The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [36]

Satisfied at last, Sam grinned and hurried from the room.

Kitty patted Alice on the shoulder. ‘Insurance,’ she said, sweetly. ‘In case you planned to mention the door. Or tried to place suspicion upon Mr Hawkins in some other fashion.’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘No. You won’t, will you?’ Kitty agreed with a touch of menace. She drew back the wall hanging and ushered Alice through the door, whispering orders in her ear. Start the day as usual. Light the fire and sweep the floor. And wait for someone else to scream murder.

Kitty built a fire in our room while I pulled off my ruined shirt, shivering in the cold dawn air. My head was spinning, my eyes raw and dry. I glanced mournfully at the bed, wishing I could bury myself beneath the blankets and escape the world for a few hours. But I could not have slept – my mind was too restless and alert. I thought of Burden lying dead on the other side of the wall. Murdered, just a few inches from where Kitty had lain sleeping. A thought struck me.

‘Did you hear anything in the night, Kitty? A struggle? A cry for help?’

‘Nothing.’ She ripped up my shirt and dropped the pieces on to the fire. ‘Perhaps he took a sleeping draught.’ She brushed the soot from her hands, eyes cast down. She was thinking of another murder, back in the Marshalsea. I crossed the room and held her.

‘When things have settled down, let’s leave London for a while. We could go to Paris, or Italy.’ I rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. ‘Somewhere warm.’

Kitty handed me a fresh shirt. ‘Italy.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure we’ll find new books for you to translate there.’

I had been thinking of travel and adventure, not months cramped over a desk, scratching imaginary lust on to blank pages. But I smiled too, and kissed her forehead. A promise.

I was buttoning my shirt when a scream pierced through the wall. Judith. The screams turned into a low howl of grief. And then Stephen’s voice, muffled through the walls.

‘No! Oh, Father, no! Murder! Murder!’

It had begun.

By the time we joined our neighbours on the street, Ned Weaver was standing guard at the door, his face drained white. He held a large wrench in his hand, turning it in his palm as I approached to play my part. I must appear as curious and ignorant as the rest of the street.

‘My God, Ned, what’s happened?’

He pushed me back with his free hand. ‘Keep away from here, sir.’

‘Is it true? Mr Burden has been killed?’

He studied my face for a long moment. ‘Aye,’ he breathed, at last. There was grief in his eyes and a kind of dull shock. But if he’d killed Burden he’d had hours to prepare his reaction. It told me nothing.

Judith emerged from the hallway and stood at Ned’s shoulder, her dark hair in a tangle down her back. She was dressed in a straw-coloured wrapping gown, the bottom stained with her father’s blood. Not as much as there had been on Alice’s dress. She had discovered him in daylight and must have drawn back at once.

‘Miss Burden,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘I have just heard-’

‘You killed him,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘You killed my father.’

‘That is not true…’

‘Murderer!’ she cried, throwing the word high into the air. I felt the street fall silent at my back.

Ned leaned down and whispered in her ear. Judith savaged me with a contemptuous look, then retreated back into the house. Ned tapped the wrench at my chest. ‘I’ve sent for Mr Gonson. I’ll tell him how you threatened Mr Burden last night.’ He tilted his chin over my shoulder, to the street beyond. ‘We all heard it.’

I glanced around. Our neighbours were huddled in groups, whispering and staring as if Ned and I were actors in a play. And judging by their black looks, they had cast me as the villain. I turned back to Ned. ‘Did you kill him, Ned? You’d have cause enough.’

Ned wanted to punch me – I could see it in his eyes – but he was no fool. Judith had accused me of murder, but the house had been locked tight last night. An apprentice with a hot temper, betrayed by his master? Aye, that would play well enough in court. ‘Go to hell,’ he barked, loud enough to be heard halfway down the street. But he kept his fists lowered.

As I returned to the shop, I heard hisses at my back. Even the brothel girls seemed wary, muttering to one another and refusing to meet my eye. When I reached the shop, Kitty was scuffing away tears of frustration and rage. I sat down at the table to fix myself a pipe. My hands were trembling. I stretched them out in front of me, willing them to stop shaking before Gonson arrived.

Kitty sat down opposite me and tucked her knees under her chin. ‘If it comes to it, I’ll confess to Snows Fields. You are not a murderer, Tom.’

‘No more are you, Kitty.’

She looked down at the table, a tear sliding slowly down her cheek. We had never spoken of what had happened out in Snows Fields that terrible night last September. What could be said? She had saved my life – and risked her soul for it. I reached over and brushed the tear away. Passed her my pipe to steady her nerves. She took a long pull, closing her eyes as she breathed out a stream of smoke. ‘Italy.’