The Devil in the Marshalsea

Chapter Twenty-Five

I woke in a small, cramped cell.

I was lying on my back on a narrow bed, the cloth mattress damp and reeking with sweat. The shutters were closed but a candle stub flickered and sputtered on the table beside me. A wooden cross hung on the wall. I rubbed my face and scalp, long bristles rasping against my fingers. I must have been here for days.

Memories slipped in and out of reach. The fever had been the worst of it, burning through my body, heat like the furnaces of hell. A sharp, heavy pain in my head as if my skull were back in the iron cap. Delirium. Days melting into each other. Anxious voices, faces covered with scented cloths hovering over mine. Prayers chanted in another room. A soft, cool hand holding mine.

Stay, Thomas. Please stay with me.

I had been a whisper away from death. I could feel it in my bones.

Peeling myself from the sheets I sat up slowly, head spinning. The air smelled faintly of piss and vomit, mingled with lavender. Someone had tied a fresh sprig to the bed. I crushed the leaves between my fingers and breathed in the thick, warm scent.

I swung my legs to the floor, shuffling over to the window like an old dog. The room faced out on to a busy street – I could hear the clop of horses, the whisk of carriage wheels, shouts and laughter. I pulled back the shutters and sunlight poured into the room, half-blinding me. With a few hard shoves I opened the old casement window and peered down into the bustling high street. Tradesmen rattled carts along the cobbles to market; a farmer guided a small, skittering flock of sheep towards the bridge. Across the road, two girls of the town lay stretched out on the brothel steps, wiggling their toes and basking in the autumn sunlight.

Dawn in the Borough and I was alive. My heart lifted.

On the pavement below my window, Charles and Trim were arguing with one another. Charles gestured to a hackney carriage waiting nearby. Trim shook his head, hands planted firmly on his hips.

‘Charles.’ My voice was hoarse, broken. I cleared my throat and tried again.

He looked up, then grinned and ran into the house, thumping up the stairs. A moment later he bounded into the room, Trim following close behind. I almost wept upon his shoulder, I was so grateful to be alive. But the simple act of walking to the window had left me dizzy. I swayed upon my feet and would have fallen if Trim had not seized hold of me.

‘Settle him down,’ he said to Charles, before heading to the door to call for a jug of small beer.

Charles ushered me slowly back to the bed. As we sat together, side by side, he explained that this was a sponging house owned by one of Acton’s cronies. If the Marshalsea was hell, then this was purgatory – where debtors with just enough capital to stay out of prison were kept under the watchful eye of the bailiffs. Some marshalled enough money to return home, the rest were squeezed of their last pennies then thrown into prison. A place of lost causes and low odds.

‘What do you remember?’ he asked.

I tried to think back but the fever had left me weak and confused and I had not eaten in many days. It was only later that I remembered it all: the chase through the trees, Kitty in the clearing with a gun in her hands and Jakes, clutching the gaping wound in his stomach. Perhaps my mind was trying to spare me from the memories, until I was well enough to endure them. ‘Jakes…’ I whispered, through cracked lips. ‘It was Jakes.’ I began to shake violently.

Charles put an arm about my shoulder. ‘You’re safe now, Tom.’

Trim returned and poured me a mug of beer. ‘Slowly,’ he warned, placing it between my trembling hands.

‘Who brought me here?’ I asked.

Charles explained that I had been carried from Snows Fields back to the Marshalsea. Acton had taken one look at the fever tearing through me and refused to take me in, for fear I would poison the Master’s Side and ruin his profits. ‘We’ll sling him over the Common Side if you like,’ he’d said. It had been Cross, strangely enough, who had reminded Acton of Sir Philip’s promise of freedom. Acton’s compromise had been to send me here, where I could sweat the fever out or die from it – and I could guess which outcome he would have preferred.

I could not understand then why Cross had spoken for me. He gave me his reasons later, the last time I saw him – said he didn’t want me poisoning the Common Side with my sickness. It was Cross, after all, who had to pull the bodies out each morning, not Acton. Some days I think there was more to it than that – a moment’s charity, perhaps. On other days I think he just wanted me gone from the prison.

‘How long have I been here?’

Charles smiled grimly. His eyes were bloodshot, shadowed with dark grey circles. ‘Almost a week. It’s Sunday today, the first of October.’ He paused. ‘You were very sick. Trim has been tending you these last few days – he’s had the fever before so it was safe for him. We didn’t think…’ He swallowed hard. ‘They administered the last rites just three days ago. I wasn’t allowed in the room for fear of infection.’ He glanced at me curious. ‘Do you not remember?’

I closed my eyes. Yes; there had been voices in the darkness. Words of comfort and peace. I had drifted away upon them, glad to be free at last. Something had brought me back. Something sharp and bright. Something worth fighting for…

‘Tom?’

… A dream, perhaps. The memory faded. I opened my eyes, shook my head.

‘Well. Perhaps that’s for the best,’ Charles said, glancing carefully at Trim. ‘Let’s talk of more cheerful matters. I have some excellent news.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Sir Philip has paid off all your debts.’

It took me a moment to understand what this meant. I clasped his arm. ‘All of them? I’m free?’

He grinned. ‘As promised, Tom.’

‘And Jakes? Woodburn?’

Trim cleared his throat. Charles gave him a sharp look, and shook his head. ‘Sir Philip has dealt with everything. Don’t let it concern you.’

A servant arrived with tea and breakfast. I watched hungrily as he laid out the dishes but when I sat down to eat I could barely finish half a roll.

Trim watched me with a worried expression. ‘D’you see now, Mr Buckley? He’s not well enough to travel yet.’

Charles frowned. ‘What choice do we have? If he stays another day in this hole he’s liable to catch another contagion.’

‘Then we should find him a good, clean room in the Borough,’ Trim argued. ‘They’ll take him at the George now his fever’s passed.’

‘The George?’ I looked up from my roll with renewed interest. ‘Should we go there now?’

‘Yes, thank you for that suggestion, Mr Trim.’ Charles glared at the barber. ‘But as you know Sir Philip has invited Tom to stay at his lodge in Richmond while he recovers.’ He turned to me. ‘There’s a carriage waiting to take us to the river.’

‘Could we…’ I thought of the two whores sunning themselves on the steps outside. ‘Might we go tomorrow? I am a little tired.’

