The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (19 page)

‘God in heaven,’ she spat, amber eyes blazing. ‘D’you know the trouble you’ve caused?’

I glared back at her. ‘What? And how is this my fault?’

She spat out an oath and stepped back, hands on her hips. The frightened, wailing hussy had vanished. I rubbed my tender shoulders. Now I thought of it, Betty had never once struck me as the frightened, wailing hussy sort. She had played her part to perfection – presenting herself just as Gonson would expect. A silly strumpet without the wit to know anything of value. He had let a diamond fall from his grasp without even realising his mistake.

‘I warned Budge you wasn’t ready,’ she muttered. ‘They never listen to me.’ She strode off again towards Soho, pattens raised high above the filth.
Tink, tink, tink.

‘You work for the queen?’ I called, catching up with her.

She didn’t miss a stride. ‘Who
doesn
’
t
? And Mr Hawkins,’ she added, after a short pause, ‘the next time I kiss you as a distraction,
mind where you put your hands
.’

‘Next time?’

Betty gave me a look that could wilt flowers. But when I glanced down a moment later she was smiling, just a little.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked. Gonson hadn’t taken me to his own lock-up, but to private rooms. He’d wanted time to sweat the truth from me without interruption, away from the reach of my
benefactor
.

‘Damned fool dragged you through the streets in chains. Half the city saw you.’

I frowned. What one half of the city saw, the other half would know of by nightfall. I had been paraded through the middle of London like a criminal. Put a fine coat on a man and he is halfway to a gentleman. Wrap him in chains and he must be a rogue. The town would not forget it.

I had never visited Betty’s home before. In truth, if I’d been asked, I would have guessed she slept in the wooden shack next to the coffeehouse. I was surprised she could afford to rent a room of her own – even on a gloomy yard off Wardour Street. She made me wait until all was quiet, walking ahead to open the door. Once she was inside and the yard was clear, I strolled past the house as instructed, then doubled back, keeping to the shadows. When I was sure no one was looking, I tiptoed down the cellar steps and slipped inside.

The room was tiny – no more than six paces wide and five long – but clean and pleasant nonetheless. The floor had been freshly swept, and sprigs of lavender hung from the ceiling, scenting the air along with the jasmine perfume Betty always wore. It was, in fact, the sweetest-smelling room I had ever visited in the city, including the queen’s chamber. Betty’s scant belongings were stacked neatly on shelves. There were only a few pieces of furniture – a narrow bed, a cane-backed chair, and a small table with a wash bowl and jug. Her pattens and shoes were lined neatly by the door. Betty walked barefoot in her own home.

She closed the shutters and knelt in front of the hearth, striking sparks from a tinderbox. The kindling under the coals took flame, bringing more light and a touch of heat to the room. She put her finger to her lips. ‘No visitors allowed. Especially gentlemen.’ Her gaze flickered to the ceiling. ‘Landlord would throw me out if he found you here.’

I stood over her, warming my hands by the fire. ‘That must be inconvenient.’

‘Perhaps I prefer it this way.’ She settled a pan on its trivet and stood up, clapping the soot from her hands. ‘Lie down and rest while I cook this broth. You look half dead.’

I opened my mouth to protest, then realised I was indeed half dead with fatigue. There were no marks upon my skin, but my muscles were bruised and sore from being fixed for so long in one position. I lowered myself down upon the bed, wincing with the pain, and removed my shoes. There was a short passage pinned to the wall, written in a rough hand.

I waited patiently for the Lord;

and he inclined unto me,

and heard my cry
.

The fortieth psalm. My father had stamped them into my brain, indelible as a mariner’s tattoo. I stretched out upon the bed, but my feet dangled from the edge, so I rolled upon my side and drew my knees to my chest. I sighed into the pillow. I was free, thank God – at least for now – and safe here in my temporary sanctuary.

So much had happened in the last few hours that my head could not rest upon one thought, never mind plan what I should do next. One moment I would think of the queen, and then of Mrs Howard. And then Burden. The sound of the dagger sliding back into his chest. Sam’s face as he examined the body, cool and curious. And Howard – I must find him . . . must . . . and then it would all whirl about again, a dance I had never learned, where each step was misplaced, each partner unwanted. Well . . . had I not grown tired of my quiet, cramped existence? Had I not craved this? But for the life of me, I could not remember why. I closed my eyes . . . and in an instant had dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke to the sound of broth bubbling in the pot. I sat up slowly, rubbing my face. Betty gestured to the table, where hot water was steaming in the jug. I poured it into the bowl and washed my face, neck and hands. It felt so good that I tore off my shirt and soaked my chest and back, rinsing away the grime of the lock-up. Betty glanced up then away hurriedly, stirring the broth with her back to the bed.

When I was dressed again, I settled back in the chair by the fire and ate a bowl of the broth with a coarse chunk of bread and a mug of beer. Betty ate her own dinner standing up, studying me under long black lashes. She had fixed me a fresh pipe which I smoked gratefully, stem clamped to my lips. Slowly, I was returning to myself. I rubbed my wrists, where the iron had chafed the skin.

‘You think you are free,’ Betty said.

I held up my unchained hands.

‘You are not free.’

I took another draw on my pipe, breathed out the smoke in a soft cloud. ‘This sounds like the beginning of a lecture.’

