The Last Confession Of Thomas Hawkins Part 5

By the time they reach the edge of St Giles, the bleeding has stopped. St Giles. Drowning in vice, soaking in gin. Shake a house in St Giles and more thieves, wh.o.r.es, and murderers will tumble out than you'll find in the whole of Newgate Prison. It's a fitting place for one last drink. The horses stop outside the Crown tavern without a prompt from their riders. They have taken this road many times before.

The guards help him down from the cart. It is so cold he can see his breath, escaping in clouds from his lips. Someone pa.s.ses him a cup of mulled wine, pats him on the shoulder. He curls his fingers around the cup, grateful for the warmth. The dark-red wine looks almost like blood, steaming in the freezing air.

The crowds are friendlier here. They shout encouragements and promise to pray for him. They are the lowest of men and the lewdest of women: cutpurses, highwaymen, fraudsters and cheats, only a step from the noose themselves. For the first time in his life he wishes he could linger here, but he has barely finished his wine when he is ordered back on the wagon. As the Crown fades into the distance a thought comes into his mind, hard and certain as prophecy. That was the last time my feet will ever touch the earth.

And now he feels it the horror that he has fought off for so long. It knocks him reeling, harder than any stone hurled from the crowd.

He is about to die.

No. No! They promised. He will live.

He is a coin, spinning on its edge. Heads or tails. Life or death.

Chapter Six.

It was almost a week before I was ready to step into the world again. My jaw was so black and swollen for the first few days that I could only eat light broths and syllabubs. The gouges in my neck worried Kitty so much she insisted on washing them in hot wine twice a day.

'I'll stink like a tavern floor,' I complained, flinching as the wine invaded the cuts.

'Clean wounds mend faster,' she said, dabbing a home-made salve over my throat. Kitty's father Nathaniel had been a renowned physician and a close friend of Samuel Fleet. When she first moved in to the c.o.c.ked Pistol, Kitty had found a cache of his books and journals locked in a chest in the cellar. She would read them avidly when the shop was quiet, or late at night, squinting by the light of the fire.

One morning, a few days after the attack, I was lying in bed when there was a soft tap on the door. I had just propped myself on my pillow when Jenny slipped into the room. She stayed close to the door, fingers on the handle. Her eyes trailed to my bare chest, then darted away. 'May I speak with you, sir?'

'Of course.'

'I'm afraid . . . I'm afraid I must leave your service, sir.'

I hid my dismay. 'Because of Sam? I'll arrange a bolt for your room, Jenny, I promise it's just that I've been distracted these past days . . .' I gestured to my wounds. 'I will speak with him too, if you wish-'

'It's not that, sir. At least only in part.' She shielded herself behind the door, half in, half out. 'I've found a position in a house on Leicester Fields. I met the family at church.'

'Ah, I see. Well, Kitty will miss you.' She'll be furious. 'D'you need a reference?'

She shook her head, alarmed by the offer. 'It's kind of you, sir, but I'd be grateful if you didn't mention to no one that I worked here. They . . . they say such dreadful things about you in church.'

I chuckled. 'Oh, I can imagine.'

'No, sir.'

Her words stilled the room. No, sir. An interruption and a contradiction. This was not how Jenny spoke to me. A chill crept over me; a premonition that whatever she said next would destroy everything. I wanted to jump from the bed and cup a hand to her mouth. Instead, I waited, and a silence stole up between us.

Jenny twisted her fingers together in an anxious fashion. Her hands were red and chafed from her work and there was a small burn at the base of her thumb, where it had brushed against a hot pan. She too seemed reluctant to continue. Her lips were pressed together and she was breathing hard through her nose. She's scared. Scared of me.

Don't ask. Don't ask her.

'What do they say of me, Jenny?' The fear made my voice turn cold. The question had sounded almost like a threat, even to my ears.

She swallowed. 'They say you killed a man, sir. In the Marshalsea.'

There was a long pause. She began to shake.

'You must know that is a lie,' I said.

She nodded, without conviction.

'Who is it, who tells such foul lies about me?' But I knew the answer even as I asked. 'Mr Burden?'

Another nod. She took half a step on to the landing. 'He said Mr Gonson will prove it.'

'And people believe him?' Jenny attended St Paul's church at the west end of the piazza. Half the neighbourhood worshipped there of a Sunday.

'No . . . at least . . . not so much, sir. But then you was seen coming home all beaten and covered in blood and people began to wonder. Sir I must think of my own reputation, you see? This new position, it's most respectable . . .'

