I put my head in my hands, rubbing my scalp. In the tumult of the last few days I had not found the time to visit the barber, and my hair was growing back. I must shave it. There would be lice in this prison, rats in every corner, and fleas in the sheets too, no doubt. Oh, God. I had thought I’d left all this behind. At least I could not catch gaol fever a second time. Yes – what excellent news. There was every chance I would live long enough to be hanged from the neck.
‘I’ve spoken with Rewse,’ Eliot said. ‘He can offer you a decent room by the Press Yard. It’s part of the Keeper’s House. For the better sorts of prisoner.’ He coughed, embarrassed. ‘You will have more privileges than most. Light, good air, the yard for walking. And you will not be chained. That is good news, is it not? It will not be so very bad.’
‘How much will this cost?’
Eliot worried at his lip.
‘How much, sir?’
‘Ten shillings a week,’ he confessed. ‘But you know, sir – Kitty would spend her last farthing to secure your comfort.’
Ten shillings a week. I could rent half an inn for that. ‘How does she fare, sir? Are you sure she is safe?’
‘I’m sure she is,’ Eliot replied, puzzled. ‘Why would she not be?’
My stomach knotted. She had been spared so far, but for how long? ‘She must be protected, Eliot. You must see to it.’
‘Why, is she in danger? My God, what has happened, sir? What is it you are hiding from me?’
I must find a guard to protect Kitty – and Alice for that matter. Someone strong, and skilled with a blade. But how could I trust such a man under my roof, with Kitty? I couldn’t. And then I smiled. Not a man. But a woman . . .
It took me a while to persuade Eliot that hiring an Irish gladiator called Neala Maguire to guard the house was not some garbled act of lunacy, but I pressed him on it until he capitulated. ‘And you must advise Kitty to send Sam home at once. It would not be seemly for him stay now.’
‘Seemly . . .?’ Eliot raised an eyebrow. Behaving in a seemly fashion had never been a great priority of mine. And given that Kitty had been living – unwed – with a man now accused of murder . . . But he saw I was determined, and what did it matter to him if some boy from St Giles was sent home or not?
Once I had persuaded him and he had given me every possible assurance that he would comply, I felt my spirits lift a little. If we could all survive tonight, we might still find a way to resolve this.‘Mr Rewse was kind to lend us this room.’
Eliot sniffed. ‘It’s not for charity. Not yours, at least. He made a fortune out of Jack Sheppard. Paying visitors. They’d line up to peer through the grate. Rewse hopes you’ll prove equally profitable.’
‘Sheppard escaped prison four times. The whole town was obsessed with him. No one will pay to see me.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but I fear you’re mistaken. You’re a gentleman. Young. Handsome. The details of your story – the fact that you insisted on investigating the case and interrogating Mr Burden’s family. It will cause a sensation.’
My heart sank. I had seen this before. By morning there would be ballads and pamphlets and broadsheets about the murderous gentleman Thomas Hawkins. No matter if I escaped death, I would be branded for ever as an infamous monster.
‘I have a message from Kitty,’ Eliot said, more quietly. ‘Gonson has her under guard at present – he wishes to question her tonight. But she said she would bring the dress tomorrow, at first light.’ He paused. ‘She’s not planning to dress you as a woman and smuggle you out, is she? No, no – best not to say a word. It worked for Sheppard that time, I suppose . . .’
I sat back hard against the chair. Alice’s dress. Yes – it might still work, we might still be able to swing the suspicion upon Alice. Her bloody clothes. Her appearance through the attic door, holding the knife. Sam and Kitty would bear witness to that. Was it not more believable that Alice had turned to Burden in bed and stabbed him? Given what he had done to her night after night? With the dress and the witnesses, it would make a good case.
A dark shadow settled on my heart.
Chapter Nineteen
There was no choice to be made. I could not send an innocent girl to the gallows just to save my neck. Yet still I didn’t sleep that first night in gaol. A sly, insistent thought crawled through my mind, leaving a trail of poison. Save yourself. Whatever the cost.
