Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

She took a deep breath and continued. ‘Is it true you have been instructed to find my husband’s killer?’

‘Yes. By Sir Philip himself. And Mr Acton.’

A tiny smile of triumph. ‘And do you… have you any suspicions?’

‘None that I may speak of at present.’

She looked up, sharply. ‘Even to his widow?’

I said nothing.

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder before reaching a hand into her cloak. To my astonishment she pulled out the dagger I had seen not half an hour before in Trim’s room. It had been cleaned more thoroughly since then but there was no question this was the blade used to stab Woodburn.

‘Jakes passed it to me,’ she said. ‘He recognised it at once. It belonged to my husband.’

‘Put it away, for God’s sake,’ I hissed, pushing her hands beneath the folds of her cloak. She had her back to the yard, but anyone looking out of the window would have seen her holding it.

‘I keep it hidden in my room,’ she said, tucking it back into her skirts. ‘John always kept a blade under his pillow, so I thought I should do the same. It’s one of the few things I have to remember him by. They played cards for his belongings, did you know that? That’s why that… devil could dress you up in his clothes.’ She gave a shudder of revulsion.

I did not have the spirit or the inclination to defend Fleet’s actions two nights before. Though it struck me that if it hadn’t been for that devil’ s counsel, her beloved husband John might well have sold her to Gilbourne for ten guineas. ‘Who could have taken it?’

She shook her head helplessly. ‘You know how it is, Mr Hawkins. Servants and visitors coming in and out all day. It frightens me to think how easy it would be to kill someone in here – and never be discovered.’

‘There are a hundred ways to die in here,’ I said, surprised that this thought had never struck her before. ‘Death slips in and out of this place whenever it pleases. With no need for a key.’ I tapped my toe against the trap door. ‘D’you know three more died just last night, as well as Mr Mitchell?’

She gasped in shock. ‘Last night? How?’

‘Starved to death, I suppose. Or gaol fever. Gilbert Hand says it’s worse in the height of summer-’

‘Oh, from the Common Side,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively.

As if it were a far-distant land, and not fifty paces from where we stood. I took her hand and bowed, formally. It was a dismissal, and I saw from her expression that she felt it. Her lips parted in surprise, then drew into a hard, thin line. And then she turned and stalked away towards her room, grey cloak merging into the early-evening shadows.

I heard a low chuckle from the room above.

‘It’s bad form to listen to private conversations.’

Fleet leaned his arms on the window frame. ‘No such thing as privacy in a prison. Mr Trim can hear you snoring from the next floor up. Isn’t that right, sir?’

Trim poked his head out of the window and nodded vigorously. And then both men looked past my shoulder and grinned.

‘Dinner!’

‘Supper!’

A trio of porters strode by, one carrying a large bowl of punch, the others shouldering a tempting variety of dishes on large wooden trays. I checked Fleet’s watch. A half past seven. Too late for dinner and a little too early for supper.

‘Hurry up, Tom,’ Fleet urged. ‘Get those fine calves of yours up here at once.’

By the time I reached Belle Isle the porters had already set the dishes down upon the table, which Fleet and Trim had carried to the middle of the room. I had been hungry when I ordered, and was paying with another man’s coin, which is to say I had perhaps gone a little overboard , but Fleet didn’t seem to mind, in fact he was dancing about the table with anticipation, shooing the porters out of the way so that he could begin. It was a feast – as much as could be had in the Marshalsea: spit-turned shoulder of lamb with greens; beef broth; bologna sausage with thick slabs of bread and butter; stuffed veal fillet with salad and cucumbers; dressed salmon and a fine apple pudding.

Fleet ladled himself a glass of punch and set it next to a half-drunk glass of claret at his side. He considered them both tenderly for a moment, then tapped the punch bowl. ‘You’re sure this is a four -shilling bowl, Tom?’

I nodded happily. The fourth shilling paid for an extra half pint of raspberry brandy tipped into the mix. Trim took a sip and pulled a face. ‘Not enough sugar,’ he declared. ‘I’ll fetch some from my room.’

‘How’s Mr Woodburn?’ I asked as he scurried to the door.

‘Resting.’ He pointed up at the ceiling, a flicker of concern crossing his face. ‘We must be careful not to wake him.’

Fleet snorted. ‘He’s been dosed with Siddall’s best sleeping draught. We could dance upon his bed and he wouldn’t wake tonight. We must try that later, eh?’ He tipped back his chair and watched Trim run up the stairs, then fixed me with a dark, warning look. ‘Watch what you say in front of our good neighbour, Tom. And pile your plate while you have the chance,’ he added, loading his own with enough food for three men. ‘Trim eats like a hog. I have it on good authority his tailor has let out his waistcoat three times this year.’

‘You don’t trust Trim?’ I asked, then answered my own question. ‘You don’t trust anyone.’

‘I trust you ,’ Fleet said, shovelling food into his mouth, which was practically kissing his plate. ‘But don’t take that as a compliment.’

‘I won’t,’ I said, then paused. ‘Why not?’

‘I trust you because beneath that thin, rakish veneer…’ he waved his fork at my clothes ‘… you are a man of honour. Don’t look so worried, I won’t tell a soul,’ he grinned, spiking himself a piece of veal. ‘It’s your parents’ fault, of course. They must have poisoned you with talk of charity and honesty when you were a child. And see where it’s brought you! You are not fit for public office of the lowest kind. The Edward Gilbournes of this world flourish and profit handsomely and always will. But men such as you… I’ll bet you don’t even cheat at cards, Tom. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.’

I held up my hands in protest. ‘I don’t need to cheat at cards!’

‘And is that the reason you don’t?’ he shot back.

I slumped against my chair and said nothing. It was true, I didn’t like to cheat – in the main. Fleet had uncovered a truth I had kept hidden even from myself – a truth that lay at the very core of my being, hard and unpalatable as a peach stone. Honour. ‘Perhaps I should have been a cleric after all,’ I grumbled, pushing my food about my plate.

‘Nonsense,’ Fleet cried, holding his hands up as if to ward off something deadly. ‘All those scheming, duplicitous bishops and archdeacons? They’d eat you for breakfast. No, no – you must not take your… condition so hard. We just need to find you an honest occupation, where a man’s word counts for something.’ He tilted his head. ‘Do you ride well? You would make an excellent highwayman.’

Trim arrived with a pestle and mortar filled with ground sugar and some sweet-smelling herbs. ‘My own recipe,’ he smiled, tipping the contents into the punch bowl and swirling them into the brandy.

Fleet poured a fresh ladleful of Trim’s new, improved blend. Then he handed it to me. ‘Try this for me. I don’t trust men bearing herbs.’

‘Try it for yourself,’ I cried, indignant. ‘I’m not your taster.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Trim asked, bewildered. ‘You do not think I’ve poisoned it, surely?’