Charles placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Tom, please, I beg you. You need peace and rest. Let me take care of you. When you are well we will hit the taverns together, I promise.’

I nodded my consent. I had missed Charles these past few months – and he had saved me from prison. If this was what he wanted, I would go with him.

‘Good. We should leave at once, as soon as you are dressed. There are fresh clothes on the chair here.’ He pulled out his purse and tipped a stream of coins into his palm. ‘Mr Trim, sir, would you be kind enough to pay the bill? You may keep the change.’

‘It’s just Trim,’ he muttered irritably, but he took the coins. ‘Take care, Mr Hawkins.’ He gave a short bow and left before I had a chance to thank him.

I would like to say it was the effects of the fever, or the speed with which Charles scooped me up from my sick bed and bundled me into the waiting hackney coach that made me forget. Perhaps it was these things, or perhaps it was just that I did not care to think deeply enough. Whatever the reason, we had almost reached the river and Tooley stairs when I realised what I had forgotten.

‘Charles, wait. We must turn back.’

He stuck his head out of the carriage to peer down the street. ‘We’re almost at the river.’

‘Charles!’ I clutched his arm, pulling him round to face me. ‘I must find Kitty. She saved my life. I can’t leave without seeing her.’

Charles said nothing, just stared at me sadly, his body swaying as the carriage swung round a corner.

‘We must go back,’ I called to the driver. I knew something was wrong. I could see it in Charles’ face. But I refused to understand. I clambered from my seat and grabbed the driver by the shoulder. ‘Stop, damn you!’

The hackney pulled to a violent halt, half-flinging me from the carriage. The driver turned and glared at me. ‘Grab me again and I’ll break your jaw, you bloody fool.’

‘Turn around at once! Take us to the Marshalsea.’

‘Tom,’ Charles said, softly.

I shrank back against the carriage seat. ‘Don’t say it. Charles, don’t say it, I beg you.’

He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. She’s dead.’

She’s dead. She’s dead. I don’t remember the rest of the journey to the Thames, just those words turning round and round with the wheels of the carriage. It wasn’t possible. Not Kitty. She’d saved me. She’d killed Jakes for me. She was my reward for everything I’d been through. Wasn’t she? She couldn’t be dead. What plans could I make without her? What life could I possibly have worth living?

Sir Philip had sent his own personal yacht from Richmond to collect us. His daughters Mary and Constance had sailed down with a picnic, no doubt curious to see Mr Buckley’s infamous friend. They were met with a hollow wreck of a man, bludgeoned with grief.

‘I’m afraid Mr Hawkins has just received some bad news,’ Charles said, gripping me tightly and steering me on to the boat.

To their credit the young Misses Meadows seemed honestly concerned for my welfare and found me a quiet, shaded corner to rest. ‘Cushions,’ Mary said firmly, as if they were a remedy for all misfortunes, from disease and death to the apocalypse.

I lay down and covered my face with my hand. I could not weep, not here, as much as I wanted to. Charles sat down next to me. I dropped my hand. ‘How did she die?’

‘Let’s talk of this later, Tom. You must rest.’ Beneath the concern I caught the faintest hint of impatience. No one else would have heard it, but I knew Charles too well.

‘Was it the fever that took her?’

He sighed, then nodded.

My heart sank still further. I thought of her lips pressed against mine, her hands around my neck. ‘I killed her with a kiss.’

Charles looked away, and said nothing. I had made him uncomfortable. All this fuss over a kitchen maid.

The boat hit a swell, rising then dropping swiftly with a sharp splash. The jolt of it brought me to my senses. What sort of a man was I, lying on velvet cushions and whimpering to myself? Not the man Kitty had wanted. I pulled myself to my feet and found a seat near the prow. A servant brought me a glass of wine and a pipe.

Constance, seeing I had rallied, skipped over and settled down next to me, fanning herself vigorously. She was a pretty girl with a lively manner and in other circumstances I would have enjoyed her company. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mary and I were thrilled to hear of your adventures in gaol. Do you promise to tell us your story? When you are recovered, of course.’

I opened my mouth to reply, but could not think what to say. How could I sit at supper and describe what I had witnessed to a pair of innocent young ladies? A boy of thirteen beaten to death; rotting corpses teeming with rats; waking to find my friend with his throat cut, the life stolen from his bright black eyes. How could I weave that into a pretty story to amuse Sir Philip’s daughters? And worse, knowing that their father had sat back and let it all happen? I smiled vaguely and took a sip of wine.

Constance leaned closer, whispering behind her fan. ‘Charles made us promise not to ask, but I must know… is it true you shot the killer right through the heart?’

I stared at her. ‘I didn’t kill anyone, Miss Constance.’

She frowned. ‘But you must have! Papa said so. Mr Buckley said you were very brave.’

‘No, madam. Kitty Sparks shot Mr Jakes.’ Once in the stomach and once right between the eyes.

‘Kitty Sparks…?’ She closed her fan with a sharp snap, then sat back and studied me narrowly. ‘A girl?’

‘A kitchen maid.’ I paused. ‘I loved her.’

She stared at me for a long moment, eyes wide. Then she blinked, and laughed, and tapped her fan playfully on my arm. ‘You are teasing me, sir. How wicked of you.’ She jumped up, twirling her fine blue silk skirts as she danced away from me to join her sister. I remembered Kitty running across the yard, picking up her skirts. A flash of dainty ankles. Charles, who had been standing close enough to hear, shook his head slowly and turned away.

The boat sailed on up river, the sun glinting on the water. I looked back towards Southwark, but we had turned a bend and it had slid from view some time ago. I’d left it behind without noticing.

The next few days passed like a dream. Sir Philip’s hunting lodge was vast, with servants standing ready to answer every possible whim. I had been given a suite of rooms close to Charles’ quarters, with my own valet, who watched me from the corner of his eyes as if I might strike him or steal something small and valuable. Why not? I had killed a man, apparently.

Only Charles and Joseph Cross knew the truth. They had decided between them to hide it. Kitty had shot Jakes in cold blood. If the world discovered it, her reputation would be ruined for ever. At worst, she could have been transported or hanged. So Cross pulled the pistol from her hand and told everyone that I’d shot Jakes. I was half-dead anyway – what did it matter? Kitty protested, but no one believed her, apart from Charles. He knew I was not capable of it.

So Kitty was free to stay and watch over me. I remembered her now. She’d held my hand and pulled me back from the brink of death. And then the fever had taken her instead.

