He grunted. ‘So it’s true, then? The old devil’s dead.’ His eyes flickered to the door. ‘I heard them shouting this morning but I didn’t believe it.’
‘Someone cut his throat. The same man who stabbed Mitchell through the heart.’
Anderson’s brows knotted. ‘No. We took care of Harry’s killer yesterday. Slipped a blade between his ribs.’ He shifted as much as he could beneath his chains, then sighed. ‘Riot’s a good distraction if you want to murder a man.’
‘But then . . .’ I stood up and rubbed the sweat from my face. I’d thought Mitchell’s death had been connected to my investigation. Had it been a coincidence after all? ‘Who was it?’
‘Fred Owen. Been on the ward with me for three years . . . Wasn’t a bad man, not really. Just desperate.’ He grimaced. ‘Someone slipped five shillings through the begging grate. Said if he killed Harry there’d be ten more. Owen had a daughter on the streets. Nine years old.’ Anderson fell silent.
‘Did he see who it was?’
‘It was dark. Can’t see much through the grates.’
‘And the voice? Did Owen tell you anything?’
‘He was too busy dying, Mr Hawkins.’ He paused. ‘But I know why Mitchell was killed.’
I waited. ‘Well?’
‘What’s it worth?’
I cursed under my breath. I had no time for bargaining. ‘I have nothing left, sir. You’ll stop an innocent man from being sent to the gallows, is that not enough?’
‘Not really.’
I groaned, looking about me as if the damp, squalid hut might suddenly bring forth a treasure hoard or a dozen willing maids with dimples in their cheeks. And then I remembered how it had felt to be chained against the wall, the iron collar pressing hard against my throat. ‘I could loosen those screws,’ I said.
A desperate, eager look flashed in Anderson’s eyes before he could stop it. We had a deal, it seemed. I found an old piece of metal and got to work as Anderson talked. The metal was jagged and sharp and cut my hands but I hardly noticed.
‘Mitchell confessed everything to me the night before he died,’ Anderson said. ‘Said he was going to tell you – that you’d promised to get him out of here in exchange. He knew blabbing to you was dangerous so he thought someone on this side should know the truth. It was Harry that tipped the sleeping draught into Fleet’s punch the night Roberts got it. He was hired the same as Owen – someone came to the begging grate and paid him a few shillings. Harry thought they was going to rob Fleet, that’s all. Then the next morning they found the captain swinging from the beams up there.’ He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Bad way to die. And now his soul’s trapped in here with all the corpses till judgement day.’
I shivered. ‘Did Mitchell recognise the man who came to the grate?’
‘No. Voice was muffled. But he said it was familiar somehow. He was sure it was someone from the gaol.’
I loosened the last of the screws. ‘Could it have been Woodburn?’
Anderson stretched his neck, then shot me a puzzled look. ‘Mr Woodburn? Nah, Harry would have known him at once, even in the shadows. He’s the only fat man in the gaol . . . But why would Woodburn . . .’ He trailed away, confused. ‘He’s the one swore it was murder not suicide.’
‘I think it was an accident.’ I gazed about me, at the old blood stains on the floor, the rats scrabbling over the rotting bodies heaped in a corner. ‘Roberts had agreed to something terrible – something damnable. They wanted to stop him so they brought him here where it was quiet and they tried to persuade him against it.’
‘With their fists. Two against one.’ Anderson looked savage. ‘Bloody cowards.’
‘Woodburn knew if the coroner called it suicide, Roberts would lose his right to a Christian burial. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. Bad enough to kill a man, but to put his soul at risk . . .’
‘Noble,’ Anderson muttered sarcastically. ‘So why hang him up there in the first place?’
I rubbed my eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
And there was my trouble: I didn’t know. I didn’t know who the second man was. I didn’t know why he’d hanged Roberts up in the Strong Room. I didn’t know how he’d snuck into Belle Isle last night and slit Fleet’s throat. All I did know was that I needed to discover the answers before sunset – and that was just one hour away.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Somehow I was able to return to the Master’s Side without being seen. It helped that no one ever chose to look at the wall, so by the time I had stepped away from the door it appeared as though I was simply taking a turn about the yard.
