The Last Confession Of Thomas Hawkins Part 10

Crowder struck me hard across the back of the head. Pain flashed through my skull and I staggered, half-blinded. The guards dragged me on through the streets. I kept my mouth shut.

Chapter Ten.

'So, Mr Hawkins are you ready to confess?'

Gonson paced the cell, hands clasped behind his back. He wore the satisfied air of a man unburdened with doubt; a man who walked in the light, oblivious of his own shadow. He had removed his hat and cloak; I supposed they must be drying by a fire somewhere. Here, in this room, there was no fire. He was warm enough in his frock coat, though his brown wool stockings were damp and spattered with mud. His long, full-bottomed grey wig smelled like wet goat.

Crowder guarded the door, thick arms folded high upon a belly grown fat with ale.

I s.h.i.+fted a little, chains clinking against the wall. I was barefoot and sore, hoisted almost on tiptoes on the ice-cold stone floor. My wrists were raised above my head, iron links fixed to a hook in the ceiling. I had thought when Gonson arrested me I would be slung in the Westminster lock-up, but instead I'd been dragged to a private house in a quiet courtyard. The guards had ripped off my stockings and waistcoat out of spite, and brought me down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Then they had left me alone for an hour, until my legs were shaking and my arms and shoulders burned. My fingers were numb; when I looked up I could see them blue-white and bloodless.

I had not expected this of Gonson. He was a man of the law. Why bring me here to this private place, except to hide what he was about? This was not lawful. Now he had returned, expecting to find me cowed and terrified, ready to confess.

Did he know what had happened to me in the Marshalsea? Did he look at me and think I was so easily broken? I glared at his smooth, bland face. 'You have no right to keep me here, sir.'

Gonson paused in his pacing, fiddling with the fraying cuffs of his soil-coloured coat. Unlike most city magistrates, he was proud to say that he was incorruptible, which would explain his drab clothes and the outmoded square toes of his scuffed shoes. Or perhaps he thought good clothes were the devil's work. 'My guards have searched your rooms. They found bags packed with clothes and money enough for a long journey. It is quite clear that your intention was to flee.'

I cursed silently. I'd packed those bags before my visit to the palace last night and clean forgot them. 'You have no proof I killed Burden. I thought better of you, Mr Gonson. You have a reputation for being a fair man. This is not lawful-'

'No, sir!' Gonson roared. 'Do not dare lecture me on the law! Do not dare!' He clenched his gloved fist, and for a second I thought he would strike me. Then he pulled away. 'I should have listened to Mr Burden, but I refused to act without proof. Now he lies dead at your hand.'

'For G.o.d's sake! How do you propose I murdered him? The doors and windows were locked and bolted. It must have been someone in the household, don't you see? What if one of the children-'

Gonson signalled to Crowder. He strode across the cell and placed his hands upon my shoulders. Then he pressed down hard, wrenching my arms in their sockets. I screamed, and he grinned, pus.h.i.+ng so fiercely that I thought my body would be torn apart. I screamed again, the pain ripping through me like fire.

At last, I was released. I sank back against the wall, my body shuddering with the shock. 'I thought better of you, sir.' I rasped.

Gonson frowned, stung by the insult. 'No fault but yours, Hawkins. You force me to use these methods.' He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out an arrest warrant, my name scratched upon it. Thomas Hawkins, for the charge of murder. Beneath it lay Gonson's signature. I drew away, as if I might be d.a.m.ned by reading it. No man wishes to see such a thing. This was the arrest the queen had spoken of the one she had overturned in exchange for my help with Charles Howard.

Gonson folded up the warrant and tucked it away. 'I had planned to arrest you this morning. I have a witness swears you shot a man last September, in Southwark. Mr Burden had promised to testify. He heard you discuss the murder with your wh.o.r.e.'

