Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘I need a room where I may work. Somewhere quiet.’

He scratched his jaw. ‘My parlour’s free this morning. Mary’s busy tidying up the Tap Room.’

‘Mr Hawkins,’ Grace wheedled. ‘Pray tell me. Who will pay your rent, sir, now Mr Fleet is dead? I will need assurances…’

‘Damn you, sir, we’re not brutes!’ Acton roared, rounding on his clerk. He picked up the thick ledger and smacked it hard over Grace’s head. ‘In any case, Mr Hawkins will be leaving us tonight.’ He gave a slow, cruel smile. ‘One way or another.’

Up in Acton’s parlour, I ordered a fire to be lit and laid my paper upon a small writing table set in a corner by the window. I’d planned to write a short account of the night’s events in the hope of discovering some fresh clue, but I couldn’t settle. It seemed I had inherited Fleet’s restlessness, but not his precision of mind. For the life of me I could not fathom why Woodburn would have stabbed himself. There was a chance he was lying – to protect himself or someone else. But he had seemed so distressed and shamed by his confession I doubted it.

Whatever the truth behind the stabbing, I was sure of one thing. Woodburn knew who had killed Captain Roberts. Had someone admitted his guilt to the chaplain, then regretted it? I groaned, furious with myself for letting Woodburn escape without pressing the truth from him.

I pushed open the window and called out to a porter for a pot of coffee and some raw milk and bread. Then I sat down, picked up one of Acton’s quills, and dipped it in the ink.

Someone had tipped a sleeping draught into the punch last night. If I wrote down every possible suspect – no matter how improbable – perhaps the killer would reveal himself.

Mrs Bradshaw & Kitty prepared both bowls

A porter delivered the first bowl

I drank from the first bowl with Trim & Fleet

Joseph Cross took a glass from the first bowl

Cross delivered the second bowl, paid for by Charles

Trim, Fleet & I drank from the second bowl

Charles & Jakes were offered punch but neither accepted a glass

I dismissed Kitty at once, scratching out her name with the quill.

Fleet had not murdered himself, so his name was the next to go. The ink covered his name like soil over a coffin.

Could Charles have slipped a powder into the second bowl? Yes – it was just feasible. But for what possible purpose? And in any case he left the gaol before the front gate was locked. Whoever murdered Fleet must have stayed on the ward all night. Another name scratched.

The same was true of Jakes – he could have drugged the punch when no one was looking, and upon reflection he did refuse a glass from the second bowl. But then he knew he would be standing watch all night and would need his wits about him. And if he was the killer, why would he have encouraged me in my hunt for the truth? Fleet would have left Jakes uncrossed purely out of spite, but it did not make any rational sense. I drew a line through his name.

Mrs Bradshaw? She kept a supply of Mr Siddall’s sleeping draught in the Oak; she’d given some to Catherine Roberts just the other night to calm her nerves. It was no secret that she mistrusted Fleet and thought him a dangerous influence on Kitty. She could have poured the draught into the bowl before sending it up to us. I hesitated, quill hovering over her name. But then how could she have slipped past Jakes, standing at the main door? She did not have the figure to slip past anyone, even under the cloak of night. And in any case, it was a very large step from disliking a man to slitting his throat.

The porter arrived with my breakfast. I watched him closely as he laid out my bread and milk and poured me a dish of coffee. He was from the Common Side – I could tell from his hollow cheeks and tattered clothes. Most of the porters came from over the wall, glad to earn a few extra farthings and breathe the fresher air on the Master’s Side. No one gave them a moment’s notice; not even Fleet. Servants came through Belle Isle every day for one reason or another – to deliver coal or clear the dishes or empty the chamber pots; the hundred little chores we all took for granted. I handed the man a farthing and he bowed and left.

It could have been the porter. No one paid them any heed. He could have hidden himself in one of the stairwells after delivering the first bowl, waited for the drug to take effect then stolen back up to Belle Isle when everyone was sleeping. No need to pass Jakes at the main door. And though porters didn’t carry keys, I wagered many of them knew how to pick a lock in the dark. After that he could have returned to his hiding place and waited for the panic of discovery the next morning. No one would notice a porter slipping back out in those first chaotic moments.

I drew a ring about the porter’s line, then hesitated. There was every reason to suspect him, but I knew, in my heart, this was not Fleet’s killer. I closed my eyes, heard Fleet’s voice at my ear as if his spirit were in the room with me. Don’t know it in your heart, Tom. Know it in your mind. Why was he not the killer?

Because it was the second bowl contained the sleeping draught.

I opened my eyes. The draught only began to work after we drank deep from the second bowl. And Cross had taken a glass from the bottom of the first bowl, where the draught would have been strongest. Enough to make him feel out of sorts, had it been dosed.

I drew a line through the porter and considered the two names that remained.

Joseph Cross

Trim

Of the two men, I knew who I wanted it to be. But that did not make it the truth. A cold, unhappy thought stole into my mind, like a cloud across the sun.

A sharp rap at the door made me start from my seat. A moment later Edward Gilbourne entered the room, followed closely by Acton.

I leapt up, confounded. I was not ready to confront a man as clever as Gilbourne – not without clear proof of his guilt. I glared at Acton, silently signalling my alarm as Gilbourne removed his gloves and tossed his tricorn carelessly on to a chair. Acton ignored me, closing the door with a soft click and leaning his back against it, hands tucked in the pockets of his red waistcoat.

‘Well, sirs,’ Gilbourne said, settling himself by the hearth and running his fingers down his legs, caressing the fine, dark brown silk of his breeches. He seemed calm but it was an act, I could see it now. He had noted my expression when he arrived and now he was preparing himself for battle. ‘I am glad to see you were not hurt in the riot.’ He turned to me with an open, friendly expression that made the blood freeze in my veins. For a moment, I thought I could hear Fleet’s voice, whispering in my head. Careful with this one, Tom. Careful.

‘ Mr Acton tells me you are close to solving the murder. I take it this means our good governor is not a suspect.’ He shot me a knowing, complicitous smile. ‘I would be obliged if you could explain why I have been summoned at such short notice. Am I here to order an arrest warrant? That would be fast work indeed. But you are a very capable man, of course.’

His flattery bounced off me like hail off a roof. I did not know what to do, or say. Should I confront him with Mr Woodburn’s accusation? But what use were the ravings of an old man who had just confessed to stabbing himself in his fear and madness? Curse Acton for springing this upon me! At least he’d had the wits not to tell Gilbourne of my suspicions – he was so quick-minded he would have found a thousand answers on his walk from the Lodge gate to Acton’s parlour. I crossed to the window, thinking hard. And then I realised there was one thing I could test him on. ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure why you were summoned here, sir. But you should know that Mr Fleet was killed last night.’