The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  Ned knew I was there, but he continued working, keeping his back to me. Stephen had been reckless and confused, muddled with grief and fear. Judith was dazed, and fixed upon her hatred of Alice. Ned’s anger was contained, focused.

  There were only a few pieces of work on the benches – a half-finished side table, an oak tallboy. These were small projects, made for practice not profit. Burden had been a master carpenter and joiner, his business construction. The grand new squares west of Bond Street were built of brick, but they still needed joists and rafters, wainscots and doors. Ned had talked about his work with pride and passion at Moll’s the night before: the need for both strength and precision, an eye for a pleasing design, an understanding of geometry when building wall partitions and staircases. ‘An occupation for the body and the mind,’ he’d said, eyes bright. I’d envied him then, for finding a vocation that gave him so much satisfaction. I was – without question – not cut out for the clergy. Nor was I created to sit at a desk, translating whores’ dialogues. What would make my eyes shine, I wondered. Punch. Kitty.

  I had no doubt that Ned would find a good position with another master. If not, surely the Carpenters’ Company would help him set up his own business. Assuming he had not killed his old master, of course.

  ‘I must speak with you, Ned,’ I said at last.

  His back stiffened. ‘There is nothing to be said.’

  ‘I did not kill Mr Burden.’

  Ned lifted the stool from the bench and turned slowly. ‘Those men at the coffeehouse. None of ’em dared look you in the eye. They was afraid of you.’

  I leaned against the door frame, bone weary. ‘Because they were fool enough to listen to your master’s lies. I am not a murderer, Ned.’

  ‘Gonson arrested you.’

  ‘What – is that proof of my guilt, then? He hates me – you know that! He confuses a disreputable life with a wicked one. They are not precisely the same.’

  ‘If you had lead a decent life you would not be in trouble now.’

  ‘Oh indeed – that is how the world works. You were a model apprentice for seven years. How were you rewarded?’

  Ned frowned. He thought I was taunting him. ‘Ask what you want and leave. Before I lose patience.’

  Ned’s years of hard labour had left him strong and fit and solid as a Roman statue. There was also a wall of heavy tools at his back. I took a step back towards the workroom stairs, ready for a hasty retreat. ‘Did you kill Mr Burden?’

  I asked only to watch his reaction. But I had asked him before, and this time he was not even angry. He resented the question, of course, but beyond that I saw only sorrow and a bone weariness.

  ‘You had good cause to hate him.’

  He glanced away. ‘I have good cause to hate you, sir.’

  ‘Do you think I wish to be here, troubling you with these questions? I must prove my innocence, Ned.’

  ‘Aye – by placing the guilt upon my shoulders. Tell me, sir – how many gentlemen have you seen hang at Tyburn?’

  ‘I am not—’

  ‘None. That is the truth of the matter. Not one. And how many apprentices? Ten? Twenty? If I had been arrested this morning instead of you – would I have been set free again within a few hours? Would I have been granted permission to trouble a grieving family? Well damn you, sir – I will not go to the gallows in your place.’

  I folded my arms. ‘Nor should you – if you’re innocent.’

  ‘Oh indeed,’ he laughed, throwing my own words in my face. ‘That is how the world works.’ He moved across to the back wall and plucked a hammer from its hook. Oh, fuck the world – Ned Weaver and his damned carpentry tools. ‘Do you know how long Mr Burden lived in this house? Twenty years.’ He gestured about the room. ‘Built it with his own hands. Twenty years without a moment’s trouble. Then you arrived, and within three months he’s murdered in his bed.’ He slammed the hammer against his work table. The sound cracked the air between us. ‘That is not chance, sir.’

  ‘No trouble? For God’s sake, Ned – he was fucking Alice against her will every night. He—’

  Ned raised the hammer and moved closer. I pulled the dagger from my coat. Ned gasped as he recognised the ivory handle. ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘I wrested it from Stephen. He attacked me, unprovoked. This damned house, Ned!’

  Ned looked a little shamefaced. He slung the hammer into a corner and sat down, broad hands clasped on his knees. ‘If not you . . . If not me . . .’

