The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (8 page)

A cloud drifted apart and the moon shone bright, flooding us in silver light. Something gleamed bright by the man’s boot, a glint of metal. The breath caught in my throat. The pistol. I drew my sword and prayed to God he didn’t look down.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he slurred.

‘Nobody. I heard shouts.’

‘Well, Sir
Nobody
. That whimpering bitch belongs to me.’ Mrs Howard gave a low sob and he leered at her. ‘What – did you think you were free of me, slut?
Did you think you were
safe?
’ He laughed. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten paces.

Mrs Howard gripped my arm. She was shaking with fear. ‘Please, sir, I beg you. Don’t let him take me.’

I pushed her behind me.

In a flash he was on me, knocking me down and dashing the blade from my hand. He was fearsome strong, despite his age and the drink – and he knew how to fight. I kicked out in panic, but he swung his fist hard, catching my jaw. My head smacked against the ground and my vision blurred. I slumped back, stunned, as the world spun about me.

In an instant he had pounced on me, fingers tearing at my throat. I grabbed his wrists and tried to struggle free, but he was too strong. I thought of the guard lying a few feet away, knocked senseless but alive. I might not be so lucky.

The man let go of my throat, raising his fist for another blow. This was my chance. I pushed up with all my strength, twisting and kicking at him in a fury. There was no grace or strategy to my blows, but I was bigger than him, half his age, and sober. As we rolled in the mud, my hand hit something hard.
The pistol.
I snatched it and aimed the muzzle at his head, pinning him to the ground with my free arm.

He fell still, staring at the barrel pointed an inch above his face. Then smiled. ‘There’s no powder.’

He was right – there’d been no time to reload it. I turned it around in my palm, felt the heft of it. Then I raised it high and slammed it against his temple. He gave a grunt of pain, and lay still.

I staggered to my feet, reeling. My jaw throbbed and I could feel blood seeping from my throat where his nails had torn into my skin. ‘Mrs Howard,’ I called out into the night. ‘My lady?’

But she’d vanished.

Chapter Five

The house was dark and empty when I returned home. I heated a pan of mulled wine over the fire in my chamber, breathing in the warm, soothing scent of cloves and nutmeg.

I had been in a shocked stupor on my walk home, lurching through the streets in a daze. Now, as I collapsed into a chair by the fire, I realised how close I’d come to losing my life. I pulled off my wig and loosened my cravat. My left cheek was badly swollen and my jaw was throbbing so hard that I could only take tiny sips of wine. It did not seem broken, but I could tell it would take days to heal. So much for the thrill of adventure, Hawkins – you damned fool.

What the devil had happened? The ferocity and speed of the attack had left me reeling. I had seen men strip to the waist in the street to fight over some imagined slight. I’d been beaten and chained to a wall in gaol. I’d survived a riot, for heaven’s sake. But I had never seen a man rage so far out of control and so fast. He was like a fighting dog, driven into a frenzy by a lust for blood. Could Mrs Howard have inspired such madness? Or was he cursed with an endless fury, always ready to leap into battle? Considering the way he’d spat and sworn at me from his sedan I guessed it was the latter. Either way, I prayed to God I never encountered the brute again.

As for Mrs Howard, who would blame her for running back to the safety of the palace? Whatever her present troubles, her lover could protect her far better than I. He was the
king
, damn it! I was glad to have saved her tonight, but I wanted no more part in such a dark intrigue. Court politics, James Fleet, and a raving mad man with a pistol? No, thank you, indeed.

I closed my eyes, exhausted now the danger had passed and my blood had cooled. I drifted into a fitful sleep, still sitting in the chair . . . and woke in darkness. The fire had burned out. Voices drifted from the shop downstairs, snatches of laughter. I pulled myself slowly to my feet. Kitty was singing a ballad – loudly and somewhat off-key. A man begged her to spare his ears, and then they both laughed.

A shard of jealousy pierced my heart. It was John Eliot; I recognised his voice at once. Old, blissfully married, and round as a football. But still, he was alone with Kitty. I stole down the stairs, listening to their conversation. It was nothing – idle talk about the play and the devilish annoying people in the seats around them. I stood by the door and tortured myself for a few moments, even so. How could she sound so cheerful, when we had argued so badly just hours before? Did she not know that I had almost
died
tonight? That she could have come home to discover she had lost me for ever?
Well, no. She did not know that, Tom. In fact you refused to tell her where you were going, if you recall.

Feeling somewhat foolish, I nudged open the door and bade them both a good evening.

‘Ah! Hawkins!’ Eliot exclaimed, rising to his feet and smiling warmly. They were seated at the table with a bottle of wine between them, lit only by a solitary candle.

‘So,’ Kitty said in a flat voice without turning around. ‘You are home.’ As if she did not care tuppence.

I took Eliot’s outstretched hand.

‘Brought her back for you, Hawkins,’ he said cheerfully, then lowered his voice. ‘She was in half a mind to stay with us tonight . . .
Good God!
’ He squinted at me. ‘What’s wrong with your face, man?’

‘What’s this?’ Kitty scraped back her chair, then gasped in shock. ‘Tom!’ she cried, pushing Eliot aside and dragging me towards the candlelight. ‘Is that
blood
?’ She touched my cravat, saw the deep gouges beneath. ‘Oh . . . You’re
hurt
 . . .’

