Part 13 (1/2)

'No.' Good G.o.d, no.

'But you hoped it would be,' she murmured, sadly. 'You were bored.'

It was true. And now she spoke that truth aloud, how petty and foolish it sounded. 'Not with you.'

She climbed on to my lap and took the pipe from my lips. 'So what now? What tangle of trouble have you fallen into?'

I told her about my visit to the palace.

'The queen.' She laughed in amazement. 'Tom I could kick you why did you not tell me of this before? So. We are to meet with Howard tonight?'

I stared at her in alarm. The thought of Howard meeting Kitty, those mad, blazing eyes raking over her . . . 'No, no. He's a monster, Kitty truly. You cannot come with me.'

'Why do you forbid it? Do you think you can command my obedience now that you've stolen my maidenhood?' She pressed a hand to her forehead and mock-swooned.

'Stolen? You flung it at me with both hands.'

She giggled, burying her nose in my neck. 'Let me help you, Tom. I've saved your life before.'

Yes and killed a man to do it. What would she say, I wondered, if I told her that the Queen of England knew what she had done? That she was holding that secret over me like a blade pressed to my heart? 'It will be a b.l.o.o.d.y, dreadful night,' I said, trying a different tack. 'I'm to meet him at a c.o.c.kfight in Southwark.'

'A c.o.c.kfight? Perfect!' She jumped to her feet. 'I haven't been to one in months.'

As we dressed I told Kitty about my visit to the Burden house that afternoon.

'Ned is Burden's son,' she murmured, lacing her boot. She knew the streets of Southwark of old and wouldn't waste a good shoe on all that filth. 'There is a resemblance, now I think on it. His mouth. The shape of his jaw.'

'I believe Ned is innocent, at least. More than anything, he wanted to be recognised as his father's son. Burden cannot acknowledge him from the grave.'

'Judith murdered him,' Kitty said, gesturing for me to tie her corset. 'I'm sure of it. She hated her father.'

And wished him dead she had confessed that much herself. And yet . . . I frowned, pulling the strings of Kitty's corset. If only I could tie up Burden's murder so neatly. Kitty swept up her hair and began to pin up her curls. I leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck, breathing in her scent. Rose water and the soft trace of sweat. I was glad to have confided in her it helped to talk through my ideas. 'I favour Stephen for it. Judith is too . . .' I struggled for the best word and landed upon Mrs Jenkins' description. 'Delicate.'

'Delicate?' Kitty stabbed another pin into her hair. 'Honestly. Did she swoon at you, Tom? Did you grasp her trembling hand? Oh dear Miss Burden, don't be afraid, I shall protect you, you poor delicate daisy. Puh. All that lisping and whimpering I don't believe a word of . . . ow, not so tight,' she gasped, loosening the corset a breath. 'Leave room for pie. I'm half starved from traipsing about town all day . . . No can you not see it, Tom? Judith with the blade, taking revenge upon her father at last? All those years playing the dutiful, obedient daughter, locked away in her room like a nun. And not one of your French nuns, Tom, stop drifting.'

'You do not like Judith.'

'I do not like Judith,' she agreed. 'I should not mind so much if she murdered her father. What why should I mind? He wanted you dead! But she was cruel to Alice, and sneaking with it. She was always so meek and mild in front of her father. But she treated Alice like a dog as soon as they were alone. Slapping and pinching her for the slightest mistake.'

I shook my head but it was not so hard to believe. Judith was not the first mistress to take out her frustrations upon her servant. No wonder she was so furious about the marriage. Ned may have spent seven years as Burden's apprentice, but Judith had served eighteen years' hard labour as his daughter and in the end had as little to show for it. And now Alice the only member of the household over whom she had the slightest power would rise to mistress of the household.

It should have been enough to convince me of Judith's guilt but still the same question remained unanswered in my mind. If it were the marriage that made her so angry, why did she not kill Alice?

I slung my sword low upon my hip, hoping I would not need to draw it tonight. The impossibility of the evening's task pressed hard upon my aching shoulders. How the devil was I supposed to befriend the man I'd bludgeoned unconscious only a week before? Oh, I say good evening, sir. Do you recall our meeting upon St James's Park where I beat out your brains with your own pistol? How delightful to make your acquaintance again. Now, would you be obliging and reveal some scandalous details of your life that I might sell to the Queen of England?

Perhaps Kitty might coax something useful out of the brute. She knew how to tease out secrets, how to listen in the shadows. Men underestimated Kitty, and she played upon it. Women too, for that matter. Which made me wonder . . . 'Kitty how did you come by all this gossip about Judith and Alice?'

Kitty skimmed away, pulled out a gingham shawl. 'Alice told me.'

'Alice has run away. Judith threw her out.'

