My hand squeezed tight about my purse, the edges of the coins digging into my palm. ‘I had enough money to save myself.’
He bit his lip. ‘Yes. And for that . . . for that I am sorry, Tom. But don’t you see? It was too late. I’d already promised Sir Philip that you would help us. I could not afford to let him down – I had vowed to resolve the matter for him before the coronation. Sir Philip is a kind and generous patron, but he does not take well to failure. I would have lost my position – and he would have made sure all of his friends and allies shunned me as well. I would have been ruined.’
‘So . . . You paid men to rob me.’
Charles turned from the window.‘I had to – don’t you see? I needed you in the gaol. I never thought you’d win at the gaming tables! I spent half the night pacing about outside, praying to God you’d lose.’ He gestured to the purse. ‘Half the money was mine to begin with. All I did was call upon a few cutpurses to get it back.’
‘They nearly killed me, Charles!’
‘No, no – I swear it! I would never . . . Their chief had worked for us before. He only struck you because you were damned foolish enough to fight back.’
‘This was my freedom!’ I shouted, clutching my purse tight. ‘And you stole it from me.’ I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears of bitterness and rage. ‘You wrote that damned note to Fletcher, didn’t you? Just to be sure. My God, Charles – are you not ashamed of yourself? Do you not feel any guilt for what you’ve done?’
He coloured. ‘How can I make you understand? Will you not try to see things from my side? You think because you don’t want this life it is not worth having! But I have worked damned hard these past years while you sat drinking in poxy taverns, squandering all the gifts God gave you. If there is any shame or guilt to be felt, it is on your side, not mine.’
I put my head in my hands. All the beatings I had endured, in St Giles and in the Marshalsea. Even the night in the Strong Room. Nothing had hurt me as much as this – nothing but Kitty’s death. ‘You’ve broken my heart,’ I said.
‘Oh, Tom,’ Charles said, and laughed. He didn’t believe me – because he did not want to. He turned to leave, then paused. ‘It was only a matter of time before you were thrown in gaol. All I did was nudge you back on to a path you were always destined to follow. I looked after you well enough – did I not? Now you have a full purse and a chance to start your life afresh. How many men can say the same?’ He smiled down at me. ‘When you have calmed down and considered the facts, you will understand. In fact I think you’ll realise you would have done just the same in my position.’
Anger and bitterness surged inside of me. I rose to my feet. ‘No. I would not. I would never betray a friend.’
He rolled his eyes as if I were a naive child. ‘And that’s why I will be Bishop of London one day. Whereas you . . .’ He looked me up and down, and gave a little smirk. ‘What will you be, Tom?’
I considered this for a moment. And then I punched him hard in the face. He collapsed to his knees, eyes streaming, blood gushing from his nostrils all over his fine silk rug.
‘What will I be?’ I stared down at him in disgust, cradling my bloodied fist as he sobbed on the floor in pain and fury. ‘I’ll be the man who broke the Bishop of London’s nose.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I never thought I would return to the Marshalsea, but here I was at the Lodge gate. I banged my fist against the door before I could change my mind. The grate slid open and a familiar pair of bloodshot eyes glared at me through the gap.
‘Oh, for God’s . . .’ But he opened the door and let me pass.
My plan on fleeing Richmond had been to head straight for Moll’s, buy a pipe, a girl and a bowl of punch, and forget all about Charles and his betrayal. But the Thames had other ideas. The river was crammed with visitors pouring into the city for the coronation, with long queues to all the stairs on the north side. Fights were breaking out between the watermen and two boats had already capsized, flinging their passengers into the dark, filthy waters.
My boatman considered the chaos for a moment before steering us decisively towards the south bank. ‘I’ll drop you at Tooley stairs,’ he said. ‘Safer to walk back across the bridge today.’
The boat bumped up hard against the same worn, greasy steps I had taken with Jakes that first day, laden down with chains. I took it as a sign; one last visit to the place that had almost killed me, but this time as a free man.
