Chapter Twelve

After Charles died, I was not myself. Days passed. I didn’t count them. I did not eat. I didn’t go to the tavern where I’d been employed and I knew they wouldn’t have me back. I don’t remember where I slept or what I did. Later, it was Martha I went to. When I got back to Clerkenwell, I asked around for her and was happy to hear she hadn’t gone to the house in Seven Dials. When I knocked on the door of her room I wasn’t thinking about the future I wished to make for Tommy. My only thought was to find work and save the money to get my son out of the workhouse. Thinking it made it seem possible but the mind is stronger than the body and, when Martha opened the door, I fell into her embrace. That I do remember. She told me afterwards that I lay on the floor unmoving until evening came and I cried out the names of my sons while I slept.

Pool’s Place was just four houses hunched together like beggars in a line. One door and one window. The row was so close to the River Fleet that, after heavy rain, the floor smelled of black mud, but it was the cheapest place in Clerkenwell. Most of the rooms were let to other women like us and we always made space for friends who needed shelter for a night or two to keep them from the alleyways and yards. Our neighbours had little to share but all of them found things they could give, things that saved lives – half a loaf, a sleeping place, a shoulder where tears could be dried. Sometimes a name was passed on, a place that might offer work, a house with an empty room going cheap. When a woman needed help, messages travelled along a chain of whispers from Pool’s Place to other streets. Those exchanges, kindnesses given and taken, were like threads that knitted us, kept our connection strong, pulled us all tighter.

I lived there with Martha for nearly three years. We were paid for loading and carting vegetables to the market. It was heavy work but regular money. Each Friday, I gave her my share of the rent. I was determined not to touch the coins left from my savings at Old Mother Redcap’s, hidden under some cracked bricks in the path at the back of the house, but there was never anything left over to add to them. When there was enough, I was going to walk to the St Pancras Workhouse, pay what was needed to get Tommy out, buy him a smart new coat and take him to the school in Cross Street; to get by in the world, a gentleman must be able to read and write. I would make a new start for the two of us, perhaps a market barrow and then a shop of my own. I imagined what our life would be like, brightly coloured days like paintings, but the truth of my situation soon came down upon me. By the spring of 1806, I was working seven days a week but my savings were not growing at all.

‘Get out!’ Thomas Aris couldn’t remember the girl’s name but it did not matter. She was too willing, too easy, and he decided to have her sent back to the cells the next day. He threw his plate – and the pork and potatoes on it – at the door as it closed behind her. His mood was festering and pulling him down towards the dark place he hated. Burdett’s people could not touch him, he was sure of it, but for months it had seemed as if Mainwaring’s influence was slipping. The accusations about the prison had not stopped and people who mattered were beginning to listen. Questions were raised in Parliament. The Duke of Portland did nothing at all to help. Yet another investigation into the prison. This time, Mainwaring hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. This time, there were no advance warnings about the committee’s visit. This time, they found things.

There it was again, on the other side of his own parlour wall, the crowd outside the prison chanting like a choir: ‘Burdett and no Bastille! Burdett and no Bastille!’

Aris leaned back into his chair and kicked one shoe against the other, harder and harder, damning them all under his breath, Mainwaring and Portland and the Prime Minister. And yes, the bloody King too. He reached for the cheese knife, felt its serrated edge against the skin of his well-padded palm. He wanted Sarah Evans.

It was not a good time to be away from the prison. He would have to find an excuse, something the committee would believe, if he was to miss their meeting. He looked at the clock. It would take only a moment, once he got her under him, and he was sure he could get to Pool’s Place and back without being missed. He had been watching the house for weeks, torturing himself with the pleasure of seeing her without being seen and he did not want to wait any longer but then he remembered the last time he had hidden himself in the usual place next to the privy in the back yard. Sarah was alone and she was standing near the window as naked as the day she was born, washing herself by candlelight. That evening he did not return to Coldbath Fields until supper time. Too late.