'He lied. They both lied-'

'Quite enough to bring you to justice at last,' Gonson said, refusing to hear me. 'And yet the ink was barely dry upon the warrant when I was summoned to the Marshal's house. He ordered me to cease my enquiries.' He paused, lips pressed into a tight, bitter line. 'He said he had been given no choice. The City Marshal, corrupted and threatened on your behalf, sir. I thought you were merely a foolish, whoring fellow but I see now that you are a devil. I have examined Burden's corpse, sir. You butchered the man. Who is it protects you, Hawkins? My Lord Walpole? The king?' He grimaced at the thought. 'I doubt your benefactor will feel as generous when he learns how you used your freedom.' He patted his pocket. 'I'll wager this warrant will be granted before the sun sets tonight. And until then you will remain here, safe from the reach of your friends.'

They left me then, my arms still raised and pinned to the wall. The room was dark as night without a candle. I stared unseeing into the shadows, stunned and exhausted. I hadn't expected this from Gonson. It was a cunning move on his part. He had no proof that I had killed Burden, but by arresting me in such a public way he had sent a challenge to the queen, my secret benefactor. Was I truly worth protecting now?

The hours pa.s.sed. No one came. I had no food, no water. My mind began to wander, then fracture. I would never confess to Burden's murder, not in a thousand years. But as I stood chained to the wall, freezing and crippled with pain, I began to wonder if I should confess to the murder on Snows Fields. If I told the whole story if I explained that I was defending myself, there was a chance I would be spared. Transported for a few years perhaps, rather than hanged. Surely I could survive that.

And with that decision, the weight lifted from my heart. There was nothing more to be done. By rights I should have died that night in September. Instead I had been granted a few months of happiness with Kitty a reprieve I had done little to deserve, G.o.d help me. So let Gonson charge me, and Fate would decide the rest. One last gamble. If the world were just, I would be spared.

Yes, I am aware how foolish this all sounds gambling upon a just world, indeed. In my defence, I had been standing on tiptoes with my arms pinned above my head for G.o.d knows how long. I invite you to try it and see how soon your common sense flies out of the window. Something Gonson had been counting upon, no doubt.

The cell door slammed open. Crowder strode into the room with his club held high. I braced myself for another beating. He came closer, wheezing softly. Then he pulled out a set of keys and unlocked my chains.

I collapsed to the floor with a groan of relief. Moments later I was seized in agony as the cramps ripped through my shoulders and arms and along my bare, frozen calves. My fingers began to throb as the blood returned, but when I tried to bend them it felt as though someone was slamming red-hot needles into my knuckles. I lay upon the floor while Crowder tried to kick me to my feet.

At last, when the cramping stopped, I dragged myself up and hobbled from the cell in a daze of pain, Crowder snorting with impatience. After a few limping steps he put his arm beneath my shoulder and half-carried me up the stairs towards a room at the front of the house. Light spilled out from the open door and I could hear a woman's voice, high and wavering. Kitty? No, please G.o.d she would confess to anything to save me. I staggered forward, using the walls for balance. After the freezing cellar, the heat of the room hit me like a furnace. A fire blazed in the hearth, a thick stew bubbling away on the range. Gonson's men sat together at a table, drinking small beer. Gonson himself stood by the fire, wearing a look of mild revulsion as a young woman knelt at his feet, sobbing into her ap.r.o.n. Not Kitty, I realised with astonishment. Betty.

'Oh, sir, please!' she shrieked, her voice m.u.f.fled by the cloth. 'I ain't done nothing. Don't hurt me!'

'Calm yourself, hussy!' Gonson snapped. He leaned down and pulled her hands roughly from her face. 'How did you hear of the Marshal's order? Tell me quick before I throw you in a cell for obstructing my work.'

'I'm not obstructioning, I swear!' she whimpered, wiping her eyes. 'Oh, I think I shall faint, sir please don't lock me away!'

Gonson huffed in frustration. 'Hawkins. D'you know this foolish creature?'

I rubbed my ruined shoulders. 'There is an order from the Marshal, sir?'

He coloured and said nothing.

'I should like to see it, Mr Gonson.'

