The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘My name is Thomas Hawkins,’ I called up through numb, frozen lips. ‘I work for James Fleet. We need his help.’

  Nothing.

  Or the merest whisper of something on the wind. The softest creak of feet along a walkway.

  I slumped in the mud, clutching Kitty for warmth, but she was cold as death. Why had I let her come with me tonight? Why had I not stopped her? ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I heard footsteps behind us. Howard was striding down the alleyway, clutching a bottle, his chairman holding a torch to light his way. My God, he was truly a lunatic to enter St Giles in the middle of the night. I rolled to my knees and raised my hand, panting heavily. ‘For pity’s sake, Howard. Enough.’ But he did not know the meaning of the word.

  ‘On the ground, in the filth. How fitting. D’you know, I think I shall piss on you both before I kill you.’ He took a swig from the bottle and began to pull at his breeches. Blood streamed from a wide gash in his hand, where Kitty had ground it into the broken glass.

  I was shaking with the cold now, my wet clothes burning like ice in the winter night. My teeth began to chatter. I clamped my jaw shut. I didn’t want him to mistake me – to think I was afraid. I was far beyond fear now, or anger. All that mattered was to keep Kitty safe. I pulled myself to my feet. One last fight.

  Howard leaped at my throat, pushing me hard against a brick wall. I tried to throw him off but I was too weak. I tore at his injured hand, scraping my nails into the wound. He howled in pain and let go. I barrelled into him, shoulder pressed into his stomach. He staggered but didn’t fall, wrapping his hands about my throat again. I choked as he pressed his thumbs into my windpipe, crumpling to my knees . . .

  . . . and then I was free, gasping air into my lungs. I could sense a struggle around me, some brief fight. By the time I was recovered we were surrounded by a ring of men in plain, patched clothing. Plain but clean. One of them held a blade to Howard’s throat. Another held his chairman.

  A short, powerful figure slipped noiselessly into the torchlight, hat worn low, his nose and mouth covered in a black cloth. James Fleet. He reached down and touched the pulse in Kitty’s neck. ‘Inside,’ he said to one of his men, who picked her up and carried her away. She didn’t even stir. Why was she not moving? I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t find my tongue. Everything had taken on a strange, muffled feeling, like a dream. My teeth were chattering again. Someone threw a cloak over my shoulders.

  Howard turned to Fleet. He was a soldier once more – and he recognised a fellow captain. ‘I am Charles Howard, brother of the Earl of Suffolk. That man is mine.’

  Fleet smiled. He gestured to his man to lower the blade away from Howard’s throat. ‘And how much is he worth to you, my lord?’

  Howard grinned, stepping away from his captor. ‘A guinea.’

  ‘A guinea . . .’ Fleet murmured. ‘D’you hear that Mr Hawkins? How much you are valued?’ His men laughed softly.

  Howard scowled. The madness was returning, now he was free again. No one laughed at him, especially not a gang of low thieves.

  ‘No deal, Mr Howard,’ Fleet said. ‘Now leave.’

  Howard’s eyes bulged in fury. ‘How dare you! How dare you bark orders as if I were some common footman! I will—’

  Fleet tipped his chin – a silent command. A moment later Howard’s chairman fell to his knees, his throat cut. Blood gushed from the wound, spurting in a thick stream. He choked for a few seconds, then slumped to the ground, dead.

  Fleet stepped back from the pool of blood spreading out into the dirt.

  Howard gaped at the body. And then he ran.

  I must have collapsed after that as I remember nothing more until we reached Fleet’s den. The blow to my head and the freezing cold of the river had left me dazed and tired to the marrow. As to what happened to the chairman, poor devil, I never learned. Every man pays a price for entering St Giles in the dead of night. His price was harsh indeed – and all the crueller when his master had escaped without a scratch. So the world turns – kill a nobleman and the rookery would be razed to the ground, the gang hunted down and hanged without mercy. Slit a chairman’s throat and no one would notice or care.

