I bowed, cautiously, and introduced myself.
He plucked off his cap and gave a deep, satirical bow in return. ‘And what a pleasure to meet you, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, the way a wolf might declare itself pleased to meet a small, trembling fawn. ‘Samuel Fleet.’
I blinked. His name seemed familiar somehow. ‘Do I know you, sir?’
A secretive smile spread slowly across his face. He stuffed his journal and his bottle somewhere deep within his robe, and tapped the stem of his pipe against my chest. ‘You need a drink,’ he said. And then he clapped me round the shoulder and pulled me away from the wall and its long, cold shadow.
The Tap Room stood to the right of the Lodge, as if it knew a man would always need a drink as soon as he entered the prison, and had decided to lie in wait for him there. It sold all the drink you would find in a regular tavern for twice the cost and half the taste. Wherever the profits had gone, it was not on the furnishings; the cane chair backs needed mending and the tables were infested with woodworm. One sharp sneeze and the entire room would collapse into splinters. The floor was sticky with spilt beer, the air tainted with the stink of cheap candles – pig fat, by the smell of it. Thank God for the thick fug of pipe smoke or it would have been unbearable.
It was only just past one o’clock but the room was already filled to the brim with drunken debtors and their guests. Most had gathered at the bar, where a young woman with butter-blonde hair was pouring drinks and holding court. The ribbons on her stomacher had come loose and she was almost spilling out of the top; artfully so, I thought. A snuff-pinch too respectable for Moll’s place, but playing the same game – just enough soft, creamy flesh on display to keep the customers happy and buying. Everyone seemed in excellent spirits; there was a great deal of laughter and singing and shouts for more punch, more wine, more of everything. How it was all paid for, I couldn’t tell.
Samuel Fleet weaved his way through the crowd, nimble as a thief. I followed him, against my better instinct – I didn’t like the ugly, hostile looks he was drawing from the other prisoners, or the suspicious glances they awarded me as his companion. As he neared one group, two of the men – clearly brothers – gave him a black look, as if they would like to reach over and rip his head from his shoulders. The older one – a big man, solid as a prison wall – muttered a curse, and spat at his feet.
