The Devil in the Marshalsea

Chapter One

‘You have the luck of the devil, Tom Hawkins.’

I grinned at the man across the bench. It was a warm September night, I had a full purse for the first time in months and we had just found a table in the most disreputable coffeehouse in London. Life could not be better. ‘It wasn’t luck,’ I replied, shouting over the din.

Charles Buckley, my oldest friend, shot me a look I had come to know very well over the years: exasperation, disapproval – and a flicker of amusement glowing deep in his eyes. I settled back, content, and lit a pipe. One of my greatest pleasures in life was making Charles laugh when he knew he shouldn’t.

A serving maid passed close to our table – a pretty girl called Betty with tight black curls and skin the colour of roasted coffee beans. I beckoned her over and ordered a bowl of punch.

‘A bowl of coffee,’ Charles corrected. ‘And then home. You gave me your word, remember?’

I slipped a shilling into Betty’s hand. It felt good to have money again – and to spend it. ‘Coffee. And a bowl of punch. We’re celebrating,’ I said, dismissing Charles’ protestations with a lordly wave.

Betty arched an eyebrow. There were only two reasons to celebrate at Tom King’s coffeehouse – a win at the tables or a full recovery from the clap.

‘I took ten pounds at cards tonight,’ I called out hastily, but she was already gliding through the crowds to the coffee pots hanging over the fire. When I turned back, Charles had his head in his hands.

‘What am I to do with you?’ he groaned through his fingers.

I looked out across the long, low room, breathing in the heady fumes of smoke, liquor and sweat. I would hang up my coat tonight and in the morning my little garret would be filled with the same familiar scents. ‘One bowl of punch, Charles. Just one! To toast my skill at the tables tonight.’

‘Skill?’ He dropped his hands. Charles had a pleasant countenance, his features as neatly arranged as a well-proportioned drawing room. It was not a face created for outrage, but he did his best, widening his dark brown eyes a fraction. ‘Skill? You risked everything on the turn of a card! Down to your very last farthing! That is not skill, it’s…’ He shrugged, helplessly. ‘It’s madness.’

I didn’t argue with him. Charles refused to believe there was anything more to gambling than blind luck – in part because he played so ill himself. No use explaining that I had known three quarters of the men in that hot, smoke-filled gaming room – had played against them so many times that I understood their strengths and failings better than my own. No use explaining that even half-drunk I could remember every card that had been played and work out the odds in a flash. To be fair there was some truth in what Charles said – I had taken a terrible risk with that final bet, but I’d had no choice in the matter. My life had depended on it.

Early that morning my landlord and three other creditors had burst into my room and clapped an action on me for twenty pounds in unpaid rent and other debts. The warrant had given me just one day’s grace to pay enough to satisfy them. If I failed I would be arrested at once and thrown in gaol.

Little frightened me in those days. I was five and twenty and death seemed a distant, hazy thing. But I knew three men who had been sent to a debtors’ gaol in the last year. One had died of a fever, another had been stabbed in a fight and only just survived. The third had passed through the prison gates a fat, cheerful fellow and emerged six months later a grey, stuttering skeleton. He refused to say what had happened to him and there was a look in his eyes when we pressed him… as if he’d rather die than speak of it.

And so I’d flung on my clothes and run out into the brightening streets to call in every debt and favour I could think of. When that wasn’t enough I’d pawned everything of value, until my room was stripped as bare as a maid on her wedding night. I saved only two items of any worth – my dagger for protection and my best suit for deception. (A little swagger and a few gold buttons will open most doors in London.) My creditors had demanded half what they were owed as proof they would see the rest in good time. As the sun set I counted out what I had made: two guineas and a handful of pennies. Hardly a quarter the sum I needed.

It was then that I was forced to do what I had been avoiding all day – I turned to Charles for help. We had been as close as brothers at school and at Oxford, but in the last few years our friendship had faltered. My old companion in mischief had become the Reverend Charles Buckley, a civil, sober gentleman who gave afternoon lectures to enraptured old ladies at St George’s on Hanover Square. All of this was well and good, I supposed, until he’d started to lecture me on my own behaviour. I was not an enraptured old lady. I had not seen him for several months.

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.

She waved Betty away then settled herself close to me on the bench, kissing my cheek as her thief’s fingers slid up my thigh. Charles, sitting across the table, watched her open-mouthed. With her wide, square face, long nose and sallow complexion, Moll was not a great beauty, and at thirty her jawline had begun to soften and sag. But she had a sharp wit and clever, dark eyes that could read a man’s thoughts in a heartbeat. I loved her – when I could afford to.

‘I hear you won at cards tonight,’ she murmured. ‘Let me help you spend it…’

Another night I might have played along, but not tonight. I needed the money in that purse. I pulled away, with some reluctance. Moll’s hand was back above the bench in a flash. ‘And who’s this?’ she asked, tipping her chin across the table.

