The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

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 sunshine. 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, God!’ 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 fashionable 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 buttered 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 appetite 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.

The Marshal waits for silence. He slips his fingers into his saddlebag. Tugs out a scroll of paper, sealed with bright red wax. A royal pardon.

Chapter Thirteen

I am told that evenings at the Whitehall cockpit are a genteel affair, where peers lose their fortunes with quiet dignity and ladies are barred entrance for fear of fainting. Southwark cockpits, by contrast, are a grand tour of hell. Howard, true to his nature, had chosen the very worst.

The pit was hidden in a maze of back alleys off Deadman’s Place – a series of twists and turns I have no care to remember now. Kitty knew it well from her time working in the Marshalsea, and kept her cape and gown bunched high above the filth as she led the way. I walked a step behind with my hand upon the hilt of my sword, watching the shadows. We were too close to the gaol for my liking – I had earned myself a mean set of enemies in that damned hole, and a cockfight was precisely the place to find them again. I had conceived a bitter hatred of Southwark since my stay in prison, and this was the first time I had returned to the Borough in months.

Another twist, and we arrived at the mouth of an alley blacker than a parson’s coat, rats scuttling and squealing in the darkness. A torch flickered at the dead end, beckoning us forward. A tavern without a name, hidden for a reason. I thought I glimpsed a movement up ahead, and touched Kitty’s shoulder, but there was nothing there. I had come to expect danger from every shadow in this city. As we paused, I heard footsteps behind us and a short, tough-looking rogue hurried past without a glance, hood covering his face, long cloak flapping at his heels as he ran. Not Howard, but a similar build – strong and solid – and fearless in a place bristling with danger.

The windows of the tavern were boarded with thick planks, but we could hear the rabble inside, rowdy and violent. A guard stood at the entrance – a dark-skinned man with a grubby hat shoved onto his bald scalp. His face was a hideous mess of old scars, puckered and seamed like poorly stitched leather. A face to haunt nightmares, but for his eyes, which were clear and in this moment, at least – merry. He was laughing with the man who’d pushed past us, but his smile faded as we joined them.

‘No wenches,’ he said, barring our way. ‘Not tonight.’

His companion pulled back his hood. ‘Sure and what am I, Jed?’

Jed spat a wet clod of tobacco at his feet and chuckled. ‘Fuck knows what you are, Neala Maguire.’

Neala…? The torch caught the man’s face and revealed that he was, in fact, a woman – shorter than me by a head, but by God she was as broad and solid as an oak tree. Her black hair was cut short to her nape, framing a strong face and a square jaw. She spoke with an Irish accent, her voice low and rough as a man’s.

Kitty stepped forward, the torch turning her red hair to spun gold. ‘Have you forgotten me so soon, Jed?’

‘Kitty!’ He grinned in surprise, then grabbed her in a tight hug, lifting her half off the ground. ‘Didn’t know you in them rum togs. Heard you was left a round sum.’ He jerked his chin towards me. ‘He come after?’

She put an arm about my waist. ‘Before. Loves me for my sweet temper not my purse, ain’t that right, Tom?’

Jed near pissed himself laughing. ‘Go on,’ he said, gesturing inside. ‘Never saw you.’

The tavern was packed, the air thick with pipe smoke, sweat and liquor. The noise alone almost knocked me from my feet – men yelling to be heard as they clustered around the ring in the centre of the room. I stood dazed, battered by the sound, the stink, the roiling mess of it all. I’d fought in riots quieter than this. If a man found himself in trouble here, then God help him – no one else would. I craned my neck, searching for Howard, but couldn’t see him in the crowds. There must have been two hundred men in there at least.

Kitty grabbed my hand and pressed eagerly to the front, kicking ankles and treading on toes to carve a way through as spectators fell back in shock, open-mouthed. There were no other women that I could see. Some fellows grinned at me as if I were the luckiest devil alive, while others spat oaths and frowned in disapproval.

We pressed forward to the edge of the ring, leaning over the fence. The cocks were being paraded before the fights began, smart and proud of their silver spurs. Kitty studied them all keenly, as if she were choosing one to marry. ‘I like the look of him,’ she muttered in my ear as one strutted by with its chest puffed. She elbowed the man on her left – an old gent in bent spectacles. ‘Hey, there. What’s his pedigree?’

His eyes swivelled behind his thick lenses, then widened in dismay. He tugged at my cuff. ‘Sir, this is not proper! The entertainment tonight… It is not suitable for a lady…’

Kitty laughed at him. ‘Do I look like a fucking lady?’

The man opened and shut his mouth like a panicked fish. Damned with a ‘yay’ and damned with a ‘nay’. By God, I knew that feeling.

Two of the cocks began to squabble, pecking and clawing the air. The room goaded them on until they began to fight in earnest, turned savage by the crowd. The owners shouted and waded into the fray, but it was too late. The larger cock jumped upon its opponent, and with one vicious slash of its spur, ripped open the other bird’s belly. It was still pecking and jabbing furiously when its owner pulled it free. The injured bird lay bleeding and calling piteously, guts spilling out onto the sawdust. Its owner cursed and wrung its neck. The cock’s legs scrabbled and danced, then fell still.

The parade over, the tavern owner lumbered into the ring to announce the start of the night’s entertainment. A gladiatorial fight with swords… he skidded to a halt as he spied Kitty. ‘Out!’ he yelled over the din. ‘Take that strumpet out!’

Two hundred men craned their necks to stare at us. There was a woman in the crowd! For some reason I couldn’t fathom, this was an outrage beyond measure. True, most cockfights were meant for men alone, but there were always a few women allowed in the room – women of the town, in the main… but tonight there were none, save for Kitty.

A fat, sweaty man in a waterman’s doublet cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Have you come to see a handsome cock, slut?’ He grabbed his breeches.

‘Aye, but I’ll take the last one standing,’ Kitty yelled back. ‘Not the first one spent in the ring.’

The waterman’s jaw dropped, and then he guffawed with laughter, raising his fists in approval. Nothing a Thames boatman appreciates more than a filthy mouth. The crowd roared with him, but there were as many protests as cheers. I drew Kitty closer. ‘You might be safer outside with Jed,’ I whispered in her ear. Scenes such as this could turn ugly very fast.

The landlord grabbed me by the coat. ‘Out. Both of you. Unless you want a blade in the ribs…’

A shot rang out. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then chaos, as men ducked beneath tables or pulled out their own daggers and pistols.

‘Fuck,’ the landlord breathed, lifting his gaze to a bench at the back of the room. A man in a dark velvet coat stood on the bench with a pistol in his hand, smoke trailing from the barrel. A gentleman with a mad man’s face, lips twisted in a humourless grin. Howard.

The men who had drawn their own weapons groaned or sat back down upon seeing him. Perhaps because he was a nobleman – or perhaps because his reputation was well known in such a place. Either way, no one had the appetite for a fight.

He stared at me for a long, terrifying moment, as if he might eat me alive. Then he relaxed, and tucked his pistol back into his coat. ‘Let ’em through, Smith,’ he barked at the landlord. His manner was rough, but his voice had the clear, irresistible authority of a courtier. Smith obeyed at once, cursing under his breath as he led us across the room.

Howard was sitting above the ring on a raised platform, attended by a gang of five men. Two I recognised as his chairmen, the rest were gentlemen – of a fashion. Howard watched me without a word as I clambered up to meet him, his face curiously blank. I tensed as he stepped forward, jaw aching at the memory of his last punch. At least there was no powder left in his pistol. If he attacked us I could pull Kitty back into the crowds and out of the tavern in a flash. I was sure she knew the back alleys around here better than Charles Howard.

