Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘Fleet.’

I could just make out the shape of him across the room. He was still sleeping. I sat up and groaned as the room swayed and settled again, took a deep breath as my head cleared. Fumbled for a candle, for the tinderbox buried deep in my coat pocket. Struck the flint against the steel till the sparks flew. Lit the candle.

‘Fleet. Wake up.’

I picked up the candlestick and stumbled across the room. He was lying on his back, one arm stretched to the floor, the other over his heart. I held the candle higher.

His throat was cut. Red rivers across white skin.

Not Fleet. Please, God.

It wasn’t real. The gaping wound. The blood-stained sheets. Black eyes wide open and lifeless, staring at nothing. It was a dream. I touched his hand. Cold.

I ran to the door but it was locked tight. I beat upon it with my fists, shouting for help, kicked it till the wood splintered and the lock smashed open. I staggered out on to the landing as Jakes pounded up the stairs, Jenings moments behind him, lantern held high.

‘Mr Hawkins!’ Jakes cried. ‘What in God’s name…’ He looked into the room and froze. Then he turned and grabbed Jenings and pushed him towards the stairs. ‘Call the alarm! Fleet’s dead.’

The truth of it hit me like a fist. My legs crumpled and I slid slowly down the wall. I heard Jenings cry out across the yard; heard the prisoners yelling the news through the walls.

‘Fleet’s dead!’

‘Murdered!’

‘The devil’s gone back to hell!’

A riotous clamour of shouts and jeers rumbled up through the gaol.

It sounded like applause.

‘Mr Hawkins.’ Jakes touched my shoulder and I flinched. He kneeled down, brought his lips to my ear. ‘Did you kill him?’

I stared at him.

He jerked his chin towards Belle Isle. ‘The door was locked. No one would blame you, if he struck first.’

I shook my head, rubbed my hand across my scalp.

‘Then who…?’ Jakes frowned. ‘I stood guard at the ward entrance all night. No one came past.’

I dropped my hands and rose wearily to my feet. We faced each other across the landing.

‘You are sure of that?’ I whispered. ‘ No one came into the ward? Not a soul?’

‘Upon my life.’

A cold chill ran through me. If no one had come into the ward from the yard in the night, then the killer must have been hiding in the ward all along, waiting for the best time to strike. He dosed the punch then stole up to Belle Isle once he knew it had taken effect. ‘He must have picked the lock,’ I said. I could hardly bear to think of the rest. I had lain there fast asleep while Fleet’s killer had drawn his knife and…

Fleet’s eyes had been open. Had he woken, in those last few moments? Had he cried out for help? I shuddered and rubbed my eyes. And then a thought struck me. I peered down the stairwell and then up to the landing above. ‘Jakes. Has anyone left the ward this morning?’

He shook his head. ‘The cells are still locked.’

I stared at him in alarm. ‘Then he is still here. He’s still on the ward. We must keep the whole building locked. And stand guard. We mustn’t let him escape.’

Jakes was about to reply when there was a loud crash downstairs, followed by a short scuffle. Then a girl’s voice cried out. ‘Let me through! For God’s sake let me through!’

Kitty. A moment later and she was on the stairs, followed closely by Acton himself. She shoved past me and flung herself towards the room. Jakes tried to grab her but she kicked him hard in the shin and slipped through his grasp. He sprang after her but I stopped him. ‘Go back to the main door. He’ll use the confusion to slip past us.’

Jakes nodded and pushed his way past Acton, pulling out his club as he ran down the stairs to the main entrance. I heard Kitty cry out, once, on the other side of the door – a low, terrible moan of grief. As Acton reached me I held out my hand, blocking his path. ‘For shame, sir. Give her a moment.’

He started to protest then saw the look in my eyes and shrugged. ‘Why not? A moment.’

The room was quiet. The early-morning light streamed through the unshuttered window, spilling on to Fleet’s body. The candlelight had spared me the worst of it, but the sun was pitiless in its glare. There was blood everywhere: pooled beneath the bed; soaked into the bed sheets. The smell of it hung in the air. All that life, bled out and gone.

But it was the stillness I couldn’t bear. Fleet was never still; he was always reaching for his pipe, or pacing the floor, or leaning forward to press his point home. Four days, I had known him. But I felt the loss as if I’d known him a lifetime, deep and hard in my chest like a knife.

Kitty was kneeling at his side, his cold white hand pressed to her cheek. Her petticoat was stained with his blood. She gathered herself up as I moved towards her, tears streaming down her face. I opened my arms and she collapsed into me, sobbing against my chest as I held her tight.

I led her gently from the room to Mrs Bradshaw, who was waiting on the landing. She shook her head at me as she bundled Kitty into her arms.

‘Terrible business, Mr Hawkins,’ she said, craning her neck to get a better view through the door. ‘Quite terrible…’

I walked back inside, numb with shock. Acton was glaring down at the bed, fists balled on his waist. ‘Well. What a mess,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘We can’t call that a suicide, can we? He’s been bled like a pig.’

My hands clenched into fists, nails biting hard into my palms. ‘It was someone on this ward. Had to be.’

‘Is that so…?’ He frowned. ‘Well, he’ll pay for it, damn him. I squeezed a lot of money out of Samuel Fleet these past few months. Whoever killed him owes me a fortune.’ He slapped a hand down hard upon my shoulder. ‘It wasn’t you, was it, Hawkins? Did he get a bit too friendly in the night?’ He leered at me. ‘Wouldn’t put it past him. Wouldn’t put anything past that whore’s son.’

I shrugged his hand away. ‘Fleet was murdered because he was hunting for Roberts’ killer – and at your command. It’s a wonder they didn’t cut my throat, too.’

Acton snorted. ‘No need, was there? Fleet was the clever one.’ He pulled at the neck of Fleet’s shirt and whistled in appreciation. ‘Very neat,’ he said, examining the wound.

I staggered to the window and opened it wide, taking deep breaths to fight back the sickness. It was no use. I had barely enough time to find a chamber pot before I threw up the contents of my stomach. The fine dinner I had shared with Fleet and Trim last night. The punch, dosed with a sleeping draught. Trim… and Woodburn! My God, I had forgotten – I must speak with him. But when I tried to stand I fell back to the floor, my head in my hands. It was pounding hard – the effects of the drugged punch, no doubt. I leaned back against the wall and felt despair wash over me. Acton was right – Fleet was the clever one. How would I ever survive in this cursed place without him?

‘You done?’ Acton asked, tipping his chin towards the chamber pot. He wiped the blood from his hands on to the bed sheets. ‘I wonder what they’ll think of this.’

I rubbed the sweat from my brow. ‘Who…’ My voice sounded cracked. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘The men he worked for. The men who locked him in here. “Too dangerous to live and too useful to die”, that’s what I heard. They won’t like it, I reckon. I could be in trouble for this.’ He glanced at me thoughtfully, then grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll tell them you did it.’

My stomach lurched. He would do it in a flash, I knew. ‘I was drugged.’

‘So you say.’

‘You still need me,’ I blurted, in desperation. ‘I can solve Roberts’ murder. I know it was Gilbourne, I just need to find the second man.’