‘This,’ I said with a flourish, ‘is the Reverend Charles Buckley.’

‘Honoured,’ Moll said, taking in his well-tailored black coat and crisp white cravat. An empty pocket, though – I could have told her that. ‘Tom often speaks of you.’

Charles lowered his bowl of coffee in surprise. ‘Indeed?’ He smiled at me. ‘What does he say?’

Moll poured herself a glass of punch. ‘He says, “Thank God Charles isn’t here to see me doing this.”’ She raised her glass, chinking it with mine.

The coffeehouse was full tonight and boisterous with it. As it was every night. ‘Fights, fucking and fine coffee’ – that’s how Moll described it, like a proud merchant listing his wares. What happened in the darkest corners of most coffeehouses was on full display here: plots hatched, purses snatched and breeches unbuttoned. God knows what happened in the dark corners at Moll’s – what was left? In a little while the men would stagger home or head out across the piazza to a discreet bagnio if they wanted company. The girls would go back to work – in a rented room close by if they were lucky, or back to the dark, stinking passages off the Strand if they were not.

‘Tom,’ Charles said in a low voice as Moll pulled a pipe from her pocket. ‘We should leave.’

He was right. Sitting here with ten pounds in my purse was reckless. ‘We should finish the punch first.’ There was still half a bowl left and it was high time I learned not to waste my money.

Charles rose and took his hat down from its hook on the wall. ‘Well, I must go. Sir Philip locks the house at midnight.’

Moll flashed him a smile as she lit her pipe. ‘Oh, there’s men here can help you with locks, sir-’

‘Thank you, Charles,’ I interrupted hurriedly. I stood up and grasped his hand. ‘I will pay back the money I owe you. I swear it.’

He put a hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my eyes. ‘God has given you a sign, Tom. He saved you from gaol today. You have a chance to start your life afresh. Come to the house tomorrow morning. I will talk with Sir Philip, see if we can find you a position…’

‘Tomorrow.’

He beamed at me, then bowed to Moll and left. I watched him weave his way through the chairs and tables and had the sudden urge to leave with him as he’d asked. All my life Charles had given me good advice. For some reason I could not fathom, I never took it.

‘Tomorrow,’ Moll said.

I frowned at her absently.

‘Always tomorrow with you, Tom.’ She studied me closely, her chin propped in her hand. I was one of her favourites, I knew; I was handsome enough, I suppose, and a good customer when I had the funds. And when I didn’t, I could still pick up a wealth of information at the gaming tables, sitting between lords and thieves and politicians. Idle gossip in the main, but Moll knew how to sift it for gold. ‘I’m glad you’ve escaped gaol,’ she said. ‘The Marshalsea most of all. The warden’s a monster…’

There was a loud crash, then louder jeers from the next bench as a large bowl was sent flying, smashing into a hundred pieces and spilling punch across the floor in a red, sticky pool. A gang of apprentices, stockings splattered and ruined, shouted at one of the girls for knocking it over. ‘You silly slut, you’ll pay for that,’ one of them sneered, grabbing her by the hair.

‘Gentlemen.’ Moll rose from her seat. There were fights here most nights, but they never lasted long; Moll had men she could call and a vicious long blade tucked under her skirts. I’d cut my hand upon it once, reaching for something softer. The apprentices bowed their apologies and ordered another bowl.

‘You can’t work for a nob like Sir Philip,’ Moll declared, settling back down. She took a long pull on her pipe. ‘Come and see me tomorrow. I’ll find you an occupation.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

Moll had plenty of suggestions, most of which could get me transported or hanged. Still, I had to admit that I had been drifting for too long, relying on charm and luck in the main. Perhaps I should work for Moll. For all the day’s troubles, I had enjoyed having a purpose for once. Life or death, on the turn of a card; irresistible stakes for a gambling man.

‘I’ll think on it tomorrow,’ I said. ‘With the new king there will be new opportunities, new patrons… I thought I might try my hand at writing.’

She stared at me, alarmed. ‘There’s no need to panic, sweetheart.’

I finished my punch and rose to leave. Moll came with me, flinging her spent pipe on to the table. It bounced and clattered to the floor. ‘I need a lungful of clean air,’ she said, and we both laughed. There was nothing clean about Covent Garden, especially at this late hour.

At the door, she leaned her back against the frame and gazed out across the piazza; a queen surveying her hunting grounds. There was a kind of alchemy to Moll, I thought, watching her. Her coffeehouse was not much more than a tumbledown shack. But when you were inside, and Moll was holding court, it felt like the centre of the world.

She tilted her face up to the sky. ‘Black as the devil’s arsehole. You’ll need a link boy.’ She gave a sharp whistle and a lean, ragged creature raced from the shadows, dark locks spilling out from beneath a battered little tricorn. He skidded to a halt in front of us, holding an unlit torch in his hand.

