The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (11 page)

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 bastards 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 unbuttoned, his shirt loose. He looked close to tears.

Damn 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, God – 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, God 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 appetite 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 glass 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.’

‘Nonsense.’ I relit my pipe.

Ned took a mouthful of punch, then coughed half of it back on to the table. He wiped his mouth with a smile of embarrassment. ‘Mr Burden don’t allow liquor in the house.’

‘So I hear.’ I took a long draw on my pipe. ‘But he allows Alice in his bed.’

Ned’s handsome, open face flashed with anger. ‘That . . . that is not true,’ he floundered. He was a terrible liar.

‘The walls are very thin, Ned.’

He struggled for a moment, loyal to his master. But I could see the desire to confide in someone playing through him, and there was anger there too. His fists, resting on the table, were clenched tight. ‘It’s wicked, sir,’ he said at last. ‘Alice Dunn is a respectable woman. But if she doesn’t . . . If she refused him . . . She’s nowhere to go. She’d end up like
them
.’ His eyes flickered to the girls at the lawyers’ table, gowns pulled down to their waist. Hands working under loosened breeches.

I laid down my pipe. ‘He’s taking her against her will?’

‘It started a few weeks ago, in secret. We didn’t know. Then Alice cried thief the other night –
from his bed
. We all heard her.’ He hung his head. ‘Now he don’t bother to keep quiet. I scolded Alice for it, told her it was a sin. She swore Mr Burden made her do it. She said he makes her cry out so we can hear. I don’t know. I suppose . . . perhaps she lies . . .’

But I could tell he did not believe that. There were tears in his eyes, as if the shame were his and not his master’s. And in truth how could he stand to lie abed at night and listen to it? We had laughed, Kitty and I, when we heard Burden and Alice together. It made me sick to think of it.

And what of Burden’s children, Judith and Stephen? Did they know the truth – did they understand? I hoped to God they did not. I thought of Judith crouched on the stairs that night, spitting Alice’s name as if it tasted foul upon her tongue. And Stephen, threatening to tell Gonson what he saw. What he
truly
saw that night.

I felt a terrible rage growing inside me. This was the man who was spreading foul lies about me? The man who dared to judge me a villain? I closed my eyes. How I hated him in that moment. And the thought came to me before I could stop myself.
I wish that he were dead.
‘That is terrible, Ned. How can you bear it?’

Ned rolled his empty glass around and around in a despondent fashion. He had the hands of a busy carpenter – battered and grazed, quick and clever. ‘There’s something wrong with him. He ain’t himself. I’ve been his apprentice for seven years. Six days a week working at his side. He promised me a paid position once I’d finished my apprenticeship. And now it’s done . . .’ His voice fractured. ‘He’s ordered me to leave by the end of the week.’

‘My God!’ To promise a position for seven years, to benefit from Ned’s labour for all that time – and then withdraw the offer when the apprenticeship was over? It was nothing more than slavery. ‘Can he not afford to pay you?’

‘Ten times over! There’s no sense to it. How will he manage without me? The old fool can’t survive on his own, not at his age.’

‘Perhaps he expects to hand the business to Stephen?’

‘
Stephen?
He couldn’t lift a hammer.’ Ned’s face crinkled in amusement and I was struck once again by his kind nature. I would have felt bitter and resentful in his place. Ned seemed more
perplexed
. As if his master had been replaced with a stranger. It was the puzzle of it all that seemed to trouble him the most. ‘What am I to do, Mr Hawkins?’

‘I shouldn’t worry, Ned. You’re an honest man with a good trade. Strong and healthy . . .’ I patted his arm. My God, strong was right. His muscles were hard as iron. ‘You’ll have no trouble finding a position.’

‘But it’s my
home,
sir.’ He paused, eyes filled with tears once more. ‘I thought he was proud of me. But he doesn’t care if I starve in the street. Seven years. Seven years for
nothing
.’

I frowned in sympathy. Poured him another glass.

By the time we’d reached the bottom of a second punch bowl – of which Ned had drunk half a glass – I had boiled myself into a drunken fury. How dare Burden use Ned in such a cruel fashion? And how dare he blacken
my
reputation in the neighbourhood? Leaving the coffeehouse, I stumbled out into the piazza, Ned trailing anxiously at my heels. The cold night air slapped at my face and the cobbles buckled at my feet. I had not felt this drunk for a long time. I had barely touched a drop since my fight in St James’s Park, and I had forgotten to eat supper.

