by G. P. Taylor
“I smelt that before, when Solomon left the cell. I would never forget a scent as lovely as that,” he said as he held tightly to Tara. “I have known it before,” he said longingly. “There was a girl in Covent Garden who would always bring me bread when I was begging, and if she had many favours, she would give me a slice of meat. She always carried a garland of lavender, it would spice the cold air and—”
Tara set off at a pace, her feet deciding which path to follow as they ascended into the growing light. “I heard Campion say that Solomon was away from the Citadel. When he returns, they will surely come looking for us. Campion may not know of this tunnel, but it will be the first place that Solomon looks.” Tara squeezed her companion’s hand; it was wondrously soft and warm, his skin tickled her palm as it oozed heat through her veins. “Warm hands, cold heart, that’s what my mother would say. No good for baking bread, not hands like that. Made for mischief and milking cows.” She laughed, the sound echoing down the tunnel and into the far shadows. She felt warm towards the boy and responsible for his safety—she would be his eyes, a good shepherd to lead this lamb through the dark valley and into the light.
The tunnel got narrower and narrower. From all around them they could hear the chanting and singing of the Solomites that pierced the hard stone walls and shivered the candles in their heart-shaped lanterns.
They tramped on in silence. The tunnel made a sudden, sharp turn, then levelled out and opened into a large room with an oak door against each wall. In the centre of the room was a great table adorned with two freshly trimmed candles set on silver sticks, and on the table was an outsized brass clock covered with a bell jar. The pendulum swung back and forth, counting the seconds and pushing the sword-shaped hands.
“What do you see?” Tersias asked as they stood at the entrance to the room, the sweet smell of lavender stronger than before.
“There is a table, a clock, candlesticks and three doors,” Tara said. “Which shall I take?”
“Let us try them all, and when we see what is ahead, then we can choose our escape.”
“How do we know which one will be the safest? Campion could be behind it, dining on one of his guests, or Solomon, or—”
“For me every step is taken in darkness. You have eyes, use them well.” Tersias took her hand. “Take me to each door, I will tell you which one we should go through.”
She did as he said, leading him across the room and standing him in front of the first door. He put out his hands and touched the wood, then slowly ran his little fingers against the beams, touching each grain of the wood, listening with his fingertips.
From door to door he went, feeling for what was beyond, silently connecting to who had been there before as his fingertips searched out their testimonies traced in each oak fibre. Then Tersias pulled Tara closer and whispered softly. “The first door is locked, beyond it are people. The second is a passageway, no one has been that way for a long time. The third door is the strangest of them all. It is as if it is just a door with nothing behind—the hinges have never been opened and it has no lock or latch. We have but one choice.”
“Choice?” said a voice from behind them. “You have every choice in the world. We cannot choose when we are born, but I can choose when you die.”
Solomon stepped into the room from the first door. “You may have fooled Campion, but alas, you could not fool me.” He looked at Tara. “Magic—is that how you escaped? I was the only one to know of my secret way in and out of every room in this building and you have found me out. I take it you didn’t appreciate the company of Mister Moab. I have always found him frightfully entertaining. . . . But now I will unearth you a more suitable guest to share your time with.”
Solomon grinned darkly and crossed the room towards them, a horsewhip twitching in his fingers.
XIV
SONS OF PRATTLEMENT
In the light of the breaking dawn, the two high towers of Fleet Prison grew like tall oaks from the mud of the dirty street, rising through the dank smog and into a crisp, clear sky above. The six o’clock watch swapped the keys with the night-men, who sallied quietly back to their beds, wiping off the grime of eight hours’ listening to the chokers and moaners hanging from their cell bars, desperate for a breath of fresh air to take away the stench.
Prison fever gripped the walls and lined the throats of most of the inmates. Their retching echoed across the courtyard and into the ears of the approaching militia, who were escorting the cart in which Malachi and Jonah were jostled to their captivity. Skullet picked his way through the yard. To keep his feet from the dirt and dung, his fine leather shoes were perched on a pair of the finest iron risers, which clip-clopped against the stones like metal stilts. With each step he defiantly prodded his long black staff into the mud and shouted at the guards to pull the fat donkey faster.
Mrs. Devereaux ran out in welcome, quickly folding The Times in her bosom pocket. Jonah knew her well: she was his father’s third wife, but had never taken his name. She always said she had married beneath herself—“on the bounce,” she would squawk, meaning it was more out of sympathy than love. As for Jonah, he had quickly departed the household, gone within the day of her arriving and with no love lost.
Malachi saw Jonah grimace as Mrs. Devereaux fussed about the guard, thrusting a white linen sack into his hand. When Skullet came into view, she jumped upright, straightened the skirt over her fat rump and coughed several times to attract his attention.
“You dying, woman?” Skullet chortled as he walked towards her. “Can’t be canoodling with someone with jail fever, can I, Lizzy?”
She giggled like a child and put a hand to her face to cover her crimson blushes. “Everything’s ready, just like you wanted. Both in the same cell, no windows and near the gallows.” She looked at Jonah, her face changing from the soft smile that she had given to Skullet to a look that spoke of cringing resentment. “Thought I’d told you never to come back, Jonah Ketch. I never wanted to see your face again.”