There was talk of a trial, in the days after I recovered. But I was a gentleman, and Jakes was not. Sir Philip had friends, and influence. The talk died away.

And Mr Woodburn? Charles muttered something about the Church protecting its own. ‘He’s locked away somewhere. Or sent abroad perhaps. He should probably hang for what he did…’

‘No,’ I sighed. Mr Woodburn hadn’t escaped punishment – his own conscience would see to that. ‘Let him live, wherever he is. He was a fool. A dangerous fool. But he didn’t kill Roberts – or anyone else. In his own muddle-headed way he truly thought he was doing good.’ I shook my head at the idiocy of it all.

As time passed I grew stronger, and my appetite returned, but my spirits remained low. I found that I could not stay indoors for long, and took to exploring the grounds alone for hours. I liked to walk about the lake close to the house, where the horses sheltered beneath the trees, then head deep into the woods, kicking up the autumn leaves as if I might find answers beneath them. When it grew dark Sir Philip’s wife, Lady Dorothy, would send men out with lanterns to find me. I would return to my rooms to find a warm bath by the fire, and fresh clothes.

At night I dreamed I was back in the grave on Snows Fields and would wake with a cry of terror and the taste of soil in my mouth.

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘You had no right, Charles! No right at all!’

We were in Sir Philip’s library; unread books stretching high to the ceiling. The rain had been falling hard since breakfast, and I had retreated here to spend a peaceful morning roaming the shelves. I liked this room; it smelled of old leather and pipe smoke and the family rarely used it.

It was over a week since I had arrived at the lodge. Long walks, fresh air and good food had revived my strength, but a darkness still lingered. It rose to claim me in the dead of night: a dense, endless fog of dread and anxiety. Hour after hour I lay awake, my thoughts twisting and coiling upon themselves in a hopeless tangle.

I should have felt glad to be alive and free. I still grieved for Kitty and Fleet, but their deaths were like sharp blades in my heart – clean, honest wounds that I could understand. It was something else that kept me awake at night; something more insidious than grief. I couldn’t see it and I couldn’t name it but I knew, deep in my soul, that it was there.

I was reading an old copy of the Gazette when Charles entered the room. I was glad to see him; I had not spent much time with him these past few days. He worked long hours with Sir Philip, but the whole family had set off for London that morning to prepare for the coronation. Mary was a maid of honour to the queen and would be near the head of the procession tomorrow.

‘Charles!’ I grinned. ‘Are you free at last? Let’s call for a bottle of wine and play some cards. You will have to lend me some money.’ Sir Philip had cleared my old debts, but I had no fresh funds in my pocket. I was penniless. Again.

He gave a regretful smile. ‘I have a sermon to write. But here – this arrived for you this morning.’ He held up a letter, then added, carefully, ‘It’s from your father.’

I shrank back. ‘How did he find me?’

‘I wrote to him.’

I glared at him in fury as he slid the letter from the envelope. ‘You had no right, Charles! No right at all!’

‘If you would just read it. I think it may surprise you.’

I tore it from his hand and flung it into the hearth.

Charles sprang forward and grabbed it before it caught light, knocking the glowing embers away with his fingers. ‘Tom, please. For my sake. It is just one page.’

‘Oh, very well,’ I sulked. ‘Hand it here if you must.’ I opened it out, steeling myself for the words of rebuke and triumph.

My Dear Child

I have just received the News this morning of your recent Troubles and write to you in all Haste. My boy – I beg you to come Home to your Family to rest and recover. I have enclosed three pounds to help with your Journey and pray you would come at once.

My Dearest Son, why did you not write to me? Did you think I had forgotten you? I have missed you, Thomas, every day – and prayed for you. Charles tells me you have grown up to be a good man and a true Friend, and that you have performed a great Service to Sir Philip Meadows. I am sure with the support of such a noble patron, your youthful transgressions will be forgiven. I shall write to the Bishop of Norfolk on your behalf, the moment I hear from you.

My boy. We are both Stubborn, but I am old now – too old to be governed by Pride. Come home to your Family, who love you, and take over my Duties here in the parish. This is your true calling, my Son, and the dearest wish of your beloved Mother. Pray to God and He will show you your rightful Path.

Your Loving and Affectionate Father

I read it again. Three times. Held it out at arm’s length to confirm the handwriting.

Charles was smiling. ‘D’you see, Tom? You’re saved!’

I shook my head, mystified.

The rain had stopped. It was a mild, grey October afternoon; a day to make mild, grey decisions. I walked down to the lake and sat beneath the large weeping willow at the water’s edge. The grass was dry beneath its branches, which hung down like bed curtains. My own secret chapel of contemplation, hidden from the world.

I pulled the letter from my pocket and read it over once more. My dearest son? My father had never spoken of me in such affectionate terms. Edmund, my stepbrother, had always been his favourite. At least, that is what I had always thought. Had I been wrong, all this time?

I could go home. Leave all my struggles and cares behind me and start afresh. And why not? What was left for me in London? More gambling, more debauches, more debts. How long before I found myself thrown in gaol again? How long before I fucked the wrong whore and caught the pox? There could have been another path for me, if Kitty had lived. A riotous, disreputable life, to be sure, but my God it would have been worth it. But she was dead and that path was closed to me now.

I leaned back against the willow’s trunk, and allowed myself to think of home for the first time in three long years. Not the last angry days and the arguments, but happier times. I thought about the life I could lead; the life I had studied and prepared for since I was a child. The Reverend Thomas Hawkins. A well-conducted, respectable gentleman. A vicarage, two hundred pounds per annum, a hundred acres of land. Servants. A pretty, dutiful wife to run the farm while I sat at my father’s old desk and wrote sermons. Respectful neighbours. The simple pleasures of shooting and fishing and long walks down to the coast. No need to follow the high fashions and low habits of the town. Peace, health. A long, contented life.

Was this my path, after all? Had I been running away from the one thing I truly wanted?

My father had told me to ask God for guidance. I closed my eyes and prayed.

You’d die of boredom, Tom.

A gust of wind. A rustle of leaves. I opened my eyes and swore I caught a flash of red velvet through the branches. I blinked, and it was gone. I’d been dreaming.

I’d been dreaming, but now I was awake.

