The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  Ned stared at her, horrified. ‘Did you . . . you did not tell her . . . that I am . . .’

  Kitty stepped closer. ‘Her brother?’ she whispered, holding his gaze for a long, dangerous moment. Then she drew back. ‘No, I held my tongue. For now. Was that not kind of me? Are you not most grateful that I kept your secret?’

  ‘It would kill her,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sure of it. Felblade says she is unbalanced. Her humours . . . We must be kind, Miss Sparks. It is only a passing attachment.’

  ‘She’s in love with you, Ned. She is sure you will marry her, now her father is dead.’

  An unhappy silence settled in the hallway. This was where we had seen Judith collapse upon the stairs, after she had seen Alice in her father’s bed. Whatever she had said in that moment, Burden had struck her for it. Struck the words from her mouth.

  Ned shook his head. ‘Miss Burden would never hurt her father. I will not believe it.’

  He walked away, back to the sanctuary of his workshop.

  ‘It was Judith,’ Kitty said as we headed upstairs to find Stephen. ‘I’m sure of it. That temper.’

  ‘It’s not proof, Kitty.’

  When we reached the landing, she paused to loosen the ribbons across her stomacher. She untied the handkerchief covering her chest and released a few stray locks from her cap. ‘How do I look?’

  I stared longingly down her gown.

  ‘Perfect,’ she grinned. ‘I shall have Stephen spilling his secrets in a heartbeat.’

  ‘He’ll spill something.’

  But Stephen’s room was empty. His bed had been stripped, his closet was bare. I pulled back the furniture to search for any hiding places or discarded clothes, but found nothing save for a miniature, lying in the middle of the floor, of his sister as a young girl. The surface was cracked and the frame bent. It looked as though Stephen had deliberately crushed it under his shoe.

  The mystery of Stephen’s disappearance was quickly solved: he had moved into his father’s room. We found him slumped in a chair by the fire, dressed in a loose chemise and velvet breeches, a pipe dangling from his fingers. Strange, that he should move so swiftly to the room where his father had been brutally killed. The floor by the bed was still stained with blood.

  Stephen barely stirred as we entered. Drunk, I realised – and my thoughts flew to Henry Howard, Henrietta’s son. Another boy pretending to be a man, pretending to be his father. Stephen had struck his sister yesterday. From rage? Grief? Or the desire to fill his father’s boots?

  Kitty knelt by his bare feet, offering him a generous view of her chest. He blinked and rallied a little.

  ‘I am sorry about your father,’ she breathed, touching his hand.

  He swayed in his seat and brought his pipe to his lips. Missed, and poked his nose. Once he’d found his mouth he took a tentative draw. Coughed out the smoke, eyes watering.

  Kitty attempted a few questions, but the boy was fuddled with drink – and grief, perhaps. Let us be generous. I searched through all the garments I could find – Burden’s rough work wear and sober suits, Stephen’s fine-tailored clothes. It must have cost Burden a great deal of money to send his son to school and dress him as a gentleman. And yet at the end of his life he seemed to have regretted the decision.

  What a strange and sombre household. There had been so much at work beneath the surface that it was a struggle to make sense of it. That is true of all families, I suppose, but this one was . . . peculiar, as Kitty said. Three children, all now orphans, and yet they seemed locked in their own private gaols, barely conscious of each other’s presence. Judith trapped behind her veil, muted by Felblade’s opium. Stephen stupefied with brandy. And Ned in his workshop, brooding. Each wondering if the other were guilty. One of them knowing the truth.

  This was how Burden had raised his children – isolated from the world, breathing in a noxious atmosphere of threat and mistrust. Who did they have, save for Mrs Jenkins? No family that I could tell. Where was their lawyer? Where were their friends from church, their uncles and aunts? They had no one but each other – and yet they had rejected even this small comfort. Each one a fortress, guarded and alone.

  Stephen was burbling about his plans to leave Russell Street. It was not suitable, not fashionable. This eastern side – filled with lower sorts, disgusting. One must move west, west, west. He would hire Ned to build a grand new house on Grosvenor Square. I am not my father, Miss Sparks. Scrimping old fool. Wouldn’t spend a farthing and see how he’s rewarded. Dead at three and forty. I will have new clothes, new furniture, new everything. I want nothing of this place. Nothing. Let them tear it down. Burn it to the ground for all I care. Burn it all.

