front of a rather pretty study of pink roses and lavender painted by Mary’s father. ‘This is not ill done . . .’ he murmured.
‘For God’s sake, Charles. Whatever you wish to say, please say it before I’m sent mad with your pacing.’
He bit his lip; turned away from the painting. ‘There is a way you might walk free within the hour,’ he said, gesturing to the clock upon the mantelpiece. ‘But you will not like it.’ He put his arm on my shoulder and led me to the chair by the fireside. He settled himself on the other side of the hearth, in the same chair Gilbourne had sat in an hour before. The fire had died away to a few weak embers. ‘You were fond of Mr Fleet.’
‘I am not sure . . .’
‘You were friends,’ he persisted. ‘By the end.’ He shifted in his chair, drew out a pipe, then seemed to think better of it. He slipped it back in his coat pocket and linked his fingers together. ‘There was a darker side to Samuel Fleet. Sir Philip has many powerful friends, in privileged positions. Fleet was known in those circles as a useful but dangerous man. He was a spy, Tom.’ He paused. ‘And an assassin. He killed countless men in his time.’
Of course. I did not doubt it for a moment. That quick, cunning mind. The ease with which he held a blade. Fleet himself had hinted that he knew too many secrets; that he was languishing in gaol for that very reason. ‘Why tell me this?’
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 28