The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  Princess Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘He should have made me a prince.’

  The queen grunted in agreement. ‘And poor Fritzy a princess. Laissez-nous maintenant, chérie. I must speak with Mr Hawkins about something of tremendous interest.’

  ‘Oh!’ the princess exclaimed, sweeping the chess pieces to the floor. ‘Order him to tell me something interesting, Mama. Or I swear I shall die of boredom, right here on this horrid rug.’

  The queen’s lips twitched. ‘Well, Mr Hawkins. Something interesting for the princess. Not too interesting,’ she added hastily.

  I thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Has Her Royal Highness ever heard of a female gladiator?’

  Princess Amelia had not. I described Neala and her fight at the cockpit, how she had used her strength and stamina to defeat her opponent – in very few clothes. The princess sat with her large blue eyes fixed on mine, enraptured.

  ‘I should like to meet this Irish woman,’ she said, when I was finished.

  The queen removed her glove and reached for a bonbon. ‘And you never shall,’ she promised. She dismissed her daughter with a wave, but then called her back and kissed her on both cheeks. When Amelia had left, she turned her gaze on me. ‘A shrewd choice of story, Mr Hawkins. Rather too shrewd, I think. And now you have one for me, I believe.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ I said, and began to describe my meeting with Mr Howard. She stopped me mid-breath. ‘No, no. I wish to hear first about your neighbour. Mr . . .’ she pretended to reach for the name. ‘Beadle? Boodle?’

  ‘Burden, ma’am.’ She remembered the name well enough. Teasing again. I told her as much as I could, given that I could not mention Alice’s bloodstained arrival through the wall, or Sam’s midnight prowl around the house. Burden was murdered and I was suspected – that was the crux of the matter.

  ‘You threatened him with a sword? In front of witnesses? A little rash, sir.’

  ‘It won’t happen again, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Clearly. No need to threaten a dead man.’

  ‘I only mean—’

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t be dull.’

  I paused before speaking again. It was not enough to be useful to Queen Caroline: one must be entertaining as well. I supposed this was to counteract the many hours she spent in the king’s tedious company. He had – I believe – only two topics of conversation: either detailed discussion of historic military campaigns or the wonders of his beloved Hanover and how it eclipsed England in every respect. So I must make up for her husband’s failings. Gratitude might do the trick. ‘I must thank you, ma’am, for securing my release from custody yesterday.’

  The queen glanced at Budge, sweating by the fire. ‘Did I deign to do that, Budge?’

  ‘Either that or find a new recruit, ma’am. And that would have been diff—’

  ‘—tedious. And now here Mr Hawkins stands on his tolerable legs, expressing his gratitude. Mon dieu. We have indeed been generous. He might be languishing in gaol were it not for our generosity. He might be sentenced to hang.’ She wiggled her fingers over the teetering pile of confections and selected another macaroon, smiling in triumph when the rest stayed miraculously in place. ‘So I’m sure he has discovered something tremendously helpful about Mr Howard.’

  ‘Your Majesty. Forgive me, I—’

  ‘—You have heard, I’m sure that Howard caused a grave disturbance just two nights ago? Stood in the courtyard screaming that his wife is a whore and insisting that we give her up to him? His Majesty was furious – he cannot bear to have his sleep disturbed. Poor Mrs Howard must have been mortified.’

  ‘Your Majesty, could Mr Howard not be arrested, or at least—’

  ‘The law is with the husband, Mr Hawkins!’ the queen snapped, for a moment truly angry. ‘He has every right to claim his wife, and by force if he wishes. What – d’you think the king should have him arrested? And then I suppose you would like to see a public trial about the matter?’ Her blue eyes – so like her daughter’s – blazed so hard I feared I might be scorched by them. ‘You were released in order to resolve this matter. Was I too generous, Mr Hawkins? Perhaps you did murder your neighbour. Perhaps Mr Budge should speak again with the City Marshal.’

  I placed my hands behind my back, planted my legs. I had suffered such cruel blackmail before, in prison. I would not buckle beneath her threats. ‘I am innocent, Your Majesty.’

  ‘That is hardly relevant. Tell me what happened last night and we shall see if we can sift something of value from the dirt together. As you are too dim-witted to discover it alone.’