  He began to weep.

  ‘And your sister?’ Kitty asked softly. ‘She approves this plan?’

  ‘Damn my sister. Damn her!’ Flecks of spit showered from his lips. ‘What do I care of Judith? She may starve in the street if she wishes. Or . . . let her marry Ned Weaver and ruin herself.’

  Kitty rose to her feet, brushing dust from her gown. ‘Well, I’m sure your father would have approved.’ She smiled down at Stephen. ‘He was most fond of Ned, I hear.’

  Stephen gave what he hoped was a scornful laugh, but it came out shrill and piping. ‘My father had promised to throw Ned out on to the street. Why does he stay here? I shall send him away.’

  Kitty tightened the ribbons on her gown, tucked the lock of hair back beneath her cap. ‘But your father loved Ned, did he not? Much more than he loved you?’

  ‘No!’ Stephen cried. He leaped from his chair with his fist raised, but he was too drunk. He swung wide and slipped, crashing to the ground. ‘No . . .’ he sobbed. ‘It’s not true. It’s not true.’ He clutched the bottom of her gown.

  Kitty pulled away and left the room. Stephen curled himself into a ball, tears streaming down his face. It was the drink in part, turning him maudlin. But there was grief, too. Kitty’s talk had struck his heart. I looked down at him, wondering what words of comfort I could give. ‘Your father loved you, Stephen.’

  He glared up at me. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he snarled, hating my pity. ‘Get out! Get out of my house!’

  Kitty waited for me on the landing, tucking her handkerchief back over her chest.

  ‘That was ill-done, Kitty.’

  ‘I wrung some truth from him, didn’t I? You could hang for this, Tom. If we cannot prove it was Judith or Stephen . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘If they find the passage. We can be gentle and honourable if you wish. And you will die.’

  We searched the rest of the house for another hour, breaking our nails as we dragged up floorboards and pulled at loose bricks. I found a few spatters of blood on the staircase leading up to the attic, but guessed that these had come from Alice’s flight back to her room after she found Burden’s body.

  ‘Why did you hire Alice, Kitty?’

  We were in the abandoned attic room where Burden stored his wife’s old gowns. I had not seen the armoire in daylight – it was a huge, ugly thing, but it served its purpose. Kitty had thrown the contents to the floor, searching for any bloodstained clothes buried at the back. My God, so close to the hidden door . . . it made me sweat just to think of it. I was glad Ned had returned to his workshop sanctuary.

  Kitty shook out an old gown and held it to the light. ‘I told you. We lost Jenny, and Alice needed somewhere safe to stay.’

  Somewhere safe, right under our noses. ‘You’re keeping her prisoner.’

  Kitty gave me a sly look. ‘She wants to work for us, Tom. And you must admit it’s rather clever, keeping her close by. And the house has never been so clean.’

  Not for the first time, I thanked God Kitty fought on my side. ‘You would sacrifice her, if it came to it? You know she’s innocent.’

  ‘Do I?’ She rummaged through the rest of the late Mrs Burden’s dresses, black and heavy. The stiff material rustled as it fell to the floor. ‘She appeared in our house in the middle of the night, covered head to f
oot in blood. I am not saying she’s guilty, Tom. I am only stating the facts. It would be for a jury to decide.’

  ‘They would damn her in a second.’

  ‘Then we must discover the real killer.’

  Ned, Stephen, or Judith. We had returned to that old conundrum. It must be one of them – and still we had no proof.

  We finished the search with nothing. I couldn’t understand it. There should be something – some fragment to help us. We returned home in gloomy silence. Alice had laid out an excellent supper, which I picked at with my head in my hand, feeling sick with fear. I had been so sure of discovering something.

  I know now why we failed in our search. It had all been based upon a false assumption.

  Ned, Stephen, or Judith. Which was guilty?

  The answer? None of them. They were innocent, every one.

