Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

Anderson was constable of his ward – the leader of a group of thirty men who shared a room not much bigger than Belle Isle. As we entered the cell two men staggered past with a large, sloshing barrel reeking of piss.

‘Once you’ve tipped that out tell Harry Mitchell I want him,’ Anderson bellowed after them.

This was the best ward on the Common Side, with six beds and a few hammocks slung from the wall. The room was empty now, and the scent of a thin beef stew bubbling in the hearth covered the worst of the Common Side stench. It was clean too – Anderson again, I thought, running the place like a barracks. He still wore his old blue coat from his days in the army, 3rd Dragoons, Jakes said. He’d fought at Ramillies twenty years back. The coat would have paid for a few decent meals but he’d kept it all this time.

He gestured for us to sit with him by the fire. Jakes chose to stand by the window instead – mainly, I think, because the chair he’d been offered was so ancient and worm-eaten it would have collapsed beneath him.

‘So you’re looking for Roberts’ killer,’ Anderson said, frowning at me as I perched cautiously on my own creaking chair. ‘What’s in it for my ward?’

A trade for information? Fair enough. ‘I’m a friend of Charles Buckley, Sir Philip’s chaplain. I’ll make sure Sir Philip hears of any… complaints,’ I ended, feebly.

Anderson shot me a withering look.

‘You said you knew something?’ Jakes called impatiently from the window.

Anderson leaned back in his chair. ‘Nothing’s free in this world, Jakes. You know that. Try again, Mr Hawkins.’

‘I can put your case to Mr Gilbourne,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘He’s a decent man, he’ll want to help. And he already knows of my investigation.’ I stopped. Anderson was staring at me, open-mouthed with horror.

‘ Gilbourne knows?’ He smacked his hand to his forehead. ‘ Perfect .’

I frowned, puzzled. ‘Is he not to be trusted? He seems an honourable gentleman.’

‘Oh, aye, I’m sure that’s how he seems …’ Jakes snorted. ‘Gilbourne can seem whatever he likes, cunning bastard. The man’s a snake.’

‘It’s worse than that,’ Anderson groaned. ‘It was Gilbourne killed Roberts.’

The rain had turned to hail, clattering against the roof as if a thousand dice were being hurled down from heaven. Men from the ward hurried inside looking for shelter only to be ordered back out into the storm again. ‘Private meeting,’ Anderson growled as they retreated hurriedly from his ill-temper. ‘And where the devil is Mitchell?’

‘On his way. Working… other side,’ one of the men wheezed, then bent double in a coughing fit, disease rattling in his lungs.

I’d asked Anderson questions, of course. How do you know Gilbourne killed Roberts? Why did he do it? How did he do it? Why did you say nothing about it? He ignored me. Jakes looked furious. I could see him weighing up his chances if it came to beating the story out of the old soldier. I wondered if it were possible to keep my dignity while hiding under the bed.

After a long, tense wait Harry Mitchell appeared, sluicing the rain from his tattered clothes. He was a stocky man of about forty, with a dark complexion – Cornish, I thought, or Welsh. He looked fit enough for the Common Side, but tired from overwork. I thought he looked familiar, and then I realised he was a porter on the Master’s Side. He’d brought Trim his supper on my first night.

‘You asked to see me, sir?’ Cornish. Standing to attention as if Anderson really were his commanding officer.

Anderson gazed at him levelly and said one word. ‘Gilbourne.’

Mitchell flinched. His eyes darted to Jakes, and then to me. ‘Trustworthy, are they?’

Jakes put a wide, scarred hand to his heart. ‘Upon my soul.’

‘And mine,’ I added hurriedly, touching my mother’s cross.

Mitchell breathed heavily through his nose, and said nothing.

‘Oh, for Gawd’s sake,’ Jakes muttered, and threw him a tuppenny piece.

Mitchell snatched it from the air and smiled at me, suddenly convinced. A miracle. He sat down on the bed nearest the fire, resting his hands upon his knees. ‘Well, then. Edward Gilbourne. ’ Mr Mitchell had an unexpected flair for the dramatic. ‘He killed the captain, didn’t he?’

‘Harry was Roberts’ servant,’ Anderson explained.

‘Cooked his meals,’ Mitchell nodded. ‘Cleaned his clothes, his sheets. Errands and messages. Fourpence a week. First week, he apologises. Says he’s not good for it. I says, “Don’t you worry, Captain, I know you’re an honourable gentleman, you’ll pay me when you have it. Now how about some of this mutton broth?” Once he’d finished it right to the bottom of the bowl, I says to him, “Oh, and by the way, Captain. Forgot to mention. I pissed in that. And so will any servant you fancy hiring from the Common Side from now on. Unless you have that fourpence by any chance.” He took it in good part, rest his soul. And he never played me after that. He was a rogue, but-’

‘Harry…’ Anderson prompted, exasperated. ‘ Gilbourne…? ’

‘A week before he was murdered,’ Mitchell continued, unruffled, ‘the captain grabs a hold of me and says, “Harry, here’s a tale for you. I’ll be leaving the Marshalsea in a few days. So you must find yourself a new position.” I just laughed – he was always talking nonsense.’

Jakes chuckled quietly. ‘True enough. John spent half his life dreaming up ways to make money. Never came to nothing.’

‘That’s what I thought, Mr Jakes,’ Mitchell called over from the bed. ‘Just another one of the captain’s stories. But he says, “Just you wait, Harry. I’ve got something on Gilbourne that’ll finish him. I’ll squeeze every last farthing from him.”’ Mitchell grabbed the edge of his greying, stained shirt and twisted it sharply.

‘Blackmail,’ Jakes grunted. He didn’t look surprised by his old friend’s behaviour.

A roll of thunder grumbled its way across the sky. ‘What had Gilbourne done?’ I asked Mitchell.

‘The captain said it was best I didn’t know. But it was wicked, he said. Truly wicked. Enough to destroy Gilbourne’s reputation.’ He paused. ‘You won’t… you won’t tell anyone I told you this, will you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I haven’t dared say nothing until now. I don’t want to get my throat cut…’

‘Who would cut your throat?’ I frowned.

Mitchell stared at me. ‘ Gilbourne , of course.’

I laughed, incredulous. The thought of Edward Gilbourne slitting someone’s throat… it was ridiculous.

Anderson looked at me sharply. ‘You don’t believe us?’

‘Well… look.’ I hesitated, wondering how to reply without offending Anderson, or implying that Mitchell wasn’t being entirely honest. ‘I didn’t know Roberts, but by all accounts he was a liar and a cheat. Even his best friend admits that,’ I added, shrugging at Jakes. ‘But I have met Edward Gilbourne. He doesn’t strike me as a killer.’

‘And why’s that, damn you?’ Anderson cried, suddenly angry. ‘Because he rides a fine horse? Because you like the way he ties his cravat?’ He leapt from his chair and flung it hard against the wall. To stop himself throwing me, I thought, shrinking back. It broke into pieces and clattered to the floor.

‘Ralph,’ Jakes said, mildly, but we all heard the warning in his voice.

The two men faced each other across the room. Another roll of thunder. A stutter of lightning. I watched them both, worried. Jakes could beat the older man in a fair fight. But there were three hundred prisoners locked on this side of the wall with us – quite enough to tear us limb from limb if Anderson asked them to.