“So you know the ruffian, do you, Lizzy?” Skullet handed her his staff and wiped his hands on her sullied apron.
“Knew his father better. Married him when he was the jailer here. Took up and died on me within the month, he did. Never was reliable. Could never hang ’em straight, either, always left them to dangle.”
“You poisoned him, you old hag,” Jonah shouted. “He had so much lead in him that he could have been rolled out and spread on the church roof. You can’t deny that, can you, Lizzy?”
“Never did. Mister Skullet will bear me out. Your father died in my arms of jail fever. Loved him with all my heart . . .”
“Loved him from the depths of your wallet. Got his job, got his money, threw me out and bought a quart of gin. Strange how all your men die. . . . Didn’t one choke on your dumplings, were they made of lead?”
“I think you boast with the voice of a dead man,” Skullet said as he waved the cart on. “Take them and lock them away. There will be a court tomorrow at eleven. The indictments are ready and so is the rope. Feed them, give them wine and let them fester. Mrs. Devereaux and I are going to share breakfast . . .” Skullet grinned at the jailer, giving her a sly wink as he turned from the gate and followed her to the hostel. “Make sure they are comfortable. Lord Malpas wouldn’t like any mishap to befall his friends.”
“What about my lawyer?” shouted Malachi as Skullet began to walk away. “I have the right of an advocate.”
“No son of prattlement will do you any good. Your case was sealed when you stepped into Vamana House. Enjoy your last meal and kiss this life good-bye.”
Skullet and Mrs. Devereaux disappeared together into the warm glow of the hostel. The smell of roasting nutmeg and ginger billowed from the doorway and into the street.
As Malachi sniffed the air, an unexpected joy stirred his memories. He slumped back into the cart, resigned to his fate. With one last glance he looked back on London and his lost life as the cart rattled over the broken cobbles of
the prison yard. Two large black gates swung quietly together, blocking out the world with a long slow thump.
“Never see it again, Jonah,” he whispered hopelessly to the boy. “But I don’t mind my fate. I have trod this earth for fifty years, but you—you are just a poor boy. There is malice abroad and I have been the one who has dangled the sprat on the hook. I have caught a malevolence that has infected your life and brought you to this.”
“When you were my age, did you ever wonder how it would all end?” Jonah asked as the cart drew up to the small door that led into the deep dungeons beneath the prison.
“Never . . . I thought I would live forever. But in a strange way it is good to know it will all be ended tomorrow.” Malachi chuckled to himself. “November the f if th . . . a night of mischief and bonfires will light my passing to the stars. We can rise up together like brands from the fire and go on our journey hand in hand.”
“There is much I wanted to do,” Jonah mused. “I used to dream of being a highwayman. I wanted to rob the King as he travelled to York. To see his shrivelled face as I stuck my pistol up his fat German nose and demanded everything he had. Imagine that! And then I would escape, ride to Edinburgh as fast as the wind and dine in the Witchery and deny I had ever been to London. Such would have been my life . . .” Jonah laughed as a militiaman grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from the cart.
Together they were marched into the depths of the dungeons. A jack-lantern lit their feet, casting the meagre light. Down and down they spiralled, along cold dark landings hemmed in by rough-hewn stones. As the clatter of their feet echoed in the all-consuming darkness and the air got colder, the chattering of the militia dwindled.
“Where do you take us?” Malachi asked the guard.
“To the royal dungeon. It’s not been used since the time of King Richard. You both must be special guests for Malpas to keep you so secure. Not the usual place for a man who stole a spoon. Must want you out of the way for good.”
“I am the man who sold the world, and right from under his nose,” Malachi replied. They marched quickly on into the glow of a fresh torch of burning tar-cloth that lit a large doorway.
“This is your lodgings,” the guard said abruptly, stepping to one side and shuddering as he turned his back. “We’ll be glad to get out of this place; too many rumours of what has gone on down here.”
“The ghosts?” Jonah said, stepping into the cell.
“You know of them, lad?” asked the guard cautiously as he slowly began to close the door.
“My father would never come down here when he was the jailer. One night he and some other men had a bet. Got a boy inmate, strapped a side drum to his chest with a candle mounted on the top and sent him down here alone. They told him to beat the drum with every step he took. He wagered on how far the boy would get.”
“How far did he walk?” The guard tried to make a hasty count of each stride he had taken into the dark depths.
“Two hundred and ninety-nine and he beat no more. Then they heard his screaming. None of them would dare come for him and the lad was never seen again. Father said that the ghosts would let you in, but they would never want to let you out again.” Jonah drew them closer with each word that he whispered. “It is said,” he went on quietly, “that the boy haunts the steps, and someone, one day, will have to the pay the price to see his soul set free.”
A broad silence descended upon the militia. One nervously held the grip of his pistol, whilst another pulled up the collar of his coat against his shaved neck. They looked at one another and a growing nervousness passed from eye to eye.