It is a hard thing to hold a key in your hand and not turn the lock. It seemed to me that there were two of us in the cell that night. My true self, pacing the floor, banging my fist against the wall and cursing all the mistakes I had made. And then there was my shadow, who waited for daylight only to betray Alice and free himself. As the slow night hours passed, there were times when I was tempted to become that shadow. I would live. But as what? Not as the man who had entered this cell, that much was certain.
I was mortally afraid. I didn’t want to die at the age of six and twenty. I didn’t want my name cursed and spat upon, down through the ages. I didn’t want my father to think I was a murderer.
My father. I groaned aloud at the thought of him. Three years ago, at our last meeting, we had thrown cruel, bitter accusations at one another and I had vowed never to see him again. Then last autumn, after my release from the Marshalsea, he had astounded me with a letter filled with regret and forgiveness. It had made me wonder if the stern, unyielding man I remembered was just a phantom. I had even contemplated returning home and joining the clergy – but I had been weak from gaol fever at the time. London was my home. Kitty was my home.
And so I’d stayed, translating whores’ dialogues, drinking and gambling and growing bored with my cramped, narrow life. The same old traps into which I had fallen so many times. I’d written to my father once a week, telling him nothing of substance about my life. I would speak of the books I had read, or news from the court and the town. I would describe the streets and buildings growing up all around me, and the foreign travellers I met, passing through the city. My father would reply in a meandering scrawl I barely recognised, the effort clear in every line. That alone was enough to tell me what he never could put down upon the paper – that he loved me.
How I wished I could speak to him that long, cruel night! Not for counsel – I knew what I must do. Nor for his lectures, heaven help me – I’d heard enough of those over the years. What I yearned for was his comfort and reassurance. My father would understand and approve of my decision to save Alice, though it threatened my own life. And he would pray for me.
Kitty would never understand. She would throw Alice to a pack of starving wolves if she thought it would save me. True, she did not know for certain, as I did, that Alice was innocent. But did I honestly think that would have made a difference to her? The fact that I could ask the question and not know the answer was disturbing.
Alone in my cell I faced the bare truth of the matter at last. I must renounce Kitty, for her own sake. She loved me with a ferocity that made her reckless. It was a dangerous love – one she had risked her life for. One she had killed for.
I could become the shadow crouched waiting at the door. I could walk out of Newgate tomorrow and take up my old life. And an innocent girl would hang.
It had never been a possibility. My old life was gone. It had only ever been a short dream between two prisons. I must awake from that dream and accept my fate. The shadow lifted and dissolved.
Light filtered through the barred window, brightening the room. I could hear the swish and scrape of a broom as a maid swept the floor outside my cell. Morning. Kitty would be hurrying through the streets, a dress covered in thick bloodstains rolled up in her basket. Hurrying to save me, not knowing it was my turn to save her this time – her life and her soul.
I took a deep breath and readied myself, practising the words I must say until they fell easily from my tongue. When the turnkey arrived, I was ready, straight-backed and cool, with a hollow space where my heart had been.
‘Are you turned mad?’ Kitty his
sed. She grabbed the edges of my coat as if hoping to shake the sense back into me. ‘Tell him the truth, for God’s sake.’
We stood in Mr Rewse’s private room, a fire glowing in the hearth, tea and slices of pound cake upon the table as if we were visiting an old acquaintance. Kitty had unrolled Alice’s gown and thrown it, triumphant, across the desk. It lay there for the governor’s inspection, a nightmare of a thing mottled with rust-red stains. The heat of the fire had loosened the faint scent of stale blood into the air.
Rewse bowed over the dress, examining it with a mixture of revulsion and growing excitement. He scraped at a dried scab of blood, crumbling it between his fingers. He could charge visitors extra for this. ‘You say this dress belongs to your maid?’
‘Alice Dunn,’ Kitty said, releasing me. ‘We both saw her in it, the night Mr Burden was murdered. She escaped through the attic, holding the knife. Sir, this dress is proof that Mr Hawkins is innocent. You must summon Mr Gonson immediately. We will explain everything.’
