The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [35]

She crossed the room and put her arms around me, her head pressed hard against my chest. I drew her close and held her for a long, perfect moment. There. I was forgiven. And all I’d had to do was prove myself willing to die for her. How simple and charming love is.

She stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips to my ear. ‘I would never let you hang on my account,’ she whispered. ‘Never. Do you understand?’

It was almost dawn. We needed to send Alice back before the household woke and somebody discovered Burden’s corpse. Kitty took Alice downstairs to dress her in a clean gown. We would have to take her innocence on trust – and a fair degree of common sense. Alice clearly had little to gain from Burden’s death, save for a moment’s revenge. Yesterday she had been set to become his wife and share his fortune. Today she had nothing. Who would hire a servant whose previous master had been murdered in his bed?

Whoever had killed Burden had been perfectly content to let Alice take the blame. Ned, Stephen, Judith – they all knew of Alice’s nightly visits to Burden’s bed. Alice had screamed like a banshee when she caught Sam in the room that night. Burden’s killer must have counted upon her screaming again, when she found the body. The household would have rushed to her aid… and discovered her upon the bed, crouched over the corpse. Covered in his blood.

A brutal murder, fuelled by a burning rage. But this attempt to turn suspicion upon Alice had been cold and clever.

Ned. Stephen. Or Judith.

Impossible.

I told myself it was none of my business who killed Burden. Gonson might suspect me, but as long as he did not discover the attic door I was safe enough. And yet… and yet… It was not a comfortable thought, knowing I was the most obvious suspect. It would be better to learn the truth – in case I needed to prove my innocence.

Sam drew a candle over his bed. Pinched his lips. ‘She’s left blood on the sheets.’

‘If Alice had married Burden, she might easily have borne a child. Several, in fact. How old is Alice? Nineteen? Twenty?’

Sam dipped a neck cloth in a jug of water and began to scrub hard. ‘Five and twenty,’ he suggested, with a fair degree of malice.

If Alice had a child, Stephen might lose his inheritance, or at least part of it. And then there was Judith, sickened by the idea of Alice becoming her stepmother. Loss of money, loss of pride. Either could have led to murder. But then… surely they would have killed Alice, not their father?

Ned Weaver was angry with Burden, but angry enough to plunge a blade into his heart? If I were forced to gamble on it, I supposed I would bet on Burden’s apprentice – cheated and betrayed. He had the strength for it – but not the heart, surely. Truth was, I would not risk money on any of them. ‘Are you sure you didn’t kill him, Sam?’

He paused in his scrubbing. ‘With a knife?’ He picked up a pillow, gripped it tightly in both hands. ‘Best way – smother them. Looks natural.’

‘That’s… rather sinister.’

‘Bad man. Bad death. Deserved it.’ He plumped the pillow and dropped it back upon the bed. ‘Blood on your shirt.’

I glanced down. There were smudges all down the front from where Alice had clung to me. On purpose, to incriminate me? No, surely not… Damn it. It would have to go on the fire – it was too badly stained and I couldn’t risk it being discovered. Gonson was sure to pay me a visit before the morning was over.

‘Why’re we helping Alice?’ Sam asked.

‘She’ll hang if we don’t.’

He stared up at me, peat-black eyes filled with frustration. ‘They’ll blame you instead.’

‘Gonson won’t arrest me without proof.’

He tossed the bloodstained neckerchief on the fire. It sizzled and spat, damp against the flames, sending grey smoke into the room. He coughed against his sleeve. ‘Give her money, Mr Hawkins. Enough to run away.’

I hesitated. I had not considered the idea. It was tempting. Why should I place myself in danger for a girl I barely knew? If Alice left tonight she could begin a new life with a new identity. Sam’s father could hide her for a few weeks, then send her wherever she pleased. True, everyone would assume she had killed Burden, but she’d said herself that the best she could hope for now was a ruined life on the street. Was this not the kindest choice, for everyone?

I opened my mouth to speak. Very well. Let’s send a message to your father. But there was a lump in my throat and I couldn’t say the words. My conscience. My damned conscience. If I sent Alice away now she would be named a murderer for ever. She would live a life of fear while the real killer escaped punishment. And what if she were caught and brought back home to be hanged? What then?

Alice appeared in the doorway in the plain, coarse wool dress Kitty used to wear in the Marshalsea. The one she’d been wearing the first time I saw her in Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse. It was tight on Alice, especially about the chest, but it would pass.

Sam was not happy. ‘What if shetells them about the door? What if she blames one of us?’

‘Then we show them this,’ Kitty said, holding up Alice’s bloody gown. She threw it to him. ‘Hide it somewhere safe, away from the house.’