'I understand,' I said, and relief washed over her face. 'I would be grateful, Jenny, if you did not speak of this to Miss Sparks.'

'No, sir. I won't say nothing. I promise.'

'You do not believe I am a killer, Jenny?'

'No, sir!' she said. But oh the pause before she answered. It near broke my heart.

'Very good.' I dismissed her with a nod.

She dipped a curtsey and closed the door. Packed her few belongings and left within the hour.

d.a.m.n Joseph Burden, spewing his poison. Rumours spread like the pox in this town before long half of London would know me as a murderous villain. Heaven knows, I looked the part with my black eye and swollen jaw. I dared not venture out or even downstairs into the shop in such a dreadful state that would only complete the portrait and set our neighbours gossiping afresh. And so I brooded alone in my room, prowling up and down as if I were back in prison.

I didn't tell Kitty about Jenny's confession. Kitty's love was fierce and volatile as wildfire and it would only bring more trouble. At best she would worry. At worst she would confront Burden. So I kept quiet and prayed for the rumours to die away.

But Kitty was no fool, and she soon grew suspicious of my behaviour. I have always preferred to be out and in company. It was not in my nature to hide away in my room, not even for the sake of vanity.

One night I dreamed that I was trapped once more in the Marshalsea. The guards came for me in my cell and dragged me through the yard towards the wall. They were taking me to the Common Side, to the Strong Room. I began to scream, but I had no voice. They laughed and pushed me inside, locking the door behind me. I was alone. Breathing in the stench of death. The rats, writhing and squealing about my feet. I took a step forward and cold, dank fingers wrapped about my ankles. More hands, fleshless skeleton hands pulling me down. A pile of rotting corpses. I staggered and fell among them. They were holding me down, wrapping me in a tight embrace as the rats swarmed over us, claws scrabbling at my face. The more I struggled, the deeper I sank into the pile, until I couldn't breathe and there was earth in my mouth and I would never be free, I was trapped in here for ever . . .

'Tom!' Kitty shook me awake.

I sat up, heart racing. My shirt was soaked with sweat.

She reached for my hand in the dark. 'You were screaming.'

'Gaol.' But it had been more than that. I could still taste the soil in my mouth. And there was a tinge in the air the high, sweet scent of putrid meat. I had dreamed of Death and it clung to me still, even though I was awake.

'It's no wonder you're dreaming of prison,' Kitty said. 'You've been trapped in this room for too long. You must go out, Tom.'

She was right. The longer I stayed locked in the house the more I would feel like a prisoner. And the more old dreams would return to haunt me. I lay back down against the pillow.

Kitty curled up beside me, stroking my chest. 'Your heart is beating so hard . . . Are you in trouble, still?'

We both are, my love, if I can't stop Burden from spreading his lies. I kissed the top of her head. 'No.'

She sighed, her breath warm against my skin. 'I hate it when you lie to me.'

The next evening Kitty decided to visit the Eliots. She tried to persuade me to join her but I refused, insisting she take Sam instead. I didn't like her walking the dark streets alone and it would do Sam good to spend some time in decent company.

'Stay close to Miss Sparks,' I said, as he wound my best cravat around his neck. 'And remember what I taught you about good conversation.'

He looked at me in the mirror. 'Sentences.'

'Yes, indeed. Sentences.' I paused. 'That wasn't one, for example.'

He tied up his hair with a black ribbon. I had still not persuaded him to shave his head. He would never pa.s.s as a gentleman without a wig. Then I tried to imagine Sam in a wig, bowing to ladies and exchanging idle banter with other gents and was struck once again by the folly of my endeavours. Sam would never be a gentleman counterfeit or otherwise. He might as well keep his curls if he loved them so much.

I waited until he and Kitty had left, then dressed and strode out into Covent Garden. My jaw was still a little swollen, but my eye was much better. The night would hide the worst of it.

Moll's coffeehouse was as rowdy as ever the din carried halfway down Russell Street. The customers I knew well, the girls even better, flashing glances at me through the yellow haze of pipe smoke. Another life, I reminded myself, with a twinge of regret. I had not come here for sport but for information. This was the best place to discover how far Burden's lies about me had spread. And how much trouble I was in.