‘You’re a brave man…’ he said, taking a long swig from a bottle of claret.

I said nothing, watching him closely. Ready to run.

‘…bringing such a fine jade here.’ He bowed towards Kitty, then returned his gaze to me. His eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight – the gleam of a man standing on a precipice for the sheer hell of it. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

I stared at him. Was it possible? Did he not recognise me? ‘Thomas Hawkins,’ I replied, too astonished and relieved to lie. I gave a short bow.

‘A gentleman,’ he said, voice thick with sarcasm. ‘Well then, sir – join us.’ He gestured to his chairmen to leave the bench. As they rose, the young rake propped between them slid boneless to the floor and lay still. Howard put a foot beneath the boy’s ribs and rolled him out of the way.

The rest of the party was drunk too, bottles littered beneath the bench, but Howard seemed steady enough. Well, he had enjoyed years of practice – he was in his early fifties now, though he looked much older. I thought he must have been a handsome man in his youth, but he had ruined himself by decades of wild living. His face was bloated and sallow, with burst veins across his nose and cheeks.

‘My thanks for your help, sir,’ I said, nodding at the bulge of his pistol beneath his coat. ‘You must permit me to buy another bottle or two…’ A debauch would be a good way to extract useful information from Howard – if I could remain sober myself.

‘Put a guinea on the Irish bitch when she comes on and we’re even,’ he said, grabbing my shoulder and giving it a mighty squeeze. I buckled a little, and let out a silent whimper. I still ached from the morning’s torture. I smiled and nodded through the pain, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant. He welcomed Kitty with a surprisingly charming bow, while I settled down upon the bench, marvelling at my good fortune. He truly didn’t remember me from the fight in the park. Well – it had been dark and he had been fearsome drunk. And I had knocked him senseless. There was still a cut upon his brow even now, scabbed and bruised. With luck I’d knocked the memory clean out of him.

He took another swig, studying me closely. ‘I feel I know you from somewhere, Hawkins…’

The blood drained to my toes. ‘The gaming tables, perhaps…?’

He scratched his jaw. ‘Perhaps.’ He took Kitty’s arm and escorted her to the bench, settling her beside him. I gritted my teeth as he patted her hand, forcing myself to hide my revulsion. And yet there was some ghost of gallantry in his behaviour – some echo of a younger man more able to dissemble and present a gentlemanly appearance. There was the actor who had fooled Henrietta into marriage – the dashing captain wooing a sheltered young girl half his age. An orphan from a noble family with a fair fortune. He must have been licking his chops behind his hand. How long had he waited to reveal his true nature? A few days after the wedding at most, I wagered. A few days before the beast ripped its way into the open. Poor Henrietta. Only sixteen. She must have been terrified.

‘D’you know, it’s strange,’ Howard frowned. ‘You both seem familiar. Are you an actress, madam?’

‘No, sir,’ Kitty smiled. ‘We own a bookshop, on Russell Street…’

He swayed, thinking. ‘Hah! Cocked Pistol! Best damned shop in London!’ Howard punched one of his companions in the arm. ‘D’ye hear that, Drummond?’ And soon the entire company fell to discussing the shop and what a great, civic service it performed. I could scarce believe my luck. Not only did Howard not remember our fight, it transpired he was one of our best customers. He sent a boy for most of his purchases, but was sure he had met us both on his own brief visits. I confess I did not remember him, but then I spent most of my time upstairs at my desk.

‘Was there not a murder on Russell Street last night?’ Howard asked. ‘Some old bore was talking of it at White’s…’

‘Joseph Burden. Carpenter. He lived next door.’

Howard gave a jolt of surprise, then began to laugh, clapping a hand to his knee. ‘Joseph Burden…’ he chuckled. ‘Haven’t heard that name for a while. Now there was a vicious, godless rogue. He’ll be roasting in hell tonight, on my word.’

Kitty stared at him. ‘Godless?’

‘He was a brothel bully when I knew him,’ Howard said. ‘Bawdy house off Seven Dials. Twenty years back, now… Blackest, meanest place in the city. Not for simpering boys, you understand. Rooms for every vice.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Whipping. Pissing. Dogs if you fancied.’ He laughed and the rest of the company laughed with him. ‘Burden was paid to stop the worst of it. If a man took a knife to a girl, or beat her too hard. But he had debts. One could always pay him to look the other way.’ He laughed again. ‘My God. The things Joseph Burden didn’t see…’

Fresh cheering brought our attention back to the ring. Someone had entered the pit – in a state of near undress. ‘Neala!’ Kitty gasped. I leaned forward. My God, so it was – the Irish girl we’d met outside. She had removed her long riding cloak to reveal a tightly laced bodice and a short petticoat of white linen, her solid legs bare. She was holding a two-handed sword, the blade a good three inches broad. She raised it high, drawing another roar from the crowd. A second girl joined her in the ring dressed in the same uniform, though she wore red ribbons on her sleeve where Neala wore blue. Her blonde hair was tightly plaited close to her head, to keep it from her eyes.

‘A guinea on the blue,’ Howard ordered, pushing me towards the pit. ‘First to draw blood.’

‘And a pie!’ Kitty called after me.

I found a man near the front of the tumult willing to take my bet – the same waterman who had traded insults with Kitty. Neala was striding about the ring, calling out the many fights she had won. She spoke of her eight brothers back in Ennistymon, who’d taught her how to use a sword like a warrior. I was near enough to catch her eye as she passed. She gave a curt nod before turning to shake her opponent’s hand.

I had never seen a female gladiatorial battle before. I’d heard of them being used to entertain the crowds before the men came out to fight – a little sport with no real danger. This was different. The point of Neala’s sword was blunt, but the edge was sharp as a razor. I tapped the waterman’s shoulder. ‘How many rounds?’

He shrugged. ‘They’re fighting for coin. Depends how desperate they are.’

Neala was down on one knee, praying with her head bowed. As she rose she crossed herself, then bounced on the balls of her feet.

‘Papish bitch,’ someone muttered beside me.

I suppressed a frown. My mother had been raised in the Catholic faith. I bet him a crown the bitch would win. Touched the gold crucifix hidden beneath my shirt for luck.

The fighters circled one another slowly as the men shouted encouragement. They both held daggers in their left hand to ward off blows, keeping the swords away from their bodies. The English girl was taller than Neala and moved fast. She was the first to attack, her sword crashing down hard enough to ring out through the tavern. Neala bowed her legs beneath the blow and sprang back.

It was a hard, brutal fight, and the packed room was hot as the centre of hell. The girls were soon drenched in sweat, their skin glistening and their white petticoats clinging to their thighs. As I glanced over the seething crowd of men, I understood why Kitty had been so unwelcome tonight. It was not just a lust for blood that had them baying at the girls. Several spectators had shoved a furtive hand in their breeches.

I leaned over to the waterman, pointed to a gang of apprentices across the ring rubbing themselves with vigour. ‘Side bet on who spends first?’

The waterman snorted. ‘Young puppies. They’ll be spent before I’m done speak-’ He stopped. Pulled a face. ‘Told you.’

Howard squeezed in next to me and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Some sport, eh?’

I had to admit it was a great spectacle. The other girl was a pretty creature and knew how to play to her audience, flashing them smiles as she hacked hard and fast with her blade. With a quick dart she sliced open Neala’s arm, blood spurting from the wound. First blood to England. The crowd cheered. Howard had lost his bet.

‘Bad luck,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to care. But then, it wasn’t his guinea.

He leaned closer and pointed at Neala’s blood, spattered on to the sawdust. ‘Nothing better, eh, Hawkins?’

