The Devil in the Marshalsea - [11]

We left the river behind and headed for the Borough’s High Street. Back among the throng, I grew conscious of my chains again, clinking together with every laboured step. Only a week before I had come to Southwark Fair with a group of friends and walked down this street a free man. Now the fair, and my friends, were gone. We passed St Saviour’s and the long line of taverns stretching out of town, laughter and shouts from every window, every doorway. The scent of cooked meat and beer cut through the noisome stench of the street. As we passed the White Hart a man staggered out from the alley and spewed a thick gush of vomit across the pavement then collapsed into it. A young boy raced across the road, scavenged the drunkard’s purse then scampered away, back into the shadows.

‘Here we are.’ Jakes gripped my arm and guided me between two boarded-up shop fronts.

We turned into the narrow, sunless alley. The clamour and life of the High Street bled away into a chill silence. Ahead of us, at the end of the alley, stood a high stone lodge – the entrance to the gaol. It looked like an old castle keep, flanked by twin turrets looming forty feet into the sky. I half-expected men in armour to appear at the top and throw burning oil on our heads.

The Lodge gate comprised two large doors studded with iron, wide enough for a carriage to pass through when both were flung open. A hand-written sign had been nailed into the wood, paper curling at the edges:

MARSHALSEA GAOL

and COURT PALACE

Southwark

Under the Charge of His Majesty the Knight’s Marshal: Sir Philip Meadows

Head Keeper: William Acton

Underneath the keeper’s name, someone had scrawled BUTCHER in fresh ink.

Jakes pounded upon the door with his club, the sound ringing back down the passageway. After a long moment there was a harsh scraping sound and an iron grate opened in the door. A pair of mean, bloodshot eyes glared at me contemptuously through the bars.

‘Who’s this son of a whore?’ a rough voice called through the gate.

Jakes leaned down and whispered urgently in my ear. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing, Mr Hawkins? Nothing you can pawn?’

And all of a sudden I remembered that there was, indeed, something: my mother’s gold cross, set with a small diamond at its heart. I had worn it about my neck for so long that I had almost forgotten it. It was the only thing I had left of her and I’d vowed to wear it always. But I had been a boy then, and boys make all sorts of foolish plans before they learn better. Shuffling beneath the chains I touched my fingers to my throat. By some miracle it was still there, unrobbed. I loosened my collar. ‘Will this do?’

Jakes unclasped the fine gold chain and held it up to the light. ‘There should be some capital in it. Enough to keep you from the Common Side for a few nights, at least.’

The turnkey slid back the bolts and flung open the door. He looked me up and down, taking in the mean cloth of my borrowed clothes and the low slump of my shoulders. He snorted, and shook his head at Jakes. ‘He’ll last a week if he’s lucky,’ he said, then laughed nastily and pushed me through the door. ‘Welcome to the Marshalsea, sir.’

PART TWO: MURDER

THURSDAY. THE FIRST DAY.

Chapter Three

Jakes abandoned me at the Lodge gate with a promise to return that afternoon. I watched him stride away towards the freedom of the High Street, my mother’s chain tucked in his pocket. Should I trust him? The truth was, I had no choice.

The turnkey slammed the door shut, the sound echoing down the corridor ahead. My heart sank. No chance of escape now. The corridor walls seemed to press closer and closer while the chains tightened about my chest, making it hard to breathe. I gasped for air, my head spinning.

The turnkey’s face loomed in front of mine. ‘Feeling a little sick, are we, sir?’ he asked gleefully.

I fought back my fear and stood taller. ‘I’m perfectly well,’ I lied. It would not do to show weakness in here. At the end of the corridor lay another set of double doors to match the Lodge gate. One had been propped open with a barrel of ale – I could just make out the entrance to the prison yard beyond. Without thinking I began to shuffle towards the light and open air, but the guard grabbed me roughly by the arm and shoved me back towards a small, overheated room next to the Lodge gate. This was where the turnkey on gate duty would sit, waiting for the next poor devil to come along. I saw now why this one was in such a foul temper – I’d interrupted an early dinner; a bottle of sack and a bowl of greasy mutton broth balanced precariously on a stack of papers. He tipped the last of the wine down his throat, examining my arrest warrant with a sour expression. Then he slammed open a black ledger filled with names and debts and scratched a fresh line on to the page.

Thomas Hawkins, Greek St.Thurs. 21st September, 1727. 20l. 10s. 6d. Gent.

‘Soho,’ he grunted, narrowing his eyes as he wrote the address.

‘You know it well?’ I guessed.

‘Joseph Cross Wardour Street Tuesday 6th February 1725 ten pounds seven shillings Bricklayer.