‘All on your own, mischief?’ Moll asked. She grabbed his chin to get a better look at him. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’

Some boys would have stuttered out their life story under that formidable gaze. This one stared straight back, undaunted. ‘They’re waiting on Drury Lane. Play’s almost finished. Where to?’

‘Where to, Mistress King,’ Moll corrected him sharply, then smiled. She’d worked the streets herself as a girl. ‘Light this gentleman to Greek Street.’

She turned the shack. On a whim I grabbed her arm and pressed my lips to hers, tasting smoke and brandy and a trace of sweet oranges. She giggled and kissed me back as the blood thrummed hard in my veins. This I would tarry for, even with a hundred warrants for my arrest. I remembered the last time we’d kissed, the night we heard the king had died. Three months ago now. I’d thought the world would change. It didn’t, of course. Moll’s hand moved lower.

Around my purse.

I seized her wrist and pulled her hand away. She gave a lazy smile. ‘Just testing. Wouldn’t thieve from one of my own, now would I, Reverend?’ She slipped back inside before I could answer.

The link boy rubbed his mouth to cover a grin. I frowned and tossed him a penny. ‘Light your torch.’

He did as he was told, holding it to the lantern burning at the door. As the pitch caught light it illuminated his face with a soft orange glow.

‘Why’d she call you Reverend?’ he asked. He crinkled his nose. ‘You a black-coat or something?’

Or something. Reverend was a nickname Moll liked to tease me with, knowing my history. I gestured to my blue silk waistcoat, cinnamon-coloured coat and breeches. ‘Do I look like a black-coat?’

He shrugged, as if to say he would believe anything of anyone. It was a weary gesture, and sat strangely on such young shoulders. This was what happened to boys who guided rakes and whores back to their beds in the dead of night. Knocked the innocence clean out of them. Well; there were worse ways to earn a penny in this city. He turned and trotted towards Soho, holding the blazing torch high. I settled my tricorn on my head and hurried after him, a ship following the north star home.

And I wondered, fretfully. Beneath my fashionable clothes, did I still have the look of a clergyman? I turned this unhappy thought over in my mind. Ever since I was a boy – younger than this little imp running ahead of me – I had been told that I was destined to join the Church just like my father, the Reverend Dr Thomas Hawkins. (There. He had even given me his name, so I might more easily become him one day.) Things had not gone to plan. I had always known, deep within my soul, that I was not suited to the clergy. The trouble was, I had no idea what I was suited to. Have you ever seen a child refusing to be fed? It turns its face away – no, no, no. That was how I felt about joining the Church. It didn’t matter how many times my father lifted the spoon to my lips. How many times he tried to force-feed duty and honour and decency down my throat. No, no, no.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I took little notice as we crossed Long Acre. The streets were quiet – too late an hour for some, too early for others. We turned, then I suppose we must have turned again a few times, into a dark, narrow alley. Old timber houses sagged wearily against one another, their top storeys leaning out and almost touching across the street. One had collapsed entirely. Most of the wood had been scavenged, leaving just a rotting frame like a skeleton poking up into the night sky.

A sharp breeze blew down the alley, and a butcher’s sign creaked on its hinges. I stopped, startled, then cursed softly. I didn’t recognise this street. There was a scent of turpentine in the air – the sharp tang of a nearby gin still. A burst of drunken laughter sounded in the distance. St Giles. We had reached St Giles.

I spun about wildly, panic flaring in my chest. Somehow, instead of heading west for Soho, we’d blundered into the most infamous slum in London. Only a fool walked alone here at night. I pulled my dagger from my belt; thank God I’d had the sense not to pawn it.

The link boy had run on ahead but now he stuttered to a halt, and shot me a curious look.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ I called.

He cupped his hand over the torch, shielding it from the wind. ‘Sam.’

‘You a moon-curser, Sam?’ Moll had warned me about them when I’d first arrived in town – link boys who lured their victims away from the safe streets to be set upon in the shadows.

He smiled. ‘Do I look like one?’ he mimicked.

The little bastard. I strode towards him, footsteps loud in my ears, a thousand eyes on my back.

‘We must leave here. At once.’

I was just five paces from him now. He was standing quite still and silent; a stone cherub on a tomb. And then he glanced over my shoulder – a quick, furtive look.

The light tread of footsteps close behind me. Too close – much too close. An arm around my neck. My dagger was ripped from my hand and pressed to my throat.

‘Don’t move.’

My gambler’s mind whirled and raced. Should I fight? Run?

The blade bit deeper. ‘Your purse.’

Sam held up his torch, illuminating the scene as if we were on the stage.

I should do as I was bid. Hand him the purse. My fingers slipped to the leather bag tied below my waist.

No.

Before I even knew what I was doing I reached up and shoved his arm from my throat, pushing him off balance. I spun round to face him, backing away slowly. Let him stab me if he must. But I would look him in the eye as he did it.

