The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (4 page)

‘Mr Gonson.’ I gave the shortest bow I could make without causing offence.

Gonson stepped over the threshold, dropping his head to pass through the door. He was a trim, energetic man with a narrow face and a clear complexion that made him appear younger than his thirty-odd years. Here was a man who slept well and drank in moderation, who never placed a bet or took a bribe. Incorruptible and resolute.

His gaze flickered across the shelves, thin lips preparing to curl in disapproval at the first sight of something immoral. Gonson was not only the magistrate for Westminster – he was also a dedicated member of the Society for the Reformation of Manners. The Society had been founded many years past to rid the city of whores, thieves, and sodomites. One might as well aim to rid the sky of stars, but Gonson was patient and determined. He had brought a new vigour and order to the Society. His spies had infiltrated brothels and molly houses, and, while most of their stories were dismissed, some had reached the courts. Two poor wretches had been hanged for sodomy on evidence from one of Gonson’s informers, and he’d sent scores of women to Bridewell.

Gonson was – in other words – that very dangerous and compelling animal: a man of vision. And the Cocked Pistol was obscuring his view. Indeed, its mere existence was offensive – and in the last few months he had considered it his holy duty to tear it down. Many of our customers were men of influence, which afforded us some protection. But Gonson made sure to visit at least once a week to disrupt business.

Having found nothing disreputable on the shelves he moved his disapproval on to me. ‘I must speak with your boy.’

‘The
thief
,’ Burden snarled, prowling about the shop. Gonson was tall, but Burden’s head almost scraped the ceiling. We were all three of us large men, crowding the shop. Kitty had retreated behind the counter, feigning boredom. Let the stags rut for a time.

‘Call him at once,’ Burden shouted.

Ah, now I understood. Burden was looking for a scapegoat – and for revenge. He too was a member of Gonson’s reforming society, and a zealous one at that. He loathed the shop, loathed its very existence so close to his own home.

He’d also loathed Samuel Fleet, its previous owner. Sam was Fleet’s nephew. He’d been living with us for a month now at its request of his father, James – Samuel Fleet’s half-brother. I had been instructed to turn Sam into a gentleman, but frankly I’d have more luck shaving a wolf and wrestling it into a waistcoat. Where was he? A good question. Hiding in a cupboard? Climbing up the chimney? The boy was so quiet and nimble he could be tucked beneath my coat and I wouldn’t know it.

‘He’s running an errand,’ Kitty said.

Gonson ignored her. ‘Mr Burden has asked me to write a warrant for his arrest. But I must interrogate the boy first.’ Burden began to protest, but Gonson hushed him. ‘I follow the law, sir.’

‘For the scum of St Giles?’ Burden sneered.

‘For all men.’ Gonson puffed out his chest, staggered by his own magnanimous spirit.

‘Mr Gonson, with great respect, sir – this is a nonsense. I stood guard at Mr Burden’s door last night. No one entered the house and no one left it—’

‘—you let him sneak past, damn you!’ Burden interrupted.

‘You told me your housekeeper had been dreaming. That she was mistaken.’

Burden coloured. ‘My boy Stephen swears he saw the brat. Let me fetch him, sir.’ He hurried next door, calling loudly for his son.

Gonson frowned and took out his watch.

‘Mr Gonson,’ Kitty called to him. ‘I can vouch for Sam. He was here last night.’

He looked at her for the first time, his gaze steady beneath hooded eyes. ‘And what use is the word of a whore to me?’ he drawled.

I took half a step forward. Kitty slipped from behind the counter and grabbed my hand, squeezed my palm in warning. I hesitated, then exhaled slowly. What was the punishment for striking a city magistrate? A whipping? A few hours in the pillory? Gonson watched me, straight black brows raised high. My temple began to throb, slowly.

Burden returned, pushing his son Stephen ahead of him into the room. I had never met the boy before – he had just returned from school. At fifteen he had the thin, tangled limbs of a young calf, and his cheeks were chafed red from shaving more often than needed. But he had the same storm-grey eyes as his father, the same strong, square face. He would be handsome enough in a year or two. I smiled to myself. Here was trouble brewing. His clothes were drab and old-fashioned – on his father’s orders, no doubt – but he was without question a young rake in the making. One can tell a lot about a boy from the way he ties his cravat.

His gaze darted about the shop, as if there just might be a nude portrait hanging on the wall or a couple of whores groping each other in a corner. Ah . . . the disappointments of youth. I caught his eye and winked.

‘Tell Mr Gonson what you saw,’ his father commanded, oblivious.

Stephen hesitated, then lifted his chin. ‘I’m not sure what I saw, sir. It was very dark.’

Burden glared at him, open-mouthed. Was this the first time his son had defied him? And in such a public fashion, too. He drew back his arm and gave the boy a vicious blow across the back of his head. ‘Impudent puppy!
Tell them!
’

I winced, but the blow only made Stephen more defiant. ‘There was no thief,’ he declared. He gave his father a sly, sidelong glance. ‘Are you sure I should tell them what I saw, Father? What I
truly
saw last night?’

I was sure Burden would beat Stephen again for his insolence, but he seemed frozen, of a sudden.

‘Mr Burden,’ Gonson prompted, ‘have you wasted my time, sir?’

Burden found his voice at last. ‘I . . . Forgive me, sir. A misunderstanding.’