  I described how I met with Howard at the cockpit in Southwark, the disgraceful stories he had spewed up about his wife, and indeed the king – some treasonous. Might that help? The queen looked bored and contemptuous. So I continued with our trip along the Thames, Howard’s assault on me and his attempted rape of Kitty.

  For the first time, the queen seemed interested. ‘She fought him off? Without your aid?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ I described how Howard had fired a pistol at us as we plunged into the river. Attempted murder – might that be of use? No, apparently it would not. I finished my story, from our freezing, desperate swim to the steps, to our escape through the city to St Giles and our rescue at the hands of James Fleet. I did not mention the poor chairman, his throat cut solely to encourage his master to run. And so my story ended, as it must, and we reached the part I had dreaded.

  The queen rinsed her fingers in a pretty porcelain bowl. ‘Your little trull is a spirited creature, is she not? So. How do you propose we stop the brute?’

  I had no answer. Howard was a nobleman, the heir to an earldom. There were different rules for such men. I knew it. The queen most certainly knew it. The whole world knew it. What did it matter if he threatened a young woman with no family and no reputation? Who the devil cared if he vowed to murder me? Who was I? A disgraced gentleman from an obscure family, living above a notorious print shop, translating whores’ dialogues for money.

  ‘Sir?’ the queen prompted, watching me twist and turn on her rope. Watching with a gleam of interest – encouragement, even. Another test for her new servant.

  I must think of something. If I left this room without giving her what she needed, I might as well hang myself tonight and save everyone the trouble. I had been released from Gonson’s custody solely on this promise – that I would provide the queen with something she could use against Howard. But what?

  I forced myself to think calmly. Howard held the winning hand, and I could not change that. What, then? When a man held all the cards, what could one do?

  Let him win.

  And there it was. So neat. So simple. Let him win. Blackmail would never have worked upon Howard – he was too powerful and too volatile. One did not back a wild animal into a corner. Coax him out. Bribe him. But with what? Not money. The king had refused his demands of three thousand a year. A title? I dismissed the thought – that would be more complicated and costly still.

  The room was silent. I could feel the queen and Budge watching, waiting. Concentrate. What did Howard want? Henrietta. No – that I would not do. And he didn’t want her, not really. He just wanted to make her life as wretched as possible. He wanted to torture her for making that one terrible mistake of loving him, a very long time ago.

  And then I knew the answer. There was one very simple way to satisfy Howard. It would cost the queen nothing. But poor Henrietta . . . It would cost her everything.

  I wouldn’t say it. I wouldn’t ruin a woman’s life solely to save my own. I would conjure something better. Something kinder.

  ‘His son.’ The words slid from my tongue and the betrayal was done.

  A look of puzzlement crossed the queen’s plump face. And then she understood. Already her clever mind was turning, turning.

  ‘Henry Howard was on the boat last night.’

  She grunted. ‘Henry. I remember the child. A sweet, foolish thing. What age is he now, Budge? Fourteen? Fifteen
?’

  ‘Twenty-one, ma’am,’ Budge replied softly. His expression was sombre, all the play and mischief drained from his face.

  ‘Twenty-one.’ And now she too seemed to have caught the melancholy mood. She reached for a sugared almond.

  ‘He was very drunk,’ I said. ‘Asleep under the table most of the night, and vomiting the rest of it. Forgive me, ma’am . . .’

  She waved away the apology.

  ‘ . . .Howard takes great pleasure in corrupting the boy. Henry doesn’t have his father’s cruelty—’

  ‘—Not yet. Hard liquor makes a hard man.’

  True enough in most cases. But I had to believe Henry had enough of Henrietta’s sweet temperament to counteract Howard’s influence. There must be hope in all this. After all, I had spent the last few years drinking and whoring and gaming like a fiend, and my own heart had emerged intact. Hadn’t it?

  ‘Howard is determined to turn Henry against his mother. He has convinced Henry that she’s a whore.’

  ‘That must have taken considerable effort,’ the queen said, rattling the sugared almond against her teeth.

