The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [16]
I staggered to my feet, reeling. My jaw throbbed and I could feel blood seeping from my throat where his nails had torn into my skin. ‘Mrs Howard,’ I called out into the night. ‘My lady?’
But she’d vanished.
Chapter Five
The house was dark and empty when I returned home. I heated a pan of mulled wine over the fire in my chamber, breathing in the warm, soothing scent of cloves and nutmeg.
I had been in a shocked stupor on my walk home, lurching through the streets in a daze. Now, as I collapsed into a chair by the fire, I realised how close I’d come to losing my life. I pulled off my wig and loosened my cravat. My left cheek was badly swollen and my jaw was throbbing so hard that I could only take tiny sips of wine. It did not seem broken, but I could tell it would take days to heal. So much for the thrill of adventure, Hawkins – you damned fool.
What the devil had happened? The ferocity and speed of the attack had left me reeling. I had seen men strip to the waist in the street to fight over some imagined slight. I’d been beaten and chained to a wall in gaol. I’d survived a riot, for heaven’s sake. But I had never seen a man rage so far out of control and so fast. He was like a fighting dog, driven into a frenzy by a lust for blood. Could Mrs Howard have inspired such madness? Or was he cursed with an endless fury, always ready to leap into battle? Considering the way he’d spat and sworn at me from his sedan I guessed it was the latter. Either way, I prayed to God I never encountered the brute again.
As for Mrs Howard, who would blame her for running back to the safety of the palace? Whatever her present troubles, her lover could protect her far better than I. He was the king, damn it! I was glad to have saved her tonight, but I wanted no more part in such a dark intrigue. Court politics, James Fleet, and a raving mad man with a pistol? No, thank you, indeed.
I closed my eyes, exhausted now the danger had passed and my blood had cooled. I drifted into a fitful sleep, still sitting in the chair… and woke in darkness. The fire had burned out. Voices drifted from the shop downstairs, snatches of laughter. I pulled myself slowly to my feet. Kitty was singing a ballad – loudly and somewhat off-key. A man begged her to spare his ears, and then they both laughed.
A shard of jealousy pierced my heart. It was John Eliot; I recognised his voice at once. Old, blissfully married, and round as a football. But still, he was alone with Kitty. I stole down the stairs, listening to their conversation. It was nothing – idle talk about the play and the devilish annoying people in the seats around them. I stood by the door and tortured myself for a few moments, even so. How could she sound so cheerful, when we had argued so badly just hours before? Did she not know that I had almost died tonight? That she could have come home to discover she had lost me for ever? Well, no. She did not know that, Tom. In fact you refused to tell her where you were going, if you recall.
Feeling somewhat foolish, I nudged open the door and bade them both a good evening.
‘Ah! Hawkins!’ Eliot exclaimed, rising to his feet and smiling warmly. They were seated at the table with a bottle of wine between them, lit only by a solitary candle.
‘So,’ Kitty said in a flat voice without turning around. ‘You are home.’ As if she did not care tuppence.
I took Eliot’s outstretched hand.
‘Brought her back for you, Hawkins,’ he said cheerfully, then lowered his voice. ‘She was in half a mind to stay with us tonight… Good God!’ He squinted at me. ‘What’s wrong with your face, man?’
‘What’s this?’ Kitty scraped back her chair, then gasped in shock. ‘Tom!’ she cried, pushing Eliot aside and dragging me towards the candlelight. ‘Is that blood?’ She touched my cravat, saw the deep gouges beneath. ‘Oh… You’re hurt…’
‘I’m fine,’ I sighed, secretly delighted.
‘Sam!’ she called and a dark figure released itself from the shadows. I had not even seen him hiding there. ‘Run across to Mrs Jenkins and fetch some ice. She took a load this morning.’ She pushed him from the room and ran half up the stairs. ‘Jenny!’ she yelled, in a voice that must have woken every Jenny in a five-mile radius. ‘Wake up! Mr Hawkins is hurt!’
A few minutes later I was settled on a low couch while Kitty washed the wounds at my throat with a scalding mix of brandy and hot water. I winced and gestured to the bowl. ‘Could I not drink that instead? It looks… medicinal.’
‘You’re filthy,’ she said, dabbing hard at one of the deeper cuts. ‘Have you been rolling around in the mud?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I was attacked in St James’s Park.’
