The Devil in the Marshalsea

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘I was thrown in gaol because of you.’

  ‘Shouldn’t walk down black alleys with a full purse.’ He rubbed his jaw. Clean-shaven; another difference.

  ‘But you asked your brother to keep an eye on me,’ I guessed. ‘You felt guilty.’

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Curious. Wanted to learn why a man would refuse to hand over his purse, even when his life is at stake.’ His lips curled into a half-smile. ‘Useful to know in my business.’ He plucked a note from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  I held the note up to the candlelight, squinting at Fleet’s impossible scrawl. It was dated the day before he was killed.

  My Dear Brother

  Thank you for my Gift; he is keeping me most Amused in this wretched Hell Hole. How he has stayed alive without my aid these past five and twenty years is a Mystery. In Three Days he has been Beaten, Tortured and Chained to a Wall; fallen in Love (twice); fought in a Riot and wrestled a Ghost. He also snores like the Devil.

  You asked if I might Discover why he Refused to give up his Purse to you when you had gone to the Trouble of holding a Knife to his Throat. Given that he is not a Lunatick (so far as I can tell), here follow my Conclusions, after Three Days of Close Study:

  i) He is a man of Instinct more than Reason

  ii) He is drawn to Trouble – or perhaps it is fairer to say, Trouble is drawn to him

  iii) He believes – at heart – that God will Protect him

  An Unfortunate Recipe for Disaster, you will agree – but it is the last point I fear the most. A man of true Faith in this City is like a Naked Man running into Battle, believing himself fully Armed. Diverting and alarming in Equal measure.

  In other Circumstances I would propose we Shipwreck him upon a Remote Island like Robinson Crusoe before he does himself an Injury. But here is the Strangest Truth of all. I would miss him. He has awoke me from myself, James; awoke me from a deep slumber. I’m not sure How or Why, but there it is. Perhaps it is his Youth, his Curiosity. I Suspect it may be his Legs.

  Whatever the Truth may be – I Thank you, dear Brother, from the Bottom of my Black Heart, for Placing him in my Path. I am much Obliged and remain, Sir, your Obedient Servant, etc

  S.

  I folded the note, shaking my head. He’d captured me well enough.

  Fleet’s brother gestured for me to keep it. ‘There is something I would like to know. You found him. His body . . .’ He leaned forward. ‘How did he die?’

  I remembered the blood upon the walls. The ugly slash of red across Fleet’s throat. ‘With his eyes open.’

  He breathed in sharply, and bit the corner of his lip. ‘With his eyes open,’ he murmured, at last. ‘That’s good.’ He nodded to himself then studied me for a long moment, black eyes as unreadable as his brother’s. ‘Word is you killed Jakes. But I don’t see the mark of death on you.’

  ‘No.’ I lowered my voice. ‘It was Kitty. Kitty Sparks.’

  He blinked in surprise. ‘Nat’s daughter?’

  ‘Shot him right between the eyes. With Fleet’s pistol.’

  He sat back, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. ‘With Sam’s pistol. He would have liked that. I am indebted to you, Mr Hawkins, for this information. Perhaps I might perform some small service in return?’ He picked up my dagger and trailed the tip slowly across the table. ‘The man who paid me to rob you, for instance?’

  ‘No need. I broke his nose this afternoon.’

  He chuckled, and slid the dagger towards me. ‘Here. In case you run into someone in a dark alley.’

  I tucked it away. ‘But I wonder if you might help me with another matter, sir. Kitty vanished from the Marshalsea ten days ago. No one knows where she is. Perhaps some of your friends could ask around town.’ And saying that, I remembered his son, the link boy. Sam Fleet. Named for his uncle.

  ‘My friends can find anything or anyone, Mr Hawkins. But that won’t be necessary in this case.’ He stood up, then beckoned me to follow him. Samuel would have weaved and danced his way across the room, quick as a fox. James Fleet cut a clean, straight path, and men drew back to let him pass.