Moll King was winning a game of cards, surrounded by drunken admirers. No one knew Moll's real age middling thirties, I guessed. She was no longer in her prime, but she had a wicked charm, more alluring than the sweet complexion and slim ankles of her freshest girls. Once, her husband Tom had ruled the coffeehouse and the marriage and Moll had the scars to prove it. But she had worked and waited over the years always sober, always clever as the drink weakened him. Now he sat by the fire, bloated and gouty, with half his teeth rotted from his head, while his wife flirted and schemed and ran the place as if he were already in his grave. His name remained above the door, but this was Moll's place and the world knew it. I had been one of her favourites for a while, but she had lost interest now I shared my life with Kitty. I gave her the odd secret from the gaming tables to keep her friendly, but there were so many other young men in town, willing to spend money on her and on her girls. She blew me a kiss across the room and returned to her game.

It was Betty I needed, Moll's black serving maid. I found her making a pot of coffee by the fire. She tilted her chin to a corner table away from the main company. After a few minutes she brought me a bowl of punch, taking a gla.s.s for herself and settling down across the table.

People underestimated Betty. They ignored her, in fact. There was always one black serving maid at Moll's it was a tradition. And she was always called Betty no matter her real name. Two years ago this Betty had replaced another girl. Some customers hadn't even noticed the change she was just the black maid pouring their coffee. The first time I saw her, it was a quiet evening. I was pretending to read a newspaper while listening to a conversation at the next bench. I'd glanced up to find Betty watching me from a corner, a half-smile on her lips. I grinned back. She'd caught me eavesdropping on the customers and I'd caught her spying on me. Kindred spirits.

I liked Betty I liked the way she watched the world from beneath her thick black lashes. I think she liked me too. There was something unfinished between us some path I had missed too long ago to trace again. A secret heat I felt in her gaze. Another life, indeed.

She sipped her punch. 'Gonson paid us a visit last night.'

This was not surprising news. Gonson seemed to spend half his days raiding the c.o.c.ked Pistol, and the other half searching the coffeehouses for thieving wh.o.r.es to punish. For a man who hated vice so much, he certainly spent a great deal of time immersed in it.

'Anyone arrested?'

Betty cupped a hand to my cheek and guided my attention towards the next bench. Two of Moll's girls were astride the table, lazily pulling up their skirts for an elderly judge and a fawning band of lawyers. The men watched with glazed expressions as one of the girls knelt down, then ran her tongue up the other girl's thigh and . . . Well. Not everyone shared Gonson's crusading moral spirit, it seemed.

'Mistress King has a lot of friends,' Betty said, then sucked in her breath. Her fingers traced the bruises along my jaw. 'I heard you was attacked.'

'Defending a lady.'

Betty looked amused. I raised my hands to protest my innocence.

'Gonson asked about you last night.' She leaned closer. Betty wore a rare perfume, laced with the warm, sweet scent of jasmine. It smelled expensive and intoxicating, an intriguing counterpoint to the rough tang of coal smoke caught in her hair. How could she afford it? Perhaps she had a secret lover; a n.o.bleman, or a rich merchant who traded in exotic scents. And at the thought of this I felt a tinge of jealousy, though I was not ent.i.tled to such a feeling. She put her lips to my ear. 'He wanted to know if you'd killed a man. And there was plenty willing to talk.'

I muttered an oath. 'What did they say?'

'Lies. Half-truths. Your neighbour came with him Burden. Went about the room, offering to pay good coin to any man who'd tell the magistrate what a foul villain you were. He's set upon chasing you from your home.'

Or worse. I covered my mouth with my hand. A few months ago I would have laughed at such nonsense and dismissed it. But I had learned not to be so careless. Gonson was persistent and patient, and Burden hated me. A dangerous combination.

Across the room, Moll was calling for more wine. She would not drink it but she was playing cards with a gang who would. Easier to win against drunken fools. Her table cheered their approval and it seemed to raise the din throughout the coffeehouse, as men shouted to be heard over their neighbours. But Betty's voice was soft against my ear. 'Gonson knows about the murder on Snows Fields.'

And for a moment, that dark night enveloped me once more. The desperate fight to survive. An open grave and the taste of dirt in my mouth. The smell of gun smoke and blood. Kitty. 'It wasn't murder.'

'Was it not?' Betty asked, softly.

I drank my punch while Betty watched me, worried. 'Gonson follows the law,' I said, as much to rea.s.sure myself as her. 'There is no evidence. Nothing for him to discover.'

'Then you should stay in your fox hole, Mr Hawkins. Let the hounds pa.s.s you by. There'll be someone fresh for them to chase soon enough.'

