Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

‘Tom! Well, I never! I hardly recognised you in your fine clothes. That is… you were very sick, the last time I saw you,’ he added hurriedly as I stepped into the room.

I stared at myself in the looking glass near the fire, seeing myself with fresh eyes. I was still dressed in the snuff-coloured suit Lady Dorothy had given me, and a new short wig tied with a black silk ribbon. I had the straight, confident posture of a man with money in his pocket: three pounds from my father and the ten Charles had stolen from me. I looked… respectable.

We shook hands and I presented him with the parcel of goods I’d bought.

‘Very good of you, sir,’ he said, opening up the tobacco and building himself a pipe.

‘You were very good to me , Trim. I doubt I would have survived without your help. And… well, consider it a small apology for accusing you of murder.’ I paused. ‘And threatening to kill you.’

‘It was my own fault,’ he said quietly. He put down his pipe and crossed to the window. The old floorboards had been mended since I’d stamped my foot through them. ‘I should have spoken out. I should at least have told Fleet what I’d heard that night. Perhaps he would still be alive…’ He bowed his head.

‘It was not your fault, don’t speak such nonsense. Blame Woodburn and Jakes. Blame Gilbourne for tempting Roberts in such a foul way. Blame Roberts himself! He should never have taken the money.’

He smiled, but I could see in his eyes that he would always feel some guilt for what had happened. Far more than Gilbourne ever would, damn him. Jakes and Roberts were dead, and I doubted Woodburn would ever fully regain his sanity. But Edward Gilbourne had survived without a scratch on that smooth skin of his, without the faintest stain upon his reputation. Well, he had escaped justice in this world, and there was nothing I could do about it. This was not an Italian opera where all ended well. A shame, really – I would happily pay to see Gilbourne on the stage. As a castrato.

Trim handed me a cup of tea and nodded towards the door. ‘Mr Buckley’s not with you, then?’

‘We had a fight.’

‘Indeed?’ He shot me an appraising look. ‘A bad one, I think.’

He betrayed me. My oldest friend. I could still scarcely believe it. All those years of friendship, all those happy memories – destroyed by his treachery. I could not even begin to explain this to Trim. I sat down, turned my face to the fire. ‘He was not the friend I thought he was.’

‘Ambition and friendship are poor bedfellows,’ Trim observed, joining me by the fire and resting his tea on the small bulge of his stomach. ‘I think perhaps Mr Buckley would see loyalty as a weakness.’

I warmed my hands against my cup of tea. ‘Strange. I only knew Fleet for a few days, but he was a better friend to me than Charles ever was.’

‘Easy to mistake good humour for good character. And what of Mr Jakes, eh? He seemed such a decent, Christianlike man.’

‘I think he was, in many ways. He’d lost his way, of course. In fact I think he was quite mad, at the end. But he truly believed that he was doing God’s work.’

‘Then we must pray that God forgives him.’ Trim paused. ‘I’ve been praying for Mr Fleet these last few days. Though it’s hard to know where to start .’ He chuckled for a moment then fell silent, and took a long draw on his pipe. ‘May he rest in peace.’

I smiled at this, and sent my own private prayer to the heavens. I doubted Fleet had ever enjoyed much peace or rest in his life – but perhaps that was how he preferred it. ‘There is something I wished to ask you,’ I said, after a while. ‘Charles rushed me away from the sponging house before I had the chance.’

He sat up straight. ‘Kitty?’

I nodded, tears springing in my eyes. I brushed them away, surprised at their sudden return. I’d learned to hide my grief in Richmond – no one wanted to see it there. Trim, though, would understand.

‘You wish to know where she is.’

‘Where she’s buried, yes.’

‘ Buried? ’ Trim spluttered out a long stream of smoke. His tea slopped over its cup and he cursed, setting it to the floor. ‘What in heaven do you mean?’

‘Charles said…’ I stared at him, eyes wide. A flicker of hope flared in my chest. ‘He told me she died of the fever. That she caught it from me.’

‘No! No, indeed!’ Trim cried, horrified. ‘Kitty’s alive and well, I swear it! She never caught the fever.’

I leapt from my seat. ‘My God! Then where is she? Is she here, in the gaol?’

His shoulders slumped. ‘No. She’s gone. Ran off ten days ago, when she heard you’d left for Richmond. No one’s heard from her since, not even Mrs Bradshaw.’ He frowned. ‘She’s vanished.’

I asked about the prison – half-frantic with joy at the news and panic that I would not find her. Kitty knew how to disappear without trace when she wanted; Fleet had spent months searching for her before stumbling upon her in the Marshalsea. I could not wait that long, damn it. But no one had the faintest idea where she might be.

‘She’s not in the Borough,’ Mrs Bradshaw declared. ‘Mr Hand sent Ben out to hunt for her. We even sent a message to Mrs Roberts but she’s left the city. Now there’s a thing.’ She drew closer. ‘She’s reconciled with her father, would you believe. Now poor Captain Roberts is no longer… a suicide ,’ she mouthed, ‘they couldn’t use that against her in court. She’s returned home to her son. Now. You must tell me.’ She seized my arm. ‘Is it true Mr Gilbourne was planning to use her terribly ?’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

‘Please, Mrs Bradshaw. I must find Kitty.’

‘ Elle est morte! ’ A thin, piercing voice cut through the coffeehouse. Madame Migault was in her usual corner, reading evil in the tea leaves. ‘I’ve seen her! Dead in a ditch. Murdered. ’ She ran a finger across her throat.

‘Shut your mouth, you poisonous old baggage!’ Mrs Bradshaw cried.

I left them fighting, their voices carrying out across the Park.

‘Hawkins!’

I had almost reached the Lodge when Acton stormed into the yard with Grace and two guards at his back. He was drunk and holding his whip in his hand, just as he had been the first time I’d seen him. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re doing swanning about the place? Get out before I kick you out.’

I held his gaze. ‘One day the world will know about you, Acton. About what you do in this place.’

He gave a contemptuous laugh and spat at my feet. ‘The world doesn’t care, Mr Hawkins. Not one damned farthing. Mr Grace.’ He turned to his clerk. ‘Have Mr Gilbourne write an Order of Court. I will not have troublemakers in my Castle.’

And so that was my last trip to the Marshalsea. The letter with its Court seal arrived care of Tom King’s coffeehouse the next day, signed in Gilbourne’s hand, banishing me from the gaol for my impudent behaviour and for spreading malicious gossip about the esteemed head keeper and the Palace Court’s deputy prothonotary. I burned it.

The last person I saw as I left the prison was Joseph Cross, standing at the Lodge door, swigging from a bottle of wine. It struck me, for the first time, that he must have been handsome once, before the drink and hard living caught up with him.

‘What are you staring at?’

I put my hands in my pockets and rocked back upon my heels. ‘And a good day to you , Mr Cross.’

‘You run out of money, then? Am I locking you up again?’

‘Not at all. I hear you stopped Acton from sending me over to the Common Side when I was sick with fever.’