The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [64]

I heard footsteps and smiled. Kitty. She moved up behind me and tucked her chin on my shoulder.

‘Alice is cleaning the cellar. She says we need rat traps. Or a cat.’

‘We could have died last night.’

She stole my pipe and took a long draw. ‘I think I should speak with Judith, Tom. Alone. You are too soft-hearted when it comes to ladies in distress. Remember poor Mrs Roberts?’

I snatched back the pipe. ‘I am perfectly able to see past a woman’s trickery.’

‘Of course you are,’ she conceded, nuzzling the back of my neck. ‘But there’s no harm in my having a little try…’ She trailed her hand beneath my shirt. ‘Do you not think?’

‘I suppose not,’ I said, closing my eyes as her hand moved lower.

An hour later, Gonson’s man, Crowder, arrived with the order to search Burden’s house. I caught him leering at Kitty and had to will myself to uncurl my fists. After Howard’s attack on the river, any glance, any perceived insult, was enough to heat my blood.

Ned opened the door. He read the order several times over, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Mr Gonson wishes the family to know, this was not his choice,’ Crowder said slyly. ‘The gentleman has friends.’

Ned gave me a sour look. ‘Pray tell Mr Gonson he may send a dozen constables,’ he said, raising his voice so the whole street might hear. ‘We are innocent.’

I pushed my way past, losing patience. ‘We will begin with your workshop, Ned. And Miss Sparks wishes to speak with Miss Burden. Pray call her down.’

‘No, for pity’s sake!’ Ned cried in dismay. ‘She is still sick with grief.’

Kitty squeezed past him, her gown brushing against the wall with a soft rustle. ‘And so Mr Hawkins should hang, Ned? To spare Miss Burden’s nerves?’

‘Wait!’ Ned called, his hands spread wide in appeal. ‘Wait, Miss Sparks, I beg of you. I will send for her.’

It transpired that Judith was still abed and needed time to dress, so Kitty helped search the workshop. We opened cupboards, hunted beneath loose floorboards, tipped back furniture. All we found was a bloodstained bandage that had slipped behind a cabinet, but it was coated with dust and had clearly lain undisturbed for months. Given Ned’s battered hands, the blood could have come from any number of old injuries.

Ned seemed eager to join in the search, helping Crowder to move back the heavier furniture, and holding a lantern up to inspect the darker corners. I was surprised by this at first, until I noticed that he was most interested in the walls connecting the house with the Cocked Pistol.

‘He’s looking for a passageway,’ Kitty murmured, as Ned tapped the brickwork.

I nodded, anxious. Watching Ned rap his knuckles against the plaster, testing for hollow spots, I had to fight to seem unconcerned. It had taken Alice a week to find the hidden passage in the attic, but she could only search in secret, in stolen moments. Ned might spend all day hunting if he wished. If he discovered the door in the armoire, I was lost. My only defence rested upon the fact that the house had been barred and locked on the night of the murder.

We searched the parlour next, with no luck. The room was stark and cold, no fire lit in the hearth. The grandfather clock tocked its dull heartbeat. I opened the casing. The pendulum paced slowly back and forth. No time. No time. No time.

Kitty put a hand on my slumped shoulder. ‘We’ll find something.’

Crowder snorted.

The door opened and Judith entered with Mrs Jenkins, her black-gloved hands crossed solemnly in front of her. She was dressed in mourning clothes – a black crêpe mantua with a long train that picked up clumps of grey dust as it trailed along the floor. Her dark hair was swept into a tight bun. It made her face seem sharp and much older. A black lace shawl covered her head and fell across her shoulders to her waist, where it was pinned with an ebony brooch. The gown and the shawl were of an antique style not worn in years – she must have found them in her mother’s armoire. It was an unsettling thought, Judith searching through all those old gowns, so close to the hidden door.

Judith’s appearance was so eccentric that even Crowder seemed baffled, bowing to her as if she were some old dowager duchess and not an attractive young woman. She ignored him, her grey eyes fixed on Kitty.

‘Miss Sparks. You wished to speak with me.’ The wandering, dreamy voice she had used upon me had vanished. She was clipped, imperious.

Kitty stiffened, but held her temper. ‘Indeed, Miss Burden. Alone.’

‘Impossible!’ Mrs Jenkins cried. ‘Poor Miss Burden, as if she is not weighed down enough with grief and sorrow. It is not to be endured-’

‘-Oh you must stay, Mrs Jenkins,’ Kitty interrupted. ‘I insist. I meant only that the gentlemen must leave us in peace. We must be allowed to speak freely. As women.’ She gave a delicate cough that she must have learned at the theatre.

Mrs Jenkins bit back a smile of pure joy. She patted Burden’s chair – the only comfortable seat in the room. ‘Well, then. Come Judith, you must sit here. I insist. I shall be quite content on that charming… stool.’