  ‘He wants revenge upon Mrs Howard. He wants her to suffer. More than anything. He would not refuse three thousand pounds a year, of course . . . but it is his hatred of his wife that propels him.’ I stopped, unwilling to speak further.

  The queen continued to suck her confection, snick, snick, snick against the top of her mouth. She glanced at Budge, raised an eyebrow. ‘Mr Hawkins has dragged a sacrificial calf into the room. But he does not have the courage to slit her throat.’ She played with a diamond ring on her little finger. ‘Why, Mr Hawkins – would you have me wield the knife for you? Are you afraid to look in the poor, trembling calf’s eyes? Are you worried her blood will spoil your clothes . . .?’

  My mouth was dry. The queen spoke the truth, and I was sickened by it. I had condemned both Henry and his mother tonight in this room. I had ruined both their lives to save my own. Not to say the words now, at the end, was mere cowardice. ‘Mrs Howard must write to her son. In detail. She must tell Henry that everything his father claims of her is true.’

  The queen slid her gaze from mine, thinking. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Howard will like that. He always enjoyed humiliating his wife.’ And to her credit, she looked disgusted. ‘Is it enough? No,’ she answered herself. ‘Continue, sir.’

  Somehow, I forced the words from my lips. ‘She must promise never to contact her son – to relinquish all claims upon him.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Budge interrupted. ‘I doubt she will agree to that. She fights a case at present in secret. She is seeking a legal separation from Howard.’

  My heart sank. The Howards had lived apart for many years, but to pursue an official, legally binding separation – it was almost unprecedented. For a judge even to consider the case, there must have been the most devastating evidence of Howard’s cruelty. And here I was, delivering Henry into that monster’s hands for ever.

  The queen was looking away into the fire with a soft expression. ‘We will give him his son. And the letter. And twelve hundred a year. Control, humiliation and a fat fee. It will suffice. In return he will not fight the separation. Yes. I believe this will work. Blackmail would have enraged Howard. He might have lashed out in spite. This way, he will believe he has won. He will like that.’ Her lips pressed into a tight line. ‘Men do.’

  Aye, he will believe he’s won. Because he has. I cleared my throat. ‘Should we not consult with Mrs Howard, ma’am?’

  ‘With Mistress Switzerland?’ The queen fanned herself slowly. ‘What might she possibly contribute to the matter? She is neutral in all things.’

  ‘Not on this matter, surely, Your Majesty?’ I pressed. I owed Henrietta this much at least. ‘Not over her only child? She might prefer to leave the court? Should she not be granted the choice . . .’ I stopped abruptly. The queen’s cheeks had tinged bright pink.

  ‘Choice? No indeed, Mr Hawkins. Howard is my servant. She will do precisely as she is told.’

  There was a long, angry silence. There was something deeper here – old wounds of betrayal. Henrietta had been the queen’s servant long before she became the king’s mistress. They had been allies and confidantes once, when they were young women. When the queen was still the Princess of Wales, just a few years married. Still beautiful and still adored, by all accounts.

  ‘It is a hard thing to lose a son,’ the queen said at length. Her gaze slid to mine.

  She knew I must have heard the stories – the prince and princess banished from court in disgrace, their children held hostage. The King had given Caroline a devastating choice: stay at court with her children or leave with her husband. Her youngest boy had been just a few weeks old and very sick. He had died before the family had reconciled.

  And then there was her oldest son, Frederick, raised alone at the court in Hanover – a stranger to the entire family, including his mother.

  The queen understood the agony of losing a son – through death and through estrangement. Now she would inflict that torture upon Henrietta. It was pragmatic, necessary – and cruel. But who was I to judge her now?

  ‘Twelve hundred a year,’ she said. ‘The king will accept that. He will rail and kick his hat about the room for a few days. In a few weeks he will be pleased that we have saved him eighteen hundred pounds per annum. In a few months he will believe it was all his idea.’ She tapped her fingers playfully against the arm of the sofa. ‘Adequate, Mr Hawkins. Adequate. You will do.’

  A clear dismissal. I was released – at least for one night – and at no great cost, save to my conscience. I bowed low, feeling ashamed and relieved in equal measure.