  When I woke I was being carried up the stairs to the large room at the top of the house. Some of Fleet’s gang stood about, smoking and talking in soft voices. ‘Strip those wet duds off him, Connie,’ someone said, and an old woman hobbled over, her hair a wispy cloud of white beneath a quilted cap. She removed my clothes, batting my hands away when I tried to help, then wrapped me in a linen sheet and several thick blankets. I was so weak I had to lean on her as she led me to Fleet’s chair by the fire. ‘Muito rápido . . .’ she scolded when I tried to pull it nearer the flames. She rapped her heart with her fist. ‘It stops.’ She pressed a bowl of hot chocolate into my hands and ordered me to drink. I tried to ask her about Kitty, but either she couldn’t understand or I had lost my wits with the cold – my words felt jumbled and heavy on my tongue, my thoughts slow and confused. I drank the chocolate through chattering teeth and slowly returned to my senses.

  At some signal Fleet’s men gathered themselves and headed out again. Best not to think of the business they planned. One of them paused at my chair, shrugging on his coat. ‘She’s with Gabriela.’

  I tumbled down the stairs, drunk with exhaustion, clinging to the walls as I searched each room. At last, I found her.

  She was lying in a small cot, buried under several blankets, red hair wrapped in a velvet cap for warmth. A dark-haired woman was sitting by her side, singing softly in Portuguese. Gabriela, Fleet’s wife. Sam’s mother. There was beauty in her features, her smooth complexion, her black curls streaked with silver. A great, grave beauty – save for the long scar on her face. It curved from temple to jaw, puckering her cheek and dragging down the corner of her right eye.

  She beckoned me forward. ‘For one moment.’

  I stumbled to the bed. A lantern cast an amber light across the blankets, but Kitty’s skin was white as marble and her lips were tinged blue. I took her hand, pressed my face to hers to be sure she was still breathing. ‘She’s so cold.’

  Gabriela put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You must rest.’

  I shook my head, and the room spun around me. I had to stay awake and look after Kitty. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I lay down next to her. She didn’t move. It was as if I were lying next to a stone statue on a tomb.

  Fleet entered the room and spoke quietly with Gabriela by the fire. They sounded worried.

  Strong arms pulled me from the bed and lifted me away. I was too weak to protest. Another room, men asleep on the floor. A bed, warmed with a bed pan. Blankets thrown over my shaking body. In my fevered state I thought I was back in the river – that our escape had all been a dream. The blankets were waves and I was sinking down, the icy river closing above my head. The water roared in my ears. I reached for Kitty but I couldn’t find her. I was alone in an empty ocean. I slipped away beneath the waves, drowning in darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A warm dry bed. Sunlight on my closed eyes. Shouts and drunken curses rising from the streets, the rumble of carts and the scrape of a fiddle. A dog barking. It had all been there at the edge of my senses, seeping into my dreams. I swallowed, mouth dry, and rolled over. Groaned as pain bounced about my skull.

  ‘Awake!’ a voice yelled, delighted. ‘Awake, awake, awake!’

  I opened my eyes a crack. A tiny, dark-eyed child was leaning over me, her face inches from mine. Three more girls lined the bed, whispering and watching me with keen interest. Sam’s sisters, without question – all variations upon the same theme, with dark, clever eyes and raven hair, and all dressed in drab, faded gowns, restitched to fit. The oldest girl had tucked a wisp of gauze about her neck, bright scarlet flecked with gold. It burned in the morning sun like a jewel, or a warning. She lifted her baby sister from the bed and kissed her curls. ‘Run and tell Pa, Bia.’

  I was
desperate to leave the room and find Kitty, but a light shuffle beneath my blankets revealed that I was quite naked. Exposing myself in front of James Fleet’s daughters did not seem wise.

  After some whispering and giggles, the eldest girl introduced herself as Eva. ‘Becky. Sofia,’ she added, indicating her sisters.

  ‘You snore,’ Becky informed me.

  Eva hushed her. ‘You’re teaching Sam to be a gent.’

  Becky and Sofia sniggered at the thought of such an impossible task. I sat up, as much as was decent, holding the blankets to my chest. ‘In a fashion . . .’

  Eva touched her neckerchief. ‘Might I make a lady d’you think, sir? I should like to wear fine clothes and—’

  ‘Out. All of you. Damned hussies.’ Fleet stood in the doorway, holding Bia in the crook of one arm. From his hot, crabbed expression I guessed that he had not asked his daughters to stand sentinel over my bed. As they ran laughing from the room, he blocked Eva’s path. ‘What’s this?’ he snapped, tugging a handful of the scarlet gauze. ‘Take it off, child.’

