I took a step towards the piazza to fetch help.
‘Wait!’ Ned seized my arm and pulled me back to the front step, almost lifting me from my feet. It felt as if I were held in the jaws of some great hound. Burden was a master carpenter and worked his apprentice hard. ‘We have him trapped. Stay here on guard, sir, I beg you. Don’t let the devil pass.’
He thundered back up the stairs. Trouble, I thought, rubbing my arm. Well – I had a talent for it. I squared my shoulders and gripped my blade a little tighter, wishing I had not drunk quite so much punch. Or indeed been left with just the one shoe. I could still hear sobbing in an upper room, and boots thumping back and forth as the men searched the house – but nobody came back to the door. The more I waited, alone in the dark, the more puzzled I became. Why had the thief picked Joseph Burden’s home, of all the houses in London? There were finer places to rob even on this street, and Burden always kept his windows and doors firmly locked and bolted at night. He was known and mocked in the neighbourhood for securing his house as early as six o’clock in winter.
The door to the Cocked Pistol swung open, candlelight spilling softly on to the street.
‘Tom!’ Kitty leaned out, bare feet on tiptoe. She was half-dressed in a silk wrapping gown and a white quilted cap, a few loose curls spilling across her forehead. ‘There you are, you dog. What are you about? If you’re pissing against the shop again . . .’
My angel. ‘Housebreaker. I’m guarding the door.’
Her eyes caught light. She disappeared inside for a moment, then emerged in a pair of my boots, twirling a large frying pan in her hands. As she clopped towards me I considered ordering her back to the shop for safety. Imagined how that suggestion would be greeted. Remained silent.
‘How many?’ she asked from the corner of her mouth.
‘Just one. I hope.’
Kitty hurried back to the shop and called up the stairs. ‘Sam! Sam! Fetch my pistol.’ She picked up her gown and ran back to me, peering eagerly over my shoulder into the narrow hallway beyond. The house was still in uproar, panicked voices tumbling through the air in a confusion of shouts and commands.
‘Trapped like a rat in a barrel,’ Kitty murmured. ‘What will they do to him, Tom?’
I thought of Joseph Burden – devout, severe, unyielding. ‘Lecture him to death, probably.’
Kitty snorted.
‘They’ll hang him.’ A low voice behind us.
‘Sam,’ Kitty scolded, smacking the boy lightly on the arm. ‘Must you creep about like that?’
Sam Fleet – fourteen years old, named for his late Uncle Samuel, my old cell mate. Looked like the old devil, too – the same short, lean build, the same black-eyed stare. A darker complexion, like a Spaniard. Thick black curls tied with a black ribbon. He was holding a pistol.
I tucked it beneath my coat. Sam had already slipped past me, poking his head through the door into the gloomy interior. Burden’s house was a mystery to the neighbourhood; he did not encourage visitors. I tapped Sam’s shoulder. ‘Go back inside.’
A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he did as he was told, sauntering away as if it were his own decision. I smiled after him, recognising the small act of defiance from my own youthful rebellions.
The house had fallen silent. I took a step into the hallway and shouted up the stairs.
‘Mr Burden? Ned? Is all safe? Do you have him?’
‘Mr Hawkins?’ a soft voice replied, from the landing above. A figure descended slowly – dainty bare feet, the hem of a dress brushing the stairs, a slim hand holding a candelabrum. She did not seem quite real at first, moving with a slow, dreamy grace. Judith – Joseph Burden’s daughter. She must be Kitty’s age, but she rarely left the house save for church, and I had never spoken with her before.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Kitty muttered. ‘I walk faster in my damned sleep.’
When she was halfway down the stairs Judith paused, her free hand gripping the rail tight. There was a fresh cut on her lip. She stared at us both, grey eyes lost and distant in a pale face. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice was slow and dazed, as if she were emerging from a dream.
‘Miss Burden – you’re hurt. Did you see the thief? Did he strike you?’
‘Thief? I . . . no.’ She put a hand to her swollen lip. ‘I saw nothing.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Nothing at all.’ She sank to the stair, resting her forehead against the banisters as if they were the bars of a prison. The candelabrum slid to the floor.
Kitty leaped forward and settled it on the ground before it set the place alight. I knelt down beside Judith. She was trembling violently, her breath coming in short gasps. Whatever she had seen had shocked her out of all sense. Fearing she might faint or fall into a fit, I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. It was small and very smooth, the hand of a girl who spent her days embroidering cushions and pouring tea. ‘Don’t be afraid, Miss Burden. You are quite safe now.’
‘We have a pistol,’ Kitty said, arching an eyebrow at my hand linked with Judith’s.
‘And a frying pan,’ I added, smiling.