  Sitting here in my prison cell with the promise of a noose just a few days away, I could curse myself for my mistake. But I have been cursed enough these past weeks. I need all the luck left in the world. So I say nothing – just bow my head and pray.

  Part Four

  Saved. Thank God. His knees almost give way with the relief. Damn them to hell for torturing him all the way from Newgate to Tyburn. Bastards.

  The Marshal breaks the seal and unscrolls the pardon, holding it above his head. The wind tugs at the paper, almost pulling it from his hand. ‘His Most Gracious Majesty George II has granted his royal pardon to one of those condemned here today.’ He pauses and the crowd cheers. This is better than the opera.

  The Marshal smiles. ‘His Majesty pardons . . .’ Another pause.

  Hawkins growls quietly between clenched teeth. He grips the edge of the cart, knuckles white with tension.

  ‘ . . . Mary Green.’

  A deafening roar. Mary’s friends pull her from her cart and carry her along on their shoulders, shoving the constables out of their path. Strangers reach out to touch her gown. Lucky, lucky. She passes close to his cart. Her face is dazed with shock at the sudden reprieve.

  His throat closes with fear. There must be another one. There must be a second pardon.

  But the Marshal has jumped down from his horse. He is arguing with a surgeon’s assistant, a stringy lad with pale brows and bulging eyes. His master is expecting four bodies for anatomising, not three. There are costs to consider. The transportation. The guards. The coffins. ‘You will be compensated, sir,’ the Marshal assures him, patting the air with his hands. ‘You will be compensated.’

  Hawkins collapses to his knees. He is lost. Now, at the end, he knows it. He will hang, marked for all eternity as a murderer. His family will be forced to bear the shame – his poor sister and his father, already sick and weary of life. The strain upon his heart – it will kill him for certain.

  What a fool he’d been, to believe their promises. He curses them all as the constables guide his cart beneath the gallows. And he curses himself too. He should have listened to Kitty. She’d warned him.

  Kitty. He stands quickly, searching the crowds for a flash of red hair. Pale freckled skin. She’s not there. Of course not. How could she be?

  Chapter Sixteen

  I had begun the day in the slums of St Giles. Now it was night and I was being smuggled back into St James’s Palace. A horse blanket again, and deserted back corridors. Up the servants’ stairs by torchlight to the queen’s antechamber.

  Budge had sent a note in response to my request for more information on Howard. ‘No time. Mtng tonight. Await carriage.’

  I paced the floor alone for a few minutes, longing for a pipe. It was not satisfactory, pacing a floor so heavily covered with thick silk rugs. I wanted to hear the stamp of my feet, to feel the jolt of it through my body. I would suffocate in this warm, quiet room with its tapestries and terracotta busts and marble furniture. I should pick up a gold-legged footstool and throw it through a window. At least the cold air would help me to think.

  Damnation, I needed that pipe.

  What was I supposed to tell the queen? My encounter with Howard had ended in disaster. Perhaps she would dismiss me and find another poor fool to resolve the matter. Yes, yes – and perhaps she would knight me and shower me with diamonds.

  ‘Mr Hawkins. How pleased I am to see you, sir.’ Henrietta Howard glided into the room in a dove-coloured damask gown, embroidered with a burst of silver flowers. The gown creaked a little as she moved, stiffened beneath with glue to push out the skirts. Her expression was serene, her lips parted in a half-smile of welcome. What did it cost to bury one’s feelings so deep? Was she not afraid she might lose them one day? Treasure sinking slowly to the ocean floor and nothing left but the surface, becalmed for ever. ‘You met my husband last night.’

  I bowed my head.

  ‘He spoke of me.’ A statement, not a question. She must know the foul stories he spread about her around the town.

  ‘Nothing of consequence.’

  She did not believe the lie, but seemed grateful for it. She paused, then added, ‘My son?’ Somehow she made the question sound quite casual, though no doubt she longed for news of Henry.

  I bowed again, thinking of the young rake spewing vomit into the Thames. His dumb astonishment when I put a blade to his throat. ‘A good-natured young gentleman.’

