Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I ordered a glass of beer from the ever-surly Chapman and smoked a pipe out on the balcony, looking down upon the two yards divided by the high brick wall. It seemed more brutal from above – a long thin line separating hope from despair, life from death. Jenings had found Roberts hanged in the Strong Room over on the Common Side. Belle Isle – the room I shared with Fleet – was way over by the northwest corner, close to where Trim and Mack were playing rackets. I let my gaze travel across the yard. The two points could hardly be further apart. I saw now what Trim had tried to explain the night before in the Tap Room; Fleet could not possibly have carried or even dragged Roberts all the way across the gaol by himself.

‘Fine puzzle, isn’t it?’

It was Fleet, appearing as if by magic at my side and making me jump in alarm. He was still dressed in his banyan and cap; in fact I was beginning to suspect this was his daily uniform. He had the smell of a man who washed irregularly. He gestured across the yard, pipe clamped between his teeth. ‘Must’ve been two of ’em, wouldn’t you say?’

I frowned, thinking it through. ‘One man could do it, if he were strong enough.’

‘Are you thinking of our dear governor…?’ He shot me a sidelong glance. ‘Acton could manage it alone, I suppose. But he likes his cronies about him for the dirty work. Bullies are just men who don’t know they are cowards, of course.’ He pointed the stem of his pipe at the door in the wall. ‘Whoever it was, they would need a key to get through to the Strong Room.’

Out in the Common Side yard a fight had broken out, two men pushing each other to the ground and rolling in the dirt. A woman screamed at them to stop, a baby crying on her hip. A thin rabble gathered round to watch, jeering and shouting encouragements.

‘Perhaps they picked the lock.’

‘Aye,’ Fleet said, then chuckled. ‘You are determined to contradict me, aren’t you?’ He spread his hands out, assessing the wall’s height. ‘Perhaps there were ten of them, all clambered upon each other’s shoulders like tumblers.’

Four of Acton’s men tore out into the Common yard, cudgels raised high. They pulled the two men apart and clubbed them about the back and shoulders before dragging them away. The woman ran after them, yelling curses. One of the guards cuffed her as she reached him, knocking her hard in the mouth. She fell heavily to her knees, the baby sliding from her arms into the dirt.

‘There is another possibility,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Roberts really did hang himself.’

‘Nonsense,’ Fleet snorted. ‘He was a bloody mess when Jenings cut him down. Poor bastard.’

‘But he could still have taken his own life, after his beating.’

Fleet considered this for a moment, brows furrowed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he murmured. ‘Not likely, but possible. So tell me… why would he kill himself?’

Down in the yard, the baby was screaming. The woman gathered it up and staggered away, sobbing into her apron. ‘Guilt? Shame? Despair? I can think of a dozen reasons.’

‘Guilt…?’ Fleet’s fierce black eyes fixed on mine. ‘For what?’

‘For giving up his son. Catherine said he was never the same again.’

‘Ah.’ He waved his hand, dismissing the whole notion. ‘No, no. Roberts loved himself far too much to end his own life. I’ve never known a man spend so much time staring at himself in the glass. With good reason, I suppose; he was a handsome enough fellow.’ He gazed at me for a long, uncomfortable moment, then grinned. ‘ Catherine …?’

‘She’s a fine woman.’

‘She’s a rich woman.’

‘She’s a fine, rich woman.’

Fleet laughed. ‘We are agreed on this, at least. But I’m surprised you haven’t yet asked me about Ben Carter. Are you not curious to learn what he saw?’

I kept my expression guarded; the same look I used when I had a pair of aces to play. ‘About the ghost…? It’s all nonsense, isn’t it?’

Fleet tossed the spent pipe to the floor. ‘I’m afraid none of this is nonsense, Mr Hawkins. It is deadly serious. You would be wise to remember that if you wish to survive in here.’ He stepped closer. ‘There are two killers on the loose in this prison. And I believe you will be dining with one of them tonight.’

Fleet’s words unsettled me, but they also confirmed what I had guessed: that Acton could well have been involved in Roberts’ death. Once one dismissed the idea that Fleet had killed Roberts (and I was not sure I had entirely done that), then Acton was a natural suspect. He had the freedom of the prison – and the strength and temperament to commit a murder. If it was Acton, I presumed that money was involved. Perhaps Catherine’s father had paid Acton to kill his troublesome son-in-law. Whatever the reason, I had seen enough of Acton to know he was capable of just about anything if there was profit in it for him. Supper was becoming less and less appealing.

Back in Belle Isle, Fleet was in a strange mood, even for him. He seemed determined to cheer me up, scavenging through the driftwood of his belongings to find me a suitable costume for the evening. When I saw the quality of the suit he was proposing I was happy to oblige him: a well-tailored black coat with matching breeches, much finer than Charles’ old suit; a fresh pair of white silk stockings; good shoes with mirror-bright buckles and a blue silk waistcoat embroidered with silver thread. I caught myself in the glass and almost laughed. I had never been so poor in my life, and yet here I was, the very picture of an eligible young gentleman. I would marry myself if I could.

‘It’s a shame Mrs Roberts won’t be there tonight,’ I said, fiddling with my cravat.

‘Hmm…’ Fleet was staring at me in a very peculiar fashion, even for him. ‘D’you know,’ he said, changing the subject with a speed I did not think to find suspicious until later, ‘Ben Carter said that Roberts’ ghost was dressed in a mustard waistcoat and good leather boots last night. Carrying a lantern that cast strange shadows upon his face…’ He held up an imaginary light and pulled a suitably ghoulish expression. ‘Does that not strike you as odd?’

‘Which part?’

Fleet dropped the invisible lantern impatiently. ‘The waistcoat , of course…’

I was about to ask him why this detail in particular bothered him rather than, say, the fact that a dead man had risen from the grave and was floating about the prison terrifying young boys when there was a knock at the door. It was one of the porters, carrying Fleet’s supper and a letter from Charles. I abandoned my roommate to his odd fancies and headed out to the yard. The Park was quieter – almost peaceful – now the last of the sun had gone, and a warm light spilt out from the rooms on the Master’s Side as prisoners lit their fires and started their suppers. I had no money, the governor was a brute and I was sleeping in a dead man’s bed – but I had survived my first full day in gaol, at least. A small triumph to celebrate. One flight up from Belle Isle, Trim was at his window smoking a pipe. I saluted him before settling down on the bench beneath the lantern to read Charles’ letter.

As I removed the note I spied something glinting at the bottom of the envelope. I pulled it out and stared at it in wonder. My mother’s cross. Charles must have seen it in the pawnbroker’s window on the High Street and recognised it from its shape and the diamond at its heart. I touched her initials etched into its back: M.H. My heart lifted at Charles’ generosity – but my gratitude was tinged with shame. He knew more than anyone what the cross meant to me. He slept in the next bed to mine at school and had heard me crying softly into my pillow in the months after my mother died. He’d never told a soul – boys were bullied without mercy for much less – but he reached out once, in the night, and touched my wrist. That was all – one brief moment – but it was enough.