The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (17 page)

He paused in his scrubbing. ‘With a
knife
?’ He picked up a pillow, gripped it tightly in both hands. ‘Best way – smother them. Looks natural.’

‘That’s . . . rather sinister.’

‘Bad man. Bad death. Deserved it.’ He plumped the pillow and dropped it back upon the bed. ‘Blood on your shirt.’

I glanced down. There were smudges all down the front from where Alice had clung to me. On purpose, to incriminate me? No, surely not . . . Damn it. It would have to go on the fire – it was too badly stained and I couldn’t risk it being discovered. Gonson was sure to pay me a visit before the morning was over.

‘Why’re we helping Alice?’ Sam asked.

‘She’ll hang if we don’t.’

He stared up at me, peat-black eyes filled with frustration. ‘They’ll blame you instead.’

‘Gonson won’t arrest me without proof.’

He tossed the bloodstained neckerchief on the fire. It sizzled and spat, damp against the flames, sending grey smoke into the room. He coughed against his sleeve. ‘Give her money, Mr Hawkins. Enough to run away.’

I hesitated. I had not considered the idea. It was tempting
.
Why should I place myself in danger for a girl I barely knew? If Alice left tonight she could begin a new life with a new identity. Sam’s father could hide her for a few weeks, then send her wherever she pleased. True, everyone would assume she had killed Burden, but she’d said herself that the best she could hope for now was a ruined life on the street. Was this not the kindest choice, for everyone?

I opened my mouth to speak.
Very well. Let
’
s send a message to your father
. But there was a lump in my throat and I couldn’t say the words. My conscience. My damned conscience. If I sent Alice away now she would be named a murderer for ever. She would live a life of fear while the real killer escaped punishment. And what if she were caught and brought back home to be hanged? What then?

Alice appeared in the doorway in the plain, coarse wool dress Kitty used to wear in the Marshalsea. The one she’d been wearing the first time I saw her in Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse. It was tight on Alice, especially about the chest, but it would pass.

Sam was not happy. ‘What if she
tells them about the door? What if she blames one of us?’

‘Then we show them this,’ Kitty said, holding up Alice’s bloody gown. She threw it to him. ‘Hide it somewhere safe, away from the house.’

Satisfied at last, Sam grinned and hurried from the room.

Kitty patted Alice on the shoulder. ‘Insurance,’ she said, sweetly. ‘In case you planned to mention the door. Or tried to place suspicion upon Mr Hawkins in some other fashion.’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘No. You won’t, will you?’ Kitty agreed with a touch of menace. She drew back the wall hanging and ushered Alice through the door, whispering orders in her ear. Start the day as usual. Light the fire and sweep the floor. And wait for someone else to scream
murder
.

Kitty built a fire in our room while I pulled off my ruined shirt, shivering in the cold dawn air. My head was spinning, my eyes raw and dry. I glanced mournfully at the bed, wishing I could bury myself beneath the blankets and escape the world for a few hours. But I could not have slept – my mind was too restless and alert. I thought of Burden lying dead on the other side of the wall. Murdered, just a few inches from where Kitty had lain sleeping. A thought struck me.

‘Did you hear anything in the night, Kitty? A struggle? A cry for help?’

‘Nothing.’ She ripped up my shirt and dropped the pieces on to the fire. ‘Perhaps he took a sleeping draught.’ She brushed the soot from her hands, eyes cast down. She was thinking of another murder, back in the Marshalsea. I crossed the room and held her.

‘When things have settled down, let’s leave London for a while. We could go to Paris, or Italy.’ I rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. ‘Somewhere warm.’

Kitty handed me a fresh shirt. ‘Italy.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure we’ll find new books for you to translate there.’

I had been thinking of travel and adventure, not months cramped over a desk, scratching imaginary lust on to blank pages. But I smiled too, and kissed her forehead. A promise.

I was buttoning my shirt when a scream pierced through the wall. Judith. The screams turned into a low howl of grief. And then Stephen’s voice, muffled through the walls.

‘No! Oh, Father, no! Murder!
Murder!
’

It had begun.

By the time we joined our neighbours on the street, Ned Weaver was standing guard at the door, his face drained white. He held a large wrench in his hand, turning it in his palm as I approached to play my part. I must appear as curious and ignorant as the rest of the street.

‘My God, Ned, what’s happened?’

He pushed me back with his free hand. ‘Keep away from here, sir.’

‘Is it true? Mr Burden has been killed?’

He studied my face for a long moment. ‘Aye,’ he breathed, at last. There was grief in his eyes and a kind of dull shock. But if he’d killed Burden he’d had hours to prepare his reaction. It told me nothing.

Judith emerged from the hallway and stood at Ned’s shoulder, her dark hair in a tangle down her back. She was dressed in a straw-coloured wrapping gown, the bottom stained with her father’s blood. Not as much as there had been on Alice’s dress. She had discovered him in daylight and must have drawn back at once.

‘Miss Burden,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘I have just heard—’

‘You killed him,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘You killed my father.’

‘That is not true . . .’

‘
Murderer!
’ she cried, throwing the word high into the air. I felt the street fall silent at my back.

Ned leaned down and whispered in her ear. Judith savaged me with a contemptuous look, then retreated back into the house. Ned tapped the wrench at my chest. ‘I’ve sent for Mr Gonson. I’ll tell him how you threatened Mr Burden last night.’ He tilted his chin over my shoulder, to the street beyond. ‘We
all
heard it.’

