The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [14]
But then I would never know who was waiting for me in St James’s Park, would never learn the secret they wished to spill. A mystery left unsolved for ever. Damn Fleet, the cunning bastard. How could I resist the intrigue? It was like putting a bowl of punch in front of a drunk.
One meeting, that was all. A brief conversation with a noblewoman, no doubt about some trifling matter. A stolen bauble, a petty piece of blackmail. I would pass her troubles on to Fleet and he would resolve the rest. One meeting. And never again, of course.
West, then, to St James’s Park. I did not stop to consider the Burdens’ house as I passed, never thought to look up at the windows or wonder about the previous night’s drama. Too much had happened since then for me to think of it. It was eight o’clock and already dark – most likely Joseph Burden had already locked and bolted the house for the night. I didn’t even notice.
I hurried through the Garden with my head down against the wind, the chill air digging its fingers through my clothes like a thief searching for coins. I pulled my coat tighter, striding past Tom King’s coffeehouse, ignoring the raucous shouts and cheers of its customers. I’d wasted a hundred nights in there with King’s clever, dangerous wife Moll. Not tonight. She would only winkle the truth from me and use it in some poisonous way, then dismiss her betrayal with a laugh. Best to keep yourself locked and bolted against that one. She was fine company, but she’d pinch the soul from your body and flog it to the highest bidder given the chance.
Walking along the windswept Strand I prayed for a hackney cab to escape the cold, but they were all busy, horses clattering by with steaming breath, drivers swaddled in thick blankets, holding their whips in numb fingers. So I continued on, shoulders hunched, jumping over puddles of rainwater and filth.
As I reached Charing Cross I heard a gruff shout of ‘By Your Leave, sir!’ and footsteps pounding hard behind me. I jumped aside, narrowly avoiding collision with a sedan chair jolting fast along the pavement, the man inside gripping the window edges hard to stop himself being flung about. The second chairman tipped his chin in thanks as he passed, but his passenger leaned out and glared back at me in outrage. He was an older man in his fifties with a red, sweating face. ‘Damn fool!’ he cried, spittle spraying from his lips.
I halted in surprise at his rudeness, searching for a suitable reply. A waterman turning for home watched the chair bobbing its way down the Mall. ‘Twat,’ he observed, cheerfully.
That would do. I touched my hat in appreciation and pressed on.
On Pall Mall, the blazing lights of St James’s Palace cast a bright glow upon the pavement. Somewhere deep inside those rambling old buildings the king and his family would be playing cards or backgammon, watched by bored, obsequious courtiers. If I were king I would insist upon something fresh and new every night – a ball, a masque, a play. Or dismiss the entire court and wander naked through the palace, frightening the servants – why not? What use was being king if you could not do as you pleased? But by all accounts King George liked nothing better than routine – the same wearying pomp and ceremony day in and day out. It was said he visited his mistress at the same hour every day, pacing about outside her rooms if he were a few minutes early, squinting at his watch. I had distant cousins on my father’s side of the family who spent their lives at court fighting for power and position amidst all that drudgery. My God – they were welcome to it.
I reached the end of the Mall and slipped into the park beyond, a hand resting on the hilt of my sword. St James’s Park was a good deal safer than the stews of St Giles, but courtiers drove their carriages along Kensington Way late into the night. And where courtiers drove their carriages, foot pads and highwaymen were never far away – lean Highland wolves prowling amidst a flock of plump, dozy sheep.
I headed deeper into the park where the grass was higher, cursing silently as the wet mud splashed my stockings and pulled at my shoes. The lanterns along the King’s Coach Way shone like jewels on a necklace. I crossed back into darkness, low and swift. I must not be seen here – not by a soul. A courtier meeting a young man alone at night in the park – reputations had been ruined by less.
Deep in the shadows of Buckingham House I took out my watch, holding the face up to the moonlight. Half past eight. Fleet’s mysterious client should arrive at any moment. As a courtier, doubtless she would ride through the park from the palace itself. And as a woman, surely she would come by chair or carriage, with servants to protect her. I tucked away my watch and waited, stamping my feet to keep warm.
A few minutes later I caught the whisk of wheels along the King’s Way. Out of the darkness a handsome black and gold carriage glided smoothly across the grass towards me, the driver urging on the horses with a light tap of his whip. Liveried footmen stood on either side of the carriage, guarding the doors, and a third stood on the back. The red velvet curtains at the windows were drawn tight. My heart began to pound, blood singing through my veins. Ahh… this was why I had come, in truth. This brief feeling of mystery and excitement. No doubt in a few seconds the door would swing open and some trembling old dowager would tell me that her pug had run off, and might I find it for her.