We circled each other warily. He wore his hat low across his face, and he’d wrapped a black cloth about his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were visible, dark and steady.

I took another step back, gaze fixed on the long, keen dagger in his right hand. My own dagger, damn it, sharpened by my own hand. One quick slash would be enough to rip me open.

‘Come, sir, don’t be a fool,’ he said, in a calm, reasonable tone. And then, under his breath, ‘I’m not alone.’

He stretched out his free hand for the purse. The blood pounded in my ears.

I ran.

The world spun as I fled past the boy who was grinning now, thrilled by the action and his part in it. The street began to narrow even further, and a high brick wall loomed up ahead. It was too dark to see if there was another way out. I would have to clamber over it. I lengthened my stride, ready to spring at it when a black figure flew out of the shadows and knocked me to the ground.

For a moment I lay dazed. He began to grope for my pockets, hunting for my purse. With a loud curse I pushed him from me, kicking and punching my way free and back on to my feet, but there were others now, scurrying down from the roofs and balconies and dropping softly to the ground, calling out to one another in low voices. I fumbled in the darkness, searching for a brick or a piece of wood to defend myself, but I knew what was coming. I had gambled, and I had lost.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and I whirled about, frantic. And then another, and another, tearing and snatching, pulling me down like devils dragging me to hell. I fought them off, terrified now, but there were too many of them. I fell heavily to the ground again.

‘Hold him there, lads!’ their chief called out.

They pulled me to my knees and pinned my arms behind my back as he strode towards us. He ruffled the link boy’s hair as he passed and somehow I realised – strange! the clarity that comes to you in such a moment – this was the boy’s father. And I thought there was more affection and pride in that gesture than my father had shown me in a lifetime.

He came closer, crouching down in front of me, dark eyes skimming my face. ‘I told you not to run,’ he said, his voice muffled by the cloth.

I glared at him.

He signalled to one of his men.

‘Wait…’

Too late. I felt a sharp blow on the back of my head. The world flashed white, and then it was gone.

Chapter Two

I woke. For a moment I thought I was home, in my little garret room on Greek Street. Then I tried to move. Pain shrieked through my head and I almost passed out again.

Slow, Tom. Careful.

Gently, this time, I sat up. The world pitched about me then settled, enough for me to raise a trembling hand to the back of my head. A large, tender bump. The warm, sticky feel of blood on my fingers. Memories flashed like sparks from a tinderbox: hands grabbing; laughter and shouts; the press of my own blade at my throat.

I reached for my purse, though I knew what I would find. Cut. Gone.

My stomach lurched. I was lost. Ruined. I lay back and closed my eyes. Then let me rest here. What use was fighting now? Let the spirit leak from my bones into the cold street; flow away with the filth and rubbish and leave my body in peace.

… No, no, I would not be food for the rats of St Giles. I was lucky to be alive. Didn’t feel lucky. Didn’t feel alive, for that matter. But damn every one of those cutpurses to the deepest pits of hell – I would get to my feet.

Or to my knees, at least.

I was lying in a dank, deserted side passage that stank of piss and vomit and other fluids, as all such places do and no doubt always will to the end of time. The ground was littered with broken gin bottles, bloody rags, spent pipes. They must have dragged me here through the filth in order to rob me the better, the link boy holding his torch high and proud as they worked. My jacket was gone, my wig and tricorn dashed from my head in the struggle. My breeches were torn; my knees and fists scraped raw. They’d cut the gold buttons from my waistcoat, emptied every pocket. I pulled myself to my knees, groaning softly with the effort. I couldn’t risk being heard – couldn’t risk calling the alarm. There were gangs in St Giles that would do far worse to a gentleman than merely beat and rob him, if he were foolish enough to stumble on to their patch. I was not out of danger yet.

I crawled back towards the alley, inch by inch, feeling my way blindly in the darkness, fingers flinching as they touched broken glass or the slip and slither of foul, stinking mud. When I reached the alley I collapsed in the shadows of the nearest porch, back pressed hard against the wall, panting with exhaustion. Each breath drew a fresh throb of pain. I ran my fingers beneath my shirt, prodded each rib. Bruised but not broken.

The moon escaped from behind a cloud and the world turned a soft silver in its light. I gazed up at the maze of ramshackle galleries and balconies above my head, planks slung from roof to roof, ladders and ropes connecting one mean hovel to the next. A secret city in the rooftops, mapped out by thieves. Rooks, they called themselves, and St Giles was the greatest rookery of them all. Were they back in their nests above me, laughing to themselves as I dragged myself through the filthy streets, battered and bloody? I searched every roof, every shadow, with an anxious eye. No – long gone, surely. Busy emptying my purse in the nearest brothel.

