‘Stay where you are, sir,’ Acton barked, lifting his son from his shoulders. He glanced at his deputy. ‘Who’s this?’
Cross scowled. ‘Hawkins.’ He touched a hand to his swollen jaw. ‘The one I told you about.’
Acton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood and sweat from his hands. He had the fleshy, pock-marked face and heavy jaw of a brothel bully, but his piercing blue eyes were sharp and clever as they looked me up and down. He swaggered closer, until I could feel his breath upon my face, hot and tangy with liquor. There were spots of blood on his shirt. ‘Hawkins.’ He spat my name out as if he didn’t like the taste of it. ‘Why did you punch my head turnkey?’
Behind us, his last victim was curled up on the ground, shuddering softly. Still alive; just. I swallowed hard. The wrong answer would kill me, I knew it. I took a deep breath. ‘Because he’s an arsehole, sir.’
Acton blinked in surprise. And then – thank God – he roared with laughter. ‘Aye, that’s the truth!’ he agreed, and laughed again.
I almost sank to my knees with relief.
‘Why did you come after my boy?’
Henry was throwing pebbles at the ground, oblivious to the drama playing out above his head. I could see his father in him now. The same square face, the same wide, full lips. ‘I thought he might hurt himself, Mr Acton.’
He grunted, pleased. ‘Henry’s always safe in the Marshalsea,’ he said, rolling down his sleeves and picking up his whip. ‘But I’m obliged to you, sir. Always happy to welcome a proper gent to my Castle.’ He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously.
I looked at my hand in his and felt my stomach turn. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Acton gestured to the house next to the Lodge. ‘You must join me and the governess for supper tomorrow night.’
Cross started to protest, thick brows drawn in fury. Acton silenced him with one glance. He pointed at the body on the ground. ‘Lock young Carter here in the Strong Room. Chains and the collar. Tighten the screws, Mr Cross. Let’s remind our little pigeons what happens when they try to fly away.’ He looked up at the prison quarters, at all the white faces peering down upon the spectacle, and gave a low chuckle. Then he took Henry’s hand and strode towards the bar.
As soon as Acton had left, Kitty ran over to Jack Carter and cradled him in her arms. His face was swollen, his shirt shredded and drenched with blood. His ribs would be broken, I was sure of it – there was barely any flesh on him to cushion Acton’s blows. It looked bad, very bad. He raised his head weakly, eyes flickering open.
