The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (10 page)

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.

Damn
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 pass 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 glass 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 Cocked Pistol, and the other half searching the coffeehouses for thieving whores 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 nobleman, 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 entitled 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 reassure 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 pass 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 fucking 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 glass. 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.