Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

What must he think of me now and the wreck I had made of my life, that I had been forced to pawn the one thing I had left of her? Holding it now in the palm of my hand it seemed an impossible piece of luck that it had returned to me so soon – as if she were looking down on me. My God, what a thought. I slipped it back around my neck vowing never to part with it again. But even as I did so, a cold whisper ran through my head. You have promised that before.

The letter began with a few kind words renewing our friendship. ‘You are more a brother to me than my own flesh and blood, Tom; and always will be.’ There was also rather a lot about divine providence and another request for me to write to my father, which I ignored. The second page offered more tangible hope, expounding on Sir Philip’s offer.

Sir Philip is most concerned about these Rumours of a Spirit haunting the Prison. There were tales of a Ghost appearing in the Fleet gaol this summer that sparked such Terror that Bambridge, the Governor, feared a Riot. Acton in his Arrogance believes he has his prisoners on a tighter Leash, but Woodburn and others tell Sir Philip otherwise. In truth, it would take very little for the Common Side to erupt into Revolt and Violence. If it does – God help us all.

Tom: I will be frank with you – Sir Philip makes a great Profit from the Marshalsea, ever more so with Acton in charge. He does not wish to see those profits drop by one farthing. An ugly truth, but there it is. He has also grown tired of Mrs Roberts and her friends petitioning him day and night for an Investigation into Roberts’ death. Affairs of State keep him busy and he dislikes being troubled with what he sees as trifling matters.

As you know, I have spoken with him on your Account; if you prove able to resolve this matter of Roberts’ death and put an end to these Dangerous Rumours then your Release is assured. But you must be quick about it, Tom; Sir Philip is not a patient man.

A word of Caution: Sir Philip would be most reluctant to believe in Acton’s involvement. To be blunt – a confirmation of Suicide or proof of Samuel Fleet’s guilt would be the preferred outcome. You must follow the Truth where it leads you, of course, and if it leads you towards the Governor, so be it.

I will not pretend this task is without risks – but as I cannot afford to pay your Debts I believe this is the best way I can help secure your Release. I have also taken the liberty of hiring Jakes, the warrant officer, to help you. He is anxious to discover his friend’s killer and will assist you in any way he can. He visits the Prison tomorrow and will meet with you then.

My Dear Friend: I Pray this opportunity gives you Hope in a Dark hour. I only wish I could do more – it breaks my Heart to see you confined in such a miserable way. When you are released – and you will be released, Tom – we must find you a good Position. It is not right that a man of your Talents and Education should find himself in such a Woeful Condition and I will do everything in my Power to rectify this.

Until that Cheerful day, I will pray for you and offer all the help at my Disposal to ensure your Freedom.

I am yours, sir, etc

Charles Buckley

Postscript: I enclose your Mother’s cross. If you pawn it again I will never forgive you.

‘Good news I hope, Mr Hawkins?’ The tall, lean figure of Mr Jenings emerged from the gloom, lantern lit ready for the nightwatch.

I thought of Fleet, acting the ghost, and stifled a smile. ‘Mr Jenings. Would you light me to the governor’s rooms?’

He led the way, lantern swinging. As we reached Acton’s quarters next to the Lodge I thought of the strange, mocking laughter I’d heard the night before. ‘Mr Jenings, sir. Tell me. Was it here you saw the ghost?’

Jenings pointed into the gloom with a long, bony finger. ‘Right there,’ he whispered shakily. ‘Terrible thing, it was; all pale and grey like a corpse. Moaning and wailing as if the hounds of hell were on its back… Then it vanished.’

‘Vanished?’ I peered into the darkness. ‘How so?’

‘Disappeared into the shadows. I searched for it for an hour or more, up and down the Park and all, but it was gone. They can walk through walls, of course.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘You saw something last night, didn’t you? Right on this spot.’

‘I thought I heard something… It had been a long day.’ I touched the back of my head; there was still a large bump where I’d been knocked senseless by the footpads in St Giles. ‘The mind can play tricks in the dark.’

‘No,’ Jenings said, firmly. ‘There’s something out there; watching us. Watching everything we do. Good and bad.’

He gave me a short bow and returned to his rounds, abandoning me in front of Acton’s door. A touch of habit made me reach for my mother’s cross, finding comfort in the familiar shape beneath my fingers. I wondered what my mother would have made of Jenings’ story. She had been raised a Catholic and though she converted when she met my father, she had clung to some of the old beliefs. Miracles and wonders, mysteries and spirits; these were things she had whispered to me at night when I couldn’t sleep. Popish nonsense, my father would have called it, if he’d known; but I’d loved her ghost stories as a boy. And now…? I straightened my shoulders and rapped on Acton’s door. Now I should forget all about them. The real world was dangerous enough.

‘Mr Hawkins! Welcome, sir, welcome!’ Acton’s rough, powerful voice boomed out across the Park, bouncing from the prison walls. He had opened the door himself, in high spirits, a mug of ale in one hand. I could hear music and chatter coming from next door, Mary’s girlish laugh cutting through it all. Acton clapped an arm about my shoulder and pulled me inside. He was already loud and unsteady with drink – ‘in his fucking altitudes’, Moll would have muttered had she been there – and restless as a bull, roving us down the hall and kicking out at a chair that dared get in his way.

‘Thank the devil you’re here,’ he growled, grabbing me tight as if I might jump his grasp like a frightened hare. To be fair, the thought had crossed my mind. ‘Here he is!’ he said, thrusting me into the room. ‘Fresh meat!’

Acton’s parlour was warm – stifling, even – crowded with too many people and too much furniture. The air was heavy with tobacco and sweat and smoke from the fire. A pair of half-drunk musicians – debtors from the Master’s Side brought in for the night and without question honoured and delighted to play for free – were playing a fiddle and pipe in a hectic manner, changing the tune whenever Acton shouted for it. In one corner an older couple finished their supper; the woman was plump and merry, sucking on a chicken leg and clapping her hands along to the music, while the man seemed sick and ill at ease, glancing at the door from time to time as if to assure himself it were still there and still working.

At the centre of it all was Mary Acton, dancing gaily with little Henry at her feet, a glass of punch raised high above her head. I was glad to see Mack standing by the fire, talking with Edward Gilbourne, the young Palace clerk I’d spied earlier in the yard with Catherine Roberts. Gilbourne seemed good company – he had a pleasant, easy manner about him. He caught my eye and nodded politely. I made my way towards them in such a hurry that I cracked my shin against a low table.

‘Mind yourself, Hawkins,’ Acton cried, shoving it away with his foot. ‘Can’t have you going lame. Not when you’ve promised to dance with Mary.’ He caught my alarm and roared with laughter. ‘Dance with her all you want, sir,’ he snorted, beckoning Mary over. ‘Can’t stand the damned business myself.’