Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I sank to the floor and put my head in my hands. What a fool. What a stupid fool. All my hopes, all my efforts… all my dreams of escape. Of avenging Fleet’s death. Ruined by my own hand. Gilbourne could never have beaten Fleet in such a humiliating fashion. His scorn was like acid; my whole body burned with the shame.

It must have been an hour or more before the sound of footsteps on the stairs roused me from my stupor. It was Charles, breathless and hot, come all the way from Mayfair to comfort me. Or so I thought.

‘My God, Tom,’ he said. ‘I am not sure my spirits can stand another shock like this! How do you fare?’ He squinted at me for a moment. ‘Not well,’ he decided. ‘You’re pale as ash.’

I told him of my meeting with Gilbourne. ‘Good God! He admits it all?’ Charles exclaimed, scandalised. ‘Shameless devil. Sir Philip will know of this – once you are safely released, of course.’

‘Released?’ I laughed, bitterly. ‘I doubt I shall ever escape this place. Not without Fleet’s help.’

Charles didn’t answer for a while. He wandered about the parlour, coming to rest in front of a rather pretty study of pink roses and lavender painted by Mary’s father. ‘This is not ill done…’ he murmured.

‘For God’s sake, Charles. Whatever you wish to say, please say it before I’m sent mad with your pacing.’

He bit his lip; turned away from the painting. ‘There is a way you might walk free within the hour,’ he said, gesturing to the clock upon the mantelpiece. ‘But you will not like it.’ He put his arm on my shoulder and led me to the chair by the fireside. He settled himself on the other side of the hearth, in the same chair Gilbourne had sat in an hour before. The fire had died away to a few weak embers. ‘You were fond of Mr Fleet.’

‘I am not sure…’

‘You were friends,’ he persisted. ‘By the end.’ He shifted in his chair, drew out a pipe, then seemed to think better of it. He slipped it back in his coat pocket and linked his fingers together. ‘There was a darker side to Samuel Fleet. Sir Philip has many powerful friends, in privileged positions. Fleet was known in those circles as a useful but dangerous man. He was a spy, Tom.’ He paused. ‘And an assassin. He killed countless men in his time.’

Of course. I did not doubt it for a moment. That quick, cunning mind. The ease with which he held a blade. Fleet himself had hinted that he knew too many secrets; that he was languishing in gaol for that very reason. ‘Why tell me this?’

Charles looked grim. He never did like confronting trouble, even as a boy. But he liked half-finished business even less. ‘I took a turn through the gaol just now. I spoke to the turnkeys and the trusties. The porters. Any prisoners that weren’t locked up. Most of them are convinced that Fleet killed Captain Roberts. And they don’t give a damn who killed Fleet. Sir Philip and Mr Acton are hoping for a quick end to the matter. Killing was Fleet’s business. He was in the room the night Roberts was murdered. He might have done it.’ He cleared his throat, looked away. ‘Tell Acton that Fleet confessed to you. He’ll be happy to believe it if it puts an end to the business. Tell him now and I promise you will be released at once.’

‘No.’

‘Tom…’

‘ No! ’ I glared at him. ‘I will not accuse an innocent man.’

‘He’s dead ,’ Charles said, chopping his hand through the air as if it were an executioner’s blade. ‘What does it matter? He has no reputation, no kin. No one would suffer from this.’

‘What of Kitty?’

He blinked. ‘The kitchen maid ? For God’s sake, Tom! You will die in here. Look at you! Four days inside and already you’re battered and bruised from head to foot. I know you – you’ll pick a fight with the wrong man or wander into some trouble and then it will be your corpse they’re carrying through the Lodge gate on a cart. Please, I beg of you – don’t throw your life away because of some ill-placed loyalty to a man you barely knew! No one cares about Samuel Fleet.’

‘You want me to lie. To destroy a man’s reputation. And what of his soul, Charles? They’ll bury him in unconsecrated ground-’

‘God damn it, you’re a stubborn fool,’ he complained, through gritted teeth. ‘You know what Fleet was, in your heart. At best, a rogue. At worst, an invert and a killer.’ He caught my expression and held up his hand. ‘Forgive me, but I must be blunt. Samuel Fleet is already burning in hell for what he’s done. What is one more murder to add to his name?’ He got to his feet. ‘Come with me now and we will tell Acton together.’

I considered it for a moment. I owed Charles that much. But my thoughts couldn’t travel far before hitting a wall as hard as iron, and there was no scaling over it. I would not, could not betray Fleet. It was not rational, but no less true for that. ‘No. I’m sorry, Charles. No.’

He winced, and stared at the floor for a long moment. ‘Then it is over,’ he murmured, and rose from his chair. ‘I will not stay and watch you die in here.’ He gave a short, formal bow and turned to leave. At the door, he paused, and looked back. ‘He would have betrayed you in a flash.’

I smiled sadly. ‘I know.’

The clock upon the mantelpiece struck noon. I wandered over to the writing table and picked up the paper with the list of scratched-out names. Then I threw it upon the fire, pushing it deep into the coals until it caught light with a bright flash, the sudden heat scorching my face as the names burned away to nothing. The last name to burn was Trim’s.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, Mr Hawkins. You are in trouble.’

Gilbert Hand was sitting beneath his lamppost, legs stretched out, drinking a mug of beer. He grinned, presenting his teeth for inspection.

‘You knew Roberts took the money.’

Hand shrugged in acknowledgement. ‘A man needs to know when to keep his mouth shut, Mr Hawkins. I’m not a blabber.’ He took a long swig of beer. ‘Governor’s furious with you. You made him look like a fool in front of Gilbourne. Surprised he didn’t throw you in the Hole for a few days. He hasn’t tried you in there yet, has he? The hole under the stairs? It’s like being buried alive, they say…’

‘What else do you know, sir?’

He gestured across the Park. ‘I know I don’t want to go out of this world like that.’ I followed his gaze to the prison wards. Two porters were carrying Fleet’s body out on a stretcher, wrapped in an old sheet. Jakes – still standing sentinel – pulled off his hat as they passed and bowed his head.

‘Where are you taking him?’ I called out.

‘Coroner,’ one of the porters said without stopping. They carried the stretcher towards a cart that had just turned in through the Lodge. A crow flew down and perched on a wheel, watching intently as they loaded Fleet’s body on to the back. The driver shooed it away.

Acton stood by Fleet’s bench, fists on his hips, and watched the cart rumble past. For a moment our eyes met across the yard. I knew that he would be happy to see me leave the gaol the same way, preferably before the day was over.

Jakes strode to meet me. ‘They’ve let everyone out. Acton’s orders. I saved your things.’ He pointed through the door to a small bundle of possessions tied in a sheet. ‘They’ve been gambling for the rest up in Belle Isle. It’ll be stripped bare by now.’

I ran up the stairs, two at a time, and burst through the door. The room was empty. The old, cracked mirror had been pulled from the wall. Books, blankets, pots, pans and clothes, all the raggle-taggle of Fleet’s life had gone. Even the coal had been pinched from the bucket. Only the bed frames remained, like skeletons picked of meat. Kitty stood at the window, clutching Fleet’s red velvet banyan to her chest. She’d mopped up the pool of blood from the floor, but it had left a large, dark stain on the boards. Something to give the next occupants nightmares.