‘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.
