The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [39]

And with that decision, the weight lifted from my heart. There was nothing more to be done. By rights I should have died that night in September. Instead I had been granted a few months of happiness with Kitty – a reprieve I had done little to deserve, God help me. So let Gonson charge me, and Fate would decide the rest. One last gamble. If the world were just, I would be spared.

Yes, I am aware how foolish this all sounds – gambling upon a just world, indeed. In my defence, I had been standing on tiptoes with my arms pinned above my head for God knows how long. I invite you to try it and see how soon your common sense flies out of the window. Something Gonson had been counting upon, no doubt.

The cell door slammed open. Crowder strode into the room with his club held high. I braced myself for another beating. He came closer, wheezing softly. Then he pulled out a set of keys and unlocked my chains.

I collapsed to the floor with a groan of relief. Moments later I was seized in agony as the cramps ripped through my shoulders and arms and along my bare, frozen calves. My fingers began to throb as the blood returned, but when I tried to bend them it felt as though someone was slamming red-hot needles into my knuckles. I lay upon the floor while Crowder tried to kick me to my feet.

At last, when the cramping stopped, I dragged myself up and hobbled from the cell in a daze of pain, Crowder snorting with impatience. After a few limping steps he put his arm beneath my shoulder and half-carried me up the stairs towards a room at the front of the house. Light spilled out from the open door and I could hear a woman’s voice, high and wavering. Kitty? No, please God – she would confess to anything to save me. I staggered forward, using the walls for balance. After the freezing cellar, the heat of the room hit me like a furnace. A fire blazed in the hearth, a thick stew bubbling away on the range. Gonson’s men sat together at a table, drinking small beer. Gonson himself stood by the fire, wearing a look of mild revulsion as a young woman knelt at his feet, sobbing into her apron. Not Kitty, I realised with astonishment. Betty.

‘Oh, sir, please!’ she shrieked, her voice muffled by the cloth. ‘I ain’t done nothing. Don’t hurt me!’

‘Calm yourself, hussy!’ Gonson snapped. He leaned down and pulled her hands roughly from her face. ‘How did you hear of the Marshal’s order? Tell me quick before I throw you in a cell for obstructing my work.’

‘I’m not obstructioning, I swear!’ she whimpered, wiping her eyes. ‘Oh, I think I shall faint, sir – please don’t lock me away!’

Gonson huffed in frustration. ‘Hawkins. D’you know this foolish creature?’

I rubbed my ruined shoulders. ‘There is an order from the Marshal, sir?’

He coloured and said nothing.

‘I should like to see it, Mr Gonson.’

He hesitated for as long as he could – as if he wished he might give me anything else in the world. At last he took a letter from a drawer and held it out to me. I grabbed it and read it quickly, heart leaping as I understood its purpose.

The letter was from the City Marshal, requesting my immediate release. More than that, it demanded that Gonson apologise for questioning my good character and that… I blinked, and read the line again, to be sure I had not dreamed it. It said that I had been charged by the Marshal himself with investigating Joseph Burden’s murder. And that Gonson must give me every assistance in my search for the murderer.

‘When did this arrive?’

Gonson’s blush deepened. He must have held on to the letter for hours, hoping I might confess, or at least give him some new information in the meanwhile. And I almost had. I almost had.

I glowered at him. ‘And you speak to me, sir, of corruption.’

Oh, what he wished to say to me then! The fury and frustration throbbing through his veins. But he could not accuse me now, not without risking his own position. Instead he took his annoyance out upon Betty, shouting at her to get to her feet and to stop her mewling. ‘How did you learn of the Marshal’s letter? Answer me, hussy!’

Betty just shook her head, whimpering with fright.

‘Leave her be, Gonson,’ I said. ‘She’s only a coffee maid. She works at Moll’s – half the town spills its secrets in there.’

Gonson was disgusted – by Betty, by the thought of Moll’s, by the whole world he was forced to inhabit. ‘And what business is this of yours, woman? Why should you hurry over here and cause all this fuss? Are you a spy-’

Betty wailed in horror, drowning out his question. ‘No, no sir! I only come here because… Oh, Mr Hawkins, you must tell him the truth! You know I’d do anything for you, sir!’ And with that she scurried across the room and flung her arms about my neck. Before I could reply she pressed her lips to mine, warm and sweet. I had just begun to enjoy myself when she broke away.

‘Silly slut.’ Gonson shuddered, scandalised.

I spied my waistcoat and stockings piled in a corner. I sat down and put them on, then slipped on my shoes. ‘I believe I am owed an apology, Mr Gonson. By order of the City Marshal.’