The Last Confession Of Thomas Hawkins Part 13

'No.' Good G.o.d, no.

'But you hoped it would be,' she murmured, sadly. 'You were bored.'

It was true. And now she spoke that truth aloud, how petty and foolish it sounded. 'Not with you.'

She climbed on to my lap and took the pipe from my lips. 'So what now? What tangle of trouble have you fallen into?'

I told her about my visit to the palace.

'The queen.' She laughed in amazement. 'Tom I could kick you why did you not tell me of this before? So. We are to meet with Howard tonight?'

I stared at her in alarm. The thought of Howard meeting Kitty, those mad, blazing eyes raking over her . . . 'No, no. He's a monster, Kitty truly. You cannot come with me.'

'Why do you forbid it? Do you think you can command my obedience now that you've stolen my maidenhood?' She pressed a hand to her forehead and mock-swooned.

'Stolen? You flung it at me with both hands.'

She giggled, burying her nose in my neck. 'Let me help you, Tom. I've saved your life before.'

Yes and killed a man to do it. What would she say, I wondered, if I told her that the Queen of England knew what she had done? That she was holding that secret over me like a blade pressed to my heart? 'It will be a b.l.o.o.d.y, dreadful night,' I said, trying a different tack. 'I'm to meet him at a c.o.c.kfight in Southwark.'

'A c.o.c.kfight? Perfect!' She jumped to her feet. 'I haven't been to one in months.'

As we dressed I told Kitty about my visit to the Burden house that afternoon.

'Ned is Burden's son,' she murmured, lacing her boot. She knew the streets of Southwark of old and wouldn't waste a good shoe on all that filth. 'There is a resemblance, now I think on it. His mouth. The shape of his jaw.'

'I believe Ned is innocent, at least. More than anything, he wanted to be recognised as his father's son. Burden cannot acknowledge him from the grave.'

'Judith murdered him,' Kitty said, gesturing for me to tie her corset. 'I'm sure of it. She hated her father.'

And wished him dead she had confessed that much herself. And yet . . . I frowned, pulling the strings of Kitty's corset. If only I could tie up Burden's murder so neatly. Kitty swept up her hair and began to pin up her curls. I leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck, breathing in her scent. Rose water and the soft trace of sweat. I was glad to have confided in her it helped to talk through my ideas. 'I favour Stephen for it. Judith is too . . .' I struggled for the best word and landed upon Mrs Jenkins' description. 'Delicate.'

'Delicate?' Kitty stabbed another pin into her hair. 'Honestly. Did she swoon at you, Tom? Did you grasp her trembling hand? Oh dear Miss Burden, don't be afraid, I shall protect you, you poor delicate daisy. Puh. All that lisping and whimpering I don't believe a word of . . . ow, not so tight,' she gasped, loosening the corset a breath. 'Leave room for pie. I'm half starved from traipsing about town all day . . . No can you not see it, Tom? Judith with the blade, taking revenge upon her father at last? All those years playing the dutiful, obedient daughter, locked away in her room like a nun. And not one of your French nuns, Tom, stop drifting.'

'You do not like Judith.'

'I do not like Judith,' she agreed. 'I should not mind so much if she murdered her father. What why should I mind? He wanted you dead! But she was cruel to Alice, and sneaking with it. She was always so meek and mild in front of her father. But she treated Alice like a dog as soon as they were alone. Slapping and pinching her for the slightest mistake.'

I shook my head but it was not so hard to believe. Judith was not the first mistress to take out her frustrations upon her servant. No wonder she was so furious about the marriage. Ned may have spent seven years as Burden's apprentice, but Judith had served eighteen years' hard labour as his daughter and in the end had as little to show for it. And now Alice the only member of the household over whom she had the slightest power would rise to mistress of the household.

It should have been enough to convince me of Judith's guilt but still the same question remained unanswered in my mind. If it were the marriage that made her so angry, why did she not kill Alice?

I slung my sword low upon my hip, hoping I would not need to draw it tonight. The impossibility of the evening's task pressed hard upon my aching shoulders. How the devil was I supposed to befriend the man I'd bludgeoned unconscious only a week before? Oh, I say good evening, sir. Do you recall our meeting upon St James's Park where I beat out your brains with your own pistol? How delightful to make your acquaintance again. Now, would you be obliging and reveal some scandalous details of your life that I might sell to the Queen of England?