  She smiled. This she chose to believe. ‘He was always a merry child – and quite devoted to me. It infuriated Charles. He would abandon us for months in our tiny hovel. Henry and I muddled along together well enough, I suppose. It’s strange – I thought myself quite wretched, then. But perhaps I was happy.’ Her brow furrowed, as if trying to remember an old acquaintance.

  ‘It is very cruel of Mr Howard to keep your son from you.’

  ‘He is a cruel man,’ she agreed with a shrug. ‘D’you know, Mr Hawkins, I have not seen Henry since he was ten years old.’

  I stared at her, aghast.

  ‘We were separated when the two courts split. I was forced to make a decision – to remain with Her Majesty, under her protection – or return to live with my husband. I couldn’t . . .’ she trailed away. ‘I had to leave Henry behind, with Charles. I couldn’t save him.’

  And Howard had spent the next eleven years poisoning the boy against his mother. He had shaped Henry in his own image: a drunken brat with a fathomless, sprawling hatred of Henrietta.

  ‘I’ve always hoped that one day Henry would understand why I had to leave him,’ she added. ‘Surely reason would prevail and he would be released from his father’s spell. Even now – I still hope. But the reports I receive of him, his wild behaviour . . . I fear Charles has taught him too well.’

  ‘He’s just a boy – one and twenty. I’m sure I was just as wicked at his age.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Oh – much worse.’

  ‘I do not doubt it.’ She laughed, and I caught a glimpse of how she might look stripped of all her burdens – light and happy. A soul made for sunshine but lost in shadow.

  There was a soft clunk as the door to the queen’s chamber opened. Budge peeped through the narrow gap, like Mr Punch peering around the curtain. He beckoned me with a crook of his finger, then opened the door wider.

  I stepped back to allow Mrs Howard through first, but Budge stopped her with a subtle shake of the head.

  ‘I am not required?’ Four words, laced with meaning. This meeting was of great significance to Henrietta. For weeks she had been held under siege, a prisoner in the palace – all because of the man who had tormented her for more than twenty years. Was she not entitled to hear my report on the matter? But no – she was not required. The queen and her games of power and revenge, played out in small denials, countless cruelties, day after day.

  The room was stifling; thick, tasselled drapes sealing in the heat from the fire. Behind them the windows rattled in their casements, under attack from a violent rain storm. The queen sat at her desk, dressed in a loose green velvet gown – a curtain in human form. She dropped her quill as I entered and pushed her
self slowly to her feet. I bowed and she held out a gloved hand to kiss.

  She settled down on her sofa, lifting her feet onto an ottoman. She picked up an ivory fan pocked with jewels and flapped it about her bosom in a gay fashion. I’d heard the queen described as a grave, devout woman, but in private she and Budge shared a mischievous, pantomime humour. It sat strangely upon them both tonight – a merry jig played over a battle scene. An enormous plate of confectionery rested just within her grasp – a jumble of sugar biscuits, macaroons and candied ginger too large even for her prodigious appetite. Presented for comical effect again, I was sure – a parody of her own gluttony emphasised to grotesque proportions. A joke only she was entitled to make.

  A pretty girl of about seventeen was playing a game of chess against herself at a small table. One of the queen’s daughters – Princess Caroline or Amelia I guessed, from her age. Her blonde hair was powdered white and decorated with silk flowers, her lithe figure robed in a lavender gown fringed with pearls. She bore a close resemblance to her mother – a beguiling hint of Caroline’s own youth, when her beauty matched her wit. But, whereas the queen’s expression settled naturally into bright interest and amusement, her daughter appeared sullen, slapping the chess pieces down upon the board as if she might like to crush them beneath her fingers. She caught my glance and frowned at the impertinence. I took a hurried interest in the ceiling.

  ‘He is not at all handsome, Mama,’ she complained, as if she had been sold a ruined bolt of silk. ‘I do not like his arms, and his feet are too big. His legs are tolerable.’

  The queen chuckled. ‘Emily, ma chérie, opinions are vulgar. You must be more like Mrs Howard. She has said nothing of consequence since . . .’ she fluttered her fan, considering, ‘ . . .1715?’

  ‘I would rather die than be like Mrs Howard.’

  ‘Of course you would. Life is wretched. The world is hateful. How uncharitable of God to make you a princess.’