The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (21 page)

Mrs Jenkins’ face scrunched. ‘I’m sure I don’t need
his
approval,’ she huffed, and began scolding Felblade over the price of his opiates.

‘I’m sorry I accused you before, sir,’ Judith whispered. ‘I was . . . not myself. I am quite certain that you are innocent.’

I smiled thinly. Easy enough to whisper my innocence in a private room. She had already shouted my guilt to the whole street. I leaned closer. ‘Miss Burden. Who do you think killed your father?’

Judith stared at me in surprise. ‘Alice Dunn, of course.’

‘I see . . . But . . . I believe your father planned to marry her?’

‘Never!’ she snapped. She sat up very straight, her eyes fierce and dark as storm clouds. ‘My father would never marry that filthy whore. It was a jest – a silly jest. Alice Dunn – mistress of this house? No, fie – not in a thousand years! She killed my father, I am quite certain. And may she burn in hell for it!’

Silence, as Felblade and Mrs Jenkins stared at each other in surprise, and then at me. Mrs Jenkins rubbed her palms together. ‘Warm broth,’ she trilled, in an anxious voice. ‘And rest.’

I rose from the bed, shocked by Judith’s outburst. For a moment I had seen pure rage burning beneath her dazed, dreamy surface. Had that rage erupted last night? Could
Judith
have murdered Burden?

‘Alice ran away, Mr Hawkins,’ Judith called as I left. ‘Did you not know? She left this morning. So she must be guilty, don’t you see? She
must
be.’

In the workshop, Ned was sanding a stool, running his fingers softly against the wood to check for imperfections. There was no sign of his earlier outburst, save for a broken chair propped in one corner. I stood in the doorway, studying the tools hung neatly upon the back wall. They reminded me of the implements of torture hanging in the Marshalsea gaol. My throat constricted and I felt the iron collar fastened about my neck, biting deep into my skin. I put my hand to the door frame to steady myself, forcing myself back to the present.

Ned knew I was there, but he continued working, keeping his back to me. Stephen had been reckless and confused, muddled with grief and fear. Judith was dazed, and fixed upon her hatred of Alice. Ned’s anger was contained, focused.

There were only a few pieces of work on the benches – a half-finished side table, an oak tallboy. These were small projects, made for practice not profit. Burden had been a master carpenter and joiner, his business construction. The grand new squares west of Bond Street were built of brick, but they still needed joists and rafters, wainscots and doors. Ned had talked about his work with pride and passion at Moll’s the night before: the need for both strength and precision, an eye for a pleasing design, an understanding of geometry when building wall partitions and staircases. ‘An occupation for the body and the mind,’ he’d said, eyes bright. I’d envied him then, for finding a vocation that gave him so much satisfaction. I was – without question – not cut out for the clergy. Nor was I created to sit at a desk, translating whores’ dialogues. What would make
my
eyes shine, I wondered. Punch. Kitty.

I had no doubt that Ned would find a good position with another master. If not, surely the Carpenters’ Company would help him set up his own business. Assuming he had not killed his old master, of course.

‘I must speak with you, Ned,’ I said at last.

His back stiffened. ‘There is nothing to be said.’

‘I did not kill Mr Burden.’

Ned lifted the stool from the bench and turned slowly. ‘Those men at the coffeehouse. None of  ’em dared look you in the eye. They was afraid of you.’

I leaned against the door frame, bone weary. ‘Because they were fool enough to listen to your master’s lies. I am not a murderer, Ned
.
’

‘Gonson arrested you.’

‘What – is that proof of my guilt, then? He hates me – you know that! He confuses a disreputable life with a wicked one. They are not
precisely
the same.’

‘If you had lead a decent life you would not be in trouble now.’

‘Oh indeed –
that
is how the world works. You were a model apprentice for seven years. How were you rewarded?’

Ned frowned. He thought I was taunting him. ‘Ask what you want and leave. Before I lose patience.’

Ned’s years of hard labour had left him strong and fit and solid as a Roman statue. There was also a wall of heavy tools at his back. I took a step back towards the workroom stairs, ready for a hasty retreat. ‘Did you kill Mr Burden?’

I asked only to watch his reaction. But I had asked him before, and this time he was not even angry. He resented the question, of course, but beyond that I saw only sorrow and a bone weariness.

‘You had good cause to hate him.’

He glanced away. ‘I have good cause to hate you, sir.’

‘Do you think I wish to be here, troubling you with these questions? I must prove my innocence, Ned.’

‘Aye – by placing the guilt upon my shoulders. Tell me, sir – how many gentlemen have you seen hang at Tyburn?’

‘I am not—’

‘
None.
That is the truth of the matter. Not one. And how many apprentices? Ten?
Twenty
? If I had been arrested this morning instead of you – would I have been set free again within a few hours? Would I have been granted permission to trouble a grieving family? Well damn you, sir – I will
not
go to the gallows in your place.’

I folded my arms. ‘Nor should you – if you’re innocent.’