  As we came closer to the hearth he clapped a hand upon my shoulder, and pointed to a low, battered leather armchair set by the fire. A pale, slender hand rested against the arm, clutching a pipe. Fleet’s journal lay on a table close by. ‘There, sir.’ He disappeared back into the crowds.

  ‘Kitty?’

  She turned her face from the fire then rose slowly to her feet. For a moment I thought James had been mistaken, she seemed so altered. She wore a black hat, tilted jauntily over one eye, and her plain servant’s clothes were gone, replaced with an emerald silk gown, trimmed with lace and tied with black velvet ribbons. But the change was deeper than her fine clothes; she seemed older, somehow, and more sure of herself. Then again, she had killed a man.

  ‘Well. Mr Hawkins.’ She gazed at me steadily, green eyes offering no clue to her thoughts.

  I hesitated. Since learning she was still alive I had imagined what I might say and do in this moment. I’d thought I might sweep her into my arms. But then I had also dared imagine she would be pleased to see me. ‘Kitty . . .’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Miss Sparks. Well; and I suppose you’ve heard of my change in fortune at last? Samuel left me everything in his will. And now here you are. What a queer coincidence. Am I good enough for your company now I’m a lady and not some common slut?’

  I stared at her in consternation. ‘I had no idea, I assure you.’

  She laughed at me. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? I saved your life. Nursed you when you lay dying. I risked my life and my soul for you, Tom Hawkins. And how did you repay me? The moment you were free you abandoned me without a moment’s thought.’ She clenched her teeth, fighting back the anger. ‘I saw you in Sir Philip’s yacht, flirting with his daughters. I watched you from the riverbank as you sailed away down the Thames. And I vowed I would never let a man betray me again. Never.’

  I sighed, remembering the pain I’d felt that day; the dull weight of loss that had oppressed my spirits ever since. ‘I was not flirting, Kitty,’ I said, quietly.

  ‘Well, that’s how it seemed to me. All those cushions.’ She frowned at the floor, skirts bunched tight in her fists. Even in her fury, she knew this sounded ridiculous. ‘Perhaps you were not flirting,’ she relented. ‘But you cannot deny that you left me. Well, I’m glad of it. You taught me a valuable lesson and now I’m free of you.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I will not be fooled again, Mr Hawkins.’

  ‘Charles told me you were dead.’

  She froze, hand pressed to her heart. ‘Oh,’ she breathed, the blood draining from her face. ‘Tom.’

  ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  Her eyes welled with tears. She blinked them away. ‘I see.’ Her fingers trailed across the soft silk of her gown. ‘So, you didn’t know about the will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you still came looking for me?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as I knew you were alive. Trim told me this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, that’s . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Well.’

  And that is the closest I have ever seen Kitty Sparks come to admitting she was wrong, about anything.

  I kissed her then, as many times as she’d let me. This was the life I thought I’d lost; I would not let it slip through my fingers again. And then Moll appeared and fell into a deep, involved discussion with Kitty about business. Covent Garden’s most notorious coffeehouse and London’s most disreputable print shop – there was a great deal to talk about. I ordered a bowl of punch and drew up a chair by the fire and before I knew it I had dozed off.

  Kitty nudged me awake at midnight. ‘You were snoring,’ she said. She tucked her feet up beneath her and smiled at me.

  ‘God save the king!’ someone shouted.

  ‘God save Moll King!’ someone called back – and everyone laughed.

  Kitty watched Betty pour a fresh pot of cof
fee with a soft expression. ‘A new king,’ she murmured, then shot me a bright smile. ‘A new day.’

  I stretched and yawned. ‘I suppose I should find myself an occupation. A place to live . . .’

  Kitty smiled and nudged her toe against my thigh. ‘Why, don’t you want to live with me, Tom?’

  I propped my hand against my chin in a vain attempt to appear nonchalant. ‘What about your reputation?’

  ‘I’m rich. I don’t need a reputation.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘How rich, exactly . . . ?’

  ‘Very.’

