Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

I could go home. Leave all my struggles and cares behind me and start afresh. And why not? What was left for me in London? More gambling, more debauches, more debts. How long before I found myself thrown in gaol again? How long before I fucked the wrong whore and caught the pox? There could have been another path for me, if Kitty had lived. A riotous, disreputable life, to be sure, but my God it would have been worth it. But she was dead and that path was closed to me now.

I leaned back against the willow’s trunk, and allowed myself to think of home for the first time in three long years. Not the last angry days and the arguments, but happier times. I thought about the life I could lead; the life I had studied and prepared for since I was a child. The Reverend Thomas Hawkins. A well-conducted, respectable gentleman. A vicarage, two hundred pounds per annum, a hundred acres of land. Servants. A pretty, dutiful wife to run the farm while I sat at my father’s old desk and wrote sermons. Respectful neighbours. The simple pleasures of shooting and fishing and long walks down to the coast. No need to follow the high fashions and low habits of the town. Peace, health. A long, contented life.

Was this my path, after all? Had I been running away from the one thing I truly wanted?

My father had told me to ask God for guidance. I closed my eyes and prayed.

You’d die of boredom, Tom.

A gust of wind. A rustle of leaves. I opened my eyes and swore I caught a flash of red velvet through the branches. I blinked, and it was gone. I’d been dreaming.

I’d been dreaming, but now I was awake.

I sprang up and pushed my way free from the willow, running back towards the house. I grabbed hold of a passing servant and ordered him to find a boat to take me back to the city. My father was right; it was time to go home. Home to London.

I gathered up my few possessions then went in search of Charles. His room was empty, his trunk packed ready to join the family in town for the coronation. I smiled at the neat piles of books and carefully folded clothes. I hadn’t been here since my first night; we’d sat by the fire, talking for hours. I’d thought there would be more time to reminisce, but I had barely seen him since then. And it was then that a sudden doubt leapt out and seized me. The strange, formless anxiety I had felt ever since I’d arrived at the lodge sharpened to one question.

Had Charles been avoiding me?

I’d spent more time with Lady Dorothy and her daughters than with my old friend this past week. I had not given it a moment’s clear thought, but now I began to wonder. Charles had always been ambitious. Not everyone could see it but I had always known what lay hidden beneath his quiet, friendly manner; the iron core every man needs to advance in the world.

Was that why he had written to my father? To be rid of me, now I had served my purpose? No, no – that was wrong. Unkind. Charles had been a good, loyal, patient friend. If it weren’t for him I would still be rotting in prison.

But I could not ignore the chill, creeping suspicion that something didn’t add up. It was the same feeling I had at cards, when I was sure someone had cheated but couldn’t prove it.

I paced the room, thinking hard. It wasn’t true. I was mistaken. But the more I thought, the more I doubted. Sir Philip and Lady Dorothy adored Charles; he was like another son to them. Why did he not beg Sir Philip to release me, when he knew my life was in danger? And why had he kept his distance these past few days? Now I thought about it carefully, his behaviour struck me as strange; almost furtive. As if he were afraid that if I spent too much time with him…

… I would guess his secret.

I stopped still, in the middle of the room, understanding at last. Stripping away sentiment, my sense of obligation and loyalty, it all became clear. Charles had not helped me in the Marshalsea. He had used me.

If Charles had begged my case, Sir Philip would have listened; I was sure of it. But it suited them both to have me locked up in gaol; their own personal investigator, desperate to uncover the truth. Charles had left me there even when I had been chained and beaten and thrown in the Strong Room. And see how obliging I’d been! There would be no more talk of ghosts. No riots. No bothersome letters from a grieving widow. No loss of profit.

I’d intended to wait and talk to Charles – perhaps persuade him to sail up to London with me. Now I knew I had to leave at once. I was afraid I might see the truth confirmed in his eyes: that he was not my friend; had not been for a long time. Perhaps it was that day I had called out to him in the street in front of his patron, bottle in hand. Or even before that – in some ruthless, clear-eyed moment when he realised he didn’t need me any more. The boy he had once admired, who had protected him at school, was sinking, while he was rising far beyond reach.

Oh, yes, Charles. Much better to pack me off to Suffolk, far away and out of trouble. And have me believe it was a kindness, too.

I sat down at his writing table, feeling hollow and light-headed. I would write him a note, explaining I had left for the town. I owed him that much, and then we were done. There was no paper left out so I opened a drawer and reached inside. My fingers closed on a soft leather pouch. I pulled it out.

My purse. Stolen from me in a stinking alley in St Giles. I weighed it in my hands, the coins clinking together softly. Still full.

How could it possibly be here, now, in this room? Something hard pressed down upon my heart. The heavy weight of a friend’s betrayal.

A moment later the door opened and Charles strode in, smiling. ‘Tom! What are you-’ He stopped, seeing the purse in my hand. His mouth opened in shock. Then he glanced away in a shifty fashion, smoothing his black silk waistcoat. ‘I hear you’ve called for a boat. I think you should see if it’s ready.’

I rose from my chair, blood pounding in my ears. I held the purse out in front of me, wishing it would somehow vanish. Perhaps I was mistaken. Please God, let this all be some foolish misunderstanding. ‘This purse was stolen from me.’

He frowned impatiently. ‘The money is all there. Take it and go.’

I stared at him, barely able to breathe as the truth struck home. ‘What did you do, Charles?’ I whispered. ‘My God. What did you do to me?’

‘What did I do?’ He gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. ‘You think to blame me for all your troubles? I have worked without cease for years to attain all this.’ He gestured about him. ‘Do you have any notion how hard it is to secure a patron when you have no family, no connections? I have sacrificed everything for this position. But you cannot begin to understand that, can you? You were born with every conceivable privilege. Money. Good health. A good family . And see what you have achieved with these fine gifts! You have drunk and gambled and fucked away every penny you’ve ever owned. Wandered through life as if the whole world owes you a living. Well, here’s the truth of the matter, Tom Hawkins. The world doesn’t give a damn about you.’

Pain burned in my chest. How could he say these things to me – my oldest, dearest friend? I stared at him, hoping that he would suddenly laugh and tell me this was all a joke. But the mild-tempered, amiable boy I had always loved had vanished and a stranger stood in his place. ‘You helped me. You gave me all your savings.’

‘No. Not all of them. Not even close. Just enough to keep you from starving in prison.’ Charles paused, deliberating for a moment. He lifted his chin and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I will be honest with you. You might as well know the whole truth. You might even learn something from it. The night you came to me and asked for my help, I had known for days that you were destined for the Marshalsea. I’d seen your name on the list of arrest warrants.’