The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [86]

‘-Enough,’ I snapped. ‘Enough, Kitty. Go home. And do not come here again.’ I glanced at Rewse. ‘I would be most obliged if you could escort Miss Sparks from the prison. I do not wish to see her again.’

I left the room without another word. Kitty gave a low, hollow moan of grief that echoed off the prison walls. Then silence. I asked the turnkey waiting outside to return me to my cell.

As we walked deeper into the prison, the walls began to press in upon me. I stopped and reached out a hand to steady myself, the stone cool and damp beneath my fingers. I had just destroyed my best – perhaps only – chance of release, but I knew I had made the right decision. If I had confirmed Kitty’s story, Alice would have been found guilty. She would hang for it, without question. And then I really would be guilty of murder.

There was a cost, of course there was. That is the secret the priests and bishops never preach from the pulpit. They speak of the cost of sin with great relish, but they never admit there is a cost for virtue, just as painful to bear. I had lost my freedom and I had lost my love. I might even lose my life. And what had I gained in return? The right to look myself in the eye and say, ‘I am Thomas Hawkins. I remain myself.’

Only two people could help me now. Queen Caroline was my best hope. She could not prevent the trial from going ahead but she might persuade her husband to grant a king’s pardon – if she were so minded. I would not walk free – not from a sentence of death – but it could be commuted to seven years’ transportation.

And then there was James Fleet. Dangerous, but not without power and influence. Would he come to my aid after all that had happened? Perhaps – if it were in his interest.

We had reached my cell. I leaned closer to the turnkey and murmured in his ear. ‘I must send a message, in secret.’

The turnkey smiled.

How much simpler prison was, with money in one’s pocket.

Fleet did not come at once. Let me stew for three days, the bastard. In the meantime, Mr Eliot helped me prepare for my trial. He was brusque with me now, conducting our business with a cold civility that wounded me, though I didn’t show it. As I had been charged with murder, I must present my own defence at trial. Eliot could support me solely upon specific points of law. He brought me books and papers as I requested, but added no words of comfort or sympathy. I was the rogue who had broken Kitty’s heart – ignored her visits and left her letters unread. He tried only once to speak of her, and I reacted angrily, ordering him from the cell. He never mentioned her again. After that I would sometimes catch him looking at me from the corner of his eyes, wondering and full of doubt. But I could not risk telling him the truth.

He did at least – unknowingly – perform one valuable service. Amidst a pile of letters to be delivered I tucked a short message to Mr Budge, offering my unwavering service to his mistress and begging for her aid. The next day came a response, of sorts. All in hand. Be patient. Eliot handed the note to me with the rest of my correspondence, not realising he was acting as messenger to the Queen of England.

It was a Sabbath when James Fleet visited me at last, and I had just returned from chapel. Half a dozen prisoners were condemned to hang on the morrow. They had sat together on a black bench in the middle of the room. The prison Ordinary, the Reverend James Guthrie, gave a tedious, hectoring speech. A few of the condemned wept, and one pissed himself – through fear or drunkenness I couldn’t tell. The yellow stream trickled slowly across the flagstones as those nearest lifted their feet out of the way. I decided not to return to chapel.

James Fleet was waiting for me in my cell, smoking a pipe. He stood up as I entered, and we shook hands, warily. He sat back down on the bed while I leaned against the wall. It was a frosty morning and the chill of the wall against my back helped keep my senses sharp. I had slept poorly, these past days.

‘I know Sam killed Burden.’

Fleet breathed out a long stream of smoke. Shrugged.

‘You ordered him to do it.’

‘He botched it. Should’ve used a pillow. Stifled the bastard. Coroner would have said he died in his sleep. But nine stab wounds…’ He shook his head. ‘No disguising that. He botched it.’

My hands curled into fists. Burden had held Gabriela down while she was cut and tortured. Sam had grown up with the scars of that night – the one on his mother’s face and the ones she buried deep inside her. He’d heard her screaming in terror when she dreamed herself back in that room, night after night. And Fleet had used the hatred this had instilled in his son as a weapon. What did he expect, sending Sam to live next door to Burden? Sam had killed the bad man – just not in the way Fleet had intended.

‘I misjudged him,’ Fleet said. ‘But the boy had to start his trade somehow.’

I said nothing. I was struggling to breathe, I was so angry.

Fleet waited. He saw my bunched fists, he knew I despised him. He was not the sort of man to apologise or explain himself. He was not interested in arguing the morality of his actions with me. He had chosen to live his life this way a long time ago and I would not jolt him from it now. And of the two of us, who was faring better? Once this meeting was concluded, which of us would walk through the prison gate a free man?