‘Was it the fever that took her?’
He sighed, then nodded.
My heart sank still further. I thought of her lips pressed against mine, her hands around my neck. ‘I killed her with a kiss.’
Charles looked away, and said nothing. I had made him uncomfortable. All this fuss over a kitchen maid.
The boat hit a swell, rising then dropping swiftly with a sharp splash. The jolt of it brought me to my senses. What sort of a man was I, lying on velvet cushions and whimpering to myself? Not the man Kitty had wanted. I pulled myself to my feet and found a seat near the prow. A servant brought me a glass of wine and a pipe.
Constance, seeing I had rallied, skipped over and settled down next to me, fanning herself vigorously. She was a pretty girl with a lively manner and in other circumstances I would have enjoyed her company. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mary and I were thrilled to hear of your adventures in gaol. Do you promise to tell us your story? When you are recovered, of course.’
I opened my mouth to reply, but could not think what to say. How could I sit at supper and describe what I had witnessed to a pair of innocent young ladies? A boy of thirteen beaten to death; rotting corpses teeming with rats; waking to find my friend with his throat cut, the life stolen from his bright black eyes. How could I weave that into a pretty story to amuse Sir Philip’s daughters? And worse, knowing that their father had sat back and let it all happen? I smiled vaguely and took a sip of wine.
Constance leaned closer, whispering behind her fan. ‘Charles made us promise not to ask, but I must know . . . is it true you shot the killer right through the heart?’
I stared at her. ‘I didn’t kill anyone, Miss Constance.’
She frowned. ‘But you must have! Papa said so. Mr Buckley said you were very brave.’
‘No, madam. Kitty Sparks shot Mr Jakes.’ Once in the stomach and once right between the eyes.
‘Kitty Sparks . . . ?’ She closed her fan with a sharp snap, then sat back and studied me narrowly. ‘A girl?’
‘A kitchen maid.’ I paused. ‘I loved her.’
She stared at me for a long moment, eyes wide. Then she blinked, and laughed, and tapped her fan playfully on my arm. ‘You are teasing me, sir. How wicked of you.’ She jumped up, twirling her fine blue silk skirts as she danced away from me to join her sister. I remembered Kitty running across the yard, picking up her skirts. A flash of dainty ankles. Charles, who had been standing close enough to hear, shook his head slowly and turned away.
The boat sailed on up river, the sun glinting on the water. I looked back towards Southwark, but we had turned a bend and it had slid from view some time ago. I’d left it behind without noticing.
The next few days passed like a dream. Sir Philip’s hunting lodge was vast, with servants standing ready to answer every possible whim. I had been given a suite of rooms close to Charles’ quarters, with my own valet, who watched me from the corner of his eyes as if I might strike him or steal something small and valuable. Why not? I had killed a man, apparently.
Only Charles and Joseph Cross knew the truth. They had decided between them to hide it. Kitty had shot Jakes in cold blood. If the world discovered it, her reputation would be ruined for ever. At worst, she could have been transported or hanged. So Cross pulled the pistol from her hand and told everyone that I’d shot Jakes. I was half-dead anyway – what did it matter? Kitty protested, but no one believed her, apart from Charles. He knew I was not capable of it.
So Kitty was free to stay and watch over me. I remembered her now. She’d held my hand and pulled me back from the brink of death. And then the fever had taken her instead.
There was talk of a trial, in the days after I recovered. But I was a gentleman, and Jakes was not. Sir Philip had friends, and influence. The talk died away.
And Mr Woodburn? Charles muttered something about the Church protecting its own. ‘He’s locked away somewhere. Or sent abroad perhaps. He should probably hang for what he did . . .’
‘No,’ I sighed. Mr Woodburn hadn’t escaped punishment – his own conscience would see to that. ‘Let him live, wherever he is. He was a fool. A dangerous fool. But he didn’t kill Roberts – or anyone else. In his own muddle-headed way he truly thought he was doing good.’ I shook my head at the idiocy of it all.
