‘If. Now that’s a word, ain’t it?’
Clovis took his measure, thinking. What kind of bribe will tempt him most? Sex? Money? Both? She found herself warming to the challenge.
Then, from the floor came a groan. He stirred, as alive as his head was sore.
‘Assault. It’s still a capital, now, ain’t it.’
The constable stood, took aim and spat on the floor.
Clovis and Finn had discussed their plan of action should this day ever dawn. They rehearsed their defence, depending on the circumstances. Not in any act of chivalry or sense of duty, but rather, from a thin and shrivelled sense of family, and a desire to secure their loyalty, they agreed to protect Willa and Jonesy.
Finn had wanted to entrust the baby to Benedikt, should the need arise. But Clovis was immovable, a veritable fortress on her stance that the boy would, in the end, save them all and must be cared for by a more known situation.
If she knew nothing else on this godforsaken earth, she was certain there was something about the boy that was worth the enormous sum required to secure their safety. When the door of freedom closed behind her, she knew that even if condemned to death, she would not hang. She showed no fear because she had none.
By the time the sun sets this day, a sun that never shone in the cells, the Fowler purse is half empty. Everything they do, everything they need, is at a cost. They pay dearly for a room without lice crackling on footfall, a room in which they might sleep on a plank and not wake on a cold slab of floor, their eyes level with a pile of their own shit. On the first day, they had avoided being stripped, beaten and abused.
The next morning Finn learns from other prisoners’ tattle that he and Clovis are attracting the sort of attention that catches like wildfire. When informed that trials are moving quickly he is gripped by a wave of terror and also relief, for they cannot afford to live here in this place that is more expensive a home than almost anywhere in London. They bleed money.
Willa cannot stop pacing. Clovis aims to calm her with assurances, but she will not be persuaded. The girl is certain she will either die in this hell, or hang beside her mistress.
‘Everything happened so quickly. One moment I am sewing, the next, I am dying,’ she sobs.
Clovis slaps her face.
‘How ungrateful you are. Would you rather be downstairs in the cellar where you will be raped and torn at like a piece of meat? Or perhaps you would prefer to be separated from us in the Common women’s hold, with a hundred half-crazed rotting females?’
The slap and sharp words have their desired effect. Willa places her hand on her red-marked cheek.
‘No, please, mistress.’
‘You are not going to die. None of us are going to die.’
‘It is just that I have had such a small life, mistress.’
‘Shut up.’
Clovis does not know their future. She cannot predict exactly how they will one day return home, but she knows they will. She depends on Iceland to secure it.
‘Have strength, Willa. Look to me for safety.’
Jonesy is not so easily convinced. On the third night of their incarceration he moves quietly from his straw bed to kneel beside Willa, who clutches a torn blanket. He whispers for her to join him in the corner of the room and places a finger to his lips, motioning for her silence. He takes off one of his sandals. There, in the sole, his fingers prise open a hidden compartment. He removes two packets of powder. He points at her and then at himself. Leaning in closely, his cold lips in her ear, he whispers, ‘Poison.’
Willa squeezes her eyes shut and nods – she understands. In a world where their position renders them powerless, Jonesy keeps a claim to their deaths in the worn, pavement-beaten sandal that she had once so easily mocked. They will not hang and they will not be deported.
The next day the Fowlers are called to the visitors’ room. From the moment he steps onto the damp gravel in front of the gaol and enters into the gloom of a little room adjacent to the governor’s house, Owen Mockett feels enveloped in a cowl of misery and very nearly turns back, his task incomplete. Only Nora’s voice chanting her plea ‘not to fall’ steadies his nerve, and he waits with his scented handkerchief, holding it close, almost a mask across his face.
Mockett expects the Fowlers to look worse than they do when the officer leads them in. And how polite the officer is! How heavily Fowler must be lining the officers’ pockets for their easement. Mockett comes with food and drink. A measure of brandy is served. A change of clothing, a full purse of coins, soap, tallows and two blankets – he could carry no more.
Arrangements are made. In exchange for his evidence as to the goodness of the Fowlers’ characters, Mockett will not be implicated. The tunnel-opening in his cellar remains a secret and his involvement will go unpunished. The weight of this news relieves him. Fowler is a nobler man than he had ever hoped. He readily agrees to watch over their home and keep it safe. Clovis stands at the small window, her red locks framed against the iron bars. Mockett cannot understand her remarkably calm manner. It is as if she just patiently bides her time, certain of her release.
Straw is laid down on Old Bailey Street today; a thick layer deadens the noise of passing carriages indicating it is a trial day.
The baker Carson sings like a skylark.
’Twas the cruel and demanding fist of Finn Fowler that had forced him to receive stolen goods in exchange for his best pies, bread and cakes.
It is recorded in the newspapers. Carson tells the jury of how Fowler terrorized the neighbourhood with threats of
