The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [20]

‘Tom!’Kitty shook me awake.

I sat up, heart racing. My shirt was soaked with sweat.

She reached for my hand in the dark. ‘You were screaming.’

‘Gaol.’ But it had been more than that. I could still taste the soil in my mouth. And there was a tinge in the air – the high, sweet scent of putrid meat. I had dreamed of Death and it clung to me still, even though I was awake.

‘It’s no wonder you’re dreaming of prison,’ Kitty said. ‘You’ve been trapped in this room for too long. You must go out, Tom.’

She was right. The longer I stayed locked in the house the more I would feel like a prisoner. And the more old dreams would return to haunt me. I lay back down against the pillow.

Kitty curled up beside me, stroking my chest. ‘Your heart is beating so hard… Are you in trouble, still?’

We both are, my love, if I can’t stop Burden from spreading his lies. I kissed the top of her head. ‘No.’

She sighed, her breath warm against my skin. ‘I hate it when you lie to me.’

The next evening Kitty decided to visit the Eliots. She tried to persuade me to join her but I refused, insisting she take Sam instead. I didn’t like her walking the dark streets alone and it would do Sam good to spend some time in decent company.

‘Stay close to Miss Sparks,’ I said, as he wound my best cravat around his neck. ‘And remember what I taught you about good conversation.’

He looked at me in the mirror. ‘Sentences.’

‘Yes, indeed. Sentences.’ I paused. ‘That wasn’t one, for example.’

He tied up his hair with a black ribbon. I had still not persuaded him to shave his head. He would never pass as a gentleman without a wig. Then I tried to imagine Sam in a wig, bowing to ladies and exchanging idle banter with other gents – and was struck once again by the folly of my endeavours. Sam would never be a gentleman – counterfeit or otherwise. He might as well keep his curls if he loved them so much.

I waited until he and Kitty had left, then dressed and strode out into Covent Garden. My jaw was still a little swollen, but my eye was much better. The night would hide the worst of it.

Moll’s coffeehouse was as rowdy as ever – the din carried halfway down Russell Street. The customers I knew well, the girls even better, flashing glances at me through the yellow haze of pipe smoke. Another life,I reminded myself, with a twinge of regret. I had not come here for sport but for information. This was the best place to discover how far Burden’s lies about me had spread. And how much trouble I was in.

Moll King was winning a game of cards, surrounded by drunken admirers. No one knew Moll’s real age – middling thirties, I guessed. She was no longer in her prime, but she had a wicked charm, more alluring than the sweet complexion and slim ankles of her freshest girls. Once, her husband Tom had ruled the coffeehouse and the marriage – and Moll had the scars to prove it. But she had worked and waited over the years – always sober, always clever – as the drink weakened him. Now he sat by the fire, bloated and gouty, with half his teeth rotted from his head, while his wife flirted and schemed and ran the place as if he were already in his grave. His name remained above the door, but this was Moll’s place and the world knew it. I had been one of her favourites for a while, but she had lost interest now I shared my life with Kitty. I gave her the odd secret from the gaming tables to keep her friendly, but there were so many other young men in town, willing to spend money on her and on her girls. She blew me a kiss across the room and returned to her game.

It was Betty I needed, Moll’s black serving maid. I found her making a pot of coffee by the fire. She tilted her chin to a corner table away from the main company. After a few minutes she brought me a bowl of punch, taking a glass for herself and settling down across the table.

People underestimated Betty. They ignored her, in fact. There was always one black serving maid at Moll’s – it was a tradition. And she was always called Betty – no matter her real name. Two years ago this Betty had replaced another girl. Some customers hadn’t even noticed the change – she was just the black maid pouring their coffee. The first time I saw her, it was a quiet evening. I was pretending to read a newspaper while listening to a conversation at the next bench. I’d glanced up to find Betty watching me from a corner, a half-smile on her lips. I grinned back. She’d caught me eavesdropping on the customers and I’d caught her spying on me. Kindred spirits.

I liked Betty – I liked the way she watched the world from beneath her thick black lashes. I think she liked me too. There was something unfinished between us – some path I had missed too long ago to trace again. A secret heat I felt in her gaze. Another life, indeed.

She sipped her punch. ‘Gonson paid us a visit last night.’

This was not surprising news. Gonson seemed to spend half his days raiding the Cocked Pistol, and the other half searching the coffeehouses for thieving whores to punish. For a man who hated vice so much, he certainly spent a great deal of time immersed in it.