Judith offered a ghost of a smile in return. ‘You are kind, sir,’ she murmured, but her hand lay like a dead thing in mine.
‘Is Alice safe?’ Kitty asked. Alice Dunn was Burden’s housekeeper. She and Kitty would sometimes talk over the yard wall.
‘Alice?’ Judith withdrew her hand and curled up on the stairs, her head buried in her gown. ‘Why should I care if Alice Dunn is safe? She is only a maid.’
‘Judith.’
Joseph Burden stood at the top of the stairs, looming above us like a bear about to attack. An old fighting bear, long past its prime, but still dangerous. He was a giant of a man, with thick, strong arms from years of hard labour. His belly was vast, straining against his nightgown. He thumped down the steps and pulled his daughter to her feet with a savage wrench. Judith gave a cry of pain, stifled at once. Her father seized her by the back of the neck and with one great shove pushed her up the stairs. She slipped and scrabbled away, without a word.
Kitty clenched her jaw.
Burden heaved himself down the rest of the stairs and pushed his face into mine. ‘You. How dare you enter my home?’
I leaned back on my heels, avoiding his stale, hot breath. ‘Your apprentice begged me to stand guard. Did you find the thief?’
His face reddened. ‘There was no thief. Alice was mistaken. Foolish slut doesn’t know when she’s awake or dreaming.’
That made little sense to me. I’d heard the screams well enough – Alice had sounded perfectly awake and quite terrified.
‘Mr Burden. Did you strike your daughter?’ Kitty asked. Her voice was steady, but she was holding the pan in such a fierce grip that her knuckles had turned white.
Burden curled his lip. ‘Hawkins, tell your whore to mind her tongue or I’ll rip it from her throat.’
‘Coward,’ Kitty hissed.
Burden spun around, aiming his fist at her. She swung the pan like a racquet, and Burden’s knuckles cracked against the solid iron with a loud clang. He yelped in pain, cradling his hand. Kitty raised the pan above her head, preparing for another blow. I snatched her by the waist and led her out on to the street before she broke his skull.
‘Arsehole!’ she yelled, as he slammed the door on us. ‘Come out here and threaten me again – just you try it! I’ll kick your fucking teeth out.’
A cheer rose up from the brothel across the road. Joseph Burden was not a popular man down this end of Russell Street. Kitty glanced up at the whores leaning out of their windows, and bobbed a curtsey to them. Her temper was as fast and hot as lightning and died just as quick – thank God, or there would be no living with her.
She grinned at me and pulled me close, tugging on my coat with both hands until our bodies twined together. ‘Where have you been tonight, Tom Hawkins?’
I kissed her, running my hands down her gown, finding the soft curves beneath.
‘You stink of sm
oke,’ she sighed. ‘And liquor.’ She slid her cheek against mine, her skin smooth against my stubble. Brought her lips to my ear. ‘Kiss me again.’
I did as I was asked. The world melted away, as it always did. And I forgot all about Joseph Burden, and his daughter’s strange behaviour, and the thief who was never there.
That was my first mistake.
Chapter Two
I woke at the respectable hour of one o’clock. Kitty was long up, but her scent lingered on the sheets. I traced my hand down the mattress where she’d lain, smiling at the memory of last night’s tumble. She was still a maid – well, clinging on with her fingernails. Kitty said she had spent far too much time tending squalling babies and did not want me planting one in her belly – at least for a year or so. I suspected there were other, secret reasons. I thought she might be afraid I would abandon her.
Whatever the truth might be, I had vowed to myself she would remain a maid until we were wed. I had a foolish notion of our wedding night – clean sheets, a fire roaring in the grate, good wine – every comfort attended to. It surprised me, the strength of this honourable little dream. Terrified me too, to tell the truth. A man starts dreaming of such pretty things, and what’s next? An honest occupation. A home in a respectable part of town. A quiet, sober life. I might as well go home to Suffolk and turn into my father.
I did not confess any of this to Kitty for fear she would mock me, or – worse – find it charming. And so I continued to ask for her hand and she continued to refuse me, lightly, as if it were all a great joke. I could never quite find the way to say halt this now, Kitty: I am quite serious. Better to be rejected in jest than in earnest.
Well, there were other pleasures to be explored for now – and I had introduced her to most of them. There was something tantalising about her strange blend of knowledge and innocence. I suspect she knew that too, and guessed at its power: to leave me wanting more at the end of each night. My own Scheherazade. But we had shared a bed now for more than three months, and I feared that there would come a night when her resolve and my restraint would buckle at the same time and all would be over. Last night, as she lay naked beneath me, I had almost surrendered to it. My God, how had I stopped myself? I stared at my reflection in the mirror, at the tiny bruises running down my arms where she had clutched me tight. My control had been nothing short of miraculous. Saint Thomas the Perpetually Frustrated.
