Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I was about to explain that Fleet had been drugged the night of Roberts’ murder. Then Fleet looked at me. If looks were daggers, I would have been skewered to the far wall. ‘Very well,’ I muttered, taking a long gulp. And then another.

‘Well, his wits seem fine to me,’ Trim said, after a while.

Fleet looked dubious.

We ate and drank in contented silence for a time, though I found I could not eat much, despite my rumbling stomach. The bruises on my throat, hidden beneath my cravat, made it hard to swallow, though I did manage to finish two bowls of the broth. Trim, as Fleet had promised, did indeed have an extraordinary appetite but I did not begrudge him for it; he had shown me many kindnesses since my arrival at the Marshalsea, not least tending to my injuries that morning. If food was the fuel that made the stove of his heart burn brighter, so be it. And as I said: I was not paying for it.

I had settled the silver watch upon the table and remember it was showing a quarter past nine when we heard two pairs of footsteps upon the stairs. Cross entered first, cantankerous as ever and without knocking, kicking the half-closed door open with his heavy boot. ‘Visitor,’ he grunted, helping himself to a generous serving of punch while Fleet looked on, scandalised. A moment later Charles stepped into the room, smiling when he saw me at the table. I stood up and we embraced each other warmly.

‘You look much better,’ he said, holding me at arm’s length. ‘I was worried, this morning. Exceedingly worried.’

I smiled and did not correct him. And in truth I was better, except that my mind kept travelling back to the night before, and my head still ached where the iron cap had ground into my skull. Here among friends, the horror of the night seemed far away. But I was afraid what I would see when I blew out the candle and closed my eyes.

Seeing the punch was almost gone, Charles sent Cross for a fresh bowl; a gesture that transformed Fleet’s opinion of my childhood friend in a flash.

‘Most gentlemanlike of you, sir,’ he beamed. ‘You are welcome to take anything from the floor by way of thanks.’

Charles blinked at the mounds of rumpled clothes, the litter of obscene pamphlets, the ivory tusk, then picked his way over to a seat by the fire, empty-handed. I followed him there and we smoked a pipe together while Trim and Fleet scavenged their way through the last of the dishes.

Charles glanced over at Fleet, then leaned in close, lowering his voice. ‘I’m surprised to see you have forgiven him, Tom. It’s a miracle you survived the night. When I first came into the Strong Room this morning and saw you fixed to the wall… You were so pale. I thought…’ He winced and shook his head.

I told Charles about Woodburn’s rambling confession – of what, I wasn’t sure. I also told him what I had learned about Gilbourne and the offer he had made to Captain Roberts: ten guineas for the use of his wife. Charles look sickened, wringing his hands and staring away into the fire. ‘We must get you out of this damned place.’

‘We’ll interrogate Woodburn tomorrow morning,’ I said, sounding more reasonable than I felt. ‘If anyone can wheedle the truth out of a man it’s Samuel Fleet. It’s in his interest to help me now.’

Charles barely heard me. He was still staring into the fire. ‘I wish I could do more to help you.’

‘You have done far more than I deserve,’ I said, feeling the truth of it for the first time. ‘It’s my own fault I’ve ended up in here, Charles. I must find my own way out.’

Cross arrived with the fresh bowl, slamming it down on the table. ‘They’re locking the front gate,’ he said to Charles. ‘You’d better come with me. Or would you like to spend the night here, sir?’

Charles picked up his hat and bid the room a good evening. I walked down to the yard with him, grabbing the last chance to step outside before they locked up the wards for the night. Charles touched my arm and smiled, but he looked worried. ‘For God’s sake, be careful, Tom. You know now how dangerous it is in here. I can’t promise to arrive in time to save you on the next occasion. And keep an eye on Fleet – he’s not-’

‘Thank you, Charles,’ I interrupted, clasping his hands. I couldn’t face another lecture on the duplicity of Samuel Fleet, true as it may be.

Charles smiled, but he did not look happy. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

Cross, who had been leaning against the wall, gave a low chuckle as he stepped out of the shadows. ‘Prayers won’t do you any good, Mr Buckley,’ he said, glancing up at the dim light glowing from Belle Isle’s window. ‘It’s the devil runs things in here…’

I smoked another pipe as the turnkeys locked up the prison. The Common Side wailed its protest for another night.

‘Mr Hawkins?’

It was Jenings with his lantern and keys, come to lock up my ward. Jakes stood behind him, his massive bulk shadowy in the dark. I threw my spent pipe to the ground and headed wearily for the door. Jakes followed me up to Belle Isle and checked the room while Jenings hovered outside with his keys.

‘No hass… ash-assassins here,’ Fleet declared, then giggled. He and Trim had settled hard into the second bowl.

I poured myself a glass, anxious to catch up, and offered one to Jakes. He shook his head.

‘One of us should stay sober.’

‘Good man!’ Fleet cheered. He really was drunk.

‘I’ll stand watch downstairs tonight,’ Jakes said. ‘Any trouble, just call from the window.’

Jenings cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but I’ll need to lock you in now.’

Trim rose unsteadily and weaved his way to the door. He almost tripped when he reached the landing, and might have fallen down the stairs if Jenings hadn’t grabbed his coat and pulled him back. Fleet watched him leave, then shook his head. ‘Can’t hold his liquor,’ he said, then hiccuped.

Jakes frowned at me. ‘As I said. Just call…’

I was pleased to see there were still a few servings of punch left in the bowl, despite Trim and Fleet’s best efforts. Trim must have tipped the rest of his ‘recipe’ into the mix; it was more richly spiced than the first and stronger with it. All the better – my body still ached from its beating and nothing deadened the pain like a half pint of brandy.

I had intended to discuss plans for tomorrow with Fleet, but he was making little sense by this point and after two further glasses I was no better. At first I blamed the lack of food in my stomach, but when the room began to blur and I found I couldn’t stand, I realised at last that something was wrong. I reached for Fleet, who had slumped against the table, his head resting heavy on his arm.

Slowly, with great effort, he lifted his head. And for the first time, I saw fear glittering in his eyes. ‘Tom…’ he groaned, his voice dredged from the deep. ‘Drugged… Fetch help…’ He gripped my hand and dug his nails into my palm, the bite of it waking me a little. Then his head dropped again and his hand slid from mine.

Somehow I pulled myself to my feet and staggered across the floor, legs heavy as iron. If I could just reach the window and call Jakes. But the room was spinning and the words stuck in my throat. I stumbled, and fell. Pulled myself up and fell again. After that – nothing.

I woke. Head pounding, mouth dry.

The room was in shadow, that strange grey light that comes in the hour before dawn. I was lying across my bed, fully clothed. Had I dragged myself there or had someone carried me?

Not dead. Not murdered. I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, relief washing through every cell of my body. Alive.