Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I thought for a moment. Belle Isle. I had assumed it was merely a sarcastic reference to a shabby room. Belle Isle. BelleIsle. ‘ Belial ,’ I muttered. Of course. Belial, hell’s most worthless, lascivious, sin-drenched demon. A spirit more lewd fell not from Heaven.

‘ Clever, eh?’ Gilbourne said. ‘But I would take it as a warning, if I were you. He’s a clever man, and good company in his way… but don’t rely on him for help. He’s just as likely to betray you.’

I frowned, uneasy. ‘He doesn’t need the money.’

‘He wouldn’t do it for the money. He’d do it for the sport.’

I sighed and tapped the spent tobacco from my pipe. For sport. Yes, that sounded like Fleet.

‘Work quietly on this case, Mr Hawkins,’ Gilbourne murmured. ‘And work fast. All this talk of murder and spirits haunting the gaol; it frightens people.’ He tilted his chin towards the Common Side wall. ‘There’s trouble in the air. I can almost taste it. You do not want to be sleeping on either side of the wall if the Common Side erupts.’

‘How bad is it over there?’

‘I’ve never visited.’ He caught my surprise. ‘It’s not safe. I’ve heard the tales, of course. Shocking. They stabbed a man to death last week for nothing. A crust of bread. Gentlemen like us wouldn’t last the night.’

A broad, squat figure emerged from the mist, startling us both.

‘Chapman,’ Gilbourne snapped. ‘Damn you, skulking up in such a weaseling manner.’

Chapman leered at us. ‘Just delivering the punch, gentlemen . No law against that, is there?’ He strode past us into Acton’s lodgings.

‘Insolent brute,’ Gilbourne grumbled. ‘But this is what happens when a prison is run by a butcher. We’d better head back before we’re missed.’

‘Gilbourne.’ I clutched his arm to stop him. ‘Do you believe Roberts was murdered?’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘I suppose I do. Yes.’

‘Who was it killed him, do you think?’

He stepped back and stared at me in surprise. ‘Acton, of course. Who else?’ Then he turned and headed back into the warden’s house.

Back in the parlour, the evening rolled along in its lurching, drunken fashion. I danced with Mary under the red-eyed, stony gaze of her husband while Mack vomited in a chamber pot and Mary’s father dozed fitfully by the fire. The musicians played on, raising their voices when the time came for lock-up and the Common Side prisoners cried out their nightly song of misery and dread. We played cards – ‘let him win,’ Gilbourne hissed in my ear as we sat down, so Acton won every game and I lost the half-guinea Moll had sent me. Just after eleven Cross came in to remind Acton the Master’s Side was ready for lock-up and should he escort Hawkins to his room? Acton belched and cursed his turnkey for insulting his wife’s guest and shoved him out of the door, then fleeced me of another half a crown. Several times I suggested I should return to my lodgings and was shouted down and mocked for my womanish mewling. And all the while Mr Grace watched from the corner, eyes narrowed, watching the flow of drink and money and conversation and saying not a word.

‘Smile, damn you, Hawkins,’ Acton shouted as he won another game. ‘You’re not on the Common Side yet.’

Mary begged another dance and I agreed readily enough. Another hour of playing this new game of Let Acton Win and my pockets would be empty. I drank another glass though I had already drunk too much; I could see no other way of making the night end faster short of passing out, which Mack appeared to have done beneath the table. We danced and the room seemed to dance with us, the candles sputtering low and Acton banging his fist in time to the music, making the punch glasses jump and judder and waking his father-in-law with a start. He bellowed something at Gilbourne, who smiled politely and nodded before glancing at the clock. Mary was telling me something about her husband, about his hands and how rough and cracked they were from years of butchery.

‘Not like your hands, Mr Hawkins,’ she breathed, her fingers rubbing against my palm. She stared unsteadily into my eyes. ‘We make quite the pair, don’t we? A pair of aces,’ she giggled, tossing back her yellow locks. ‘D’you know, I think you are the handsomest man in the prison. I liked Roberts…’ She twirled her skirts coquettishly. ‘But I like you better.’

‘ Mary. ’ Acton’s low voice rumbled across the room. He had stopped pounding the table, but his hand was still curled into a fist.

Mary jumped, then pouted like a child and flounced to a chair by the fire. I found myself alone, abandoned in the middle of the room. The governor’s eyes were cold, his face set in a deep frown. The song came to a hurried end and still Acton studied me beneath heavy lids. ‘Some reward for my hospitality, sir,’ he said, voice heavy as stone. ‘Taking liberties with my wife. Do you think she’s a common slut you can ride behind my back?’

I swallowed hard, mouth dry. The air between us seemed to thrum with violence, the way it had in the yard the day before, Jack Carter curled like a baby on the cold ground as Acton raised the whip. By the fire, Mary’s father was clutching his hands together as if in fevered prayer.

‘Forgive me,’ I stammered. ‘I meant no…’

‘ Hah! ’ Acton jumped up, pointing a finger at me. Then he clapped his hands, threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Oh, that was good.’ He wiped the tears from his eyes. No one else in the room was laughing. ‘Did you see him, Gilbourne, whimpering like a dog? Well. Perhaps we should send him back to his kennel, what do you say?’

Gilbourne gave a weak smile and poured himself another drink while Acton swaggered towards me. He hugged me tight to his chest. ‘I like you, Hawkins,’ he announced. ‘You’re a good sport. We’re friends, eh?’ He brought his lips close to my ear. ‘And you have some powerful friends, don’t you? Lucky boy. Do you think they can protect you without my blessing…?’

I shook my head tightly. My heart was still racing and I could feel myself shaking beneath his grip. He could feel it too, of course. I was not a coward but Acton was playing with loaded dice. Let him win, Gilbourne had said. It was good advice.

The party broke up soon after that. Jenings arrived with his lamp and the two musicians hurried away with him, with a lightness of step rarely seen in prisoners returning to their cells. Acton kicked Mack awake and the two of them staggered off to the Crown, singing tunelessly up into the night air. Grace followed them like a wraith. Mary was still in a sulk, glaring petulantly into the fire, even when Mrs Wilson arrived with a sleeping Henry on her shoulder. The evening had not gone as our dear governess had planned and she made sure we all understood that and shared the blame between us. Her parents, who seemed used to this, kissed their grandchild, bid their daughter goodbye and ordered a carriage to take them back into town.

‘It’s a long ride back,’ Mary’s mother said wearily. ‘But Mr Wilson won’t stay the night, will you, my dear?’

Mr Wilson winced at some long-buried memory. He touched my arm as they left. ‘God spare you, sir.’

Which left Gilbourne and me. ‘Well done, Mr Hawkins,’ he murmured as the door closed behind us. ‘You’re still alive.’

I collapsed weakly against Acton’s tree. ‘Am I?’

Gilbourne chuckled. ‘Near enough.’ His smile faded. ‘I’m not sure Mr Buckley understands the danger he’s put you in. I’m sure he meant kindly, but…’

‘… But if I accuse the warden of Roberts’ murder I’ll be signing my own death warrant. Yes, I see. Do you think Acton knows?’