Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

Acton grunted in surprise. ‘You think there’s two of ’em?’

I gestured to the bed. ‘Whoever killed Fleet also helped kill Roberts. Gilbourne couldn’t have carried the body on his own.’

‘True enough,’ Acton muttered. ‘That dandy-prat can barely lift his own cock to piss.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘So who’s this friend of his, eh?’

I have no idea , I thought, helplessly. Woodburn knew, I was sure of it, but he had been half-mad last night. ‘I am almost certain. I just need more time to gather evidence. Give me a week-’

‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Acton growled. ‘I gave you two days and you’ve had one. I’m losing patience, Mr Hawkins. Find this other man by lock-up tonight.’ He gestured at Fleet’s body. ‘Or I swear you’ll hang for this.’

He left and the room fell silent. Nothing felt right in here. Too still. I pulled myself to my feet and gathered the things I needed: the silver watch; my pipe and tobacco; my blade. A few sheets of paper. I threw a blanket over Fleet’s body – the same square of grey-blue wool he had stretched out upon on Snows Fields just the day before. He would have laughed at such a foolish, irrational gesture. Waste of a good blanket, Tom.

I reached down and closed his eyes.

Out on the staircase I paused for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath. When I was calm enough, I leaned over the staircase and called down to Jakes, standing guard at the main door of the ward.

‘Are they all locked up?’ I shouted over the din. The prisoners were still calling out the news of Fleet’s death all around the gaol.

Jakes turned his battle-scarred face up to mine. ‘The whole prison. Governor’s orders. Doesn’t want another riot.’

I heard banging from the floor above. ‘Is that you, Hawkins?’ Mack bellowed. ‘Tell them to let us out, damn it. I’ve a business to run!’

I hesitated on the landing, listening to my neighbours clamouring to be released, their voices raised in fear and outrage. One of them was dissembling. One of them had picked the lock and slipped into Belle Isle last night while I lay sleeping. Had they thought of murdering me too? Had they placed the blade to my throat? And if so – what had stopped their hand?

‘Mr Hawkins?’ Trim called down, banging on his locked door. ‘Is it true? Is Fleet murdered?’

I took a few steps up towards his landing. ‘Trim! Is Mr Woodburn awake?’

There was a short pause, then Trim’s voice called again through the door. ‘He wouldn’t stay. I tried to stop him – he’s much too sick to leave…’

I gave a shout of alarm and slipped down the stairs as fast as I could. Jakes unlocked the main ward door in time for me to catch sight of the round, shabby figure of Mr Woodburn, limping his way across the yard towards the Lodge, leaning heavily on Joseph Cross for support. I glared at Jakes. ‘You let him out?’

‘Didn’t see any harm in it,’ he said. His eyes were red from standing watch all night. ‘He didn’t kill Fleet, did he?’

‘No – but I think he knows who did. He’s running away.’

Jakes’ jaw dropped. I raced down the yard, shouting for them to wait.

Woodburn turned as I reached them. He looked as if he had aged twenty years in the night. His eyes were glazed and unfocused and there were strange, fresh scratches on his hands as if an animal had torn at them. ‘Oh! Thank God!’ he cried, grabbing at my coat and bunching it weakly in his hands. ‘You are safe.’

Cross began to pull him away. ‘Come along, sir. Your chair is waiting.’

I glared at him. ‘Leave him be! I must speak with him at once.’

‘On whose orders?’ Cross snarled.

‘The governor’s. Run and ask him if you wish.’

Cross pulled a sour face, then took a step back, folding his arms. ‘Go on, then.’

I cursed under my breath. The last person I wanted standing over me now was Joseph Cross – but there was nothing I could do about it. Mr Woodburn still had hold of my coat.

‘You’re safe,’ he mumbled, patting my chest. ‘I couldn’t save him. I tried but I was too late… too late. So much wickedness…’

‘Mr Woodburn, please, I beg you.’ I took hold of his shoulders and gave him a little shake. ‘Do you know who killed Roberts?’

‘Roberts…’ he breathed, staring at a patch of air behind us. ‘Roberts… who killed Roberts…’ He swallowed hard. ‘Do you see him?’ he cried, of a sudden. ‘Look! Do you see him with the noose about his neck?’

‘He’s raving,’ Cross muttered.

‘Mr Woodburn.’ I tightened my grip on the chaplain’s shoulders and he blinked, his eyes clearing for a moment. ‘Please, just tell me the truth. It was Gilbourne, was it not?’

Woodburn’s round, florid face crumpled in bewilderment. ‘Gilbourne… no… although…’ He looked away and then he started to nod eagerly. ‘Yes! Yes! You are right, sir! He’s to blame! Edward Gilbourne!’

My heart leapt – here was the truth at last. ‘And the second man, sir. Who was it helped Gilbourne? Who killed Samuel Fleet last night?’ I looked him deep in the eyes, trying to reach the kind, gentle man I had met on my first day in the gaol. The man who returned again and again to the Common Side and smuggled food to the prisoners – at the risk of his reputation and even his life. ‘Sir. Who was it stabbed you yesterday? You saw him, did you not?’

Woodburn gave a start and backed away. His eyes darted wildly back to the prison wards and Belle Isle. He scratched anxiously at his hand, nails raking through the skin. ‘I cannot say,’ he whimpered. ‘I cannot…’

I seized his jacket. ‘You must!’ I cried. ‘My God, I will beat it from you if I must-’

‘Leave him be!’ Cross yelled, tearing us apart. He called for Wills and Chapman, who were drinking beer under the lamppost. I was shouting by now, screaming at the chaplain to tell me the truth. He covered his face with his hands, blood pouring from the deep scratches in his skin, and sobbed wretchedly.

‘I stabbed myself!’ he wailed. ‘God forgive me!’ He pulled his hands away, his face filled with horror and revulsion. ‘I stabbed myself. ’

There was a moment’s shocked silence. Cross was the first to recover. ‘Take the chaplain to his chair,’ he ordered Wills and Chapman. They obeyed at once, leading Woodburn away through the Lodge while Cross held me back. I fought him as hard as I could but he was too strong, flinging me hard on to my hands and knees on the cobbles. By the time I had picked myself up Woodburn was gone.

‘He knew Fleet’s killer!’ I screamed, voice shredded with despair. ‘For God’s sake bring him back.’

Cross held up a finger and tapped the small cut on his lip where I had hit him four days ago, the morning I had arrived in the Marshalsea. And then he turned, put his hands in his pockets and sauntered towards the Tap Room, whistling.

I must keep moving. If I stopped for a moment, the rage and the grief would knock me down. My body was feverish and my head felt heavy – some lingering taint from the sleeping draught, perhaps. No matter. I would work my way through it. Woodburn had given me one name at least. The second I would have to discover for myself – and before sunset.

Acton was back in the turnkeys’ office in the Lodge, seated at his desk, running through the accounts. Grace leaned over his shoulder, pointing at some fresh soul marked for damnation.

‘Mr Acton.’

Grace glared at me. ‘The governor is busy.’

Acton leaned back on his chair and studied me for a moment. ‘Still hunting, then? Glad to hear it.’ He glanced at Grace, prodded the ledger. ‘Murder’s bad for business.’