‘You’ve taken a nasty beating, Mr Hawkins.’
‘I was attacked last night.’ I turned to face him, buttoning up the plain white shirt. ‘They took my purse. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Is that so.’ He breathed out a long stream of smoke. There was no surprise in his voice; no question. ‘Fate can be cruel.’
‘I don’t believe in Fate,’ I said, crossly.
My response – or perhaps my ill-temper – seemed to please him enormously, but he said nothing, just stared at me in that strange, intense way of his. I felt a sudden desire to strike him, or run from the room. I had never met a man who could provoke so easily, with just a look, or a knowing smile. But I had brewed up enough drama for one day. I held up the suit Charles had sent over. The coat was a little worn but the breeches and waistcoat were new and all were a better quality than the clothes Moll had lent me. They were also black – without a gold button or silver stitch to be seen. I slipped them on and was confronted with a terrible truth.
‘My God. I look like a country parson.’ I fixed my wig and hat and turned away from the glass before I saw my father in it. ‘Will you join us in the Tap Room, Mr Fleet?’
‘And ruin your evening? No, I think I shall stay here and work.’ He gave me a sly smile and returned to his pamphlet.
Chapter Six
It was dark as I crossed the Park towards the Tap Room and I didn’t see Kitty until she called out to me. She was standing hidden beneath the tree outside Acton’s house.
‘How’s Jack?’
She pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders and gave a tight shake of her head.
‘Are you heading for home? When do the turnkeys lock the gates?’
‘Soon,’ she said, her glance sliding towards the Lodge. ‘But I sleep here in the prison. Mrs Bradshaw lets me bed down in the coffeehouse.’
‘Oh! Are you a prisoner? Locked in with your family?’ I had assumed Kitty had family in the Borough, and only worked in the gaol during the day.
‘I have no family. Mr Fleet takes care of me.’ She caught my expression. ‘Not in that fashion. Ugh! He’s my guardian. And five and forty,’ she added, sticking out her tongue in revulsion. ‘He’s providing me with an education. Oh, stop looking at me like that,’ she said, smacking my shoulder. ‘A proper education. History, natural philosophy, languages. Trade. He’s promised that when we’re done there won’t be a single man in England who’ll marry me.’
It took me a moment to catch her meaning. ‘You don’t wish to marry?’
‘Of course not. I shall take lovers and-’
The door to Mr Acton’s lodgings opened and Mrs Roberts stepped out, her hood thrown back from her face. She flinched when she saw us together then frowned in disapproval, drawing herself straight. ‘Kitty. How many times must I scold you for this? You should not be out here alone, speaking with strangers. It’s not seemly.’
I bowed. ‘Good evening, madam. Thomas Hawkins. We met this morning.’
She stared at me as if I were an ill-made suit she would like to return to its tailor. ‘I know who you are, sir. And what you are, more to the point. Kitty, run along. I have something I wish to say to Mr Hawkins. Run along, child.’
Kitty rolled her eyes at me then ran off towards the Oak ward, lifting her skirts out of the dirt and showing a fine pair of ankles.
‘She’s a lively girl,’ I said.
Mrs Roberts narrowed her eyes. ‘She’s not as worldly as she pretends. And still a maid,’ she added, sharply. ‘I hope to make something of her, if I can keep her unspoiled.’ She took a step back as if to view me better. ‘Are you a gentleman, sir? I hear wildly differing reports. Mr Woodburn seems quite taken with you, and yet you’ve been seen with that…’ She glanced up towards my cell window. ‘Mr Fleet is a poor choice of companion. It does not reflect well upon you.’
I gave a sigh of frustration. ‘I have little choice in the matter, madam. We’re not all rich widows. In any case, I’m sure you are wise enough to ignore idle gossip.’
‘I am also wise enough to see beyond surface charm, sir,’ she replied. ‘One day, when I am free of this place, I hope to take Kitty with me. She will make an excellent lady’s maid.’ She set her jaw. ‘But not if she is ruined by some unscrupulous rake who will toss her aside like a spent pipe the moment he’s done with her.’
I laughed in astonishment. ‘Mrs Roberts. I can assure you…’
‘You do not fool me, sir,’ she snapped.
‘And you should not judge me by your husband’s poor standards, madam.’
She slapped me hard across the cheek.
We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. And then she flung her hands to her face. ‘Oh! Why did I do that? It is just… you are so…’ She backed away, then turned and fled across the yard, her black silk skirts trailing behind her.
I was still rubbing my cheek when I heard a low, mocking laugh cut through the darkness. I peered into the gloom. Something rustled quietly – a whisper of a noise – then fell still. The hairs rose along my neck.
‘Is someone there? Fleet? Mr Hand?’
Silence. A cold breeze swept through the yard, lifting clouds of grit and dust into the air. Perhaps I had imagined it. I turned on my heel and walked quickly to the Tap Room. If someone was there, let them play their games alone in the shadows.
I was greeted with a loud cheer as I entered the Tap Room, Trim slapping my back and drawing me inside with a flourish as if to say, ‘Here he is! The man of the moment.’ Anyone might think I had passed an exam, or won some profitable new position, not been thrown into one of the most notorious gaols in London. Yes indeed. Well done, Mr Hawkins, I thought wryly to myself. You have excelled yourself.
I went straight up to the bar, where Henry Chapman, the tapster, was waiting for me. He was by no means as pleasing on the eye as Mary Acton – he had a low, surly manner and a piggish face. And he was Acton’s man; I could tell just by the swagger of him. A ‘trusty’, like Cross – prisoners who worked for the governor. I slapped down my six shillings garnish and he slid it quickly into his palm as if it might dissolve before his eyes.
As I settled down in a chair near the fire, Trim introduced me to the two other men at the table. Richard McDonnell was a quick-witted, garrulous Irishman known by all as Mack. He’d been a painter before he ran into debt. Now he ran Titty Doll’s, the prison chophouse, with his wife. He was already merry and red-cheeked when I arrived, his fine, musical voice carrying across the Tap Room. He spent much of the evening with an unsteady hand upon my shoulder, trying to persuade me I should buy all my meals from him. ‘Best meat in the Borough,’ he insisted, while Trim made a choking gesture over his head, eyes crossed, hands clutching his throat.
The second man was Mr Jenings, the nightwatchman, a thin, long-limbed, fretful man of few words. ‘Did I pass you in the yard just now, sir?’ I asked. ‘I thought you might have started your rounds.’
Jenings bit his lip. ‘I’ve been here a half hour, sir. Did you see something?’ He glanced nervously towards the window.
‘Oh, no more of that nonsense, I beg you.’ Mack yawned and stretched his arms above his head. ‘He thinks the prison’s haunted, Mr Hawkins. He’ll fill your head with ghosts and devils if you’ll let him.’
Jenings frowned across the table. ‘I know what I saw. It was the captain, back from the grave.’
Mack snorted. ‘Well, next time you see him, remind the old bastard he still owes me three guineas. I’ve asked Widow Roberts several times with no luck.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘Penny-scrimping harridan.’
‘Mrs Carey swore she heard something, a few nights ago,’ Trim said, scratching his jaw.