As time passed I grew stronger, and my appetite returned, but my spirits remained low. I found that I could not stay indoors for long, and took to exploring the grounds alone for hours. I liked to walk about the lake close to the house, where the horses sheltered beneath the trees, then head deep into the woods, kicking up the autumn leaves as if I might find answers beneath them. When it grew dark Sir Philip’s wife, Lady Dorothy, would send men out with lanterns to find me. I would return to my rooms to find a warm bath by the fire, and fresh clothes.
At night I dreamed I was back in the grave on Snows Fields and would wake with a cry of terror and the taste of soil in my mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘You had no right, Charles! No right at all!’
We were in Sir Philip’s library; unread books stretching high to the ceiling. The rain had been falling hard since breakfast, and I had retreated here to spend a peaceful morning roaming the shelves. I liked this room; it smelled of old leather and pipe smoke and the family rarely used it.
It was over a week since I had arrived at the lodge. Long walks, fresh air and good food had revived my strength, but a darkness still lingered. It rose to claim me in the dead of night: a dense, endless fog of dread and anxiety. Hour after hour I lay awake, my thoughts twisting and coiling upon themselves in a hopeless tangle.
I should have felt glad to be alive and free. I still grieved for Kitty and Fleet, but their deaths were like sharp blades in my heart – clean, honest wounds that I could understand. It was something else that kept me awake at night; something more insidious than grief. I couldn’t see it and I couldn’t name it but I knew, deep in my soul, that it was there.
I was reading an old copy of the Gazette when Charles entered the room. I was glad to see him; I had not spent much time with him these past few days. He worked long hours with Sir Philip, but the whole family had set off for London that morning to prepare for the coronation. Mary was a maid of honour to the queen and would be near the head of the procession tomorrow.
‘Charles!’ I grinned. ‘Are you free at last? Let’s call for a bottle of wine and play some cards. You will have to lend me some money.’ Sir Philip had cleared my old debts, but I had no fresh funds in my pocket. I was penniless. Again.
He gave a regretful smile. ‘I have a sermon to write. But here – this arrived for you this morning.’ He held up a letter, then added, carefully, ‘It’s from your father.’
I shrank back. ‘How did he find me?’
‘I wrote to him.’
I glared at him in fury as he slid the letter from the envelope. ‘You had no right, Charles! No right at all!’
‘If you would just read it. I think it may surprise you.’
I tore it from his hand and flung it into the hearth.
Charles sprang forward and grabbed it before it caught light, knocking the glowing embers away with his fingers. ‘Tom, please. For my sake. It is just one page.’
‘Oh, very well,’ I sulked. ‘Hand it here if you must.’ I opened it out, steeling myself for the words of rebuke and triumph.
My Dear Child
I have just received the News this morning of your recent Troubles and write to you in all Haste. My boy – I beg you to come Home to your Family to rest and recover. I have enclosed three pounds to help with your Journey and pray you would come at once.
My Dearest Son, why did you not write to me? Did you think I had forgotten you? I have missed you, Thomas, every day – and prayed for you. Charles tells me you have grown up to be a good man and a true Friend, and that you have performed a great Service to Sir Philip Meadows. I am sure with the support of such a noble patron, your youthful transgressions
will be forgiven. I shall write to the Bishop of Norfolk on your behalf, the moment I hear from you.
My boy. We are both Stubborn, but I am old now – too old to be governed by Pride. Come home to your Family, who love you, and take over my Duties here in the parish. This is your true calling, my Son, and the dearest wish of your beloved Mother. Pray to God and He will show you your rightful Path.
Your Loving and Affectionate Father
I read it again. Three times. Held it out at arm’s length to confirm the handwriting.
Charles was smiling. ‘D’you see, Tom? You’re saved!’
I shook my head, mystified.
The rain had stopped. It was a mild, grey October afternoon; a day to make mild, grey decisions. I walked down to the lake and sat beneath the large weeping willow at the water’s edge. The grass was dry beneath its branches, which hung down like bed curtains. My own secret chapel of contemplation, hidden from the world.