The Park was packed with prisoners taking the air while they could. There were a few new debtors I didn’t recognise; a reminder that prison life rolled on and always would. A young whore was hard at work consoling an old, drunk gentleman on Fleet’s bench. She winked at me as I passed, one hand busy in his breeches while the other slipped into his pocket.
Acton and Gilbourne were nowhere to be seen, thank God. I would have turned on my heel and left if I’d seen them. I spied Mary Acton frowning down at me from the parlour window, Henry at her hip trying to eat her hair. I raised my hat and gave her a deep, theatrical bow. She pursed her lips and disappeared from view.
Gilbert Hand was in his usual spot by the lamppost. I nodded to him but didn’t stop; I didn’t have the time or the inclination to feed any wriggling worms of gossip into the Ranger’s eager beak.
I’d forgotten how badly the whole place stank; I’d grown accustomed to the fresh Richmond air and the contrast was almost unbearable. I bought a nosegay from a young gypsy girl in the yard to mask the stench, then dropped by the chandler’s shop where I bought tobacco, candles, a pound of butter and a few other little parcels. And then I crossed over to my old ward, up the familiar, worn-down stairs to Belle Isle – but Fleet’s empire of mischief and disorder had vanished. It was just a tatty old room with rotten floorboards and five new occupants crammed into two beds. Acton was getting his money’s worth, as ever.
But it was Trim I had come to see, and he was at home, brewing a pot of tea. I poked my head round the door and he leapt up in astonishment.
‘Tom! Well, I never! I hardly recognised you in your fine clothes. That is . . . you were very sick, the last time I saw you,’ he added hurriedly as I stepped into the room.
I stared at myself in the looking glass near the fire, seeing myself with fresh eyes. I was still dressed in the snuff-coloured suit Lady Dorothy had given me, and a new short wig tied with a black silk ribbon. I had the straight, confident posture of a man with money in his pocket: three pounds from my father and the ten Charles had stolen from me. I looked . . . respectable.
We shook hands and I presented him with the parcel of goods I’d bought.
‘Very good of you, sir,’ he said, opening up the tobacco and building himself a pipe.
‘You were very good to me, Trim. I doubt I would have survived without your help. And . . . well, consider it a small apology for accusing you of murder.’ I paused. ‘And threatening to kill you.’
‘It was my own fault,’ he said quietly. He put down his pipe and crossed to the window. The old floorboards had been mended since I’d stamped my foot through them. ‘I should have spoken out. I should at least have told Fleet what I’d heard that night. Perhaps he would still be alive . . .’ He bowed his head.
‘It was not your fault, don’t speak such nonsense. Blame Woodburn and Jakes. Blame Gilbourne for tempting Roberts in such a foul way. Blame Roberts himself! He should never have taken the money.’
He smiled, but I could see in his eyes that he would always feel some guilt for what had happened. Far more than Gilbourne ever would, damn him. Jakes and Roberts were dead, and I doubted Woodburn would ever fully regain his sanity. But Edward Gilbourne had survived without a scratch on that smooth skin of his, without the faintest stain upon his reputation. Well, he had escaped justice in this world, and there was nothing I could do about it. This was not an Italian opera where all ended well. A shame, really – I would happily pay to see Gilbourne on the stage. As a castrato.
Trim handed me a cup of
tea and nodded towards the door. ‘Mr Buckley’s not with you, then?’
‘We had a fight.’
‘Indeed?’ He shot me an appraising look. ‘A bad one, I think.’
He betrayed me. My oldest friend. I could still scarcely believe it. All those years of friendship, all those happy memories – destroyed by his treachery. I could not even begin to explain this to Trim. I sat down, turned my face to the fire. ‘He was not the friend I thought he was.’
‘Ambition and friendship are poor bedfellows,’ Trim observed, joining me by the fire and resting his tea on the small bulge of his stomach. ‘I think perhaps Mr Buckley would see loyalty as a weakness.’
I warmed my hands against my cup of tea. ‘Strange. I only knew Fleet for a few days, but he was a better friend to me than Charles ever was.’
‘Easy to mistake good humour for good character. And what of Mr Jakes, eh? He seemed such a decent, Christianlike man.’