I staggered to my feet, almost welcoming the pain that stabbed the back of my head. Pain kept me sharp, kept me alert. I pressed my shoulder to the nearest wall and scraped my way slowly down the alley.

You have the luck of the devil, Tom Hawkins. Is that right, Charles? I couldn’t go home, not without money. Benjamin Fletcher, my landlord, would have me clamped in irons in a flash. No point asking friends for help – I’d used up every remaining favour. Charles had no money left to lend – I had taken his last last penny. And family… I cut the thought dead.

As I reached the end of the alley I heard the unmistakeable hiss of hot piss plattering into the mud ahead. I turned the corner to find an old whore squatting in the middle of the street, illuminated in the moonlight, a small puddle spreading about her feet. The street was still and empty – and it felt in that moment that we might be the only two living souls in the city, God help us. As she saw me she raised her skirts higher, a thin trickle of piss still rolling down her leg.

‘Farthing for a fuck,’ she said, weaving a little on the spot.

A farthing to catch the pox? It was a bargain, I suppose – men have paid finer whores a great deal more for the privilege. I shook my head, then winced as the pain smacked against my skull. ‘Which way to the Garden?’

She took in my tattered clothes; the blood stains on my shirt… and held out her hand. ‘A penny and I’ll show you.’

‘I was set upon. They took my purse.’ I opened my arms wide. ‘Have pity, madam.’

‘Pity?’ She chuckled, and wiped herself dry with her dirt-streaked petticoat. ‘Can’t afford it.’

She stumbled away, back towards the dark heart of St Giles.

I found my own way back to Covent Garden in the end. I kept to the shadows, hiding in porches when other men strode by. Perhaps someone would have helped me, if I’d dared to ask. One hears of good Samaritans, even in London. But I couldn’t risk it. I limped slowly through the streets alone, no doubt turning in circles half the time. Sometimes I felt eyes upon my back, and swore I heard the soft tread of footsteps behind me – but when I turned and peered into the darkness, there was no one there. Follow me all you wish, I thought. There’s nothing left for you to take.

At last I stumbled upon the Garden – the reassuring feel of cobbles beneath my feet; the neat, solid silhouette of St Paul’s church and the glow of lights burning even now in the bagnios, shrill cries of false passion spilling from their windows. Out in the piazza, market traders set up their stalls by torchlight, calling and laughing to one another as they worked. An old woman in a red cape sat huddled on the steps of the Shakespeare Tavern selling hot rice milk and barley broth. I stumbled past them all, feeling like an old soldier returned from a war no one knew we were fighting. A nightwatchman held up his lantern and I shrank away – in my tattered, filthy state he might decide to sling me in the lock-up on suspicion of something… anything… and then discover there was a warrant out for my arrest with a nice plump fee attached.

Moll’s coffeehouse was open – always open – but empty save for Betty, sweeping softly around an old lawyer lying dead drunk beneath a table. She took one look at me then ran and fetched Moll, who was sleeping in the shack next door – maybe with her husband and maybe not. I collapsed on a chair by the fire, my head in my hands, and started to shake. Relief that I was safe. Terror that I was not. As soon as the sun rose my creditors would call the alarm. How long before a warrant officer found me here, my favourite haunt? I had to run – but I was so battered and exhausted I could barely think, never mind move.

Moll was still lacing up her dress as she arrived. ‘Well, now, Tom. What’s all this?’ Then she saw the state of me and gave a low curse of surprise. She prodded Betty towards the door. ‘Hot water, fresh clothes.’ She sat down beside me, touched her fingers to a scrape on my cheek. ‘What happened?’

‘They took my purse, Moll. They took everything.’

There was only one thing for it, Moll decided. I must leave town at once. ‘Run to the Mint, before dawn.’

I sighed bitterly. A few short hours ago I had succeeded in turning my fortunes around. Now my only hope was to flee to the old debtors’ sanctuary across the river. The Mint’s tight maze of streets was so violent, so riddled with disease, that bailiffs refused to set foot across its borders. One tried it, a few weeks back. They beat him bloody and pushed his face down into the thick, stinking river of filth that ran through the streets. He died a few days later.

‘Better the Mint than the Marshalsea,’ Moll insisted, wiping the blood from the back of my neck with a wet cloth. ‘You can leave again on Sunday. They won’t arrest you on the Lord’s day.’ She brought her hands together in mock-piety.

‘And after that? What shall I do on Monday, Moll?’

‘Monday?’ She rubbed harder at the dried blood, making me gasp with pain. ‘Since when have you planned that far ahead?’ Then she stopped, and pressed her lips to my ear. ‘My offer’s still open, Tom. Come and work for me. I could use a boy of your talents…’ And she set off upon a story about a new venture she had in mind, involving a trip to France. I can’t remember the details now and could barely understand them then. My head was throbbing and it was hard to follow her. I remember it sounded dangerous and reckless. And tempting.