He hesitated for as long as he could as if he wished he might give me anything else in the world. At last he took a letter from a drawer and held it out to me. I grabbed it and read it quickly, heart leaping as I understood its purpose.

The letter was from the City Marshal, requesting my immediate release. More than that, it demanded that Gonson apologise for questioning my good character and that . . . I blinked, and read the line again, to be sure I had not dreamed it. It said that I had been charged by the Marshal himself with investigating Joseph Burden's murder. And that Gonson must give me every a.s.sistance in my search for the murderer.

'When did this arrive?'

Gonson's blush deepened. He must have held on to the letter for hours, hoping I might confess, or at least give him some new information in the meanwhile. And I almost had. I almost had.

I glowered at him. 'And you speak to me, sir, of corruption.'

Oh, what he wished to say to me then! The fury and frustration throbbing through his veins. But he could not accuse me now, not without risking his own position. Instead he took his annoyance out upon Betty, shouting at her to get to her feet and to stop her mewling. 'How did you learn of the Marshal's letter? Answer me, hussy!'

Betty just shook her head, whimpering with fright.

'Leave her be, Gonson,' I said. 'She's only a coffee maid. She works at Moll's half the town spills its secrets in there.'

Gonson was disgusted by Betty, by the thought of Moll's, by the whole world he was forced to inhabit. 'And what business is this of yours, woman? Why should you hurry over here and cause all this fuss? Are you a spy-'

Betty wailed in horror, drowning out his question. 'No, no sir! I only come here because . . . Oh, Mr Hawkins, you must tell him the truth! You know I'd do anything for you, sir!' And with that she scurried across the room and flung her arms about my neck. Before I could reply she pressed her lips to mine, warm and sweet. I had just begun to enjoy myself when she broke away.

'Silly s.l.u.t.' Gonson shuddered, scandalised.

I spied my waistcoat and stockings piled in a corner. I sat down and put them on, then slipped on my shoes. 'I believe I am owed an apology, Mr Gonson. By order of the City Marshal.'

'Get out.' Gonson's face had turned a remarkable shade of purple. 'Get out, you devil.' He spun back to the fire, unable to bear the sight of me leaving, a free man with my order in hand. He pretended he was warming his hands by the fire, but his shoulders were shaking with rage.

We hurried as fast as we could up King Street. Betty wore pattens over her shoes to save them from the muddy streets, metal soles tinking along the pavement. My own feet throbbed after long hours stretched out upon the cold bas.e.m.e.nt floor, and my legs were trembling. I was exhausted and anxious, but I was free and the rain had stopped, the sun s.h.i.+ning through soft grey clouds. I narrowed my eyes, dazzled by the light.

We walked in silence for a short while, Betty leading the way north past White Hall. My bare scalp and missing frock coat drew a few curious glances until we reached the fringes of Soho, where men chose to mind their own business. We crossed into a quiet backstreet, Betty's feet tip-tapping to a halt.

'Well,' I said. 'That was-'

Betty pushed me violently against the wall. My back and shoulders sang with pain, still sore from my punishment.

'G.o.d in heaven,' she spat, amber eyes blazing. 'D'you know the trouble you've caused?'

I glared back at her. 'What? And how is this my fault?'

She spat out an oath and stepped back, hands on her hips. The frightened, wailing hussy had vanished. I rubbed my tender shoulders. Now I thought of it, Betty had never once struck me as the frightened, wailing hussy sort. She had played her part to perfection presenting herself just as Gonson would expect. A silly strumpet without the wit to know anything of value. He had let a diamond fall from his grasp without even realising his mistake.

'I warned Budge you wasn't ready,' she muttered. 'They never listen to me.' She strode off again towards Soho, pattens raised high above the filth. Tink, tink, tink.

'You work for the queen?' I called, catching up with her.

She didn't miss a stride. 'Who doesn't? And Mr Hawkins,' she added, after a short pause, 'the next time I kiss you as a distraction, mind where you put your hands.'

'Next time?'

