Sam turned on to Phoenix Street, a long road that runs straight through the heart of St Giles like an arrow. Most of the houses were ruins, rotting roofs patched with tarred cloth, as if the risk of fire weren’t grave enough amidst all the timber frames and gin stills. One building had collapsed into the street overnight – a couple of thin, ragged street boys were loading the wood into wheelbarrows to sell. They saluted Sam, who gave them a tight nod as we hurried on.
There were eyes upon us in every window here. Men lurking in every shadow. I could feel the stares burning the back of my neck as we passed. I stole a glance up at the rooftops, scouting the wooden planks and ropes that laced the houses together in one long, tangled forest of outlaws. The rookery, they called it – a town for thieves hidden in the skies. A man could clamber right through it without once touching the ground. We passed a gin shop, then another. And then another. At the fourth, a tattered scrap of a boy was puking his guts into the street, blind drunk. A group of older lads jeered at him and kicked him on his way. There were no old men here.
James Fleet did not live on Phoenix Street. His house was hidden, tucked away like a coin buried deep in a miser’s pocket. This was my first visit to his den, and Sam had led me on a strange, intentionally confusing route. But I had learned my lesson the last time he had brought me into St Giles, and I paid close attention to every twist and turn and double back.
Suddenly, without warning, he shoved open a door near the end of the street. It was stiff, and he had to throw all his weight behind it. Somehow he managed this without making a sound. It struck me that Sam used silence the way other boys worked with knives or their fists. I thought again of Jenny’s whispered confession and felt a flicker of unease deep in my chest.
We climbed up through a tall, narrow house, its rooms partitioned with sheets and blankets to cram in as many bodies as possible. No need to guess what happened behind those temporary walls. The air stank of sex and bad liquor. Above the low sobs, the groans of pleasure and pain, I could hear a little girl crying out again and again for her mother. No one answered her. I stopped on the staircase, overwhelmed. Sam glanced back, and I could tell from his impatient expression that these sounds meant nothing to him. They were, after all, the sounds of his neighbourhood, of his childhood. He heard them the way I might hear the cry of gulls and the rush of the sea against the shore. We moved on.
At the top of the house we pulled ourselves through a trapdoor onto the roof, wind gusting fresh air on our faces. From up here we could see the city stretching into the distance, the dome of St Paul’s far away to the east. Even Sam couldn’t resist. He paused to look out over his father’s estate, balancing lightly on a damp board that ran between two of the houses. A look settled upon his face that I recognised well – the joy and anxiety of coming home.
‘Your father will be pleased to see you,’ I called out.
He spun nimbly on the beam. ‘Stephen. He denied seeing the thief?’
Good God, it was bad enough that he barely spoke. Even worse when he hodge-podged conversations in such an eccentric fashion. ‘He said it was too dark to be sure.’
Sam smiled. Then he padded over the beam onto the next roof.
The gambler in me found all of this exhilarating – slipping across rooftops through the deadliest part of the city. Was this not life? Was this not something to make the heart beat faster? A quieter voice counselled that such risks may be exhilarating, but were not conducive to a long life. Oh, and for God’s sake – don’t look down.
Sam was a few paces ahead of me, perched at the edge of the roof, staring down at a courtyard below. The houses huddled together to create a tiny, secret square in the middle. Sam rolled his shoulders. Stepped on to the ledge. And jumped.
I gave a shout of alarm and scrambled to the edge. Beneath me, about ten feet down, Sam had landed neatly on the balcony of a modest wooden house built in the heart of the square. Being two stories shorter than the houses surrounding it, there was no way of seeing it until you leaned right over the roof.
‘What am I to do?’ I called down.
Sam tipped back his hat. Crooked his finger.
‘Don’t jump for fuck’s sake,’ a voice growled through a window. A moment later, Sam’s father swung out onto the balcony. A short, strong man, he was dressed in a plain shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled. His head was bare, scalp dark with bristle. ‘You’ll break your neck. Or tear a hole in my roof. Then I’ll break your neck.’ He grinned and pushed a ladder out until it lodged firmly against the roof where I stood.
I tested it anxiously with my foot. ‘Will it take my weight?’
‘Takes mine.’
