The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘Could I not go with them, Ma?’ Eva begged her mother. ‘Mr Hawkins promised to make me a lady.’

  What the devil . . .? Kitty and Gabriela stabbed me with a look. I raised my hands in protest.

  ‘I would make a fine gentlewoman,’ Eva trilled, swishing her gown and fanning herself with her hand.

  ‘A fine strumpet,’ Sam muttered, dodging a slap as he ran for the stairs.

  ‘You stay here with me, Eva,’ Gabriela said firmly. ‘We put you out in the world, I think you break it.’

  I kept my borrowed hat low over my eyes as we reached Covent Garden. Most of the passersby did not recognise me in such mean clothes. Those who did seemed wary and puzzled. How simple it had been yesterday when I was the monster, arrested and dragged to gaol by Gonson’s men. They did not like me any better today, walking free about the streets in my eccentric suit of ill-matched clothes. No doubt the news of my enquiries had spread, creating even more confusion. What should they make of me? Was I to be pitied? Reviled? Feared? No one knew. And so they kept their distance, until they had an answer on which they could all agree. And God help me, I had best find Burden’s killer before then. This was how mobs were born. Confusion and fear, and then a swift, angry decision. That one. He’s to blame.

  It struck me that both Fleet and the queen would be interested to see how I resolved my troubles with Burden’s family. I had proved my reckless courage, protecting Henrietta Howard from her husband. Now my skills of reasoning would be tested as I searched for the killer. If I was successful, I would have proved myself useful to them. If I failed, I would most likely hang. It was a provoking thought.

  I followed Kitty into the shop to hunt for paper. She was standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, staring up at the shelves. She picked up a pamphlet, dropped it back on its neat pile. ‘Someone has been in here . . .’ she murmured. She ran through the shop to the barren printing press, walking around it and frowning.

  ‘Is anything stolen?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘Everything seems in order . . .’

  ‘Perfectly in order.’ She trailed a finger over the press, looking for dust. ‘I have never seen it so clean and tidy.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’ Alice appeared from the back storeroom carrying a mop and bucket, her gown hoicked up to her knees. Her face was hot, and stuck with straggles of blonde hair that had escaped from her cap. She gave a jump when she saw me and quickly untucked her gown, swishing it back below her ankles. ‘I’ve cleaned the whole house, top to bottom. Walls, floors, windows . . . Jenny was a good girl, but I must say . . .’ she sniffed, not saying. ‘That . . . boy wouldn’t let me in his room.’ Her eyes flickered to the door, where Sam was leaning against the frame. ‘Not that I care. As if I have any interest in touching anything of his.’ She scrubbed the mop back and forth with some violence, though the floor was clean enough to host a ball.

  Kitty stared about her in astonishment. ‘You must have worked all night.’

  ‘I work hard, miss,’ Alice said, pleased. ‘Always have. And it was either that or lie in bed and wait to be murdered by someone. So I lit some candles and, well. As you see.’

  I asked Alice to heat a few buckets of water. Kitty had bathed back in St Giles, but I could still smell the river stink on my skin. I found a sheaf of paper and took it upstairs to my desk. Sam trailed after me like a shadow. He seemed confused.

  ‘Mr Hawkins. If I’d wanted to kill her . . .’

  ‘That is not a happy way to begin a sentence, Sam.’

  ‘Why would she feel safer washing the floor?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I sighed, dipping my quill. ‘But we have a clean house for it, so my thanks for that.’

  ‘But . . .,’ Sam looked bewildered. ‘It would be easier, with the mop and bucket. I could use them to wash the blood after and . . .’

  I fixed him with a look.

  ‘There’s no reason to it,’ he muttered and slunk up to his room.

  I wrote a note to Budge, explaining that my meeting with Howard had not gone as hoped. I must find some other way to defeat him, given I could no longer attempt to befriend the devil. My only consolation was that he had not guessed I was working on the queen’s behalf. I asked Budge to supply the names of Howard’s cronies and enemies, old neighbours and creditors. And then I sat back, despondent. Howard’s murderous attack on the barge should have been more than enough to hook the bastard, but he was a nobleman. He could not be shamed or blackmailed by such behaviour. A light skirmish with a disgraced gentleman and his whore, no doubt that is how he would describe the matter.The court would shrug its shoulders and return to its card game.