I sprang up and pushed my way free from the willow, running back towards the house. I grabbed hold of a passing servant and ordered him to find a boat to take me back to the city. My father was right; it was time to go home. Home to London.

I gathered up my few possessions then went in search of Charles. His room was empty, his trunk packed ready to join the family in town for the coronation. I smiled at the neat piles of books and carefully folded clothes. I hadn’t been here since my first night; we’d sat by the fire, talking for hours. I’d thought there would be more time to reminisce, but I had barely seen him since then. And it was then that a sudden doubt leapt out and seized me. The strange, formless anxiety I had felt ever since I’d arrived at the lodge sharpened to one question.

Had Charles been avoiding me?

I’d spent more time with Lady Dorothy and her daughters than with my old friend this past week. I had not given it a moment’s clear thought, but now I began to wonder. Charles had always been ambitious. Not everyone could see it but I had always known what lay hidden beneath his quiet, friendly manner; the iron core every man needs to advance in the world.

Was that why he had written to my father? To be rid of me, now I had served my purpose? No, no – that was wrong. Unkind. Charles had been a good, loyal, patient friend. If it weren’t for him I would still be rotting in prison.

But I could not ignore the chill, creeping suspicion that something didn’t add up. It was the same feeling I had at cards, when I was sure someone had cheated but couldn’t prove it.

I paced the room, thinking hard. It wasn’t true. I was mistaken. But the more I thought, the more I doubted. Sir Philip and Lady Dorothy adored Charles; he was like another son to them. Why did he not beg Sir Philip to release me, when he knew my life was in danger? And why had he kept his distance these past few days? Now I thought about it carefully, his behaviour struck me as strange; almost furtive. As if he were afraid that if I spent too much time with him…

… I would guess his secret.

I stopped still, in the middle of the room, understanding at last. Stripping away sentiment, my sense of obligation and loyalty, it all became clear. Charles had not helped me in the Marshalsea. He had used me.

If Charles had begged my case, Sir Philip would have listened; I was sure of it. But it suited them both to have me locked up in gaol; their own personal investigator, desperate to uncover the truth. Charles had left me there even when I had been chained and beaten and thrown in the Strong Room. And see how obliging I’d been! There would be no more talk of ghosts. No riots. No bothersome letters from a grieving widow. No loss of profit.

I’d intended to wait and talk to Charles – perhaps persuade him to sail up to London with me. Now I knew I had to leave at once. I was afraid I might see the truth confirmed in his eyes: that he was not my friend; had not been for a long time. Perhaps it was that day I had called out to him in the street in front of his patron, bottle in hand. Or even before that – in some ruthless, clear-eyed moment when he realised he didn’t need me any more. The boy he had once admired, who had protected him at school, was sinking, while he was rising far beyond reach.

Oh, yes, Charles. Much better to pack me off to Suffolk, far away and out of trouble. And have me believe it was a kindness, too.

I sat down at his writing table, feeling hollow and light-headed. I would write him a note, explaining I had left for the town. I owed him that much, and then we were done. There was no paper left out so I opened a drawer and reached inside. My fingers closed on a soft leather pouch. I pulled it out.

My purse. Stolen from me in a stinking alley in St Giles. I weighed it in my hands, the coins clinking together softly. Still full.

How could it possibly be here, now, in this room? Something hard pressed down upon my heart. The heavy weight of a friend’s betrayal.

A moment later the door opened and Charles strode in, smiling. ‘Tom! What are you-’ He stopped, seeing the purse in my hand. His mouth opened in shock. Then he glanced away in a shifty fashion, smoothing his black silk waistcoat. ‘I hear you’ve called for a boat. I think you should see if it’s ready.’

I rose from my chair, blood pounding in my ears. I held the purse out in front of me, wishing it would somehow vanish. Perhaps I was mistaken. Please God, let this all be some foolish misunderstanding. ‘This purse was stolen from me.’

He frowned impatiently. ‘The money is all there. Take it and go.’

I stared at him, barely able to breathe as the truth struck home. ‘What did you do, Charles?’ I whispered. ‘My God. What did you do to me?’

‘What did I do?’ He gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. ‘You think to blame me for all your troubles? I have worked without cease for years to attain all this.’ He gestured about him. ‘Do you have any notion how hard it is to secure a patron when you have no family, no connections? I have sacrificed everything for this position. But you cannot begin to understand that, can you? You were born with every conceivable privilege. Money. Good health. A good family. And see what you have achieved with these fine gifts! You have drunk and gambled and fucked away every penny you’ve ever owned. Wandered through life as if the whole world owes you a living. Well, here’s the truth of the matter, Tom Hawkins. The world doesn’t give a damn about you.’

Pain burned in my chest. How could he say these things to me – my oldest, dearest friend? I stared at him, hoping that he would suddenly laugh and tell me this was all a joke. But the mild-tempered, amiable boy I had always loved had vanished and a stranger stood in his place. ‘You helped me. You gave me all your savings.’

‘No. Not all of them. Not even close. Just enough to keep you from starving in prison.’ Charles paused, deliberating for a moment. He lifted his chin and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I will be honest with you. You might as well know the whole truth. You might even learn something from it. The night you came to me and asked for my help, I had known for days that you were destined for the Marshalsea. I’d seen your name on the list of arrest warrants.’

‘No.’ I sat down heavily, clasping the arm of the chair. ‘I don’t believe you.’

He clasped his hands behind his back and crossed to the window, staring down upon the neatly landscaped garden below. The sun shone through the pane, casting his face half in light, half in shadow. ‘We all have masters, Tom. The only free men in this world are idiots and fools. It is Sir Philip’s duty to keep the prison running well. And it is my duty to aid him in that task. To be of value to him. No matter the personal cost.’ He bowed his head. ‘Catherine Roberts was drawing too much attention to the Marshalsea, with all her talk of ghosts and murder. Sir Philip wanted… needed things returned to normal. Acton refused to investigate, even with the gaol teetering upon the brink of revolt. In truth we half-suspected him of the murder. When I saw your name on the list I knew God had placed it there for a reason. Do you not see, Tom? You were already destined for gaol and we needed a man we could trust. What harm was there in that? You would help me. I would help Sir Philip. Sir Philip would help us both. This is the way the world works. Where would we be without it? Without Sir Philip’s patronage, what would I be? A poor country curate scrimping a living on a few pounds a year.’ He paused. ‘You know, he is very grateful to us both. Mrs Roberts is content and the gaol is running smoothly again. This could still go very well for you, Tom, if you could just… if you would only think straight for once.’