A hundred thousand things.

‘I’d like to see your scarlet whore in the ring. She’s a wild slut, no doubt. How d’you keep her to heel?’ I shook my head, not able to trust my tongue. He laughed. ‘You’re not sick for her, are you? Damned fool.’ He pushed back into the crowds to talk with the landlord.

There was a pause as Neala’s wound was stitched and a bandage applied. She took a large glass of spirits to steady her nerves and returned to the ring, blade high.

‘Game girl,’ the waterman said at my side.

The fight continued. After half an hour Neala had suffered another cut across her chest and was bleeding heavily, but her opponent was staggering with exhaustion now, barely able to raise her sword to protect herself. Neala could have moved in ten minutes before and chanced an attack, but she took her time, prodding and thrusting and falling back until the crowd grew restless.

‘Finish her off for fuck’s sake!’

‘Use your blade, damn it!’

She ignored them, parrying a final, weak attack. Her opponent crashed to the floor and dropped her sword, hands raised in defeat as Neala approached. Neala threw her fist in the air and grinned as the few of us who had bet on her to win shouted our approval. Hah! I was up one crown! And down a guinea, but there was no need to think of that.

The loser was now walking through the crowds selling herself for the night to the highest bidder. No one seemed interested in buying Neala and she did not seem interested in selling, either. She took her winnings from the fight and crossed the ring to greet me. I congratulated her and invited her to join us for supper. Her eyes flickered up to Howard’s bench where he was seated again, talking with Kitty. A guarded look crossed Neala’s face. ‘That’s your woman up there? I would take better care of her, if I were you.’

I watched with a sinking heart as Howard laughed and smiled, the mask back in place. Neala was right to scold me – but I could not send Kitty home on her own. The dark streets were just as dangerous as Howard – and at least I could keep my eye upon him. I sighed to myself. So much for my pretty dream of my first full night with Kitty. So much for a blazing fire, a warm bed, and the finest wine I could afford. I bought her a wretched-looking pie and returned to the bench. The first pair of cocks were out in the ring now, parading in their silver spurs once more as the landlord called out their pedigrees. Kitty broke off her conversation with Howard to take the pie.

‘We should bet on that one, on the left,’ she said, taking a huge bite. ‘Saw his grandfather fight like a fucking demon in Clerkenwell.’ She nudged her shoulder against mine. ‘Is this not fun, Tom? We should come here every week.’

I knocked back some claret, grimacing as the fight began and the cocks tore at each other. The truth was, I hated cockfighting. I know I am alone with the Quakers, but I can’t bear to watch two innocent animals ripping each other apart for sport. It’s a shame, as there is good money to be made if one knows the birds’ pedigrees and fighting history – but I cannot help my squeamish nature. I tried to explain this to Kitty as her favourite gouged a wide hole in its rival’s neck then stood on its lifeless body, crowing in triumph.

She wiped the grease from her fingers. ‘You wish me to feel pity for a chicken?’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Dear Tom.’

The night drew on and Howard grew restless. He had won a few bets in the first matches, but was now down almost three pounds – all of it borrowed from the pockets of the young sot under the bench, who had barely stirred all evening. I asked the most sober companion left standing who the boy was – a nobleman, I thought, judging from his clothes.

‘That he is, Hawkins,’ Howard interrupted. He dragged the boy to a seated position, leaning him against the bench. The boy’s head rolled back. ‘He’s my son. Henry – wake up, damn you.’

Henry Howard. Henrietta’s son – her only child. I stared at the young rake sprawled in a drunken heap, a sloppy string of drool sliding down his chin. Then thought of his mother, gracious and composed, her face cool and still as a portrait. And yet the resemblance was there, beneath the debauchery. He shared Henrietta’s high forehead and clear complexion, and the contours of his face were remarkably similar. I saw little of Howard in him, save for the drunkenness, of course.

Henry hiccoughed, then spewed a thin stream of vomit at our feet.

‘Gah…’ Howard cursed. At his signal, one of the chairmen threw the boy over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowds. Hopefully the fresh air would revive him. ‘Can’t take his liquor,’ Howard scowled after them both. ‘It’s his mother’s fault, damn her.’

I smiled, playing my part. I couldn’t risk the night ending here, although I wanted it to with all my heart. Howard could tell a good story at the start of an evening, before the liquor scoured away the thin veneer of charm. There were old war stories, and wicked court scandals from his years attending the old king. He had lived a free, rakish life, and there must have been a time, long ago, when he had been entertaining company. But now he was an old, ruined man, on the turn like spoiled milk, sour and sickening.

Worst of all was his hatred of his wife, a poison running through his veins. He had spent much of the night regaling me with sordid tales of his marriage, before Henrietta had found sanctuary at court. I sensed that he told these stories often, to anyone who might listen. He took the part of the villain with a strange sort of glee, as if his life’s great purpose had been to torture and degrade his wife in every conceivable fashion. He’d squandered her inheritance, roaming the town while she starved in filthy lodgings. And when he did come home, he brought back whores to torment her, fucking them in front of her.

‘One son, that’s all she gave me,’ he sneered, as Henry was carried lifeless through the tavern. ‘What use is a wife if she can’t keep a baby in her belly?’

Somehow, I kept my composure. How would it serve Henrietta if I punched Howard, or stormed away in disgust? I must find something useful to bring back to the queen. ‘You are separated now, I believe?’

‘Not in law,’ he snapped. ‘She is still mine – and always will be. She can hide in her rooms, but I’m still here, in her head.’ He tapped his temple with his fingers. ‘For ever.’ And then he started upon another loathsome story, of some small rebellion punished with a savage beating. How it had left her deaf in one ear and why that was not his fault. How she should thank him now, as it spared her from listening to the king’s tedious conversation.

It was not the first time I’d heard a man speak of beating his wife of course, nor would it be the last. Take a walk through the Garden and there are plenty of women with black eyes and split lips. But Howard spoke of it with a boastful pride I had never heard before, as if it were his duty and his pleasure.

It made me all the more determined to find something to stop him, for Henrietta’s sake as well as my own. But what could I tell the queen that she did not already know? The gambling, the drinking, the whoring, the debts, the violence, the cruelty. What news could ever be enough, given Howard’s position? Ned Weaver resented me because I was the son of a gentleman, and so favoured by the law. Charles Howard was a nobleman. If his brother died without an heir, he would become Earl of Suffolk…

…Unless someone ran him through with a blade first. I confess, the thought did cross my mind. One quick stab in the back, in some dark alleyway. If I were a different man, how easily I could resolve the matter. If I were Samuel Fleet, in fact – the man the queen expected me to replace.

‘You hold your drink well,’ Howard said, slapping my back.

I took the compliment, but in fact I had only sipped at my wine. It had been easy enough to pass my bottle on to one of Howard’s companions, or spill a few glugs upon the floor. Kitty had spent most of the night at the ring, betting on the fights without drinking. We had both kept our wits sharp.

Howard leaned closer. ‘I’ve hired a boat,’ he shouted, his breath hot and wet in my ear. ‘You must join me. Both of you. Plenty of drinking hours before dawn.’

I nodded and told him I would find Kitty, though I had no intention of bringing her with me. I took a slow circuit about the tavern, and found her at last at the door, talking to Jed. I drew her to a shadowed spot beyond the reach of the torchlight and explained about the boat trip.

‘You must go home now,’ I whispered, reaching for her hand in the gloom. ‘Would Jed escort you home, d’you think – for a fee? Or that Irish girl, perhaps?’

‘Neala. She left some time ago.’

