The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (44 page)

He broke free, wiping his eyes. ‘But it’s my fault you’re here.’

No, it is your father
’
s
, I thought, but he seemed so dejected I held my tongue. I sat back down upon the bench and he joined me, elbows on his knees, head down.

‘If I’d done what I promised. If I’d took the pillow and . . .’

And smothered a man to death.
‘But Alice was there.’

He nodded, miserable. ‘Tried to practise on Jenny. See how much noise it took to wake a girl. You can get quite close, Mr Hawkins,’ he added conversationally, as if describing the best way to approach a nervous horse. ‘Tried again, but Alice woke. Sleeps light. Screamed the house down.’

There was more he wanted to say; I could see the struggle in him. I waited, letting him find his way through it. ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he confessed at last, in a whisper. ‘I’m
glad
Alice woke. I’m glad now, that I never killed Mr Burden.’

I squeezed his shoulder.

‘I think she done it,’ he added. ‘Alice.’

I froze. I had not even thought so far. I was still learning to accept the fact that Sam was innocent. But no, please God – not Alice, after all. Not Alice, sleeping under the same roof as Kitty. With her bloodstained gown dismissed as evidence by my own hand.

‘Sir,’ Sam said, tugging at my sleeve. ‘What now?’

What indeed.

‘I must tell Pa—’

‘No! No. Let me think, Sam.’ I shuffled the possibilities in my head. It was too late to accuse Alice. I had told Rewse that the dress was a counterfeit. That Alice’s appearance in our house on the night of the murder was a story, nothing more – told to cast doubt on my own guilt.

And how would I explain this sudden change in my confession, to Rewse, to Guthrie or Gonson – to the world?
Ah, yes, sirs
–
I was led to believe that a young boy called Sam Fleet had murdered Mr Burden, at the request of his parents. I then struck a deal with the boy
’
s father
–
who is, by the way, a murderous gang captain
–
to stand trial for the murder. I was coerced into this agreement by Mr Fleet, who promised to kill the woman I love if I did not comply with his wishes. So you see
–
I am quite innocent and I trust you will now release me at once, although I have been convicted of murder and am set to be hanged on the morrow.

They would not believe a word of it. It would sound like the desperate ravings of a mad man. I would be mocked and dismissed as a coward and a lunatic. Nothing worse than a man who cannot go to his death with dignity. And could the queen risk sending a pardon under such circumstances? And of course, for my story to make even a hint of sense, I would have to betray Fleet to the authorities. Such a betrayal would bring swift retaliation.

Kitty.

No, there was nothing to be gained from telling the truth – and a great deal to be lost. I must stay silent, at least for now. But it gave me a glimmer of hope, that she would be safe after tomorrow. If I was hanged, the killer would have no reason to feel threatened by Kitty. If the pardon came, the sentence would still be placed upon my name. And as Sam was innocent, Fleet would have no need to fret about what Kitty might say on the matter.

‘You have trapped yourself, sir,’ Sam said, when I had explained it all.

‘I suppose I have.’

‘
Love
,’ he said, as if it were some exotic disease. ‘Dangerous.’

Yes, indeed. But hopefully not fatal.

From the corner of my eye I saw the turnkey step into the yard. My fellow prisoners edged out through the door, blinking at the sun.

‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered, guiding Sam from the yard. ‘I will not hang tomorrow.’

‘The queen?’

I halted. Was a man allowed
no
secrets, damn it?

‘The walls are thin at the Pistol.’

‘Aye, especially with your ear to them.’ I cuffed him lightly. I’d only spoken of the queen to Kitty. Alone in our bed. What else had he heard? Little sod.

As we reached the edge of the yard, he hesitated. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir,’ he said, shyly. ‘I think you would have made a good parson.’ He gave a short bow and vanished through the door.

Who killed Joseph Burden? I cannot believe I have reached the end of my story and still cannot fathom the answer. Not Sam, after all. Then who? Those old names I had rejected return to haunt me. Ned Weaver. Stephen Burden. Judith Burden. And Alice Dunn – I suppose I must consider her again. Any one of them could have done it. And every one of them had good cause.

I cannot believe it was Ned. He does not strike me as the sort of fellow who could let another man hang for his crime. He does not strike me as the sort of fellow who would murder a man, either.

Kitty had been certain it was Judith. There was enough anger in her, true enough. But was there enough
strength
in her to fight her father? To stab him nine times before he could even call for help?

Stephen had the most to gain. With his father dead he thought he would inherit a fortune. And though in truth he had inherited nothing, at least he was free to live as he chose after years of oppression and cruelty.