I considered the iron muscles of his arms and chest. He was a head shorter than me, but still at least a stone heavier. I took a deep breath and climbed down slowly, conscious that I was crossing the threshold arse first. Now there’s a way to make a man feel vulnerable. Intentional, no doubt.
Fleet’s den was the most curious place I had ever visited – so unlike a normal home that at first I could make no sense of it. The rooms at the top of the house had been knocked into one – or had been built that way. This one large, square room stretched right up to the pitched roof, with beams left open to crack your head upon. The balcony wrapped all the way around this top floor. From here one could throw a ladder onto any roof in the square or clamber down to the street by rope. It was a building designed for escape.
I presumed that this room served as a well-guarded meeting place for Fleet’s gang, but there were also hammocks slung from the beams and a grate in one corner with a leg of mutton roasting on a spit. My mouth watered at the smell of it.
Sam dropped his hat on a hammock and pushed a hand through his curls, watching his father from the corner of his eyes. Something unspoken hung in the air between them – a question or a threat. But then Fleet chuckled, and pulled Sam into a brief hug. He kissed the top of his son’s head, then shoved him away.
‘Gah! You smell like a whore. What do they wash you with, fucking rose water?’
‘Lavender,’ Sam replied, glaring at me as if I had spent the last month flogging him with razors.
I turned up my palms. ‘You wish your son to pass for a gentleman. That includes smelling like one.’
‘True enough,’ Fleet conceded. He gave Sam a friendly shove. ‘Run and see your mother.’
Sam hesitated. ‘Pa—’ He caught his father’s sharp look and left at once, scrambling out onto the balcony and climbing down a rope to the next floor rather than use the stairs.
Fleet waved me over to a seat by the fire. The smell of roast meat was almost too good to bear, but I knew better than to ask for a slice. It was not wise to be indebted to James Fleet – not even for a bite of mutton. I lit a pipe to stave off the hunger while he poured us both a mug of beer and settled down in the chair opposite. He was a handsome bull of a man, with a wide forehead and a sharp jaw line. He had the same striking black eyes as his son, but Sam’s features were almost delicate, set in a lean face with high cheekbones. There was nothing delicate about James Fleet. His face and hands were traced with scars – a map of old battles fought and won.
‘How’s Kitty?’ he asked, taking a swig of beer.
‘She’s well.’ My voice sounded thin.
He chuckled over his beer. ‘Don’t look so worried, Hawkins. I’m not going to eat her.’
I forced a smile. ‘You have a proposal for me?’
He wasn’t ready to discuss business. This conversation would play at his pace, not mine. ‘So. What progress with my boy?’
‘Good. Save for the incessant chatter.’
He snorted back a laugh. ‘How long will it take?’
‘To turn him into a gentleman?’ I shrugged. A thousand years?
‘No, no, no. To pass as one. You turn my son into a real gent and I’ll wring your fucking neck.’
‘Ah, well. That’s the secret. There’s no such thing as a real gent.’ I was not speaking entirely in jest. If a
man wore the right clothes and spoke in an easy, confident manner, there was a good chance he would be allowed into the court. The nobility was such a strange collection of eccentrics, fools, and fops that even the most unlikely fellow could pass.
Fleet waved his hand, dismissing the notion. This sort of subtle distinction bored him. ‘There are places I can’t go. Opportunities I can’t seize. Sam knows this world – my world. I need him to understand yours too.’
I thought of Sam, sullen and silent behind the shop counter. ‘I will do my best.’
Fleet held my gaze, just long enough for me to understand what would happen if my best did not meet his expectations. ‘Well then,’ he said, as the sweat trickled down my back, ‘can’t ask fairer than that.’
I took a sip of beer. ‘We had a visit from Mr Gonson today.’
‘Hah. Society of Fucking Manners.’
‘Our neighbour accused Sam of breaking into his house.’ I paused. ‘Is that possible?’
‘Anything stolen?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone murdered?’
‘Good God – no!’
Fleet settled back, satisfied. ‘Shall we discuss business?’