‘It won’t be safe on the boat, Kitty. There’s nowhere to escape on the river, and I can’t protect you from six men, even if they’re half-dead with drink.’

She squeezed my hand. ‘He doesn’t remember you, Tom. And you need something to give to the queen.’

The cockfighting was over and the tavern was emptying, men streaming out into the chill air. Some of the winning cocks were being carried through in wooden cages, squawking and crowing and flapping furiously. I called over to Jed and asked if he would guide Kitty home for a fee. ‘I have business with Charles Howard.’

‘Howard? Keep away from that bastard. Take her home yourself.’

Kitty prodded me in the ribs. ‘I am not a sack of potatoes to be carted about the city. I shall go where I please.’

‘Kitty…’

‘Now, now – what’s this?’ Howard cried, clapping his hands as he stepped into the night. ‘A lovers’ quarrel?’

‘Miss Sparks is a little tired. I’m arranging a safe passage home.’

‘Home? What the devil are you mewling about, Hawkins? No, no – I will not part with my new friends. You must come with me.’ He put his arms around our shoulders and dragged us away. ‘I insist.’

The boat was waiting for us at St Saviour’s Dock, bobbing and swaying against its mooring. It was a barge fit for a nobleman, with a broad cabin in the stern and a smaller one at the bow. How this particular nobleman had paid for the trip I could only guess – he had lost a fortune in the tavern, and yet he tipped the head oarsman a crown as we boarded. His son must have deep pockets. Henry was still with us – in a manner of speaking. He had puked several times along the way and had to be carried on to the barge by Howard’s chairmen. The rest of our party we had lost to another tavern behind the cathedral. Praise the Lord.

As the boat pushed off I cautioned myself to remain calm. Howard had invited us as his guests. He had no memory of our fight and no reason to believe our meeting had been anything but pure chance. I had my sword at my side and was more sober than I’d been in years. And still… it wouldn’t be wise to trust him. While he headed to the stern in search of more wine, I slipped a coin into the head oarsman’s pocket. ‘If I tap your shoulder, row us to the nearest steps,’ I murmured.

The Thames was quiet, with only a handful of boats upon the water. And no surprise – it was late, and the air was biting. A gang of revellers called out cheerfully as we passed, and Kitty waved at them. A hard wind blew across the water and she shivered. ‘Let’s go inside. I think there’s supper laid out.’

I touched her hand. ‘Stay close to me.’

Howard emerged from the cabin with a fur blanket under his arm. ‘Here you are, my dear,’ he said, draping the blanket over Kitty’s shoulders. She smiled and wrapped it tighter against the wind. A touching moment, if he had not spent the evening counseling me to beat her into obedience. He balanced his way over to his son, who was slumped at the edge of the boat, heaving bile into the water.

Howard knelt down next to him. ‘You drink like a woman, Henry. It’s a damned disgrace. Your mother has ruined you.’

‘My mother is a whore,’ Henry slurred into his father’s face. They were the only words he’d spoken all evening.

Howard patted his shoulder. ‘Good lad.’

Henry swivelled around and vomited into the river.

‘Shall we go inside, Mr Howard?’ Kitty said.

He smiled.

The world seemed to slow. Howard, smiling. The oars slicing the water. And Kitty, heading for the cabin. Out of my reach. I knew we were in danger, knew with that one smile that the evening had turned upside down. I touched the oarsman’s shoulder. He kept on rowing. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, from the corner of his mouth.

‘They’re in my pay, not yours,’ Howard said, pulling his pistol from his coat. He laughed, and tapped the cut on his brow as I stumbled back. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten you, Sir Nobody? My wife’s champion?’

He had known all along. Lured me here to the river with Kitty.

‘Mr Howard,’ I said, keeping my voice steady. ‘Turn this boat to shore.’

‘Did you plan to kill me? Did she pay you?’

‘Mr Howard-’

I heard a scuffle and a soft cry behind me. Howard’s chairmen were dragging Kitty into the cabin, a blade at her throat. One of them whispered something in her ear and her eyes widened in fright. No, no, no. I ran after them, reaching for my sword.

A sharp crack on the back of my skull. Then nothing.

Chapter Fourteen

I came to in an empty cabin, lying on the floor. My hands were bound roughly with rope and my sword was gone. I lay in the dark, half-senseless. Then I remembered. Kitty. I staggered to my feet, shaking my head to clear it. Pain stabbed my skull.

I’d been thrown in the small cabin at the bow. I lurched to the door, but it was barred from the outside. I threw my weight against it, but it wouldn’t give. I pounded with my fists, screaming for help. She was alone with Howard. I’d let him take her. That monster. I kicked and yelled, but the door stood firm.

Then suddenly there was a heavy thud as the bar was raised and dropped to the ground. I pushed open the door and almost fell into Henry.

‘What the deuce…?’ he slurred, with a lopsided grin. ‘A game?’

I held up my wrists. ‘Aye, aye, a game. Untie me, Henry.’

But he was too foolish with drink, giggling and stumbling over the knots. I cursed and pushed him away, wheeling around to the head oarsman.

‘For pity’s sake help me.’

He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, doubt in his eyes.

‘On your conscience, sir. Say the boy freed me. Please.’

He leaned across and untied the knot. ‘Stern. Hurry. I’ll row closer to shore.’

They had taken my sword, but my dagger was still tucked somewhere in my coat. I searched for it in a panic until my hands caught the hilt. I seized Henry by the scruff of his neck and pushed him towards the stern.

He flailed in a panic. ‘What’s this? What’s happening?’

I pressed the blade against his throat and he held still, sober enough at last to realise that this was no game. I kicked open the door to the larger cabin.

Kitty was crouched on a bench at the far end of the room, a broken bottle in her hand. There were scratches on her face and her sleeves were torn. How long had I been unconscious – a few minutes? She had fought off three men in the meantime – three men staggering with drink perhaps, but still, it was a miracle. One of the chairmen lay unmoving under the table, and the other was holding a handkerchief to a deep cut on his forehead.

Howard dragged the table to one side to reach Kitty, his hat and wig knocked free in the fight.

‘Let her go!’ I cried.

Howard turned and cursed. His soldier’s training held him still while he assessed the odds. ‘You are not a killer,’ he decided.

‘I am for her.’ I pressed the point deeper into his son’s neck. A trickle of blood spilled over the blade.

Howard reached into his jacket and took out his pistol. He aimed it at Kitty, who shrank back. ‘Why, did you think you were winning this little scrape?’ He laughed at her. ‘It was a game, no more.’

My head whirled. Howard was mad enough to shoot her and powerful enough to get away with it. The risk was too high. I lowered the blade and Howard’s chairman snatched it from my hand. He pushed Henry out of the way and wrapped an arm about my throat.

‘Now then, Kitty,’ Howard said. Her name on his foul lips. I couldn’t bear it. ‘Put down the bottle.’

She hesitated.

He cocked the pistol.

Kitty dashed the bottle to the ground, the glass smashing into a dozen sharp pieces.

Howard began to unbutton his breeches, one-handed. ‘Are you fucking my wife, Hawkins?’ He glanced at me. ‘Well, sir?’

I shook my head.

‘Liar. Why else would you fight for her?’

My heart was burning in my chest. What could I say to him? How could I talk of honour to such a man? He planned to rape Kitty in front of me, in front of his son. I would not let that happen. I must not.

Howard put a hand in Kitty’s hair and pulled sharply. He called out to Henry. ‘D’you see now, boy? This is how you train the wild ones. Let them play. Let them think they’re strong. And then you-’

Kitty flung herself back at him, tumbling them both to the ground. As they fell she turned and drew her knee up, forcing it hard between his legs. Howard screamed and dropped the pistol; it span away beneath the bench as he curled into a tight ball, rolling in agony in the broken glass. It spiked his skin, bloodstains blooming on his white shirt. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he whimpered. ‘I will kill you.’