I returned the key to Gilbert Hand and told him what I’d learned, saving the part about Owen’s murder. Captain Anderson was in enough trouble as it was. It was a good trade for Hand – he’d risked very little and now knew as much as I did about Roberts’ death. He patted his stomach as if I’d just fed him a feast, which I suppose I had, in a way.
‘Are you well, Mr Hawkins? You seem a little feverish.’
I was about to reply when the door to Acton’s lodgings swung open and the governor emerged. ‘Hawkins!’ he called across the yard, then beckoned me with the crook of his finger.
Hand, scenting trouble, melted away.
I trod slowly towards Acton, praying he would grant me more time. Even a day might be enough. A tall, slim figure slipped out of the governor’s lodgings to stand beside him. Gilbourne. He put his hands in his pockets and gave a wide, mocking smile as I approached.
‘Well, Hawkins?’ Acton looked me up and down. ‘Do you have a name for me?’
My mind whirled. Mitchell had thought he recognised the voice at the begging grate. It was someone who knew the gaol well and could come and go easily. Chapman? Cross? One of Hand’s boys, or Gilbert Hand himself, for that matter? Or one of the porters, perhaps? But it was no use – I did not have enough proof to accuse any one of them. ‘I do, sir.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mr Woodburn.’
The two men started in surprise. Then Gilbourne let out a peal of laughter and clapped his hands together. ‘Oh! This is too rich, sir! The Reverend Andrew Woodburn, no less. The gentleman you say accused me of the same crime this morning? I suppose this is why . . . why he stabbed himself yesterday?’ He broke into a fit of giggles.
Acton slid his new ally a look of ill-disguised loathing. ‘This is all you have to say to me, Hawkins?’ He snorted. ‘No wonder you’re sweating like a hog. Well – no matter. We have another name for you, don’t we, Mr Gilbourne?’
Gilbourne stopped laughing and stood a little straighter. ‘We do indeed, sir. Fleet killed Roberts. He confessed it to me the day before he died. I’m afraid in all the confusion of the riot I quite put it from my mind.’
I glared at him. ‘That is a lie, sir.’
‘Is it?’ Gilbourne grinned. ‘Well, sadly he’s not alive to defend himself, is he? It’s a shame you killed him.’
My heart lurched. ‘Mr Acton. Give me one more day. I beg you.’
‘No, no. I like this story better, I think,’ Acton replied. ‘Fleet killed Roberts and you killed Fleet. We’d best lock him up, eh, Gilbourne?’ He wrapped a hand about my arm and began dragging me towards the Lodge.
I stumbled forward in a daze. I had to stop this somehow. If I could get a message to Charles . . .
Gilbourne strolled after us. ‘Do you have your whip, sir? He may resist arrest . . .’
‘Mr Acton,’ I said quietly. ‘Would you break your word?’
He stopped dead, still gripping my arm. ‘What did you say?’
‘You gave me your word I would have till sunset.’ I looked up at the sky. ‘It is still light.’
Acton hesitated. ‘That is true.’
‘Oh, throw him in the Pound, for heaven’s sake,’ Gilbourne snapped, impatient.
Acton let go of my arm and rounded on Gilbourne. ‘This is my Castle,’ he said, poking a thick finger in Gilbourne’s chest. ‘You tell me what to do again and I’ll break your neck.’ He t
ook a watch out of his pocket and consulted it closely. ‘I’m a man of my word, Mr Hawkins. Half an hour. Use it wisely.’ He shrugged. ‘Or fuck Mrs Bradshaw for all I care. Mr Gilbourne. We have business to discuss.’ He put a hand on Gilbourne’s back and pushed him towards the Tap Room.
I staggered over to Fleet’s bench and collapsed, shaking with shock and relief. But what now? What could I possibly achieve in half an hour?
A large shadow fell across the bench. I looked up to find Mr Jakes standing over me, a loop of chains wrapped over his shoulder. Thank God. As I pulled myself back on to my feet my head began to spin and for a moment I thought I might faint. Jakes caught hold of me, eyes filled with concern.
‘What’s happened, sir? You look half-dead with fright.’
I waved him away. ‘I’m well enough, thank you.’