‘I think he was, in many ways. He’d lost his way, of course. In fact I think he was quite mad, at the end. But he truly believed that he was doing God’s work.’
‘Then we must pray that God forgives him.’ Trim paused. ‘I’ve been praying for Mr Fleet these last few days. Though it’s hard to know where to start.’ He chuckled for a moment then fell silent, and took a long draw on his pipe. ‘May he rest in peace.’
I smiled at this, and sent my own private prayer to the heavens. I doubted Fleet had ever enjoyed much peace or rest in his life – but perhaps that was how he preferred it. ‘There is something I wished to ask you,’ I said, after a while. ‘Charles rushed me away from the sponging house before I had the chance.’
He sat up straight. ‘Kitty?’
I nodded, tears springing in my eyes. I brushed them away, surprised at their sudden return. I’d learned to hide my grief in Richmond – no one wanted to see it there. Trim, though, would understand.
‘You wish to know where she is.’
‘Where she’s buried, yes.’
‘Buried?’ Trim spluttered out a long stream of smoke. His tea slopped over its cup and he cursed, setting it to the floor. ‘What in heaven do you mean?’
‘Charles said . . .’ I stared at him, eyes wide. A flicker of hope flared in my chest. ‘He told me she died of the fever. That she caught it from me.’
‘No! No, indeed!’ Trim cried, horrified. ‘Kitty’s alive and well, I swear it! She never caught the fever.’
I leapt from my seat. ‘My God! Then where is she? Is she here, in the gaol?’
His shoulders slumped. ‘No. She’s gone. Ran off ten days ago, when she heard you’d left for Richmond. No one’s heard from her since, not even Mrs Bradshaw.’ He frowned. ‘She’s vanished.’
I asked about the prison – half-frantic with joy at the news and panic that I would not find her. Kitty knew how to disappear without trace when she wanted; Fleet had spent months searching for her before stumbling upon her in the Marshalsea. I could not wait that long, damn it. But no one had the faintest idea where she might be.
‘She’s not in the Borough,’ Mrs Bradshaw declared. ‘Mr Hand sent Ben out to hunt for her. We even sent a message to Mrs Roberts but she’s left the city. Now there’s a thing.’ She drew closer. ‘She’s reconciled with her father, would you believe. Now poor Captain Roberts is no longer . . . a suicide,’ she mouthed, ‘they couldn’t use that against her in court. She’s returned home to her son. Now. You must tell me.’ She seized my arm. ‘Is it true Mr Gilbourne was planning to use her terribly?’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement.
‘Please, Mrs Bradshaw. I must find Kitty.’
‘Elle est morte!’ A thin, piercing voice cut through the coffeehouse. Madame Migault was in her usual corner, reading evil in the tea leaves. ‘I’ve seen her! Dead in a ditch. Murdered.’ She ran a finger across her throat.
‘Shut your mouth, you poisonous old baggage!’ Mrs Bradshaw cried.
I left them fighting, their voices carrying out across the Park.
‘Hawkins!’
I had almost reached the Lodge when Acton stormed into the yard with Grace and two guards at his back. He was drunk and holding his whip in his hand, just as he had been the first time I’d seen him. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re doing swanning about the place? Get out before I kick you out.’
I held his gaze. ‘One day the world will know about you, Acton. About what you do in this place.’
He gave a contemptuous laugh and spat at my feet. ‘The world doesn’t care, Mr Hawkins. Not one damned farthing. Mr Grace.’ He turned to his clerk. ‘Have Mr Gilbourne write an Order of Court. I will not have troublemakers in my Castle.’
And so that was my last trip to the Marshalsea. The letter with its Court seal arrived care of Tom King’s coffeehouse the next day, signed in Gilbourne’s hand, banishing me from the gaol for my impudent behaviour and for spreading malicious gossip about the esteemed head keeper and the Palace Court’s deputy prothonotary. I burned it.
The last person I saw as I left the prison was Joseph Cross, standing at the Lodge door, swigging from a bottle of wine. It struck me, for the first time, that he must have been handsome once, before the drink and hard living caught up with him.
‘What are you staring at?’