I pulled the letter from my pocket and read it over once more. My dearest son? My father had never spoken of me in such affectionate terms. Edmund, my stepbrother, had always been his favourite. At least, that is what I had always thought. Had I been wrong, all this time?
I could go home. Leave all my struggles and cares behind me and start afresh. And why not? What was left for me in London? More gambling, more debauches, more debts. How long before I found myself thrown in gaol again? How long before I fucked the wrong whore and caught the pox? There could have been another path for me, if Kitty had lived. A riotous, disreputable life, to be sure, but my God it would have been worth it. But she was dead and that path was closed to me now.
I leaned back against the willow’s trunk, and allowed myself to think of home for the first time in three long years. Not the last angry days and the arguments, but happier times. I thought about the life I could lead; the life I had studied and prepared for since I was a child. The Reverend Thomas Hawkins. A well-conducted, respectable gentleman. A vicarage, two hundred pounds per annum, a hundred acres of land. Servants. A pretty, dutiful wife to run the farm while I sat at my father’s old desk and wrote sermons. Respectful neighbours. The simple pleasures of shooting and fishing and long walks down to the coast. No need to follow the high fashions and low habits of the town. Peace, health. A long, contented life.
Was this my path, after all? Had I been running away from the one thing I truly wanted?
My father had told me to ask God for guidance. I closed my eyes and prayed.
You’d die of boredom, Tom.
A gust of wind. A rustle of leaves. I opened my eyes and swore I caught a flash of red velvet through the branches. I blinked, and it was gone. I’d been dreaming.
I’d been dreaming, but now I was awake.
I sprang up and pushed my way free from the willow, running back towards the house. I grabbed hold of a passing servant and ordered him to find a boat to take me back to the city. My father was right; it was time to go home. Home to London.
I gathered up my few possessions then went in search of Charles. His room was empty, his trunk packed ready to join the family in town for the coronation. I smiled at the neat piles of books and carefully folded clothes. I hadn’t been here since my first night; we’d sat by the fire, talking for hours. I’d thought there would be more time to reminisce, but I had barely seen him since then. And it was then that a sudden doubt leapt out and seized me. The strange, formless anxiety I had felt ever since I’d arrived at the lodge sharpened to one question.
Had Charles been avoiding me?
I’d spent more time with Lady Dorothy and her daughters than with my old friend this past week. I had not given it a moment’s clear thought, but now I began to wonder. Charles had always been ambitious. Not everyone could see it but I had always known what lay hidden beneath his quiet, friendly manner; the iron core every man needs to advance in the world.
Was that why he had written to my father? To be rid of me, now I had served my purpose? No, no – that was wrong. Unkind. Charles had been a good, loyal, patient friend. If it weren’t for him I would still be rotting in prison.
But I could not ignore the chill, creeping suspicion that something didn’t add up. It was the same feeling I had at cards, when I was sure someone had cheated but couldn’t prove it.
I paced the room, thinking hard. It wasn’t true. I was mistaken. But the more I thought, the more I doubted. Sir Philip and Lady Dorothy adored Charles; he was like another son to them. Why did he not beg Sir Philip to release me, when he knew my life was in danger? And why had he kept his distance these past few days? Now I thought about it carefully, his behaviour struck me as strange; almost furtive. As if he were afraid that if I spent too much time with him . . .
. . . I would guess his secret.
I stopped still, in the middle of the room, understanding at last. Stripping away sentiment, my sense of obligation and loyalty, it all became clear. Charles had not helped me in the Marshalsea. He had used me.
If Charles had begged my case, Sir Philip would have listened; I was sure of it. But it suited them both to have me locked up in gaol; their own personal investigator, desperate to uncover the truth. Charles had left me there even when I had been chained and beaten and thrown in the Strong Room. And see how obliging I’d been! There would be no more talk of ghosts. No riots. No bothersome letters from a grieving widow. No loss of profit.
I’d intended to wait and talk to Charles – perhaps persuade him to sail up to London with me. Now I knew I had to leave at once. I was afraid I might see the truth confirmed in his eyes: that he was not my friend; had not been for a long time. Perhaps it was that day I had called out to him in the street in front of his patron, bottle in hand. Or even before that – in some ruthless, clear-eyed moment when he realised he didn’t need me any more. The boy he had once admired, who had protected him at school, was sinking, while he was rising far beyond reach.
