‘Little good it did them,’ Kitty snapped back.
Woodburn glowered at her. ‘This is Samuel Fleet’s influence,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Mrs Roberts tells me you’ve been spending far too much time in his company…’
Kitty pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ she said, her voice catching with remorse. ‘It’s just… the shock of… of seeing poor Jack…’
I almost laughed, it was so poorly acted. But Woodburn fell for it. He patted her head, all thoughts of Fleet forgotten. ‘You’re a good-hearted girl, Kitty. We just need to calm that temper of yours, eh? And my thanks to you, sir,’ he said, giving me a short bow. ‘If you would stay here I’ll have a quiet word with Acton about the Strong Room. Perhaps I can change his mind.’
He waddled down the aisle, closing the door softly behind him. The chapel fell silent for a moment.
‘Sanctimonious cock,’ Kitty said, rinsing her hands.
Even Jack cheered up at that.
I nodded at the boy’s bandaged ankle. ‘You’ve done a fine job there.’
‘My father was a doctor,’ Kitty said, without thinking, then gave a start, as if surprised by the confession. She turned away and began scrubbing the blood from the chapel floor.
With Jack cleaned and bandaged there was little more we could do for him, but we were loath to call for assistance. As soon as he left the chapel he would be clapped in chains and locked in the Strong Room, over on the Common Side. Kitty wouldn’t say much about it, except that Mr Acton was a bastard for sending him there.
We sat side by side on the front pew, not saying much. I felt numb with shock, the force of what I had witnessed only now hitting me. Kitty was trembling a little, fighting off the tears. Jack had fallen unconscious again.
‘He might live,’ I said.
‘No. He won’t.’ She pulled off her cap and shook her hair loose, red locks tumbling down about her shoulders.
‘He was asking for someone called Ben.’
‘His brother. There’s just the two of them. Their mother died of gaol fever a month back.’ She covered her face with her hands.
I headed down the stairs and back out into the yard. It was late afternoon and the sun hung low above the Lodge gate, casting long shadows. Woodburn was sitting on a bench by the chapel door, prodding at the weeds growing up around the cobbles with the end of his cane. He looked miserable and distracted; clearly his talk with Acton had not gone well. As for the rest of the Park, it was as if nothing had happened. A game of ninepins had resumed beneath the Court’s porch and Gilbert Hand was back at his station by the lamppost in the middle of the yard.
