‘Charitable of you.’ I hoped the boys just ran errands. Not a safe bet with a man like Hand.
He grinned. ‘And how may I help you, sir?’
‘I need to send a letter. To Reverend Charles Buckley.’
Hand gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Sir Philip’s curate?’ An avaricious look crossed his lined, lean face. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘My oldest friend.’
‘That so.’ I could see his mind whirring, calculating the ways he might make a profit from such a connection. He gave a sharp whistle and three boys came racing from the other end of the yard, kicking up the dust as they ran. He sent two of them back, leaving a boy of about ten standing alone. His clothes were poorly patched and his skin was streaked grey with dirt, but he had the same restless energy as Hand, as if he had a hundred places to be at once.
‘Benjamin.’ Hand leaned down. ‘Chandler’s shop. Paper, ink, quill.’ He held his finger in front of the boy’s face. ‘No charge, d’you hear? The Careys owe me. Bring them to Mr Hawkins.’
Benjamin nodded, gaze flickering over Hand’s shoulder to where I was standing. He was young, but life had already knocked him about – worse than that wretched little moon-curser by the looks of it. His head was shaved for lice and one of his front teeth was chipped. I smiled at him and he pursed his lips, brows furrowing with suspicion. ‘Which room?’ he asked.
I glanced at Hand. ‘That’s for Mr Acton to decide.’
Hand snorted. ‘Governor’s in the Crown. Won’t be back for hours. Suppose I could talk to Mr Grace for you. Acton’s clerk,’ he explained, and pulled a face. ‘Usually charge a hog for that pleasure.’
I shrugged and smiled. If he thought I would pay him a shilling just to talk to some wretched clerk he could think again. Benjamin ran off towards the Lodge to the little chandler’s shop beneath the Tap Room. As I turned to watch him I caught sight of Samuel Fleet standing on the balcony, smoking a pipe. Watching. Hand cursed and grabbed my elbow, pulling me away towards the north side of the gaol.
‘He couldn’t hear us from up there,’ I protested.
Hand’s expression had turned grim. ‘Wouldn’t put anything past that tongue-pad. I hear he’s taken an interest in you.’ He looked me up and down and snorted. ‘I’ll give you this advice for free, boy. No matter what happens, you stay away from Samuel Fleet.’ His lips curled in disgust as he spoke the name, but it wasn’t disgust I saw in his eyes. It was fear.
While Hand left to speak with Acton’s clerk about a room, I continued my tour of the Master’s Side, heading for the grand brick building at the far end of the north wall, beyond the men’s wards – and a long distance from the Tap Room balcony. A crowd was still gathered beneath its porch, watching another game of backgammon. I propped myself against a column and studied the players for a while, noting their flaws for later use, then tapped my neighbour’s arm.
‘Forgive me, sir. What’s the purpose of this building?’
The man smiled politely. ‘This is the Palace Court.’ He pointed to the long row of windows above the porch, stretching two storeys high. ‘They hear our cases up there in the Court Room. Are you visiting, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘I arrived this morning…’ I said – and found I could say no more, confronted with the truth of my imprisonment. I would spend the night in this place. And the next night. And the next… my God. How would I endure it? How would I survive?
‘I’m sorry for your misfortune,’ the man said quietly, as if he had read my thoughts, and turned back to the game.
I drifted away from the crowd, feeling out of sorts and quite sorry for myself. Beyond the porch, the Palace Court had been built further out into the yard; more living quarters, I presumed, from the trails of grey smoke wafting up from the chimney. At the end of the building stood a sentinel’s box that I never once saw used save for pissing behind. It was quieter in this corner of the gaol, far away from the Tap Room and the Lodge. I could hear voices on the other side of the wall, the sound of hammering, men whistling and laughing as they worked. I felt a sudden crush in my chest at the thought of all those free men standing just a few paces away. Life flowed fast around this prison, like a river flowing round a boulder. I longed to jump the wall and swim away but it was no use – I was trapped. If I did not find some money soon I would die in here.
‘Mr Hawkins!’
I turned to see a plump, silver-haired woman leaning out of a window on the ground floor of the Palace Court. She whisked off her cap and flapped it at me. ‘There you are!’
I offered her a short bow, wondering how she knew my name. ‘Madam.’
‘Ahh, bless you.’ She laughed and gave a mock-curtsey in return, pulling up her coarse woollen skirts and twirling them about. ‘Moll said you were a gent.’
I drew closer. She had a broad, pleasant face but her complexion was poor, and her cheeks were pitted with old pox scars. It was a face one could read in a moment – guileless and open, but not foolish, with clever, greyish-blue eyes that missed nothing. ‘You’re a friend of Moll’s?’
She fixed her cap back on. ‘Does Moll have friends…? Come on in, my dear; I’ll serve you a pot of coffee on the house.’
Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse was tiny, with rickety, mismatched old chairs and tables, but the floor was swept clean, the fire was blazing in the hearth and there were pots of fresh flowers on each table. Prisoners sat talking and drinking idly, wrote letters or read the paper. Gilbert Hand’s unlucky customer sat in one corner, weeping quietly. No one paid him any mind.
Over by the fire, a young maid in a light blue calimanco gown tended the cauldron, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her face was flushed from the flames and damp straggles of red hair stuck to her cheeks. She paused, and poked them back beneath her cap, frowning with irritation. A chubby boy of about three years of age sat at her feet, gazing up at her in unfocused adoration, holding tight to a corner of her apron with one dirty little fist. I smiled, watching the girl for a moment. She was in a foul temper, clanging the pots and muttering curses under her breath. But she had a quick, capable manner I liked very much; she reminded me of the young maids who worked at the vicarage when I was a boy. I’d whiled away many happy hours in their company. A memory I’d buried long ago suddenly came back to me. Lizzie Smith. I was home from school, trying to keep out of my stepmother’s way. Lizzie followed me into the woods one day. Pushed me up against the nearest tree and kissed me, took my hand and slid it beneath her skirts…
The girl must have felt my eyes upon her. ‘I’m not for sale,’ she warned, glaring at me.
‘I’ve no interest in hiring you, hussy!’ I snapped back, annoyed by her cheek.
She raised an eyebrow, gaze dropping to my breeches. ‘Then you should tell your cock, sir,’ she muttered, and turned back to the fire. A couple of men at the nearest table sniggered into their coffee bowls.
‘Kitty Sparks…’ Mrs Bradshaw tutted, bustling me away from the girl towards a seat near the window. ‘I do apologise, Mr Hawkins.’
I laughed and shook my head; she had caught me fair and square. ‘Moll would hire her in a flash, would she not?’
‘Aye, she might. But she’d have to slit my throat first.’ There was a hard tone to her voice; had Moll really told her I was a gentleman and left it at that? A sin of omission if ever I’d heard one.