  I leaned forward and took her hand in mine. ‘I will make an honest woman of you, Kitty Sparks.’

  She grinned. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  We left Moll’s at dawn, crossing the piazza to Russell Street. Kitty wrapped an arm about my waist and I pulled her close, touching my lips to her cheek. The buildings grew more tatty and disreputable the further we went, private homes and smart coffeehouses making way for an apothecary, then a grocer’s shop, a rundown tavern, a gin shop. A brothel. The stink of piss and rotting food wafted up from the gutters. Kitty slipped her arm free and held her skirts up out of the filth. ‘Home,’ she said.

  And then I saw it, from the corner of my eye: a small, dark building, shrunk back from its neighbours as if it were sulking. The windows on the lower floor were piled high with a confusion of books and maps and engravings all tossed together in an impossible jumble. The shop sign sported a cocked pistol, set at an indecent angle.

  I cupped my hand and peered through the dirt-smeared window.

  ‘It all needs sorting,’ Kitty said. ‘I haven’t had the heart these last few days.’

  ‘I can help.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? You’ll roll up your sleeves and scrub the floor, will you?’

  ‘I meant the books and pamphlets. The sketches. I’d be happy to read through them . . .’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sure you would, you dog.’ She stepped closer and kissed me.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed. And then she took my hand and pulled me through the door.

  THE HISTORY BEHIND

  THE DEVIL IN THE MARSHALSEA

  This novel was in part inspired by actual events and many of the characters are either real or based loosely on real people. All of the conditions described are taken from first-hand accounts – if anything the reality was even worse. The anonymous debtor and writer of the poem ‘The Marshalsea, or, Hell in Epitome’ (1718) described prisoners being chained to rotting corpses as punishment.

  Many of the details of the prison come from John Grano’s contemporary diary of his life in the Marshalsea from 1728 to 1729. (See the note on real characters for more information.) I also drew extensively from the Gaols Committee report of 1729 and the reports of William Acton’s murder trial from August 1729.

  Much of Mr Woodburn’s lecture comes from a real sermon given to debtors in Ludgate prison in 1725. One can almost hear them shuffling and sighing in their seats nearly three hundred years later. The descriptions of turnkeys having to knock back cups of liquor before they opened up the prison wards is based on evidence from The State of the Gaols in London by William Smith, MD (1776 – which shows just how little conditions had improved in fifty years). Corpses were left to rot until grieving families could pay for their release. Mary Acton loved to dance – and Acton hated it. And there was a room called Belle Isle on the Master’s Side.

  Real people in the novel

  Many of the characters in the novel are based (to a greater or lesser degree) on real people, living and working in the Marshalsea and around the Borough in 1727. Much of this information was drawn from the prison diary of John Grano, a debtor in the Marshalsea between 1728 and 1729.

  I’m indebted to John Ginger who, as well as editing Grano’s diary, compiled a biographical list of prisoners, trusties and key characters in the Borough. Many of the biographical details listed here come from that source.

  William Acton

  Former butcher. A turnkey in the Marshalsea from at least the early 1720s. Chief turnkey from 1726 and deputy warden from March 1727. Married to Mary Acton, whose father James Wilson was a painter and formerly a prisoner on the Common Side. William and Mary had one son, Henry, born December 1724. In August 1729 Acton was put on trial for the murder of four prisoners. (We would have called it manslaughter – the prisoners had either been beaten or treated so badly that they had died of their wounds or related illness.) Acton was found not guilty – but his reputation was severely damaged once the truth about his brutal regime became known around the Borough. He left the prison shortly after and ran a pub called the Greyhound until his death in 1748. He left a decent fortune to his wife and only son.

  Captain Ralph Anderson

  In prison on the Common Side. He makes a brief appearance in Grano’s diary and there is a reference to an Anderson starting a riot in 1729 – according to Grano he attacked Acton with a knife.

  Betty

  A young black woman called Betty worked at Moll’s and appears in sketches of the coffeehouse. Betty was often used as a generic name for a young maidservant, so this was probably not her real name.