I yawned and stretched, rubbing my hands across my scalp. My head ached from the night’s debauch – too much punch and not enough supper. They will chisel that upon my gravestone, no doubt. I called down to Jenny, our maid, to fetch a pot of coffee and a bowl of hot water. Once I had washed and put on a fresh shirt and cravat, I was ready to face the day – or what was left of it. I drew back the shutters. Iron skies, the threat of rain, damp air that sank into the bones. It had been a cold, wretched winter and I was damned sick of it. My fingers hovered over an old, drab waistcoat. No, no, it would not do. I pulled out my new silver-buttoned waistcoat that Kitty had ordered for me as a gift. Much better. A gentleman must have standards, even on a grey, empty day in January.
I poured the last of the coffee and stood by the window, cupping the bowl for warmth as I watched the street below. The brothel was quiet, but there was a steady stream of folk passing by. Day folk. Ned Weaver plodded down the road, returning from a job with his bag of tools slung across one shoulder. He stared at the cobbles, his thoughts far away. Mrs Jenkins, the baker’s wife, called out to him from her doorway. She was a determined gossip and could knead and pummel a secret out of a man through sheer persistence. Ned was an amiable fellow with a handsome face and a slow, bashful smile. What better way to spend the morning? She called again, but Ned pretended not to hear her, thumping hard on Burden’s door. Mrs Jenkins stepped out from the cosy warmth of the bakery, pulling her shawl around her chest and hobbling across the street. By the time she reached Burden’s door it was closed and Ned was safely inside. She blew out her cheeks, offended.
I rubbed my lips. Curious. Ned was a good-natured soul. It was unlike him to ignore a neighbour in such a blunt, unfriendly fashion. Strange too that Burden’s door had been locked – that seemed an odd precaution for an imagined thief. I drew back from the window before Mrs Jenkins spied me.
Kitty and I lived in two connecting rooms on the floor directly above the shop. When we weren’t abed we would leave the doors between these rooms open, forming one large space, with a sitting room and hearth at the front and the smaller bedroom at the back. I could hear her chattering to a customer downstairs in the shop, voice bright and friendly. She loved to keep herself busy and had a gift for turning a profit. And I suppose I had a gift for spending it.
I frowned at the small desk beneath the window. For the last three months I had spent much of my time translating obscene literature to sell in the shop. I’m not sure this was quite what my father had in mind when he bundled me off to school. Not sure it’s what I had in mind either – sitting hunched over a desk for days on end. All those hours spent writing about stiff cocks, and all I gained in return was a stiff back.
I riffled back over my latest masterpiece – an intimate conversation between an experienced abbess and a naive but eager young novice, translated from the French. I’d called it Instruction in the Cloister. Now it was complete I must take it to a Grub Street printer to set and bind the pages. Then we would sell it, along with all the other secret books and pamphlets, the bawdy poems, the intimate drawings, the scandalised yet curiously detailed discussions of sodomitical practices. This was how Fleet had run the Cocked Pistol without being slung in gaol. Unlike Edmund Curll, his closest rival, he had never taken out advertisements or engaged in public spats with writers to gain notoriety. He had been discreet – and where discretion was not enough, he’d bribed and intimidated his way out of trouble.
When Kitty inherited the shop, she’d cleaned the place and brought order to the jumbled shelves. Aside from that, the business had not changed. Wary customers soon realised they could still purchase the same scurrilous material, and be served by a deuced pretty girl, too. They could even buy more respectable works if they were so inclined – political pamphlets, treatises on diverse matters of natural philosophy, poetry. Books of recipes and the lives of criminals sold particularly well. If we could find a murderous cook we’d make a fortune.
A commotion outside drew me back to the window. Half a dozen constables were marching up the street, clubs resting on their shoulders. Ahead of them strode a purposeful figure in a brown coat with old-fashioned cuffs, sharp chin thrust forward, cane striking hard against the cobbles.
Bugger the world. Twice.
I grabbed my wig and thundered downstairs into the shop. ‘Gonson!’
The elderly gentleman at the counter gave a yelp of alarm and tottered out on fat legs, thrusting his parcel of books in my chest as he passed. I slung them through a hatch into the cellar below while Kitty flew about the shop gathering up anything incriminating. She pulled a hidden lever on a back shelf and dropped everything into the secret cupboard behind, slamming it shut again as the door to the shop burst open.
John Gonson, city magistrate, paused in the doorway. Towering behind him stood Joseph Burden in his leather work apron, fists bunched at his side. The guards remained on the street, poking the dirt with their clubs and chatting idly. Not a raid after all, it seemed. Kitty and I exchanged relieved glances.
‘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.
The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 2