The Devil in the Marshalsea - страница 17

Mrs Roberts gave a little gasp, and covered her mouth.

‘Madam – are you well?’ I took a step towards her.

She gave a start, then looked down, smoothing her skirts. ‘Quite well, thank you. It is just…’ She cleared her throat. ‘You remind me of my late husband. You have… the way you…’ She stumbled to a halt, blushing with embarrassment.

I remembered the story Jakes had told me on the river about his old friend Captain Roberts, who’d died in the gaol. You look the spit of him. But Roberts had been a penniless debtor. Where had his widow found the money for such fine clothes, cut in the latest fashion – and why the devil would she be haunting the Marshalsea now that her husband was dead?

‘Forgive me – are you visiting friends inside the gaol?’ I asked. ‘I can see you are not a prisoner here.’

‘Oh, but I am, sir,’ she replied, and gave a bitter laugh. ‘You cannot see my chains, but they are wrapped about me even now.’ She moved closer, the hem of her dress brushing softly against the stone floor. ‘My husband was murdered in here a few short months ago. Whoever killed him is still hiding within these walls. I have vowed never to leave until he is discovered.’ Her lips tightened to a thin, determined line. ‘I shall see the devil hanged for it – if I must do it myself.’

I stared at her in alarm. It was hard enough to be slung in prison – harder still to learn I was trapped in here with a murderer.

‘So, Mr Hawkins,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Do you still wish to be of service?’

I groaned inwardly. That was the trouble with gifts, even thrupenny ones. They always landed you in debt. ‘Of course.’

She laughed – and for a moment her face was transformed, the cares and sorrows of her life dissolved away. ‘I don’t believe you. But perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you are more than you seem.’

I frowned at the insult. ‘You don’t know me, madam.’

She lifted her chin and studied me for a moment. ‘Oh, I think I do. I think I know you very well, sir.’ She pulled her hood low over her face and stepped back, shoulders high. It was as if she had slammed a door in my face. ‘May God protect you in this wretched place,’ she said, a stranger again, then turned and left.

I stood alone, astounded by the exchange. What right did she have to judge me when we had just met? Very well, I was not the most reliable of men, but she didn’t know that. And it was true – I liked to drink and gamble and spend time (and money) with accommodating women of the town. What of it? From what Jakes had told me, I was no worse than her husband.

Ah. So there it was. I reminded Mrs Roberts of her husband – and not just because of my looks. How had Jakes described him? A rake, a gambler and a drunk. Still, she’d married him all the same. I rubbed my jaw. Perhaps it was not so bad to be mistaken for Captain Roberts after all… except that someone in here had murdered him. Both Jakes and Mrs Roberts had been moved to help me because I reminded them of a dead man – a man who had been killed here within the prison grounds. I gazed about the Pound, at the thumbscrews and skull caps and iron collars hanging from the wall. And then I turned and left, as fast as I could.

I was grateful there was no one to see me enter the prison yard for the first time. As I stepped out of the Lodge my father’s last words came to me unbidden; the Reverend Thomas Hawkins’ final sermon to his prodigal son. Three years ago he had summoned me to his study and forced me to stand there, waiting like a child, while he sat gazing into the fire.

‘The path you have chosen leads but one way,’ he said, eventually.

‘At least I have chosen it, sir,’ I replied, frowning at the familiar lecture. We had been locked in this same argument for years – ever since I had first dared to challenge him.

He propped his head in his hand, rubbing his forehead. ‘Foolish boy,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘This is not your choice. It is the devil guides you now; you have let him into your soul, with your drinking and gambling and debauchery. With your