My hand squeezed tight about my purse, the edges of the coins digging into my palm. ‘I had enough money to save myself.’

He bit his lip. ‘Yes. And for that… for that I am sorry, Tom. But don’t you see? It was too late. I’d already promised Sir Philip that you would help us. I could not afford to let him down – I had vowed to resolve the matter for him before the coronation. Sir Philip is a kind and generous patron, but he does not take well to failure. I would have lost my position – and he would have made sure all of his friends and allies shunned me as well. I would have been ruined.’

‘So… You paid men to rob me.’

Charles turned from the window.‘I had to – don’t you see? I needed you in the gaol. I never thought you’d win at the gaming tables! I spent half the night pacing about outside, praying to God you’d lose.’ He gestured to the purse. ‘Half the money was mine to begin with. All I did was call upon a few cutpurses to get it back.’

‘They nearly killed me, Charles!’

‘No, no – I swear it! I would never… Their chief had worked for us before. He only struck you because you were damned foolish enough to fight back.’

‘This was my freedom!’ I shouted, clutching my purse tight. ‘And you stole it from me.’ I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears of bitterness and rage. ‘You wrote that damned note to Fletcher, didn’t you? Just to be sure. My God, Charles – are you not ashamed of yourself? Do you not feel any guilt for what you’ve done?’

He coloured. ‘How can I make you understand? Will you not try to see things from my side? You think because you don’t want this life it is not worth having! But I have worked damned hard these past years while you sat drinking in poxy taverns, squandering all the gifts God gave you. If there is any shame or guilt to be felt, it is on your side, not mine.’

I put my head in my hands. All the beatings I had endured, in St Giles and in the Marshalsea. Even the night in the Strong Room. Nothing had hurt me as much as this – nothing but Kitty’s death. ‘You’ve broken my heart,’ I said.

‘Oh, Tom,’ Charles said, and laughed. He didn’t believe me – because he did not want to. He turned to leave, then paused. ‘It was only a matter of time before you were thrown in gaol. All I did was nudge you back on to a path you were always destined to follow. I looked after you well enough – did I not? Now you have a full purse and a chance to start your life afresh. How many men can say the same?’ He smiled down at me. ‘When you have calmed down and considered the facts, you will understand. In fact I think you’ll realise you would have done just the same in my position.’

Anger and bitterness surged inside of me. I rose to my feet. ‘No. I would not. I would never betray a friend.’

He rolled his eyes as if I were a naive child. ‘And that’s why I will be Bishop of London one day. Whereas you…’ He looked me up and down, and gave a little smirk. ‘What will you be, Tom?’

I considered this for a moment. And then I punched him hard in the face. He collapsed to his knees, eyes streaming, blood gushing from his nostrils all over his fine silk rug.

‘What will I be?’ I stared down at him in disgust, cradling my bloodied fist as he sobbed on the floor in pain and fury. ‘I’ll be the man who broke the Bishop of London’s nose.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I never thought I would return to the Marshalsea, but here I was at the Lodge gate. I banged my fist against the door before I could change my mind. The grate slid open and a familiar pair of bloodshot eyes glared at me through the gap.

‘Oh, for God’s…’ But he opened the door and let me pass.

My plan on fleeing Richmond had been to head straight for Moll’s, buy a pipe, a girl and a bowl of punch, and forget all about Charles and his betrayal. But the Thames had other ideas. The river was crammed with visitors pouring into the city for the coronation, with long queues to all the stairs on the north side. Fights were breaking out between the watermen and two boats had already capsized, flinging their passengers into the dark, filthy waters.

My boatman considered the chaos for a moment before steering us decisively towards the south bank. ‘I’ll drop you at Tooley stairs,’ he said. ‘Safer to walk back across the bridge today.’

The boat bumped up hard against the same worn, greasy steps I had taken with Jakes that first day, laden down with chains. I took it as a sign; one last visit to the place that had almost killed me, but this time as a free man.

The Park was packed with prisoners taking the air while they could. There were a few new debtors I didn’t recognise; a reminder that prison life rolled on and always would. A young whore was hard at work consoling an old, drunk gentleman on Fleet’s bench. She winked at me as I passed, one hand busy in his breeches while the other slipped into his pocket.

Acton and Gilbourne were nowhere to be seen, thank God. I would have turned on my heel and left if I’d seen them. I spied Mary Acton frowning down at me from the parlour window, Henry at her hip trying to eat her hair. I raised my hat and gave her a deep, theatrical bow. She pursed her lips and disappeared from view.

Gilbert Hand was in his usual spot by the lamppost. I nodded to him but didn’t stop; I didn’t have the time or the inclination to feed any wriggling worms of gossip into the Ranger’s eager beak.

I’d forgotten how badly the whole place stank; I’d grown accustomed to the fresh Richmond air and the contrast was almost unbearable. I bought a nosegay from a young gypsy girl in the yard to mask the stench, then dropped by the chandler’s shop where I bought tobacco, candles, a pound of butter and a few other little parcels. And then I crossed over to my old ward, up the familiar, worn-down stairs to Belle Isle – but Fleet’s empire of mischief and disorder had vanished. It was just a tatty old room with rotten floorboards and five new occupants crammed into two beds. Acton was getting his money’s worth, as ever.

But it was Trim I had come to see, and he was at home, brewing a pot of tea. I poked my head round the door and he leapt up in astonishment.

‘Tom! Well, I never! I hardly recognised you in your fine clothes. That is… you were very sick, the last time I saw you,’ he added hurriedly as I stepped into the room.

I stared at myself in the looking glass near the fire, seeing myself with fresh eyes. I was still dressed in the snuff-coloured suit Lady Dorothy had given me, and a new short wig tied with a black silk ribbon. I had the straight, confident posture of a man with money in his pocket: three pounds from my father and the ten Charles had stolen from me. I looked… respectable.

We shook hands and I presented him with the parcel of goods I’d bought.

‘Very good of you, sir,’ he said, opening up the tobacco and building himself a pipe.

‘You were very good to me, Trim. I doubt I would have survived without your help. And… well, consider it a small apology for accusing you of murder.’ I paused. ‘And threatening to kill you.’

