I thought back to the night of Burden’s murder. Sam had been most anxious to let Alice take the blame. If she had run, as Sam had suggested, everyone would have believed she was the killer, instead of me. Had he pressed for this out of some twinge of loyalty, or guilt for placing me in danger? Or was Alice simply a more suitable scapegoat? Gentlemen don’t hang, as a rule. But a lowly servant, with no friends and no capital . . .?
I could no longer trust my feelings in the matter. What did I know of Sam, truly? This was the little moon-curser who just a few months ago had led me to his father’s gang to be robbed and beaten. And still I had trusted him. I’d followed that flickering torch without question through his narrow, twisted maze – and it had brought me here.
I didn’t blame Sam. If anything, I blamed myself. All this time he had spent under my roof and I did not have the wit to see he was in trouble. Jenny had warned me there was something wrong with the boy. He had sneaked into her room while she was sleeping, for God’s sake! If I had only paid more attention. If I had listened. Instead I had landed on some fool notion that Sam and I shared some unspoken affinity. I too had suffocated beneath my father’s expectations. The difference was, my father was a country parson. Sam’s father was a murderer.
I should have helped the boy, not colluded with him. Now it was too late and Sam was set upon a path that led only to more death, including his own. How many boys from St Giles had begun this way and ended up swinging from a rope before they even reached their twenties? I could be kind to myself and say that Sam’s fate was sealed the day he was born into that family of thieves and murderers, but I knew better. I was furious with James Fleet and with Gabriela – a white-hot anger pouring like burning metal through my veins. But I saved a portion of that anger for myself. Somehow, surely, I could have prevented this.
Betty touched my wrist, fingers brushing lightly against my skin. I blinked. How long had I been staring out across the coffeehouse, lost in thought? My pipe lay upon the table, burned-out. The man at the next bench had left, and a group of lawyers’ clerks had gathered by the fire, stamping their feet to thaw out their toes.
I took a last swig of punch. It had turned cold. ‘I must return home.’
Betty’s hand tightened about my wrist. ‘Fleet will be watching the Pistol. Mr Hawkins – you must leave London now. I can send a message to Miss Sparks.’ She leaned forward, forcing me to look her in the eye. ‘Go to my lodgings now and hide there. I can bring you clothes, food, coin – everything you need within the hour. There is a coach to the coast that leaves from the George . . .’
I scarce heard her. Kitty. I rose from the table, struck with a sudden fear. Kitty was at home, oblivious to the danger we were in. What if Fleet had sent his men to the shop? She wouldn’t know to bar the door to them. They could be there even now as I sat witlessly over a bowl of punch.
Betty gazed up at me as I stood, her lips pursed. ‘No one ever listens . . .’
‘One half-hour, that is all. I must fetch Kitty.’ I smiled. ‘Thank you, Betty.’ And on a whim I leaned down and kissed the disapproval from her lips.
She let me, just for a moment, then pushed me away. ‘Fool,’ she muttered.
The bells of Covent Garden were striking seven as I left Moll’s. Light had begun to build in the sky. The market on the piazza was still busy, the scent of ripe fruit and warm barley mingling with the pungent but not unpleasant smell of livestock. A knife sharpener had placed his cart beneath the sundial in the middle of the square. I winced as I passed, the high shriek of metal scraping along stone almost unbearable on the ear.
So – it was resolved. Farewell to London and the life I’d built here. My flight would convince the whole world of my guilt, but I would live and keep Kitty safe. The career of a gang captain was a short one. I had never seen a man hang at Tyburn older than forty.
Perhaps when James Fleet was dead, we might return and resolve matters. The taverns were full of villains who’d been transported and stolen home again to live in secret.
As I hurried through the square, I began to sense a crowd gathering at my back. More choice gossip for the scandalmongers of the Garden. I searched the crowds and rooftops for Fleet’s men but found only sullen glares from old neighbours who had once smiled and nodded in friendship. Was there something more sinister about their behaviour today? There was a boldness in their stares that unnerved me. I sensed a brewing anger, as if they had decided, en masse, that they had reached the end of their patience. A ripple of fear ran through me as I crossed briskly on to Russell Street. Anger of this kind could turn a crowd into a mob very fast – and a London mob showed no mercy.
