Chapter 13
A Visit to Newgate
Entering a prison is never a pleasant experience, even if such entrance be accomplished voluntarily, rather than under duress. Grey had been governor of Ardsmuir Prison for more than a year, and he had never entered the place—even his own quarters—without a deep breath and a stiffening of the spine. Neither had he enjoyed visiting the Fleet in search of recruits who would accept army service to escape debt, nor any of the smaller prisons and gaols from which it had been his occasional duty to abstract errant soldiers. Still, Newgate was notable, even for a connoisseur like himself, and he passed under the portcullis at the main gate with a sense of foreboding.
Henry Fielding had described it in one of his recent novels as “a prototype of hell,” and Grey was inclined to think this description admirably succinct.
The room to which he was shown was bleak, nothing but a deal table, two chairs, and an empty hearth, surrounded by walls of discolored stone that bore many laboriously chiseled names, and a number of disquieting scratches, suggesting that more than one desperate wretch had attempted to claw his—or her—way out. Outside the room, though, the prison teemed like a butcher’s offal pile, rich with maggots.
He’d brought a vial of spirits of turpentine, and applied this periodically to his handkerchief. It numbed his sense of smell, which was a blessing, and might perhaps keep pestilence away. It did nothing for the noises—a cacophony of wailing, cursing, manic laughter and singing second only to Bedlam—nor for the sights.
Through the barred window, he could see across a narrow courtyard to a large opening that apparently provided light and air to an underground cell, and was likewise barred. A woman stood upon the inside sill of this opening, clinging precariously to the bars with one hand, the other being used to lift her ragged petticoats above her waist.
Her privates were pressed through the opening between the bars, for the convenience of a guard who clung, beetlelike, to the outside of the bars. His jacket hung down far enough as to obscure his straining buttocks, but the droop of his breeches and the rhythmic movements of his hips were plain enough.
Prisoners passing through the courtyard ignored this, walking by with downcast eyes. Several guards also ignored it, though one man stopped and said something, evidently an inquiry, for the woman turned her head and made lewd kissing motions toward him, then let go her skirts in order to extend a hand through the bars, fingers curling in enticement—or perhaps demand.
The sound of the door opening behind him tore Grey’s fascinated gaze from this tableau.
Bates was decently dressed in a clean uniform, but heavily shackled. He shuffled across the room and collapsed into one of the chairs, not waiting for introduction or invitation.
“Thank God,” he said, sighing deeply. “Haven’t sat in a proper chair in weeks. My back’s been giving me the very devil.” He stretched, groaning luxuriously, then settled back and looked at Grey.
His eyes were a quick, light blue, and he was shaved to perfection. Grey looked him over slowly, noting the pristine linen, neatly tied wig, and manicured nails.
“I didn’t know one could procure the services of a valet in here,” Grey said, for lack of a better introduction.
Bates shrugged.
“It’s like anywhere else, I imagine; you can get almost anything—provided you can pay for it.”
“And you can.” It wasn’t quite a question, and Bates’s mouth turned up a little. He had a heavy, handsome face, and a body to match; evidently he wasn’t starved in prison.
“Haven’t a great deal else to spend my money on, have I? And you can’t take it with you—or so that very tedious minister tells me. Did you know they force you not merely to go to church on a Sunday here but to sit beside your coffin at the front?”
“I’d heard that, yes. Meant to encourage repentance, is it?” He could not imagine anyone less repentant in outward appearance than the captain.
“Can’t say what it’s meant to do,” the captain said judiciously. “Bloody bore, I call it, and a pain in the arse—literally, as well as metaphorically. No proper pews; just filthy benches with no backs.” He pressed his shoulders against his chair, as though determined to extract as much enjoyment from his present circumstances as possible.
Grey took the other chair.
“You are otherwise well treated?” Not waiting for an answer, Grey withdrew the flask of brandy he had brought, unstoppered it, and passed it across.
Bates snorted, accepting it.
“The buggers here who think I’m a sodomite are bad enough; the buggers who are sodomites are a damn sight worse.” He gave a short laugh, took a healthy swallow of brandy, and breathed slow and deep for a moment. “Oh, God. Will you send me more of this for the hanging? They’ll give you brandy here, if you pay for it, but it’s swill. Rather die sober.”
“I’ll see what can be done,” Grey said. “What do you mean, the sodomites are worse?”
Bates’s eyes roamed over him, sardonic.
“The sodomites…They had me chummed for a bit with a decorator from Brighton, name of Keyes. Woke me in the middle of the night, jabbing his yard at my fundament like a goddamned woodpecker. Offered to smash his teeth in, he didn’t leave off that business, whereupon he has a go at my privates, slobbering like a dog!” Bates looked both affronted and mildly amused, and Grey began to be convinced that Minnie’s opinion was correct.
“I take your point,” Grey said dryly. “You are not yourself a sodomite.”
“That’s right,” said Bates, leaning back in his chair. “Just your basic traitor. But that’s not what I’ll be hanged for.” For the first time, a tinge of bitterness entered his tone.