It was all there in the Grand Jury’s report. ‘Mr Aris the governor was absent from the prison on business at the time we arrived.’ While he had been alone at the back of Sarah Evans’s house, grunting quietly, drooling in the shadows like a happy hog, John Amos had shown the jury around and answered their questions like a stupid oaf. He even let them weigh the loaves and now a new list of allegations against Aris had been reported to Parliament. The damage was done, another investigation ordered, and Mainwaring did not seem able to deal with it by the usual means. Aris had raised himself high by his own hard work, an apprentice baker up there now with the peacocks who went to expensive schools. He was not going to risk losing it all, not for a cheap piece of skirt like Sarah Evans.

He opened the door and called out into the hall. ‘My dear girl, my own sweet tot! Come back in here!’

William Mainwaring’s legs were bare, his feet resting on a stool covered with thick towels. The soft cotton had been laundered with lavender water but the sweet fragrance did not mask the smell of fresh blood as three leeches on each ankle visibly swelled, feasting on him. ‘God damn this gout!’ He plucked a sweetmeat from the dish and sucked it noisily for a few minutes. ‘The bloody chancellor pointing the finger at me. At me!’ he yelled at his private secretary, who was standing silently behind the chair, holding a thin document. ‘The Grand Jury’s report on Coldbath Fields should’ve closed the matter. “We find no cause of complaint. We highly approve of the management.” Three investigations, three reports, and then they start looking back at old accusations. Bring me the piss pot, Ashby!’

Mainwaring sighed as he pulled his shirt up with one hand, placed the cold porcelain between his thighs and relieved himself noisily. ‘Burdett told the House of Commons Aris confessed to borrowing money from prisoners, whipping them, taking bribes. The governor’s daughters too, tempted beyond their power to resist.’ Mainwaring handed over the steaming pot and leaned back. He thumped his fists on the arms of the green velvet chair, lifting fine grey dust that had settled there from the weekly powdering of his wigs. ‘Aris is at my heels, asking me to call them off, but he does nothing himself to ease matters. The old goat finds it impossible to keep his prick in his breeches and his vile mouth shut. If he goes on like this, he’ll be back where he started – sweating in front of a baker’s oven – before I enjoy my next shit. But what can I do? He knows too much.’

Mainwaring chose another sugar plum, licked the glaze from its surface and dropped it onto the carved oak side table next to him. ‘Those papers in your hand could be the end of me. For God’s sake, read it, man! No, read me the last part. Just the judgements.’ He closed his eyes with a loud sigh.

‘Report from The Commissioners appointed to enquire into the State and Management of His Majesty’s Prison, Coldbath Fields. To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty. We found the prison remarkably clean and in exceeding good order. Every comfort was administered to the prisoners. We found it much superior to any prison we have seen before. We did not hear any complaints.’

Mainwaring opened his eyes. He was chortling and slapping the chair again in delight. ‘Anything about the allegations of abuse? What do they say about chains and irons and such like? And debauchery? Move on to debauchery.’

‘The allegations stated that a prisoner by the name of Esther Kew was debauched by the son of the governor, who held an office of trust in the prison, and that she has since had a child. We find that Aris junior was merely lodging with his father at the time on the premises, and not employed in the prison. The governor was in Court when Miss Kew was first sentenced and finding her a meek, well-behaved woman, he took her into his house as a servant, as was his habit. This arrangement continued until her sentence expired and it was not until after that date that his son became acquainted with her.’

Mainwaring was laughing. ‘Of course, they found nothing! We changed the book, had someone write different dates. Continue.’

‘We found great regularity in the books, which are kept in admirable order by Samuel Aris, the governor’s eldest son. In our opinion, Thomas Aris is a man of great humanity. He is a most useful servant to the public. Mr Amos, his storekeeper and principal assistant, appeared extremely attentive and intelligent. All of this we most humbly submit to Your Majesty’s royal wisdom.’

Mainwaring was pounding the arms of the chair with his fists. ‘I’d jump up and dance a jig if I could. I’m absolved and Aris is praised by the King’s own enquiry. Send for the surgeon to get these fiendish creatures off me. And bring me my wig.’

‘Say good morning to Grandpapa.’ Grace pushed her son forward but he pulled back again and again, behind her skirt.

Thomas Aris scowled at the boy. ‘You don’t visit often enough. He doesn’t remember me.’