Kitty’s brows rose sharply. ‘A highwayman?’
‘I’m not sure what he was. A mad man, perhaps.’
She nodded and continued tending my wounds. After a little while, she said, ‘I am a good, patient soul, am I not, Mr Eliot?’
Eliot had returned to the table, a glass of claret balanced on his fat belly. ‘A saint,’ he agreed.
‘Because I do know how you hate to be nagged, Tom. And of course I am not your wife, so it is not my place to ask, “and what took you to the park so late?” or “who did you expect to meet there?” It would be
WINNER OF THE CWA HISTORICAL DAGGER AWARD 2014.Longlisted for the John Creasey Dagger Award for best debut crime novel of 2014.London, 1727 – and Tom Hawkins is about to fall from his heaven of card games, brothels, and coffeehouses to the hell of a debtors' prison. The Marshalsea is a savage world of its own, with simple rules: those with family or friends who can lend them a little money may survive in relative comfort. Those with none will starve in squalor and disease. And those who try to escape will suffer a gruesome fate at the hands of the gaol's rutheless governor and his cronies.The trouble is, Tom Hawkins has never been good at following rules – even simple ones.
Успех незамысловатой песенки про Марусю Климову, которая должна простить любимого, необъясним. Жизнь и смерть знаменитой бандерши, которая стала популярной благодаря этим куплетам, напоминает голливудский блокбастер — любовь и предательство, взлеты и падения, оглушительный успех и всеобщее порицание… Предлагаем вашему вниманию правдивую историю о Кровавой Мэри, которая стала прототипом персонажа полюбившейся многим песни. Хрупкая женщина держала в кулаке Петроград 20-х годов прошлого столетия, жила неистово, с фантазией, будто каждый день был последним.
Книги, входящие в серию, созданы на основании записок действительного статского советника по полицейской части Тулина Евграфа Михайловича. Сюжеты книг погружают читателя в поиск украденных чертежей, кладов, фальшивомонетчиков и уникальных коней. 1. Георгий и Ольга Арси: Дело о секте скопцов. Исторический детектив Тулину Евграфу Михайловичу в свою бытность сыщиком московской сыскной части пришлось распутать клубок интриг, связанных с похищением секретных чертежей нового оружия на Императорском оружейном заводе в Туле.
В графстве Хэмптоншир, Англия, найден труп молодой девушки Элеонор Тоу. За неделю до смерти ее видели в последний раз неподалеку от деревни Уокерли, у озера, возле которого обнаружились странные следы. Они глубоко впечатались в землю и не были похожи на следы какого-либо зверя или человека. Тут же по деревне распространилась легенда о «Девонширском Дьяволе», берущая свое начало из Южного Девона. За расследование убийства берется доктор психологии, член Лондонского королевского общества сэр Валентайн Аттвуд, а также его друг-инспектор Скотленд-Ярда сэр Гален Гилмор.
Наталья Павлищева – признанный мастер исторических детективов, совокупный тираж которых перевалил за миллион экземпляров.Впервые автор посвятила целую книжную серию легендарному клану Медичи – сильнейшей и богатейшей семье Средневековья, выходцы из которой в разное время становились королевами Франции, римскими палами.Захватывающие дворцовые игры и интриги дают представление об универсальной модели восхождения человека к Власти, которая не устарела и не утратила актуальности и в наши дни.Неугомонный Франческо, племянник богатого патриция Якопо Пацци, задумал выдать сестру Оретту за старого горбатого садовника.От мерзкого «жениха» девушка спряталась в монастыре.
Тени грехов прошлого опутывают их, словно Гордиев узел. А потому все попытки его одоления обречены на провал и поражение, ведь в этом случае им приходиться бороться с самими собой. Пока не сверкнёт лезвие… 1 место на конкурсе СД-1 журнал «Смена» № 11 за 2013 г.
Повести и романы, включенные в данное издание, разноплановы. Из них читатель узнает о создании биологического оружия и покушении на главу государства, о таинственном преступлении в Российской империи и судьбе ветерана вьетнамской авантюры. Объединяет остросюжетные произведения советских и зарубежных авторов сборника идея разоблачения культа насилия в буржуазном обществе.