Perhaps Kitty might coax something useful out of the brute. She knew how to tease out secrets, how to listen in the shadows. Men underestimated Kitty, and she played upon it. Women too, for that matter. Which made me wonder . . . 'Kitty how did you come by all this gossip about Judith and Alice?'

Kitty skimmed away, pulled out a gingham shawl. 'Alice told me.'

'Alice has run away. Judith threw her out.'

'I know. She's upstairs. I've hired her to replace Jenny.' She drew the shawl over her shoulders. Caught my horrified expression. 'We do need a maid, Tom. Unless you would like to scrub the floors and wash the dishes and darn your stockings and-'

'-I do not question the need for a servant, Kitty. I just question the need to hire the one who crawled into our house last night covered in blood and waving a knife.'

'Which I was able to use in negotiations. She'll cost a shilling less than Jenny each month.'

'That will be a great comfort when we are murdered in our bed.'

'We must keep her hidden for now. Alice is afraid that Judith will accuse her now that you have been set free.'

'She already has. There is still a chance Alice is guilty,' I whispered, glancing anxiously at the ceiling.

'No. It was Judith. I am decided, Tom.'

Sam was downstairs, dismantling the old, broken printing press that lay gathering dust at the back of the shop. He liked mechanical objects he enjoyed pulling them apart and putting them back together. I'd known boys like him at school boys who wanted to peel back the skin of the world and see how it all worked. There was no mystery that could not be solved by close and careful study, preferably beneath a microscope.

I told Sam to hire a couple of street boys to watch the Burdens' house in case anyone tried to smuggle out a set of b.l.o.o.d.y clothes. Then I wrote a brief note to Gonson asking him to send one of his guards over tomorrow to help me search the house for evidence. My G.o.d he would hate that but for all his faults, Gonson was a dutiful magistrate. He would do as he was bid albeit through gritted teeth. 'Deliver this to his home, Sam,' I said, and gave him a couple of shillings. 'And treat yourself to a good supper and a bowl of punch when you're done.'

He pocketed the coins. He would probably buy a cheap bowl of stew at some fleapit, and save the rest. After all, what was a body but another machine? Food was fuel, and nothing more.

I took Kitty's hand and we set off for Southwark. She wore her grey riding cloak with the hood lowered. She smiled up at me as we walked, a little shyly. No longer a maid. I squeezed her hand and grinned back. I'm yours.

If I close my eyes now I can see us strolling through the town towards the Thames, feet slipping on the damp cobbles, talking about what we would do once our troubles were over. Our lives stretching ahead of us, so many paths to take.

And then I open my eyes and all I see is the thick grey wall of my cell. I am in the condemned hold at Newgate, sentenced to hang. And Kitty is gone for ever.

Part Three.

As they ride west down the Tyburn Road, the handsome new houses of Marylebone make way for rolling fields, dull brown and muddy. Black crows strut over the ridged ground, wings clasped behind their backs. Beneath the hedgerows, hard banks of snow thaw slowly in the pale spring sunshine. It has been a cruel winter. The air is fresher here, the sky more open. It makes him think of the Suffolk coast where he grew up. I will never go there again. I will never see my father or my sister again. I will never . . . I will never . . .

'Oh, G.o.d!' he breathes. Only his guards hear him. They watch and listen closely, memorising every detail. People will pay good money to hear of Thomas Hawkins' last moments.

And now, there is no road left. He can hear the roar of the crowds gathered up ahead. Tens of thousands have congregated on Tyburn Hill to see the spectacle, stretching far out into the fields beyond. Scores more have come to pick their pockets. Best place to thieve a watch, a hanging.

