PART ONE: ROBBERY
Chapter One
‘You have the luck of the devil, Tom Hawkins.’
I grinned at the man across the bench. It was a warm September night, I had a full purse for the first time in months and we had just found a table in the most disreputable coffeehouse in London. Life could not be better. ‘It wasn’t luck,’ I replied, shouting over the din.
Charles Buckley, my oldest friend, shot me a look I had come to know very well over the years: exasperation, disapproval – and a flicker of amusement glowing deep in his eyes. I settled back, content, and lit a pipe. One of my greatest pleasures in life was making Charles laugh when he knew he shouldn’t.
A serving maid passed close to our table – a pretty girl called Betty with tight black curls and skin the colour of roasted coffee beans. I beckoned her over and ordered a bowl of punch.
‘A bowl of coffee,’ Charles corrected. ‘And then home. You gave me your word, remember?’
I slipped a shilling into Betty’s hand. It felt good to have money again – and to spend it. ‘Coffee. And a bowl of punch. We’re celebrating,’ I said, dismissing Charles’ protestations with a lordly wave.
Betty arched an eyebrow. There were only two reasons to celebrate at Tom King’s coffeehouse – a win at the tables or a full recovery from the clap.
‘I took ten pounds at cards tonight,’ I called out hastily, but she was already gliding through the crowds to the coffee pots hanging over the fire. When I turned back, Charles had his head in his hands.
‘What am I to do with you?’ he groaned through his fingers.
I looked out across the long, low room, breathing in the heady fumes of smoke, liquor and sweat. I would hang up my coat tonight and in the morning my little garret would be filled with the same familiar scents. ‘One bowl of punch, Charles. Just one! To toast my skill at the tables tonight.’
‘Skill?’ He dropped his hands. Charles had a pleasant countenance, his features as neatly arranged as a well-proportioned drawing room. It was not a face created for outrage, but he did his best, widening his dark brown eyes a fraction. ‘Skill? You risked everything on the turn of a card! Down to your very last farthing! That is not skill, it’s…’ He shrugged, helplessly. ‘It’s madness.’
I didn’t argue with him. Charles refused to believe there was anything more to gambling than blind luck – in part because he played so ill himself. No use explaining that I had known three quarters of the men in that hot, smoke-filled gaming room – had played against them so many times that I understood their strengths and failings better than my own. No use explaining that even half-drunk I could remember every card that had been played and work out the odds in a flash. To be fair there was some truth in what Charles said – I had taken a terrible risk with that final bet, but I’d had no choice in the matter. My life had depended on it.
Early that morning my landlord and three other creditors had burst into my room and clapped an action on me for twenty pounds in unpaid rent and other debts. The warrant had given me just one day’s grace to pay enough to satisfy them. If I failed I would be arrested at once and thrown in gaol.
Little frightened me in those days. I was five and twenty and death seemed a distant, hazy thing. But I knew three men who had been sent to a debtors’ gaol in the last year. One had died of a fever, another had been stabbed in a fight and only just survived. The third had passed through the prison gates a fat, cheerful fellow and emerged six months later a grey, stuttering skeleton. He refused to say what had happened to him and there was a look in his eyes when we pressed him… as if he’d rather die than speak of it.
And so I’d flung on my clothes and run out into the brightening streets to call in every debt and favour I could think of. When that wasn’t enough I’d pawned everything of value, until my room was stripped as bare as a maid on her wedding night. I saved only two items of any worth – my dagger for protection and my best suit for deception. (A little swagger and a few gold buttons will open most doors in London.) My creditors had demanded half what they were owed as proof they would see the rest in good time. As the sun set I counted out what I had made: two guineas and a handful of pennies. Hardly a quarter the sum I needed.
It was then that I was forced to do what I had been avoiding all day – I turned to Charles for help. We had been as close as brothers at school and at Oxford, but in the last few years our friendship had faltered. My old companion in mischief had become the Reverend Charles Buckley, a civil, sober gentleman who gave afternoon lectures to enraptured old ladies at St George’s on Hanover Square. All of this was well and good, I supposed, until he’d started to lecture me on my own behaviour. I was not an enraptured old lady. I had not seen him for several months.
Charles lived with his patron, Sir Philip Meadows, in a large house near St James’ Square. It wasn’t a long way from my lodgings but my footsteps were slow and heavy as I walked along Piccadilly. I couldn’t bear the thought of burdening him with my troubles, and worse – I knew he would forgive me for it in a moment. I was on the brink of being ashamed of myself – an uncomfortable feeling.
Luckily, when I explained my predicament to Charles he scolded me so hard that I quite forgot to feel ashamed and swore at him for being such a damned prig.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, hand me the warrant,’ he snapped and began to read. He gave a grunt of surprise. ‘This is for the Marshalsea. You must know that Sir Philip is Knight Marshal?’
Must I? I knitted my brows. I tended to drift off when Charles talked about his illustrious patron and his family, except when he mentioned Sir Philip’s two eldest daughters. That always roused me. ‘He owns the gaol?’ I guessed.
‘The king owns it,’ Charles replied absently, reading further. ‘Sir Philip administers it in his name. Well – he hires the head keeper… my God, Tom – twenty pounds? You owe these men twenty pounds? That’s more than I earn in six months.’ He peered at the warrant, as if hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves into something smaller if he squinted hard enough.
‘London is a costly place to live.’
He gestured at the gold buttons on my waistcoat. ‘It needn’t be.’
Another lecture. ‘Very well.’ I snatched the warrant from his hands and stuffed it in my pocket. ‘If I promise to dress in brown stockings and drab fustian breeches from now on, will you help me?’
Charles laughed, despite himself. ‘Of course I’ll help you.’ He pulled an iron box from a high shelf, unlocked it and tipped out a small pile of coins. ‘Will this be enough?’
I counted it quickly. A little under four pounds. Even if I took every last penny, it wouldn’t save me from gaol.
‘I can find more,’ Charles said anxiously. He stole a glance at his belongings, assessing their worth with narrowed eyes. ‘It may take a little while.’
Ah, now – there it was. Now I felt ashamed. ‘I will borrow this and no more,’ I declared, martyr-like. ‘And you will have it back, Charles – you have my word. By the end of the evening, I hope.’
I hadn’t been quite that fortunate. Over five straight hours at the gaming tables I had lost and won, won and lost, never quite reaching the ten pounds my creditors had demanded. Charles – who had insisted on accompanying me – paced about, or sat in a corner chewing his nails, left the room, came back, left it again. It grew late and I lost six times in a row, leaving me with a little over five pounds – less than I had arrived with. But I was playing Faro now and in this final game I had built up my stake one card at a time. If I bet on the right card last I would double my winnings.
But if I chose the wrong card… I would lose everything.