  I didn’t reply. He knew the answer. Stephen. Or Judith.

  He groaned and put his head in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ned. I know they must seem like family . . .’

  ‘Seem?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘There is no seeming about it. I’m their brother.’

  Ned would not speak for a long time after that, dismissing my questions with a wave of his scarred hand. I settled down on the steps into the workshop and waited. Patience – patience was the key. The best confessions come unforced.

  ‘Mr Burden was a good man,’ he said at last. ‘He lived a sober, Christian life. But . . .’

  Ah, there it was. But. We are all good men save for that one short word. I leaned forward. ‘But?’

  ‘He was led astray by ill company, when he was young. Lewd women. Low sorts. They encouraged him to swear and drink strong liquors. To visit bawdy houses.’ He paused, disgusted. ‘He abandoned his apprenticeship. Fell into debt, and was forced . . . Mr Hawkins, you must swear not to repeat this story to a soul. I only wish to explain . . .’ He stood up and began prowling the workshop, straightening tools and brushing dust from the table. A tidy room for an untidy story. ‘He found work as a brothel bully.’

  I began to laugh, covering it with a cough when I saw Ned’s agonised expression. Well, well, well. Here was a rich story. Joseph Burden, guarding the door of a whorehouse for a living. And that sanctimonious prick had judged me. The gall of the man! My God, if he were still alive I would have enjoyed throwing that in his bloated old mug.

  ‘It was only for a few months, you understand,’ Ned added hurriedly. ‘He grew ashamed of what he saw. What he did. He joined the Society as an informer. He began attending church again and met Mrs Burden. Her dowry gave him the capital to build this house and start his business. She was a pious, devoted lady. Mr Burden often spoke of how she saved him.’

  How her money saved him, more like. ‘But you are not her son.’

  ‘No, sir.’ He bowed his head, ashamed. ‘I was born in Newgate. My mother was a whore and a thief. She pled her belly to escape the gallows. After I was born she was transported. Died of a fever on the boat.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He brushed a rough hand across his eyes. ‘Never knew her. I was raised by my aunt and uncle down in Surrey. Good, honest folk – farmers. But they had seven children of their own. My uncle couldn’t provide for me so they wrote to Mr Burden. My mother always swore he was the father . . .’

  I raised an eyebrow. Given her occupation, that would be hard to prove one way or the other.

  ‘Mr Burden didn’t believe I was his son – not at first. He took me on as his apprentice to atone for his past vices. He felt responsible for my mother’s death, because he had once . . . in a weak moment . . .’ He blushed.

  Only once? I doubted that very much. And if Ned hadn’t lived such a buttoned-down life, he would see it too. A man such as Burden wouldn’t take a bastard into his home to atone for one brief episode of lust – not without proof or some other inducement. ‘But you are truly his son? You are certain?’

  Ned smiled. ‘I worked with him in this room for seven years. He began to notice things. Not just my appearance, but the way I moved. My way with the tools. A hundred tiny things that no one else would ever notice. Look at me, sir. Now you know the truth – can you not see the resemblance?’

  I tilted my head. It was true, Ned was as broad and strong as Burden, if not as tall. His brows were pale and his complexion fairer to
o, but that could have been an inheritance from his mother. Yes, there was a resemblance; a greater one than Stephen shared with his father, in fact – but then Stephen had spent the last seven years at his school desk instead of fixing roofs and nailing down floorboards. There was no way to prove it for certain, but Burden had clearly believed Ned was his son. And given it must have been a reluctant admission on his part, I was inclined to believe it too. He must have stared at the boy for hours, wishing away the likeness until he could deny it no longer.

  ‘If all this is true, why did he break his word to you, Ned?’

  ‘That was my fault! I wanted him to recognise me as his son. I vowed I would leave unless he told Stephen and Judith the truth. Ah – how I wish I had not pressed him so hard! My father was fair with me, Mr Hawkins, but he had a strong temper. I should have been patient and obedient, as he taught me. I do think . . . I do truly believe he would have changed his mind in time. If only for Judith’s sake.’