Then there was Alice. Was this not the simplest explanation? She had stumbled into Sam’s attic room covered in blood and holding a knife in her hand. Burden had raped her, night after night. And yet he had also vowed to marry her, and she had said yes. She would have been mistress of the house. Mistress over Judith.

I have spent the night pacing my cell, turning these thoughts over and over until they have become tangled together in an endless jumble of possibilities. My God, the four of ’em might have done it together for all I know.

I can think on it no more. I can do no more. There is no time left to reflect upon the sins of others. In a few hours they will sling me on a cart and drag me through the streets to Tyburn. I must tend to my own soul.

Even now, on the day of my hanging, I cannot believe that things have come to such a pass. Surely I will wake from this nightmare and find myself at home in the Cocked Pistol, with Kitty beside me. She will roll upon her side and put a hand upon my cheek. And she will say, ‘Be still, Tom. You’re safe. You were only dreaming.’

Then I press my fingers to the thick walls of my cell. I drum my fists against the stone. This is real. This is real and I must prepare myself for the worst. If the king’s pardon does not come, I must be ready.

God forgive me. Father forgive me. My beloved sister Jane: your brother loves you always.

Kitty. If I live, read this and know that I am out in the world somewhere, thinking of you. Maybe you and Sam can discover Burden’s killer together. But keep safe, above all. I fear you should not trust Alice. I fear you should not trust anyone.

And if I should die today, know that my last thoughts were of you. Live well, my love, and remember me.

Hooper, the hangman, climbs down from the gallows and pulls the pipe from his lips. He gestures to Hawkins
’
wig.
‘
I
’
ll need to take that now, sir.
’
The air chills his bare scalp. Hooper pats his arm, surreptitiously stroking the blue velvet of his coat. These clothes will be his payment, when it is over.

He ties the rope around Hawkins
’
neck. The knot presses tight against the back of his neck.

From the cart, Hawkins can see thousands of men and women, stretching out to the horizon. Every eye is turned upon him. The air is hot with sweat and dirt and perfume. The noise is deafening, it rolls over him and thrums beneath his feet. People are singing and shouting. Some are laughing. A few good souls are praying for him. It does not seem real. Even now, some small part of him is sure they will realise their mistake. That they are hanging an innocent man.

‘
Confess!
’
someone cries.

A cheer rises up to shake the heavens. This is what they want from him. This is the story they demand of Tyburn. Crime. Confession. Repentance. Death. Salvation. They wait, expectant.

The noose is rough about his throat. It chafes his skin as he cries out.
‘
I am not guilty!
’

Boos. Jeers and catcalls. Mud flung at the cart. Hooper ducks, eyeing the blue velvet tenderly.
‘
Better confess, Mr Hawkins. It
’
s what they want.
’

Hawkins sighs. What does it matter now what the crowd wants from him? But then he thinks of them all, a hundred thousand souls laughing and jeering as he dies slowly on the rope. It could take a man a quarter-hour to die. It would be better, he thinks, to be cheered out of this world than cursed from it.

So
–
it is a confession they demand of him. Very well. He takes a deep breath and begins to speak.
‘
My friends. Upon my soul. I confess
 . . .’
The crowd screams its approval. He shouts to be heard above it.
‘ . . .
I confess that I have lived a wicked life. Immersed in every vice.
’

A few groans, but more laughter. A spattering of applause. The court beauties lean forward in their seats.

‘
I confess that I am a gambler. I confess that I am over-fond of liquor and low company. I have wasted many nights in taverns and brothels and cannot say that I regret it. I confess that I broke a woman
’
s heart
–
and that I do regret, more than anything in this world.
’
He swallows hard. The ladies fan themselves.
‘
I confess all these things. But I swear upon my soul, I am not guilty of murder.
’

A cheer goes up, the loudest of the morning. He has won them over, now at the end, with the rope about his neck. They do not care if he is guilty or innocent. In the face of death, he has conducted himself well, with wit and swagger. This is a
good dying.
And in the end, that
’
s all that matters. Beneath him, a few paces from the gallows, he sees the Reverend James Guthrie shaking his head, face tight with disapproval. It is his duty to record the last confessions and dying words of the condemned. He will have to write these words in his own hand.

This is the first cheerful thought Hawkins has had all day. He looks up at the gallery, at the rows of women. My God, all those women. His lips curve slowly in a wolf
’
s grin. Let them remember
that . . .

And then he sees her. Judith Burden. She is sitting in the middle of the gallery, black-gloved hands in her lap. She holds his gaze. Smiles.

His heart slams into his chest. That dress. That black, widow
’
s gown.
Of course.