  ‘I’m indoors, Pa,’ she wailed, clutching it back to her chest. ‘No one can see.’

  As father and daughter argued, Bia struggled free and clambered back on to the bed. She scrunched her way up to my shoulder and put a dimpled hand to my face, dark eyes sombre. ‘Bad man gone?’

  I thought of Howard, backing away into the shadows. ‘Yes, little one. All gone. Your papa chased him away.’ For ever, I hoped.

  ‘Bad man all gone,’ she said, satisfied, and traced a grubby finger down my cheek. Then she slid from the bed and toddled after her sisters.

  Fleet watched her go, shaking his head. ‘Five girls. God help me. Sore head?’

  I lowered my feet slowly to the ground, wrapping a blanket around my hips. The room tilted and I had to breathe hard to steady myself. ‘I’m well enough,’ I said, touching the back of my skull. There was a small bump, but not as bad as I’d feared. ‘Kitty?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  I rose and hobbled across the room, each step jolting my head.

  ‘Clothes, Hawkins. This ain’t a brothel.’ He pointed to a bundle on the floor and left. My dagger rested on top of the pile.

  Scratchy woollen breeches, an old waistcoat for a much fatter man, a tattered cravat. A wig, too – but it looked so lousy I dared not touch it, never mind place it upon my aching head. I wondered who these clothes had belonged to and how they had come here – then decided it was best not to be too curious in Fleet’s house.

  Out upon the landing I heard the murmur of conversation on the floor above. I limped barefoot up to the room at the top of the stairs, drawn by the voices and the scent of warm spiced food that hugged the air.

  And there she was, sitting by the fire, her feet tucked up under her skirts. She was still pale, but a thousand times better than the night before. We looked at each other across the room, safe now after the dark horrors of the night. Then she slid to her feet to greet me. I put my hands to her face. Her skin was warm. ‘You’re well?’

  She nodded and I kissed her, wrapping my arms about her waist as if she might disappear.

  ‘Oh Lord, Tom,’ she gasped, breaking away. ‘You will squeeze me to death.’

  I loosened my grip. Slowly recalled that Fleet was in the room, and his wife Gabriela, holding a baby in her arms. Daughter number five, I supposed. Eva, Becky and Sofia, grinning and nudging each other. Little Bia, watching us wide-eyed on the table, chewing her fist. And Sam, leaning against a wall in the corner, hands in his pockets. Mute, as ever.

  I gave Gabriela a short bow. ‘Thank you, madam.’

  She smiled at the courtesy, her eyes tired. ‘Lucky. Both of you.’ Her accent was a complicated mix of Portuguese and St Giles. She crooked a finger into her baby’s fist and jiggled it up and down. ‘No jumping in river no more. Yes?’

  ‘I swear it – upon my life,’ Kitty said. ‘I feel as if I’ve been run down by a wagon.’

  Fleet put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

  Phoenix Street was crowded and chaotic, and everyone was selling – food, gin, bodies. A tinker stood in a doorway, clanging an iron pot, his nose caved in from the pox. He stank of piss, the bottom of his coat sodden with it. I looked away, my head pounding in time to his noise.

  There was a frost in the air this morning and I was grateful for it – it woke me up, and freshened the streets a little. A man ran past us, dragging a hand cart filled with clothes. For a brief moment I thought I saw the chairman’s coat buried in the heap, stained with blood. But the wheel almost ran over my toe and I was forced to leap back. By the time I’d recovered, the cart had vanished.

  Fleet strode through the ragged stream of life, squinting at the winter sun with eyes more accustomed to the dark. A cluster of men nodded as he passed, but most minded their own business. We turned into a sunless alley and Fleet sighed, as if coming home. Turned and twisted again until we reached a ruined courtyard, overlooked by gloomy, tumbledown houses. No carts rolled down here, no hawkers called their trade. Windows were shuttered tight against the day, and all was still. The ropes and walkways of the rookery loomed high above our heads, blocking the light. Here we were both in shade, the world dyed grey.

  He tapped his toe against the cobbles, hands in pockets. ‘D’you know this place?’

