‘He also warned me not to trust you.’
‘Quite right. You shouldn’t trust anyone in here.’ He picked up his old boot and pulled out his pistol, waving it in the air with a grin before slinging it on to his bed. ‘Vile den of filthy liars. But this is all most interesting. Fascinating!’ He beckoned me towards the fire. ‘Sit down. Tell me everything.’
I put on a blue velvet nightcap then settled down in the chair nearest the hearth. ‘I thought you said the mind worked better in the cold.’
‘I don’t need you to think,’ he said. ‘In fact I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Just talk.’
I described the whole evening at Acton’s in detail, which to my surprise was a good deal more enjoyable than the night itself. Fleet revelled in the horror of it, from Grace kicking Henry flying to Mack lying dead drunk under the table to Mary flirting and pouting and sulking her way through it all. When I came to our dance, Fleet jumped up and twirled about, capturing her perfectly. ‘Why, Mr Hawkins, your hands are like silk!’ he trilled, running his fingers down his chest and miming an indecent fit of ecstasy. Then he dropped back on the bed, fanning himself saucily with one of his pamphlets.
‘I thought Acton would kill me,’ I said, laughing despite myself.
‘Oh no, not while you can pay your rent. He guards his profits more jealously than he guards his wife. And Buckley is a powerful friend; Acton wouldn’t risk angering him. That’s why I knew it was safe to send you over in Roberts’ clothes.’ He leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘I would not put you in real danger, Tom. You must know that.’
Of all the things Fleet had ever said to me, that surprised me the most. Stranger still – I almost believed him.
He thrust a hand into his banyan pocket and pulled out a piece of string, a half-eaten roll, a pair of aces of the same suit and a silver watch. He tossed the first three over his shoulder and held the watch up to the light of the fire. ‘Almost two. What a day you’ve had. You must be tired.’
‘A little.’ I yawned and put my hands behind my head.
He studied me for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘There’s more, isn’t there…? What do you know, you dog? What have you been keeping from me?’
I grinned back at him. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘Is it good?’
‘Very.’
He rubbed his lip with his thumb, thinking, then reached out and dropped the solid silver watch into my palm. I stared at it, astounded. It was very fine, ticking quietly in my hand like a small, living thing. The outer case was intricately engraved with two birds and the initials J.H. Stolen, no doubt, or won in a cheat’s game of cards. I opened it up, squinting at the workings in the candlelight. I couldn’t find the maker’s mark in such low light but I could see and feel enough to know that the whole piece must be worth two or three pounds at least. I snapped it shut. It was wrong, I knew, to take it from Fleet, whatever his reasons for giving it. But I was twenty pounds in debt and trapped in gaol. I couldn’t afford to refuse a gift that could keep me from the Common Side for weeks. I slipped it in my pocket.
‘I saw the ghost.’
He was thrilled. Jubilant. New drama to keep the boredom at bay; that was a better gift than a solid silver watch. He jumped up and began pacing the room as I described what had happened.
‘It’s not a real spirit.’
‘Well, of course it’s not!’ he cried, waving his arms. ‘That’s why it only appeared in front of terrified young boys and credulous beanpoles like Jenings.’
‘It had a noose round its neck and blood on its shirt…’
‘… but it was wearing the wrong waistcoat!’ Fleet finished, triumphantly. ‘Roberts was murdered in those clothes.’ He pointed at the blue silk waistcoat lying crumpled on the floor. ‘Which I won – with great genius I might add – in a card game the next morning. More to the point, Roberts hated that mustard waistcoat. Wouldn’t be seen dead in it. Literally.’
‘There are two things I don’t understand,’ I confessed. ‘Whoever that man was, he was real, flesh and blood. I picked him up and knocked the breath out of him.’
‘Excellent!’
‘But somehow he managed to disappear into thin air. He didn’t go through the Lodge and he wasn’t in the Park, we searched everywhere. Even in the fog, we would have found him. I thought perhaps he could be a prisoner who somehow managed to slip out of his cell… But he looked exactly like Roberts. Someone would have spotted the similarity by now. Which brings me to the other matter. Fleet – he didn’t just look like Roberts. He was Roberts. Is it possible he has a twin brother? I can think of no other explanation.’
Fleet smiled. ‘Can you not…? Tell me, how do you know what Roberts looks like?’
‘From his portrait. Catherine showed it to me this afternoon; she wears it on a locket round her neck.’ And then I stopped, and thought, and the hard truth fell like a stone. The picture in Catherine’s locket wasn’t a portrait of Roberts. It was a portrait of the man hired to play his ghost. ‘Oh God. I’m an idiot.’
‘I’ve suspected her for a while,’ Fleet admitted. ‘But I thought it best to let the whole thing play itself out. Didn’t see any harm in it.’
‘But why did she do it? What on earth possessed her?’
‘She wants justice. She wants her son back! She’s desperate enough to try anything. What better way to keep everyone fretting about her husband’s death than to have his ghost wandering through the gaol? Now it’s in everyone’s interest to find the killer, is it not? Who wants to be trapped in prison with an angry spirit? And perhaps she hoped to shock the killer into a confession. Just as I did tonight.’
I frowned, thinking back to my conversation with Catherine in the coffeehouse. She’d sought me out – to apologise, she’d said. I should have realised then that I was being tricked. Since when has a woman ever apologised for slapping a man about the face? It was just a trick to give her time to show me the false portrait. She had played me better than one of Moll’s girls, damn it.
‘Well. I’m glad she almost fainted tonight,’ I said. ‘Bloody woman.’
‘Good for you!’ Fleet cheered. ‘But one has to admire her courage. And her perseverance.’
‘No, one hasn’t,’ I grumbled.
‘D’you know, it’s strange.’ Fleet cocked his head. ‘I believe she loves him more in death than she ever did in life. They used to have the most appalling rows; I’d escape upstairs to Trim’s and we could still hear everything through the ceiling. Ah, well. Now she’s free to remember him the way she wanted him to be. A good, honest gentleman in an ugly waistcoat. Poor old Roberts. He’s so obedient now he’s dead. Not like him at all.’
III) SATURDAY. THE THIRD DAY.
Chapter Thirteen
I woke before dawn to the sound of a key grating in the lock. Fleet was already at the door, hopping from foot to foot in his impatience to be free. Did he ever sleep? As soon as the door swung open he was gone, trailing a musky scent of tobacco, sweat and stale wine. The turnkey slammed the door closed again without a word, moving on to the next room.
I sighed and groped for my new silver watch, enjoying the solid weight of it in my palm. Not yet six. I lay dozing a while, waiting for daylight in blissful silence. Fleet was such a restless heap of pacing and talking and twitching; I’d almost forgotten the peace and pleasure of my own company.
I also needed time to think. Today I would begin my investigation into Captain Roberts’ death. I rolled on to my back and stared at the ceiling, wondering where to start – and was struck with the thought that Roberts had lain in this very bed the night of his murder. He had not shared a room with his wife. Mrs Roberts had kept a separate room in the Oak as she did now. What did that say of their marriage?