  ‘Judith?’

  He coughed with embarrassment. ‘She has grown fond of me.’

  Fond? Ah. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I didn’t dare tell Mr Burden, but . . . it was an uncomfortable situation.’

  I winced, thinking of my own sister. Uncomfortable? Excruciating, I should say. Neither of us spoke after that, for quite a while.

  The more I considered Ned’s story, the more I doubted he was the killer. With Burden dead, he’d lost any hope of being recognised as his son. Stephen might be weeping in his room, and Judith was swigging opiates to dull her senses, but it seemed to me that Ned was the most affected by Burden’s murder. No chance for reconciliation. No chance to make his father proud. Strange, that of all Burden’s children, it was Ned – his bastard – who loved him the most.

  ‘I’m afraid for his soul, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, as he escorted me to the door. ‘The manner of his death – it gave him no chance to repent his sins. He was not himself, these past few weeks. His treatment of Alice . . .’

  I could hear Mrs Jenkins fussing over Stephen upstairs. They would never winkle her out of the house now – not unless someone more interesting was murdered. The queen should have hired Mrs Jenkins to investigate Charles Howard instead of me – the woman was a walking newspaper, crammed with gossip. The Daily Jenkins. Still, she would be a help too, with Alice gone. ‘Is it true that Alice has run away?’

  Ned glanced up the stairs. ‘Judith threw her out. I warned her not to be so rash. And now you are released . . . Alice.’ He laughed without humour, marvelling at the thought. ‘I can scarce believe it, but she had most cause . . .’

  I shook my head. Burden had been torturing Alice for weeks in secret. Why kill him now, when he had promised to marry her? Kill him after the ceremony, perhaps, when the ink upon his will was dry. But not before. I took the knife from my pocket. ‘Your father was stabbed nine times in the chest. That was rage. Revenge.’

  His eyes widened. He tore the blade from my hand. ‘How d’you know that? How d’you know he was stabbed nine times?’

  I shrank back, realising my mistake. How could I know, indeed, if I had not seen the corpse? ‘Half the town knows it!’ I protested, feigning indignation. But I sounded nervous, even to my own ears – and Ned was suspicious once more.

  ‘You were angry with him last night. And very drunk.’

  So, we were back to this. Damn it. ‘The doors and windows were barred. I’m not a ghost, Ned. I cannot walk through walls.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s another way in.’ He paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘Alice said she thought there must be a passage between the houses . . .’

  Thank God I played cards for profit. My face was a mask, but my heart was thudding so hard against my chest I was sure he must see it beating through my coat. Heaven help me – if Ned found the passage between the two attic rooms, I was lost without a hope. I clamped my hat to my head. ‘There are no doors and no passages. Whoever killed your father is still here in this house, Ned. If I were you, I should sleep with that blade beneath your pillow.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The Cocked Pistol was open for business. I watched from the street for a time, recovering my wits and savouring the last thin light of a long, cruel day. Business was steady, despite my ignominious arrest, customers entering with their usual furtive slide. Sam had taken charge of the shop. He was well suited to the task, swift and discreet – and the customers didn’t notice him studying them closely beneath lowered lids. Perhaps later in his room he would sketch that young servant, come to collect a fresh parcel of books. One of Lord Hervey’s men, I thought. His lordship was a great friend of the Prince of Wales. As he often ordered two copies of the same volume, we’d begun to suspect that one set was being smuggled to Prince Frederick for his pleasure and education. What would his mother think of that? Perhaps she would be pleased. It was vital the boy knew how to breed, after all.

  Sam handed over the parcel and pocketed the small tip. For all the trouble he had caused with his moonlight skulks about Burden’s house, I had grown oddly fond of the boy. Fond enough to dismiss the notion that he could have killed Burden. Reason told me I should not discount him – the son of a murderous gang captain, the nephew of a master assassin. But I could not believe him capable of such a violent, bloody murder. And for what purpose – sport? No, Burden’s killer had been seeking revenge or justice. I doubted Sam had much time for either.