  I closed my eyes, transported back to the cabin, Kitty’s torn sleeves and terrified expression. Howard’s eyes, cold and mocking. I could tear out his throat for it. At least she had fought free. Perhaps he would think twice before threatening a woman again; but I doubted it. It seemed to be his greatest pleasure in life.

  I sealed the letter and called up to Sam to collect it. By the time I was done, Alice had filled the tub by the fire with steaming water, adding a few splashes of milk to soften it. ‘Thank you, Alice,’ I said, but she’d fled before I’d even loosened my cravat. It amused me for a moment, until I remembered what her last master had forced her to do.

  I eased myself into the water and gave a soft moan of relief. My body ached from head to foot: my shoulders still stiff from Gonson’s chains, the bump on my head throbbing softly. I lay dozing in the water until it turned cool, then soaked the last of the filth from my skin. I would have scrubbed the entire night from my bones if I could.

  After a hasty shave I reached for Samuel Fleet’s old banyan. Kitty had liberated the old red dressing gown from the Marshalsea, along with Fleet’s indecipherable papers and the poesy ring, which she wore always on a chain about her neck. The banyan had been too large for him; he’d had to wear the sleeves rolled. I didn’t have the heart to turn them back down to my wrists.

  I built a pipe and trailed to the window, shivering in the cool air. Stephen Burden was walking up towards his home in his father’s suit, a sword dangling about his legs and tripping his ankles. No one had taught him to fix it well; it needed tightening. I thought of my own sword, lost on the river. I must buy a new one.

  Once Stephen was inside I opened the window and called to the street boys watching the house. One hung back, still afraid, but his bolder brother ran through the dusty road and gazed up at me.

  ‘Did he take anything from the house?’

  The boy shook his head. Chewed his lip. ‘D’you kill Mr Burden, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  He shrugged, persuaded. I reached in my banyan pocket and threw down a penny. He caught it neatly and hurried back to his companion. A moment later the younger boy hastened over.

  ‘Sir! I don’t think you stabbed him neither.’

  I rolled my eyes and threw down another penny for his cheek. All I needed was another six hundred thousand pennies and I could buy the rest of the town. I poured myself a glass of wine. There was nothing to be done now except think, and wait for Gonson to send an order for the house to be searched. He did not appear to be in a great hurry to help.

  I heard footsteps and smiled. Kitty. She moved up behind me and tucked her chin on my shoulder.

  ‘Alice is cleaning the cellar. She says we need rat traps. Or a cat.’

  ‘We could have died last night.’

  She stole my pipe and took a long draw. ‘I think I should speak with Judith, Tom. Alone. You are too soft-hearted when it comes to ladies in distress. Remember poor Mrs Roberts?’

  I snatched back the pipe. ‘I am perfectly able to see past a woman’s trickery.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ she conceded, nuzzling the back of my neck. ‘But there’s no harm in my having a little try . . .’ She trailed her hand beneath my shirt. ‘Do you not think?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said, closing my eyes as her hand moved lower.

  An hour later, Gons
on’s man, Crowder, arrived with the order to search Burden’s house. I caught him leering at Kitty and had to will myself to uncurl my fists. After Howard’s attack on the river, any glance, any perceived insult, was enough to heat my blood.

  Ned opened the door. He read the order several times over, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Mr Gonson wishes the family to know, this was not his choice,’ Crowder said slyly. ‘The gentleman has friends.’

  Ned gave me a sour look. ‘Pray tell Mr Gonson he may send a dozen constables,’ he said, raising his voice so the whole street might hear. ‘We are innocent.’

  I pushed my way past, losing patience. ‘We will begin with your workshop, Ned. And Miss Sparks wishes to speak with Miss Burden. Pray call her down.’

  ‘No, for pity’s sake!’ Ned cried in dismay. ‘She is still sick with grief.’

  Kitty squeezed past him, her gown brushing against the wall with a soft rustle. ‘And so Mr Hawkins should hang, Ned? To spare Miss Burden’s nerves?’

  ‘Wait!’ Ned called, his hands spread wide in appeal. ‘Wait, Miss Sparks, I beg of you. I will send for her.’

