The chaplain left me frowning in suspicion at the darkening sky, grey clouds drifting slowly by. ‘Well, He can choose someone else,’ I muttered.
After my encounter with Mr Acton, I longed to retreat to some quiet spot to recover, but there were no private places in the Marshalsea; no escape from the curious gaze of others. I returned to Fleet’s bench by the Lodge and closed my eyes, reaching out beyond the prison walls, a bird released from its cage. It was a trick I had learned as a boy and I did it now without thinking. For a moment I was not sealed up in gaol – I was in Suffolk, running along the coast road towards Orford and the sea, the wind fresh and cold on my skin, the taste of salt in the air.
‘Mr Hawkins.’ I opened my eyes. A thin, pallid face loomed over me, cold blue eyes peering over a pair of spectacles. ‘Twenty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence?’
I blinked, not sure how I was expected to reply.
He pushed his spectacles up his nose with a long, bony finger. ‘Twenty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence is your debt, is it not?’
‘Well… yes. Thank you for reminding me, Mr…?’
‘John Grace.’
‘Ah!’ I jumped up. ‘Mr Acton’s clerk, of course. Do you have a room for me, sir?’
‘Head clerk to the head keeper. And chief steward,’ Grace replied and turned sharply on his heel.
I followed him across the Park, passing the main prison quarters nearest the Lodge. He was leading me towards the east wall – and the poorest lodgings.
We walked by the coffeehouse, where Acton had beaten Jack Carter just an hour before. Fresh spots of blood glistened on the cobbles. Grace walked through them.
‘You went to that Common boy’s aid,’ Grace called over his shoulder. He had a flat, empty way of speaking, as warm and human as a creaking door. ‘A waste of time and money.’
I glared at his back. ‘I doubt he’ll last the night.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, without a trace of interest. And then, ‘His mother owed five pounds, three shillings and fourpence. She’s dead.’
Grace had – no doubt with a good deal of pride and effort – managed to find me a bed in the meanest room in the filthiest ward in the worst building on the Master’s Side. The landings were filled with rubbish, full chamber pots still waiting to be collected by each door, fouling the air. As we passed one room I heard the familiar sound of a bed slamming against a wall, followed by a long, guttural grunt of release. Grace’s mouth tightened to a thin line. ‘O’Rourke. Nine pounds, twelve shillings.’ A final grunt. ‘And tuppence.’