It was good advice, as ever. Betty had tried to help me once before, and I hadn't listened. A few minutes later I had been arrested and thrown in gaol. 'I just want to be left in peace, Betty.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Of course. That's why you've been working for James Fleet.'

Ah. That was the unfortunate thing about Betty. She really did know everything.

Betty returned to her work while I lit a pipe, thinking about Burden and Gonson, and about Betty's advice. I supposed it would be wise to leave London for a time. I could visit my father in Suffolk. That would require leaving Kitty alone, which I did not like. Or taking her with me to meet my father, which I did not like still more.

I had no desire to leave the city. Why the devil should I? Why should I be chased from my home by Joseph Burden? Perhaps I should spread a few rumours about him, the blasted hypocrite. Perhaps I should tell the world that the man who lectured his neighbours on their manners all day was f.u.c.king his housekeeper at night?

I took a draw upon my pipe and settled back in my chair, breathing smoke in a lazy stream to the ceiling. I felt comfortable at Moll's, especially here on the fringes with a bowl of warm winter punch at hand. Disgraceful things were happening in dark corners, half-glimpsed in the fluttering candlelight. I relaxed feeling more at ease than I had in days and poured another gla.s.s. How many rumours had I heard and dismissed in this coffeehouse in the last three years? The punch sent a golden glow through my veins, bestowing a false contentment.

The men at the next table were discussing the latest rift between the king and the Prince of Wales. 'All that gold. All that power, and they still can't muddle along together,' one of them said, shaking his head, as if the gold and the power weren't the problem in the first place. It's a trifle hard to find your son agreeable when he's tapping his toe behind you, waiting impatiently for you to snuff it.

Bored by the conversation, I let my gaze drift across the coffeehouse. Then sat up straighter, craning my neck to look over the crowds. Was that . . .? So it was. Ned Weaver, Burden's apprentice. I hadn't spoken with him since the night of the invisible thief. And I had never seen him at Moll's before. Burden would not allow it, surely. How curious. He was sitting on his own at the edge of a rowdy bench, head slumped in his hand. I knew the other men at his table a foul bunch of villains and drunks who had prompted many of the worst fights at Moll's. Regular customers had learned to keep their distance.

Their leader a short fellow, all sinew and sneer muttered something to his companions. They shifted as one and glowered at Ned. He stared into his bowl of coffee, oblivious.

What the devil was he doing here? In the three months I'd lived on Russell Street I had never once seen him out in the taverns and coffeehouses of Covent Garden. The men were whispering to each other now, scowling openly at the foreigner washed up upon their land. Ned was a strong, solid lad with powerful muscles from his years of labour. I'd seen him run down the street carrying an oak table twice his size on his back. But these men were ferocious b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in a fight and there were six of them.

I should mind my own business. I had my bowl of punch and a fresh pipe and troubles of my own. Stay in your fox hole, Mr Hawkins.

Ned rubbed his hands over his face. His clothes were in disarray, his waistcoat unb.u.t.toned, his shirt loose. He looked close to tears.

d.a.m.n it. If he were only a bully like his master, someone I could despise and ignore. I should not trouble myself . . . And yet here I was, rising to my feet and pushing through the crowds. Might a few coins settle this? I arrived at the bench just as one of the gang shoved Ned hard in the ribs. He started as if from a dream, then leaped to his feet, fists raised. Oh, G.o.d not another fight. Pain stabbed through my jaw at the thought. If someone hit me again tonight my head would probably fall off.

'Gentlemen,' I said, putting a hand on Ned's shoulder and pulling him back.

Six men scowled up at me. There was a moment's tense silence. I kept my shoulders back. Ned was tall and strong and so was I. Between us we could . . . run very fast for the street, G.o.d help us.

And then, to my astonishment, all six men drew back, nervous. After a moment's pause, the leader dipped his chin at me. 'Mr Hawkins.' The rest of the gang followed, nodding sharply and turning back to their punch.

I looked from face to face, amazed by my good fortune and not quite sure I believed in it. But no it seemed they had no appet.i.te for a fight this evening, possibly for the first time in their lives. Half faint with relief, I grabbed Ned and led him away, back to my table. 'That was a piece of luck,' I muttered, leaning across to borrow a gla.s.s for him from the next table.

Ned stole a glance across the room as I poured him some punch. 'There was no luck to it, sir. They was afraid of you.'