  On a whim, she tugged the diamond ring from her finger and dropped it into my palm. ‘For your little trull. For her courage. I am glad she left a mark on the brute.’

  Mrs Howard waited in the antechamber. If she were anxious she didn’t show it. Small wonder that her face was so smooth and unlined. An even temper made for an even countenance. Given all that she had endured, her equanimity was nothing short of miraculous. But maybe that was why she had survived for so long, through all those years of torture at her husband’s hands. And now she would suffer again, because of me.

  ‘You look pale, sir,’ she said. ‘Was Her Majesty not pleased with your news?’

  I stared at my shoe. I had polished the silver buckle so hard that I could see my face in it, distorted. ‘She was satisfied, I believe.’

  She drew closer, tilting her head so that she could look into my downcast eyes. ‘The queen lays her traps very well,’ she said, softly. ‘We only see them when they bite down upon us. Whatever you have done, whatever she has made you do . . . you must not blame yourself, sir.’

  I couldn’t answer her. She meant to be kind, but her words shamed me. The truth was, I had seen the trap and I had thrown her upon it, to save myself. Little comfort that Howard would now retreat and leave her in peace. Henrietta would never see her son again.

  I was saved by Budge. ‘My lady. Her Majesty wishes to speak with you.’

  She curtsied and went to see her mistress. Now at last I could look at her; her straight back, her smooth, graceful step. Would the queen enjoy telling her husband’s mistress she had lost her son for ever? Or would she choose to be kind? And there lay her power. There lay the motive for all Queen Caroline’s plots and schemes. The power to choose.

  Budge led me back through the winding passageways and on to Pall Mall. It was very cold and clear, and the sky was blazing with stars. I lit a pipe and found that my hands were trembling.

  ‘Her Majesty has an effect,’ Budge observed. He tucked a wad of tobacco into his cheek and began to chew. ‘How go your enquiries?’

  ‘Very ill.’

  ‘Unfortunate. I hear reports. The town’s against you, Hawkins.’

  ‘The town can fuck itself.’

  He spat a thin stream of brown liquid onto the ground. ‘Joseph Burden was an arsehole by
all accounts. But he lived in that house for twenty years without trouble. Then you arrive next door. Rumours of violence. Rumours of murder. Rumours you can’t seem to shake . . .’ He held up a hand, refusing my objections. ‘Burden says he has proof you killed a man. You threaten him. He dies the same night. I’m struggling to see this as a coincidence, Hawkins. And I like you.’

  ‘It’s not a coincidence, I’m sure. The whole street saw me fight with Burden – including the killer.’ I held out my arms. ‘I am the perfect scapegoat.’

  ‘That is,’ Budge said, ‘the problem with waggling a sword in a man’s face.’

  ‘True enough. But even had I not threatened Burden, everyone knew he planned to testify against me.’ I paused. ‘I have been thinking upon this matter a great deal.’

  Budge rolled the tobacco around his cheek. ‘No doubt.’

  ‘You said it yourself, sir. Burden lived on Russell Street for twenty years without trouble. He ruled his house as if he were the keeper of a gaol, not the head of a family. Lectured them from the Bible each night. Punished every act of defiance, no matter how frivolous. No mother to soften the blows, to offer any warmth or kindness.’ I paused. Budge was watching me, curious. I wondered if he had guessed the truth – that my own childhood had not been so very different. Well, well. Nor ten thousand more, no doubt. ‘Judith and Stephen obeyed him all their lives. Ned lived under his yoke for seven years and never once rebelled.’

  ‘First apprentice in history.’

  ‘It was not fear alone that made them obedient. I believe . . . it gives me pain to say it, but I believe they respected him. Ned said that for all Burden’s faults, he was a fair master. He lived by his own strict rules. That would have meant a great deal I think, in such a closed, private household. That he was an honourable, Christian man.’

  ‘Then they found out he was fucking his housekeeper.’

  ‘Precisely. The night that . . .’ I stopped. I had almost said Sam’s name. ‘The night Alice cried “thief”. They’d obeyed him without question year after year – and this was their reward. Ned was to be thrown out of the house without a farthing. Stephen was to be removed from school. Judith must watch as her servant became her stepmother.’