‘It was my own fault,’ he said quietly. He put down his pipe and crossed to the window. The old floorboards had been mended since I’d stamped my foot through them. ‘I should have spoken out. I should at least have told Fleet what I’d heard that night. Perhaps he would still be alive…’ He bowed his head.

‘It was not your fault, don’t speak such nonsense. Blame Woodburn and Jakes. Blame Gilbourne for tempting Roberts in such a foul way. Blame Roberts himself! He should never have taken the money.’

He smiled, but I could see in his eyes that he would always feel some guilt for what had happened. Far more than Gilbourne ever would, damn him. Jakes and Roberts were dead, and I doubted Woodburn would ever fully regain his sanity. But Edward Gilbourne had survived without a scratch on that smooth skin of his, without the faintest stain upon his reputation. Well, he had escaped justice in this world, and there was nothing I could do about it. This was not an Italian opera where all ended well. A shame, really – I would happily pay to see Gilbourne on the stage. As a castrato.

Trim handed me a cup of tea and nodded towards the door. ‘Mr Buckley’s not with you, then?’

‘We had a fight.’

‘Indeed?’ He shot me an appraising look. ‘A bad one, I think.’

He betrayed me. My oldest friend. I could still scarcely believe it. All those years of friendship, all those happy memories – destroyed by his treachery. I could not even begin to explain this to Trim. I sat down, turned my face to the fire. ‘He was not the friend I thought he was.’

‘Ambition and friendship are poor bedfellows,’ Trim observed, joining me by the fire and resting his tea on the small bulge of his stomach. ‘I think perhaps Mr Buckley would see loyalty as a weakness.’

I warmed my hands against my cup of tea. ‘Strange. I only knew Fleet for a few days, but he was a better friend to me than Charles ever was.’

‘Easy to mistake good humour for good character. And what of Mr Jakes, eh? He seemed such a decent, Christianlike man.’

‘I think he was, in many ways. He’d lost his way, of course. In fact I think he was quite mad, at the end. But he truly believed that he was doing God’s work.’

‘Then we must pray that God forgives him.’ Trim paused. ‘I’ve been praying for Mr Fleet these last few days. Though it’s hard to know where to start.’ He chuckled for a moment then fell silent, and took a long draw on his pipe. ‘May he rest in peace.’

I smiled at this, and sent my own private prayer to the heavens. I doubted Fleet had ever enjoyed much peace or rest in his life – but perhaps that was how he preferred it. ‘There is something I wished to ask you,’ I said, after a while. ‘Charles rushed me away from the sponging house before I had the chance.’

He sat up straight. ‘Kitty?’

I nodded, tears springing in my eyes. I brushed them away, surprised at their sudden return. I’d learned to hide my grief in Richmond – no one wanted to see it there. Trim, though, would understand.

‘You wish to know where she is.’

‘Where she’s buried, yes.’

‘Buried?’ Trim spluttered out a long stream of smoke. His tea slopped over its cup and he cursed, setting it to the floor. ‘What in heaven do you mean?’

‘Charles said…’ I stared at him, eyes wide. A flicker of hope flared in my chest. ‘He told me she died of the fever. That she caught it from me.’

‘No! No, indeed!’ Trim cried, horrified. ‘Kitty’s alive and well, I swear it! She never caught the fever.’

I leapt from my seat. ‘My God! Then where is she? Is she here, in the gaol?’

His shoulders slumped. ‘No. She’s gone. Ran off ten days ago, when she heard you’d left for Richmond. No one’s heard from her since, not even Mrs Bradshaw.’ He frowned. ‘She’s vanished.’

I asked about the prison – half-frantic with joy at the news and panic that I would not find her. Kitty knew how to disappear without trace when she wanted; Fleet had spent months searching for her before stumbling upon her in the Marshalsea. I could not wait that long, damn it. But no one had the faintest idea where she might be.

‘She’s not in the Borough,’ Mrs Bradshaw declared. ‘Mr Hand sent Ben out to hunt for her. We even sent a message to Mrs Roberts but she’s left the city. Now there’s a thing.’ She drew closer. ‘She’s reconciled with her father, would you believe. Now poor Captain Roberts is no longer… a suicide,’ she mouthed, ‘they couldn’t use that against her in court. She’s returned home to her son. Now. You must tell me.’ She seized my arm. ‘Is it true Mr Gilbourne was planning to use her terribly?’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

‘Please, Mrs Bradshaw. I must find Kitty.’

‘Elle est morte!’ A thin, piercing voice cut through the coffeehouse. Madame Migault was in her usual corner, reading evil in the tea leaves. ‘I’ve seen her! Dead in a ditch. Murdered.’ She ran a finger across her throat.

‘Shut your mouth, you poisonous old baggage!’ Mrs Bradshaw cried.

I left them fighting, their voices carrying out across the Park.

‘Hawkins!’

I had almost reached the Lodge when Acton stormed into the yard with Grace and two guards at his back. He was drunk and holding his whip in his hand, just as he had been the first time I’d seen him. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re doing swanning about the place? Get out before I kick you out.’

I held his gaze. ‘One day the world will know about you, Acton. About what you do in this place.’

He gave a contemptuous laugh and spat at my feet. ‘The world doesn’t care, Mr Hawkins. Not one damned farthing. Mr Grace.’ He turned to his clerk. ‘Have Mr Gilbourne write an Order of Court. I will not have troublemakers in my Castle.’

And so that was my last trip to the Marshalsea. The letter with its Court seal arrived care of Tom King’s coffeehouse the next day, signed in Gilbourne’s hand, banishing me from the gaol for my impudent behaviour and for spreading malicious gossip about the esteemed head keeper and the Palace Court’s deputy prothonotary. I burned it.

The last person I saw as I left the prison was Joseph Cross, standing at the Lodge door, swigging from a bottle of wine. It struck me, for the first time, that he must have been handsome once, before the drink and hard living caught up with him.

‘What are you staring at?’

I put my hands in my pockets and rocked back upon my heels. ‘And a good day to you, Mr Cross.’

‘You run out of money, then? Am I locking you up again?’

‘Not at all. I hear you stopped Acton from sending me over to the Common Side when I was sick with fever.’

He glanced down the corridor towards the Park. Acton was standing at the yard door, a black silhouette with the sun at his back. ‘Didn’t want you fouling the place,’ he muttered. ‘It’s all well and good for the governor – he don’t have to deal with all the stinking corpses, does he?’