‘It’s been too long and your rosebud has missed you.’ Grace was ready to receive his kiss but, as she pursed her lips and bent, his head turned aside and her mouth landed on a bristly cheek.

Aris sat down at the table and scraped roughly at the sugar then dropped a large lump into his tea. ‘I won’t offer you refreshment. Have you been indulging in too many delicacies lately? You’ve grown fat and it doesn’t suit you.’

Grace’s lips pulled themselves back into a taut, pink streak. ‘How is Daniel? Does he enjoy the work?’

‘Taken to it like a duck to water. The best turnkey in Coldbath Fields and he’s still only eighteen. Eating my pantry bare though and I don’t know when I’ll be rid of him. Since his success lately in the boxing ring he doesn’t need to find a wife to enjoy a good fight.’

‘And you, Papa? You seem troubled.’

‘It’s nothing. There’s been a great deal to attend to and it stretches my purse. I’m thinking of building again, a fine street of houses, superior to those on Aris Row, but I need capital. I have occasional expenses that are … Unnecessary. Financial obligations I wish to shake off.’

Grace stepped closer and placed her hands lightly on his shoulders. ‘I understand. We don’t need to talk of it. There are complications, I know, but perhaps the problem can be solved easily.’

He seemed interested for the first time since she had arrived and reached back, pressing her hands into his shoulders. ‘Rub there, harder, as you used to. Tell me, how can I rid myself of my difficulty?’

‘Arrangements can be made. My neighbour has a friend involved in church business. She told me about a new scheme which greatly reduces the parish expenses. It’s a simple thing – kindness itself to the paupers.’ He did not see her wide smile as she explained the details.

‘It’s an appealing plan. I’d be seen as a generous man.’

‘You’d have to pay a small amount, but only once.’

‘I’ll consider it.’

‘When things are arranged, I could go and tell the mother, if you wish. I’d like to help. It would be no trouble.’

He twisted his thick body around to her and tugged playfully at her waist. ‘Not necessary. I’ll deal with everything in good time. Now, come, sit in Papa’s lap.’

Grace giggled like a child as she tried to plant herself on his bouncing knees. The boy crept under the table and sat down cross-legged on the carpet near his grandfather’s feet. He licked his fingers and began carefully collecting brown sugar crumbs falling from above, testing their sticky sweetness on his tongue.

Hatton Garden was the busiest office in London and some days it was more like a cattle-market than a place of law and order. Henry Jones escaped when he could through the kitchen at the back for some breathing space. Hat & Tun Yard was narrow, just a back entry for deliveries, and there was always a yellow flow of horse urine along the drain at its centre, but he needed to be there sometimes, leaning against the brick wall and looking up at the sky. It separated him briefly from the sorrow that filled the office from the moment the doors opened every day. He never stayed long, and not just because of the smell. For every minute he was away from his desk, one more desperate person joined the waiting line. That day, when he settled into his place again, slipped his beadle’s coat onto the back of the chair and looked up, pen in hand, it was Sarah Evans who stood at the front of the queue.

‘Mr Jones! You’re a beadle now!’

He knew the surprise on his face meant he could not pretend he had not recognised her. His job laid out a list of clear statements and questions to guide the conversation they should be having in the next few minutes but her life had been circling his own for so long that the moment seemed to call for something warmer, kinder. ‘Yes, beadle of St James’s these last eight years.’ It was only four since he had seen her at Old Mother Redcap’s but he did not mention that.

‘My life has seen changes, too.’ It was as if she had read his mind. ‘I have a son. That’s why I’m here.’

The questions Jones wanted to ask her were not the ones on the page in front of him but he reminded himself the rules were there for a good reason, printed large and clear. For a beadle, the law was just a simple conversation. One sentence after another. Words fixed in ink on paper. A tool used to protect the vulnerable and the powerful alike. But the thoughts that pecked at his mind were not simple. In a life that might have been his, the young woman in front of him could have been his own daughter, telling him he was a grandfather. Jones closed his eyes and when he opened them, he fixed his gaze on the familiar words in front of him. If he wanted to offer more to Sarah Evans than was written there, that was not his decision to make.

‘Does the father pay you an allowance?’

‘No. I work by day and at night too. I pay my own way. I want nothing at all from Mr Aris.’