Jakes frowned, unconvinced. ‘I asked about the Borough. The only Marshalsea man with spare coin in his pocket after Roberts’ death was Acton.’
‘I know, I’m sorry – I’ve wasted your time. Woodburn gave the money away.’
‘Woodburn?’ Jakes wrinkled his brow.
I explained quickly what I had learned.
‘Woodburn,’ Jakes muttered again to himself. He curled his fist around the hilt of his club. ‘And the other man?’
‘I don’t know.’ My head felt as if it were splitting in two and I was pouring with sweat. ‘I thought perhaps it was Trim, but he’s terrified. He’s locked himself in his room and says he won’t come out until we’ve discovered the truth. Jakes, we must find Woodburn without delay. I’m sure you can persuade him to confess.’
‘That’s what I came to tell you. He sent this to the Lodge.’ He pulled a note from his pocket. ‘It sounds . . . strange. Stranger still now I know what he did. Thought I should bring these with me.’ He shifted the weight of the chains slung over his shoulder.
I unfolded the note.
Mister Jakes
I beg of you to come at once to Snows Fields where I must confess something of great Import. Bring Hawkins for I fear his Life depends on it.
God help us all.
Rev’d Andrew Woodburn
I read it again, a plan forming. I glanced up towards the Tap Room, where Acton and Gilbourne were drinking. I must be quick.
‘It’s growing dark,’ Jakes said, peering anxiously at the sky. ‘If we’re to meet with him we should leave now before the light fails.’
And before Acton locks me up for murder. I read the note again. ‘It sounds like a trap.’
‘You may be right, Mr Hawkins.’ Jakes grinned. He put a hand in his coat to show me the long sword hidden beneath. ‘Let’s walk into it with our eyes open and our blades high, eh?’
I did my best to seem calm as we walked towards the Lodge gate but the truth was I could barely breathe with fear. At any moment I expected someone to shout my name, for a half dozen trusties to seize me and drag me back in front of Acton. We reached the turnkeys’ room. Cross was seated with his feet upon the desk, drinking as usual. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he must be able to hear it ten paces away.
‘Open the gate, Joseph,’ Jakes said.
Cross narrowed his eyes. With every moment that passed I was sure he would call the alarm. Hawkins is trying to escape! They would rip me to pieces like dogs. Cross slammed his glass upon the table and stood up slowly. ‘It’s too late,’ he said.
My heart sank. But when I looked in his eyes I realised he didn’t know what Acton and Gilbourne had planned for me. He only meant it would be dark soon. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Woodburn,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I’ve squared it with Mr Acton. Ask him if you wish, sir . . . but I should warn you, he’s in a foul mood.’
Cross scowled and pulled out his keys. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he said to Jakes as he let us out.
The door slammed behind us. Jakes shot me a sidelong glance. I could see he was puzzled by my behaviour, but I didn’t dare tell him what I’d planned. He could lose his job for this. I smiled, hoping the guilt didn’t show upon my face. ‘Let’s go.’
We did not take the path down Axe and Bottle Yard to Snows Fields as we had the day before. Instead we turned left, and left again, into Mermaid Court, which backed on to the Common Side wards. A row of tiny, barred windows had been cut into the thick stone wall overlooking the dank, shaded alley. These were the begging grates; the only way to pass food and money into the gaol without Acton seizing it for himself. But Mermaid Court was not a thoroughfare, and few men came this way by chance. The Common Side stench leaked into the alley; too many bodies trapped together with no air, no food, no water to clean themselves.
They must have heard our footsteps echoing down the alleyway. Grubby fingers poked through the bars, desperate faces pressed hard against the iron grates. Some dangled strings out attached to small begging bowls, like fishermen hoping for a catch.
‘Have mercy, sir.’
‘We starve! Send food, for pity’s sake!’
I paused, took the bloodied silver crown from my pocket and thrust it through the bars into the first hand I touched. No need to keep it for evidence now. ‘God bless you, sir,’ a voice cried. ‘May your prick and your purse never fail you!’ The beggar’s benediction. The hand drew back and I heard a scuffle break out, shouts of anger as they fought for the prize.
Jakes watched all this, eyebrow raised.