Grey inclined his head. Evidently Bates took it for granted that Grey knew the truth of the matter. How? he wondered, but his mind automatically supplied the answer—Minnie, of course, and her sympathetic acquaintance with Mrs. Tomlinson. So Hal did talk to her.
“Yet you’ve chosen not to make that public,” Grey observed. “There are any number of journalists who would listen.” He’d been obliged to fight his way through a crowd of them outside the main gate, all hoping for the opportunity to get a private interview with one or more of the infamous conspirators.
“They’d listen if I told them what they want to hear,” the captain observed caustically. “The public has made up its mind, d’ye see. And there are too many voices from Whitehall whispering in Fleet Street’s ear these days; mine wouldn’t be heard past the door of this place. I’m a convicted sodomite conspirator, after all—obviously, I’d say anything.”
Grey let this pass; he was likely right.
“You sent for me,” he said.
“I did, and I thank you for coming.” Bates raised the flask ceremoniously to him, and drank, then leaned his head back, studying Grey with interest.
“Why?” Grey said after a moment.
“You’re an officer and a gentleman, aren’t you? Whatever else you may be.”
“What do you mean by that?” Grey kept his voice calm, though his heart leapt convulsively.
Bates looked at him for a long moment, a half smile on his face.
“One would never guess, to look at you,” he said conversationally.
“I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, sir,” Grey said politely.
“Yes, you do.” Bates waved a hand, dismissing it, and took another drink from the flask. “Not to worry. I wouldn’t say a word—and if I did, no one would believe me.” He spoke without rancor. “You know a man named Richard Caswell, I imagine. So do I.”
“In what capacity, may I ask?” Grey inquired, out of personal curiosity as much as duty. Caswell was the proprietor of Lavender House, an exclusive club for gentlemen who preferred gentlemen—but he undoubtedly had other irons in the fire. And if the suborning of treason was one of those…
“Moneylender,” Bates said frankly. “I gamble, d’ye see. That’s what’s brought me to this pass; need of money. My old granny said as the cards were the devil’s pasteboards, and they’d lead me straight to hell. I wonder if I shall get to see her and tell her she was right? Though if so, I suppose she’ll be in hell, too, won’t she? Serve her right, the prating old bizzom.”
Grey declined the offered distraction.
“And Richard Caswell mentioned my name to you? In what connexion, may I ask?” He was more than surprised to hear that Caswell had spoken of him, and in fact, doubted it. Dickie Caswell would have died a long time ago were he that careless with the secrets he held.
Bates gave him a long, shrewd look, then shook his head and laughed.
“Play cards, do you, Major?”
“Not often.”
“You should. I see you aren’t easily bluffed.” He shifted his feet, the irons clanking.
“No, Caswell didn’t mention your name. He had one of those beastly coughing fits of his and was obliged to rush into his chamber for his medicine. I took the opportunity to rummage his desk. His diary was all in code, the wily beast, but he’d written Lord John Grey on the margin of his blotter. Didn’t know who you were, but happened by chance to be at cards with Melton that night, and he spoke of his brother John. Susannah knew your brother’s wife, had heard the story of your title, and…voilà.” He smiled at Grey, all good-fellowship.
Grey felt the fist in his midsection relax by degrees. It clenched again at the captain’s next words.
“And then of course, Mr. Bowles’s assistant mentioned you in my hearing, sometime later.”
The word “Bowles” went through him like an electric shock. Followed by a slightly lesser one at the word “assistant.”
“Neil Stapleton?” he asked, surprised at the calmness of his own voice.
“Don’t know his name. Fairish chap, pretty face like a girl’s, sulky-looking?”
Grey managed to nod.
“You were with Mr. Bowles at the time?” he asked. Dickie Caswell dealt in secrets. Hubert Bowles dealt in lives. Presumably on behalf of the government.
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Bates put back his head and drained the last of the brandy. “God, that’s good!”
“I know nothing of the particulars against you,” Grey said carefully. “The material you passed to Melchior Ffoulkes—this came from Mr. Bowles?” And if so, what sort of game was Bowles playing?
Bates stifled a belch with his fist, and gave him an eye.
“I may be a cardsharp, a traitor, and a scoundrel in general, Grey. Doesn’t mean I’ve no sense of honor, you know. I won’t betray any of my associates. Believe me, it’s been tried. No one swings on my word.”
He turned the empty flask over. A single drop fell onto the table, its warm pungency a welcome relief from the cold scent of turpentine. Bates put his finger in it, and licked it thoughtfully.
“What is it they say—‘Live by the sword, die by the sword’? I imagine you know that one, don’t you?”
“I know that one, yes.” Grey’s mind was working like a Welsh miner at the coal face, great black chunks of supposition mounting in a dirty pile round his feet. He essayed one or two further questions regarding Bowles and Stapleton, but was met with shrugs. Bates had given him Bowles’s name, but would go no further. Had that been his only purpose? Grey wondered.
“You did send for me,” he pointed out. “Presumably there is something you wish to tell me.”