Dry-mouthed, the guard attempted a reply. “Best be going,” he quivered. “Once you’re locked in, there’ll be no need for a door-man. There will be no escaping from here, will there, boy?” The guard thrust a linen bag into Malachi’s hand filled with a fresh ham and flagon of wine. All the militia nodded anxiously, none of them wanting to be left alone with the prospect of a childlike spectre beating their way to hell with a drum and candle.
“No, sir,” said Jonah, covering his mouth with his hand. “I would never dare leave the cell and face the drummer-boy . . .”
The guard quickly slammed the door and turned the lock. There was a scurry of feet as the militia ran along the corridors in double time.
Jonah turned and smiled at Malachi. “Terrible thing, this fear of ghosts,” he said. The gasps of the guards could be heard echoing along the landings as they clambered back to the daylight.
“But what of the boy?” Malachi asked nervously. “This is not a laughing matter.”
“If it were true, then I would be afraid as they are, but the ghost began its haunting when I saw that guard shudder. It is a haunting of my imagination. Now they are the ones with fear in their bellies and sweat on their backs and we, Magnus Malachi, are in the safest place in London. We have a day before the trial. No one will come down here. The ghosts are but a legend to keep prying eyes away from all the wares that were stolen from the prisoners. What better guard than a terrible spectre to keep the nosy old hag Mrs. Devereaux at bay?”
“You’re a clever one through and through, Mister Ketch,” Malachi said, “and one that I like very much. It’ll be a pleasure to spend my final hours with one such as you.” He arranged himself upon an old wooden bed next to a large empty stone fireplace.
“Then you will have my company for a long time, for I am not planning on dying,” said Jonah, still smiling at his good fortune in being imprisoned in such a place as this. “We have light and soon we’ll have warmth, and when darkness falls we will have our freedom. This was once my home; there is no better place to be imprisoned than this. I know every inch and every stone and tonight we shall be free.”
With that Jonah set about the transformation of their captivity. Pulling Malachi from the old bed, he took the wooden frame and smashed it to pieces, piling the broken wood into the cavernous fireplace. He then tore the cover off the old straw mattress and wound it around his hand; reaching through the barred window of the cell door, he took a light from the tar lantern in the passageway.
Quickly the dried wood burst into flame and the fire took hold, filling the dungeon with a warm tender light that made bright their circumstances. Malachi squatted like a fat old owl, saying nothing but the occasional grunt of pleasure as Jonah smashed a large table and stoked the fire even higher so that the flames leapt violently up the wide chimney.
Soon they had enough tinder wood to keep a burning in the hearth for a day and a night. Jonah thawed his backside against the flames, then leant back and settled contentedly on the warmed stones next to Malachi. Together they ate the ham and shared the wine from the linen bag.
Jonah sniffed the flagon before he put it to his lips. “She has a poisonous way with her, does Lizzy Devereaux,” he said as he smiled at Malachi and took a mouthful of the wine.
“A wicked and poisonous tongue and one that I hope she will impale in Skullet’s ear and suck out what little brains he has,” Malachi replied. The thought of Skullet and Mrs. Devereaux sharing breakfast soured the taste of the wine. “I take it you have some plan to magically transport us from this place?”
“I have something that will take your breath away and is far better than any of your magic: something that’ll leave Malpas and Skullet wondering what power has been at work in our lives.” Jonah chewed a large piece of meat from the ham bone and gripped it with his teeth like a mad dog. “By the time of the trial we’ll be long gone. We’ll be supping chocolate with Lady Griselda at Strumbelo and working out how to get Tara and Tersias from Solomon.”
“As easy as that?” Malachi asked as he watched Jonah begin to gnaw on the bone.
“As easy as that,” Jonah said. “I heard that this jail was a palace,” he said thoughtfully, swallowing the chewed mixture of meat and wine. “King Richard lived in this very room. They say that something horrific happened, something so terrible that he never came back and turned the place into a dungeon.”
“It’s the truth, I tell you,” Jonah protested as he threw more wood on the fire. “There’s bad blood in these stones. It has never been a happy place, too many dark corners and forgotten passageways. That’s why they built the new jail, couldn’t get a guard to stay here overnight—too many noises, too many things went wrong.”
“More stories?” Malachi chuckled as the wine numbed his lips.
“I tell you, it’s the honest truth. My father told me that one day he cleaned out a cell and put the bed by the wall with a fresh mattress of straw. He filled a bucket with water and emptied out the slop. Then he locked the door and took nine paces. . . . He said it was like the sound of a madman, someone gone berserk thrashing the wood and ripping the straw. He ran back and the cell had been destroyed. Everything had been ripped to pieces, like some dog had chewed everything. Whatever had done it had been so strong that it could bite through bed wood. There were teeth-marks, but nothing was seen of who did it.”
“And that’s what your father told you?” Malachi said. “Sounds like more stories to keep you away from what he was hiding down here.” He snuggled into the warm hearth and pulled his long coat around him like a blanket. “It has been a long night and Malachi needs time to dream of what he is to do. Wake me when you have your plan ready—and if not, let’s approach our judgment without the curse of tiredness hanging from our eyelids.”