Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

Jakes balled his hands into fists. ‘How dare you!’ he thundered. ‘How dare you accuse me! Captain Roberts was my friend. My brother! You think I would kill the man who saved my life? I’ve spent the last three months trying to prove he was murdered. What have you done in that time, you sly dog? You’ve sat on your arse and done nothing – nothing – to defend your reputation. While the whole prison calls you guilty.’ He grabbed Fleet by the collar and pulled him close. ‘Tell me, Mr Fleet. Did you murder Captain Roberts?’

Fleet looked Jakes right in the eye. ‘And what would you do, sir,’ he asked, calmly, ‘if I confessed…?’

Jakes raised his fist.

‘For pity’s sake!’ I snapped, stepping between them and stopping Jakes’ fist with my hand. He glared at me for a moment, then lowered his arm slowly, eyes never leaving Fleet. ‘We don’t have time to spare for this! If you want to tear each other apart then you’ll have to wait until we find the true killer. I need his brains,’ I said to Jakes. ‘They’re no good to me smashed all over the yard.’

As we stepped into the bustle of the High Street again my heart lifted with joy. The Marshalsea was like an island, set in its own time and space. In the three days since I had been locked away I had almost forgotten there was a world outside of it – and I had been too distracted on my way to and from the Crown to appreciate those brief moments of freedom.

The street was packed with visitors who had crossed the river eager to enjoy Southwark’s disreputable pleasures: bear fights and cock fights; theatre and gambling; acrobats and fortune tellers; cheap beer and even cheaper Flemish whores. It was probably not quite what the good Lord had in mind for His day of rest. Fleet looked almost dizzy with happiness.

‘If we ran off in opposite directions,’ he asked Jakes, brows raised in curiosity, ‘who would you chase?’

‘Look at all these people,’ I sighed, watching the Southwark street boys darting between the wheels of carriages; the chairmen weaving in and out of the traffic; the women parading in their Sunday best. ‘Do they know how lucky they are?’

‘Don’t pontificate, Tom.’ Fleet tugged Jakes’ jacket. ‘I’m quite serious – who would you run after?’

Jakes clapped a hand on Fleet’s shoulder and squeezed hard. ‘Acton has cronies in every tavern. If either of you run, they’ll chase you. And when they find you…’ He squeezed harder. Tears of pain sprang in Fleet’s eyes. ‘Well. They’re not gentle like me.’ He let go.

Fleet rubbed his shoulder theatrically then winked at me.

‘Speaking of taverns…’ I said. ‘The George?’

Fleet shook his head. ‘You heard him. They’re full of Acton’s spies. No better than the Marshalsea. We need somewhere quiet, where we can’t be overheard. Snows Fields will be empty.’

Jakes grunted his approval.

Fleet stared at him in alarm. ‘Good God, are we in agreement, Mr Jakes? Now that is worrying.’

We turned right into Axe and Bottle Yard, which ran along the north wall of the Marshalsea. We passed the cobblers I’d heard from the other side of the wall, closed for the day; an apothecary and a confectioner’s, and a grocer’s. Somewhere along this wall was the hidden door to the cellar, where Mrs Roberts’ ghost had slipped in and out of the gaol. It must have been well disguised as I couldn’t see it. Further down the yard I caught the warm, tantalising scent of freshly baked bread and stopped dead, stomach rumbling.

Jakes pointed to the baker’s up ahead. ‘Nehemiah Whittaker’s. Best bread in Southwark,’ he said as we walked over. Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear. ‘A friend of the governor’s. Mind what you say.’

I bought myself a couple of rolls and ate them on the spot with a bowl of chocolate while Jakes chatted to Nehemiah’s wife. Back in the yard Fleet strolled back the way we had come.

Jakes touched his sword. ‘If you’re thinking of running, Mr Fleet…’

‘I’m thinking of picnicking , Mr Jakes,’ Fleet said, heading into the grocer’s.

At the end of the alley we clambered over a low wooden gate into a deserted field. I paused and gazed out at the wide acres of Snows Fields, a vast common space that reached all the way to Bermondsey. Ahead of us were orchards and little vegetable plots, some well-kept while others had grown wild and boggy. In the distance I could make out a tenter ground, its large squares of cloth pegged and stretched out to dry in the late afternoon sun.

As I turned into the field I tripped and almost lost my footing. The open ground was uneven, small humps of grass and earth undulating across the field. I looked about me. ‘Is this a burial ground?’

Jakes blew out his cheeks. ‘Looks like it, don’t it? Mr Woodburn thinks so. He comes out here to practise his sermons.’

‘He practises ?’ Fleet looked astonished.

The sun was low against our backs and cast long shadows across the grass. Jakes settled down beneath an old oak tree and leaned against its trunk. The tree was gnarled with age, scarred and weather-worn. One of its thickest branches stretched further than the rest, as if pointing at something far in the distance, in warning or in accusation.

‘You could hang a man on that,’ I said.

Fleet shot me a sidelong glance – the appraising look of a doctor whose patient has just revealed an alarming new symptom. ‘Let’s walk further out,’ he said, wrapping his fingers about my arm and leading me away.

‘I’ll be watching you, Fleet,’ Jakes warned.

‘How delightful for you.’

When we reached a flatter patch of ground Fleet threw down the grey wool blanket he had been carrying under his arm and stretched himself out upon it. He put his hands behind his head. ‘It is good to see the sky unfettered,’ he said, quietly.

I sat down next to him and ate an apple. ‘What was that business with Kitty?’

Fleet watched the clouds drift by, and said nothing. The birds chirped and called to each other in the branches above our heads, the wind ruffled its fingers through the grass. We could be anywhere, if we did not turn and look back towards the Borough, towards the gaol. I set my gaze straight ahead. Perhaps those white squares far in the distance weren’t stretches of cloth drying on the tenter ground but the great sails of a fine fleet of ships. I could race to the shoreline and watch them glide past, silent and majestic, as I did when I was a boy. And then the memory took me by the hand and I was running down to the coast at Orford, the sky infinite above my head, the taste of salt in the air, the roar of the waves, the gulls wheeling and soaring on the wind, higher and higher.

When I woke the sun was low and there was a chill in the air. Fleet still lay on his back, staring up at the sky. I sat up, feeling groggy but well-rested. ‘You let me sleep?’

‘You needed it. And your snoring helps me think.’

‘What time is it?’

He passed me his silver watch. Almost six o’clock. When I tried to give the watch back he pushed my hand away.

‘Have you ever been in love, Tom?’

Only Fleet would ask a man such a question, with no warning or apology. It was a clever trick; he could read the answer on my face the moment he asked it. There is a second, before the mask goes up, when you can read the truth in a man’s eyes – but you must ask quickly when he is not expecting it, and accept that he may well punch you in the jaw straight after.

‘Not truly. Not in earnest,’ he murmured, answering for me. He was right, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so. He reached for the bottle of wine and took a long swig. ‘Kitty’s the daughter of an old friend of mine. Nathaniel Sparks. He died five years ago.’ He rubbed the gold band on his wedding finger as if he were Aladdin, summoning a djinn.