‘Well,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your visit. If you wish to purchase a book, I could recommend—’

‘Damn you!’ Burden snarled. ‘Damn your foul books.’ He reached for the nearest shelf and dashed the contents to the floor, tearing the pages from one and crumpling them with his fist.

Gonson grabbed his arm and muttered in his ear. Burden’s shoulders slumped. He threw the pages to the ground and stormed out, dragging his son with him.

Kitty dropped to the floor, gathering books and ripped pages into her apron.

Gonson picked up his cane. ‘You’re amused by this, sir?’

‘No, indeed.’

‘It is a game to you – to set a son against his father. To provoke a decent citizen to violence. A neighbour.’ He prodded at a book, broken-spined on the floor. ‘I’m told you are an educated man, sir. A student of Divinity. Peddling filth. Corrupting the ignorant. Do you have no sense of shame? No sense of Christian duty? Those disgusting books and pamphlets you sell – fie, fie, sir – do not deny it! The men who pass through my court – the men I send to the gallows – these are your customers, Hawkins. You help set them upon that path
.
Can you not see the harm and suffering you cause? Do you not want your city to be free from crime? To end the
squalor
and the
misery
?’

He halted, the zealous fire dying in his eyes. He could see I was unmoved. I was a parson’s son – the first skill I’d learned was how to ignore sermons. I was unsermonisable. He scowled, black brows knotted tight. ‘Perhaps you are worse than I dared imagine,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps it is not this shop that pollutes the neighbourhood. Perhaps it is
you
,
Mr Hawkins. Perhaps you lie at the heart of all this corruption and vice. A black spider in a filthy web.’

I laughed, incredulous. Was I to be blamed for all the vice in London? I was almost flattered – until I caught the quiet fury in his expression.‘Mr Gonson . . .’

‘I’ve heard dark stories about you, sir. Dark and terrible. I’ve heard rumours that you killed a man, down in the Borough.’

Behind him, Kitty faltered for a moment, reaching for a book.

‘I paid them no heed,’ Gonson continued softly, almost to himself. ‘I fear I was wrong. I shall look into the matter.’ He fixed his hat and left.

Kitty sank to the nearest chair and lifted her eyes to mine. She looked terrified. We both knew the rumours were false. But if Gonson investigated the events of last autumn . . . If he talked to the wrong people down in the Marshalsea gaol . . . He just might discover the truth. ‘Oh, Tom . . .’ she breathed, and began to shake.

‘He has no proof, Kitty. No witnesses.’

‘No. But he will dig and dig until he finds
something
.’ She set her shoulders, resolute. ‘I won’t let him take you from me, Tom. I’d rather die.’

Chapter Three

Sam was not on an errand. Kitty had lied to spare him Gonson’s interrogation. But where was the boy? He was not in his room at the top of the house, nor in the narrow storeroom where he sometimes lurked, tucking himself into impossibly cramped spaces to read uninterrupted. I wouldn’t mind, but the books weren’t even contraband. There was something disturbing about a boy his age choosing Newton’s
Principia
over
Venus in a Smock
.

I propped myself in the doorway to his room, gaze travelling across the charcoal portraits he’d sketched. There must have been twenty or more pinned to the wall, curling at the edges from damp. Pictures of his family, of neighbours and street traders. I recognised his father James – straight-backed as a soldier, with a piercing look in his eye. A handsome woman drawn in profile with a sweep of black hair about her face: Sam’s mother, I guessed. A baby sister, merry-eyed and chewing a tiny fist. I searched for affection in the drawings, but there was more precision than love in Sam’s pencil. A mirror that did not always catch the best angle. He had drawn me sitting at my desk, my hand resting on a book. I looked bored. Petulant.

‘Mr Hawkins?’ Jenny, our maidservant, emerged from her garret room across the landing. She’d learned to hide herself when Gonson appeared. She attended the same church and did not want him to discover where she worked. ‘Is it true? Will they arrest Sam?’

I smiled at her. ‘Heavens, no. There was no thief. Alice had a bad dream, no more.’ I thought she would be reassured by this, but if anything she grew more agitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

‘Your pardon, sir. Alice ain’t a foolish girl. She knows when she’s dreaming.’

I studied her for a moment, wondering how Sam might sketch her with that unflinching eye of his. She did not seem well – her complexion was almost grey, her eyes red-rimmed and sore. ‘What troubles you, Jenny?’

‘It’s Sam, sir, he’s the thief,’ she said in a rush. ‘He’s been . . . creeping about the house.’

‘Well – that is the way of him, Jenny. I am not sure he means anything by it.’

‘
In the dark
, sir. When we’re asleep
.
I woke the other night and he was stood over my bed.’

I flinched. It was not like Jenny to tell tales. Not like her to offer an opinion on the weather, she was so timid. ‘I didn’t hear—’

‘I made to scream but he clamped a hand over my mouth. And his eyes – I thought he meant to kill me! But then he was gone so fast and it was so dark I thought I’d dreamed it. But now Alice says she saw something . . .’ She tailed away, looking up at me with a hopeful, expectant expression, as if I might snap my fingers and make all well with the world.

‘This is strange indeed,’ I said, baffled. ‘I will speak with Sam—’

‘No, oh please, sir, no!
Please
don’t say nothing. I’m so afraid of him. The way he stares . . . He’ll murder me in my bed, I’m sure of it!’ She broke down, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.

‘Jenny, come now. There is no need for this. Sam was here in the house all night. I saw him myself. He can’t be in two places at once.’

She sniffed, and shot me a frightened look. ‘The devil finds a way, sir.’