The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (39 page)

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?

‘I’ve told no one,’ I said at last.

‘That’s why you’re still alive, Hawkins.’

I ignored him. ‘I will remain silent on one condition.’

‘Kitty,’ he guessed.

‘She knows nothing about Sam, or Gabriela. What happened at Aunt Doxie’s.’

He flinched and looked away for a moment. Still angry after all these years.

‘I will say nothing – to my lawyer, to the jury.’ I pushed myself from the wall and crossed to the bed, forcing myself to sit down next to him as if we were easy companions. ‘You know I would do anything to protect her, just as you protect Gabriela and your family. So let us be plain. As long as Kitty remains untouched, you have my silence.’

Fleet pulled the pipe from his lips and gazed at the tip of the stem. ‘Could just kill you.’

‘That is true.’ I had prepared for this. I’d been waiting three days for him to visit me and had used my time wisely, considering every possible reaction.

‘I have a man in here. One word and you’d find a knife between your ribs.’

‘You could arrange that,’ I agreed. ‘But it would seem suspicious. The coroner would investigate.’

‘Coroners can be bribed. And my man would die before giving up my name.’

‘He would hang for it, though. You’d like to avoid that, I think?’

He took a final draw of his pipe, the tobacco crackling in the bowl. The smoke curled above his head. ‘I have no wish to harm you, Hawkins. You’re useful to me. I only kill for profit or protection.’

And for revenge
.

He tapped my arm. ‘Convince me.’

And so I made my case to a jury of one. I told him that I had broken all ties with Kitty – had not spoken or written to her since she’d visited with Alice’s dress. She knew nothing – he could be sure of it. If she had even suspected Sam she would have told the world by now. Fleet accepted the truth of this. Kitty was not one to stay quiet, even if her life were at risk.

‘I have sent a message to the queen. I have every hope she will arrange my pardon. When it comes, most likely I will be sent away on some service. Or transported, I suppose.’

‘Hmm.’ Fleet tilted his head from side to side, weighing these possibilities. ‘Or you will hang.’

I shifted uneasily. I’d heard no more from Budge or his mistress – but the note had counselled patience. ‘If I’m hanged then you will have no need to harm Kitty. You are fond of her, I think. Gabriela says you knew her as a baby.’

‘Enough,’ Fleet said, holding up a hand. ‘Enough. Let me think.’ He stared at the ground for a long, agonising pause. Then, with a sudden decisiveness, he tucked away his pipe and held out his hand. I shook it. He rose slowly, hands on his knees. He was getting old for a gang captain. He wouldn’t last much longer, surely. That would be my mission in life, should the pardon come – to outlive James Fleet.

He banged on the door to attract the guards’ attention. They were playing cards at the far end of the ward and it took a while to rouse them. Fleet, unconcerned, waited with his hands tucked in his pockets. ‘You’re treated well?’

‘Tolerably.’

‘Need anything?’

Not from you
. Kitty was still paying Eliot’s fees and – I presumed – all the other debts I was accruing in here. I doubted my bill came to more than a couple of guineas. I had lost my appetite in the last few days.

‘Should have let the maid swing for it.’

‘She’s innocent.’

‘So are you. Can’t afford honour in this world, Hawkins. It’ll kill you faster than the plague.’

Chapter Twenty

After that the days dragged on inexorably to trial. Gonson helped prepare the case against me and found a long line of outraged citizens to speak against my character. Most of them paid subscription to the Society for the Reformation of Manners.

There was no clear proof that I had murdered Burden. There were no witnesses to the murder. But I had threatened to kill him in front of a dozen neighbours, many of whom were willing to testify against me. Meanwhile, who could I ask to defend my honour? My father was too weak to travel, and my sister must stay with him. They both sent letters to the court, devastated and sorrowful and speaking of my kind and gentle nature. But what else could be said of me? I was a rake and a gambler, thrown out of the Church because of my scandalous behaviour. Most of my respectable friends had abandoned me years ago, and my new ones had vanished the second Gonson slapped the iron cuffs about my wrists.

I had two old friends I might have called on, given more time. One was in Scotland, entangled in business he couldn’t leave. He wrote a letter in my defence – at the risk of his own reputation. The other – a friend from Oxford – was travelling on the continent. By the time the news reached him, my troubles would already be over, one way or the other.

And then there was my oldest friend, Charles – but we had not spoken since my time in the Marshalsea.
Charles
. I could not think of him. There was only misery and pain there – a black cloth thrown across our friendship for ever.

Kitty of course remained true, but I could not call upon her.

I was alone – and it did not suit me. I am a man who likes company, the noisier the better. Sitting alone in my cell day after day weakened my spirit and gnawed the hope from my bones. Yet I found I could not bring myself to speak with the other prisoners nor even venture into the press yard save to stretch my limbs. Buried in my narrow cell, I had become almost numb to my surroundings, as if hibernating from all my troubles. I had also lost my appetite, to the point that Mr Rewse grew concerned and sent a message to Eliot to pay me a visit. He looked tired – perhaps the new baby was keeping him awake. Dorothy had given birth the day after my arrest. More likely it was the strain of defending London’s most notorious villain.

‘Are you sick, sir?’ he asked, drawing a chair to my bed. He did not show any signs of pity.

I lay listlessly upon the mattress, hand flung across my brow. How could I explain that I was grieving for Kitty, when I had pushed her so violently from my life? I knew she came to the gaol every day only to be sent away. She wrote to me each day too – bribing the turnkey to smuggle the letters straight into my hand. Each day I threw them into the fire without reading a word. ‘Tell her this,’ I told the guard as the flames licked the pages. ‘Tell her she wastes her time and her money.’ She had taken to writing messages upon the envelope, large capitals underlined.
READ THIS, DAMN YOU!
and
TOM – YOU MUST LET ME HELP, YOU STUBBORN BASTARD.
I loved her for it with all my heart. And tossed her words to the flames again.

‘The town has turned against you,’ Eliot said. He handed me a broadsheet he’d found pinned to the wall at Moll’s. It described Burden’s death in horrific detail – the nine stab wounds, the knife plunged into his heart, right to the hilt. Judith’s desolate cries of ‘murder’ echoing in the night air, ‘sending a chill to the soul of all Christianlike men who heard them’. There were sketches too. One showed my arrest, bare-headed and fighting the guards. Another showed the murder itself. The artist had drawn Burden in his bed, fast asleep. I stood over him, blade held high, about to strike. I looked demonic, lips pulled back in a horrible grin.