Part 21 (1/2)

But there were other paths he could have taken, with that sharp, inquisitive mind. He could have been a lawyer or a stockbroker or a physician or an anything he d.a.m.ned well chose, given time. And now? Even if he escaped the rope, those paths were closed to him for ever. He had stolen into a house and stabbed a man to death. It would shape the rest of his life. How could it not?

How could a father want this for his son? Even a killer such as James Fleet did he not dream of better for his only boy? And I wondered did he send Sam to me with an order to kill Burden? Or had he simply placed him next door and waited for the inevitable act? Did he think that absolved him of the sin? No Fleet would care nothing of absolution. He was a murderer many times over. He must have ordered the boy to do it.

I thought of Sam creeping around the Burdens' home at night, knife in hand. Practising. He'd confessed in that one word, but I'd refused to hear it. He'd tiptoed into Burden's bedroom, ready to strike . . . only to find Alice Dunn curled up next to her master. An unexpected complication. He couldn't kill Burden in front of a witness she would have woken the whole house. So he'd waited for another night, when Burden was alone then thrown suspicion on poor Alice.

I thought back to the night of Burden's murder. Sam had been most anxious to let Alice take the blame. If she had run, as Sam had suggested, everyone would have believed she was the killer, instead of me. Had he pressed for this out of some twinge of loyalty, or guilt for placing me in danger? Or was Alice simply a more suitable scapegoat? Gentlemen don't hang, as a rule. But a lowly servant, with no friends and no capital . . .?

I could no longer trust my feelings in the matter. What did I know of Sam, truly? This was the little moon-curser who just a few months ago had led me to his father's gang to be robbed and beaten. And still I had trusted him. I'd followed that flickering torch without question through his narrow, twisted maze and it had brought me here.

I didn't blame Sam. If anything, I blamed myself. All this time he had spent under my roof and I did not have the wit to see he was in trouble. Jenny had warned me there was something wrong with the boy. He had sneaked into her room while she was sleeping, for G.o.d's sake! If I had only paid more attention. If I had listened. Instead I had landed on some fool notion that Sam and I shared some unspoken affinity. I too had suffocated beneath my father's expectations. The difference was, my father was a country parson. Sam's father was a murderer.

I should have helped the boy, not colluded with him. Now it was too late and Sam was set upon a path that led only to more death, including his own. How many boys from St Giles had begun this way and ended up swinging from a rope before they even reached their twenties? I could be kind to myself and say that Sam's fate was sealed the day he was born into that family of thieves and murderers, but I knew better. I was furious with James Fleet and with Gabriela a white-hot anger pouring like burning metal through my veins. But I saved a portion of that anger for myself. Somehow, surely, I could have prevented this.

Betty touched my wrist, fingers brus.h.i.+ng lightly against my skin. I blinked. How long had I been staring out across the coffeehouse, lost in thought? My pipe lay upon the table, burned-out. The man at the next bench had left, and a group of lawyers' clerks had gathered by the fire, stamping their feet to thaw out their toes.

I took a last swig of punch. It had turned cold. 'I must return home.'

Betty's hand tightened about my wrist. 'Fleet will be watching the Pistol. Mr Hawkins you must leave London now. I can send a message to Miss Sparks.' She leaned forward, forcing me to look her in the eye. 'Go to my lodgings now and hide there. I can bring you clothes, food, coin everything you need within the hour. There is a coach to the coast that leaves from the George . . .'

I scarce heard her. Kitty. I rose from the table, struck with a sudden fear. Kitty was at home, oblivious to the danger we were in. What if Fleet had sent his men to the shop? She wouldn't know to bar the door to them. They could be there even now as I sat witlessly over a bowl of punch.

Betty gazed up at me as I stood, her lips pursed. 'No one ever listens . . .'

'One half-hour, that is all. I must fetch Kitty.' I smiled. 'Thank you, Betty.' And on a whim I leaned down and kissed the disapproval from her lips.

She let me, just for a moment, then pushed me away. 'Fool,' she muttered.

The bells of Covent Garden were striking seven as I left Moll's. Light had begun to build in the sky. The market on the piazza was still busy, the scent of ripe fruit and warm barley mingling with the pungent but not unpleasant smell of livestock. A knife sharpener had placed his cart beneath the sundial in the middle of the square. I winced as I pa.s.sed, the high shriek of metal sc.r.a.ping along stone almost unbearable on the ear.

