Mack groaned. ‘For God’s sake, will you let it rest, the pair of you! John Roberts is not haunting the Marshalsea. He hated this damned place – wouldn’t come back if the angels themselves begged him… Ah! Here’s the punch.’
And with that, the talk of ghosts was forgotten. Trim pulled out a set of dice and we played a few rounds of Hazard. As we played I recounted the adventures and misfortunes of my life and how they had led me to a cell in the Marshalsea. As the punch flowed and the rest of the ward joined us the stories grew wilder. I was part way through a somewhat intimate explanation of how to tell identical twin sisters apart when Jenings stood up, scraping back his chair.
‘Mr Jenings is a little out of sorts,’ Trim observed, settling down his punch with a slow, weaving hand. I was glad he’d offered to shave me at the beginning of the evening.
Mack snorted. ‘Wouldn’t do for our church warden to approve of such things, now would it?’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said. I hadn’t realised he was Woodburn’s assistant. ‘I trust I haven’t offended you.’
Jenings loomed over me. ‘It is God’s forgiveness you should seek, Mr Hawkins. But I think you know that, in your heart. I should start my rounds.’ He picked up his hat and club and gave us all a short bow. ‘Gentlemen.’
With my story told I sat back and let the rest of the company take over. Everyone was keen to offer advice and I was happy to take it – the more I understood about the running of the gaol the better. All was cantering along merrily enough until I mentioned my new roommate. The conversation stumbled to a halt.
‘Tell me,’ I said, searching their faces. ‘What sort of a man is Mr Fleet?’
The men looked at one another, hoping someone else might answer.
‘He’s… not as bad as he’s painted,’ Trim offered, eventually. The rest of the table groaned its protest. ‘Mischievous, perhaps.’
‘Mischievous?’ Mack’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘Would you call the devil mischievous, Mr Hawkins?’
The table laughed along with Mack, though I noticed some of the men checked over their shoulders first. I cursed myself for mentioning Fleet at all. It had been a pleasant enough evening. I had almost forgotten that once it was over I would be escorted back to my cell and locked in with a man most of the prison feared and hated in equal measure.
‘I’ll tell you this,’ Mack said. ‘I wouldn’t share a cell with him. Not for a single night. Not if you paid off my debts twenty times over.’
‘For pity’s sake, Mack,’ Trim said, nudging him in the ribs. ‘No need to scare him…’
‘A pox on it, Trim – he has a right to know!’ Mack shouted, banging his fist upon the table. He was very drunk. He leaned in, and wrapped an arm about my neck, liquor breath warm on my face. ‘Your new chum murdered Captain Roberts. Everyone knows it.’
The other men were all nodding now, apart from Trim. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he declared. ‘Fleet isn’t capable of such a thing.’
I took a fortifying swig of punch. ‘I’m glad to hear that, sir.’
‘He’s too short,’ he continued, oblivious. ‘Think on it for a moment, Mack. How on earth could Samuel Fleet carry a man as tall and heavy as the captain all the way down the stairs, across the yard, over to the Common Side and then hang him from a beam in the Strong Room by himself? And don’t forget, Roberts would have been a dead weight by this time.’ He held out his arms as if he had a body in them, then shook his head. ‘No, I’m quite certain he couldn’t have done it. Well.’ He paused. ‘Not on his own.’
I pulled out my tobacco and lit a fresh pipe. Around us, all was bright, good cheer, men singing and shouting above the din, whores brought in from the local brothels calling for more drinks. But here, at this table, the air seemed to have turned cold. ‘You don’t really believe Fleet murdered Captain Roberts, do you, Mack?’
‘Of course he doesn’t,’ Trim answered hastily. And then, to Mack, ‘They’re sharing a room tonight, for God’s sake…’
Mack ignored him. ‘What you must understand about Mr Fleet is, he never sleeps. He’s known for it. But the night Captain Roberts died, he slept right through till morning, so he says. Dead to the world. Convenient, eh? As far as I can see, either Fleet is lying, which he has been known to do every time he opens his mouth… Or, he slept right through, while another man burst into the room, beat Roberts to a bloody pulp and dragged him away to be hanged like a dog.’ He leaned back. ‘Which sounds most likely to you, Mr Hawkins?’ He smiled grimly. ‘And that’s where you’ll be sleeping tonight. “Belle Isle”, Fleet calls it. His idea of a joke, I suppose. I’ll tell you something for free. You should have taken that first room Mr Grace gave you. Better to die of smallpox than be murdered in your bed by that devil.’
It was not easy to lighten the mood after such a conversation, but Trim did his best and most of the men rallied soon enough. Talk turned to money and creditors and legacies – the same refrain running back and forth across the table, that they would be free any day now… that a friend had promised them faithfully… that their lawyer was quite certain…
I sat quietly, letting all their hopes and schemes wash over me. Unlike these men, I had no expectations, no promise of inheritance to come. Three years ago, I had returned home to Suffolk to take up my position as curate in my father’s church. This had always been his dream: for his son to join him and – in time – become vicar of the parish in his place.
Sometimes I had been able to convince myself it was my dream, too. Other times I had wanted to scream the truth – that I was not my father. That I did not want to spend my life serving a quiet Suffolk parish, being dutiful and steady and good. That the very thought of such a life put an ache in my chest as if someone had placed a giant rock upon my heart. I buried this truth as deep as I could; tried to convince myself that I could change; swore that once I took my vows everything would be different. I would – miracle of miracles – transform myself and become the man my father wanted me to be.
A month before my ordination, I sat among the congregation while my father warned that if any man knew why I ought not to be ordained, ‘by reason of any vice that he is addicted to, or any scandal he has given’, he must speak out. There was a soft hush as he looked about the church. Neighbours and friends smiled at me. For a moment my father’s gaze met mine, and I saw the tiniest flicker of pride. I have pleased him, I thought. For once in my life, I have done something right in his eyes.
Then Edmund, my stepbrother, shifted a little in his seat next to me. And before I could stop him, he rose to his feet and in a high, tremulous voice told them all about my scandalous life at college, painting me as the most debauched and infamous rake who’d ever set foot in Oxford. In a few short sentences, he tore my reputation to shreds in front of the whole parish. Then he sat back down, his hands linked neatly in his lap.
‘Forgive me, brother,’ he whispered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘I have a duty to Father. And to God.’
His mother reached over and covered his hands fondly with hers.
My father had no choice but to pass the matter on to the bishop. An investigation was made. Edmund’s claims were discovered to be exaggerated… but not unfounded. On the day the bishop’s letter arrived at the vicarage my father called me to his study. He had not spoken two words to me until then – conducting all necessary communication through my poor sister Jane, caught between us as ever. I stood with my head high, jaw clenched, as he told me that I had brought shame upon the family. ‘I have worked ceaselessly for this parish all my life,’ he said, with a trembling voice. ‘Now they laugh at me behind my back.’