  It transpired that Judith was still abed and needed time to dress, so Kitty helped search the workshop. We opened cupboards, hunted beneath loose floorboards, tipped back furniture. All we found was a bloodstained bandage that had slipped behind a cabinet, but it was coated with dust and had clearly lain undisturbed for months. Given Ned’s battered hands, the blood could have come from any number of old injuries.

  Ned seemed eager to join in the search, helping Crowder to move back the heavier furniture, and holding a lantern up to inspect the darker corners. I was surprised by this at first, until I noticed that he was most interested in the walls connecting the house with the Cocked Pistol.

  ‘He’s looking for a passageway,’ Kitty murmured, as Ned tapped the brickwork.

  I nodded, anxious. Watching Ned rap his knuckles against the plaster, testing for hollow spots, I had to fight to seem unconcerned. It had taken Alice a week to find the hidden passage in the attic, but she could only search in secret, in stolen moments. Ned might spend all day hunting if he wished. If he discovered the door in the armoire, I was lost. My only defence rested upon the fact that the house had been barred and locked on the night of the murder.

  We searched the parlour next, with no luck. The room was stark and cold, no fire lit in the hearth. The grandfather clock tocked its dull heartbeat. I opened the casing. The pendulum paced slowly back and forth. No time. No time. No time.

  Kitty put a hand on my slumped shoulder. ‘We’ll find something.’

  Crowder snorted.

  The door opened and Judith entered with Mrs Jenkins, her black-gloved hands crossed solemnly in front of her. She was dressed in mourning clothes – a black crêpe mantua with a long train that picked up clumps of grey dust as it trailed along the floor. Her dark hair was swept into a tight bun. It made her face seem sharp and much older. A black lace shawl covered her head and fell across her shoulders to her waist, where it was pinned with an ebony brooch. The gown and the shawl were of an antique style not worn in years – she must have found them in her mother’s armoire. It was an unsettling thought, Judith searching through all those old gowns, so close to the hidden door.

  Judith’s appearance was so eccentric that even Crowder seemed baffled, bowing to her as if she were some old dowager duchess and not an attractive young woman. She ignored him, her grey eyes fixed on Kitty.

  ‘Miss Sparks. You wished to speak with me.’ The wandering, dreamy voice she had used upon me had vanished. She was clipped, imperious.

  Kitty stiffened, but held her temper. ‘Indeed, Miss Burden. Alone.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Mrs Jenkins cried. ‘Poor Miss Burden, as if she is not weighed down enough with grief and sorrow. It is not to be endured—’

  ‘—Oh you must stay, Mrs Jenkins,’ Kitty interrupted. ‘I insist. I meant only that the gentlemen must leave us in peace. We must be allowed to speak freely. As women.’ She gave a delicate cough that she must have learned at the theatre.

  Mrs Jenkins bit back a smile of pure joy. She patted Burden’s chair – the only comfortable seat in the room. ‘Well, then. Come Judith, you must sit here. I insist. I shall be quite content on that charming . . . stool.’

  ‘This has always been my seat,’ Judith said, sitting straight-backed upon the wooden stool furthest from the fire. She gestured to Burden’s chair. ‘That was my father’s chair. I could not bear to sit on it.’

  Mrs Jenkins gave the chair a nervous glance, as if Burden’s ghost might be sprawled there. Comfort won out. She settled herself down, fanning her skirts as Kitty pushed the men from the room.

  We stood outside the firmly closed door, excluded.

  ‘What could Judith have to say in private?’ Ned asked, mystified.

  Laughter drifted from the drawing room. ‘Oh, my dear!’ Mrs Jenkins chuckled. ‘Well, we cannot blame you for that!’ The three women burst into fits of giggles.

  Ned flushed. They were speaking of him, of course.

  ‘They’re all whores beneath their frilly gowns,’ Crowder sneered.

  Ned curled his fist. I put a restraining hand on his arm. Let it be. ‘We’ll leave you to your work, Ned.’

  The kitchen brought no fresh clues. It was not as full-stocked as I would have expected, but that might simply be an indication of Burden’s puritanical mania. The Society for the Reformation of Manners had a good deal to say about rich food and hard liquor. No doubt it also had a good deal to say about fucking your housekeeper against her will. Perhaps he hadn’t attended that meeting.