When I reached Burden’s house, I pounded my fist against the door.

‘Burden! Come out and face me, you son of a cunt!’ What had I just said? Son of a . . . what did that mean? I shook my head, clearing it a little.

Ned put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir . . .’

He was strong, but there is no one stronger than an outraged drunk. I wrested myself free and kicked the door, slamming my heel into the wood. When no one came, I kicked it again. I kicked and pounded at it until the blood ran from my knuckles. And then I drew my sword and slammed the pommel into the wood.

At last the bolts swung back and Burden stood in the doorway, angry and defiant – until he saw the sword in my fist. ‘What is this?’

I slotted the sword back in my belt – after several failed attempts. It is a hard procedure when there is more punch in one’s veins than blood. ‘You have been spreading lies. Vile, scoundralous lies.’ I paused. One of those words was not, necessarily, a word.

‘Ned,’ Burden called, beckoning him inside.

Ned shouldered his way past, looking sheepish. As Burden moved to close the door I pushed back, glaring at him through the crack. ‘How dare you judge me,’ I hissed. ‘When you’re fucking Alice Dunn against her will?’

Burden looked stunned at this – but he recovered fast enough. He grinned, baring his teeth. ‘Mr Gonson visited the Marshalsea today. One of the turnkeys swears you killed a man.’

And of a sudden, I was sober.

‘They’ll hang you for it,’ he crowed. ‘That is a promise, Hawkins.’

He closed the door in my face.

Fear washed through me. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t possible. I was innocent. But I had made enough enemies in gaol – and I could think of several turnkeys who would be happy to perjure themselves for a price. Or worse – tell Gonson what had really happened. Oh, God – no. The ground pitched beneath my feet and I had to clutch the wall to steady myself.

Now the heat of fury had left me I felt exhausted. My hands were throbbing. I stared down in confusion and saw to my horror that my knuckles were raw and bloody from pounding at Burden’s door. Oh God. What had I done? The street was alive behind me, summoned by the drumming of my fists. The girls in the brothel across the road grinned and waved as I caught their eye while our more respectable neighbours stood frozen on their doorsteps, mouths open in shock. They hadn’t heard Burden’s accusation, but they’d seen me beat down his door, raving like a lunatic.
With a sword in my hand.

I hurried home, closing the door on the world. Collapsed on the stairs. Tore off my hat and wig and loosened my cravat, thinking hard. I should flee to the continent – set off tonight before Gonson could arrange a warrant. I leaped up the stairs, then stopped on the landing. Leave without Kitty? Impossible. If Gonson spoke to the wrong people she would be in just as much danger.

Eliot would help us if we told him the truth. Perhaps he had guessed some of it. Yes – that was the best course of action, at least it seemed to be. My head was still muddled by the drink. I collected a few things for Kitty – some clothes, her father’s papers, her jewellery – and all the money I could find in the house. I had just begun on my own clothes when there was a sharp rap at the door.

I cursed and moved to the window. A carriage stood outside the shop, guarded by two men with clubs. My heart swooped like a hawk. I was too late. Another guard stood at the door, a musket at his shoulder. He glanced up and saw me at the window. ‘Mr Hawkins. Open up, sir!’

With a rush of relief, I recognised him as the guard I’d saved in St James’s Park. These must be Henrietta Howard’s men.

I hurried downstairs, gathering my wig and hat from the floor. As I opened the door, the guard gave a short bow and beckoned me to the carriage.

I gestured inside. ‘I will leave a note for—’

‘—no time,’ he interrupted.

I hesitated, suddenly suspicious. ‘Where are we going?’

The guard signalled to the others. In a second they had seized me and slung me into the carriage. I tumbled to the floor, a pile of clothes and a jumble of limbs. I struggled up on to the bench while the guard settled back on the opposite seat and slammed the door tight. With a soft cry, the driver urged the horses forward and we raced away, down Drury Lane towards the Strand. I held on to my seat with my bruised hands, feeling somewhat dizzy from the swaying carriage and the speed of my capture.