I had already decided as I climbed over the rooftops of St Giles that whatever James Fleet wanted of me, I must find a way to refuse.‘Mr Fleet,’ I assembled my most regretful expression, ‘I fear I may not be able to help on this occasion—’
He stopped me with his hand. ‘For pity’s sake, Hawkins – stop clenching your petticoat. A proposition, nothing more. Chance to make some money.’ He fixed me with a look. ‘Your own money.’
Oh, that stung, I admit. It was true I had been living off Kitty’s fortune these past few months. A fortune she had inherited from Fleet’s half-brother.
‘I’ve had word from an acquaintance at court. A gentlewoman has asked for my help. Needs to be done secret. Quiet. I want you to meet her tonight. Find out what she wants.’
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. That was all – truly? Nothing more? Perhaps I could, just this once . . . Best not to refuse Fleet over such a trifling request. And would it not be encouraging, to earn a little spare coin of my own? ‘How much?’
Fleet shrugged. ‘If I can help her I’ll pay you a tenth of the fee.’
‘Half.’
A hacking laugh. ‘One meeting with a fucking courtier? Let me consider.’ He scratched his jaw. ‘One-tenth.’
I took a slow pull on my pipe. This was Fleet’s world – he could slit my throat in here and never swing for it. But if I did not bargain with him now I would appear weak. ‘If it’s so easy, why not send one of your men? Why not go yourself?’
Fleet gritted his teeth, and said nothing.
I smiled at him through the smoke. ‘Because you need a real gent. Someone who can pass. Someone who won’t frighten the poor lady half to death.’ A thought struck me. ‘Your brother used to do this for you, didn’t he? Play the gentleman.’ A vision of my old cell mate, grizzle-cheeked and dressed in his shabby old nightgown, crossed my mind. Forgive me, Samuel, for calling you a gentleman. I meant no offence. ‘You must have been forced to turn down quite a few opportunities these past months. Perhaps your friend at court will lose patience? Try someone new?’
Fleet scowled. ‘Careful, Hawkins.’
‘Half.’
‘A quarter.’
‘Half.’
A long, long pause. The blood was pounding in my ears. What was I doing, bargaining with a man who could break my jaw with one swipe of his fist? But I couldn’t resist it; I was almost feverish with excitement. My God – I hadn’t felt this alive in months.
Fleet leaned forward until our knees were almost touching. He stared deep into my eyes. ‘Now here’s a man I can work with,’ he murmured. ‘A third.’
I held out my hand. By some miracle, it wasn’t shaking. ‘Agreed.’
Chapter Four
Kitty was closing the shop by the time Sam and I returned from St Giles and a hurried chophouse dinner. She hummed to herself as she tidied books back on to the shelves, tucked a sheaf of nude line drawings into a leather wallet. I loved her more than anything in these moments. They reminded me of the first time I’d seen her in the Marshalsea, making a pot of coffee, the simple grace as she moved back and forth, the quick and capable way she worked.
She saw me and her face lit up – the warm gleam of pleasure that I was home. A blink and it had vanished. Kitty would walk about our bedchamber without a stitch of clothing and not give a damn how hard I looked at her. But she kept her deepest feelings hidden from me as much as she could, as if they were a poor hand of cards I might play against her one day.
‘And are you staring at my arse now, Tom Hawkins?’
‘Always.’
She grinned and wrapped her arms about my neck. ‘Where have you been?’
‘St Giles. Fleet wanted to see his boy.’
Kitty stiffened and glanced at Sam, who was pouring himself a mug of small beer. Sam’s uncle, Samuel Fleet, had been her guardian and she had loved him fiercely, for all his faults. This was the only reason she allowed Sam to live under her roof. She did not trust or like James, his father. ‘Dangerous place to be strolling about,’ she said, running her fingers down my waistcoat. ‘I hope you took care of him.’
‘It was perfectly safe, we—’
‘I was talking to Sam,’ she laughed, letting me go.
Sam’s cheeks flushed pink. It was hard to read his thoughts in the main, but where Kitty was concerned he might as well have shouted them from the rooftops. She was a lively, pretty young woman. He was a fourteen-year-old boy. Not everything in life is a mystery.
‘You are in a merry mood,’ I said, smiling down at her. I was pleased she had recovered from Gonson’s visit.
