Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

Remembering my vow not to lose any more money, I leaned forward. ‘This is kind of you… but I’m not certain I can afford…’

He stopped me with a wave of his hand. ‘On the house. We’ll be drinking at your expense tonight, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, throwing a sheet across me and tucking it into my collar. ‘You should look your best for the occasion.’

He washed my face with the scented water and began working the soap into my skin with firm, expert fingers. I closed my eyes and settled back, relaxing for the first time since stepping through the Lodge gate that morning.

And then he put the blade to my throat.

‘Mr Hawkins…?’

I opened my eyes. My hand was squeezed tight about Trim’s wrist, the blade shoved violently away from my neck. For a second I fought the urge to dash the razor to the ground and strike him hard.

‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said again, softly. Carefully. ‘Is all well, sir?’

I blinked, and took a deep breath. Dropped my hand. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. My face flushed with embarrassment.

‘Nothing to forgive,’ Trim smiled, his eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and concern. ‘You’ve had a shock, I think?’

My fingers reached for the bump on my head. ‘I was set upon, last night. A cutpurse put a knife to my throat.’

‘Ah.’ He put the razor down with a soft clatter. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

My story tumbled out – everything that had happened to me since I’d left Moll’s for home the night before. A great deal, it transpired.

Trim shook his head in sympathy. ‘You are bearing up remarkably well, under the circumstances. Admirable. But here, I have something that may help.’ He poured some wine into a small pan and placed it on the stove, then stepped over to a set of shelves filled with glass bottles and stone pots. He ran his fingers over the jars then began tipping ingredients into a pestle and mortar. ‘What bad luck you’ve had,’ he commiserated over his shoulder.

‘It was my own fault. I should have been more careful.’

He added the ground-up powder into the pan. A warm, spiced aroma filled the room. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself. You weren’t to know the boy would trick you.’

‘Perhaps God is punishing me,’ I muttered, surprising myself. Those were my father’s words falling from my lips.

‘Punishing you…?’ Trim ladled the wine into a wooden bowl and handed it to me with a frown. ‘What on earth for?’

I breathed in the steam, caught the soothing scent of cloves and cinnamon. I smiled. ‘For having too much fun.’

‘Hah!’ He eyed me appraisingly. ‘I can imagine.’

Whatever Trim had mixed into the wine it did me good, as he’d promised, and I was soon relaxed enough to bear the touch of his razor against my skin without flinching. Once I was shaved he trimmed my hair close to my scalp to keep away the lice and then he washed and dressed the worst of my cuts and bruises, applying a soothing balm of his own recipe. For all this he wouldn’t take a farthing. No wonder he was in a debtors’ gaol.

Trim was busy sweeping the floor when a porter arrived with his supper carried over from Titty Doll’s, the chophouse above the Oak. Trim asked me to join him and I accepted gratefully, mouth watering as the porter slapped down dishes of dressed mackerel with gooseberries, boiled beef and artichokes and cold ham with salad. The meat did not look in its prime but I hadn’t eaten all day – and it had been a very long day.

While we were eating I asked Trim about some of the people I’d met in the gaol. After all, who knows more about a man’s true character than a barber? Who sees a man at his most vulnerable and yet his most relaxed? This is the way stories are spilt – drowsily, in a scented room.

Perhaps because they were his customers, Trim was more charitable in his observations than I might have been. The Reverend Andrew Woodburn was a good man who did his best for the Common Side. A little weak? Oh… (a tilt of the head, a gentle prodding of the mackerel) perhaps , but his heart was in the right place. Widow Roberts – you found her proud, Mr Hawkins? Aloof? But then she had suffered a great loss. And the stain of the poor captain’s suicide… one had to admire her for holding her head high. Joseph Cross was unruly and coarse, yes – but that was the drink. If he were ever sober he might be a different man altogether; who could say? And of course Gilbert Hand was as slippery as an eel but what energy! what industry! As for Acton, well, there was no denying the man was a bully, and could be vicious, yes – truly vicious. A short pause. A large swig of beer. But… another pause. Well, they say Bambridge up at the Fleet gaol is worse still.

‘You’re a generous man, Trim,’ I said, helping myself to a sugar cake. ‘And what of Mary Acton? Is she… cheerful company?’

‘She’s…’ Trim thought for a moment. ‘Spirited.’

I licked the sugar from my fingers. ‘Indeed.’

‘Her father was a prisoner here some years back. On the Common Side.’

‘Yes, Mr Fleet told me.’

Trim’s shoulders stiffened. He pushed away his plate. ‘Mr Fleet… Yes.’

I waited, the silence hanging in the air. When Trim didn’t elaborate I leaned forward. ‘I’ve heard a great deal of my cell mate.’ None of it good . ‘What sort of a man is he, Trim? Can I trust him?’

Trim picked up his knife and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Fleet is a fine gentleman,’ he said loudly, while jabbing his knife towards the floor in a pointed fashion. ‘Most agreeable.’ And then, under his breath, ‘With excellent hearing.’

Of course. I had forgotten Trim’s room was directly above my own. And the floorboards were rotten.

Supper over, we scraped our chairs back from the table. Trim patted his stomach with a contented air. ‘Not bad for Mrs Mack,’ he conceded, and burped behind his hand. ‘Good preparation for a night’s drinking.’

‘Will my six shillings cover the whole ward?’ There were twenty men at least in my building, and the garnish was meant to buy a drink for every one of them.

‘It will add nicely to the pot,’ he smiled.

‘And if I refuse to pay?’

Trim rose and stretched. ‘Then I’m afraid we let the black dog walk.’

‘The black dog…?’

‘Old gaol tradition. Your ward mates grab hold of you, pin you to the ground, tear all your clothes off and, well…’ He grinned. ‘Then you pay your garnish.’

‘Ah.’

‘Funniest one I ever saw was your new chum, Mr Fleet,’ he added.

‘He refused to pay?’

Trim shook his head. ‘Refused to call it garnish. Stood in the middle of the Tap Room, stripped himself naked then strode up to the bar and ordered two guineas’ worth of drinks for the whole room.’ He paused. ‘I must say, for a man of his years, he’s kept himself in good order.’

I promised Trim I would join him shortly in the Tap Room and returned to my room to change my shirt. Fleet was lying stretched out upon his bed, thankfully still dressed in his banyan, though his stockings and breeches lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He was smoking a pipe and reading a dog-eared pamphlet called

A TREATISE on the USE of

FLOGGING

In Venereal Affairs

Translated into English

By a PHYSICIAN

To which is Added

A TREATISE OF HERMAPHRODITES.

He had made notes in the margin, with exclamation points.

I could feel his eyes upon my back as I stripped off my shirt and took out the clothes Charles had sent.

‘You’ve taken a nasty beating, Mr Hawkins.’

‘I was attacked last night.’ I turned to face him, buttoning up the plain white shirt. ‘They took my purse. That’s why I’m here.’