I put my hands in my pockets and rocked back upon my heels. ‘And a good day to you, Mr Cross.’
‘You run out of money, then? Am I locking you up again?’
‘Not at all. I hear you stopped Acton from sending me over to the Common Side when I was sick with fever.’
He glanced down the corridor towards the Park. Acton was standing at the yard door, a black silhouette with the sun at his back. ‘Didn’t want you fouling the place,’ he muttered. ‘It’s all well and good for the governor – he don’t have to deal with all the stinking corpses, does he?’
I smiled. Cross would sooner die than admit he wanted to help. ‘Well, I am grateful to you, sir.’
Cross look disgusted. ‘Grateful won’t buy me a round in the Tap Room, will it?’
A fair point. I pulled out a guinea and dropped it in his palm. ‘For saving my life.’
His hand snapped shut faster than a dog’s jaw about a rabbit’s neck. ‘Not sure your life’s worth that much, Mr Hawkins.’ But then he grinned, and tilted his head towards the open door. ‘Go on, then. Fuck off before I lock you up for sport. Lucky bastard.’
I crossed the bridge, glad to be home at last. Kitty was alive and waiting for me somewhere amidst the bustle and swagger of these streets. Charles had wanted to keep her from me. I’m sure he thought he was doing me a good turn – saving me from a disgraceful match to a common kitchen maid. Well, he’d failed, thank God. I would find her and I would disgrace myself as soon as possible. As often as she would let me. I strolled through the city, enjoying the press of the crowds, everything on display, everything for sale. How could I have thought of leaving it for a moment? So what if there were thieves lurking in the shadows; fights spilling out from every tavern; lice, vermin, the pox; foul air and poisoned water? London quickened my pulse and made my blood sing in my veins – and for that I would forgive it anything.
I bought a new walking cane with a silver top; a tinderbox and a chain for my mother’s cross. Ordered a pair of shoes from a cobbler off the Strand. And as the sun set I made my way back to Moll’s.
‘Tom Hawkins! Here you are at last!’ she cried, striding across the room. She kissed me full on the lips. ‘Word is you killed a man.’
I grabbed her by the waist and pressed my lips to her ear. ‘I haven’t killed a soul. But don’t you dare tell anyone.’
She gave a wicked smile. ‘Your reputation is safe with me, sweetheart.’
It was the night before the coronation and I had never seen the coffeehouse so packed. It seemed as though half of London was crammed inside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the king tomorrow.
Moll found me a quiet corner then slipped away into the crowds, promising she would be back soon. ‘Someone I
think you should meet.’ I ordered a bowl of punch from Betty, smoked a pipe and wrote a short note to my father, thanking him for his kindness and forgiveness. I’d thought it would be a hard letter to write – but the words flowed easily and my heart felt lighter when I had finished. He would be disappointed by my decision, but there it was. The Church was his vocation. London was mine.
I had just finished writing when a shadow fell across the table. I glanced up and the breath caught in my throat.
Fleet.
I blinked, startled, and the spell was broken.
The stranger in front of me wasn’t Fleet. He was younger – thirty at most – with a darker complexion and a stronger build. He didn’t move like Fleet. He moved like a soldier, steady, serious and full of purpose as he sat down opposite me. But those black eyes under heavy brows; the shape of his jaw . . . they had been enough to fool me, for a moment.
I remembered Fleet’s meeting in the Tap Room, the day before he died, and the stranger who never turned round to face me. A family affair, Fleet had said. ‘Are you his brother?’
‘Half.’
I peered at him in the candlelight. ‘On which side, sir? Your mother’s or the devil’s?’
His face remained still, but his eyes glittered with amusement. ‘You don’t recognise me.’ He pulled a dagger from his side and laid it on the table between us, fingers caressing the hilt. ‘D’you remember this? I held it to your throat.’
The hairs rose on my neck. This was the man who had robbed me in St Giles. I poured myself a glass of punch and knocked it back, trying to keep my hands from shaking. ‘I should challenge you to a fight, I suppose.’
‘That would be unwise.’ He drummed his fingers lightly across the blade. My blade.
The Devil in the Marshalsea Page 34