Jones had wondered, so many times, what had happened on his first day at the Session House, when a prisoner was whisked away from her fate and he was ordered to flout the rules. He had wondered again when he saw the same woman a few weeks later, running from him in terror, straight towards Aris’s house. It was just as he had always suspected. The jailer was behind it all.

He began to write. First, the date and then her name. Somehow, he managed to keep the discussion on a straight path. Avoided any connection that could cause him to show his feelings. His anger. Sarah Evans must be no more to him than a name.

‘If you’re not here to ask for an allowance from the father, what is it you wish to say?’

‘I want to send my son to school but he’s in the St Pancras workhouse. The work I do, no matter how I try, I cannot save enough to give the boy what he should have by right. I ask nothing for myself but I’ve come to ask the parish for help.’

He wanted to give her money. He wanted to say, ‘Take this. Go home with hot food for your son and sleep well tonight. Stay clear of Aris.’ But the law was clear. Jones went back to the regulations. ‘It’s the father who must pay, not the parish. Come back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll do what’s necessary.’

‘No! I don’t want Mr Aris to know I’ve—’ Sarah reached out to pull at his arm but was pushed aside by the person behind her as Jones spoke.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure justice is done. Someone will go to Coldbath Fields today. Next, please!’

At the end of the afternoon, she was waiting outside the office. She walked alongside him all the way up Hatton Garden, talking almost without taking a breath. She said Aris had threatened her and her son, saying he would kill them both if she named him as Tommy’s father and that he must not find out she had asked for relief from the parish. Jones stopped at the corner and put his hands on her shoulders to try and still her shaking. It was too late, he said, because he had already sent word to Aris, but the law would protect her. Justice would prevail. He would make sure of it.

When Thomas Aris walked into the Hatton Garden office the next afternoon, the crowded room fell silent. He was flanked on either side by his adult sons and they seemed to fill the whole space with their coats swinging and their raised voices.

‘I’m a busy man and I don’t take kindly to being called in when there are rogues waiting to be put in irons.’ Aris cackled loudly and there were a few snorts of laughter from around the room.

As Henry Jones read out the notes he had written the day before, Aris leaned across the desk that separated them until he was looking up into the beadle’s face. ‘This is none of your affair, since the child in question wasn’t born in Clerkenwell.’

‘Perhaps his interest is personal, Pa.’

More laughter. Charles Aris sidestepped, a quick, dancing move, until he was standing just behind Jones’s left shoulder. ‘We know the woman’s a witch and casts her spells on a man.’

Daniel Aris slid, wolf-like, to the other side of the desk. ‘Ah, I see it. Mr Jones is bewitched. Shall I box it out of him?’

Jones flinched as Daniel raised his arms, fists clenched, and threw a punch that stopped so close to his cheek that he felt the air push against his day-old bristles.

‘You don’t have a choice, Mr Aris. I only tell you what’s the law. You must pay Mrs Evans what’s due, since you are the boy’s father, or else provide for him. Give him a home, feed him, clothe him.’

The room had gone quiet again.

Aris stretched, pulling at the deep cuffs of his coat. ‘All was said in jest. I hope you’ll take it that way.’

Determined to follow the rules and not do what he wanted to do to the man, Jones held out a folded note with Weekly: a guinea and a half written on one side and his own signature, dated, on the other.

Aris took it and dropped it onto the desk. He chuckled. ‘I’ll deal with it right away. A guinea and a half. Charles, make a note of that. Send payment to Mrs Evans in the morning. She’s living in Pool’s Place now, isn’t she?’

The beadle flinched. Aris’s comment sounded casual but it was a well-aimed arrow and it hit its mark.

‘Dan, you must take a basket of victuals over to her this afternoon, some of those hot pies from the baker in Northampton Street.’ As Aris turned away, his quiet words were full of malice. ‘Be sure you’ll see me again soon, one of these nights. Please convey my regards to your wife.’

Daniel was crowing like a cockerel as they left and no-one heard what Aris said as the three of them stepped out into the crowds on Hatton Garden: ‘Grace was right. I should’ve acted long ago. Charles, get back to the jail and tell Amos I’ll be late. I’ve urgent business to attend to.’