‘I have a gift for you.’ She kissed me upon the lips, stopping the question. ‘Tonight.’
A gift. My mind wandered over the delicious possibilities. Was it too much to hope she’d found a willing friend and asked her to join us . . .?
Yes, most likely it was.
She removed the apron she’d tied about her waist and shook out the dust. ‘You must change before we leave, Tom. I can smell the stews on your clothes.’
I frowned, sniffing my shirt cuff. ‘Leave? Where?’
Her lips pinched into a hard line. She folded the apron hard. Snap. Snap.
Oh, Lord. ‘Supper . . .?’ I guessed.
‘Supper. Theatre. The Eliots.’
Damn it. I had clean forgot. John Eliot was Kitty’s lawyer, and an old, trusted acquaintance of her father. He and his wife Dorothy were fond of Kitty and saw a good deal of her – at the risk of their own reputation. An unmarried woman, sharing my bed and running a notorious print shop? As far as good society was concerned, Gonson spoke the truth – Kitty was nothing more than a whore. ‘Better a whore than a slave,’ she would say with a curl of her lip. But her defiance starved her of companions. She was not a whore, nor a servant, nor a lady. She did not fit. The Eliots, thus, were precious friends. Dorothy – who was much younger than her husband – was expecting her first child in the spring. Kitty had taken to visiting her several times a week, basket brimming with fresh fruit and home-made tinctures.
The Eliots were pleasant enough company and I loved a night at the theatre, for the audience as much as the play. There was always some great spectacle or scandal, and it was amusing to watch the nobs rub shoulders with the rest of us. But I had made a deal with James Fleet and I could not free myself of it now. ‘Kitty . . .’
Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Quietly, stealthily, Sam drifted upstairs to hide.
I reached out to touch Kitty’s shoulder.
She pulled away. ‘You promised. You don’t even remember, do you?’
‘Of course I remember,’ I lied. ‘It’s just that I have an appointment tonight. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it’s important.’
‘More important than me?’
Well there was
a question not to be answered.
Kitty turned away so that I couldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. She began to shuffle the books upon the shelf. ‘Who is it you’re meeting?’
I searched for an answer that wouldn’t create more trouble, but what could I say? I was drunk and bored, so I told the most dangerous villain in London I might work for him. ‘I’ll take you another night. I promise—’
‘I don’t give a damn about the theatre!’ she cried, gripping my shirt so hard I thought she’d tear it. ‘What’s the matter, Tom? Why are you acting in such a strange, sneaking fashion? Tell me! Where are you going?’
‘For pity’s sake!’ I snapped back. ‘Would you stop all this nagging. You’re not my wife, damn it.’
She flinched and drew back, as if I’d slapped her.
I hadn’t meant to hurt her – only to stop her questions. The words had flown from my lips without thought. But they were mean, and the message behind them was cruel. That we were not bound together after all. That I might abandon her whenever I chose – broken-hearted and ruined. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ I groaned, reaching out for her.
She hugged her arms across her chest, stepped beyond my grasp. ‘No. It’s true,’ she said, cool and remote. ‘I’m not your wife. And you are free to do you as please.’
With that she stalked silently from the room.
Kitty left for the theatre an hour later, too angry even to call a goodbye. She took Sam with her in my place.
I sighed and trudged slowly up the stairs to change. I knew nothing about the woman I was to meet tonight, except that she was a courtier, afraid and desperate enough to seek James Fleet’s help. I selected a black silk coat and breeches, and a red waistcoat. Sober, dependable, with a military dash. That would do well enough. I tied my cravat with a flourish, gathered my hat and cane from the hallway, and stepped out into the night.
A couple of young rakes and their companions were sauntering down Russell Street, away from the Garden. I recognised one of the girls. She winked at me as they passed. That young fool with his arm about her waist would most likely find his purse missing in the morning. But for now they were a merry bunch. I stood in the middle of the street, tempted to slip into their wake. That way lay Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the theatre, Kitty and the Eliots. I could still go to them – forget all about my secret assignation. James Fleet could always find another gent – real or otherwise – to complete his business. There was no need for me to risk my easy, contented life for a stranger. Head east. Head east and chase after Kitty.
The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 4