The Devil in the Marshalsea - [13]

‘I’m not easily startled, sir,’ she replied, tilting her head towards me.

My heart jumped. She was still young – close to my own age of twenty-five – and exceptionally pretty, with a fair complexion and delicate features. Her eyes were most striking – a clear grey, fringed with dark lashes – but there were deep shadows beneath them, from grief and lack of sleep I supposed. Her husband’s death must have been recent; she was still wearing a pair of dull black shammy gloves. Beneath her hood and cap, her hair was dark brown, laced with auburn that burned bronze in the light from the window. I caught myself wondering how it would look tumbling about her shoulders.

She did not seem as pleased by my appearance. Her gaze flickered over the shabby coat Moll had lent me, my mud-spattered stockings and patched breeches. She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring in disapproval. You would make a fine abbess, I thought; chilly and severe. A shame. I was rather fond of widows, in the main. Especially rich ones.

‘Why is this man still in chains, Mr Cross?’ she demanded.

I smiled to myself. I had misjudged her – it was my chains she disapproved of, not my tattered clothes.

‘He hasn’t paid the fee,’ Cross growled, fists clenching impatiently at his side. Then he leered at me. ‘He can’t afford it.’

I felt my face grow hot. It was shaming to be unmasked as a man without six pennies to his name. I had the sudden urge to explain my story – to make her understand that I came from a good family, the eldest son of a respected gentleman. (The disgraced and disinherited eldest son, admittedly, but there was no need to trouble her with such trifling details.) ‘I can assure you, madam, I’m expecting the money at any moment-’ I began, then stopped in surprise. There were tears shimmering in her eyes.

‘I have heard those words before,’ she said, her voice tinged with grief. She took three pennies from her purse and handed them to Cross, who pocketed them at once. The low, cheating bastard had tried to rob me of double the fee.

I thanked Mrs Roberts profusely, promising to return the money as soon as I had it.

She waved a black-gloved hand. ‘I have heard that many times as well,’ she said, wearily. She gestured to Cross to unchain me. He muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, shoving the key into the lock then pulling hard at the chains that ran about my chest. Whoever Mrs Roberts was, she was used to being obeyed. She nodded with a satisfied air as the iron links slid to the floor. ‘What is your name, sir?’

I stepped neatly from the pile of chains and bowed again. ‘Thomas Hawkins, madam. At your service.’

A sparkle of amusement lit her grey eyes. ‘And what service might that be, I wonder? Do you mean to pummel another turnkey for me?’

‘If he punches me again I’ll hang him up here until he chokes,’ Cross snarled, slinging the chains over a hook on the ceiling. He pointed to his cut lip. ‘The governor will hear of this.’

‘Indeed?’ Mrs Roberts raised an eyebrow. ‘And what will you tell him, I wonder? That his head turnkey was bettered by a chained, unarmed prisoner? Well, well. I’m sure Mr Acton will find that most… diverting.’

Cross scowled and unlocked the manacles, pulling them off so sharply he scraped my wrists. He glowered at me as he left, as if to say, we are not done yet. I stared back as evenly as I could, cursing my hot temper. I had not even stepped out into the yard and I’d already made an enemy of the head turnkey – and doubtless every guard who served under him.

Still, at least I was free of my chains. I rubbed my wrists and stretched out my back, my body aching and sore from the heavy irons and the night’s rough beating.

Mrs Roberts gave a little gasp, and covered her mouth.

‘Madam – are you well?’ I took a step towards her.

She gave a start, then looked down, smoothing her skirts. ‘Quite well, thank you. It is just…’ She cleared her throat. ‘You remind me of my late husband. You have… the way you…’ She stumbled to a halt, blushing with embarrassment.

I remembered the story Jakes had told me on the river about his old friend Captain Roberts, who’d died in the gaol. You look the spit of him. But Roberts had been a penniless debtor. Where had his widow found the money for such fine clothes, cut in the latest fashion – and why the devil would she be haunting the Marshalsea now that her husband was dead?

‘Forgive me – are you visiting friends inside the gaol?’ I asked. ‘I can see you are not a prisoner here.’

‘Oh, but I am, sir,’ she replied, and gave a bitter laugh. ‘You cannot see my chains, but they are wrapped about me even now.’ She moved closer, the hem of her dress brushing softly against the stone floor. ‘My husband was murdered in here a few short months ago. Whoever killed him is still hiding within these walls. I have vowed never to leave until he is discovered.’ Her lips tightened to a thin, determined line. ‘I shall see the devil hanged for it – if I must do it myself.’

I stared at her in alarm. It was hard enough to be slung in prison – harder still to learn I was trapped in here with a murderer.