Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I must send a letter to Charles at once. But who could I trust to send it? Jakes was gone until Monday and Gilbert Hand would read the contents. Mr Jenings, perhaps? I was still standing at the trap door considering all of this when Sarah Bradshaw cantered down the yard towards me. ‘Oh! Mr Hawkins, sir! Oh, can you ever forgive me?’ she gasped, clutching my hand and pressing it to her heaving bosom. ‘I should have known it was all Mr Fleet’s doing, dressing you up like that. The devil! Come and let me fix you dinner on the house. No, no, I insist!’ she said, though she hadn’t given me time to refuse her. ‘You poor dear, what a time you’ve had. What must you think of us?’

I followed in her wake. At the Palace Court the rent queue had dwindled away. A man I recognised from the Tap Room was the last in line, turning his hat round and round in his hand.

‘Sit yourself down, sir,’ Mrs Bradshaw commanded, pushing me into the coffeehouse and clearing a table by the window. Kitty was at the hearth and a few prisoners were playing backgammon in one corner. Madame Migault was at her usual table, pecking at a dinner of calf’s head and salad. A large bowl of punch lay half-finished at her side; she seemed to have drunk it by herself, though where she had put it on that sparrow-frame of hers I couldn’t say. She looked cheerful. It didn’t suit her.

Mrs Bradshaw ordered a knuckle of veal and a belly piece of pork from Titty Doll’s and told Kitty to make me a fresh pot of coffee. Kitty still seemed out of sorts from our fight this morning and would not catch my eye – but I was too busy writing my note to Charles to pay her much mind. If the letter reached him soon enough, perhaps he could secure my release tonight. The thought made my heart leap. Charles had promised to help me in any way he could once I was free. Well, I had learned my lesson. I would start afresh, find a good, respectable job. Or one that paid well, at least. I took another piece of pork. Perhaps I could take Gilbourne’s position, once he was arrested. I could reinstate… what was his name? Matthew Pugh to handle the charity money – for a small fee, of course. Thomas Hawkins, deputy prothonotary…

No, that didn’t sound well at all. A glorified clerk? Oh, something would turn up, I supposed.

‘Madame Migault. You tell fortunes, do you not?’ I took a coin out of my pocket. ‘Would you read mine?’

She squinted at me for a moment then beckoned me over. ‘ Rien à payer ,’ she said as I sat down opposite her. She popped a calf’s eyeball in her mouth with a festive air, rolling it from cheek to cheek before chewing down hard. Now I was this close her breath confirmed that she had most certainly not shared the punch bowl. She gripped my hand in both talons and turned it palm upwards, scraping her nails across the skin. ‘Kitty,’ she shrieked, making the coffeehouse flinch. ‘Translate.’

‘I speak French, madame.’

‘Kitty!’ she shrieked again, ignoring me.

‘Ooh, a reading!’ Mrs Bradshaw cried, clapping her hands and squeezing her way over to madame’s table. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of such things, Mr Hawkins? Kitty, come here and translate for me, my love.’

Kitty turned from the fire. ‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered, wrapping her arms about her waist.

‘Come along, sweetheart,’ Mrs Bradshaw trilled, but there was a sharp edge behind the request.

Kitty shuffled slowly towards us, her face deathly white.

I frowned with concern. We may have fought this morning but I missed her temper. This new mood was not like her. ‘Are you not well, Kitty?’

She bit her lip. ‘I’m well. Thank you, sir,’ she whispered. It was the first time she had called me sir and meant it.

‘I see your future…’ Madame Migault crooned, scraping her long, blue-white fingernails against my palm. ‘ Oui… très clair…’ Her eyes rolled back and she stared into the distance, as if in a trance.

You old fraud , I thought.

‘She’s possessed,’ Mrs Bradshaw whispered in awe. ‘Ooh, Lord, I will die of fright.’ She prodded Kitty eagerly. ‘What’s she saying?’

Kitty lowered herself down slowly into the chair between the madame and me and began translating in a shaky voice, her hands twisting her apron back and forth.

‘I see your family,’ Madame Migault claimed in a high, sing-song voice. ‘They live in the country… your father… he is a man of faith, yes?’

I smiled. ‘Easy enough to discover that, madame.’

‘You betrayed him. Lied to him. He has not forgiven you. And he never will.’ Her eyes snapped fast to mine. ‘You will not see him again in this lifetime, monsieur.’

Mrs Bradshaw, who was standing behind me, gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that, sir. Perhaps you can change that, now you’ve been warned.’

‘ Non! ’ Madame Migault smiled, triumphant. ‘The future will not change.’ She closed her eyes and continued. ‘You have a friend… He wants to help you but it is too late. Your secret has been discovered.’ Her eyes flung open. ‘Betrayed!’ she shrieked. And then, much lower. ‘By someone close to you. Very close…’ She began to chuckle, strange little hiccups, her shoulders jerking up and down.

Kitty translated, her eyes on the floor, her voice no more than a broken whisper. When she’d finished, Mrs Bradshaw gave a little squeal. ‘What can it mean? Oh, it sends a shiver down my spine. Can’t you find something more cheerful, Miggy? A wedding…? A fortune…?’

‘No wedding. No fortune,’ Madame Migault announced gleefully. ‘All your plans will fail. All your dreams will die. And you will die with them. Tonight!’ She laughed, and poured herself another glass of punch.

‘Well.’ I drummed my fingers lightly on the table. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a tip.’

To my astonishment Kitty burst into tears, sobbing into her apron. I touched her arm. ‘Come now, Kitty. It’s just a silly game.’

‘No game!’ Madame Migault cackled into her glass. ‘ Pauvre monsieur . Tonight you die.’

‘ Madame! ’ Mrs Bradshaw yelped. ‘You mustn’t say such things! Oh, Mr Hawkins, I don’t know what to say! She’s never like this as a rule. She told me I’d get a little dog before the new year.’ She looked away, dreamily.

Kitty jumped up and ran from the room. Her feet pounded up the stairs, and then a door slammed somewhere above our heads in the Oak ward.

Mrs Bradshaw began to giggle and nudged me in the ribs, her elbow pushing hard on a bruise. I gritted my teeth at the pain.

‘Oh dear,’ she sniggered. ‘I’m afraid you’ve sent her a bit topsy-turvy. She took a bit of a shine to you, not that she’d admit it. Must have been those fine calves of yours. Then she heard you telling Mrs Roberts you didn’t care a fig for her. I said of course he doesn’t, you silly jade. He’s a proper gentleman! He won’t have given you a moment’s thought, why on earth should he? But she will go listening in and getting herself muddled up in things she’s no place to… Her father was a doctor, I’ll grant you, but her mother. Well . I blame Mr Fleet, filling her head with giddy ideas.’

Before I could even think of how to respond to this gurgling stream of gossip, Mr Grace entered the room, clutching the Black Book to his chest. ‘Mr Hawkins. You did not come to be assessed.’ He drummed his thin, maggot-white fingers on the book’s cover.

‘You know full well my rent is paid,’ I said, indignant. ‘Mr Fleet gave you the money himself.’

He gave a haughty little sniff. ‘There are rules, Hawkins. You’re not above them even with your powerful friends. You must come and explain yourself to the governor. At once.’