‘Benjamin.’ Hand leaned down. ‘Chandler’s shop. Paper, ink, quill.’ He held his finger in front of the boy’s face. ‘No charge, d’you hear? The Careys owe me. Bring them to Mr Hawkins.’
Benjamin nodded, gaze flickering over Hand’s shoulder to where I was standing. He was young, but life had already knocked him about – worse than that wretched little moon-curser by the looks of it. His head was shaved for lice and one of his front teeth was chipped. I smiled at him and he pursed his lips, brows furrowing with suspicion. ‘Which room?’ he asked.
I glanced at Hand. ‘That’s for Mr Acton to decide.’
Hand snorted. ‘Governor’s in the Crown. Won’t be back for hours. Suppose I could talk to Mr Grace for you. Acton’s clerk,’ he explained, and pulled a face. ‘Usually charge a hog for that pleasure.’
I shrugged and smiled. If he thought I would pay him a shilling just to talk to some wretched clerk he could think again. Benjamin ran off towards the Lodge to the little chandler’s shop beneath the Tap Room. As I turned to watch him I caught sight of Samuel Fleet standing on the balcony, smoking a pipe. Watching. Hand cursed and grabbed my elbow, pulling me away towards the north side of the gaol.
‘He couldn’t hear us from up there,’ I protested.
Hand’s expression had turned grim. ‘Wouldn’t put anything past that tongue-pad. I hear he’s taken an interest in you.’ He looked me up and down and snorted. ‘I’ll give you this advice for free, boy. No matter what happens, you stay away from Samuel Fleet.’ His lips curled in disgust as he spoke the name, but it wasn’t disgust I saw in his eyes. It was fear.
While Hand left to speak with Acton’s clerk about a room, I continued my tour of the Master’s Side, heading for the grand brick building at the far end of the north wall, beyond the men’s wards – and a long distance from the Tap Room balcony. A crowd was still gathered beneath its porch, watching another game of backgammon. I propped myself against a column and studied the players for a while, noting their flaws for later use, then tapped my neighbour’s arm.
‘Forgive me, sir. What’s the purpose of this building?’
The man smiled politely. ‘This is the Palace Court.’ He pointed to the long row of windows above the porch, stretching two storeys high. ‘They hear our cases up there in the Court Room. Are you visiting, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘I arrived this morning…’ I said – and found I could say no more, confronted with the truth of my imprisonment. I would spend the night in this place. And the next night. And the next… my God. How would I endure it? How would I survive?