  Burden’s children were another matter entirely. The more I considered the life they had endured, the more certain I was that one of them was guilty. Burden had kept Judith a prisoner all her life; she rarely left the house save for church. Well – she was free now. I glanced up at the windows, shuttered in mourning. I had seen her sitting there countless times, pale and drawn, watching hungrily as life passed beneath her gaze. ‘Poor Judith’, the gossips had called her, while Felblade delivered another draught for her nerves.

  Stephen must have dreaded a similar fate, once his father refused to send him back to school. He’d been given a sharp taste of his new life – beaten half to death for daring to question his father’s authority. And then, bitterest of all, he had discovered his father was not only a violent bully, but a liar and a hypocrite. Had this been enough to kindle a murderous fury in the boy? That thin-limbed, trembling colt? Rage could give the weakest soul the strength of ten men. Cut off from his school and his friends, with his inheritance in peril, Stephen had powerful reasons to murder Burden. Money, justice, revenge. Of the three children, he would gain the most from his father’s death. Now he was master of the house – and free to live as he pleased.

  Freedom for Judith, freedom for Stephen. In another world I would have walked away from the whole damned business – let God stand in judgement when all was done. But I had my own freedom to consider. My own precious neck.

  I must press a confession from one of them, or at least discover some clear proof of guilt. The blade had been found with the corpse, but what of the killer’s ruined, bloody clothes? There would have been no chance to destroy them today, not with half the neighbourhood trailing through the house offering condolences. The clothes must still be hidden somewhere inside, and would remain there unless one of the children attempted to smuggle them out. One could hardly drop them upon the drawing-room fire.

  I rolled my aching shoulders, glad to have found one small thread of hope. I would seek permission to search the house thoroughly tomorrow. In the meantime . . . A couple of tattered street boys stood outside the baker’s shop. Doubtless they might keep watch for a few halfpennies and a couple of Mrs Jenkins’s rolls. I crossed the street towards them, but they squealed as I approached, scampering away before I could explain myself. It was a melancholy moment. I was a monster now, was that it? And I felt a shiver in my soul, some pre-sentiment that more trouble lay ahead. Once a man was named a monster, the mob was rarely far behind.

  Sam, at least, seemed pleased to see me returned safe from the lock-up – in his fashion. He clambered over the counter and took my h
and, shaking it without a word. I showed him the order and his face took on an expression of awe. ‘The City Marshal’s hand,’ he murmured, brushing the paper as if it were the finest silk.

  I plucked it back. He liked to practise different hands when it was quiet in the shop. ‘What’s the sentence for counterfeiting a Marshal’s note?’

  Sam looped an imaginary rope about his neck and pretended to hang, swaying on the spot with his tongue hanging out. It was a little too convincing for comfort.

  ‘How many hangings have you seen, Sam?’

  ‘Hundreds. Saw Jack Sheppard nubbed. Stood beneath the cart.’

  I’d seen Sheppard swing too – my first winter in London. The mob had loved him, pulling on his legs to help speed his passing. It had ended in a riot, his friends fighting to keep his body from the chirurgeons. Thousands upon thousands streaming through the streets, trampling everything in their path. I’d thought I would die in all that madness and had wished myself safe at home in Suffolk. When I survived, pulled clear by strangers into the nearest tavern, my shirt torn and my lip bloodied, I knew I never wanted to leave.

  ‘Thomas Hawkins. Oh, you wretch.’ The door slammed back upon its hinges. Kitty: face smudged, clothes damp with sweat despite the cold. ‘Look at you! Look at you here without a care in the world when I am half dead. I’ve trudged the streets all day searching for you. Every gaol, every lock-up. They laughed at me, Tom. They laughed and jeered and groped . . . How long have you been free? Oh! You cannot even guess how much I hate you, you thoughtless prick.’

  ‘I thought you were safe. Sam. You were supposed to take her to St Giles.’

  He lifted a shoulder. ‘She weren’t inclined.’