She threw a shawl about her shoulders. ‘It is too late for that. You are the queen’s man now, Mr Hawkins. Those chains are stronger than iron.’

‘I didn’t think she would save me again.’

‘Howard stormed into the palace last night. He stood in the courtyard screaming about his wife and the king and demanding justice. He has lost all sense. The queen saved you because she is desperate. There’s no time to find someone else.’

‘I do not understand why they tolerate it. Why do they not lock him up? Or . . .’ I trailed away.
Or have him killed.
I knew why. Because he was a nobleman. ‘And what if I can’t resolve the matter?’

‘You know what will happen. Don’t look for comfort from me.’ She pinned her cap, tucking her tight black curls beneath the cloth. Her face was stronger and more severe with her hair scraped back, but still handsome. Almost regal, in fact. ‘I’m late for work. Here.’ She tossed me a wig and hat. ‘Some
drunken fool
left these at Moll’s the other night.’

‘D’you know . . .’ I squinted at them. ‘I think these are mine. Oh! You didn’t find a shoe, I suppose?’

Betty muttered something to herself. ‘Put out the fire once I’m gone. Don’t let a soul see you leave. Takes a long time for someone of my complexion to find somewhere respectable to live.’ She fastened the ribbons on her gown, until her chest rose high and firm. She caught me staring and pursed her lips. ‘Budge sent a message. Mr Howard will be in Southwark tonight, at the cockfight.’

I cursed into the fire. After all I had endured today, I had no desire to spend the night with that beast. ‘Damn it. Well. I suppose I have no choice in the matter.’

‘You had a choice!’ Betty hissed, rounding on me. She kept her voice low, but there was a force to her words, even so. ‘I told you months ago! Go home! Honour your father’s wishes and join the Church. Become his heir again. Become his
son
again. All that good fortune and you threw it away. For
what
?’

I frowned at her. ‘For a
life
.’

‘A life that will kill you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve watched you, Mr Hawkins. You throw yourself at the world – so sure it will catch you every time. But one day you will fall.’

‘My father would adore you,’ I muttered, slapping on my hat. I crossed the room and wrapped my hand about her slim wrist. ‘This is my nature, Betty. I can’t be what I’m not.’

Her pulse thudded against my fingers. ‘Perhaps.’ She hesitated, then drew away. ‘But you could be so much more than you are.’

Back on Russell Street, my neighbours greeted my return with worried glances and sharp intakes of breath. The monster had returned. When I stepped into the chandler’s on the corner to purchase some fresh quills and paper, the mistress of the shop informed me – in a high, trembling voice – that my credit was revoked. I was no longer welcome. I found the same reception in the grocer’s.

As I trudged defeated towards home, a flat, nasal voice called out behind me. ‘Quite the leper, Mr Hawkins.’

Mr Felblade, the apothecary, matched his step with mine. He was a most peculiar old man –
eccentric
, to use the queen’s charitable term – and a very poor advertisement indeed for his various lotions and tinctures, with their promise of good health and prolonged youth. He was excessively lean, with a long, narrow face, made longer by a towering wig that rose in twin horns upon either side of his head. His clothes – unfashionable since Queen Anne’s day – hung from his bony frame as if embarrassed to be seen with him.

‘And do you have a cure for leprosy, Mr Felblade?’

He chuckled, then ran his tongue across his wooden dentures. They had a tendency to stick against the inside of his lips, and his mouth was in constant motion, licking and spitting to moisten them.

‘It’s not wise to walk with me, sir,’ I said, hoping he might leave me in peace. ‘Bad for business.’

‘What do I care if you killed Burden?’ he scoffed. ‘Couldn’t stand the man. No one could. Hypocrites!’ He wheeled about and waved his fist at the rest of the street.

He was not the most comfortable ally.

‘You’ll need a draught for your nerves,’ he declared, rummaging in his bag. ‘I have a packet.’

The thought of taking anything prepared by Felblade made my stomach turn. I wouldn’t use his powders to dust my wig. ‘I’m quite well, sir. But thank you.’

‘Sanguine nature,’ he said, crinkling his lips in disapproval. He halted outside Burden’s house, glancing at me in surprise when I joined him. ‘They won’t let you in the house, sir. Not in a thousand years.’

I tugged the Marshal’s order from my pocket. ‘Care to make a bet, Mr Felblade?’

Felblade’s eyes danced, anticipating trouble. He knocked on the door with his cane and shouted his name. After a long wait, Ned Weaver opened the door. When he saw me standing behind Felblade his jaw dropped.

‘Where is Miss Burden?’ Felblade elbowed his way into the hallway. ‘Lead me to her, sir.’

Ned hurried to close the door behind him. I stopped it with my foot and poked the note through the gap. ‘I’m ordered to speak with you, Ned.’

There was a short pause as he read the Marshal’s order, cursing as he began to understand its meaning.

‘Well, Ned?’ I’d given him quite enough time to read the order. ‘Let me in.’

He opened the door, the note dangling loose from his hand. But he didn’t move, and I couldn’t pass. He might as well be another door, he was so solid. ‘For pity’s sake. Judith and Stephen . . . we are all grieving, sir. Have the decency to leave us in peace at least until the morrow.’

I snatched the order from his hand, all patience gone. ‘I have just spent the day chained to a wall because of this damned family. I will speak with them
now
.’