Kitty stood up, swaying as the boat rode over a wave. Then she raised her heel and stamped down upon on his free hand, grinding it against a thick shard of glass. He screamed, still clutching himself with the other hand. Screamed until there was no breath left.

The chairman ran to help his master. I grabbed my blade, snatched Kitty’s hand and we lurched from the cabin out on to the deck. The Thames rolled black and deep, the moon shining on its surface. The oarsmen had brought us close to Somerset House on the north side of the river, but we were still a good twenty yards from shore.

The cabin door crashed open and Howard raged on to the deck, bent double in agony, his pistol raised in his bloody fist.

There was no time to think. I jumped from the boat, still holding Kitty’s hand.

I heard the crack of the pistol and then the river closed over my head, filthy and ice cold. I flailed to the surface, gasping in shock as the freezing water knifed my skin. A couple of watermen waiting for custom at the steps stood up in their boat and began to shout in alarm. I could hear Kitty floundering a few feet away, her gown dragging her down. I swam over to her, battling the pull of the water. As I grabbed her arm, a wave knocked me back and I slipped under, still holding her close.

I surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of rank river water – and saw the barge looming towards us. Howard stood at the prow, screaming at the oarsmen to row faster, his face twisted with fury. In a few moments, the boat would smash straight into us. I swam desperately towards the watermen, calling out for help as I held on to Kitty’s waist. The water was weighing us both down now, turning our clothes to lead. The watermen rowed out to meet us and we clung to the side in terror as they turned back to shore. When we reached the steps I dragged Kitty out to safety.

‘You there!’ Howard shouted at the watermen from the river. ‘Hold them both for me. I’ll pay you!’

Our rescuers discussed the offer as I pulled myself on to the steps, coughing up the foul-tasting water. I reached into my sodden clothes and threw a shower of coins at their feet. ‘Please,’ I said, crawling up the steps on my hands and knees.

One of the men held up a lantern, squinted at the barge. ‘Is that Charles Howard?’

‘Gah!’ The other one spat into the water. ‘I fucking hate that nob.’ He pulled me to my feet. ‘G’on with you. Run.’

I couldn’t run. I could barely walk. My skull was pounding from the blow to my head, and I was shaking from the cold. But somehow I staggered up the Somerset steps and found Kitty, collapsed at the top and shivering. She looked half dead. The sight of her brought me back to my senses. With my last strength I gathered her up and half-dragged, half-carried her away, heading back towards Covent Garden in a desperate, lurching run. I would have picked her up and slung her over my shoulder, but I had lost my strength that morning, chained to Gonson’s wall. Somehow, I must find a way to press on. I could still hear Howard shouting furiously as he reached the steps. We were not free of him yet.

I stumbled forward, trying not to panic. It was very late now, the streets dark and quiet. We could not go home, that much was certain. Howard was in such a state of fury I was afraid he would break down the door and murder us all.

I looked over my shoulder and spied him in the distance with one of his chairmen. I hurried on to Russell Street.

‘Home,’ Kitty mumbled, tottering against me. She felt bone cold.

‘We can’t go home,’ I whispered.

She slumped, knees sagging, senseless. And somehow, with the last of my strength, I picked her up and slid her over my shoulder. My muscles screamed, but I felt them only dimly through the fear and urgency. I lumbered on to Drury Lane, winning curious looks from the few street whores still out searching for business. I could hear Howard cursing my name as he followed, narrowing the gap between us. I turned left on to St Giles.

Now, Howard, you son of a bitch – follow us if you dare. For all your mad rage let’s see if you are a match for the rookeries of St Giles. I took the first alley I could find and plunged in, the darkness swallowing us whole.

I could go no further. As I reached the end of the alley I sank to my knees, shuddering with the cold. I lowered Kitty to the ground and gazed up at the ropes and walkways high above our heads. Everything was still.

‘My name is Thomas Hawkins,’ I called up through numb, frozen lips. ‘I work for James Fleet. We need his help.’

Nothing.

Or the merest whisper of something on the wind. The softest creak of feet along a walkway.

I slumped in the mud, clutching Kitty for warmth, but she was cold as death. Why had I let her come with me tonight? Why had I not stopped her? ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

I heard footsteps behind us. Howard was striding down the alleyway, clutching a bottle, his chairman holding a torch to light his way. My God, he was truly a lunatic to enter St Giles in the middle of the night. I rolled to my knees and raised my hand, panting heavily. ‘For pity’s sake, Howard. Enough.’ But he did not know the meaning of the word.

‘On the ground, in the filth. How fitting. D’you know, I think I shall piss on you both before I kill you.’ He took a swig from the bottle and began to pull at his breeches. Blood streamed from a wide gash in his hand, where Kitty had ground it into the broken glass.

I was shaking with the cold now, my wet clothes burning like ice in the winter night. My teeth began to chatter. I clamped my jaw shut. I didn’t want him to mistake me – to think I was afraid. I was far beyond fear now, or anger. All that mattered was to keep Kitty safe. I pulled myself to my feet. One last fight.

Howard leaped at my throat, pushing me hard against a brick wall. I tried to throw him off but I was too weak. I tore at his injured hand, scraping my nails into the wound. He howled in pain and let go. I barrelled into him, shoulder pressed into his stomach. He staggered but didn’t fall, wrapping his hands about my throat again. I choked as he pressed his thumbs into my windpipe, crumpling to my knees…

… and then I was free, gasping air into my lungs. I could sense a struggle around me, some brief fight. By the time I was recovered we were surrounded by a ring of men in plain, patched clothing. Plain but clean. One of them held a blade to Howard’s throat. Another held his chairman.

A short, powerful figure slipped noiselessly into the torchlight, hat worn low, his nose and mouth covered in a black cloth. James Fleet. He reached down and touched the pulse in Kitty’s neck. ‘Inside,’ he said to one of his men, who picked her up and carried her away. She didn’t even stir. Why was she not moving? I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t find my tongue. Everything had taken on a strange, muffled feeling, like a dream. My teeth were chattering again. Someone threw a cloak over my shoulders.

Howard turned to Fleet. He was a soldier once more – and he recognised a fellow captain. ‘I am Charles Howard, brother of the Earl of Suffolk. That man is mine.’

Fleet smiled. He gestured to his man to lower the blade away from Howard’s throat. ‘And how much is he worth to you, my lord?’

Howard grinned, stepping away from his captor. ‘A guinea.’

‘A guinea…’ Fleet murmured. ‘D’you hear that Mr Hawkins? How much you are valued?’ His men laughed softly.

Howard scowled. The madness was returning, now he was free again. No one laughed at him, especially not a gang of low thieves.

‘No deal, Mr Howard,’ Fleet said. ‘Now leave.’

Howard’s eyes bulged in fury. ‘How dare you! How dare you bark orders as if I were some common footman! I will-’

Fleet tipped his chin – a silent command. A moment later Howard’s chairman fell to his knees, his throat cut. Blood gushed from the wound, spurting in a thick stream. He choked for a few seconds, then slumped to the ground, dead.

Fleet stepped back from the pool of blood spreading out into the dirt.

Howard gaped at the body. And then he ran.