“No. To ask you. A favor. Or rather, two.” The captain looked him over, seriously, as though evaluating a questionable hand that might still be played to advantage.
“Ask me what?”
“Susannah,” the captain said abruptly.
“Mrs. Tomlinson?”
“The same, and bad cess to the mister, as Susie’s fond of saying.” A brief smile flickered, then disappeared. “She was wed to him young, and he’s a right bastard.”
“My sister-in-law says he’s a bore.”
“He is, but the two aren’t exclusive. He beats her—or he did, before she took up with me. I put the fear of God into him—wish I’d killed the sniveling little shit when I’d the chance….” Batesbrooded for a moment on lost opportunities, but then shook off his regrets.
“Well, plainly once I’m gone, she’ll be at his mercy again—if he’s not already at it.”
“And you wish me to step into your place and threaten Mr. Tomlinson with bodily harm if he mistreats his wife? I should be pleased to do that, but I fear—”
“No, I want you to get her away from him,” Bates interrupted. “She’s a brother in Ireland, in Kilkenny. If she can reach him, he can protect her. But she’s no money of her own, and I’m in no position to give her any.”
Grey looked at him sharply.
“A nice choice of words,” he observed. “Rather than saying that you haven’t any, either.”
Bates returned his stare.
“Let us merely say that if I had funds available, I should turn them over to you on the spot, to use in her behalf, and leave it at that, shall we?”
Grey gave a brief nod of assent, chucking that into the pile at his feet for later analysis.
“And the second favor that you mentioned?”
“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s Susannah, as well—in a way of speaking. She insists she’ll come to the hanging.”
For the first time, the captain appeared to experience some perturbation at the thought of his demise.
“I don’t want her there, Grey,” he said. “You know what it’ll be like.”
“Yes, I do,” Grey said quietly. “No, you don’t want her there. Do you wish me to see her? Explain, as gently as I can—”
“I’ve explained, and not gently,” Bates interrupted. He grimaced. “That only made her more insistent. She says that she can’t stand the thought of me dying alone in a crowd of people convinced that I’m a disgusting pervert. She says—” His voice thickened momentarily, and he paused to cough heavily into his handkerchief, in order to cover the lapse. “She says,” he continued more firmly, “that she wants someone to be there who knows why I’m really dying, and what I really am. Someone for me to look at from the gallows, and know.” He looked at Grey, a faint smile on his lips.
“I don’t know what you are, Grey, and I don’t care. But you do know what I am, and the truth of why I’m dying here. You’ll do.”
Grey felt as though someone had suddenly snatched the chair out from under him.
“You want me to attend your hanging?”
His tone must have contained some of the incredulity he felt, for the captain gave him an impatient look.
“I’d have sent an engraved invitation, had I time,” he said.
Grey wished he’d brought an extra flask for himself. He rubbed a knuckle slowly down the bridge of his nose.
“And you expect that I will accede to these—you will pardon my characterizing them as peculiar, I trust—requests…why?”
Bates smiled crookedly.
“Let’s put it this way. You swear to see Susie safe to her brother in Ireland, and to see me safe to wherever I’m going—and I undertake to see to it that Hubert Bowles never sees your name in my handwriting.”
Grey blinked.
“Saying what?”
Bates raised one fair brow.
“Does it matter?”
It took the space of one breath for Grey to come to a conclusion regarding the possibilities.
“No, it doesn’t. Done.” He paused for an instant. “You trust my word?”
“Officer and gentleman,” Bates repeated, with a tinge of ruefulness. “Besides, I haven’t a great deal of choice in the matter, do I?”
There seemed no more to say after that. He nodded, considered offering his hand to Bates in farewell, and thought better of it. Then something else occurred to him.
“One last question, Captain—if you will allow me?”
Bates made an expansive gesture.
“I’ve all the time in the world, Major. Until Wednesday, that is.”
“I respect your determination to safeguard the names of any associates still at large. But perhaps you will tell me this: are any of them Jacobites?”
The blank surprise on Bates’s face was so patent that it would have been laughable under other circumstances.
“Jacobites?” he said. “God, no. Why would you think that?”
“The French are involved,” Grey pointed out. Bates shrugged.
“Well, yes. But it isn’t always religion with the frogs, no matter what old Louis tells the Pope, and the Stuart cause is deader than I’ll be on Wednesday. Louis’s a merchant at heart, and not about to throw good money after bad. Besides, he never wanted James Stuart on the English throne, and never expected him to take it—just wanted the distraction, while he got on with quietly pocketing Brussels.”
“You know a great deal about what King Louis wants.”
Bates nodded, slowly.
“And you know what I want, Major. We have our bargain. But if Mr. Bowles should be moved to seek one of his own…” He quirked a brow, and Grey saw a nerve twitch in his jaw. “He’s got four days left.” But it was said without hope.
Grey bowed and put on his hat.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
He had nearly reached the door, when he stopped and turned for a moment.
“I’ll send the brandy Tuesday night.”
Percy Wainwright was expected to return from his journey on Wednesday. Grey thought of sending him a note, of asking for his company, but didn’t. He did know what it would be like.