I glanced around. Our neighbours were huddled in groups, whispering and staring as if Ned and I were actors in a play. And judging by their black looks, they had cast me as the villain. I turned back to Ned. ‘Did you kill him, Ned? You’d have cause enough.’

Ned wanted to punch me – I could see it in his eyes – but he was no fool. Judith had accused me of murder, but the house had been locked tight last night. An apprentice with a hot temper, betrayed by his master? Aye, that would play well enough in court. ‘Go to hell,’ he barked, loud enough to be heard halfway down the street. But he kept his fists lowered.

As I returned to the shop, I heard hisses at my back. Even the brothel girls seemed wary, muttering to one another and refusing to meet my eye. When I reached the shop, Kitty was scuffing away tears of frustration and rage. I sat down at the table to fix myself a pipe. My hands were trembling. I stretched them out in front of me, willing them to stop shaking before Gonson arrived.

Kitty sat down opposite me and tucked her knees under her chin. ‘If it comes to it, I’ll confess to Snows Fields. You are not a murderer, Tom.’

‘No more are you, Kitty.’

She looked down at the table, a tear sliding slowly down her cheek. We had never spoken of what had happened out in Snows Fields that terrible night last September. What could be said? She had saved my life – and risked her soul for it. I reached over and brushed the tear away. Passed her my pipe to steady her nerves. She took a long pull, closing her eyes as she breathed out a stream of smoke. ‘Italy.’

I covered her hand with mine.

It was a strange, tense hour waiting for the knock upon the door. We heard Gonson arrive at Burden’s house and hurry upstairs with his men to view the body. Judith’s voice, high and trembling with distress, carried through the walls, though we couldn’t make out the words. Then Gonson, slow and measured, asking questions.

It began to rain, a strong wind hurling fistfuls against the window. The room darkened as grey clouds blocked the light. Kitty stoked the fire and held her hands to the flame. ‘I can’t bear this,’ she muttered.

I took off my wig, rubbed my hands over my scalp. And still the puzzle of it turned in my mind, around and around like a clockwork spit. Ned. Stephen. Judith. One of them had stabbed Burden nine times in the chest, then calmly waited for Alice to find the body. And now, just as calmly, waited for the suspicion to fall upon me. How obliging I had been, threatening Burden last night. Well. Let Gonson arrive and have done with it. Let him make his accusations – he had no evidence to support them, unless he discovered the passage between Sam’s room and Burden’s attic.

A pounding at the door. A wooden club, not a fist. I rose as if in a trance and opened it. Gonson stood in the doorway in a dark-grey cloak, surrounded by his men. He was unshaven and had clearly dressed in a rush, his cravat askew and the buttons of his waistcoat matched to the wrong buttonholes. So eager to stake a claim upon the murder. I bowed. ‘Sir.’

He leaned upon his stick, studying me closely. His hat and the ends of his long wig were sodden with rain. ‘Mr Burden is dead.’

‘So I hear. If you have come to accuse me, sir—’

‘No, Mr Hawkins. I’ve come to arrest you.’

Before I could respond, two of the guards thrust themselves through the door and grabbed me by the arms. I struggled against them, digging my heels as they tried to drag me outside. ‘Let me go, damn you!’ I cried. ‘I’m innocent.’

‘You are
guilty
, sir!’ Gonson thundered. He shoved his face an inch from mine. ‘Do not think me a fool! Burden was set to testify against you this very morning and now he lies murdered in his bed – at your hand. He was a good man. A brave man.’

‘He was a hypocrite,’ I spat. ‘And a liar.’

Gonson gave a nod and one of his men punched me hard in the gut. I doubled over, knees buckling. The next moment Kitty was at my side, screaming curses at them all. A guard struck her with his fist, dashing her to the floor. I leaped at him, but there were too many of them. They took hold of my arms and legs and pulled me outside into the pouring rain. As I fought to free myself, someone knocked me to the ground with a cuff to the head. By the time I’d come to my senses, my wrists were fixed in iron. The guard captain swaggered closer, pulling a thick riding whip from his belt. He pressed it against my throat. ‘Attack me again,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll flay the skin off your back.’

I held still, eyes cast down as the rain soaked my bare scalp. I had seen men flogged before, heard their screams echoing through the streets. The captain chuckled, pushed the whip harder against my throat until I began to choke. ‘Your slut has more fight in her. I think I’ll pay her a visit while you’re locked up. I like a whore with spirit.’

I had felt anger like this before and had lashed out, my temper flaring before I could stop myself. My first day in gaol I had been mocked by the head turnkey and smashed my fists into his jaw before I could stop to think of the consequences. But I had been a boy then. I had survived torture and gaol fever and betrayal. Now I was a man, and my rage burned as ice, not fire. I lifted my chin. This guard, this
ape
with his whip was nothing. Nothing. I looked him deep in the eyes. ‘If you touch her, I will kill you.’

The guard’s grin faded.

‘Mr Crowder!’ Gonson called, irritably. He was standing a few paces from us and had not heard his captain’s threats. He pulled his heavy wool cloak close around his shoulders. ‘Enough chatter.’

Crowder and his men dragged me towards Covent Garden. One of them stayed behind to hold Kitty back, but I could hear her shouts and curses all the way down Russell Street. As we reached the piazza, I spied Sam returning from the market. I called out to him as we passed and he ran alongside us, eyes wide with shock.

‘Take Kitty to your father,’ I said as the guards jostled me away. ‘Keep her safe, Sam!’

He nodded and raced off at once.