The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [7]

Having found nothing disreputable on the shelves he moved his disapproval on to me. ‘I must speak with your boy.’

‘The thief,’ Burden snarled, prowling about the shop. Gonson was tall, but Burden’s head almost scraped the ceiling. We were all three of us large men, crowding the shop. Kitty had retreated behind the counter, feigning boredom. Let the stags rut for a time.

‘Call him at once,’ Burden shouted.

Ah, now I understood. Burden was looking for a scapegoat – and for revenge. He too was a member of Gonson’s reforming society, and a zealous one at that. He loathed the shop, loathed its very existence so close to his own home.

He’d also loathed Samuel Fleet, its previous owner. Sam was Fleet’s nephew. He’d been living with us for a month now at its request of his father, James – Samuel Fleet’s half-brother. I had been instructed to turn Sam into a gentleman, but frankly I’d have more luck shaving a wolf and wrestling it into a waistcoat. Where was he? A good question. Hiding in a cupboard? Climbing up the chimney? The boy was so quiet and nimble he could be tucked beneath my coat and I wouldn’t know it.

‘He’s running an errand,’ Kitty said.

Gonson ignored her. ‘Mr Burden has asked me to write a warrant for his arrest. But I must interrogate the boy first.’ Burden began to protest, but Gonson hushed him. ‘I follow the law, sir.’

‘For the scum of St Giles?’ Burden sneered.

‘For all men.’ Gonson puffed out his chest, staggered by his own magnanimous spirit.

‘Mr Gonson, with great respect, sir – this is a nonsense. I stood guard at Mr Burden’s door last night. No one entered the house and no one left it-’

‘-you let him sneak past, damn you!’ Burden interrupted.

‘You told me your housekeeper had been dreaming. That she was mistaken.’

Burden coloured. ‘My boy Stephen swears he saw the brat. Let me fetch him, sir.’ He hurried next door, calling loudly for his son.

Gonson frowned and took out his watch.

‘Mr Gonson,’ Kitty called to him. ‘I can vouch for Sam. He was here last night.’

He looked at her for the first time, his gaze steady beneath hooded eyes. ‘And what use is the word of a whore to me?’ he drawled.

I took half a step forward. Kitty slipped from behind the counter and grabbed my hand, squeezed my palm in warning. I hesitated, then exhaled slowly. What was the punishment for striking a city magistrate? A whipping? A few hours in the pillory? Gonson watched me, straight black brows raised high. My temple began to throb, slowly.

Burden returned, pushing his son Stephen ahead of him into the room. I had never met the boy before – he had just returned from school. At fifteen he had the thin, tangled limbs of a young calf, and his cheeks were chafed red from shaving more often than needed. But he had the same storm-grey eyes as his father, the same strong, square face. He would be handsome enough in a year or two. I smiled to myself. Here was trouble brewing. His clothes were drab and old-fashioned – on his father’s orders, no doubt – but he was without question a young rake in the making. One can tell a lot about a boy from the way he ties his cravat.

His gaze darted about the shop, as if there just might be a nude portrait hanging on the wall or a couple of whores groping each other in a corner. Ah… the disappointments of youth. I caught his eye and winked.

‘Tell Mr Gonson what you saw,’ his father commanded, oblivious.

Stephen hesitated, then lifted his chin. ‘I’m not sure what I saw, sir. It was very dark.’

Burden glared at him, open-mouthed. Was this the first time his son had defied him? And in such a public fashion, too. He drew back his arm and gave the boy a vicious blow across the back of his head. ‘Impudent puppy! Tell them!’

I winced, but the blow only made Stephen more defiant. ‘There was no thief,’ he declared. He gave his father a sly, sidelong glance. ‘Are you sure I should tell them what I saw, Father? What I truly saw last night?’

I was sure Burden would beat Stephen again for his insolence, but he seemed frozen, of a sudden.

‘Mr Burden,’ Gonson prompted, ‘have you wasted my time, sir?’

Burden found his voice at last. ‘I… Forgive me, sir. A misunderstanding.’

‘Well,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your visit. If you wish to purchase a book, I could recommend-’

‘Damn you!’ Burden snarled. ‘Damn your foul books.’ He reached for the nearest shelf and dashed the contents to the floor, tearing the pages from one and crumpling them with his fist.

Gonson grabbed his arm and muttered in his ear. Burden’s shoulders slumped. He threw the pages to the ground and stormed out, dragging his son with him.

Kitty dropped to the floor, gathering books and ripped pages into her apron.

Gonson picked up his cane. ‘You’re amused by this, sir?’

‘No, indeed.’

‘It is a game to you – to set a son against his father. To provoke a decent citizen to violence. A neighbour.’ He prodded at a book, broken-spined on the floor. ‘I’m told you are an educated man, sir. A student of Divinity. Peddling filth. Corrupting the ignorant. Do you have no sense of shame? No sense of Christian duty? Those disgusting books and pamphlets you sell – fie, fie, sir – do not deny it! The men who pass through my court – the men I send to the gallows – these are your customers, Hawkins. You help set them upon that path