I considered my choices while Moll rinsed my blood from the cloth, wringing the water into the bowl with a sharp twist. I could stand and face my fate with honour, like a gentleman, and meet some squalid end in gaol. Or I could escape to the Mint and be lost from good society for ever. It was easy enough for Moll to advise the latter course. She was born in the stews and had spent most of her life working the streets for profit, one way or another. She knew when to run and where to go. She had escaped prison and transportation, been called a whore and a thief and worse. Somehow she always came back, brighter and braver than before.

It was not the same for me. As the eldest son of a Suffolk gentleman, my life had been set along an old, straight track from birth: I would join the clergy like my father, and – in time – inherit his position. Three years ago – following an unfortunate incident in an Oxford brothel – I had abandoned that path. Now here I was, five and twenty, with no family, no prospects and no money. True, I had Greek and Latin and could dance a passable gavotte, but a man cannot survive on such things, even in London.

I glanced through a copy of the Daily Courant that had been left upon the table, hoping for some clue to what I should do. Amidst the advertisements for horses, houses and an ‘infallible cure for scurvy’, I noticed that the South Sea Company had announced a three-month extension on borrowing. When the stocks collapsed seven years ago some investors had arranged to pay their debts in instalments – with interest, naturally. Perhaps Mr Fletcher might consider a similar scheme.

Betty appeared with a clean change of clothes and a bowl of hot punch, God bless her. My waistcoat could be cleaned and mended, but my breeches and stockings were torn beyond repair. I stripped by the warmth of the fire, wincing from the bruises along my ribs. I pulled on the fresh stockings and a pair of old, snuff-coloured breeches, then eased myself into a matching waistcoat and jacket. Clean and dressed, I felt more myself again – but when I glanced in the tarnished mirror above the fireplace, I was startled by my reflection. I didn’t look like a man of honour – if I ever had. I looked like a man who would run.

I shivered. So – this was my choice now. Gaol or a life of crime. A life that would most likely end with a rope around my neck. I touched my hand to my throat.

‘Mr Hawkins.’ A soft, low voice behind me. Betty’s reflection joined mine in the mirror, my ruined clothes gathered in her arms. She stole a glance towards the front door, where Moll was slopping out the blood and water into the piazza. ‘There is another way,’ she whispered.

I turned, hope rising in my chest. ‘Tell me.’

She smiled, gently. ‘You could go home, sir. Go home and ask your father for help.’

My shoulders sagged. I poured myself a glass of punch and knocked it back. ‘I’d sooner ask the devil.’

‘What’s this?’ Moll asked sharply as she returned, but Betty had slipped away with my clothes and we were alone.

‘There’s the scoundrel! Arrest him!’

Benjamin Fletcher, my landlord, stood in the doorway, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He must have run all the way from Greek Street. As he limped forward he was followed by a warrant officer, a huge ox of a man, carrying a large wooden club in his fist. His nose had been squashed about his face a few times and a large white scar ran through one brow. A long loop of chains hung over his shoulder like a sash. Our eyes met and he smiled, quite cheerful, as if he had come to escort me to the theatre, not prison. His gaze dropped to the blood-soaked cloth in Moll’s hand. ‘Run into some trouble, sir?’ he asked, in the slow, steady voice of a man with very quick fists.

‘Seize him, Mr Jakes!’ Fletcher wheezed, tearing the hat from his head and fanning his sweaty face.

‘Mr Fletcher,’ I said, holding my hands out wide in apology. ‘I swear to you I had the money…’

‘No more lies, Mr Hawkins,’ he cried. He pulled a note from his waistcoat and thrust it at me, his hands shaking. ‘You have played me for a fool, sir.’

The note was short, and written in a neat script that reminded me of my own. A gentleman’s hand.

Sir.

As a good Christian it is my Duty to report that yr Tenant that vile Dog Hawkins is engaged in relations of the most sordid Nature with your Wife and that the whole World speaks of their Infamy. Your kind Patience and Tolerance of his Debts to You, sir, he repays in this monstrous Manner to his own Shame and your Wife’s Ruin.

A Friend.

Beneath it was a crude drawing of a man sprouting horns from his brow – the unmistakeable sign of a cuckold.

I frowned at the note, quite confounded. Mrs Fletcher was a pinched, mean-spirited woman with a shrill temper and the look of a shaved ferret. The very notion we were ‘engaged in relations’ was beyond contempt, but Fletcher believed it. This was calamitous. As my chief creditor, he alone could show mercy and grant me more time to pay my debt. He was not a cruel man; in truth he had been more patient than I deserved. But above all other things, he doted upon his wretched wife. His anonymous ‘friend’ had played a clever game upon us both. I must answer this with great care.

‘Mr Fletcher, sir. We are men of reason, are we not?’ I waved the note limply. ‘You must see that this is no more than malicious gossip? I mean no dishonour to your good wife, but…’

Behind me, Moll gave a little cough. ‘But he’d rather fuck his own sister.’

