‘Friday?’ I sat down by the hearth, pointedly rubbing my hands and holding my palms up to the flames.
‘Court day. No prisoners allowed in the yard. Upsets all those delicate gentleman lawyers. Poor, sensitive fellows.’ He stuck his head out of the window and called down to a porter to fetch us some rolls, milk porridge and coffee, then began prowling the room again. Once in a while he would pause, pick up some discarded shirt or tankard or letter and stare at it for a moment, before dropping it somewhere else. His idea of housekeeping, I supposed.
During one turn of the room he upended a boot and an old pistol clattered out on to the floor. He held it up by the barrel. ‘Here you are.’ He kissed it fondly, then dropped it back in the boot and returned to the window. ‘I am awake,’ he pronounced, stretching out his arms and yawning in an extravagant fashion. ‘I have been asleep these past weeks. Hibernating like a great, wild bear.’
‘Or a hedgehog.’
‘Indeed. Like a great, wild hedgehog.’
The porter arrived with our breakfast and Fleet joined me by the fire. I cupped the dish of coffee in my hands and blew gently on the surface, recognising its rich, bitter aroma; this came from Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse. The scent transported me back to the day before, standing by the window as Acton raised his whip for the first time. His boot crunching down upon the boy’s back.
Fleet nudged my plate. ‘You should eat, sir.’
I picked up my porridge and ate slowly while my roommate lit a pipe and settled back in his chair. He’d said we had much to do today, but I chose not to ask him what he meant by it. I did not work for Mr Fleet and he did not own my time, no matter what he thought. But I was curious to hear Ben’s ghost story and until then we were trapped together. After that I thought I might take myself upstairs and spend the day with Trim – I couldn’t leave the ward building but our rooms were left unlocked, at least.
I glanced up to find Fleet studying me in that strange way of his. It really was the most uncomfortable experience. Something about those peat-black eyes, almost unnatural in their darkness. They were not truly black, of course – no man’s are. They would be brown, the darkest brown if you stepped close enough to look. But what sane man would do such a thing? There were secrets hiding in those eyes; private jokes and sharp observations. They were not the eyes of an innocent man.
The eyes of a killer, then…? Perhaps – but not a reckless one. Not a bold and vicious bully such as Acton. Fleet was not a hot-tempered killer. If he wanted a man dead he would plot and plan and wait patiently for the perfect moment to strike. This is what I believed of my cell mate after one night in gaol. And in this – if nothing else – I was proved right.
‘Why are you locked away here, Mr Fleet?’ I asked, if only to break the spell of his stare. ‘Not for debt, clearly.’
‘Clearly,’ he acknowledged, through a stream of smoke. He scratched his jaw, fingers rasping against days-old black and grey stubble, before selecting a book from the floor. He opened it at the frontispiece:
THE TRUE AND GENUINE
ACCOUNT OF
MATTHEW DANCE
HIGHWAYMAN AND THIEF
After a short passage expounding upon Dance’s infamous life and death, came the following words:
LONDON:
Printed for, and Sold by, S. FLEET in Russel-Street, Covent-Garden; MDCCXXV.
‘You’re a printer.’
‘Printer, bookseller, translator. Scribbler.’ Fleet tossed the book back on the floor. ‘Purveyor of obscenity, murder and perversion in the main.’
And then I remembered the little shop with the green door at the far end of Russell Street, only a short stride from Moll’s. Books and pamphlets piled high in the window and strewn across the floor, just as they were here. ‘The Cocked Pistol!’ I exclaimed, recalling the sign above the door. Proprietor, S. Fleet. ‘You have an excellent shop, sir.’
Fleet inclined his head in regal acknowledgement.
‘How did it lead you here?’
He paused, recalling some painful memory – or composing a fresh lie. ‘I printed a pamphlet for a friend last winter. It was regarded as somewhat… inflammatory. When I refused to give up his name I was charged with seditious libel and slung in here to rot.’
A pretty story, I thought, and probably no more than that. I was not sure I believed in Fleet’s loyalty to anything save himself. ‘Libel? Against whom?’
Fleet shrugged. ‘Parliament. The Church. The king.’ He sucked his pipe with a thoughtful air. ‘It was my own fault. Gave them the excuse they’d been waiting for. I know too much, Mr Hawkins. Too many years spent taking down confessions from murderers and thieves and whores… and hearing all about the fine ladies and gentlemen who crossed their paths and their beds. It’s not wise, to know so many secrets.’ He smiled. ‘But it keeps life interesting.’
At nine o’clock the doors to the Lodge were pushed open and carriages and horses began to stream through the gates, clattering into the cobbled yard. Turnkeys and porters rushed about as the lawyers chattered idly to one another, black robes billowing in the sharp September wind. Acton strolled among them in his bright red waistcoat, patting shoulders, shaking hands and laughing, the very image of a genial host – though I saw a couple of men turn away to avoid his greeting. John Grace, Acton’s head clerk, followed stiffly behind his master, clutching the black ledger from the Lodge and snapping orders to the servants. There was something thin and bloodless about him that turned my stomach; or perhaps it was just the memory of him sending me into that pox-infected room the day before – his cold indifference to another man’s fate.
A few minutes later a gentleman of about thirty years of age rode through the gates on a fine black stallion, grinning and waving cheerfully at those he passed. The whole gaol seemed to sit up straighter as he jumped down from his horse. His clothes were well-cut and of the latest fashion, with good lace cuffs and fine stitching at the pockets. He carried a gold-topped cane, which he used to get the attention of a nearby lawyer, prodding him in a playful way. They talked for a moment, the lawyer whispering in the other man’s ear. Then they laughed and shook hands.
Fleet had joined me at the window. ‘Edward Gilbourne. Deputy prothonotary.’
‘What the devil does that mean?’
‘Glorified clerk.’
I frowned. ‘I thought John Grace held that position.’
‘Grace is head clerk of the gaol. Gilbourne works for the Palace Court. Process must be followed, Mr Hawkins. You can’t just throw men into prison and let them rot. That would be cruel. They must have their time in court. Their case must be heard, their creditors must be called to account…’ He gave a mirthless grin. ‘Then they can rot.’
Men were crowding round Gilbourne now, eager to secure his attention. He nodded politely to them all, but seemed anxious to leave the yard. ‘He’s popular with the lawyers.’
‘Powerful,’ Fleet corrected. ‘He controls the order of the day. Which he can change, if he chooses. For a fee.’
‘He’s young for such a post.’
‘A prodigy,’ Fleet shrugged, sarcastic, and sat back down by the fire. He had seen enough, it seemed. A few moments later Mrs Roberts crossed the yard, weaving her way through the huddles of clerks and lawyers straight towards Edward Gilbourne. They spoke briefly, urgently, Gilbourne’s face filled with concern. For a moment he touched her arm and Mrs Roberts placed her black-gloved hand on his. Then Acton joined them, clapping Gilbourne hard on the back. Gilbourne dropped his hand at once, but I noticed he and Mrs Roberts shared a brief, knowing glance before she bowed and moved away. Were they lovers, I wondered? I touched my cheek, remembering the sharp slap she’d given me the night before.