She was holding on to his jacket now, pulling and twisting the material in her anguish. Stepping back out of the scene I could see her with the governor’s eyes. She looked frantic and desperate and very young. He tugged his coat free and turned to me, not sure what to make of the story. ‘Well, sir?’
I hesitated. Kitty began to shake. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Tom. Don’t.’
‘Mr Rewse, I wish this were true. But I cannot implicate a blameless young girl. I have never seen this dress before.’
Rewse inhaled sharply. ‘Mistress Sparks. This was a wicked act . . .’
‘The guilt is mine,’ I replied. ‘Miss Sparks is a foolish jade, easily duped. The dress was my idea. I grew afraid last night and in my fear I conjured up this story. But in the light of day . . .’ I glanced at Kitty. ‘I find I cannot throw the blame on to an innocent soul.’
Kitty stared at me, bewildered. ‘Why do you say these lies? They will hang you, Tom. Please. Please. I cannot bear it.’
‘You see, sir,’ I said, forcing myself to ignore her. ‘A pretty, empty-headed bauble. I fear she would do anything to protect me. Indeed I’m sure she would confess to the murder herself if she thought she might save me.’
‘I suppose . . .’ I could see him pondering his choices. Creating false evidence was a serious matter, but I had owned to it. He did not seem inclined to punish Kitty as well.
I drew him to one side. ‘She believes herself in love, poor wretch. Makes fools of us all, does it not?’
His eyes softened. He gave a rueful nod.
I lowered my voice further. ‘I would be most grateful if you could dismiss the entire matter.’
He sucked his bottom lip, hiding a smile. He had not missed the implicit bribe. Gratitude meant one thing in prison. Payment.
We shook hands – two men of reason who understood the frantic foolishness of young, heartsick girls. It was how Rewse saw the world, and I played upon it. One more lie and then I was done.
Kitty’s face was very pale. She knew what I was about – she would have done the same for me if she could. ‘I am not a fool. I am not empty-headed. I am telling the truth. I have another witness—’
‘—Enough,’ I snapped. ‘Enough, Kitty. Go home. And do not come here again.’ I glanced at Rewse. ‘I would be most obliged if you could escort Miss Sparks from the prison. I do not wish to see her again.’
I left the room without another word. Kitty gave a low, hollow moan of grief that echoed off the prison walls. Then silence. I asked the turnkey waiting outside to return me to my cell.
As we walked deeper into the prison, the walls began to press in upon me. I stopped and reached out a hand to steady myself, the stone cool and damp beneath my fingers. I had just destroyed my best – perhaps only – chance of release, but I knew I had made the right decision. If I had confirmed Kitty’s story, Alice would have been found guilty. She would hang for it, without question. And then I really would be guilty of murder.
There was a cost, of course there was. That is the secret the priests and bishops never preach from the pulpit. They speak of the cost of sin with great relish, but they never admit there is a cost for virtue, just as painful to bear. I had lost my freedom and I had lost my love. I might even lose my life. And what had I gained in return? The right to look myself in the eye and say, ‘I am Thomas Hawkins. I remain myself.’
Only two people could help me now. Queen Caroline was my best hope. She could not prevent the trial from going ahead but she might persuade her husband to grant a king’s pardon – if she were so minded. I would not walk free – not from a sentence of death – but it could be commuted to seven years’ transportation.
And then there was James Fleet. Dangerous, but not without power and influence. Would he come to my aid after all that had happened? Perhaps – if it were in his interest.
We had reached my cell. I leaned closer to the turnkey and murmured in his ear. ‘I must send a message, in secret.’
The turnkey smiled.
How much simpler prison was, with money in one’s pocket.