I must have collapsed after that as I remember nothing more until we reached Fleet’s den. The blow to my head and the freezing cold of the river had left me dazed and tired to the marrow. As to what happened to the chairman, poor devil, I never learned. Every man pays a price for entering St Giles in the dead of night. His price was harsh indeed – and all the crueller when his master had escaped without a scratch. So the world turns – kill a nobleman and the rookery would be razed to the ground, the gang hunted down and hanged without mercy. Slit a chairman’s throat and no one would notice or care.

When I woke I was being carried up the stairs to the large room at the top of the house. Some of Fleet’s gang stood about, smoking and talking in soft voices. ‘Strip those wet duds off him, Connie,’ someone said, and an old woman hobbled over, her hair a wispy cloud of white beneath a quilted cap. She removed my clothes, batting my hands away when I tried to help, then wrapped me in a linen sheet and several thick blankets. I was so weak I had to lean on her as she led me to Fleet’s chair by the fire. ‘Muito rápido…’ she scolded when I tried to pull it nearer the flames. She rapped her heart with her fist. ‘It stops.’ She pressed a bowl of hot chocolate into my hands and ordered me to drink. I tried to ask her about Kitty, but either she couldn’t understand or I had lost my wits with the cold – my words felt jumbled and heavy on my tongue, my thoughts slow and confused. I drank the chocolate through chattering teeth and slowly returned to my senses.

At some signal Fleet’s men gathered themselves and headed out again. Best not to think of the business they planned. One of them paused at my chair, shrugging on his coat. ‘She’s with Gabriela.’

I tumbled down the stairs, drunk with exhaustion, clinging to the walls as I searched each room. At last, I found her.

She was lying in a small cot, buried under several blankets, red hair wrapped in a velvet cap for warmth. A dark-haired woman was sitting by her side, singing softly in Portuguese. Gabriela, Fleet’s wife. Sam’s mother. There was beauty in her features, her smooth complexion, her black curls streaked with silver. A great, grave beauty – save for the long scar on her face. It curved from temple to jaw, puckering her cheek and dragging down the corner of her right eye.

She beckoned me forward. ‘For one moment.’

I stumbled to the bed. A lantern cast an amber light across the blankets, but Kitty’s skin was white as marble and her lips were tinged blue. I took her hand, pressed my face to hers to be sure she was still breathing. ‘She’s so cold.’

Gabriela put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You must rest.’

I shook my head, and the room spun around me. I had to stay awake and look after Kitty. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I lay down next to her. She didn’t move. It was as if I were lying next to a stone statue on a tomb.

Fleet entered the room and spoke quietly with Gabriela by the fire. They sounded worried.

Strong arms pulled me from the bed and lifted me away. I was too weak to protest. Another room, men asleep on the floor. A bed, warmed with a bed pan. Blankets thrown over my shaking body. In my fevered state I thought I was back in the river – that our escape had all been a dream. The blankets were waves and I was sinking down, the icy river closing above my head. The water roared in my ears. I reached for Kitty but I couldn’t find her. I was alone in an empty ocean. I slipped away beneath the waves, drowning in darkness.

Chapter Fifteen

A warm dry bed. Sunlight on my closed eyes. Shouts and drunken curses rising from the streets, the rumble of carts and the scrape of a fiddle. A dog barking. It had all been there at the edge of my senses, seeping into my dreams. I swallowed, mouth dry, and rolled over. Groaned as pain bounced about my skull.

‘Awake!’ a voice yelled, delighted. ‘Awake, awake, awake!’

I opened my eyes a crack. A tiny, dark-eyed child was leaning over me, her face inches from mine. Three more girls lined the bed, whispering and watching me with keen interest. Sam’s sisters, without question – all variations upon the same theme, with dark, clever eyes and raven hair, and all dressed in drab, faded gowns, restitched to fit. The oldest girl had tucked a wisp of gauze about her neck, bright scarlet flecked with gold. It burned in the morning sun like a jewel, or a warning. She lifted her baby sister from the bed and kissed her curls. ‘Run and tell Pa, Bia.’

I was desperate to leave the room and find Kitty, but a light shuffle beneath my blankets revealed that I was quite naked. Exposing myself in front of James Fleet’s daughters did not seem wise.

After some whispering and giggles, the eldest girl introduced herself as Eva. ‘Becky. Sofia,’ she added, indicating her sisters.

‘You snore,’ Becky informed me.

Eva hushed her. ‘You’re teaching Sam to be a gent.’

Becky and Sofia sniggered at the thought of such an impossible task. I sat up, as much as was decent, holding the blankets to my chest. ‘In a fashion…’

Eva touched her neckerchief. ‘Might I make a lady d’you think, sir? I should like to wear fine clothes and-’

‘Out. All of you. Damned hussies.’ Fleet stood in the doorway, holding Bia in the crook of one arm. From his hot, crabbed expression I guessed that he had not asked his daughters to stand sentinel over my bed. As they ran laughing from the room, he blocked Eva’s path. ‘What’s this?’ he snapped, tugging a handful of the scarlet gauze. ‘Take it off, child.’

‘I’m indoors, Pa,’ she wailed, clutching it back to her chest. ‘No one can see.’

As father and daughter argued, Bia struggled free and clambered back on to the bed. She scrunched her way up to my shoulder and put a dimpled hand to my face, dark eyes sombre. ‘Bad man gone?’

I thought of Howard, backing away into the shadows. ‘Yes, little one. All gone. Your papa chased him away.’ For ever, I hoped.

‘Bad man all gone,’ she said, satisfied, and traced a grubby finger down my cheek. Then she slid from the bed and toddled after her sisters.

Fleet watched her go, shaking his head. ‘Five girls. God help me. Sore head?’

I lowered my feet slowly to the ground, wrapping a blanket around my hips. The room tilted and I had to breathe hard to steady myself. ‘I’m well enough,’ I said, touching the back of my skull. There was a small bump, but not as bad as I’d feared. ‘Kitty?’

‘Upstairs.’

I rose and hobbled across the room, each step jolting my head.

‘Clothes,Hawkins. This ain’t a brothel.’ He pointed to a bundle on the floor and left. My dagger rested on top of the pile.

Scratchy woollen breeches, an old waistcoat for a much fatter man, a tattered cravat. A wig, too – but it looked so lousy I dared not touch it, never mind place it upon my aching head. I wondered who these clothes had belonged to and how they had come here – then decided it was best not to be too curious in Fleet’s house.

Out upon the landing I heard the murmur of conversation on the floor above. I limped barefoot up to the room at the top of the stairs, drawn by the voices and the scent of warm spiced food that hugged the air.

And there she was, sitting by the fire, her feet tucked up under her skirts. She was still pale, but a thousand times better than the night before. We looked at each other across the room, safe now after the dark horrors of the night. Then she slid to her feet to greet me. I put my hands to her face. Her skin was warm. ‘You’re well?’

She nodded and I kissed her, wrapping my arms about her waist as if she might disappear.

‘Oh Lord, Tom,’ she gasped, breaking away. ‘You will squeeze me to death.’

I loosened my grip. Slowly recalled that Fleet was in the room, and his wife Gabriela, holding a baby in her arms. Daughter number five, I supposed. Eva, Becky and Sofia, grinning and nudging each other. Little Bia, watching us wide-eyed on the table, chewing her fist. And Sam, leaning against a wall in the corner, hands in his pockets. Mute, as ever.

I gave Gabriela a short bow. ‘Thank you, madam.’

She smiled at the courtesy, her eyes tired. ‘Lucky. Both of you.’ Her accent was a complicated mix of Portuguese and St Giles. She crooked a finger into her baby’s fist and jiggled it up and down. ‘No jumping in river no more. Yes?’

‘I swear it – upon my life,’ Kitty said. ‘I feel as if I’ve been run down by a wagon.’

