The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [45]
‘Alice ran away, Mr Hawkins,’ Judith called as I left. ‘Did you not know? She left this morning. So she must be guilty, don’t you see? She must be.’
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In the workshop, Ned was sanding a stool, running his fingers softly against the wood to check for imperfections. There was no sign of his earlier outburst, save for a broken chair propped in one corner. I stood in the doorway, studying the tools hung neatly upon the back wall. They reminded me of the implements of torture hanging in the Marshalsea gaol. My throat constricted and I felt the iron collar fastened about my neck, biting deep into my skin. I put my hand to the door frame to steady myself, forcing myself back to the present.
Ned knew I was there, but he continued working, keeping his back to me. Stephen had been reckless and confused, muddled with grief and fear. Judith was dazed, and fixed upon her hatred of Alice. Ned’s anger was contained, focused.
There were only a few pieces of work on the benches – a half-finished side table, an oak tallboy. These were small projects, made for practice not profit. Burden had been a master carpenter and joiner, his business construction. The grand new squares west of Bond Street were built of brick, but they still needed joists and rafters, wainscots and doors. Ned had talked about his work with pride and passion at Moll’s the night before: the need for both strength and precision, an eye for a pleasing design, an understanding of geometry when building wall partitions and staircases. ‘An occupation for the body and the mind,’ he’d said, eyes bright. I’d envied him then, for finding a vocation that gave him so much satisfaction. I was – without question – not cut out for the clergy. Nor was I created to sit at a desk, translating whores’ dialogues. What would make my eyes shine, I wondered. Punch. Kitty.
I had no doubt that Ned would find a good position with another master. If not, surely the Carpenters’ Company would help him set up his own business. Assuming he had not killed his old master, of course.
‘I must speak with you, Ned,’ I said at last.
His back stiffened. ‘There is nothing to be said.’
‘I did not kill Mr Burden.’
Ned lifted the stool from the bench and turned slowly. ‘Those men at the coffeehouse. None of ’em dared look you in the eye. They was afraid of you.’
I leaned against the door frame, bone weary. ‘Because they were fool enough to listen to your master’s lies. I am not a murderer, Ned.’
‘Gonson arrested you.’
‘What – is that proof of my guilt, then? He hates me – you know that! He confuses a disreputable life with a wicked one. They are not precisely the same.’
‘If you had lead a decent life you would not be in trouble now.’
‘Oh indeed – that is how the world works. You were a model apprentice for seven years. How were you rewarded?’
Ned frowned. He thought I was taunting him. ‘Ask what you want and leave. Before I lose patience.’
Ned’s years of hard labour had left him strong and fit and solid as a Roman statue. There was also a wall of heavy tools at his back. I took a step back towards the workroom stairs, ready for a hasty retreat. ‘Did you kill Mr Burden?’
I asked only to watch his reaction. But I had asked him before, and this time he was not even angry. He resented the question, of course, but beyond that I saw only sorrow and a bone weariness.
‘You had good cause to hate him.’
He glanced away. ‘I have good cause to hate you, sir.’
‘Do you think I wish to be here, troubling you with these questions? I must prove my innocence, Ned.’
‘Aye – by placing the guilt upon my shoulders. Tell me, sir – how many gentlemen have you seen hang at Tyburn?’
‘I am not-’
‘None. That is the truth of the matter. Not one. And how many apprentices? Ten? Twenty? If I had been arrested this morning instead of you – would I have been set free again within a few hours? Would I have been granted permission to trouble a grieving family? Well damn you, sir – I will not go to the gallows in your place.’
I folded my arms. ‘Nor should you – if you’re innocent.’
‘Oh indeed,’ he laughed, throwing my own words in my face. ‘That is how the world works.’ He moved across to the back wall and plucked a hammer from its hook. Oh, fuck the world – Ned Weaver and his damned carpentry tools. ‘Do you know how long Mr Burden lived in this house? Twenty years.’ He gestured about the room. ‘Built it with his own hands. Twenty years without a moment’s trouble. Then you arrived, and within three months he’s murdered in his bed.’ He slammed the hammer against his work table. The sound cracked the air between us. ‘That is not chance, sir.’
‘No trouble? For God’s sake, Ned – he was fucking Alice against her will every night. He-’
Ned raised the hammer and moved closer. I pulled the dagger from my coat. Ned gasped as he recognised the ivory handle. ‘Where did you find that?’
‘I wrested it fromStephen. He attacked me, unprovoked. This damned house, Ned!’
Ned looked a little shamefaced. He slung the hammer into a corner and sat down, broad hands clasped on his knees. ‘If not you… If not me…’