The knife sharpener’s wheel turned again, grinding the steel.
I reached Mr Felblade’s shop. The apothecary stood on his step, pounding something into powder with a pestle and mortar. He grinned, lips stretched over his assortment of rotten teeth and wooden plugs. ‘Disciples, Mr Hawkins?’
I glanced back over my shoulder. A dozen or so men were indeed following me at a short distance, clumping through the grey slush of melting snow. They were led by Joshua Purchase, who ran the gaming shop on the other side of the Pistol. I cursed them all under my breath. How was I supposed to escape the town in secret now?
I turned and confronted them, feigning nonchalance. ‘May I help you, sirs?’ I asked in an imperious tone. It held them back for a heartbeat, men so used to deferring to their betters . . . but my clothes were in tatters, my wig and hat lost in my desperate flight from St Giles. How thin a line between a gentleman and a low rogue. Clothes and confidence. I drew myself as tall as I could manage. ‘Well?’
They glanced at one another, then nudged Purchase. He had always struck me as a sneaking, cowardly fellow, but he seemed to have drawn courage from his elevation to mob leader. He pointed a finger at my chest. ‘Murderer.’
My heart skipped. Murderer. Accused in the street for all to hear. Flung like a gauntlet at my feet. Something had changed – some invisible boundary had been crossed. What now? Did they want to take that final step into riot? Did they want to turn on me and tear me to pieces? I could see the uncertainty in their faces – to act or to back down. The wrong word, the wrong gesture and I was lost. No one would come to my aid.
Purchase leered at me. He was so close I could smell the gin on his breath. He must have been drinking all night.
I took a step back – and made a short, mocking bow. As if I were amused. Indifferent. And then I turned my back upon them all. It was a risk, and I feared that they would jump upon me and drag me down. But to show fear to the mob would only give them courage and an unspoken permission to attack. To walk away with my back straight and my head high was my only chance.
As I turned, a slight figure emerged from the shadows. Sam. He tilted his head up the street, towards the shop.
‘Trap,’ he mouthed. ‘Run.’
I hesitated. It could be true. Or this could be the trap. Perhaps James Fleet was in the Pistol with Kitty. Would he hurt her? Kitty’s father had saved Gabriela . . . but Fleet was a practical man. He would do whatever was necessary.
A mob at my back. A gang up ahead. The blood pounded in my ears as I walked faster towards the Pistol. Sam’s eyes widened in panic. ‘Mr Hawkins!’ He shook my arm, as if I might need waking. ‘Run!’
There was a shout up ahead, and a group of men spilled from the Cocked Pistol. I gave a sharp intake of breath. Those were not Fleet’s men. Gonson’s constables were gathered at the shop door, armed with staves. The magistrate stood in their midst in his ridiculous long wig, peering down the street. Our eyes met and he gave a start, then beamed in triumph.
‘There he is! Seize him!’
Before I could run, the mob at my back surged forward, pushing me to the ground. I bucked and fought, but it was no use; it felt as if the whole damned street were holding me down.
Gonson approached, surrounded by his men. I raised my head as best I could, sun glinting in my face. Crowder placed his boot on my
face and pushed it into the mud. The dust and filth filled my mouth and nostrils and I began to choke, eyes streaming.
‘Lift him up,’ Gonson ordered. Rough hands brought me to my feet. I spat the dirt away. My ribs ached from my neighbours’ boots.
I struggled against the guards. ‘What is this? You have no right . . .’ Crowder cuffed me across the jaw.
Gonson had begun to address the growing crowd. The news had escaped into the streets, and people were running from the shops and taverns and coffeehouses to witness the spectacle. ‘My friends,’ Gonson cried and pointed his stick at my chest. ‘Witness this wretched villain. Guilty of every foul sin known to man. My Society has warned you of rogues such as this, polluting our great city. We good citizens have been silent for too long. We have avoided our duty for too long. And in our complacency we have allowed evil to flourish. Let this be a lesson to us all. It is our responsibility to rid these streets of such vermin.’