‘Oh indeed,’ he laughed, throwing my own words in my face. ‘
That
is how the world works.’ He moved across to the back wall and plucked a hammer from its hook. Oh, fuck the world – Ned Weaver and his damned carpentry tools. ‘Do you know how long Mr Burden lived in this house? Twenty years.’ He gestured about the room. ‘Built it with his own hands. Twenty years without a moment’s trouble. Then you arrived, and within three months he’s murdered in his bed.’ He slammed the hammer against his work table. The sound cracked the air between us. ‘That is not chance, sir.’

‘No trouble? For God’s sake, Ned – he was fucking Alice against her will every night. He—’

Ned raised the hammer and moved closer. I pulled the dagger from my coat. Ned gasped as he recognised the ivory handle. ‘Where did you find that?’

‘I wrested it from
Stephen. He attacked me, unprovoked. This damned house, Ned!’

Ned looked a little shamefaced. He slung the hammer into a corner and sat down, broad hands clasped on his knees. ‘If not you . . . If not me . . .’

I didn’t reply. He knew the answer. Stephen. Or Judith.

He groaned and put his head in his hands.

‘I’m sorry, Ned. I know they must seem like family . . .’

‘Seem?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘There is no
seeming
about it. I’m their
brother
.’

Ned would not speak for a long time after that, dismissing my questions with a wave of his scarred hand. I settled down on the steps into the workshop and waited. Patience – patience was the key. The best confessions come unforced.

‘Mr Burden was a good man,’ he said at last. ‘He lived a sober, Christian life. But . . .’

Ah, there it was.
But
. We are all good men save for that one short word. I leaned forward. ‘But?’

‘He was led astray by ill company, when he was young. Lewd women. Low sorts. They encouraged him to swear and drink strong liquors. To visit bawdy houses.’ He paused, disgusted. ‘He abandoned his apprenticeship. Fell into debt, and was forced . . . Mr Hawkins, you must swear not to repeat this story to a soul. I only wish to explain . . .’ He stood up and began prowling the workshop, straightening tools and brushing dust from the table. A tidy room for an untidy story. ‘He found work as a brothel bully.’

I began to laugh, covering it with a cough when I saw Ned’s agonised expression. Well, well, well. Here was a rich story. Joseph Burden, guarding the door of a whorehouse for a living. And that sanctimonious prick had judged
me.
The gall of the man! My God, if he were still alive I would have enjoyed throwing
that
in his bloated old mug.

‘It was only for a few months, you understand,’ Ned added hurriedly. ‘He grew ashamed of what he saw. What he
did.
He joined the Society as an informer. He began attending church again and met Mrs Burden. Her dowry gave him the capital to build this house and start his business. She was a pious, devoted lady. Mr Burden often spoke of how she saved him.’

How her money saved him, more like. ‘But you are not her son.’

‘No, sir.’ He bowed his head, ashamed. ‘I was born in Newgate. My mother was a whore and a thief. She pled her belly to escape the gallows. After I was born she was transported. Died of a fever on the boat.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He brushed a rough hand across his eyes. ‘Never knew her. I was raised by my aunt and uncle down in Surrey. Good, honest folk – farmers. But they had seven children of their own. My uncle couldn’t provide for me so they wrote to Mr Burden. My mother always swore he was the father . . .’

I raised an eyebrow. Given her occupation, that would be hard to prove one way or the other.

‘Mr Burden didn’t believe I was his son – not at first. He took me on as his apprentice to atone for his past vices. He felt responsible for my mother’s death, because he had once . . . in a weak moment . . .’ He blushed.

Only once? I doubted that very much. And if Ned hadn’t lived such a buttoned-down life, he would see it too. A man such as Burden wouldn’t take a bastard into his home to atone for one brief episode of lust – not without proof or some other inducement. ‘But you are
truly
his son? You are certain?’

Ned smiled. ‘I worked with him in this room for seven years. He began to notice things. Not just my appearance, but the way I moved. My way with the tools. A hundred tiny things that no one else would ever notice. Look at me, sir. Now you know the truth – can you not see the resemblance?’

I tilted my head. It was true, Ned was as broad and strong as Burden, if not as tall. His brows were pale and his complexion fairer too, but that could have been an inheritance from his mother. Yes, there was a resemblance; a greater one than Stephen shared with his father, in fact – but then Stephen had spent the last seven years at his school desk instead of fixing roofs and nailing down floorboards. There was no way to prove it for certain, but Burden had clearly believed Ned was his son. And given it must have been a reluctant admission on his part, I was inclined to believe it too. He must have stared at the boy for hours, wishing away the likeness until he could deny it no longer.

‘If all this is true, why did he break his word to you, Ned?’

‘That was
my
fault! I wanted him to recognise me as his son. I vowed I would leave unless he told Stephen and Judith the truth. Ah – how I wish I had not pressed him so hard! My father was fair with me, Mr Hawkins, but he had a strong temper. I should have been patient and obedient, as he taught me. I do think . . . I do
truly believe
he would have changed his mind in time. If only for Judith’s sake.’

‘Judith?’

He coughed with embarrassment. ‘She has grown fond of me.’

Fond?
Ah. ‘Oh dear.’

‘I didn’t dare tell Mr Burden, but . . . it was an uncomfortable situation.’

I winced, thinking of my own sister. Uncomfortable? Excruciating, I should say. Neither of us spoke after that, for quite a while.