The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [62]

‘Divinity.’ He chuckled, as if this were some great joke. ‘Three years wasted upon the next world. Well – I have spent eight and thirty studying this one. Who has the best of it, d’you think?’

‘What do you want of me, damn you?’

‘You know, sir, you know.’

Aye – I did. He had made a great deal of money working with his brother. Samuel had been a spy for the queen – and for others, no doubt. Now I was to replace him – with Sam to assist me, I supposed. A fine and lucrative deal, with very little risk for James Fleet. ‘I will not work for you.’

He laughed and shook his head. Laughed again. ‘It’s not an offer, Hawkins. It’s an order.’

A knot tightened in my throat. Now I understood why Betty had been so furious with me. She had realised at once what I had lost, in that fatal moment when I had shook James Fleet’s hand. I thought of the Marshalsea – of the tortures I’d endured to secure my freedom. Now – a scant three months later – I was a prisoner again. And for what? A brief dazzle of excitement. How could I have been so reckless? It was not enough to shrug and say it was my nature, not enough to rail at God or Fortune. I could have prevented this.

No wonder Fleet mocked me as a fool. He clapped me on the shoulder, and the weight of his hand felt like an iron chain. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Course you are.’

Of course I was. It’s not an offer, Hawkins. I was Fleet’s man now – and the queen’s. God help me – I’d be lucky to survive the week.

As we headed back up Phoenix Street, Fleet plucked Eva’s gauze neck cloth from his pocket and threw it into the gutter. For a moment it fluttered there in the filth, gold thread glinting in the sun. Then a street boy snatched it and ran, scampering up a wall on to the rooftops and away.

Sam had brought a letter from Gonson – a reply to my request to search Burden’s house. Gonson railed at my insolence, though he had no choice but to comply. It will prove nothing, sir, he wrote, save your black-hearted cruelty and the innocence of Burden’s children. You will be judged for this one day, Hawkins. Such devilish behaviour does not go unpunished. There followed more sermonising, which I did not read. All that mattered was his promise to send a constable to the house later that afternoon. In the meantime, Sam told me that the street boys had watched the house all night. No one had come and no one had gone – the house had remained barred and silent, as if Burden were still alive, ruling the family with the Bible and his fist.

Gabriela served a late breakfast of plum porridge, richly spiced and delicious. I ate three bowls of it, much to her satisfaction. ‘This how a man eat, Samuel,’ she scolded her son, who had picked out all the currants and dotted them along the rim like dead flies. Then she bowed him to her breast and kissed his head, running her hand through his curls. ‘Belo,’ she smiled, her long scar puckering her face. Sam said nothing. But he closed his eyes for a brief moment, and smiled too.

A quick pipe and a pot of strong coffee, and I was eager to return home. Fleet had already thrown off his boots and was snoring softly in a hammock, recovering from the night’s work. Kitty kissed Gabriela goodbye and we headed down the stairs.

‘Could I not go with them, Ma?’ Eva begged her mother. ‘Mr Hawkins promised to make me a lady.’

What the devil…? Kitty and Gabriela stabbed me with a look. I raised my hands in protest.

‘I would make a fine gentlewoman,’ Eva trilled, swishing her gown and fanning herself with her hand.

‘A fine strumpet,’ Sam muttered, dodging a slap as he ran for the stairs.

‘You stay here with me, Eva,’ Gabriela said firmly. ‘We put you out in the world, I think you break it.’

I kept my borrowed hat low over my eyes as we reached Covent Garden. Most of the passersby did not recognise me in such mean clothes. Those who did seemed wary and puzzled. How simple it had been yesterday when I was the monster, arrested and dragged to gaol by Gonson’s men. They did not like me any better today, walking free about the streets in my eccentric suit of ill-matched clothes. No doubt the news of my enquiries had spread, creating even more confusion. What should they make of me? Was I to be pitied? Reviled? Feared? No one knew. And so they kept their distance, until they had an answer on which they could all agree. And God help me, I had best find Burden’s killer before then. This was how mobs were born. Confusion and fear, and then a swift, angry decision. That one. He’s to blame.

It struck me that both Fleet and the queen would be interested to see how I resolved my troubles with Burden’s family. I had proved my reckless courage, protecting Henrietta Howard from her husband. Now my skills of reasoning would be tested as I searched for the killer. If I was successful, I would have proved myself useful to them. If I failed, I would most likely hang. It was a provoking thought.

I followed Kitty into the shop to hunt for paper. She was standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, staring up at the shelves. She picked up a pamphlet, dropped it back on its neat pile. ‘Someone has been in here…’ she murmured. She ran through the shop to the barren printing press, walking around it and frowning.