‘I’m fine,’ I sighed, secretly delighted.

‘Sam!’ she called and a dark figure released itself from the shadows. I had not even seen him hiding there. ‘Run across to Mrs Jenkins and fetch some ice. She took a load this morning.’ She pushed him from the room and ran half up the stairs. ‘Jenny!’ she yelled, in a voice that must have woken every Jenny in a five-mile radius. ‘Wake up! Mr Hawkins is hurt!’

A few minutes later I was settled on a low couch while Kitty washed the wounds at my throat with a scalding mix of brandy and hot water. I winced and gestured to the bowl. ‘Could I not drink that instead? It looks . . . medicinal.’

‘You’re filthy,’ she said, dabbing hard at one of the deeper cuts. ‘Have you been rolling around in the mud?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I was attacked in St James’s Park.’

Kitty’s brows rose sharply. ‘A highwayman?’

‘I’m not sure
what
he was. A mad man, perhaps.’

She nodded and continued tending my wounds. After a little while, she said, ‘I am a good, patient soul, am I not, Mr Eliot?’

Eliot had returned to the table, a glass of claret balanced on his fat belly. ‘A saint,’ he agreed.

‘Because I do know how you hate to be
nagged
, Tom. And of course I am not your wife, so it is not my place to ask, “and what took you to the park so late?” or “who did you expect to meet there?” It would be
most indelicate
of me to suggest that perhaps you should have taken me to the damned play this evening instead, as you bloody well promised. Gah!’ She scrubbed at a spot on my jaw. ‘Damn it. This dirt won’t come off.’

‘I think it’s a bruise,’ I said, weakly.

‘Oh. So it is.’ She stopped scrubbing. Touched her lips to it.

‘Kitty . . .’

‘This was James Fleet’s work, wasn’t it?’

I gave a small, grunt, admitting nothing.

‘It’s no great puzzle,’ Eliot called from the table. ‘Kitty mentioned your visit this afternoon . . .’

‘ . . . and then – all of a sudden – you had a secret, unexpected meeting,’ Kitty finished. She cupped a hand to my swollen jaw and held it there lightly. ‘Tom. Tell me this. Is it finished with?’

‘Yes,’ I said, without hesitation.

‘And you promise you won’t work for that bastard again?’

‘
Never
.’

She reached over and hugged me close, hiding her tenderness in a grip that half-crushed my ribs. ‘Well then,’ she said, when she was done injuring me. ‘You are forgiven. Are you not the luckiest dog alive?’

Sam materialised, and dropped a packet of ice in my lap. I shrieked an oath.

‘Mrs Jenkins wants sixpence.’

‘Cow,’ Kitty muttered.

‘Did you enjoy the play, Sam?’ I asked, once I’d recovered.

Sam shook his head, curls flying.

‘Oh!’ Eliot and Kitty protested together.

‘It was made up,’ Sam shrugged. ‘Don’t see the point of it.’

‘What was the play?’

‘
The Beggar
’
s Opera
,’ Kitty answered for him, when it became clear that Sam did not know and did not care. ‘We’ve been talking about it for
weeks,
Tom.’

‘Oh . . .!’ I said, crestfallen. ‘I was longing to see that.’

Kitty muttered something under her breath.

Eliot slapped his hands upon the table and pushed himself up from his chair. ‘I’m sure it will run for weeks. Anything that rude about parliament is sure to be a success.’

‘Was it not about a gang of thieves . . .?
Ah.
’

Eliot squeezed himself into his coat, flexing his arms with a look of surprise, as if it had shrunk since he took it off. ‘I doubt Mr Gay will be welcome in court from now on. But I suppose that was the point. The play is his revenge upon them all.’

‘Indeed?’ Eliot made it his business to read every newspaper and broadsheet he could lay his hands upon, and always knew the gossip around the court. ‘How so?’

He plucked his hat from its hook on the wall. ‘Gay is a great friend of Henrietta Howard. He was sure she’d secure a nice plump position for him at court one day – planned his future on it. Then old frog eyes was crowned king and it transpired that Mrs Howard had no influence over him whatsoever. It’s the
queen
he listens to and no one else. Who would have guessed it? A man taking advice from his
wife
.’ He winked at Kitty. ‘Most unnatural.’

I smiled but stayed quiet, thinking of the terrified woman I had met so briefly tonight. I was not surprised she’d failed to help John Gay: she couldn’t even save herself. Had she promised something similar to the man who had attacked her tonight? Some preferment that had failed to appear? Ach, and what did it matter? I would never see her again.

‘Mackheath should have hanged,’ Sam said.

‘Hanged?’ Eliot was outraged. ‘He’s the hero!’

‘He’s a highwayman,’ Kitty corrected him, plucking his hat from his head and setting it upon hers at a jaunty angle.

‘You can’t kill the hero, not in a comedy,’ Eliot persisted, reaching for his hat. Kitty swirled away from him, laughing. ‘The audience would riot.’

Sam disagreed. ‘Seen fifty or more Mackheaths turned off at Tyburn. The audience cheers.’

Later, Kitty and I lay in bed, drowsing under thick blankets as the fire dwindled to ash. I rested my head against her heart, listening to its soft beat as she ran her hand over my scalp, bristles rasping beneath her fingers.

‘I must visit the barber,’ I said.