Betty gave me a look that could wilt flowers. But when I glanced down a moment later she was smiling, just a little.

'How did you find me?' I asked. Gonson hadn't taken me to his own lock-up, but to private rooms. He'd wanted time to sweat the truth from me without interruption, away from the reach of my benefactor.

'd.a.m.ned fool dragged you through the streets in chains. Half the city saw you.'

I frowned. What one half of the city saw, the other half would know of by nightfall. I had been paraded through the middle of London like a criminal. Put a fine coat on a man and he is halfway to a gentleman. Wrap him in chains and he must be a rogue. The town would not forget it.

I had never visited Betty's home before. In truth, if I'd been asked, I would have guessed she slept in the wooden shack next to the coffeehouse. I was surprised she could afford to rent a room of her own even on a gloomy yard off Wardour Street. She made me wait until all was quiet, walking ahead to open the door. Once she was inside and the yard was clear, I strolled past the house as instructed, then doubled back, keeping to the shadows. When I was sure no one was looking, I tiptoed down the cellar steps and slipped inside.

The room was tiny no more than six paces wide and five long but clean and pleasant nonetheless. The floor had been freshly swept, and sprigs of lavender hung from the ceiling, scenting the air along with the jasmine perfume Betty always wore. It was, in fact, the sweetest-smelling room I had ever visited in the city, including the queen's chamber. Betty's scant belongings were stacked neatly on shelves. There were only a few pieces of furniture a narrow bed, a cane-backed chair, and a small table with a wash bowl and jug. Her pattens and shoes were lined neatly by the door. Betty walked barefoot in her own home.

She closed the shutters and knelt in front of the hearth, striking sparks from a tinderbox. The kindling under the coals took flame, bringing more light and a touch of heat to the room. She put her finger to her lips. 'No visitors allowed. Especially gentlemen.' Her gaze flickered to the ceiling. 'Landlord would throw me out if he found you here.'

I stood over her, warming my hands by the fire. 'That must be inconvenient.'

'Perhaps I prefer it this way.' She settled a pan on its trivet and stood up, clapping the soot from her hands. 'Lie down and rest while I cook this broth. You look half dead.'

I opened my mouth to protest, then realised I was indeed half dead with fatigue. There were no marks upon my skin, but my muscles were bruised and sore from being fixed for so long in one position. I lowered myself down upon the bed, wincing with the pain, and removed my shoes. There was a short pa.s.sage pinned to the wall, written in a rough hand.

I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.

The fortieth psalm. My father had stamped them into my brain, indelible as a mariner's tattoo. I stretched out upon the bed, but my feet dangled from the edge, so I rolled upon my side and drew my knees to my chest. I sighed into the pillow. I was free, thank G.o.d at least for now and safe here in my temporary sanctuary.

So much had happened in the last few hours that my head could not rest upon one thought, never mind plan what I should do next. One moment I would think of the queen, and then of Mrs Howard. And then Burden. The sound of the dagger sliding back into his chest. Sam's face as he examined the body, cool and curious. And Howard I must find him . . . must . . . and then it would all whirl about again, a dance I had never learned, where each step was misplaced, each partner unwanted. Well . . . had I not grown tired of my quiet, cramped existence? Had I not craved this? But for the life of me, I could not remember why. I closed my eyes . . . and in an instant had dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke to the sound of broth bubbling in the pot. I sat up slowly, rubbing my face. Betty gestured to the table, where hot water was steaming in the jug. I poured it into the bowl and washed my face, neck and hands. It felt so good that I tore off my s.h.i.+rt and soaked my chest and back, rinsing away the grime of the lock-up. Betty glanced up then away hurriedly, stirring the broth with her back to the bed.

When I was dressed again, I settled back in the chair by the fire and ate a bowl of the broth with a coa.r.s.e chunk of bread and a mug of beer. Betty ate her own dinner standing up, studying me under long black lashes. She had fixed me a fresh pipe which I smoked gratefully, stem clamped to my lips. Slowly, I was returning to myself. I rubbed my wrists, where the iron had chafed the skin.

