The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [47]

‘I’m afraid for his soul, Mr Hawkins,’ he said, as he escorted me to the door. ‘The manner of his death – it gave him no chance to repent his sins. He was not himself, these past few weeks. His treatment of Alice…’

I could hear Mrs Jenkins fussing over Stephen upstairs. They would never winkle her out of the house now – not unless someone more interesting was murdered. The queen should have hired Mrs Jenkins to investigate Charles Howard instead of me – the woman was a walking newspaper, crammed with gossip. The Daily Jenkins. Still, she would be a help too, with Alice gone. ‘Is it true that Alice has run away?’

Ned glanced up the stairs. ‘Judith threw her out. I warned her not to be so rash. And now you are released… Alice.’ He laughed without humour, marvelling at the thought. ‘I can scarce believe it, but she had most cause…’

I shook my head. Burden had been torturing Alice for weeks in secret. Why kill him now, when he had promised to marry her? Kill him after the ceremony, perhaps, when the ink upon his will was dry. But not before. I took the knife from my pocket. ‘Your father was stabbed nine times in the chest. That was rage. Revenge.’

His eyes widened. He tore the blade from my hand. ‘How d’you know that? How d’you know he was stabbed nine times?’

I shrank back, realising my mistake. How could I know, indeed, if I had not seen the corpse? ‘Half the town knows it!’ I protested, feigning indignation. But I sounded nervous, even to my own ears – and Ned was suspicious once more.

‘You were angry with him last night. And very drunk.’

So, we were back to this. Damn it. ‘The doors and windows were barred. I’m not a ghost, Ned. I cannot walk through walls.’

‘Perhaps there’s another way in.’ He paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘Alice said she thought there must be a passage between the houses…’

Thank God I played cards for profit. My face was a mask, but my heart was thudding so hard against my chest I was sure he must see it beating through my coat. Heaven help me – if Ned found the passage between the two attic rooms, I was lost without a hope. I clamped my hat to my head. ‘There are no doors and no passages. Whoever killed your father is still here in this house, Ned. If I were you, I should sleep with that blade beneath your pillow.’

Chapter Twelve

The Cocked Pistol was open for business. I watched from the street for a time, recovering my wits and savouring the last thin light of a long, cruel day. Business was steady, despite my ignominious arrest, customers entering with their usual furtive slide. Sam had taken charge of the shop. He was well suited to the task, swift and discreet – and the customers didn’t notice him studying them closely beneath lowered lids. Perhaps later in his room he would sketch that young servant, come to collect a fresh parcel of books. One of Lord Hervey’s men, I thought. His lordship was a great friend of the Prince of Wales. As he often ordered two copies of the same volume, we’d begun to suspect that one set was being smuggled to Prince Frederick for his pleasure and education. What would his mother think of that? Perhaps she would be pleased. It was vital the boy knew how to breed, after all.

Sam handed over the parcel and pocketed the small tip. For all the trouble he had caused with his moonlight skulks about Burden’s house, I had grown oddly fond of the boy. Fond enough to dismiss the notion that he could have killed Burden. Reason told me I should not discount him – the son of a murderous gang captain, the nephew of a master assassin. But I could not believe him capable of such a violent, bloody murder. And for what purpose – sport? No, Burden’s killer had been seeking revenge or justice. I doubted Sam had much time for either.

Burden’s children were another matter entirely. The more I considered the life they had endured, the more certain I was that one of them was guilty. Burden had kept Judith a prisoner all her life; she rarely left the house save for church. Well – she was free now. I glanced up at the windows, shuttered in mourning. I had seen her sitting there countless times, pale and drawn, watching hungrily as life passed beneath her gaze. ‘Poor Judith’, the gossips had called her, while Felblade delivered another draught for her nerves.

Stephen must have dreaded a similar fate, once his father refused to send him back to school. He’d been given a sharp taste of his new life – beaten half to death for daring to question his father’s authority. And then, bitterest of all, he had discovered his father was not only a violent bully, but a liar and a hypocrite. Had this been enough to kindle a murderous fury in the boy? That thin-limbed, trembling colt? Rage could give the weakest soul the strength of ten men. Cut off from his school and his friends, with his inheritance in peril, Stephen had powerful reasons to murder Burden. Money, justice, revenge. Of the three children, he would gain the most from his father’s death. Now he was master of the house – and free to live as he pleased.