The words of St Peter rose to my mind unbidden. ‘Be sober, be vigilant: because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’
When I looked back the chaplain was staring at me, his mouth a little ‘o’ of surprise.
‘A roaring lion?’ Mrs Bradshaw sniffed. ‘A hissing snake’s more like it, slithering about the place, studying you with those nasty black eyes of his.’
Samuel Fleet. It had to be. I shifted uneasily in my chair.
‘Mrs Bradshaw,’ Woodburn tutted. ‘You cannot accuse a man of murder just because-’
‘He’s not a man,’ she cried. ‘He’s a demon!’
‘What’s this?’ Kitty called from across the room. ‘Do you speak of Mr Fleet?’
‘Mr Woodburn,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you believe it?’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I cannot say, sir. But I fear he is capable of the very worst crimes.’ He held my gaze. ‘The very worst.’
I was about to reply when a terrible cry rose from the yard. A second later one of Gilbert Hand’s boys rushed into the room.
‘What news, Jim?’ Kitty asked sharply.
‘They’ve took Jack Carter!’ the boy replied, hopping from foot to foot in a mix of fear and excitement. ‘He fell off the wall trying to escape!’
Kitty pushed past us to reach the window. I joined her, more curious than alarmed, and saw Joseph Cross dragging a small heap of rags into the middle of the yard. A tall, broad-shouldered man in black breeches and a bright red waistcoat strode behind them, holding his jacket in one meaty hand. Prisoners and guards leapt out of his way, scurrying to the far corners of the yard. Within a few moments, the Park was empty.
Only one person could command such power in a prison. I glanced at Kitty.
‘Mr Acton,’ she muttered, her face twisted with hatred.
Woodburn rose a little from his chair and put on his spectacles before peering out into the yard. ‘Drunk.’ He sighed and returned to his seat, pocketing his spectacles. ‘This will go badly for Jack.’
Kitty turned and glared at him. ‘Then do something.’
The chaplain rubbed the back of his neck. ‘He won’t listen to me,’ he muttered, looking shamefaced.
Out in the Park, Cross threw the prisoner to the ground. He gave a sharp scream of pain, and clutched his ankle. It looked broken. ‘Oh, please! Oh, God,’ he sobbed in a cracked voice, dragging himself along the ground and staring desperately at all the windows. ‘Please! Someone help me!’
Acton said something to Cross and they both laughed.
‘He’s just a boy,’ I said, shocked.
