The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (28 page)

I was desperate to leave the room and find Kitty, but a light shuffle beneath my blankets revealed that I was quite naked. Exposing myself in front of James Fleet’s daughters did not seem wise.

After some whispering and giggles, the eldest girl introduced herself as Eva. ‘Becky. Sofia,’ she added, indicating her sisters.

‘You snore,’ Becky informed me.

Eva hushed her. ‘You’re teaching Sam to be a gent.’

Becky and Sofia sniggered at the thought of such an impossible task. I sat up, as much as was decent, holding the blankets to my chest. ‘In a fashion . . .’

Eva touched her neckerchief. ‘Might I make a lady d’you think, sir? I should like to wear fine clothes and—’

‘Out. All of you. Damned hussies.’ Fleet stood in the doorway, holding Bia in the crook of one arm. From his hot, crabbed expression I guessed that he had not asked his daughters to stand sentinel over my bed. As they ran laughing from the room, he blocked Eva’s path. ‘What’s this?’ he snapped, tugging a handful of the scarlet gauze. ‘Take it off, child.’

‘I’m
indoors
, Pa,’ she wailed, clutching it back to her chest. ‘No one can see.’

As father and daughter argued, Bia struggled free and clambered back on to the bed. She scrunched her way up to my shoulder and put a dimpled hand to my face, dark eyes sombre. ‘Bad man gone?’

I thought of Howard, backing away into the shadows. ‘Yes, little one. All gone. Your papa chased him away.’ For ever, I hoped.

‘Bad man all gone,’ she said, satisfied, and traced a grubby finger down my cheek. Then she slid from the bed and toddled after her sisters.

Fleet watched her go, shaking his head. ‘Five girls. God help me. Sore head?’

I lowered my feet slowly to the ground, wrapping a blanket around my hips. The room tilted and I had to breathe hard to steady myself. ‘I’m well enough,’ I said, touching the back of my skull. There was a small bump, but not as bad as I’d feared. ‘Kitty?’

‘Upstairs.’

I rose and hobbled across the room, each step jolting my head.

‘
Clothes
,
Hawkins. This ain’t a brothel.’ He pointed to a bundle on the floor and left. My dagger rested on top of the pile.

Scratchy woollen breeches, an old waistcoat for a much fatter man, a tattered cravat. A wig, too – but it looked so lousy I dared not touch it, never mind place it upon my aching head. I wondered who these clothes had belonged to and how they had come here – then decided it was best not to be too curious in Fleet’s house.

Out upon the landing I heard the murmur of conversation on the floor above. I limped barefoot up to the room at the top of the stairs, drawn by the voices and the scent of warm spiced food that hugged the air.

And there she was, sitting by the fire, her feet tucked up under her skirts. She was still pale, but a thousand times better than the night before. We looked at each other across the room, safe now after the dark horrors of the night. Then she slid to her feet to greet me. I put my hands to her face. Her skin was warm. ‘You’re well?’

She nodded and I kissed her, wrapping my arms about her waist as if she might disappear.

‘Oh Lord, Tom,’ she gasped, breaking away. ‘You will squeeze me to death.’

I loosened my grip. Slowly recalled that Fleet was in the room, and his wife Gabriela, holding a baby in her arms. Daughter number five, I supposed. Eva, Becky and Sofia, grinning and nudging each other. Little Bia, watching us wide-eyed on the table, chewing her fist. And Sam, leaning against a wall in the corner, hands in his pockets. Mute, as ever.

I gave Gabriela a short bow. ‘Thank you, madam.’

She smiled at the courtesy, her eyes tired. ‘Lucky. Both of you.’ Her accent was a complicated mix of Portuguese and St Giles. She crooked a finger into her baby’s fist and jiggled it up and down. ‘No jumping in river no more. Yes?’

‘I swear it – upon my life,’ Kitty said. ‘I feel as if I’ve been run down by a wagon.’

Fleet put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

Phoenix Street was crowded and chaotic, and everyone was selling – food, gin, bodies. A tinker stood in a doorway, clanging an iron pot, his nose caved in from the pox. He stank of piss, the bottom of his coat sodden with it. I looked away, my head pounding in time to his noise.

There was a frost in the air this morning and I was grateful for it – it woke me up, and freshened the streets a little. A man ran past us, dragging a hand cart filled with clothes. For a brief moment I thought I saw the chairman’s coat buried in the heap, stained with blood. But the wheel almost ran over my toe and I was forced to leap back. By the time I’d recovered, the cart had vanished.

Fleet strode through the ragged stream of life, squinting at the winter sun with eyes more accustomed to the dark. A cluster of men nodded as he passed, but most minded their own business. We turned into a sunless alley and Fleet sighed, as if coming home. Turned and twisted again until we reached a ruined courtyard, overlooked by gloomy, tumbledown houses. No carts rolled down here, no hawkers called their trade. Windows were shuttered tight against the day, and all was still. The ropes and walkways of the rookery loomed high above our heads, blocking the light. Here we were both in shade, the world dyed grey.

He tapped his toe against the cobbles, hands in pockets. ‘D’you know this place?’

I looked about me. The press of broken houses, the narrow balconies hung with tattered sheets. This was where I had stopped last night, when I could run no further. This was where I had called Fleet’s name – and he’d answered.

He held out his hand. Two guineas glinted in his palm.

