Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘Mr Hawkins!’ Mr Woodburn called, peering down from the highest landing. He waved his broad-brimmed hat over the banister. ‘And is that the Reverend Charles Buckley I spy with you? Bless my soul! You are acquainted, sirs?’

Charles gave a low curse then called out, pleasantly, ‘Why, Mr Woodburn! A good day to you, sir.’

We pushed our way towards him, up the stairs and past the Oak – the women’s ward. I cast a longing glance towards the thick double doors. I had yet to meet the more genteel women debtors – the Tap Room was too low a place, fit more for ladies of the town. I didn’t expect them to visit Fleet for afternoon tea, either. Sadly the entrance to the Oak was locked tight while court was in session.

I supposed at some point my own case would be heard and I would be forced to throw myself on the mercy of Mr Fletcher, my landlord, who was furious with me for fucking his wife – or for not fucking her. Either way, I did not expect him to be in a forgiving mood. I wondered again who could have written that poisonous note to him… but then it slipped my mind, and I did not think of it again. It was foolish of me to forget it.

‘My dear sirs,’ Woodburn sighed when we reached the final landing. He had an arm about young Ben Carter’s shoulder, clutching him tight as if he might slide to the floor. I didn’t recognise the boy at first, he was so hunched in upon himself. They made quite a pair: the old, well-fed cleric in his wilfully shabby clothes and the boy, too thin, too serious, too wary for his age.

Woodburn clasped both of Charles’ hands in his, releasing Ben who swayed on the spot, exhausted.

‘I’m sorry about Jack,’ I said in a quiet voice. ‘He was a brave lad.’

He gazed up at me, with red-rimmed eyes. I had the impression he did not share my opinion of his brother. ‘I’ve a message for you.’

‘From Mr Hand?’

‘No, sir.’ There was a slurred, vacant tone to his voice, as if shock and grief had wrung all the life from him. ‘From the ghost. From Captain Roberts . ’

‘Indeed?’ I stared at him, astonished, and started to smile.

A flash of anger. ‘I swear it! On my soul!’ His fists bunched at his sides.

‘Very well, Ben,’ I said, gently. The poor boy had been through enough – it cost nothing to humour him. ‘And what did he want with me?’

His fists unclenched a little. ‘He said he must speak with you tonight. Midnight – beneath the Court porch. Alone. You mustn’t tell a soul.’

‘What’s this?’ Woodburn glanced over, curious.

‘We were just speaking of poor Jack,’ I said, remembering Fleet’s description of the chaplain. Meddlesome . ‘I’m sure he was glad to have his brother there, at the end.’

Woodburn’s expression softened. ‘Aye, and all thanks to you, sir.’ He turned to Charles. ‘Your friend understands the true meaning of charity – a rare gift in this wicked world.’

‘Indeed.’ Charles coughed back the laugh forming in his throat. ‘Tom’s a veritable Lot in Sodom.’

Woodburn nodded absently. ‘Well, I’m afraid we must leave you,’ he said, pushing the boy towards the stairs. He lowered his voice. ‘We are to visit Mr Fleet. He insists on hearing this business about a ghost and I will not have Benjamin see him alone. The man’s wicked. Wicked to the core.’

‘My cell mate,’ I explained to Charles.

He stared at me in alarm. ‘You’re sharing a room with Samuel Fleet ?’

‘Do you know him, Charles?’

He shook his head a fraction, as if to say, not here .

Woodburn was fidgeting with his collar, ill at ease. ‘What do you make of this ghost story, gentlemen? I can scarce believe it, but it is not like the boy to lie.’ He gave an anxious frown. ‘Perhaps he did see something. Scripture teaches us-’

‘He has just spent the night watching over his dying brother, all alone in the dark,’ Charles interrupted mildly. He patted the chaplain’s arm. ‘We would all see ghosts, would we not?’

Woodburn did not look convinced, but he nodded all the same. ‘Aye, I’m sure you’re right. Well, best not keep the devil waiting, eh?’ He bowed and excused himself, pulling Ben along silently in his wake.

Titty Doll’s was a large, dingy, smoke-filled room at the back of the Court Palace, on the top floor. Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse made the yard its own theatre. The Tap Room offered views – wanted or not – of the Common Side. But the windows in Titty Doll’s were high up by the ceiling, granting only snatches of sky and the occasional bird wheeling and swooping far in the distance. Of all the places to dine in the Marshalsea, this was the place to hide, to forget where you were. For that reason alone the prices were higher. Luckily for me, Charles was paying.

With most of the prisoners locked up in their rooms the chophouse was quiet, just the soft murmur of court business and low gossip passed among a straggle of customers. A fat, sweating lawyer was slobbering over a late breakfast of glistening, fricasseed tripe and calves’ feet, while a pale-faced clerk ordered raw milk and bread from Mrs Mack.

‘Long night,’ he explained, rubbing his forehead with inky fingers. ‘I’m paying for it, Mrs Mack.’

‘No sympathy,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Lord and master’s groaning into his pillow this morning, same reason. Every morning,’ she corrected herself and smiled at us. ‘Settle yourselves, gents. With you in a moment.’

As we moved towards a quiet table by the fire we passed a trio of young whores recovering from a night locked in with the turnkeys, ladling out glasses of punch and miming scenes from the night to one another. They nudged each other and stifled giggles as Charles passed by in his black suit and white neck scarf, but he just smiled and raised his hat.

‘Ladies.’

They laughed more warmly at that and called out a menu of services, prices discounted for kind-hearted clerics such as himself. He shook his head politely. I bowed to them with a flourish once his back was turned.

Mrs Mack returned to take our order. She was, in essence, Not Mack – tiny, round, calm, sober. Short on words. We ordered a bottle of wine from her, after which Charles lapsed into silence.

I lit a pipe and waited. He had grown into his looks these past few years. I always thought of Charles as he was at school: plump-cheeked and bashful, brows drawn into an anxious expression, as if he were afraid of the things he did not know. But he was a man now, certain of himself and his place in the world, all his childhood worries smoothed away. Or buried, perhaps.

The wine arrived. Charles poured himself a glass and stared into its red velvet depths. ‘I have spoken with Sir Philip.’

Ah. I took a long gulp of wine and waited.

‘I’m sorry, Tom. He refuses to help.’ Charles pushed his wine away. He looked wretched. ‘I begged him…’

‘Please, Charles.’ I touched his arm. ‘I understand.’

‘I’m afraid he remembers you. A little too well.’

I frowned in confusion. I was sure I had never spoken with Sir Philip in my life… And then I remembered – a warm spring morning a few months before. I’d been weaving my way home via Mayfair when I saw Charles from a distance, standing outside Sir Philip’s house with a boy of about sixteen, about to step into a fine carriage. I had spent the night drinking out on the river and it had seemed a tremendously good idea to shout his name down the street.

‘The Reverend Charles Matthew Buckley!’ I yelled heartily, just as Sir Philip puffed his way down the path.

Charles had turned, startled. I held up my hand, and a bottle, in greeting.

‘Oh, Lord,’ I said now, groaning at the memory. ‘What on earth did I say to him?’