The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [4]

The door to the Cocked Pistol swung open, candlelight spilling softly on to the street.

‘Tom!’ Kitty leaned out, bare feet on tiptoe. She was half-dressed in a silk wrapping gown and a white quilted cap, a few loose curls spilling across her forehead. ‘There you are, you dog. What are you about? If you’re pissing against the shop again…’

My angel. ‘Housebreaker. I’m guarding the door.’

Her eyes caught light. She disappeared inside for a moment, then emerged in a pair of my boots, twirling a large frying pan in her hands. As she clopped towards me I considered ordering her back to the shop for safety. Imagined how that suggestion would be greeted. Remained silent.

‘How many?’ she asked from the corner of her mouth.

‘Just one. I hope.’

Kitty hurried back to the shop and called up the stairs. ‘Sam! Sam! Fetch my pistol.’ She picked up her gown and ran back to me, peering eagerly over my shoulder into the narrow hallway beyond. The house was still in uproar, panicked voices tumbling through the air in a confusion of shouts and commands.

‘Trapped like a rat in a barrel,’ Kitty murmured. ‘What will they do to him, Tom?’

I thought of Joseph Burden – devout, severe, unyielding. ‘Lecture him to death, probably.’

Kitty snorted.

‘They’ll hang him.’ A low voice behind us.

‘Sam,’ Kitty scolded, smacking the boy lightly on the arm. ‘Must you creep about like that?’

Sam Fleet – fourteen years old, named for his late Uncle Samuel, my old cell mate. Looked like the old devil, too – the same short, lean build, the same black-eyed stare. A darker complexion, like a Spaniard. Thick black curls tied with a black ribbon. He was holding a pistol.

I tucked it beneath my coat. Sam had already slipped past me, poking his head through the door into the gloomy interior. Burden’s house was a mystery to the neighbourhood; he did not encourage visitors. I tapped Sam’s shoulder. ‘Go back inside.’

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he did as he was told, sauntering away as if it were his own decision. I smiled after him, recognising the small act of defiance from my own youthful rebellions.

The house had fallen silent. I took a step into the hallway and shouted up the stairs.

‘Mr Burden? Ned? Is all safe? Do you have him?’

‘Mr Hawkins?’ a soft voice replied, from the landing above. A figure descended slowly – dainty bare feet, the hem of a dress brushing the stairs, a slim hand holding a candelabrum. She did not seem quite real at first, moving with a slow, dreamy grace. Judith – Joseph Burden’s daughter. She must be Kitty’s age, but she rarely left the house save for church, and I had never spoken with her before.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ Kitty muttered. ‘I walk faster in my damned sleep.’

When she was halfway down the stairs Judith paused, her free hand gripping the rail tight. There was a fresh cut on her lip. She stared at us both, grey eyes lost and distant in a pale face. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice was slow and dazed, as if she were emerging from a dream.

‘Miss Burden – you’re hurt. Did you see the thief? Did he strike you?’

‘Thief? I… no.’ She put a hand to her swollen lip. ‘I saw nothing.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Nothing at all.’ She sank to the stair, resting her forehead against the banisters as if they were the bars of a prison. The candelabrum slid to the floor.

Kitty leaped forward and settled it on the ground before it set the place alight. I knelt down beside Judith. She was trembling violently, her breath coming in short gasps. Whatever she had seen had shocked her out of all sense. Fearing she might faint or fall into a fit, I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. It was small and very smooth, the hand of a girl who spent her days embroidering cushions and pouring tea. ‘Don’t be afraid, Miss Burden. You are quite safe now.’

‘We have a pistol,’ Kitty said, arching an eyebrow at my hand linked with Judith’s.

‘And a frying pan,’ I added, smiling.

Judith offered a ghost of a smile in return. ‘You are kind, sir,’ she murmured, but her hand lay like a dead thing in mine.

‘Is Alice safe?’ Kitty asked. Alice Dunn was Burden’s housekeeper. She and Kitty would sometimes talk over the yard wall.

‘Alice?’ Judith withdrew her hand and curled up on the stairs, her head buried in her gown. ‘Why should I care if Alice Dunn is safe? She is only a maid.’

‘Judith.’

Joseph Burden stood at the top of the stairs, looming above us like a bear about to attack. An old fighting bear, long past its prime, but still dangerous. He was a giant of a man, with thick, strong arms from years of hard labour. His belly was vast, straining against his nightgown. He thumped down the steps and pulled his daughter to her feet with a savage wrench. Judith gave a cry of pain, stifled at once. Her father seized her by the back of the neck and with one great shove pushed her up the stairs. She slipped and scrabbled away, without a word.

Kitty clenched her jaw.

Burden heaved himself down the rest of the stairs and pushed his face into mine. ‘You. How dare you enter my home?’

I leaned back on my heels, avoiding his stale, hot breath. ‘Your apprentice begged me to stand guard. Did you find the thief?’