The chains lay heavy across my chest as Jakes led me through Covent Garden towards the river. I walked with my gaze upon the ground, the manacles tight about my wrists, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Too late for that, now. I doubt I was much of a spectacle. I had seen dozens of men led through Soho on their way to the Fleet or the Marshalsea or some other rotten lock-up, and given them little more than a moment’s thought. At least I didn’t have a wife or children trailing at my heels, lamenting their sorry fate. And that, I realised, was the best I could say for myself in that moment.

We pushed our way through the busy market, past stalls laden with bright bunches of flowers and ripe fruit fresh in from the suburbs. I breathed in the sweet scent of herbs and the dusty rich tang of spices and wished I could linger, disappear into the bustling confusion of the crowds – traders shouting their wares; young maids selling nosegays, handkerchiefs, anything to keep them from the brothel; livestock bleating and lowing and snorting and stinking to the heavens; actors and tumblers, footmen and chairmen; gossiping madams and rock-faced bullies – just let me join you all, let me slip into this mass of bodies and disappear…

Jakes kept pace beside me, one hand firm upon my shoulder, steering me down Southampton Street to the Thames. ‘Nice day,’ he observed, squeezing my shoulder in a friendly manner that almost buckled me to the floor. ‘Shame.’

When we reached the river a crowd of watermen all dressed in doublets of red or green clamoured for our business at the Worcester stairs shouting ‘oars! oars!’ and ‘scullers!’, their boats knocking hard against each other as they fought to claim us. Jakes pointed to one dressed in green with the Lord Mayor’s arms picked out in silver. He rowed towards us while the rest jeered and cursed his good luck. When he reached the steps he glanced up at my chains. ‘The Borough?’

‘Aye,’ Jakes nodded. ‘Tooley steps. But threepence, no more.’

‘It’s double past the bridge, Mr Jakes,’ the boatman called up, then grinned. The Tooley stairs were only a few feet beyond the bridge.

‘I’ll take you for three, sir!’ another man cried from his sculler.

Our waterman rounded on him. ‘Selling yourself cheap, Ned – you learn that from your mother?’ He turned back to us. ‘Fourpence.’

‘Three,’ Jakes replied, stubbornly. He gestured to the fifteen or so other boats we could choose. Our man sighed and waved us aboard, muttering in an unconvincing fashion about his poor starving wife and children.

Jakes nudged me aboard then settled his impressive bulk at the other end of the sculler, facing the south bank. His thick knees pressed hard against the sides of the boat, but he seemed content enough, tilting his head to catch the sun. The waterman, sitting between us with his oars raised, looked anxious as the boat rocked under our combined weight – but my chains balanced out Jakes’ muscles and we settled soon enough. As we pushed off into the river, I watched the city drift slowly away from me like an inconstant lover, already forgetting me, turning its attentions on some new, sweeter diversion.

Jakes leaned forward and the boat began to rock back and forth again, water slopping up and over the side. ‘Do you have much coin, sir?’ he called over the boatman’s shoulder.

I held up my manacled wrists by way of answer.

He traced a scar that cut through his left brow, considering this unfortunate situation. ‘Well, you’d better find some pretty sharp, Mr Hawkins. D’you not have friends? Family?’

I shook my head. Jakes and the boatman exchanged a look. No friends. No family. No money. I might as well tip myself overboard and save everyone the trouble. Well, damn them both – I might not have much, but I did have my wits about me, and I was not as innocent as I seemed.

We passed Somerset House, almost derelict, its golden days of masquerades and court intrigue long past. I caught the high, pungent scent of manure on the air; the Horse Guards had sequestered the old stables a few years back. These were the days we lived in since the South Sea Bubble burst: houses abandoned half-built or half-falling down; money flowing in and out of people’s lives, harder to keep hold of than quicksilver.

The boatman rowed on, whistling quietly to himself, oars cutting smoothly through the water. Jakes reached past him and tapped my knee, making me jump. ‘I might look the other way, when we reach Southwark,’ he said in a low voice, rubbing his thumb against his fingers in an unmistakeable gesture. ‘Not something I do as a rule.’

The bridge loomed up ahead, the windows of the houses upon it glinting in the mid-morning sun. A queue of boats waited to ride the churning waters below. ‘Why would you help me, Mr Jakes?’

A sad, distant look came into his heavy-lidded, sea-green eyes. ‘You remind me of my old captain.’

The river was flowing faster now as we reached the narrow arches of the bridge. I had to shout above the roar. ‘You were in the army?’ I should have realised from his battered, weatherbeaten face.

‘Nine years,’ he called back. He paused, lost in memories, then shook his head. ‘Captain Roberts was just like you. A rake and a gambler. And a drunk.’

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again.

‘You look the spit of him, too. Odd, that. You could almost be brothers.’