I smiled. Cross would sooner die than admit he wanted to help. ‘Well, I am grateful to you, sir.’

Cross look disgusted. ‘Grateful won’t buy me a round in the Tap Room, will it?’

A fair point. I pulled out a guinea and dropped it in his palm. ‘For saving my life.’

His hand snapped shut faster than a dog’s jaw about a rabbit’s neck. ‘Not sure your life’s worth that much, Mr Hawkins.’ But then he grinned, and tilted his head towards the open door. ‘Go on, then. Fuck off before I lock you up for sport. Lucky bastard.’

I crossed the bridge, glad to be home at last. Kitty was alive and waiting for me somewhere amidst the bustle and swagger of these streets. Charles had wanted to keep her from me. I’m sure he thought he was doing me a good turn – saving me from a disgraceful match to a common kitchen maid. Well, he’d failed, thank God. I would find her and I would disgrace myself as soon as possible. As often as she would let me. I strolled through the city, enjoying the press of the crowds, everything on display, everything for sale. How could I have thought of leaving it for a moment? So what if there were thieves lurking in the shadows; fights spilling out from every tavern; lice, vermin, the pox; foul air and poisoned water? London quickened my pulse and made my blood sing in my veins – and for that I would forgive it anything.

I bought a new walking cane with a silver top; a tinderbox and a chain for my mother’s cross. Ordered a pair of shoes from a cobbler off the Strand. And as the sun set I made my way back to Moll’s.

‘Tom Hawkins! Here you are at last!’ she cried, striding across the room. She kissed me full on the lips. ‘Word is you killed a man.’

I grabbed her by the waist and pressed my lips to her ear. ‘I haven’t killed a soul. But don’t you dare tell anyone.’

She gave a wicked smile. ‘Your reputation is safe with me, sweetheart.’

It was the night before the coronation and I had never seen the coffeehouse so packed. It seemed as though half of London was crammed inside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the king tomorrow.

Moll found me a quiet corner then slipped away into the crowds, promising she would be back soon. ‘Someone I think you should meet.’ I ordered a bowl of punch from Betty, smoked a pipe and wrote a short note to my father, thanking him for his kindness and forgiveness. I’d thought it would be a hard letter to write – but the words flowed easily and my heart felt lighter when I had finished. He would be disappointed by my decision, but there it was. The Church was his vocation. London was mine.

I had just finished writing when a shadow fell across the table. I glanced up and the breath caught in my throat.

Fleet.

I blinked, startled, and the spell was broken.

The stranger in front of me wasn’t Fleet. He was younger – thirty at most – with a darker complexion and a stronger build. He didn’t move like Fleet. He moved like a soldier, steady, serious and full of purpose as he sat down opposite me. But those black eyes under heavy brows; the shape of his jaw… they had been enough to fool me, for a moment.

I remembered Fleet’s meeting in the Tap Room, the day before he died, and the stranger who never turned round to face me. A family affair, Fleet had said. ‘Are you his brother?’

‘Half.’

I peered at him in the candlelight. ‘On which side, sir? Your mother’s or the devil’s?’

His face remained still, but his eyes glittered with amusement. ‘You don’t recognise me.’ He pulled a dagger from his side and laid it on the table between us, fingers caressing the hilt. ‘D’you remember this? I held it to your throat.’

The hairs rose on my neck. This was the man who had robbed me in St Giles. I poured myself a glass of punch and knocked it back, trying to keep my hands from shaking. ‘I should challenge you to a fight, I suppose.’

‘That would be unwise.’ He drummed his fingers lightly across the blade. My blade.

‘I was thrown in gaol because of you.’

‘Shouldn’t walk down black alleys with a full purse.’ He rubbed his jaw. Clean-shaven; another difference.

‘But you asked your brother to keep an eye on me,’ I guessed. ‘You felt guilty.’

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Curious. Wanted to learn why a man would refuse to hand over his purse, even when his life is at stake.’ His lips curled into a half-smile. ‘Useful to know in my business.’ He plucked a note from his pocket and slid it across the table.

I held the note up to the candlelight, squinting at Fleet’s impossible scrawl. It was dated the day before he was killed.

My Dear Brother

Thank you for my Gift; he is keeping me most Amused in this wretched Hell Hole. How he has stayed alive without my aid these past five and twenty years is a Mystery. In Three Days he has been Beaten, Tortured and Chained to a Wall; fallen in Love (twice); fought in a Riot and wrestled a Ghost. He also snores like the Devil.

You asked if I might Discover why he Refused to give up his Purse to you when you had gone to the Trouble of holding a Knife to his Throat. Given that he is not a Lunatick (so far as I can tell), here follow my Conclusions, after Three Days of Close Study:

i) He is a man of Instinct more than Reason

ii) He is drawn to Trouble – or perhaps it is fairer to say, Trouble is drawn to him

iii) He believes – at heart – that God will Protect him

An Unfortunate Recipe for Disaster, you will agree – but it is the last point I fear the most. A man of true Faith in this City is like a Naked Man running into Battle, believing himself fully Armed. Diverting and alarming in Equal measure.

In other Circumstances I would propose we Shipwreck him upon a Remote Island like Robinson Crusoe before he does himself an Injury. But here is the Strangest Truth of all. I would miss him. He has awoke me from myself, James; awoke me from a deep slumber. I’m not sure How or Why, but there it is. Perhaps it is his Youth, his Curiosity. I Suspect it may be his Legs.

Whatever the Truth may be – I Thank you, dear Brother, from the Bottom of my Black Heart, for Placing him in my Path. I am much Obliged and remain, Sir, your Obedient Servant, etc

S.

I folded the note, shaking my head. He’d captured me well enough.

Fleet’s brother gestured for me to keep it. ‘There is something I would like to know. You found him. His body…’ He leaned forward. ‘How did he die?’

I remembered the blood upon the walls. The ugly slash of red across Fleet’s throat. ‘With his eyes open.’

He breathed in sharply, and bit the corner of his lip. ‘With his eyes open,’ he murmured, at last. ‘That’s good.’ He nodded to himself then studied me for a long moment, black eyes as unreadable as his brother’s. ‘Word is you killed Jakes. But I don’t see the mark of death on you.’

‘No.’ I lowered my voice. ‘It was Kitty. Kitty Sparks.’

He blinked in surprise. ‘Nat’s daughter?’