Oh, yes, Charles. Much better to pack me off to Suffolk, far away and out of trouble. And have me believe it was a kindness, too.
I sat down at his writing table, feeling hollow and light-headed. I would write him a note, explaining I had left for the town. I owed him that much, and then we were done. There was no paper left out so I opened a drawer and reached inside. My fingers closed on a soft leather pouch. I pulled it out.
My purse. Stolen from me in a stinking alley in St Giles. I weighed it in my hands, the coins clinking together softly. Still full.
How could it possibly be here, now, in this room? Something hard pressed down upon my heart. The heavy weight of a friend’s betrayal.
A moment later the door opened and Charles strode in, smiling. ‘Tom! What are you—’ He stopped, seeing the purse in my hand. His mouth opened in shock. Then he glanced away in a shifty fashion, smoothing his black silk waistcoat. ‘I hear you’ve called for a boat. I think you should see if it’s ready.’
I rose from my chair, blood pounding in my ears. I held the purse out in front of me, wishing it would somehow vanish. Perhaps I was mistaken. Please God, let this all be some foolish misunderstanding. ‘This purse was stolen from me.’
He frowned impatiently. ‘The money is all there. Take it and go.’
I stared at him, barely able to breathe as the truth struck home. ‘What did you do, Charles?’ I whispered. ‘My God. What did you do to me?’
‘What did I do?’ He gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. ‘You think to blame me for all your troubles? I have worked without cease for years to attain all this.’ He gestured about him. ‘Do you have any notion how hard it is to secure a patron when you have no family, no connections? I have sacrificed everything for this position. But you cannot begin to understand that, can you? You were born with every conceivable privilege. Money. Good health. A good family. And see what you have achieved with these fine gifts! You have drunk and gambled and fucked away every penny you’ve ever owned. Wandered through life as if the whole world owes you a living. Well, here’s the truth of the matter, Tom Hawki
ns. The world doesn’t give a damn about you.’
Pain burned in my chest. How could he say these things to me – my oldest, dearest friend? I stared at him, hoping that he would suddenly laugh and tell me this was all a joke. But the mild-tempered, amiable boy I had always loved had vanished and a stranger stood in his place. ‘You helped me. You gave me all your savings.’
‘No. Not all of them. Not even close. Just enough to keep you from starving in prison.’ Charles paused, deliberating for a moment. He lifted his chin and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I will be honest with you. You might as well know the whole truth. You might even learn something from it. The night you came to me and asked for my help, I had known for days that you were destined for the Marshalsea. I’d seen your name on the list of arrest warrants.’
‘No.’ I sat down heavily, clasping the arm of the chair. ‘I don’t believe you.’
He clasped his hands behind his back and crossed to the window, staring down upon the neatly landscaped garden below. The sun shone through the pane, casting his face half in light, half in shadow. ‘We all have masters, Tom. The only free men in this world are idiots and fools. It is Sir Philip’s duty to keep the prison running well. And it is my duty to aid him in that task. To be of value to him. No matter the personal cost.’ He bowed his head. ‘Catherine Roberts was drawing too much attention to the Marshalsea, with all her talk of ghosts and murder. Sir Philip wanted . . . needed things returned to normal. Acton refused to investigate, even with the gaol teetering upon the brink of revolt. In truth we half-suspected him of the murder. When I saw your name on the list I knew God had placed it there for a reason. Do you not see, Tom? You were already destined for gaol and we needed a man we could trust. What harm was there in that? You would help me. I would help Sir Philip. Sir Philip would help us both. This is the way the world works. Where would we be without it? Without Sir Philip’s patronage, what would I be? A poor country curate scrimping a living on a few pounds a year.’ He paused. ‘You know, he is very grateful to us both. Mrs Roberts is content and the gaol is running smoothly again. This could still go very well for you, Tom, if you could just . . . if you would only think straight for once.’
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 33