So it was resolved. Farewell to London and the life I'd built here. My flight would convince the whole world of my guilt, but I would live and keep Kitty safe. The career of a gang captain was a short one. I had never seen a man hang at Tyburn older than forty.

Perhaps when James Fleet was dead, we might return and resolve matters. The taverns were full of villains who'd been transported and stolen home again to live in secret.

As I hurried through the square, I began to sense a crowd gathering at my back. More choice gossip for the scandalmongers of the Garden. I searched the crowds and rooftops for Fleet's men but found only sullen glares from old neighbours who had once smiled and nodded in friends.h.i.+p. Was there something more sinister about their behaviour today? There was a boldness in their stares that unnerved me. I sensed a brewing anger, as if they had decided, en ma.s.se, that they had reached the end of their patience. A ripple of fear ran through me as I crossed briskly on to Russell Street. Anger of this kind could turn a crowd into a mob very fast and a London mob showed no mercy.

The knife sharpener's wheel turned again, grinding the steel.

I reached Mr Felblade's shop. The apothecary stood on his step, pounding something into powder with a pestle and mortar. He grinned, lips stretched over his a.s.sortment of rotten teeth and wooden plugs. 'Disciples, Mr Hawkins?'

I glanced back over my shoulder. A dozen or so men were indeed following me at a short distance, clumping through the grey slush of melting snow. They were led by Joshua Purchase, who ran the gaming shop on the other side of the Pistol. I cursed them all under my breath. How was I supposed to escape the town in secret now?

I turned and confronted them, feigning nonchalance. 'May I help you, sirs?' I asked in an imperious tone. It held them back for a heartbeat, men so used to deferring to their betters . . . but my clothes were in tatters, my wig and hat lost in my desperate flight from St Giles. How thin a line between a gentleman and a low rogue. Clothes and confidence. I drew myself as tall as I could manage. 'Well?'

They glanced at one another, then nudged Purchase. He had always struck me as a sneaking, cowardly fellow, but he seemed to have drawn courage from his elevation to mob leader. He pointed a finger at my chest. 'Murderer.'

My heart skipped. Murderer. Accused in the street for all to hear. Flung like a gauntlet at my feet. Something had changed some invisible boundary had been crossed. What now? Did they want to take that final step into riot? Did they want to turn on me and tear me to pieces? I could see the uncertainty in their faces to act or to back down. The wrong word, the wrong gesture and I was lost. No one would come to my aid.

Purchase leered at me. He was so close I could smell the gin on his breath. He must have been drinking all night.

I took a step back and made a short, mocking bow. As if I were amused. Indifferent. And then I turned my back upon them all. It was a risk, and I feared that they would jump upon me and drag me down. But to show fear to the mob would only give them courage and an unspoken permission to attack. To walk away with my back straight and my head high was my only chance.

As I turned, a slight figure emerged from the shadows. Sam. He tilted his head up the street, towards the shop.

'Trap,' he mouthed. 'Run.'

I hesitated. It could be true. Or this could be the trap. Perhaps James Fleet was in the Pistol with Kitty. Would he hurt her? Kitty's father had saved Gabriela . . . but Fleet was a practical man. He would do whatever was necessary.

A mob at my back. A gang up ahead. The blood pounded in my ears as I walked faster towards the Pistol. Sam's eyes widened in panic. 'Mr Hawkins!' He shook my arm, as if I might need waking. 'Run!'

There was a shout up ahead, and a group of men spilled from the c.o.c.ked Pistol. I gave a sharp intake of breath. Those were not Fleet's men. Gonson's constables were gathered at the shop door, armed with staves. The magistrate stood in their midst in his ridiculous long wig, peering down the street. Our eyes met and he gave a start, then beamed in triumph.

'There he is! Seize him!'

Before I could run, the mob at my back surged forward, pus.h.i.+ng me to the ground. I bucked and fought, but it was no use; it felt as if the whole d.a.m.ned street were holding me down.

Gonson approached, surrounded by his men. I raised my head as best I could, sun glinting in my face. Crowder placed his boot on my face and pushed it into the mud. The dust and filth filled my mouth and nostrils and I began to choke, eyes streaming.