‘Indeed?’ The closest I had to a brother was Edmund, my stepmother’s son – and we were both delighted to be nothing like each other.

‘John was not what you’d call respectable,’ Jakes said, frowning at the memory. ‘Not always square. But he was a good friend to me. Saved my life once.’

I could tell by the way he was talking that Roberts was dead. ‘What happened to him?’

He looked away, down into the swirling waters. ‘The Marshalsea killed him.’

The boatman steered towards the arch closest to shore, holding tight to the oars. It was crowded with traffic, boats slamming against one another, shouts and curses filling the air. And above it all, the rush of the Thames, surging hard beneath the bridge. The river could be dangerous here, forced between the narrow arches; the waterman had to use all his strength to hold the little scull steady. One slip and it would be smashed to pieces. I didn’t fancy my luck in the water – not with twenty pounds of iron chains wrapped about me.

‘Coroner called it suicide,’ Jakes continued, oblivious to the drama unfolding behind his back. ‘But it was murder, no doubt of it. I’ve seen better corpses on a battlefield. There’s a rumour in the Borough that his spirit haunts the gaol, begging for justice.’ The boat pitched and turned against the swirling waters as we reached the arch. ‘Fat chance,’ he snorted, then leaned closer. ‘D’you know, there’s some that say the devil lives in the Marshalsea. And – forgive me, sir. I’m not sure you’re ready to meet him.’

I wanted to ask him what he meant but at that moment the boatman steered us into the rush of water and we plunged full force beneath the arch, shooting through as though fired from a pistol. Jakes gripped the sides of the scull while I clung hard to my seat. The roar of the river echoed against the stone, white water frothing about us, spraying our faces. And then we were through, riding out into slower currents.

I drew back, heart thudding against my chest, grinning with relief. Now we were through and safe, I had a fancy to go again, as I always did – but the boatman drew up hard against the Tooley stairs. As I left the boat and clambered up the green, slippery steps, it struck me that perhaps Jakes told this story of his old captain to all his charges, in the hope of being paid off. Ghosts and devils, indeed.

We left the river behind and headed for the Borough’s High Street. Back among the throng, I grew conscious of my chains again, clinking together with every laboured step. Only a week before I had come to Southwark Fair with a group of friends and walked down this street a free man. Now the fair, and my friends, were gone. We passed St Saviour’s and the long line of taverns stretching out of town, laughter and shouts from every window, every doorway. The scent of cooked meat and beer cut through the noisome stench of the street. As we passed the White Hart a man staggered out from the alley and spewed a thick gush of vomit across the pavement then collapsed into it. A young boy raced across the road, scavenged the drunkard’s purse then scampered away, back into the shadows.

‘Here we are.’ Jakes gripped my arm and guided me between two boarded-up shop fronts.

We turned into the narrow, sunless alley. The clamour and life of the High Street bled away into a chill silence. Ahead of us, at the end of the alley, stood a high stone lodge – the entrance to the gaol. It looked like an old castle keep, flanked by twin turrets looming forty feet into the sky. I half-expected men in armour to appear at the top and throw burning oil on our heads.

The Lodge gate comprised two large doors studded with iron, wide enough for a carriage to pass through when both were flung open. A hand-written sign had been nailed into the wood, paper curling at the edges:

MARSHALSEA GAOL

and COURT PALACE

Southwark

Under the Charge of His Majesty the Knight’s Marshal: Sir Philip Meadows

Head Keeper: William Acton

Underneath the keeper’s name, someone had scrawled BUTCHER in fresh ink.

Jakes pounded upon the door with his club, the sound ringing back down the passageway. After a long moment there was a harsh scraping sound and an iron grate opened in the door. A pair of mean, bloodshot eyes glared at me contemptuously through the bars.

‘Who’s this son of a whore?’ a rough voice called through the gate.

Jakes leaned down and whispered urgently in my ear. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing, Mr Hawkins? Nothing you can pawn?’

And all of a sudden I remembered that there was, indeed, something: my mother’s gold cross, set with a small diamond at its heart. I had worn it about my neck for so long that I had almost forgotten it. It was the only thing I had left of her and I’d vowed to wear it always. But I had been a boy then, and boys make all sorts of foolish plans before they learn better. Shuffling beneath the chains I touched my fingers to my throat. By some miracle it was still there, unrobbed. I loosened my collar. ‘Will this do?’

Jakes unclasped the fine gold chain and held it up to the light. ‘There should be some capital in it. Enough to keep you from the Common Side for a few nights, at least.’

The turnkey slid back the bolts and flung open the door. He looked me up and down, taking in the mean cloth of my borrowed clothes and the low slump of my shoulders. He snorted, and shook his head at Jakes. ‘He’ll last a week if he’s lucky,’ he said, then laughed nastily and pushed me through the door. ‘Welcome to the Marshalsea, sir.’