Kitty jumped up and ran from the room. Her feet pounded up the stairs, and then a door slammed somewhere above our heads in the Oak ward.
Mrs Bradshaw began to giggle and nudged me in the ribs, her elbow pushing hard on a bruise. I gritted my teeth at the pain.
‘Oh dear,’ she sniggered. ‘I’m afraid you’ve sent her a bit topsy-turvy. She took a bit of a shine to you, not that she’d admit it. Must have been those fine calves of yours. Then she heard you telling Mrs Roberts you didn’t care a fig for her. I said of course he doesn’t, you silly jade. He’s a proper gentleman! He won’t have given you a moment’s thought, why on earth should he? But she will go listening in and getting herself muddled up in things she’s no place to… Her father was a doctor, I’ll grant you, but her mother. Well. I blame Mr Fleet, filling her head with giddy ideas.’
Before I could even think of how to respond to this gurgling stream of gossip, Mr Grace entered the room, clutching the Black Book to his chest. ‘Mr Hawkins. You did not come to be assessed.’ He drummed his thin, maggot-white fingers on the book’s cover.
‘You know full well my rent is paid,’ I said, indignant. ‘Mr Fleet gave you the money himself.’
He gave a haughty little sniff. ‘There are rules, Hawkins. You’re not above them even with your powerful friends. You must come and explain yourself to the governor. At once.’
‘Very well.’ I stood up wearily. My letter to Charles was still in my pocket; I had most likely missed my chance to reach him before nightfall. Despite my best efforts, I would spend another night in this wretched place.
As I left the coffeehouse Madame Migault cackled into her hands, her eyes glittering with malice. ‘Tonight, monsieur,’ she crowed. ‘I promise you. Tonight!’
Chapter Sixteen
As I climbed the stairs to see the governor, I tried my best to remain cheerful. It was not an easy task. John Grace walked stiffly ahead of me as if I were being led to the executioner’s block. I told myself that I didn’t believe in fortune tellers, particularly old baggages like Madame Migault. But her prediction, followed so swiftly by a summons from Acton, was unsettling.
Grace led me into a long, low room that ran beneath the main Court Room. A quiet place for the judges and lawyers to retire, untroubled by poor debtors or their pleading, desperate families. Their robes of ceremony hung on pegs like sloughed-off skins. There were no windows.
Acton sat behind a table at the far end of the room. Cross stood to one side with a stretch of chains slung over his shoulder, flanked by Chapman and Wills, another turnkey. My mouth turned dry. So many guards, just to settle the rent? Behind them, three prisoners drooped in a sad little huddle: a man and his wife clutching one another and weeping quietly while the third – the gentleman I’d seen with Gilbert Hand on my first day – seemed struck dumb with shock. He clutched his battered old tricorn, staring blindly at the floor.
It was a long walk to the table. Acton watched me approach without a word, hands clasped in front of him, bright blue eyes cold and unblinking.
I bowed. ‘Mr Acton.’
‘You’re late.’
I glanced at the men behind him. Cross caught my eye then looked away over my head. ‘My apologies.’
‘The book, Mr Grace.’
Grace stepped forward and placed the Black Book open in front of the governor. He tapped a line then stepped back again. Acton made a play of studying it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You have not paid your rent, Hawkins.’
‘I assure you I am paid up for the whole of next week.’ I frowned. ‘Mr Grace will vouch for that.’
Acton glanced at his clerk in mock surprise. ‘Have you made a mistake, Mr Grace? That will go ill for you, sir. I don’t tolerate mistakes in my gaol.’
Grace’s pale lips drew into a nasty smile. ‘I think it is the prisoner who is mistaken, Governor.’
My heart sank. This was no game. Something evil was happening here. ‘Mr Acton. I fear there has been some confusion. Mr Fleet paid my rent to Mr Grace on Thursday afternoon – the day I first arrived here. If we could call Mr Fleet to explain…’
Acton slammed his fist on the table. ‘I run this prison, not Fleet!’ he yelled, voice booming off the walls. He curled his lip. ‘And not Charles Buckley.’ He watched as the fear took hold, eyes glittering with the power of secret knowledge. ‘Well, Hawkins?’
I swallowed hard. ‘I swear to you, sir, upon my life. Fleet paid the money to Mr Grace.’
Grace gave a cough. ‘And you have a receipt for this transaction?’
I glared at him. ‘You know I do not.’
Acton gave a nod. Cross and Chapman grabbed hold of me and pinned back my arms, wrenching my shoulders as I struggled against them.
Acton walked over, slowly. He raised his fist and punched me hard in the jaw. I sank to my knees, head reeling.
‘Pull him up, Mr Cross,’ Acton ordered, rubbing his knuckles.
They yanked me from the ground and held me firm.
‘You can’t do this!’ I cried hoarsely, spitting blood on to the floor. ‘I have paid-’
He hit me hard, again, and I stumbled back. The trusties pulled me back to my feet. ‘I can do whatever I damn well please,’ Acton said softly. He brought his face close to mine. ‘This is my Castle. No one keeps secrets from me.’ He put one large, calloused hand about my throat and began to squeeze. ‘Poor Mr Hawkins. Strutting about, making trouble.’ He squeezed harder. I started to choke. ‘You’re just a little mouse, aren’t you? A little mouse trapped in a lion’s paw.’
Blood roared in my ears. The room darkened.
‘Governor.’ Cross’ voice, coming from far away. A warning.
He threw me to the floor.
I lay there for a moment half-stunned, lungs burning, taking in deep, grateful gulps of air. Chapman kicked me to my feet. I stared about the room wildly, at Cross and Wills and the other prisoners. And Grace, watching me with smug satisfaction in his cold eyes. I cursed and took a half-step towards him but Chapman grabbed me and held me fast.
Acton had returned to his desk. He smiled, as if nothing in the world had happened, and held up a letter.
My stomach lurched. It was the note Charles had sent the day before, charging me with my task. How had it fallen into Acton’s hands? Where had I left it? I closed my eyes and groaned, remembering. I’d tucked it in Captain Roberts’ waistcoat pocket. The waistcoat I’d thrown to the floor in Belle Isle last night.
This was Fleet’s work, yet again. That was why he’d been so keen to leave the room this morning. A new game to play – and no matter the price I would have to pay for it. How could I have been such a fool?
‘I’ve run the Marshalsea for a long time, Mr Hawkins,’ Acton said. ‘Long before I was governor. I make the rules. I decide who lives. And who dies.’
‘Mr Acton,’ I said, my voice a thin rasp in my bruised throat. I could taste blood in my mouth. ‘If I might explain…’
At a gesture from Acton, Cross punched me hard in the stomach.
Acton laced his fingers together. ‘You have falsely accused Mr Grace of bribery. A serious offence, sir. Mr Grace is a loyal and trusted official of the gaol. Chief clerk to the governor. Elected steward of the Common Side prisoners. He would never dishonour his position.’
Grace gave an obsequious little nod.
‘I will not let this go unpunished,’ Acton continued, leaning back in his chair. ‘Mr Cross. Chain the prisoner and throw him in the Strong Room. Use the skull cap and collar. Fix him tight.’