My payment for meeting with Mrs Howard in St James’s Park. He had known all along that her husband would attack the carriage. He had sent me there without warning and I had almost died as a consequence. No doubt he thought last night had squared the matter. But if he had not lied to me when we shook hands upon the deal, then I would never have met Charles Howard in the first place. Kitty would never have been hurt and threatened and half drowned.

He pressed the coins into my hand with a smile. ‘Take them, sir. Don’t forget, your life is worth only half that.’

‘You betrayed me.’

‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said heavily. Wearily. ‘You knew the dangers. You betrayed yourself, sir.’

‘What – I should have guessed you worked for the queen?’

‘I work for myself.’ He snuffed back a laugh. ‘
Gentlemen.
All that schooling . . . I forget what fools you are. You ain’t equipped to live in the world. You strut about, so sure you’re the cleverest souls in England. D’you think your wits are sharper than mine, sir?’

‘I—’

‘Of course you do. Even now. Tell me – what was it you studied at Oxford?’

I scowled at him. He knew the answer full well.

‘
Divinity.
’ He chuckled, as if this were some great joke. ‘Three years wasted upon the next world. Well – I have spent eight and thirty studying
this
one. Who has the best of it, d’you think?’

‘What do you want of me, damn you?’

‘You know, sir, you know.’

Aye – I did. He had made a great deal of money working with his brother. Samuel had been a spy for the queen – and for others, no doubt. Now I was to replace him – with Sam to assist me, I supposed. A fine and lucrative deal, with very little risk for James Fleet. ‘I will not work for you.’

He laughed and shook his head. Laughed again. ‘It’s not an offer, Hawkins. It’s an order.’

A knot tightened in my throat. Now I understood why Betty had been so furious with me. She had realised at once what I had lost, in that fatal moment when I had shook James Fleet’s hand. I thought of the Marshalsea – of the tortures I’d endured to secure my freedom. Now – a scant three months later – I was a prisoner again. And for what? A brief dazzle of excitement. How could I have been so reckless? It was not enough to shrug and say it was my nature, not enough to rail at God or Fortune. I could have prevented this.

No wonder Fleet mocked me as a fool. He clapped me on the shoulder, and the weight of his hand felt like an iron chain. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Course you are.’

Of course I was.
It
’
s not an offer, Hawkins.
I was Fleet’s man now – and the queen’s. God help me – I’d be lucky to survive the week.

As we headed back up Phoenix Street, Fleet plucked Eva’s gauze neck cloth from his pocket and threw it into the gutter. For a moment it fluttered there in the filth, gold thread glinting in the sun. Then a street boy snatched it and ran, scampering up a wall on to the rooftops and away.

Sam had brought a letter from Gonson – a reply to my request to search Burden’s house. Gonson railed at my insolence, though he had no choice but to comply.
It will prove nothing, sir,
he wrote,
save your black-hearted cruelty and the innocence of Burden
’
s children. You will be judged for this one day, Hawkins. Such devilish behaviour does not go unpunished.
There followed more sermonising, which I did not read. All that mattered was his promise to send a constable to the house later that afternoon. In the meantime, Sam told me that the street boys had watched the house all night. No one had come and no one had gone – the house had remained barred and silent, as if Burden were still alive, ruling the family with the Bible and his fist.

Gabriela served a late breakfast of plum porridge, richly spiced and delicious. I ate three bowls of it, much to her satisfaction. ‘This how a man eat, Samuel,’ she scolded her son, who had picked out all the currants and dotted them along the rim like dead flies. Then she bowed him to her breast and kissed his head, running her hand through his curls. ‘
Belo
,’ she smiled, her long scar puckering her face. Sam said nothing. But he closed his eyes for a brief moment, and smiled too.

A quick pipe and a pot of strong coffee, and I was eager to return home. Fleet had already thrown off his boots and was snoring softly in a hammock, recovering from the night’s work. Kitty kissed Gabriela goodbye and we headed down the stairs.

‘Could I not go with them, Ma?’ Eva begged her mother. ‘Mr Hawkins promised to make me a lady.’

What the devil
 . . .
?
Kitty and Gabriela stabbed me with a look. I raised my hands in protest.

‘I would make a fine gentlewoman,’ Eva trilled, swishing her gown and fanning herself with her hand.

‘A fine
strumpet
,’ Sam muttered, dodging a slap as he ran for the stairs.

‘You stay here with me, Eva,’ Gabriela said firmly. ‘We put you out in the world, I think you break it.’

I kept my borrowed hat low over my eyes as we reached Covent Garden. Most of the passersby did not recognise me in such mean clothes. Those who did seemed wary and puzzled. How simple it had been yesterday when I was the monster, arrested and dragged to gaol by Gonson’s men. They did not like me any better today, walking free about the streets in my eccentric suit of ill-matched clothes. No doubt the news of my enquiries had spread, creating even more confusion. What should they make of me? Was I to be pitied? Reviled? Feared? No one knew. And so they kept their distance, until they had an answer on which they could all agree. And God help me, I had best find Burden’s killer before then. This was how mobs were born. Confusion and fear, and then a swift, angry decision.
That one. He
’
s to blame.

It struck me that both Fleet and the queen would be interested to see how I resolved my troubles with Burden’s family. I had proved my reckless courage, protecting Henrietta Howard from her husband. Now my skills of reasoning would be tested as I searched for the killer. If I was successful, I would have proved myself useful to them. If I failed, I would most likely hang. It was a provoking thought.