The constables fight a path through the throng, beat the surging crowds back with clubs. People are climbing trees, hanging from ladders, balancing on the tops of roofs and walls and carriages. A father lifts his little boy on to his shoulders. The rich and fashionable folk sit in raised galleries next to the gallows, wrapped in greatcoats and scarves, chattering idly over the latest court gossip. Hawkers weave through them all, selling fruit and bowls of warm b.u.t.tered barley. He can smell hot wine and sweet nutmeg in the air. His stomach rumbles. He has eaten poorly since the trial, his fine clothes hanging loose from his shoulders. And now, of all times, his appet.i.te has returned his body in protest, shouting its desire to live.

The carts turn in a wide circuit to the left, and he sees the gallows at last. Tyburn's triple tree. Three solid posts knocked deep into the earth, topped with three cross beams to form a triangle. Big enough to hang a dozen men. The hangman, John Hooper, lies along one of the cross beams, a pipe clamped between his lips, fixing the ropes with strong, deft fingers. As the carts approach, he flips one over. It tumbles down, swinging lightly.

If the pardon comes, it must be now.

The guards prod him to his feet. The Marshal is leaning down in his saddle, talking with his constables. He glances at the four carts, then gives a sharp nod and rides up to the gallows. 'Friends,' he bellows over the din. On his third try, the crowd quietens a little. 'Good Christians.' Someone shouts something from the back and a whole patch of spectators laugh.

Hawkins' heart is pounding so hard he can barely breathe.

The Marshal waits for silence. He slips his fingers into his saddlebag. Tugs out a scroll of paper, sealed with bright red wax. A royal pardon.

Chapter Thirteen.

I am told that evenings at the Whitehall c.o.c.kpit are a genteel affair, where peers lose their fortunes with quiet dignity and ladies are barred entrance for fear of fainting. Southwark c.o.c.kpits, by contrast, are a grand tour of h.e.l.l. Howard, true to his nature, had chosen the very worst.

The pit was hidden in a maze of back alleys off Deadman's Place a series of twists and turns I have no care to remember now. Kitty knew it well from her time working in the Marshalsea, and kept her cape and gown bunched high above the filth as she led the way. I walked a step behind with my hand upon the hilt of my sword, watching the shadows. We were too close to the gaol for my liking I had earned myself a mean set of enemies in that d.a.m.ned hole, and a c.o.c.kfight was precisely the place to find them again. I had conceived a bitter hatred of Southwark since my stay in prison, and this was the first time I had returned to the Borough in months.

Another twist, and we arrived at the mouth of an alley blacker than a parson's coat, rats scuttling and squealing in the darkness. A torch flickered at the dead end, beckoning us forward. A tavern without a name, hidden for a reason. I thought I glimpsed a movement up ahead, and touched Kitty's shoulder, but there was nothing there. I had come to expect danger from every shadow in this city. As we paused, I heard footsteps behind us and a short, tough-looking rogue hurried past without a glance, hood covering his face, long cloak flapping at his heels as he ran. Not Howard, but a similar build strong and solid and fearless in a place bristling with danger.

The windows of the tavern were boarded with thick planks, but we could hear the rabble inside, rowdy and violent. A guard stood at the entrance a dark-skinned man with a grubby hat shoved onto his bald scalp. His face was a hideous mess of old scars, puckered and seamed like poorly st.i.tched leather. A face to haunt nightmares, but for his eyes, which were clear and in this moment, at least merry. He was laughing with the man who'd pushed past us, but his smile faded as we joined them.

'No wenches,' he said, barring our way. 'Not tonight.'

His companion pulled back his hood. 'Sure and what am I, Jed?'

Jed spat a wet clod of tobacco at his feet and chuckled. 'f.u.c.k knows what you are, Neala Maguire.'

Neala . . .? The torch caught the man's face and revealed that he was, in fact, a woman shorter than me by a head, but by G.o.d she was as broad and solid as an oak tree. Her black hair was cut short to her nape, framing a strong face and a square jaw. She spoke with an Irish accent, her voice low and rough as a man's.

Kitty stepped forward, the torch turning her red hair to spun gold. 'Have you forgotten me so soon, Jed?'

'Kitty!' He grinned in surprise, then grabbed her in a tight hug, lifting her half off the ground. 'Didn't know you in them rum togs. Heard you was left a round sum.' He jerked his chin towards me. 'He come after?'

She put an arm about my waist. 'Before. Loves me for my sweet temper not my purse, ain't that right, Tom?'

