Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘I met his widow.’

‘Hmm.’ A pinched expression fixed upon Mrs Bradshaw’s face, the look of a woman failing – quite intentionally – to hide her dislike. ‘Poor Catherine,’ she said.

‘She told me her husband had been murdered.’

Mrs Bradshaw nodded. ‘Terrible business. There was uproar, wasn’t there, Mr Woodburn? A man dragged from his bed and killed – and no one caught. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?’ She took the opportunity to place a hand on my knee. ‘You must sleep with a blade in your hand in here, Mr Hawkins.’

Good advice, I was sure, but my blade had been taken from me last night. And for a moment I could feel the cold hard bite of it against my throat again, and the weight of my purse, the smooth leather pressed to my skin. I had been so close to freedom… Still – at least I was alive, which was more than could be said for Captain Roberts. ‘The coroner called it suicide, I believe?’

‘He was murdered,’ Woodburn muttered, almost to himself.

‘Well, it’s a shame the court didn’t agree with you, sir,’ Mrs Bradshaw replied. ‘And do you know what they did with his body, Mr Hawkins?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Everyone knew what happened to the corpses of those who committed self-murder. It was not pleasant. ‘In truth I’d really rather not-’

‘They buried him at a crossroads, with a stake plunged in his heart,’ Mrs Bradshaw said with some relish, pounding a fist to her huge chest. ‘Not even a bier to keep the worms from his poor body. And now his spirit haunts the gaol, never to rest. Mr Jenings the nightwatch saw him standing by the governor’s house in the middle of the night, all pale and grim with a noose still wrapped about his neck. And Mrs Carey swears she heard footsteps and a terrible groaning beneath the chandler’s window but when she looked out there was no one there. I’m scared to walk the yard at night in case he looms up out of the dark-’

‘ Enough! ’ Woodburn bellowed, making Mrs Bradshaw flinch and stutter to a halt. He gave a low moan. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot bear to think of it…’

Mrs Bradshaw patted his shoulder, clearly thrilled by the drama. ‘Mr Woodburn saw the body,’ she mouthed in a stage whisper over the chaplain’s shoulder. ‘They found it hanging in the Strong Room over on the Common Side, all beaten and bloody. Barely recognised him, did you, sir?’

Woodburn gave a little sob and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. ‘God rest his soul,’ he whispered.

Mrs Bradshaw patted his shoulder again. ‘A man doesn’t beat himself black and blue before hanging himself, does he, Mr Hawkins?’

I frowned. ‘I hope Mrs Roberts discovers the truth, for her own sake.’ As the widow of a suicide, she would be shunned by all decent society. I felt a surge of pity for the proud young woman who had saved me from Joseph Cross earlier that morning. Her reputation had been ruined through no fault of her own. ‘Does she suspect someone in particular?’

Mrs Bradshaw laughed. ‘Oh, we all suspect someone in particular.’ Her laughter died away and she glanced about her with an anxious expression. For a moment her gaze settled on Kitty, her maid, who was still playing with the little boy by the fire. She lowered her voice. ‘Captain Roberts had a roommate. He was there the night of the murder, lying in the very next bed just a few paces away. He says he didn’t hear a thing – claims he slept through it all. But the devil never sleeps, does he? How does it go…’

The words of St Peter rose to my mind unbidden. ‘ Be sober, be vigilant: because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. ’

When I looked back the chaplain was staring at me, his mouth a little ‘o’ of surprise.

‘A roaring lion?’ Mrs Bradshaw sniffed. ‘A hissing snake’s more like it, slithering about the place, studying you with those nasty black eyes of his.’

Samuel Fleet. It had to be. I shifted uneasily in my chair.

‘Mrs Bradshaw,’ Woodburn tutted. ‘You cannot accuse a man of murder just because-’

‘He’s not a man,’ she cried. ‘He’s a demon!’

‘What’s this?’ Kitty called from across the room. ‘Do you speak of Mr Fleet?’

‘Mr Woodburn,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you believe it?’

He sighed and shook his head. ‘I cannot say, sir. But I fear he is capable of the very worst crimes.’ He held my gaze. ‘The very worst.’

I was about to reply when a terrible cry rose from the yard. A second later one of Gilbert Hand’s boys rushed into the room.

‘What news, Jim?’ Kitty asked sharply.

‘They’ve took Jack Carter!’ the boy replied, hopping from foot to foot in a mix of fear and excitement. ‘He fell off the wall trying to escape!’

Kitty pushed past us to reach the window. I joined her, more curious than alarmed, and saw Joseph Cross dragging a small heap of rags into the middle of the yard. A tall, broad-shouldered man in black breeches and a bright red waistcoat strode behind them, holding his jacket in one meaty hand. Prisoners and guards leapt out of his way, scurrying to the far corners of the yard. Within a few moments, the Park was empty.

Only one person could command such power in a prison. I glanced at Kitty.

‘Mr Acton,’ she muttered, her face twisted with hatred.

Woodburn rose a little from his chair and put on his spectacles before peering out into the yard. ‘Drunk.’ He sighed and returned to his seat, pocketing his spectacles. ‘This will go badly for Jack.’

Kitty turned and glared at him. ‘Then do something.’

The chaplain rubbed the back of his neck. ‘He won’t listen to me,’ he muttered, looking shamefaced.

Out in the Park, Cross threw the prisoner to the ground. He gave a sharp scream of pain, and clutched his ankle. It looked broken. ‘Oh, please! Oh, God,’ he sobbed in a cracked voice, dragging himself along the ground and staring desperately at all the windows. ‘Please! Someone help me!’

Acton said something to Cross and they both laughed.

‘He’s just a boy,’ I said, shocked.

‘Thirteen,’ Woodburn whispered to the floor. ‘He’s thirteen.’

Acton threw his jacket at Cross and began to roll up his sleeves. I knew then what would come next. ‘Dear God,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘He cant…, he won’t …’

Acton took a short, hard whip from his belt, a savage thing made to drive cattle. Enough to tear flesh from a young boy’s bones.

Kitty clutched my arm so tight I almost cried out, but she didn’t look away.

Acton grabbed the boy’s shoulder and hauled him to his knees. He raised the whip in the air.

One silent moment.

The whip came down. Then again. And again.

The boy screamed, holding up his hands to shield himself.

A ripple of sympathy spread across the room, but no one moved. The beating went on and on, relentless. I could hear Acton grunting softly with the effort. Sometimes he would pause, and wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Plant his feet a little wider. And then he would begin again. Woodburn covered his face with his hands.

The boy’s cries faded to whimpers, then silence, as the blows came down.

Slowly, without a word, people moved away from the window. Only Kitty remained, still clutching my arm, her fingers digging in with every lash as if she could feel it ripping her own skin. A tear slid down her cheek.

You must act , a voice spoke in my head. You must do something, for pity’s sake. He’s just a boy, and they’re beating him to death in front of your eyes.

He was on his knees, now, crawling through the dirt. Acton raised his boot and stamped down hard on his back.