Fleet put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

Phoenix Street was crowded and chaotic, and everyone was selling – food, gin, bodies. A tinker stood in a doorway, clanging an iron pot, his nose caved in from the pox. He stank of piss, the bottom of his coat sodden with it. I looked away, my head pounding in time to his noise.

There was a frost in the air this morning and I was grateful for it – it woke me up, and freshened the streets a little. A man ran past us, dragging a hand cart filled with clothes. For a brief moment I thought I saw the chairman’s coat buried in the heap, stained with blood. But the wheel almost ran over my toe and I was forced to leap back. By the time I’d recovered, the cart had vanished.

Fleet strode through the ragged stream of life, squinting at the winter sun with eyes more accustomed to the dark. A cluster of men nodded as he passed, but most minded their own business. We turned into a sunless alley and Fleet sighed, as if coming home. Turned and twisted again until we reached a ruined courtyard, overlooked by gloomy, tumbledown houses. No carts rolled down here, no hawkers called their trade. Windows were shuttered tight against the day, and all was still. The ropes and walkways of the rookery loomed high above our heads, blocking the light. Here we were both in shade, the world dyed grey.

He tapped his toe against the cobbles, hands in pockets. ‘D’you know this place?’

I looked about me. The press of broken houses, the narrow balconies hung with tattered sheets. This was where I had stopped last night, when I could run no further. This was where I had called Fleet’s name – and he’d answered.

He held out his hand. Two guineas glinted in his palm.

My payment for meeting with Mrs Howard in St James’s Park. He had known all along that her husband would attack the carriage. He had sent me there without warning and I had almost died as a consequence. No doubt he thought last night had squared the matter. But if he had not lied to me when we shook hands upon the deal, then I would never have met Charles Howard in the first place. Kitty would never have been hurt and threatened and half drowned.

He pressed the coins into my hand with a smile. ‘Take them, sir. Don’t forget, your life is worth only half that.’

‘You betrayed me.’

‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said heavily. Wearily. ‘You knew the dangers. You betrayed yourself, sir.’

‘What – I should have guessed you worked for the queen?’

‘I work for myself.’ He snuffed back a laugh. ‘Gentlemen. All that schooling… I forget what fools you are. You ain’t equipped to live in the world. You strut about, so sure you’re the cleverest souls in England. D’you think your wits are sharper than mine, sir?’

‘I-’

‘Of course you do. Even now. Tell me – what was it you studied at Oxford?’

I scowled at him. He knew the answer full well.

‘Divinity.’ He chuckled, as if this were some great joke. ‘Three years wasted upon the next world. Well – I have spent eight and thirty studying this one. Who has the best of it, d’you think?’

‘What do you want of me, damn you?’

‘You know, sir, you know.’

Aye – I did. He had made a great deal of money working with his brother. Samuel had been a spy for the queen – and for others, no doubt. Now I was to replace him – with Sam to assist me, I supposed. A fine and lucrative deal, with very little risk for James Fleet. ‘I will not work for you.’

He laughed and shook his head. Laughed again. ‘It’s not an offer, Hawkins. It’s an order.’

A knot tightened in my throat. Now I understood why Betty had been so furious with me. She had realised at once what I had lost, in that fatal moment when I had shook James Fleet’s hand. I thought of the Marshalsea – of the tortures I’d endured to secure my freedom. Now – a scant three months later – I was a prisoner again. And for what? A brief dazzle of excitement. How could I have been so reckless? It was not enough to shrug and say it was my nature, not enough to rail at God or Fortune. I could have prevented this.

No wonder Fleet mocked me as a fool. He clapped me on the shoulder, and the weight of his hand felt like an iron chain. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Course you are.’

Of course I was. It’s not an offer, Hawkins. I was Fleet’s man now – and the queen’s. God help me – I’d be lucky to survive the week.

As we headed back up Phoenix Street, Fleet plucked Eva’s gauze neck cloth from his pocket and threw it into the gutter. For a moment it fluttered there in the filth, gold thread glinting in the sun. Then a street boy snatched it and ran, scampering up a wall on to the rooftops and away.

Sam had brought a letter from Gonson – a reply to my request to search Burden’s house. Gonson railed at my insolence, though he had no choice but to comply. It will prove nothing, sir, he wrote, save your black-hearted cruelty and the innocence of Burden’s children. You will be judged for this one day, Hawkins. Such devilish behaviour does not go unpunished. There followed more sermonising, which I did not read. All that mattered was his promise to send a constable to the house later that afternoon. In the meantime, Sam told me that the street boys had watched the house all night. No one had come and no one had gone – the house had remained barred and silent, as if Burden were still alive, ruling the family with the Bible and his fist.

Gabriela served a late breakfast of plum porridge, richly spiced and delicious. I ate three bowls of it, much to her satisfaction. ‘This how a man eat, Samuel,’ she scolded her son, who had picked out all the currants and dotted them along the rim like dead flies. Then she bowed him to her breast and kissed his head, running her hand through his curls. ‘Belo,’ she smiled, her long scar puckering her face. Sam said nothing. But he closed his eyes for a brief moment, and smiled too.

A quick pipe and a pot of strong coffee, and I was eager to return home. Fleet had already thrown off his boots and was snoring softly in a hammock, recovering from the night’s work. Kitty kissed Gabriela goodbye and we headed down the stairs.

‘Could I not go with them, Ma?’ Eva begged her mother. ‘Mr Hawkins promised to make me a lady.’

What the devil…? Kitty and Gabriela stabbed me with a look. I raised my hands in protest.

‘I would make a fine gentlewoman,’ Eva trilled, swishing her gown and fanning herself with her hand.

‘A fine strumpet,’ Sam muttered, dodging a slap as he ran for the stairs.

‘You stay here with me, Eva,’ Gabriela said firmly. ‘We put you out in the world, I think you break it.’

I kept my borrowed hat low over my eyes as we reached Covent Garden. Most of the passersby did not recognise me in such mean clothes. Those who did seemed wary and puzzled. How simple it had been yesterday when I was the monster, arrested and dragged to gaol by Gonson’s men. They did not like me any better today, walking free about the streets in my eccentric suit of ill-matched clothes. No doubt the news of my enquiries had spread, creating even more confusion. What should they make of me? Was I to be pitied? Reviled? Feared? No one knew. And so they kept their distance, until they had an answer on which they could all agree. And God help me, I had best find Burden’s killer before then. This was how mobs were born. Confusion and fear, and then a swift, angry decision. That one. He’s to blame.

It struck me that both Fleet and the queen would be interested to see how I resolved my troubles with Burden’s family. I had proved my reckless courage, protecting Henrietta Howard from her husband. Now my skills of reasoning would be tested as I searched for the killer. If I was successful, I would have proved myself useful to them. If I failed, I would most likely hang. It was a provoking thought.

I followed Kitty into the shop to hunt for paper. She was standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, staring up at the shelves. She picked up a pamphlet, dropped it back on its neat pile. ‘Someone has been in here…’ she murmured. She ran through the shop to the barren printing press, walking around it and frowning.

‘Is anything stolen?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘Everything seems in order…’

‘Perfectly in order.’ She trailed a finger over the press, looking for dust. ‘I have never seen it so clean and tidy.’

‘Thank you, miss.’ Alice appeared from the back storeroom carrying a mop and bucket, her gown hoicked up to her knees. Her face was hot, and stuck with straggles of blonde hair that had escaped from her cap. She gave a jump when she saw me and quickly untucked her gown, swishing it back below her ankles. ‘I’ve cleaned the whole house, top to bottom. Walls, floors, windows… Jenny was a good girl, but I must say…’ she sniffed, not saying. ‘That… boy wouldn’t let me in his room.’ Her eyes flickered to the door, where Sam was leaning against the frame. ‘Not that I care. As if I have any interest in touching anything of his.’ She scrubbed the mop back and forth with some violence, though the floor was clean enough to host a ball.