Jed near p.i.s.sed himself laughing. 'Go on,' he said, gesturing inside. 'Never saw you.'

The tavern was packed, the air thick with pipe smoke, sweat and liquor. The noise alone almost knocked me from my feet men yelling to be heard as they cl.u.s.tered around the ring in the centre of the room. I stood dazed, battered by the sound, the stink, the roiling mess of it all. I'd fought in riots quieter than this. If a man found himself in trouble here, then G.o.d help him no one else would. I craned my neck, searching for Howard, but couldn't see him in the crowds. There must have been two hundred men in there at least.

Kitty grabbed my hand and pressed eagerly to the front, kicking ankles and treading on toes to carve a way through as spectators fell back in shock, open-mouthed. There were no other women that I could see. Some fellows grinned at me as if I were the luckiest devil alive, while others spat oaths and frowned in disapproval.

We pressed forward to the edge of the ring, leaning over the fence. The c.o.c.ks were being paraded before the fights began, smart and proud of their silver spurs. Kitty studied them all keenly, as if she were choosing one to marry. 'I like the look of him,' she muttered in my ear as one strutted by with its chest puffed. She elbowed the man on her left an old gent in bent spectacles. 'Hey, there. What's his pedigree?'

His eyes swivelled behind his thick lenses, then widened in dismay. He tugged at my cuff. 'Sir, this is not proper! The entertainment tonight . . . It is not suitable for a lady . . .'

Kitty laughed at him. 'Do I look like a f.u.c.king lady?'

The man opened and shut his mouth like a panicked fish. d.a.m.ned with a 'yay' and d.a.m.ned with a 'nay'. By G.o.d, I knew that feeling.

Two of the c.o.c.ks began to squabble, pecking and clawing the air. The room goaded them on until they began to fight in earnest, turned savage by the crowd. The owners shouted and waded into the fray, but it was too late. The larger c.o.c.k jumped upon its opponent, and with one vicious slash of its spur, ripped open the other bird's belly. It was still pecking and jabbing furiously when its owner pulled it free. The injured bird lay bleeding and calling piteously, guts spilling out onto the sawdust. Its owner cursed and wrung its neck. The c.o.c.k's legs scrabbled and danced, then fell still.

The parade over, the tavern owner lumbered into the ring to announce the start of the night's entertainment. A gladiatorial fight with swords . . . he skidded to a halt as he spied Kitty. 'Out!' he yelled over the din. 'Take that strumpet out!'

Two hundred men craned their necks to stare at us. There was a woman in the crowd! For some reason I couldn't fathom, this was an outrage beyond measure. True, most c.o.c.kfights were meant for men alone, but there were always a few women allowed in the room women of the town, in the main . . . but tonight there were none, save for Kitty.

A fat, sweaty man in a waterman's doublet cupped his hands to his mouth. 'Have you come to see a handsome c.o.c.k, s.l.u.t?' He grabbed his breeches.

'Aye, but I'll take the last one standing,' Kitty yelled back. 'Not the first one spent in the ring.'

The waterman's jaw dropped, and then he guffawed with laughter, raising his fists in approval. Nothing a Thames boatman appreciates more than a filthy mouth. The crowd roared with him, but there were as many protests as cheers. I drew Kitty closer. 'You might be safer outside with Jed,' I whispered in her ear. Scenes such as this could turn ugly very fast.

The landlord grabbed me by the coat. 'Out. Both of you. Unless you want a blade in the ribs . . .'

A shot rang out. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then chaos, as men ducked beneath tables or pulled out their own daggers and pistols.

'f.u.c.k,' the landlord breathed, lifting his gaze to a bench at the back of the room. A man in a dark velvet coat stood on the bench with a pistol in his hand, smoke trailing from the barrel. A gentleman with a mad man's face, lips twisted in a humourless grin. Howard.

The men who had drawn their own weapons groaned or sat back down upon seeing him. Perhaps because he was a n.o.bleman or perhaps because his reputation was well known in such a place. Either way, no one had the appet.i.te for a fight.