'You think you are free,' Betty said.

I held up my unchained hands.

'You are not free.'

I took another draw on my pipe, breathed out the smoke in a soft cloud. 'This sounds like the beginning of a lecture.'

She threw a shawl about her shoulders. 'It is too late for that. You are the queen's man now, Mr Hawkins. Those chains are stronger than iron.'

'I didn't think she would save me again.'

'Howard stormed into the palace last night. He stood in the courtyard screaming about his wife and the king and demanding justice. He has lost all sense. The queen saved you because she is desperate. There's no time to find someone else.'

'I do not understand why they tolerate it. Why do they not lock him up? Or . . .' I trailed away. Or have him killed. I knew why. Because he was a n.o.bleman. 'And what if I can't resolve the matter?'

'You know what will happen. Don't look for comfort from me.' She pinned her cap, tucking her tight black curls beneath the cloth. Her face was stronger and more severe with her hair sc.r.a.ped back, but still handsome. Almost regal, in fact. 'I'm late for work. Here.' She tossed me a wig and hat. 'Some drunken fool left these at Moll's the other night.'

'D'you know . . .' I squinted at them. 'I think these are mine. Oh! You didn't find a shoe, I suppose?'

Betty muttered something to herself. 'Put out the fire once I'm gone. Don't let a soul see you leave. Takes a long time for someone of my complexion to find somewhere respectable to live.' She fastened the ribbons on her gown, until her chest rose high and firm. She caught me staring and pursed her lips. 'Budge sent a message. Mr Howard will be in Southwark tonight, at the c.o.c.kfight.'

I cursed into the fire. After all I had endured today, I had no desire to spend the night with that beast. 'd.a.m.n it. Well. I suppose I have no choice in the matter.'

'You had a choice!' Betty hissed, rounding on me. She kept her voice low, but there was a force to her words, even so. 'I told you months ago! Go home! Honour your father's wishes and join the Church. Become his heir again. Become his son again. All that good fortune and you threw it away. For what?'

I frowned at her. 'For a life.'

'A life that will kill you.' She shook her head. 'I've watched you, Mr Hawkins. You throw yourself at the world so sure it will catch you every time. But one day you will fall.'

'My father would adore you,' I muttered, slapping on my hat. I crossed the room and wrapped my hand about her slim wrist. 'This is my nature, Betty. I can't be what I'm not.'

Her pulse thudded against my fingers. 'Perhaps.' She hesitated, then drew away. 'But you could be so much more than you are.'

Back on Russell Street, my neighbours greeted my return with worried glances and sharp intakes of breath. The monster had returned. When I stepped into the chandler's on the corner to purchase some fresh quills and paper, the mistress of the shop informed me in a high, trembling voice that my credit was revoked. I was no longer welcome. I found the same reception in the grocer's.

As I trudged defeated towards home, a flat, nasal voice called out behind me. 'Quite the leper, Mr Hawkins.'

Mr Felblade, the apothecary, matched his step with mine. He was a most peculiar old man eccentric, to use the queen's charitable term and a very poor advertis.e.m.e.nt indeed for his various lotions and tinctures, with their promise of good health and prolonged youth. He was excessively lean, with a long, narrow face, made longer by a towering wig that rose in twin horns upon either side of his head. His clothes unfas.h.i.+onable since Queen Anne's day hung from his bony frame as if embarra.s.sed to be seen with him.

'And do you have a cure for leprosy, Mr Felblade?'

He chuckled, then ran his tongue across his wooden dentures. They had a tendency to stick against the inside of his lips, and his mouth was in constant motion, licking and spitting to moisten them.

'It's not wise to walk with me, sir,' I said, hoping he might leave me in peace. 'Bad for business.'

'What do I care if you killed Burden?' he scoffed. 'Couldn't stand the man. No one could. Hypocrites!' He wheeled about and waved his fist at the rest of the street.

He was not the most comfortable ally.