The Devil in the Marshalsea - [12]

’

All said in one breath, as if it were his full name.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Cross.’

‘Oh. Pleased are you,’ he snorted. ‘Well, fuck me.’

Joseph Cross. I had never met a man more well-named; he was like the cauldron hanging over the fire at Moll’s, bubbling and roiling in a constant fury. He had the red, bloated face of a seasoned drinker and his thick brows met across the bridge of his nose, as if years of aggressive scowling had knitted them together.

‘So you’re a debtor too?’

‘Trusty,’ he corrected. ‘I work for the governor.’

‘I see.’ But you’re still a debtor, aren’t you? ‘Did you know someone’s written “butcher” under the governor’s name on the gate?’

Cross shrugged. ‘They wrote “cunt” yesterday. Well, Thomas Hawkins, Gent. What are we going to do with you, eh?’

I gazed longingly at the low chair by the fire. My chains felt so heavy now I was struggling to stand. ‘Perhaps I could wait in here until Mr Jakes returns?’

‘Oh, of course!’ Cross trilled, clapping his hands. ‘And perhaps sir would like a sugar cake and a pot of tea while he’s waiting…?’ He dragged me back out of the room. ‘No money and no warning,’ he grumbled as he led me down the corridor. ‘Mr Acton won’t like this. He won’t like you,’ he added, with obvious relish.

We headed towards the yard doors, sunlight glinting up ahead. Deep grooves ran down towards the yard where the carriages had rattled through, bringing in food and drink. And taking out the bodies. The ancient stone floor had been worn smooth by centuries of debtors trudging wearily through the gate. And now here I was to join them – just one in an endless line of wretched souls stretching on and on for ever, to the end of days, all pressed and pushed and prodded by men like Cross.

Before we reached the yard he opened a door to the right and pointed up a set of dank stairs that smelled violently of piss and beerish vomit. I could hear laughter coming from the floor above, and music. ‘Tap Room,’ Cross said. He leaned down beneath the stairs and pulled open what looked like a cellar door, revealing a narrow coffin-shaped space below. A foul, rotten smell wafted up, even worse than the stairs. Cross grimaced and put an arm across his face. ‘The Hole. Punishment room. I’ve seen a man last three days in there. Couldn’t remember his own name when we pulled him out.’ He watched my face fall with a satisfied air.

At the end of the corridor he unlocked a door to the left and pushed me into a small cell. ‘The Pound. You can wait here until the governor gets back.’

The Pound was not as bad as the Hole – that much I was grateful for. But it was not much better. The air felt suffocatingly close and damp and the walls and floor were filthy, with just one tiny, barred window too high to look through. A line of chains and manacles of different weights hung from the ceiling, clinking softly in the breeze from the door.

Cross gestured to a ghoulish collection of torture implements fixed to the far wall: thumbscrews, iron collars and whips. ‘D’you like our display, Mr Hawkins? The governor put those up himself.’ He turned to me with a straight face. ‘Mr Acton takes a keen interest in the history of the gaol.’

I stared at them in horror. ‘They’re not used on the prisoners?’

‘Of course not.’ Cross pulled down an iron skull cap and gave it an affectionate pat, as if it were a child’s head. ‘That would be against the law, wouldn’t it?’ He scraped his thumbnail slowly against a thick crust of blood that had dried along the rim. ‘Well, then. Shall I remove your chains before I go, sir?’

At last. Jakes had promised they would come off once I was inside. ‘If you would,’ I said, holding out my hands.

Cross took a key from the ring at his belt and slotted it into the lock at my chest. Then he pushed his face up close to mine, his breath reeking of bad gums and worse liquor. ‘Oh. That’ll be sixpence, sir.’

And then he laughed.

I had been beaten. I had been robbed. I had lost everything and now I was trapped in the most notorious debtors’ gaol in London. Anything would have provoked me in that moment; his laughter was more than enough. Without thinking, I raised my fists and swung them hard against his jaw, the iron cuffs about my wrists adding weight to my punch. He staggered back, blood bursting from his mouth, then leapt at me in a fury, hands tearing at my throat.

‘Mr Cross!’ A voice cut the air between us. ‘Stop this at once!’

A small, slender woman stood in the doorway – a widow, dressed in deep mourning. Her husband must have left her rich, judging by her fine black bombazine gown and hood. I lowered my fists.

‘Mrs Roberts.’ Cross gave an ill-tempered bow. ‘Didn’t see you there. Madam,’ he added, forcing the word from his lips with great effort.

‘Evidently,’ she murmured. She was turned from me, hood shielding her face, but I could tell from her voice and bearing that she was a gentlewoman. I could not imagine what she was doing here in the Marshalsea of all places.

‘My apologies, madam,’ I said, and bowed as best I could while wrapped in chains. ‘I fear we have startled you.’