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.’