'Lift him up,' Gonson ordered. Rough hands brought me to my feet. I spat the dirt away. My ribs ached from my neighbours' boots.

I struggled against the guards. 'What is this? You have no right . . .' Crowder cuffed me across the jaw.

Gonson had begun to address the growing crowd. The news had escaped into the streets, and people were running from the shops and taverns and coffeehouses to witness the spectacle. 'My friends,' Gonson cried and pointed his stick at my chest. 'Witness this wretched villain. Guilty of every foul sin known to man. My Society has warned you of rogues such as this, polluting our great city. We good citizens have been silent for too long. We have avoided our duty for too long. And in our complacency we have allowed evil to flourish. Let this be a lesson to us all. It is our responsibility to rid these streets of such vermin.'

It was a long speech, delivered as if he were some high minister of government. No doubt he had practised it in the gla.s.s this morning. He paused as the crowd cheered its approval, his chest swollen with satisfaction. No matter that half the crowd was comprised of the vermin he was railing against. Take away the sinners and who would be left? The honourable Mr John Gonson alone, striding about the empty town, shouting valedictory speeches to himself. Perhaps that was his great dream.

He pulled out an arrest warrant and held it up to the crowd. 'Thomas Hawkins. This morning Edward Weaver discovered a hidden pa.s.sage between your attic and the home of Mr Joseph Burden. I knew Mr Burden. He was a good man. An honourable, blameless man. And you killed him.'

'That's a lie!' I cried, struggling beneath the guards' grip. 'I'm innocent.'

Crowder struck me another blow, splitting my lip. I tasted blood, hot and metallic on my tongue. Another guard clapped my wrists in iron. People were cursing my name, shouting 'Murderer!' and pressing forward, s.n.a.t.c.hing at my clothes. In the chaos, they began to fight with the guards to reach me. Gonson was shoved in the back, his hat and wig slipping askew. 'Good people!' he cried, struggling to be heard over the din. Someone kicked him in the s.h.i.+n as they clambered past, and he fell to the pavement, sprawling in the freezing mud. Two of the guards ran to his aid.

'Move,' Crowder hissed in my ear, shoving me forward with his club. We stumbled along together with a great press of bodies at our backs, Gonson scurrying to the head of the procession with his guards forming a tight band around us. As we reached the Pistol, Kitty flung herself out of the door.

'Tom!' she cried. Then she was bundled back inside. The door slammed and I was dragged away, unable to save her, unable to save myself.

The mob followed us all the way down the Strand and along Fleet Street. The noise was unbearable and terrifying, drowning out the usual cries of the street. People stopped in their business to stare, a few joining the ragged procession as if it were a day at the fair. Gonson had deliberately chosen the most public of streets to ensure my humiliation and disgrace. The whole town would learn the news within hours. Thomas Hawkins murderer. Dragged in chains through the city with the mob at his back. What jury would believe in my innocence now?

This was Gonson's revenge, I was sure of it. He had been forced to give up his enquiries against me and I had mocked him for it. Now he was vindicated. He was positively radiating with righteous triumph as we reached Old Bailey.

And so we arrived at Newgate. I had entered prison in chains before, but that had been alone save for one bailiff, in a quiet back alley in Southwark. Newgate was a grand palace of villainy and shame, and I was led there with half the town baying at my back. I knew the gatehouse to the prison well I had pa.s.sed it many times. But oh the sight of it now, with its twin turrets and iron portcullis! My arrest had felt like some terrible dream. Now I was awake.

I half stumbled and the crowd jeered. 'Look!' someone cried out. 'The Lord tripped his feet to show His wrath.'

Oh, indeed? Is that how G.o.d spends His days? Tripping up sinners with His celestial boot? Madness but Gonson nodded his approval. I had thought better of him. For all his pride and rigid manners, I did not think him a vain man, to play to the crowds.

The main gate to the prison was closed behind the portcullis. Crowder banged on a postern door in one of the turrets and it creaked open an inch. A turnkey peered out at the mob, worried. 'Bring him inside. Quickly, d.a.m.n it!'

The guards pushed me towards the door. 'I'm innocent,' I called out to the crowds. 'I swear it!'