Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘Captain Anderson,’ I said, holding up my hands. ‘Forgive me, I meant no offence. I can see you are a man of honour. If you tell me Mr Gilbourne is not to be trusted, then I must believe you.’

Anderson studied me for a long moment, then sighed. He found himself another chair. ‘Pour us all a drink, Harry.’

Mitchell brought out some cheap beer. Across the room Jakes relaxed, rolling his shoulders and unclenching his fists. He caught my eye and winked his approval.

‘To Edward Gilbourne…’ Anderson said, raising his mug of beer.

‘… May he rot in hell,’ Mitchell finished, cheerfully. ‘We should tell him about the charity money,’ he added, pointing to a spot on the wall close to where Anderson had thrown his chair. ‘He’ll believe us then.’ I could just make out the remnants of what looked like an old shelf, with iron brackets screwed into the wood. They seemed to have been bent back with some force.

Captain Anderson shifted gloomily in his seat. ‘Jakes – you tell him. I can’t face it.’

Jakes poured himself some more beer and wandered over to the broken shelf. He touched the bracket, rubbed smears of dark orange rust from his fingers. ‘The Common Side has six wards. Each ward has a constable, a leader.’ He gestured at Anderson. ‘Then there’s a steward. The prisoners elect him to represent their interests and distribute donations. Food, money, clothes, medicine. The last steward was a man called Matthew Pugh. He wasn’t a prisoner himself but he was on their side. Had a cousin who died in here, I think, or a friend.’ Jakes waved his hand. ‘Well – either way. He promised the prisoners he would petition the governor and Sir Philip for better conditions.’

‘A good man,’ Anderson declared, lighting a pipe. ‘Only good man to work in this stinking place.’

‘This all started, what… five years ago?’ Jakes said.

‘Aye,’ Anderson scowled. ‘Acton was chief turnkey back in those days. What Cross is today but worse if you can imagine it. Striding about as if he were lord of the manor, even then. “Keep the choice cuts on the Master’s Side and throw the shit over the wall, lads.” ’

Jakes frowned. ‘Pugh began to suspect something was wrong with the charity donations.’

I leaned forward. ‘How so?’

‘There weren’t any,’ Mitchell and Anderson answered in unison.

‘Stolen?’ I guessed.

Jakes nodded. ‘The steward was supposed to have his own special seal – it proved to the charities that the money was reaching the prisoners and not just lining the governor’s pockets. But Acton and Darby, the old governor, had stolen it. They took the money and divided up the donations between them.’ He held my gaze. ‘One hundred and fifteen pounds a year.’

My mouth dropped.

‘More than that!’ Anderson cried, flinging his pipe to the floor. It bounced and clattered into the hearth, broken in two. ‘Twice that much, I’d bet my life on it! Those bastards stole the money, Mr Hawkins – and let the prisoners starve to death. Day after day, week after week. Hundreds of them!’

‘Strange, eh?’ Jakes gave a bitter laugh. ‘Kill a man in the street and they hang you at Tyburn. Kill a hundred debtors in prison and they make you governor. Pugh spent three years fighting for justice. He tried asking Gilbourne first…’

Mitchell stretched himself on tiptoes, pretended to fuss over his filthy shirt cuffs. ‘“Oh, Mr Pugh, if only I could help!”’ he sighed, in a passable impression of Gilbourne – if the Palace clerk were fifteen years older and a foot shorter. ‘“Alas, my hands are tied! Ah, sir, it pains me how little I can do for you.”

‘He tried Sir Philip, too,’ Anderson said, waving at Mitchell to stop. ‘Begged an audience for three years and was refused every time. Then Mr Buckley joined the household.’

Charles. I looked up, startled. Oh, no, please God – if they told me Charles was involved in this scheme I couldn’t bear it. I turned to Jakes. ‘He knows of this?’

Jakes took a swig of beer. ‘Pugh wrote to him asking for help. He persuaded Sir Philip to order a new charity seal.’ He glanced at Anderson, eyebrow raised. ‘Pugh wasn’t the only good man in all this, Ralph.’

‘Buckley’s not so bad, I suppose,’ Anderson conceded. ‘Only reason I’m talking to you ,’ he added, glowering at me. ‘But what difference did it make, eh?’

The room fell silent, rain clattering softly on the roof. The beef stew mumbled to itself in the pot. The storm had drowned out any sound beyond our own voices, but now it was passing I could hear prisoners calling to one another in the yard. I felt a sudden urge to jump up and leave – to run to the wall and bang on the door until I was let back on to the Master’s Side. This story was not going to end well. ‘What happened?’

Anderson stirred as if from a dream. ‘Once we had the new seal, Pugh began collecting the charity money himself. We decided to keep it here, on the Common Side, where we could defend it. Pugh had a chest built with seven locks, one key for each constable and a seventh for the steward. We fixed the chest to the wall over there,’ his eyes flickered to the broken hinges, ‘and we all swore an oath to use the money fairly, for the good of the whole gaol. It worked. For a few weeks. No one starved. Acton was furious . Do you remember, Mitchell? Storming and raging about the gaol. Cursing us for stealing his money. His money!’

‘And then?’

‘And then?’ Anderson snorted. ‘He complained to the Court. And what do you think, Mr Hawkins? This time the deputy prothonotary found his hands weren’t tied. Not one little bit.’

Mitchell muttered something in Cornish. It didn’t sound friendly.

Anderson got to his feet and pulled a battered, rusty old box from under his bed, the lid scraping as he lifted it free. He plucked out a letter and handed it to me. It was from the office of the deputy prothonotary, dated July 1725 and marked with the Court’s seal.

Upon information given to this Court by the Keeper that one Matthew Pugh has very often behaved himself very turbulently in the Prison, frequently occasioning disturbances amongst the Prisoners, and because of this impudent Behaviour, as well in this Court as the Office of Prothonotary, it is this Day ordered that the said Matthew Pugh be no longer permitted to have Access to the Prison of this Court, and that the prisoners be at Liberty to appoint another Person to receive the Gifts and Legacies belonging to them.

By the Court

Edward Gilbourne

Deputy Prothonotary

I shook my head. ‘But why would Gilbourne help Acton? He loathes him.’ And then I remembered Fleet’s Law. ‘ Money. ’

‘The next time Pugh came to the prison he was attacked by five of Acton’s men. They grabbed the charity seal and tossed him out into the street.’ Anderson slumped in his chair. ‘That poor bastard spent three years fighting for us and they kicked him out the gate like a dog. He was coughing blood for a week.’

I read Gilbourne’s note again. ‘It says here that the prisoners have the right to appoint a new steward.’

Anderson gave a dry laugh. ‘Oh, yes. Acton gave us liberty to vote for Mr Grace. You’ve met him?’

I thought of Acton’s clerk at supper, scraping a line through a man’s name. It had seemed cruel last night, but now I had witnessed first hand where he was sending them, it seemed crueller still. A thin shiver ran down my spine. ‘I’ve met him.’

‘We refused to give him the keys to the charity chest. So Acton stormed in with twenty men, ripped the chest from that wall over there and carried it away on his shoulders, laughing. “Mr Gilbourne’s orders,” he said. A year later he’d saved up enough funds to buy the position of keeper from Darby. And Gilbourne had a fine stallion to ride in to Court.’