  Sarah Bradshaw

  Owned the coffeehouse in the Marshalsea. A prisoner from August 1721 owing £50. Voluntary resident from 1729.

  Henry Chapman

  Barman or ‘tapster’ in the Marshalsea from 1724. Voluntary after 1729. Owed £110, which seems a lot for a former ‘slop seller of St Giles’. (Slop sellers were merchants of work clothes, such as butcher’s aprons.) He was a witness for the defence in Acton’s trial.

  Joseph Cross

  Turnkey and former bricklayer of Wardour Street. One of Acton’s trusties.

  The ‘Ghost’

  This was inspired by a story in the Gaols Committee of a ghost that appeared to a prisoner held in the Strong Room of the Fleet prison. It was even illustrated in the report, alongside drawings of instruments of torture and starving prisoners in the sick wards.

  Edward Gilbourne

  Gilbourne was deputy prothonotary of the Marshalsea Court. He wrote the order stripping Matthew Pugh of his position as steward and banning him from the prison (quoted verbatim in the novel). In the Gaols Committee report (which includes Gilbourne’s note as an appendix), Acton claimed it was Gilbourne who told him to take the charity cabinet. Gilbourne denied this. Pugh mentions Gilbourne again in a broadside of 1729 as a corrupt man who should be brought to justice. An Edward Gilbourne bought a house in Kensington in 1735, and there’s a will at the National Archives for an Edward Gilbourne of Kensington who died in 1756.

  John Grace

  Briefly mentioned by Grano. The Committee report confirms that he helped tear down the charity cabinet and was imposed as steward until Acton abolished the post. Witness for the defence at Acton’s trial.

  Gilbert Hand

  Known as ‘the Ranger of the Park’, Hand was an Acton trusty but also ran errands for prisoners. Previously a farmer.

  Jenings

  Jenings, the watchman, was the only one of Acton’s trusties who spoke out against him at the trial.

  Moll King

  Moll was an infamous figure who managed to dodge the law most of her life. With her husband Tom she ran the most notorious coffeehouse in London (and there were about six hundred of these). The coffeehouse features in several satirical prints and paintings of the Covent Garden piazza including Hogarth’s Morning. When Tom King died the coffeehouse changed its name to Moll King’s. It was a real den of iniquity, rowdy, open all night and prone to rioting. Moll did end up in prison for a short spell later in life, but she died rich, with property in Hampstead, and passed the coffeehouse on to her son William.

  Richard ‘Mack’ McDonnell and wife (first name unknown)

  They ran the chophouse, the memorably named Titty Doll’s. Mack was an Irish painter living in St Giles before ending up in prison in 1726, owing £46.

  Sir Phil
ip and Lady Dorothy Meadows

  Sir Philip was Knight Marshal and ultimately responsible for the Marshalsea. It has been argued that one of the reasons Acton was found not guilty at his murder trial was because it would have reflected badly upon Sir Philip and by extension the court and the government. (Sir Philip had turned a blind eye to the illegal subletting of the position of keeper from Darby, the old governor, to Acton.) His daughter Mary was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Caroline, the wife of George II.

  Madame Mary Migault

  Mary Migault (née Valence) was a widow and had been in prison since June 1727. She had several run ins with John Grano.

  Matthew Pugh

  The old Common Side steward continued to seek justice for prisoners after Acton’s trial collapsed. In a world that shrugged its shoulders over corruption and inequality, Pugh fought valiantly for justice – but sadly to no avail.

  Trim

  Not much is known about Trim except that he was a prisoner and acted as the Master’s Side barber.

  Nehemiah Whittaker the baker and Stephen Siddall the apothecary were working in the Borough at the time.

  Select Bibliography

  This is a small selection of works I found particularly useful – and fascinating - during my research. Hogarth’s pictures were also an immeasurably valuable resource in terms of clothes, household objects, street scenes and, well . . . everything.