'I know. She's upstairs. I've hired her to replace Jenny.' She drew the shawl over her shoulders. Caught my horrified expression. 'We do need a maid, Tom. Unless you would like to scrub the floors and wash the dishes and darn your stockings and-'

'-I do not question the need for a servant, Kitty. I just question the need to hire the one who crawled into our house last night covered in blood and waving a knife.'

'Which I was able to use in negotiations. She'll cost a s.h.i.+lling less than Jenny each month.'

'That will be a great comfort when we are murdered in our bed.'

'We must keep her hidden for now. Alice is afraid that Judith will accuse her now that you have been set free.'

'She already has. There is still a chance Alice is guilty,' I whispered, glancing anxiously at the ceiling.

'No. It was Judith. I am decided, Tom.'

Sam was downstairs, dismantling the old, broken printing press that lay gathering dust at the back of the shop. He liked mechanical objects he enjoyed pulling them apart and putting them back together. I'd known boys like him at school boys who wanted to peel back the skin of the world and see how it all worked. There was no mystery that could not be solved by close and careful study, preferably beneath a microscope.

I told Sam to hire a couple of street boys to watch the Burdens' house in case anyone tried to smuggle out a set of b.l.o.o.d.y clothes. Then I wrote a brief note to Gonson asking him to send one of his guards over tomorrow to help me search the house for evidence. My G.o.d he would hate that but for all his faults, Gonson was a dutiful magistrate. He would do as he was bid albeit through gritted teeth. 'Deliver this to his home, Sam,' I said, and gave him a couple of s.h.i.+llings. 'And treat yourself to a good supper and a bowl of punch when you're done.'

He pocketed the coins. He would probably buy a cheap bowl of stew at some fleapit, and save the rest. After all, what was a body but another machine? Food was fuel, and nothing more.

I took Kitty's hand and we set off for Southwark. She wore her grey riding cloak with the hood lowered. She smiled up at me as we walked, a little shyly. No longer a maid. I squeezed her hand and grinned back. I'm yours.

If I close my eyes now I can see us strolling through the town towards the Thames, feet slipping on the damp cobbles, talking about what we would do once our troubles were over. Our lives stretching ahead of us, so many paths to take.

And then I open my eyes and all I see is the thick grey wall of my cell. I am in the condemned hold at Newgate, sentenced to hang. And Kitty is gone for ever.

Part Three.

As they ride west down the Tyburn Road, the handsome new houses of Marylebone make way for rolling fields, dull brown and muddy. Black crows strut over the ridged ground, wings clasped behind their backs. Beneath the hedgerows, hard banks of snow thaw slowly in the pale spring suns.h.i.+ne. It has been a cruel winter. The air is fresher here, the sky more open. It makes him think of the Suffolk coast where he grew up. I will never go there again. I will never see my father or my sister again. I will never . . . I will never . . .

'Oh, G.o.d!' he breathes. Only his guards hear him. They watch and listen closely, memorising every detail. People will pay good money to hear of Thomas Hawkins' last moments.

And now, there is no road left. He can hear the roar of the crowds gathered up ahead. Tens of thousands have congregated on Tyburn Hill to see the spectacle, stretching far out into the fields beyond. Scores more have come to pick their pockets. Best place to thieve a watch, a hanging.

The constables fight a path through the throng, beat the surging crowds back with clubs. People are climbing trees, hanging from ladders, balancing on the tops of roofs and walls and carriages. A father lifts his little boy on to his shoulders. The rich and fas.h.i.+onable folk sit in raised galleries next to the gallows, wrapped in greatcoats and scarves, chattering idly over the latest court gossip. Hawkers weave through them all, selling fruit and bowls of warm b.u.t.tered barley. He can smell hot wine and sweet nutmeg in the air. His stomach rumbles. He has eaten poorly since the trial, his fine clothes hanging loose from his shoulders. And now, of all times, his appet.i.te has returned his body in protest, shouting its desire to live.

The carts turn in a wide circuit to the left, and he sees the gallows at last. Tyburn's triple tree. Three solid posts knocked deep into the earth, topped with three cross beams to form a triangle. Big enough to hang a dozen men. The hangman, John Hooper, lies along one of the cross beams, a pipe clamped between his lips, fixing the ropes with strong, deft fingers. As the carts approach, he flips one over. It tumbles down, swinging lightly.

If the pardon comes, it must be now.

The guards prod him to his feet. The Marshal is leaning down in his saddle, talking with his constables. He glances at the four carts, then gives a sharp nod and rides up to the gallows. 'Friends,' he bellows over the din. On his third try, the crowd quietens a little. 'Good Christians.' Someone shouts something from the back and a whole patch of spectators laugh.

Hawkins' heart is pounding so hard he can barely breathe.