‘Lead on, damn it,’ I said, and pulled my dagger from my coat.
At the bottom of the alley, a high gate marked the boundary to Snows Fields. Jakes pushed on it with one hand and it swung free. I turned and looked down Mermaid Court and the high wall of the Marshalsea. Whatever happened on Snows Fields, I would not return to the gaol. If Woodburn confessed everything I would send Jakes back to give the word to Acton and return to town, devil take the consequences. If not – I would run. And pray to God Jakes didn’t do his job and chase after me.
I still had Fleet’s watch; that would give me enough capital to flee London. Once I was safe I would write to Charles and hope he could clear my name. I wasn’t sure where I would hide – in truth I could barely think straight, my head was pounding so hard. All I knew was that I could never go back.
I stepped through the gate.
Jakes was already halfway down the narrow, muddy track that cut through the high meadow grass. I hurried after him, glancing back to be sure we were not followed. The grass rustled and whispered in the breeze and my heart began to pound in alarm. A dozen men could be hiding in the long, tangled grass and we wouldn’t know it.
At last we escaped the meadow into low, scrubby ground. Jakes was heading for the patch of grass where Fleet and I had sat the day before. He would have loved this; running headfirst into danger. And there was a thrill to it – I’d grant him that. To learn the truth at last, no matter the cost.
It was dusk, the tenter fields a dim grey mass in the distance. There was just enough light to see out to the edges of the field; the old oak tree a black silhouette, its gallow branch thin and sharp against the darkening sky. A dozen crows had clustered together in a fractious squabble up ahead, cawing at one another as they prepared to roost for the night. Jakes kicked out at them with his boot and a couple flapped reluctantly into the air, landing a few feet away on the nearest burial mound.
I gazed about me in the fading light. There was no one here. Just me, Jakes and the crows. And in that moment, I understood at last – no one else was coming.
This was my place of execution. There was no cart, no cheering crowds, but I would die here. Time slowed as the truth settled about me; the crows silent and watchful, the wind still.
Jakes watched, calmly, as I raised my dagger. And then he smiled; a tinge of regret in his eyes.
I remembered the first day we’d met, riding the river to Southwark. He’d confessed then, if I’d only listened. I’ve seen better corpses on a battlefield. He’d seen the captain’s body. He had been there, that night.
‘You killed him,’ I said, backing a
way. ‘Your best friend. The man who saved your life.’
Jakes gazed at me evenly. ‘He saved my life, yes. And I saved his soul. I’d call that even, wouldn’t you?’
I could run – but he would never let me go. He was a sword’s reach away – but I was weak; feverish. He would run me through with his own blade in a flash. I would have to distract him somehow. I swallowed hard.
‘How could you do it? My God, Jakes – you’re a – a good, honourable man.’ Even as I spoke the words, I could not believe what he had done.
‘Because I loved him,’ Jakes said quietly, almost to himself. ‘He was my captain and my brother. I never knew a braver man on the field. But when it came to the battle for his soul . . . he was a coward. He always gave in to his cravings – for drink and women and gambling.’
‘You have just described half the men in England, Mr Jakes. It doesn’t give you the right to murder them.’ I stepped back, trying to put some space between me and his blade. The longer we talked, the more chance someone would pass by and call the alarm.
No one will come, Tom. You must fight this alone. Fleet’s voice, clear and urgent in my head.
‘He would have sold his wife for ten guineas,’ Jakes said, circling me warily. ‘I couldn’t let that happen. The stain on his soul . . . he would never have washed it clean. We never meant for him to die. We just wanted to show him where he was heading. John was a man of action, not words. You couldn’t describe hell to him. But you could show it to him.’ Jakes winced. ‘I chained him to a wall and I beat him, God help me. I showed him the corpses and the rats. And Woodburn told him how much worse it would be for him – an eternity in hell.’
I had slipped a few feet further from him as he spoke. If I could run towards the tenter grounds I might be able to lose him. It was almost dark. ‘It was an act of mercy, then?’
‘Aye!’ he snarled angrily. ‘Mock all you wish but it was merciful. I stopped him from damning himself. I risked my own soul for his – with a glad heart. John repented at the end, I know he did.’
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 31