It was a long speech, delivered as if he were some high minister of government. No doubt he had practised it in the glass this morning. He paused as the crowd cheered its approval, his chest swollen with satisfaction. No matter that half the crowd was comprised of the vermin he was railing against. Take away the sinners and who would be left? The honourable Mr John Gonson alone, striding about the empty town, shouting valedictory speeches to himself. Perhaps that was his great dream.
He pulled out an arrest warrant and held it up to the crowd. ‘Thomas Hawkins. This morning Edward Weaver discovered a hidden passage between your attic and the home of Mr Joseph Burden. I knew Mr Burden. He was a good man. An honourable, blameless man. And you killed him.’
‘That’s a lie!’ I cried, struggling beneath the guards’ grip. ‘I’m innocent.’
Crowder struck me another blow, splitting my lip. I tasted blood, hot and metallic on my tongue. Another guard clapped my wrists in iron. People were cursing my name, shouting ‘Murderer!’ and pressing forward, snatching at my clothes. In the chaos, they began to fight with the guards to reach me. Gonson was shoved in the back, his hat and wig slipping askew. ‘Good people!’ he cried, struggling to be heard over the din. Someone kicked him in the shin as they clambered past, and he fell to the pavement, sprawling in the freezing mud. Two of the guards ran to his aid.
‘Move,’ Crowder hissed in my ear, shoving me forward with his club. We stumbled along together with a great press of bodies at our backs, Gonson scurrying to the head of the procession with his guards forming a tight band around us. As we reached the Pistol, Kitty flung herself out of the door.
‘Tom!’ she cried. Then she was bundled back inside. The door slammed and I was dragged away, unable to save her, unable to save myself.
The mob followed us all the way down the Strand and along Fleet Street. The noise was unbearable and terrifying, drowning out the usual cries of the street. People stopped in their business to stare, a few joining the ragged procession as if it were a day at the fair. Gonson had deliberately chosen the most public of streets to ensure my humiliation and disgrace. The whole town would learn the news within hours. Thomas Hawkins – murderer. Dragged in chains through the city with the mob at his back. What jury would believe in my innocence now?
This was Gonson’s revenge, I was sure of it. He had been forced to give up his enquiries against me and I had mocked him for it. Now he was vindicated. He was positively radiating with righteous triumph as we reached Old Bailey.
And so we arrived at Newgate. I had entered prison in chains before, but that had been alone save for one bailiff, in a quiet back alley in Southwark. Newgate was a grand palace of villainy and shame, and I was led there with half the town baying at my back. I knew the gatehouse to the prison well – I had passed it many times. But oh – the sight of it now, with its twin turrets and iron portcullis! My arrest had felt like some terrible dream. Now I was awake.
I half stumbled and the crowd jeered. ‘Look!’ someone cried out. ‘The Lord tripped his feet to show His wrath.’
Oh, indeed? Is that how God spends His days? Tripping up sinners with His celestial boot? Madness – but Gonson nodded his approval. I had thought better of him. For all his pride and rigid manners, I did not think him a vain man, to play to the crowds.
The main gate to the prison was closed behind the portcullis. Crowder banged on a postern door in one of the turrets and it creaked open an inch. A turnkey peered out at the mob, worried. ‘Bring him inside. Quickly, damn it!’
The guards pushed me towards the door. ‘I’m innocent,’ I called out to the crowds. ‘I swear it!’
The turnkey shut the postern gate on them all – guards, neighbours, gossips, and villains. My shoulders sagged with relief. They would have thrown a rope around my neck and hanged me from the nearest shop sign, given the chance. I was in prison, but I was safe. For this much at least I could thank Gonson. Everything must be done in the correct manner, with the correct paperwork. He probably wrote a release order for his cock before he pissed from it.
And here indeed were papers to complete, signatures to flourish, seals to press. And one last lecture to give. ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he murmured, tilting his head to observe me better. ‘God has punished you at last. You murdered a good man and tried to throw the blame upon his grieving children. Now you must pay for your monstrous crimes. You had best look to your soul, sir. I doubt you will live above a month.’