He stared at me for a long, terrifying moment, as if he might eat me alive. Then he relaxed, and tucked his pistol back into his coat. 'Let 'em through, Smith,' he barked at the landlord. His manner was rough, but his voice had the clear, irresistible authority of a courtier. Smith obeyed at once, cursing under his breath as he led us across the room.

Howard was sitting above the ring on a raised platform, attended by a gang of five men. Two I recognised as his chairmen, the rest were gentlemen of a fashion. Howard watched me without a word as I clambered up to meet him, his face curiously blank. I tensed as he stepped forward, jaw aching at the memory of his last punch. At least there was no powder left in his pistol. If he attacked us I could pull Kitty back into the crowds and out of the tavern in a flash. I was sure she knew the back alleys around here better than Charles Howard.

'You're a brave man . . .' he said, taking a long swig from a bottle of claret.

I said nothing, watching him closely. Ready to run.

' . . .bringing such a fine jade here.' He bowed towards Kitty, then returned his gaze to me. His eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight the gleam of a man standing on a precipice for the sheer h.e.l.l of it. 'What's your name, sir?'

I stared at him. Was it possible? Did he not recognise me? 'Thomas Hawkins,' I replied, too astonished and relieved to lie. I gave a short bow.

'A gentleman,' he said, voice thick with sarcasm. 'Well then, sir join us.' He gestured to his chairmen to leave the bench. As they rose, the young rake propped between them slid boneless to the floor and lay still. Howard put a foot beneath the boy's ribs and rolled him out of the way.

The rest of the party was drunk too, bottles littered beneath the bench, but Howard seemed steady enough. Well, he had enjoyed years of practice he was in his early fifties now, though he looked much older. I thought he must have been a handsome man in his youth, but he had ruined himself by decades of wild living. His face was bloated and sallow, with burst veins across his nose and cheeks.

'My thanks for your help, sir,' I said, nodding at the bulge of his pistol beneath his coat. 'You must permit me to buy another bottle or two . . .' A debauch would be a good way to extract useful information from Howard if I could remain sober myself.

'Put a guinea on the Irish b.i.t.c.h when she comes on and we're even,' he said, grabbing my shoulder and giving it a mighty squeeze. I buckled a little, and let out a silent whimper. I still ached from the morning's torture. I smiled and nodded through the pain, though I hadn't the faintest idea what he meant. He welcomed Kitty with a surprisingly charming bow, while I settled down upon the bench, marvelling at my good fortune. He truly didn't remember me from the fight in the park. Well it had been dark and he had been fearsome drunk. And I had knocked him senseless. There was still a cut upon his brow even now, scabbed and bruised. With luck I'd knocked the memory clean out of him.

He took another swig, studying me closely. 'I feel I know you from somewhere, Hawkins . . .'

The blood drained to my toes. 'The gaming tables, perhaps . . .?'

He scratched his jaw. 'Perhaps.' He took Kitty's arm and escorted her to the bench, settling her beside him. I gritted my teeth as he patted her hand, forcing myself to hide my revulsion. And yet there was some ghost of gallantry in his behaviour some echo of a younger man more able to dissemble and present a gentlemanly appearance. There was the actor who had fooled Henrietta into marriage the dashing captain wooing a sheltered young girl half his age. An orphan from a n.o.ble family with a fair fortune. He must have been licking his chops behind his hand. How long had he waited to reveal his true nature? A few days after the wedding at most, I wagered. A few days before the beast ripped its way into the open. Poor Henrietta. Only sixteen. She must have been terrified.

'D'you know, it's strange,' Howard frowned. 'You both seem familiar. Are you an actress, madam?'

'No, sir,' Kitty smiled. 'We own a bookshop, on Russell Street . . .'

He swayed, thinking. 'Hah! c.o.c.ked Pistol! Best d.a.m.ned shop in London!' Howard punched one of his companions in the arm. 'D'ye hear that, Drummond?' And soon the entire company fell to discussing the shop and what a great, civic service it performed. I could scarce believe my luck. Not only did Howard not remember our fight, it transpired he was one of our best customers. He sent a boy for most of his purchases, but was sure he had met us both on his own brief visits. I confess I did not remember him, but then I spent most of my time upstairs at my desk.