  Beyond the kitchen lay a backyard, rather desolate. The yards on this side of Russell Street faced due north and rarely caught the sun. Burden’s yard was neat and well-tended, with winter herbs growing in pots and a small plot raked out for vegetables. I remembered something Kitty had told me when I had first moved in to the Cocked Pistol. She had been describing the peculiar family next door and how rarely she had seen the daughter out in the neighbourhood.

  ‘She comes out into the yard each day for an hour to tend the garden. Always the same time each morning. I think it’s the only time her father allows her out, save for church. Can you imagine, Tom? I could not stand it.’

  Nor I. I stepped back so I might see the house better. Judith’s room lay at the back. One hour a day. I’d had more freedom in gaol. Eighteen years looking down upon the same view, the same little plot.

  Crowder stood on the yard step, spat in the soil. ‘Nothing here.’

  I pointed towards the privy in the corner. The stench leaked out across the yard – there had been no one to tend to it since Alice had left.

  Crowder’s lips puckered. ‘I’m not searching in there. I’ll catch the plague.’

  We argued for a time until at last I agreed to pay him a couple of shillings. He searched with such ill grace I was tempted to kick him in. But there was nothing to find – not in the corners, nor in the hole. He picked up an old plank of wood and pushed it into the filth below. It slopped and sucked against the wood, releasing an even thicker stench. As he pulled it back out there was a sharp squeal and a fat rat leaped from the hole.

  I jumped back as Crowder raised the plank and dashed it hard over the rat’s body, knocking it senseless. He drew out a knife before it could recover and skewered it in the neck. The rat screamed and writhed under the blade as its blood squirted up Crowder’s sleeve. Crowder twisted the blade, gouging a hole until the rat’s head was half-severed from its body. At last, it lay still.

  I staggered away, light-headed. The rat, the blood, the stench. I put my hand against the wall and bent double, heaving out a mouthful of acid bile.

  Crowder found this hilarious. He kicked the dead rat back into the privy hole where it landed with a soft splat. I took a deep, steadying breath and stood up straight.

  Ned was watching from the yard step. He looked puzzled.

  ‘The blood,’ I explaine
d, pleased he had witnessed this. Perhaps now he would not be so ready to believe I could murder his father in such a brutal fashion.

  I paid Crowder his fee and sent him off to the Turk’s Tavern. I had no further need of him. I would search the rest of the house alone.

  In the drawing room the women were still talking. Ned waited outside, pacing. ‘I cannot make you out, Mr Hawkins. My father said you were a wicked devil. And yet . . . I cannot tell.’

  Glints of gold thread in the mud. Quite a concession. Ned had been raised to believe in absolutes. Weak or strong. Friend or foe. Pious or damned. That a man could be half a rogue was an uncomfortable discovery.

  The voices in the drawing room had grown louder of a sudden – and sharp with it. There was a shout, followed by the sound of crockery smashing to the floor. Mrs Jenkins gave a cry of dismay. ‘Miss Burden!’ she scolded.

  Judith ran from the room, her face contorted with misery.

  ‘Judith . . .?’ Ned asked, astonished. He reached to take her arm.

  ‘Do not touch me,’ she cried, dragging herself free. ‘Don’t . . . don’t . . .’ She broke into a sob, covering her mouth with a black-gloved hand as she stumbled up the stairs.

  Mrs Jenkins clutched the door frame. She looked as though she might levitate with excitement. ‘She called Miss Sparks a—’ She stopped herself. ‘Well. I am almost dead with shock.’ She ran upstairs after Judith, thrilled.

  Kitty swished her gown through the door with a triumphant smirk.

  ‘What have you done?’ Ned cried. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I told her you once groped me, in the shop.’ Kitty flexed her fingers, and grinned.

  Ned was aghast. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Of course not. I’d chop your hand off. I was curious to see how she would react.’

  ‘That was cruel of you – tormenting a young lady in mourning.’

  ‘In mourning? Celebrating, I should say. Why would she mourn the man who kept her prisoner for eighteen years? Who wouldn’t let her marry her beloved Ned Weaver?’