The Devil in the Marshalsea - страница 4

Charles lived with his patron, Sir Philip Meadows, in a large house near St James’ Square. It wasn’t a long way from my lodgings but my footsteps were slow and heavy as I walked along Piccadilly. I couldn’t bear the thought of burdening him with my troubles, and worse – I knew he would forgive me for it in a moment. I was on the brink of being ashamed of myself – an uncomfortable feeling.

Luckily, when I explained my predicament to Charles he scolded me so hard that I quite forgot to feel ashamed and swore at him for being such a damned prig.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, hand me the warrant,’ he snapped and began to read. He gave a grunt of surprise. ‘This is for the Marshalsea. You must know that Sir Philip is Knight Marshal?’

Must I? I knitted my brows. I tended to drift off when Charles talked about his illustrious patron and his family, except when he mentioned Sir Philip’s two eldest daughters. That always roused me. ‘He owns the gaol?’ I guessed.

‘The king owns it,’ Charles replied absently, reading further. ‘Sir Philip administers it in his name. Well – he hires the head keeper… my God, Tom – twenty pounds? You owe these men twenty pounds? That’s more than I earn in six months.’ He peered at the warrant, as if hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves into something smaller if he squinted hard enough.

‘London is a costly place to live.’

He gestured at the gold buttons on my waistcoat. ‘It needn’t be.’

Another lecture. ‘Very well.’ I snatched the warrant from his hands and stuffed it in my pocket. ‘If I promise to dress in brown stockings and drab fustian breeches from now on, will you help me?’

Charles laughed, despite himself. ‘Of course I’ll help you.’ He pulled an iron box from a high shelf, unlocked it and tipped out a small pile of coins. ‘Will this be enough?’

I counted it quickly. A little under four pounds. Even if I took every last penny, it wouldn’t save me from gaol.

‘I can find more,’ Charles said anxiously. He stole a glance at his belongings, assessing their worth with narrowed eyes. ‘It may take a little while.’

Ah, now – there it was. Now I felt ashamed. ‘I will borrow this and no more,’ I declared, martyr-like. ‘And you will have it back, Charles – you have my word. By the end of the evening, I hope.’

I hadn’t been quite that fortunate. Over five straight hours at the gaming tables I had lost and won, won and lost, never quite reaching the ten pounds my creditors had demanded. Charles – who had insisted on accompanying me – paced about, or sat in a corner chewing his nails, left the room, came back, left it again. It grew late and I lost six times in a row, leaving me with a little over five pounds – less than I had arrived with. But I was playing Faro now and in this final game I had built up my stake one card at a time. If I bet on the right card last I would double my winnings.

But if I chose the wrong card… I would lose everything.

Charles appeared at my shoulder, whispered in my ear. ‘Tom, for God’s sake, come away.’ He reached for the five pounds and began drawing it across the table. ‘You will need every last penny of this in gaol.’

I stopped his hand, slid the coins across the table. ‘One last turn. Five pounds for the queen. God bless her.’

The dealer smiled. Charles covered his face. ‘You’ll lose it all, he groaned.’

‘Or double it,’ I said. ‘Have faith, Mr Buckley.’

The other players placed their bets. The dealer touched a finger to the pile and slid two cards free. My heart hammered against my chest. My God, how I loved this – the thrilling sensation of hope and fear bound together in one single moment. Waiting for the revelation, good or ill. The dealer turned the first, losing card. The five of hearts. The gambler sitting next to me gave a low curse.

And now for the winning card. I held my breath.The dealer flipped the card over on the table.

The queen of diamonds.

I breathed out, then laughed in relief. I was saved.

Betty returned with our coffee and behind her came our good hostess Moll King herself, carrying a small bowl of punch. The sign carved above the door said this was Tom King’s coffeehouse, but it was Moll who ran the place. She supplied the girls, fenced the goods, sold the secrets and even – once in a while – poured the coffee.