Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I stared at her. ‘I didn’t kill anyone, Miss Constance.’

She frowned. ‘But you must have! Papa said so. Mr Buckley said you were very brave.’

‘No, madam. Kitty Sparks shot Mr Jakes.’ Once in the stomach and once right between the eyes.

‘Kitty Sparks…?’ She closed her fan with a sharp snap, then sat back and studied me narrowly. ‘A girl ?’

‘A kitchen maid.’ I paused. ‘I loved her.’

She stared at me for a long moment, eyes wide. Then she blinked, and laughed, and tapped her fan playfully on my arm. ‘You are teasing me, sir. How wicked of you.’ She jumped up, twirling her fine blue silk skirts as she danced away from me to join her sister. I remembered Kitty running across the yard, picking up her skirts. A flash of dainty ankles. Charles, who had been standing close enough to hear, shook his head slowly and turned away.

The boat sailed on up river, the sun glinting on the water. I looked back towards Southwark, but we had turned a bend and it had slid from view some time ago. I’d left it behind without noticing.

The next few days passed like a dream. Sir Philip’s hunting lodge was vast, with servants standing ready to answer every possible whim. I had been given a suite of rooms close to Charles’ quarters, with my own valet, who watched me from the corner of his eyes as if I might strike him or steal something small and valuable. Why not? I had killed a man, apparently.

Only Charles and Joseph Cross knew the truth. They had decided between them to hide it. Kitty had shot Jakes in cold blood. If the world discovered it, her reputation would be ruined for ever. At worst, she could have been transported or hanged. So Cross pulled the pistol from her hand and told everyone that I’d shot Jakes. I was half-dead anyway – what did it matter? Kitty protested, but no one believed her, apart from Charles. He knew I was not capable of it.

So Kitty was free to stay and watch over me. I remembered her now. She’d held my hand and pulled me back from the brink of death. And then the fever had taken her instead.

There was talk of a trial, in the days after I recovered. But I was a gentleman, and Jakes was not. Sir Philip had friends, and influence. The talk died away.

And Mr Woodburn? Charles muttered something about the Church protecting its own. ‘He’s locked away somewhere. Or sent abroad perhaps. He should probably hang for what he did…’

‘No,’ I sighed. Mr Woodburn hadn’t escaped punishment – his own conscience would see to that. ‘Let him live, wherever he is. He was a fool. A dangerous fool. But he didn’t kill Roberts – or anyone else. In his own muddle-headed way he truly thought he was doing good.’ I shook my head at the idiocy of it all.

As time passed I grew stronger, and my appetite returned, but my spirits remained low. I found that I could not stay indoors for long, and took to exploring the grounds alone for hours. I liked to walk about the lake close to the house, where the horses sheltered beneath the trees, then head deep into the woods, kicking up the autumn leaves as if I might find answers beneath them. When it grew dark Sir Philip’s wife, Lady Dorothy, would send men out with lanterns to find me. I would return to my rooms to find a warm bath by the fire, and fresh clothes.

At night I dreamed I was back in the grave on Snows Fields and would wake with a cry of terror and the taste of soil in my mouth.

‘You had no right, Charles! No right at all!’

We were in Sir Philip’s library; unread books stretching high to the ceiling. The rain had been falling hard since breakfast, and I had retreated here to spend a peaceful morning roaming the shelves. I liked this room; it smelled of old leather and pipe smoke and the family rarely used it.

It was over a week since I had arrived at the lodge. Long walks, fresh air and good food had revived my strength, but a darkness still lingered. It rose to claim me in the dead of night: a dense, endless fog of dread and anxiety. Hour after hour I lay awake, my thoughts twisting and coiling upon themselves in a hopeless tangle.

I should have felt glad to be alive and free. I still grieved for Kitty and Fleet, but their deaths were like sharp blades in my heart – clean, honest wounds that I could understand. It was something else that kept me awake at night; something more insidious than grief. I couldn’t see it and I couldn’t name it but I knew, deep in my soul, that it was there.

I was reading an old copy of the Gazette when Charles entered the room. I was glad to see him; I had not spent much time with him these past few days. He worked long hours with Sir Philip, but the whole family had set off for London that morning to prepare for the coronation. Mary was a maid of honour to the queen and would be near the head of the procession tomorrow.

‘Charles!’ I grinned. ‘Are you free at last? Let’s call for a bottle of wine and play some cards. You will have to lend me some money.’ Sir Philip had cleared my old debts, but I had no fresh funds in my pocket. I was penniless. Again.

He gave a regretful smile. ‘I have a sermon to write. But here – this arrived for you this morning.’ He held up a letter, then added, carefully, ‘It’s from your father.’

I shrank back. ‘How did he find me?’

‘I wrote to him.’

I glared at him in fury as he slid the letter from the envelope. ‘You had no right, Charles! No right at all!’

‘If you would just read it. I think it may surprise you.’

I tore it from his hand and flung it into the hearth.

Charles sprang forward and grabbed it before it caught light, knocking the glowing embers away with his fingers. ‘Tom, please. For my sake. It is just one page.’

‘Oh, very well,’ I sulked. ‘Hand it here if you must.’ I opened it out, steeling myself for the words of rebuke and triumph.

My Dear Child

I have just received the News this morning of your recent Troubles and write to you in all Haste. My boy – I beg you to come Home to your Family to rest and recover. I have enclosed three pounds to help with your Journey and pray you would come at once.

My Dearest Son, why did you not write to me? Did you think I had forgotten you? I have missed you, Thomas, every day – and prayed for you. Charles tells me you have grown up to be a good man and a true Friend, and that you have performed a great Service to Sir Philip Meadows. I am sure with the support of such a noble patron, your youthful transgressions will be forgiven. I shall write to the Bishop of Norfolk on your behalf, the moment I hear from you.

My boy. We are both Stubborn, but I am old now – too old to be governed by Pride. Come home to your Family, who love you, and take over my Duties here in the parish. This is your true calling, my Son, and the dearest wish of your beloved Mother. Pray to God and He will show you your rightful Path.

Your Loving and Affectionate Father

I read it again. Three times. Held it out at arm’s length to confirm the handwriting.

Charles was smiling. ‘D’you see, Tom? You’re saved!’

I shook my head, mystified.

The rain had stopped. It was a mild, grey October afternoon; a day to make mild, grey decisions. I walked down to the lake and sat beneath the large weeping willow at the water’s edge. The grass was dry beneath its branches, which hung down like bed curtains. My own secret chapel of contemplation, hidden from the world.

I pulled the letter from my pocket and read it over once more. My dearest son? My father had never spoken of me in such affectionate terms. Edmund, my stepbrother, had always been his favourite. At least, that is what I had always thought. Had I been wrong, all this time?