The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [37]

I covered her hand with mine.

It was a strange, tense hour waiting for the knock upon the door. We heard Gonson arrive at Burden’s house and hurry upstairs with his men to view the body. Judith’s voice, high and trembling with distress, carried through the walls, though we couldn’t make out the words. Then Gonson, slow and measured, asking questions.

It began to rain, a strong wind hurling fistfuls against the window. The room darkened as grey clouds blocked the light. Kitty stoked the fire and held her hands to the flame. ‘I can’t bear this,’ she muttered.

I took off my wig, rubbed my hands over my scalp. And still the puzzle of it turned in my mind, around and around like a clockwork spit. Ned. Stephen. Judith. One of them had stabbed Burden nine times in the chest, then calmly waited for Alice to find the body. And now, just as calmly, waited for the suspicion to fall upon me. How obliging I had been, threatening Burden last night. Well. Let Gonson arrive and have done with it. Let him make his accusations – he had no evidence to support them, unless he discovered the passage between Sam’s room and Burden’s attic.

A pounding at the door. A wooden club, not a fist. I rose as if in a trance and opened it. Gonson stood in the doorway in a dark-grey cloak, surrounded by his men. He was unshaven and had clearly dressed in a rush, his cravat askew and the buttons of his waistcoat matched to the wrong buttonholes. So eager to stake a claim upon the murder. I bowed. ‘Sir.’

He leaned upon his stick, studying me closely. His hat and the ends of his long wig were sodden with rain. ‘Mr Burden is dead.’

‘So I hear. If you have come to accuse me, sir-’

‘No, Mr Hawkins. I’ve come to arrest you.’

Before I could respond, two of the guards thrust themselves through the door and grabbed me by the arms. I struggled against them, digging my heels as they tried to drag me outside. ‘Let me go, damn you!’ I cried. ‘I’m innocent.’

‘You are guilty, sir!’ Gonson thundered. He shoved his face an inch from mine. ‘Do not think me a fool! Burden was set to testify against you this very morning and now he lies murdered in his bed – at your hand. He was a good man. A brave man.’

‘He was a hypocrite,’ I spat. ‘And a liar.’

Gonson gave a nod and one of his men punched me hard in the gut. I doubled over, knees buckling. The next moment Kitty was at my side, screaming curses at them all. A guard struck her with his fist, dashing her to the floor. I leaped at him, but there were too many of them. They took hold of my arms and legs and pulled me outside into the pouring rain. As I fought to free myself, someone knocked me to the ground with a cuff to the head. By the time I’d come to my senses, my wrists were fixed in iron. The guard captain swaggered closer, pulling a thick riding whip from his belt. He pressed it against my throat. ‘Attack me again,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll flay the skin off your back.’

I held still, eyes cast down as the rain soaked my bare scalp. I had seen men flogged before, heard their screams echoing through the streets. The captain chuckled, pushed the whip harder against my throat until I began to choke. ‘Your slut has more fight in her. I think I’ll pay her a visit while you’re locked up. I like a whore with spirit.’

I had felt anger like this before and had lashed out, my temper flaring before I could stop myself. My first day in gaol I had been mocked by the head turnkey and smashed my fists into his jaw before I could stop to think of the consequences. But I had been a boy then. I had survived torture and gaol fever and betrayal. Now I was a man, and my rage burned as ice, not fire. I lifted my chin. This guard, this ape with his whip was nothing. Nothing. I looked him deep in the eyes. ‘If you touch her, I will kill you.’

The guard’s grin faded.

‘Mr Crowder!’ Gonson called, irritably. He was standing a few paces from us and had not heard his captain’s threats. He pulled his heavy wool cloak close around his shoulders. ‘Enough chatter.’

Crowder and his men dragged me towards Covent Garden. One of them stayed behind to hold Kitty back, but I could hear her shouts and curses all the way down Russell Street. As we reached the piazza, I spied Sam returning from the market. I called out to him as we passed and he ran alongside us, eyes wide with shock.

‘Take Kitty to your father,’ I said as the guards jostled me away. ‘Keep her safe, Sam!’

He nodded and raced off at once.

I felt a moment’s relief. Crowder couldn’t touch Kitty now – not unless he fancied a battle with the most powerful gang in London. He pushed his club deep into my back, pressing me forward.

‘Mr Gonson!’ I called out to the magistrate, striding proudly at the head of the procession. ‘Where is your evidence? Where is your warrant? You cannot…’

Crowder struck me hard across the back of the head. Pain flashed through my skull and I staggered, half-blinded. The guards dragged me on through the streets. I kept my mouth shut.

Chapter Ten

^‘So, Mr Hawkins – are you ready to confess?’

Gonson paced the cell, hands clasped behind his back. He wore the satisfied air of a man unburdened with doubt; a man who walked in the light, oblivious of his own shadow. He had removed his hat and cloak; I supposed they must be drying by a fire somewhere. Here, in this room, there was no fire. He was warm enough in his frock coat, though his brown wool stockings were damp and spattered with mud. His long, full-bottomed grey wig smelled like wet goat.