The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [46]

I didn’t reply. He knew the answer. Stephen. Or Judith.

He groaned and put his head in his hands.

‘I’m sorry, Ned. I know they must seem like family…’

‘Seem?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘There is no seeming about it. I’m their brother.’

Ned would not speak for a long time after that, dismissing my questions with a wave of his scarred hand. I settled down on the steps into the workshop and waited. Patience – patience was the key. The best confessions come unforced.

‘Mr Burden was a good man,’ he said at last. ‘He lived a sober, Christian life. But…’

Ah, there it was. But. We are all good men save for that one short word. I leaned forward. ‘But?’

‘He was led astray by ill company, when he was young. Lewd women. Low sorts. They encouraged him to swear and drink strong liquors. To visit bawdy houses.’ He paused, disgusted. ‘He abandoned his apprenticeship. Fell into debt, and was forced… Mr Hawkins, you must swear not to repeat this story to a soul. I only wish to explain…’ He stood up and began prowling the workshop, straightening tools and brushing dust from the table. A tidy room for an untidy story. ‘He found work as a brothel bully.’

I began to laugh, covering it with a cough when I saw Ned’s agonised expression. Well, well, well. Here was a rich story. Joseph Burden, guarding the door of a whorehouse for a living. And that sanctimonious prick had judged me. The gall of the man! My God, if he were still alive I would have enjoyed throwing that in his bloated old mug.

‘It was only for a few months, you understand,’ Ned added hurriedly. ‘He grew ashamed of what he saw. What he did. He joined the Society as an informer. He began attending church again and met Mrs Burden. Her dowry gave him the capital to build this house and start his business. She was a pious, devoted lady. Mr Burden often spoke of how she saved him.’

How her money saved him, more like. ‘But you are not her son.’

‘No, sir.’ He bowed his head, ashamed. ‘I was born in Newgate. My mother was a whore and a thief. She pled her belly to escape the gallows. After I was born she was transported. Died of a fever on the boat.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He brushed a rough hand across his eyes. ‘Never knew her. I was raised by my aunt and uncle down in Surrey. Good, honest folk – farmers. But they had seven children of their own. My uncle couldn’t provide for me so they wrote to Mr Burden. My mother always swore he was the father…’

I raised an eyebrow. Given her occupation, that would be hard to prove one way or the other.

‘Mr Burden didn’t believe I was his son – not at first. He took me on as his apprentice to atone for his past vices. He felt responsible for my mother’s death, because he had once… in a weak moment…’ He blushed.

Only once? I doubted that very much. And if Ned hadn’t lived such a buttoned-down life, he would see it too. A man such as Burden wouldn’t take a bastard into his home to atone for one brief episode of lust – not without proof or some other inducement. ‘But you are truly his son? You are certain?’

Ned smiled. ‘I worked with him in this room for seven years. He began to notice things. Not just my appearance, but the way I moved. My way with the tools. A hundred tiny things that no one else would ever notice. Look at me, sir. Now you know the truth – can you not see the resemblance?’

I tilted my head. It was true, Ned was as broad and strong as Burden, if not as tall. His brows were pale and his complexion fairer too, but that could have been an inheritance from his mother. Yes, there was a resemblance; a greater one than Stephen shared with his father, in fact – but then Stephen had spent the last seven years at his school desk instead of fixing roofs and nailing down floorboards. There was no way to prove it for certain, but Burden had clearly believed Ned was his son. And given it must have been a reluctant admission on his part, I was inclined to believe it too. He must have stared at the boy for hours, wishing away the likeness until he could deny it no longer.

‘If all this is true, why did he break his word to you, Ned?’

‘That was my fault! I wanted him to recognise me as his son. I vowed I would leave unless he told Stephen and Judith the truth. Ah – how I wish I had not pressed him so hard! My father was fair with me, Mr Hawkins, but he had a strong temper. I should have been patient and obedient, as he taught me. I do think… I do truly believe he would have changed his mind in time. If only for Judith’s sake.’

‘Judith?’

He coughed with embarrassment. ‘She has grown fond of me.’

Fond? Ah. ‘Oh dear.’

‘I didn’t dare tell Mr Burden, but… it was an uncomfortable situation.’

I winced, thinking of my own sister. Uncomfortable? Excruciating, I should say. Neither of us spoke after that, for quite a while.

The more I considered Ned’s story, the more I doubted he was the killer. With Burden dead, he’d lost any hope of being recognised as his son. Stephen might be weeping in his room, and Judith was swigging opiates to dull her senses, but it seemed to me that Ned was the most affected by Burden’s murder. No chance for reconciliation. No chance to make his father proud. Strange, that of all Burden’s children, it was Ned – his bastard – who loved him the most.