‘Shot him right between the eyes. With Fleet’s pistol.’

He sat back, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. ‘With Sam’s pistol. He would have liked that. I am indebted to you, Mr Hawkins, for this information. Perhaps I might perform some small service in return?’ He picked up my dagger and trailed the tip slowly across the table. ‘The man who paid me to rob you, for instance?’

‘No need. I broke his nose this afternoon.’

He chuckled, and slid the dagger towards me. ‘Here. In case you run into someone in a dark alley.’

I tucked it away. ‘But I wonder if you might help me with another matter, sir. Kitty vanished from the Marshalsea ten days ago. No one knows where she is. Perhaps some of your friends could ask around town.’ And saying that, I remembered his son, the link boy. Sam Fleet. Named for his uncle.

‘My friends can find anything or anyone, Mr Hawkins. But that won’t be necessary in this case.’ He stood up, then beckoned me to follow him. Samuel would have weaved and danced his way across the room, quick as a fox. James Fleet cut a clean, straight path, and men drew back to let him pass.

As we came closer to the hearth he clapped a hand upon my shoulder, and pointed to a low, battered leather armchair set by the fire. A pale, slender hand rested against the arm, clutching a pipe. Fleet’s journal lay on a table close by. ‘There, sir.’ He disappeared back into the crowds.

‘Kitty?’

She turned her face from the fire then rose slowly to her feet. For a moment I thought James had been mistaken, she seemed so altered. She wore a black hat, tilted jauntily over one eye, and her plain servant’s clothes were gone, replaced with an emerald silk gown, trimmed with lace and tied with black velvet ribbons. But the change was deeper than her fine clothes; she seemed older, somehow, and more sure of herself. Then again, she had killed a man.

‘Well. Mr Hawkins.’ She gazed at me steadily, green eyes offering no clue to her thoughts.

I hesitated. Since learning she was still alive I had imagined what I might say and do in this moment. I’d thought I might sweep her into my arms. But then I had also dared imagine she would be pleased to see me. ‘Kitty…’

She pursed her lips. ‘Miss Sparks. Well; and I suppose you’ve heard of my change in fortune at last? Samuel left me everything in his will. And now here you are. What a queer coincidence. Am I good enough for your company now I’m a lady and not some common slut?’

I stared at her in consternation. ‘I had no idea, I assure you.’

She laughed at me. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? I saved your life. Nursed you when you lay dying. I risked my life and my soul for you, Tom Hawkins. And how did you repay me? The moment you were free you abandoned me without a moment’s thought.’ She clenched her teeth, fighting back the anger. ‘I saw you in Sir Philip’s yacht, flirting with his daughters. I watched you from the riverbank as you sailed away down the Thames. And I vowed I would never let a man betray me again. Never.’

I sighed, remembering the pain I’d felt that day; the dull weight of loss that had oppressed my spirits ever since. ‘I was not flirting, Kitty,’ I said, quietly.

‘Well, that’s how it seemed to me. All those cushions.’ She frowned at the floor, skirts bunched tight in her fists. Even in her fury, she knew this sounded ridiculous. ‘Perhaps you were not flirting,’ she relented. ‘But you cannot deny that you left me. Well, I’m glad of it. You taught me a valuable lesson and now I’m free of you.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I will not be fooled again, Mr Hawkins.’

‘Charles told me you were dead.’

She froze, hand pressed to her heart. ‘Oh,’ she breathed, the blood draining from her face. ‘Tom.’

‘I thought I’d lost you.’

Her eyes welled with tears. She blinked them away. ‘I see.’ Her fingers trailed across the soft silk of her gown. ‘So, you didn’t know about the will?’

‘No.’

‘But you still came looking for me?’

‘Yes. As soon as I knew you were alive. Trim told me this afternoon.’

‘Well, that’s…’ She shook her head. ‘Well.’

And that is the closest I have ever seen Kitty Sparks come to admitting she was wrong, about anything.

I kissed her then, as many times as she’d let me. This was the life I thought I’d lost; I would not let it slip through my fingers again. And then Moll appeared and fell into a deep, involved discussion with Kitty about business. Covent Garden’s most notorious coffeehouse and London’s most disreputable print shop – there was a great deal to talk about. I ordered a bowl of punch and drew up a chair by the fire and before I knew it I had dozed off.

Kitty nudged me awake at midnight. ‘You were snoring,’ she said. She tucked her feet up beneath her and smiled at me.

‘God save the king!’ someone shouted.

‘God save Moll King!’ someone called back – and everyone laughed.

Kitty watched Betty pour a fresh pot of coffee with a soft expression. ‘A new king,’ she murmured, then shot me a bright smile. ‘A new day.’

I stretched and yawned. ‘I suppose I should find myself an occupation. A place to live…’

Kitty smiled and nudged her toe against my thigh. ‘Why, don’t you want to live with me, Tom?’

I propped my hand against my chin in a vain attempt to appear nonchalant. ‘What about your reputation?’

‘I’m rich. I don’t need a reputation.’

I cleared my throat. ‘How rich, exactly…?’

‘Very.’

I leaned forward and took her hand in mine. ‘I will make an honest woman of you, Kitty Sparks.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t you dare.’

We left Moll’s at dawn, crossing the piazza to Russell Street. Kitty wrapped an arm about my waist and I pulled her close, touching my lips to her cheek. The buildings grew more tatty and disreputable the further we went, private homes and smart coffeehouses making way for an apothecary, then a grocer’s shop, a rundown tavern, a gin shop. A brothel. The stink of piss and rotting food wafted up from the gutters. Kitty slipped her arm free and held her skirts up out of the filth. ‘Home,’ she said.

And then I saw it, from the corner of my eye: a small, dark building, shrunk back from its neighbours as if it were sulking. The windows on the lower floor were piled high with a confusion of books and maps and engravings all tossed together in an impossible jumble. The shop sign sported a cocked pistol, set at an indecent angle.

I cupped my hand and peered through the dirt-smeared window.

‘It all needs sorting,’ Kitty said. ‘I haven’t had the heart these last few days.’

‘I can help.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? You’ll roll up your sleeves and scrub the floor, will you?’

‘I meant the books and pamphlets. The sketches. I’d be happy to read through them…’

She laughed. ‘I’m sure you would, you dog.’ She stepped closer and kissed me.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed. And then she took my hand and pulled me through the door.