  I looked about me. The press of broken houses, the narrow balconies hung with tattered sheets. This was where I had stopped last night, when I could run no further. This was where I had called Fleet’s name – and he’d answered.

  He held out his hand. Two guineas glinted in his palm.

  My payment for meeting with Mrs Howard in St James’s Park. He had known all along that her husband would attack the carriage. He had sent me there without warning and I had almost died as a consequence. No doubt he thought last night had squared the matter. But if he had not lied to me when we shook hands upon the deal, then I would never have met Charles Howard in the first place. Kitty would never have been hurt and threatened and half drowned.

  He pressed the coins into my hand with a smile. ‘Take them, sir. Don’t forget, your life is worth only half that.’

  ‘You betrayed me.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said heavily. Wearily. ‘You knew the dangers. You betrayed yourself, sir.’

  ‘What – I should have guessed you worked for the queen?’

  ‘I work for myself.’ He snuffed back a laugh. ‘Gentlemen. All that schooling . . . I forget what fools you are. You ain’t equipped to live in the world. You strut about, so sure you’re the cleverest souls in England. D’you think your wits are sharper than mine, sir?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course you do. Even now. Tell me – what was it you studied at Oxford?’

  I scowled at him. He knew the answer full well.

  ‘Divinity.’ He chuckled, as if this were some great joke. ‘Three years wasted upon the next world. Well – I have spent eight and thirty studying this one. Who has the best of it, d’you think?’

  ‘What do you want of me, damn you?’

  ‘You know, sir, you know.’

  Aye – I did. He had made a great deal of money working with his brother. Samuel had been a spy for the queen – and for others, no doubt. Now I was to replace him – with Sam to assist me, I supposed. A fine and lucrative deal, with very little risk for James Fleet. ‘I will not work for you.’

  He laughed and shook his head. Laughed again. ‘It’s not an offer, Hawkins. It’s an order.’

  A knot tightened in my throat. Now I understood why Betty had been so furious with me. She had realised at once what I had lost, in that fatal moment when I had shook James Fleet’s hand. I thought of the Marshalsea – of the tortures I’d endured to secure my freedom. Now – a scant three months later – I was a prisoner again. And for what? A brief dazzle of excitement. How could I have been so reckless? It was not enough to shrug and say it was my nature, not enough to rail at God or Fortune. I could have prevented this. />
  No wonder Fleet mocked me as a fool. He clapped me on the shoulder, and the weight of his hand felt like an iron chain. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Course you are.’

  Of course I was. It’s not an offer, Hawkins. I was Fleet’s man now – and the queen’s. God help me – I’d be lucky to survive the week.

  As we headed back up Phoenix Street, Fleet plucked Eva’s gauze neck cloth from his pocket and threw it into the gutter. For a moment it fluttered there in the filth, gold thread glinting in the sun. Then a street boy snatched it and ran, scampering up a wall on to the rooftops and away.

  Sam had brought a letter from Gonson – a reply to my request to search Burden’s house. Gonson railed at my insolence, though he had no choice but to comply. It will prove nothing, sir, he wrote, save your black-hearted cruelty and the innocence of Burden’s children. You will be judged for this one day, Hawkins. Such devilish behaviour does not go unpunished. There followed more sermonising, which I did not read. All that mattered was his promise to send a constable to the house later that afternoon. In the meantime, Sam told me that the street boys had watched the house all night. No one had come and no one had gone – the house had remained barred and silent, as if Burden were still alive, ruling the family with the Bible and his fist.

  Gabriela served a late breakfast of plum porridge, richly spiced and delicious. I ate three bowls of it, much to her satisfaction. ‘This how a man eat, Samuel,’ she scolded her son, who had picked out all the currants and dotted them along the rim like dead flies. Then she bowed him to her breast and kissed his head, running her hand through his curls. ‘Belo,’ she smiled, her long scar puckering her face. Sam said nothing. But he closed his eyes for a brief moment, and smiled too.

  A quick pipe and a pot of strong coffee, and I was eager to return home. Fleet had already thrown off his boots and was snoring softly in a hammock, recovering from the night’s work. Kitty kissed Gabriela goodbye and we headed down the stairs.