Trim’s cell was on the next landing, directly above mine. He’d rented a large, well-proportioned room with two neatly made beds tucked against the far wall, though the second lay empty. The last of the sun’s rays gleamed off the spotless floor and large bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling, the clean, fresh scent of marjoram and meadowsweet masking a faint trace of tobacco and the fusty smell of damp wood that clung to all the prison quarters.
Trim placed a chair in the centre of the room, and motioned for me to sit down. I walked over, the floorboards creaking and bowing underfoot. It was clear that he took pride in his business – the room was as neat and clean as a barber’s in Mayfair, but he could do nothing about the general rottenness of the wards. He brought over a copper bowl of steaming hot water scented with lavender, laying it carefully on a small table next to a block of soap and a mirror with an ebony handle. He tied an apron about his waist and pulled a silver razor from its case.
Remembering my vow not to lose any more money, I leaned forward. ‘This is kind of you… but I’m not certain I can afford…’
He stopped me with a wave of his hand. ‘On the house. We’ll be drinking at your expense tonight, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, throwing a sheet across me and tucking it into my collar. ‘You should look your best for the occasion.’
He washed my face with the scented water and began working the soap into my skin with firm, expert fingers. I closed my eyes and settled back, relaxing for the first time since stepping through the Lodge gate that morning.
And then he put the blade to my throat.
‘Mr Hawkins…?’
I opened my eyes. My hand was squeezed tight about Trim’s wrist, the blade shoved violently away from my neck. For a second I fought the urge to dash the razor to the ground and strike him hard.
‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said again, softly. Carefully. ‘Is all well, sir?’
I blinked, and took a deep breath. Dropped my hand. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. My face flushed with embarrassment.
‘Nothing to forgive,’ Trim smiled, his eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and concern. ‘You’ve had a shock, I think?’
My fingers reached for the bump on my head. ‘I was set upon, last night. A cutpurse put a knife to my throat.’
‘Ah.’ He put the razor down with a soft clatter. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
My story tumbled out – everything that had happened to me since I’d left Moll’s for home the night before. A great deal, it transpired.