He walked away without another word.
The turnkey watched Gonson leave with a sour expression. ‘Prick,’ he muttered, then turned to me. ‘You’re a gent,’ he said, half statement, half question. ‘Governor says you have capital.’
I tapped the purse nestled in my coat pocket. He drew it out and tipped a stream of coins into his hand. I held out my wrists and he unlocked the chains.
‘You’ve been in the clink before,’ he guessed.
‘For debt.’
‘You’ll know how to behave then.’
I nodded. I had indeed learned a great deal of gaol etiquette from my time in the Marshalsea. Don’t punch the turnkey. Don’t accuse the governor of murder. And most of all, mind my own fucking business.
‘Governor thinks he can find room for you off the Press Yard. Best cells in the gaol if you can pay.’
‘I was expected?’
The turnkey shrugged and led me through the prison to the Condemned Hold. He locked me in, leaving me to grope my way in darkness for a time. When he returned, he pulled back the hatch on the door and offered me a cheap tallow candle, for thrice its value. I took it and did not complain. As I said – I understood gaol etiquette. Let the bastards squeeze you and say nothing.
I settled the candle on the rotten board hammered into the wall. It gave off a wretched, stuttering light that spat shadows around the cell. The tallow added to the stench of the place, the bad air laced with shit and vomit from an overflowing bucket in one corner. Flies buzzed about the rim, feasting on the filth. The reek of it hit me each time I passed by. And yet I could not stop pacing, around and around, restless in my confinement, angry at the injustice. And afraid, yes – to my very soul.
As I paced I tried to find a solution to my troubles, but my mind kept wandering back to Kitty. I was worried about her, alone with Gonson’s guards. Would they have left by now? But then what of Fleet’s men? What if they were waiting for just that opportunity to attack? I kicked the wall in impotent fury. How could I protect her when I could not even protect myself?
The candle died and the room returned to darkness. I felt my way to the small bench and waited.
At last the door opened and Mr Rewse, the governor, stood in the doorway. His twin keys of office hung from a ring attached to his sagging belt. They were huge – over a foot long and at least an inch thick – and clanged together when he moved.
He crinkled his nose. ‘Fie, it stinks in here,’ he muttered, as if this were nothing to do with him. He waved me out into the corridor and led me to his own private lodgings close by. A chink of hope opened in my heart
. Had the queen used her influence again? Was I to be released?
Rewse ushered me into a snug, pleasing room with good furniture, paintings and sketches upon the wall, embroidered cushions. Evidence of a Mrs Rewse, I supposed. ‘Call for me when you’re done, sirs,’ he said, then bowed and left.
John Eliot – Kitty’s lawyer – stood with his back to the blazing fire. He smiled briefly, but his eyes were grave. Any dreams I’d had of rescue sputtered and died in that one look.
He clasped my shoulder. ‘Hawkins.’
‘Kitty—’
He squeezed my shoulder with his pudgy fingers. ‘Quite safe.’
‘Thank God. I’m innocent, sir. I swear it.’
‘Of course.’ The kindness and trust in his voice broke me in a way Crowder’s club never could. Tears sprang in my eyes. I brushed them away roughly.
We sat down by the fire and I fortified myself with a bottle of burgundy Eliot had brought for the purpose. He asked if I had discovered anything of use during my own investigation, but there was little I could offer without plunging us all into even greater danger. I could scarcely admit that Sam had murdered Joseph Burden. I feared for my life in here as it was, locked up with half of London’s villains. One or two must belong to Fleet’s gang. If I peached on Sam, or Fleet himself, I would not survive the night, and nor would Kitty.
Nor could I implicate anyone else, not with good conscience. And even if I did, who would believe me? I was the most obvious suspect.
Burden had accused me of murder. I had threatened him the night before he was killed in front of half the street. My only defence had been that the house was locked, with no way in or out. Now that Ned had found the passage, how could I possibly be innocent? Eliot did his best to strengthen my spirits, but I was not a fool. If my case came to trial, I would be convicted and I would hang.
The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 24
