The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [40]

‘Get out.’ Gonson’s face had turned a remarkable shade of purple. ‘Get out, you devil.’ He spun back to the fire, unable to bear the sight of me leaving, a free man with my order in hand. He pretended he was warming his hands by the fire, but his shoulders were shaking with rage.

We hurried as fast as we could up King Street. Betty wore pattens over her shoes to save them from the muddy streets, metal soles tinking along the pavement. My own feet throbbed after long hours stretched out upon the cold basement floor, and my legs were trembling. I was exhausted and anxious, but I was free – and the rain had stopped, the sun shining through soft grey clouds. I narrowed my eyes, dazzled by the light.

We walked in silence for a short while, Betty leading the way north past White Hall. My bare scalp and missing frock coat drew a few curious glances until we reached the fringes of Soho, where men chose to mind their own business. We crossed into a quiet backstreet, Betty’s feet tip-tapping to a halt.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘That was-’

Betty pushed me violently against the wall. My back and shoulders sang with pain, still sore from my punishment.

‘God in heaven,’ she spat, amber eyes blazing. ‘D’you know the trouble you’ve caused?’

I glared back at her. ‘What? And how is this my fault?’

She spat out an oath and stepped back, hands on her hips. The frightened, wailing hussy had vanished. I rubbed my tender shoulders. Now I thought of it, Betty had never once struck me as the frightened, wailing hussy sort. She had played her part to perfection – presenting herself just as Gonson would expect. A silly strumpet without the wit to know anything of value. He had let a diamond fall from his grasp without even realising his mistake.

‘I warned Budge you wasn’t ready,’ she muttered. ‘They never listen to me.’ She strode off again towards Soho, pattens raised high above the filth. Tink, tink, tink.

‘You work for the queen?’ I called, catching up with her.

She didn’t miss a stride. ‘Who doesn’t? And Mr Hawkins,’ she added, after a short pause, ‘the next time I kiss you as a distraction, mind where you put your hands.’

‘Next time?’

Betty gave me a look that could wilt flowers. But when I glanced down a moment later she was smiling, just a little.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked. Gonson hadn’t taken me to his own lock-up, but to private rooms. He’d wanted time to sweat the truth from me without interruption, away from the reach of my benefactor.

‘Damned fool dragged you through the streets in chains. Half the city saw you.’

I frowned. What one half of the city saw, the other half would know of by nightfall. I had been paraded through the middle of London like a criminal. Put a fine coat on a man and he is halfway to a gentleman. Wrap him in chains and he must be a rogue. The town would not forget it.

I had never visited Betty’s home before. In truth, if I’d been asked, I would have guessed she slept in the wooden shack next to the coffeehouse. I was surprised she could afford to rent a room of her own – even on a gloomy yard off Wardour Street. She made me wait until all was quiet, walking ahead to open the door. Once she was inside and the yard was clear, I strolled past the house as instructed, then doubled back, keeping to the shadows. When I was sure no one was looking, I tiptoed down the cellar steps and slipped inside.

The room was tiny – no more than six paces wide and five long – but clean and pleasant nonetheless. The floor had been freshly swept, and sprigs of lavender hung from the ceiling, scenting the air along with the jasmine perfume Betty always wore. It was, in fact, the sweetest-smelling room I had ever visited in the city, including the queen’s chamber. Betty’s scant belongings were stacked neatly on shelves. There were only a few pieces of furniture – a narrow bed, a cane-backed chair, and a small table with a wash bowl and jug. Her pattens and shoes were lined neatly by the door. Betty walked barefoot in her own home.

She closed the shutters and knelt in front of the hearth, striking sparks from a tinderbox. The kindling under the coals took flame, bringing more light and a touch of heat to the room. She put her finger to her lips. ‘No visitors allowed. Especially gentlemen.’ Her gaze flickered to the ceiling. ‘Landlord would throw me out if he found you here.’

I stood over her, warming my hands by the fire. ‘That must be inconvenient.’

‘Perhaps I prefer it this way.’ She settled a pan on its trivet and stood up, clapping the soot from her hands. ‘Lie down and rest while I cook this broth. You look half dead.’

I opened my mouth to protest, then realised I was indeed half dead with fatigue. There were no marks upon my skin, but my muscles were bruised and sore from being fixed for so long in one position. I lowered myself down upon the bed, wincing with the pain, and removed my shoes. There was a short passage pinned to the wall, written in a rough hand.

I waited patiently for the Lord;

and he inclined unto me,

and heard my cry.

The fortieth psalm. My father had stamped them into my brain, indelible as a mariner’s tattoo. I stretched out upon the bed, but my feet dangled from the edge, so I rolled upon my side and drew my knees to my chest. I sighed into the pillow. I was free, thank God – at least for now – and safe here in my temporary sanctuary.