The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [38]

Crowder guarded the door, thick arms folded high upon a belly grown fat with ale.

I shifted a little, chains clinking against the wall. I was barefoot and sore, hoisted almost on tiptoes on the ice-cold stone floor. My wrists were raised above my head, iron links fixed to a hook in the ceiling. I had thought when Gonson arrested me I would be slung in the Westminster lock-up, but instead I’d been dragged to a private house in a quiet courtyard. The guards had ripped off my stockings and waistcoat out of spite, and brought me down to the basement. Then they had left me alone for an hour, until my legs were shaking and my arms and shoulders burned. My fingers were numb; when I looked up I could see them blue-white and bloodless.

I had not expected this of Gonson. He was a man of the law. Why bring me here to this private place, except to hide what he was about? This was not lawful. Now he had returned, expecting to find me cowed and terrified, ready to confess.

Did he know what had happened to me in the Marshalsea? Did he look at me and think I was so easily broken? I glared at his smooth, bland face. ‘You have no right to keep me here, sir.’

Gonson paused in his pacing, fiddling with the fraying cuffs of his soil-coloured coat. Unlike most city magistrates, he was proud to say that he was incorruptible, which would explain his drab clothes and the outmoded square toes of his scuffed shoes. Or perhaps he thought good clothes were the devil’s work. ‘My guards have searched your rooms. They found bags packed with clothes and money – enough for a long journey. It is quite clear that your intention was to flee.’

I cursed silently. I’d packed those bags before my visit to the palace last night – and clean forgot them. ‘You have no proof I killed Burden. I thought better of you, Mr Gonson. You have a reputation for being a fair man. This is not lawful-’

‘No, sir!’ Gonson roared. ‘Do not dare lecture me on the law! Do not dare!’ He clenched his gloved fist, and for a second I thought he would strike me. Then he pulled away. ‘I should have listened to Mr Burden, but I refused to act without proof. Now he lies dead – at your hand.’

‘For God’s sake! How do you propose I murdered him? The doors and windows were locked and bolted. It must have been someone in the household, don’t you see? What if one of the children-’

Gonson signalled to Crowder. He strode across the cell and placed his hands upon my shoulders. Then he pressed down hard, wrenching my arms in their sockets. I screamed, and he grinned, pushing so fiercely that I thought my body would be torn apart. I screamed again, the pain ripping through me like fire.

At last, I was released. I sank back against the wall, my body shuddering with the shock. ‘I thought better of you, sir.’ I rasped.

Gonson frowned, stung by the insult. ‘No fault but yours, Hawkins. You force me to use these methods.’ He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out an arrest warrant, my name scratched upon it. Thomas Hawkins, for the charge of murder. Beneath it lay Gonson’s signature. I drew away, as if I might be damned by reading it. No man wishes to see such a thing. This was the arrest the queen had spoken of – the one she had overturned in exchange for my help with Charles Howard.

Gonson folded up the warrant and tucked it away. ‘I had planned to arrest you this morning. I have a witness swears you shot a man last September, in Southwark. Mr Burden had promised to testify. He heard you discuss the murder with your whore.’

‘He lied. They both lied-’

‘Quite enough to bring you to justice at last,’ Gonson said, refusing to hear me. ‘And yet the ink was barely dry upon the warrant when I was summoned to the Marshal’s house. He ordered me to cease my enquiries.’ He paused, lips pressed into a tight, bitter line. ‘He said he had been given no choice. The City Marshal, corrupted and threatened on your behalf, sir. I thought you were merely a foolish, whoring fellow – but I see now that you are a devil. I have examined Burden’s corpse, sir. You butchered the man. Who is it protects you, Hawkins? My Lord Walpole? The king?’ He grimaced at the thought. ‘I doubt your benefactor will feel as generous when he learns how you used your freedom.’ He patted his pocket. ‘I’ll wager this warrant will be granted before the sun sets tonight. And until then you will remain here, safe from the reach of your friends.’

They left me then, my arms still raised and pinned to the wall. The room was dark as night without a candle. I stared unseeing into the shadows, stunned and exhausted. I hadn’t expected this from Gonson. It was a cunning move on his part. He had no proof that I had killed Burden, but by arresting me in such a public way he had sent a challenge to the queen, my secret benefactor. Was I truly worth protecting now?

The hours passed. No one came. I had no food, no water. My mind began to wander, then fracture. I would never confess to Burden’s murder, not in a thousand years. But as I stood chained to the wall, freezing and crippled with pain, I began to wonder if I should confess to the murder on Snows Fields. If I told the whole story – if I explained that I was defending myself, there was a chance I would be spared. Transported for a few years perhaps, rather than hanged. Surely I could survive that.