Charles looked puzzled. ‘What the devil would Roberts’ ghost want with you?’
‘Perhaps he wishes to apologise for his widow. She slapped me across the face last night for no good reason.’
We had reached the Lodge. Charles paused, and considered me for a moment. ‘How long have you been locked in the Marshalsea, Tom?’
‘A day. And a half.’
‘A day and a half…’ he murmured, wonderingly. ‘I think you should go to your room. Hide under the bed for the rest of the night.’
‘I can’t. I’m invited to supper with the governor. And his wife, Mary.’ I grinned, peering up at the governor’s lodgings. The yellow curtains were closed, but there was a light glowing behind them. ‘Have you seen her…?’
‘For God’s sake, don’t tell me you have designs on her? The governor’s wife?’ Charles spluttered. ‘Well, it would speed your way out of gaol, I grant you. Straight through the gate in a coffin…’
‘Well, then… Perhaps you should smuggle me out in your chair tonight? No one would blame you for it, surely.’
The blood drained from his face. ‘Tom,’ he said, gripping my arm as if I might jump up and run through the Lodge gate at that very moment. ‘If you escape, Acton will hold me responsible for your debt. I would lose everything. I could be thrown in gaol myself.’
‘Ah.’ If Moll were here, I knew what she would say: What of it? He’d find his own way out. You owe no debt to him; not really. Perhaps Sir Philip would take pity on him. Perhaps God would save him; he’d be more likely to save Charles than you, Tom Hawkins.
‘I’d best set off for home,’ Charles said sharply.
We paused at the Lodge gate while Cross grumbled out of his room, jangling his keys and spitting on the floor. Whatever he’d paid those whores, it wasn’t enough. While he was unlocking the door Charles drew me back a little way and whispered in my ear. ‘Watch for my letter tonight.’ He squeezed my arm then walked out to freedom.
Cross turned to face me. There were bruises blooming at his throat where Jakes had half-throttled him on my behalf, and his lip was split where I’d punched him. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.
‘D’you think your friend will save you, Hawkins?’ he asked.
I shrugged, determined not to let him bother me. ‘Perhaps.’
He grinned. ‘Well, don’t count on it. No such thing as friends in here.’
Chapter Nine
Back in the yard, Gilbert Hand was standing sentinel beneath his lamppost, stamping on the ground to keep warm. Waiting to squeeze me for information, I thought, from the knowing grin on his face. ‘You’re to meet the ghost tonight, I hear,’ he said.
‘Ben told you?’
‘Ben tells me everything, Mr Hawkins. He’s my boy.’
‘He must have dreamed it.’
Hand shook his head slowly. ‘He’s not a dreamer.’ He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close, bringing his lips to my ear. I felt the scratch of his grey and gold stubble against my skin. ‘If you see Roberts, ask him what happened to the money.’
‘Money? What money?’
But Hand was already walking away to share a pipe with one of the court clerks.
I was feeling a little out of sorts from all the drink I’d taken with Charles, so I headed to Bradshaw’s for a bowl of coffee. Mrs Bradshaw herself was asleep in her chair, leaving Kitty in charge at the hearth, her back to the room. A couple of elderly court lawyers were seated by the window, picking at an unsatisfactory late dinner, lifting the gristle up with their forks as if expecting to find a choice cut of steak hiding shyly beneath. Otherwise the coffeeshop was empty, the prisoners still locked in their wards even now at the end of the day. I wondered if it were the same for the Common Side – after all, there was no need to keep them locked in as all the court business was conducted on this side of the wall. No need except spite – and Acton was full of that.
I felt something press on my foot and discovered little Henry, Acton’s son, crawling along the floor, chubby fingers slapping against the boards. He dribbled a long trail of spit at my feet then took himself exploring through the forest of chair legs, chattering to himself.
Kitty smiled brightly when she saw me then covered her mouth, feigning a coughing fit.
‘A pot of coffee please, Kitty.’
That stopped her coughing. She glowered at me. ‘Am I your slave, then?’
I looked about me. ‘This is a coffeehouse, is it not? And you do work here?’
‘I suppose,’ she conceded, grudgingly, and began fixing a fresh pot. When it was ready she poured a bowl for herself and joined me. ‘So. Are you ready for tonight?’
‘Tonight?’ I stared at her over my coffee. Had she heard about the ghost too?
‘Oh, have you forgotten?’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Supper with the governor? Dancing with the governor’s wife?’ She drew a line across her throat. ‘You’re in for it.’
‘Well, thank you, Kitty. You’re a great comfort.’
‘Why, sir, do you need comforting…?’ She fluttered her eyelashes saucily. ‘I’m sure Mrs Acton would oblige.’
‘Should Henry be that close to the fire?’
She leapt up at once and pulled him roughly away from the hearth. Henry screamed in protest, mouth wide, tears streaming down his face. Mrs Bradshaw woke with a loud snort and stared about her, blinking. ‘Oh Lord, Henry,’ she groaned, and rose wearily from her chair. She plucked the boy from Kitty’s arms and cuddled him until he was half-smothered, his cries stifled in her ample bosom.
In the midst of all this chaos Mrs Roberts stepped into the room. I supposed she could come and go as she pleased even on court day, as she wasn’t a prisoner. She nodded at Mrs Bradshaw who gave a chilly smile in return, and pulled off her black shammy gloves. ‘A bowl of coffee, Kitty.’
Kitty scowled but turned back to the fire, slamming together a fresh pot with the delicacy of a blacksmith hammering a horseshoe.
I expected Mrs Roberts to snub me, but instead she walked straight up to my table. ‘Mr Hawkins.’
I rose and bowed. ‘Madam.’
‘May I… may I join you?’
I reeled back in mock fear. ‘Do you promise not to strike me?’
A half-smile. ‘No, indeed. Do you promise not to provoke me?’
‘No, indeed,’ I smiled back, gesturing for her to sit down.
She did so, smoothing her skirts and sitting with her back quite straight as if she were at court and not a modest coffeehouse in a debtors’ prison. ‘I must apologise for my behaviour last night, sir.’
‘I’m sure I deserved it.’
‘I’m sure you did not,’ she said, then laughed, eyes brightening for a moment. ‘We are quarrelling again.’
‘So we are.’ I smiled back at her. ‘But let me set your mind at ease; I have no designs upon Kitty Sparks, and never will. I do not make a habit of chasing little servant girls about the place.’
‘No, of course not.’ She put her hand to her cheek, embarrassed. ‘I was too quick to judge you. It’s a failing of mine. And you were right; I fear I was thinking of my late husband. There is a resemblance, you see…’ She pulled a gold locket from her skirts and opened the clasp before slipping it into my hand. On one side was a miniature of a young boy, no more than four. On the other was the portrait of a man in a black coat, a short wig and a mustard waistcoat. ‘It was commissioned after his death, when I came into my fortune and could afford it. But it is a fair likeness.’
Captain Roberts. I had always imagined him in uniform. I squinted at the portrait, holding it up to the light. There was a resemblance, it was true. We shared the same clear blue eyes and dark brows, the same pale, Scots complexion that I had inherited from my mother. But his jawline was weaker, his forehead too high, and he seemed to enjoy his dinner a good deal more than I. The honest truth was that of the two of us, I had been blessed with the better looks. I did not make this observation to his widow.