Fleet did not come at once. Let me stew for three days, the bastard. In the meantime, Mr Eliot helped me prepare for my trial. He was brusque with me now, conducting our business with a cold civility that wounded me, though I didn’t show it. As I had been charged with murder, I must present my own defence at trial. Eliot could support me solely upon specific points of law. He brought me books and papers as I requested, but added no words of comfort or sympathy. I was the rogue who had broken Kitty’s heart – ignored her visits and left her letters unread. He tried only once to speak of her, and I reacted angrily, ordering him from the cell. He never mentioned her again. After that I would sometimes catch him looking at me from the corner of his eyes, wondering and full of doubt. But I could not risk telling him the truth.
He did at least – unknowingly – perform one valuable service. Amidst a pile of letters to be delivered I tucked a short message to Mr Budge, offering my unwavering service to his mistress and begging for her aid. The next day came a response, of sorts. All in hand. Be patient. Eliot handed the note to me with the rest of my correspondence, not realising he was acting as messenger to the Queen of England.
It was a Sabbath when James Fleet visited me at last, and I had just returned from chapel. Half a dozen prisoners were condemned to hang on the morrow. They had sat together on a black bench in the middle of the room. The prison Ordinary, the Reverend James Guthrie, gave a tedious, hectoring speech. A few of the condemned wept, and one pissed himself – through fear or drunkenness I couldn’t tell. The yellow stream trickled slowly across the flagstones as those nearest lifted their feet out of the way. I decided not to return to chapel.
James Fleet was waiting for me in my cell, smoking a pipe. He stood up as I entered, and we shook hands, warily. He sat back down on the bed while I leaned against the wall. It was a frosty morning and the chill of the wall against my back helped keep my senses sharp. I had slept poorly, these past days.
‘I know Sam killed Burden.’
Fleet breathed out a long stream of smoke. Shrugged.
‘You ordered him to do it.’
‘He botched it. Should’ve used a pillow. Stifled the bastard. Coroner would have said he died in his sleep. But nine stab wounds . . .’ He shook his head. ‘No disguising that. He botched it.’
My hands curled into fists. Burden had held Gabriela down while she was cut and tortured. Sam had grown up with the scars of that night – the one on his mother’s face and the ones she buried deep inside her. He’d heard her screaming in terror when she dreamed herself back in that room, night after night. And Fleet had used the hatred this had instilled in his son as a weapon. What did he expect, sending Sam to live next door to Burden? Sam had killed the bad man – just not in the way Fleet had intended.
‘I misjudged him,’ Fleet said. ‘But the boy had to start his trade somehow.’
I said nothing. I was struggling to breathe
, I was so angry.
Fleet waited. He saw my bunched fists, he knew I despised him. He was not the sort of man to apologise or explain himself. He was not interested in arguing the morality of his actions with me. He had chosen to live his life this way a long time ago and I would not jolt him from it now. And of the two of us, who was faring better? Once this meeting was concluded, which of us would walk through the prison gate a free man?
‘I’ve told no one,’ I said at last.
‘That’s why you’re still alive, Hawkins.’
I ignored him. ‘I will remain silent on one condition.’
‘Kitty,’ he guessed.
‘She knows nothing about Sam, or Gabriela. What happened at Aunt Doxie’s.’
He flinched and looked away for a moment. Still angry after all these years.
‘I will say nothing – to my lawyer, to the jury.’ I pushed myself from the wall and crossed to the bed, forcing myself to sit down next to him as if we were easy companions. ‘You know I would do anything to protect her, just as you protect Gabriela and your family. So let us be plain. As long as Kitty remains untouched, you have my silence.’
Fleet pulled the pipe from his lips and gazed at the tip of the stem. ‘Could just kill you.’
‘That is true.’ I had prepared for this. I’d been waiting three days for him to visit me and had used my time wisely, considering every possible reaction.
‘I have a man in here. One word and you’d find a knife between your ribs.’
‘You could arrange that,’ I agreed. ‘But it would seem suspicious. The coroner would investigate.’
‘Coroners can be bribed. And my man would die before giving up my name.’
‘He would hang for it, though. You’d like to avoid that, I think?’
He took a final draw of his pipe, the tobacco crackling in the bowl. The smoke curled above his head. ‘I have no wish to harm you, Hawkins. You’re useful to me. I only kill for profit or protection.’
The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 25
