Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘How long have I been here?’

Charles smiled grimly. His eyes were bloodshot, shadowed with dark grey circles. ‘Almost a week. It’s Sunday today, the first of October.’ He paused. ‘You were very sick. Trim has been tending you these last few days – he’s had the fever before so it was safe for him. We didn’t think…’ He swallowed hard. ‘They administered the last rites just three days ago. I wasn’t allowed in the room for fear of infection.’ He glanced at me curious. ‘Do you not remember?’

I closed my eyes. Yes; there had been voices in the darkness. Words of comfort and peace. I had drifted away upon them, glad to be free at last. Something had brought me back. Something sharp and bright. Something worth fighting for…

‘Tom?’

… A dream, perhaps. The memory faded. I opened my eyes, shook my head.

‘Well. Perhaps that’s for the best,’ Charles said, glancing carefully at Trim. ‘Let’s talk of more cheerful matters. I have some excellent news.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Sir Philip has paid off all your debts.’

It took me a moment to understand what this meant. I clasped his arm. ‘All of them? I’m free?’

He grinned. ‘As promised, Tom.’

‘And Jakes? Woodburn?’

Trim cleared his throat. Charles gave him a sharp look, and shook his head. ‘Sir Philip has dealt with everything. Don’t let it concern you.’

A servant arrived with tea and breakfast. I watched hungrily as he laid out the dishes but when I sat down to eat I could barely finish half a roll.

Trim watched me with a worried expression. ‘D’you see now, Mr Buckley? He’s not well enough to travel yet.’

Charles frowned. ‘What choice do we have? If he stays another day in this hole he’s liable to catch another contagion.’

‘Then we should find him a good, clean room in the Borough,’ Trim argued. ‘They’ll take him at the George now his fever’s passed.’

‘The George?’ I looked up from my roll with renewed interest. ‘Should we go there now?’

‘Yes, thank you for that suggestion , Mr Trim.’ Charles glared at the barber. ‘But as you know Sir Philip has invited Tom to stay at his lodge in Richmond while he recovers.’ He turned to me. ‘There’s a carriage waiting to take us to the river.’

‘Could we…’ I thought of the two whores sunning themselves on the steps outside. ‘Might we go tomorrow? I am a little tired.’

Charles placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Tom, please, I beg you. You need peace and rest. Let me take care of you. When you are well we will hit the taverns together, I promise.’

I nodded my consent. I had missed Charles these past few months – and he had saved me from prison. If this was what he wanted, I would go with him.

‘Good. We should leave at once, as soon as you are dressed. There are fresh clothes on the chair here.’ He pulled out his purse and tipped a stream of coins into his palm. ‘Mr Trim, sir, would you be kind enough to pay the bill? You may keep the change.’

‘It’s just Trim,’ he muttered irritably, but he took the coins. ‘Take care, Mr Hawkins.’ He gave a short bow and left before I had a chance to thank him.

I would like to say it was the effects of the fever, or the speed with which Charles scooped me up from my sick bed and bundled me into the waiting hackney coach that made me forget. Perhaps it was these things, or perhaps it was just that I did not care to think deeply enough. Whatever the reason, we had almost reached the river and Tooley stairs when I realised what I had forgotten.

‘Charles, wait. We must turn back.’

He stuck his head out of the carriage to peer down the street. ‘We’re almost at the river.’

‘Charles!’ I clutched his arm, pulling him round to face me. ‘I must find Kitty. She saved my life. I can’t leave without seeing her.’

Charles said nothing, just stared at me sadly, his body swaying as the carriage swung round a corner.

‘We must go back,’ I called to the driver. I knew something was wrong. I could see it in Charles’ face. But I refused to understand. I clambered from my seat and grabbed the driver by the shoulder. ‘Stop, damn you!’

The hackney pulled to a violent halt, half-flinging me from the carriage. The driver turned and glared at me. ‘Grab me again and I’ll break your jaw, you bloody fool.’

‘Turn around at once! Take us to the Marshalsea.’

‘Tom,’ Charles said, softly.

I shrank back against the carriage seat. ‘Don’t say it. Charles, don’t say it, I beg you.’

He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. She’s dead.’

She’s dead . She’s dead . I don’t remember the rest of the journey to the Thames, just those words turning round and round with the wheels of the carriage. It wasn’t possible. Not Kitty. She’d saved me. She’d killed Jakes for me. She was my reward for everything I’d been through. Wasn’t she? She couldn’t be dead. What plans could I make without her? What life could I possibly have worth living?

Sir Philip had sent his own personal yacht from Richmond to collect us. His daughters Mary and Constance had sailed down with a picnic, no doubt curious to see Mr Buckley’s infamous friend. They were met with a hollow wreck of a man, bludgeoned with grief.

‘I’m afraid Mr Hawkins has just received some bad news,’ Charles said, gripping me tightly and steering me on to the boat.

To their credit the young Misses Meadows seemed honestly concerned for my welfare and found me a quiet, shaded corner to rest. ‘Cushions,’ Mary said firmly, as if they were a remedy for all misfortunes, from disease and death to the apocalypse.

I lay down and covered my face with my hand. I could not weep, not here, as much as I wanted to. Charles sat down next to me. I dropped my hand. ‘How did she die?’

‘Let’s talk of this later, Tom. You must rest.’ Beneath the concern I caught the faintest hint of impatience. No one else would have heard it, but I knew Charles too well.

‘Was it the fever that took her?’

He sighed, then nodded.

My heart sank still further. I thought of her lips pressed against mine, her hands around my neck. ‘I killed her with a kiss.’

Charles looked away, and said nothing. I had made him uncomfortable. All this fuss over a kitchen maid.

The boat hit a swell, rising then dropping swiftly with a sharp splash. The jolt of it brought me to my senses. What sort of a man was I, lying on velvet cushions and whimpering to myself? Not the man Kitty had wanted. I pulled myself to my feet and found a seat near the prow. A servant brought me a glass of wine and a pipe.

Constance, seeing I had rallied, skipped over and settled down next to me, fanning herself vigorously. She was a pretty girl with a lively manner and in other circumstances I would have enjoyed her company. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mary and I were thrilled to hear of your adventures in gaol. Do you promise to tell us your story? When you are recovered, of course.’

I opened my mouth to reply, but could not think what to say. How could I sit at supper and describe what I had witnessed to a pair of innocent young ladies? A boy of thirteen beaten to death; rotting corpses teeming with rats; waking to find my friend with his throat cut, the life stolen from his bright black eyes. How could I weave that into a pretty story to amuse Sir Philip’s daughters? And worse, knowing that their father had sat back and let it all happen? I smiled vaguely and took a sip of wine.

Constance leaned closer, whispering behind her fan. ‘Charles made us promise not to ask, but I must know… is it true you shot the killer right through the heart?’