Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

He glanced down the corridor towards the Park. Acton was standing at the yard door, a black silhouette with the sun at his back. ‘Didn’t want you fouling the place,’ he muttered. ‘It’s all well and good for the governor – he don’t have to deal with all the stinking corpses, does he?’

I smiled. Cross would sooner die than admit he wanted to help. ‘Well, I am grateful to you, sir.’

Cross look disgusted. ‘Grateful won’t buy me a round in the Tap Room, will it?’

A fair point. I pulled out a guinea and dropped it in his palm. ‘For saving my life.’

His hand snapped shut faster than a dog’s jaw about a rabbit’s neck. ‘Not sure your life’s worth that much, Mr Hawkins.’ But then he grinned, and tilted his head towards the open door. ‘Go on, then. Fuck off before I lock you up for sport. Lucky bastard.’

I crossed the bridge, glad to be home at last. Kitty was alive and waiting for me somewhere amidst the bustle and swagger of these streets. Charles had wanted to keep her from me. I’m sure he thought he was doing me a good turn – saving me from a disgraceful match to a common kitchen maid. Well, he’d failed, thank God. I would find her and I would disgrace myself as soon as possible. As often as she would let me. I strolled through the city, enjoying the press of the crowds, everything on display, everything for sale. How could I have thought of leaving it for a moment? So what if there were thieves lurking in the shadows; fights spilling out from every tavern; lice, vermin, the pox; foul air and poisoned water? London quickened my pulse and made my blood sing in my veins – and for that I would forgive it anything.

I bought a new walking cane with a silver top; a tinderbox and a chain for my mother’s cross. Ordered a pair of shoes from a cobbler off the Strand. And as the sun set I made my way back to Moll’s.

‘Tom Hawkins! Here you are at last!’ she cried, striding across the room. She kissed me full on the lips. ‘Word is you killed a man.’

I grabbed her by the waist and pressed my lips to her ear. ‘I haven’t killed a soul. But don’t you dare tell anyone.’

She gave a wicked smile. ‘Your reputation is safe with me, sweetheart.’

It was the night before the coronation and I had never seen the coffeehouse so packed. It seemed as though half of London was crammed inside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the king tomorrow.

Moll found me a quiet corner then slipped away into the crowds, promising she would be back soon. ‘Someone I think you should meet.’ I ordered a bowl of punch from Betty, smoked a pipe and wrote a short note to my father, thanking him for his kindness and forgiveness. I’d thought it would be a hard letter to write – but the words flowed easily and my heart felt lighter when I had finished. He would be disappointed by my decision, but there it was. The Church was his vocation. London was mine.

I had just finished writing when a shadow fell across the table. I glanced up and the breath caught in my throat.

Fleet.

I blinked, startled, and the spell was broken.

The stranger in front of me wasn’t Fleet. He was younger – thirty at most – with a darker complexion and a stronger build. He didn’t move like Fleet. He moved like a soldier, steady, serious and full of purpose as he sat down opposite me. But those black eyes under heavy brows; the shape of his jaw… they had been enough to fool me, for a moment.

I remembered Fleet’s meeting in the Tap Room, the day before he died, and the stranger who never turned round to face me. A family affair , Fleet had said. ‘Are you his brother?’

‘Half.’

I peered at him in the candlelight. ‘On which side, sir? Your mother’s or the devil’s?’

His face remained still, but his eyes glittered with amusement. ‘You don’t recognise me.’ He pulled a dagger from his side and laid it on the table between us, fingers caressing the hilt. ‘D’you remember this? I held it to your throat.’

The hairs rose on my neck. This was the man who had robbed me in St Giles. I poured myself a glass of punch and knocked it back, trying to keep my hands from shaking. ‘I should challenge you to a fight, I suppose.’

‘That would be unwise.’ He drummed his fingers lightly across the blade. My blade.

‘I was thrown in gaol because of you.’

‘Shouldn’t walk down black alleys with a full purse.’ He rubbed his jaw. Clean-shaven; another difference.

‘But you asked your brother to keep an eye on me,’ I guessed. ‘You felt guilty.’

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Curious. Wanted to learn why a man would refuse to hand over his purse, even when his life is at stake.’ His lips curled into a half-smile. ‘Useful to know in my business.’ He plucked a note from his pocket and slid it across the table.

I held the note up to the candlelight, squinting at Fleet’s impossible scrawl. It was dated the day before he was killed.

My Dear Brother

Thank you for my Gift; he is keeping me most Amused in this wretched Hell Hole. How he has stayed alive without my aid these past five and twenty years is a Mystery. In Three Days he has been Beaten, Tortured and Chained to a Wall; fallen in Love (twice); fought in a Riot and wrestled a Ghost. He also snores like the Devil.

You asked if I might Discover why he Refused to give up his Purse to you when you had gone to the Trouble of holding a Knife to his Throat. Given that he is not a Lunatick (so far as I can tell), here follow my Conclusions, after Three Days of Close Study:

i) He is a man of Instinct more than Reason

ii) He is drawn to Trouble – or perhaps it is fairer to say, Trouble is drawn to him

iii) He believes – at heart – that God will Protect him

An Unfortunate Recipe for Disaster, you will agree – but it is the last point I fear the most. A man of true Faith in this City is like a Naked Man running into Battle, believing himself fully Armed. Diverting and alarming in Equal measure.

In other Circumstances I would propose we Shipwreck him upon a Remote Island like Robinson Crusoe before he does himself an Injury. But here is the Strangest Truth of all. I would miss him. He has awoke me from myself, James; awoke me from a deep slumber. I’m not sure How or Why, but there it is. Perhaps it is his Youth, his Curiosity. I Suspect it may be his Legs.

Whatever the Truth may be – I Thank you, dear Brother, from the Bottom of my Black Heart, for Placing him in my Path. I am much Obliged and remain, Sir, your Obedient Servant, etc

S.

I folded the note, shaking my head. He’d captured me well enough.

Fleet’s brother gestured for me to keep it. ‘There is something I would like to know. You found him. His body…’ He leaned forward. ‘How did he die?’

I remembered the blood upon the walls. The ugly slash of red across Fleet’s throat. ‘With his eyes open.’

He breathed in sharply, and bit the corner of his lip. ‘ With his eyes open ,’ he murmured, at last . ‘That’s good.’ He nodded to himself then studied me for a long moment, black eyes as unreadable as his brother’s. ‘Word is you killed Jakes. But I don’t see the mark of death on you.’

‘No.’ I lowered my voice. ‘It was Kitty. Kitty Sparks.’

He blinked in surprise. ‘Nat’s daughter?’

‘Shot him right between the eyes. With Fleet’s pistol.’

He sat back, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. ‘ With Sam’s pistol. He would have liked that. I am indebted to you, Mr Hawkins, for this information. Perhaps I might perform some small service in return?’ He picked up my dagger and trailed the tip slowly across the table. ‘The man who paid me to rob you, for instance?’