Kitty stared about her in astonishment. ‘You must have worked all night.’

‘I work hard, miss,’ Alice said, pleased. ‘Always have. And it was either that or lie in bed and wait to be murdered by someone. So I lit some candles and, well. As you see.’

I asked Alice to heat a few buckets of water. Kitty had bathed back in St Giles, but I could still smell the river stink on my skin. I found a sheaf of paper and took it upstairs to my desk. Sam trailed after me like a shadow. He seemed confused.

‘Mr Hawkins. If I’d wanted to kill her…’

‘That is not a happy way to begin a sentence, Sam.’

‘Why would she feel safer washing the floor?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I sighed, dipping my quill. ‘But we have a clean house for it, so my thanks for that.’

‘But…,’ Sam looked bewildered. ‘It would be easier,with the mop and bucket. I could use them to wash the blood after and…’

I fixed him with a look.

‘There’s no reason to it,’ he muttered and slunk up to his room.

I wrote a note to Budge, explaining that my meeting with Howard had not gone as hoped. I must find some other way to defeat him, given I could no longer attempt to befriend the devil. My only consolation was that he had not guessed I was working on the queen’s behalf. I asked Budge to supply the names of Howard’s cronies and enemies, old neighbours and creditors. And then I sat back, despondent. Howard’s murderous attack on the barge should have been more than enough to hook the bastard, but he was a nobleman. He could not be shamed or blackmailed by such behaviour. A light skirmish with a disgraced gentleman and his whore, no doubt that is how he would describe the matter.The court would shrug its shoulders and return to its card game.

I closed my eyes, transported back to the cabin, Kitty’s torn sleeves and terrified expression. Howard’s eyes, cold and mocking. I could tear out his throat for it. At least she had fought free. Perhaps he would think twice before threatening a woman again; but I doubted it. It seemed to be his greatest pleasure in life.

I sealed the letter and called up to Sam to collect it. By the time I was done, Alice had filled the tub by the fire with steaming water, adding a few splashes of milk to soften it. ‘Thank you, Alice,’ I said, but she’d fled before I’d even loosened my cravat. It amused me for a moment, until I remembered what her last master had forced her to do.

I eased myself into the water and gave a soft moan of relief. My body ached from head to foot: my shoulders still stiff from Gonson’s chains, the bump on my head throbbing softly. I lay dozing in the water until it turned cool, then soaked the last of the filth from my skin. I would have scrubbed the entire night from my bones if I could.

After a hasty shave I reached for Samuel Fleet’s old banyan. Kitty had liberated the old red dressing gown from the Marshalsea, along with Fleet’s indecipherable papers and the poesy ring, which she wore always on a chain about her neck. The banyan had been too large for him; he’d had to wear the sleeves rolled. I didn’t have the heart to turn them back down to my wrists.

I built a pipe and trailed to the window, shivering in the cool air. Stephen Burden was walking up towards his home in his father’s suit, a sword dangling about his legs and tripping his ankles. No one had taught him to fix it well; it needed tightening. I thought of my own sword, lost on the river. I must buy a new one.

Once Stephen was inside I opened the window and called to the street boys watching the house. One hung back, still afraid, but his bolder brother ran through the dusty road and gazed up at me.

‘Did he take anything from the house?’

The boy shook his head. Chewed his lip. ‘D’you kill Mr Burden, sir?’

‘No.’

He shrugged, persuaded. I reached in my banyan pocket and threw down a penny. He caught it neatly and hurried back to his companion. A moment later the younger boy hastened over.

‘Sir! I don’t think you stabbed him neither.’

I rolled my eyes and threw down another penny for his cheek. All I needed was another six hundred thousand pennies and I could buy the rest of the town. I poured myself a glass of wine. There was nothing to be done now except think, and wait for Gonson to send an order for the house to be searched. He did not appear to be in a great hurry to help.

I heard footsteps and smiled. Kitty. She moved up behind me and tucked her chin on my shoulder.

‘Alice is cleaning the cellar. She says we need rat traps. Or a cat.’

‘We could have died last night.’

She stole my pipe and took a long draw. ‘I think I should speak with Judith, Tom. Alone. You are too soft-hearted when it comes to ladies in distress. Remember poor Mrs Roberts?’

I snatched back the pipe. ‘I am perfectly able to see past a woman’s trickery.’

‘Of course you are,’ she conceded, nuzzling the back of my neck. ‘But there’s no harm in my having a little try…’ She trailed her hand beneath my shirt. ‘Do you not think?’

‘I suppose not,’ I said, closing my eyes as her hand moved lower.

An hour later, Gonson’s man, Crowder, arrived with the order to search Burden’s house. I caught him leering at Kitty and had to will myself to uncurl my fists. After Howard’s attack on the river, any glance, any perceived insult, was enough to heat my blood.

Ned opened the door. He read the order several times over, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Mr Gonson wishes the family to know, this was not his choice,’ Crowder said slyly. ‘The gentleman has friends.’

Ned gave me a sour look. ‘Pray tell Mr Gonson he may send a dozen constables,’ he said, raising his voice so the whole street might hear. ‘We are innocent.’

I pushed my way past, losing patience. ‘We will begin with your workshop, Ned. And Miss Sparks wishes to speak with Miss Burden. Pray call her down.’

‘No, for pity’s sake!’ Ned cried in dismay. ‘She is still sick with grief.’

Kitty squeezed past him, her gown brushing against the wall with a soft rustle. ‘And so Mr Hawkins should hang, Ned? To spare Miss Burden’s nerves?’

‘Wait!’ Ned called, his hands spread wide in appeal. ‘Wait, Miss Sparks, I beg of you. I will send for her.’

It transpired that Judith was still abed and needed time to dress, so Kitty helped search the workshop. We opened cupboards, hunted beneath loose floorboards, tipped back furniture. All we found was a bloodstained bandage that had slipped behind a cabinet, but it was coated with dust and had clearly lain undisturbed for months. Given Ned’s battered hands, the blood could have come from any number of old injuries.

Ned seemed eager to join in the search, helping Crowder to move back the heavier furniture, and holding a lantern up to inspect the darker corners. I was surprised by this at first, until I noticed that he was most interested in the walls connecting the house with the Cocked Pistol.

‘He’s looking for a passageway,’ Kitty murmured, as Ned tapped the brickwork.

I nodded, anxious. Watching Ned rap his knuckles against the plaster, testing for hollow spots, I had to fight to seem unconcerned. It had taken Alice a week to find the hidden passage in the attic, but she could only search in secret, in stolen moments. Ned might spend all day hunting if he wished. If he discovered the door in the armoire, I was lost. My only defence rested upon the fact that the house had been barred and locked on the night of the murder.

We searched the parlour next, with no luck. The room was stark and cold, no fire lit in the hearth. The grandfather clock tocked its dull heartbeat. I opened the casing. The pendulum paced slowly back and forth. No time. No time. No time.

Kitty put a hand on my slumped shoulder. ‘We’ll find something.’

Crowder snorted.

The door opened and Judith entered with Mrs Jenkins, her black-gloved hands crossed solemnly in front of her. She was dressed in mourning clothes – a black crêpe mantua with a long train that picked up clumps of grey dust as it trailed along the floor. Her dark hair was swept into a tight bun. It made her face seem sharp and much older. A black lace shawl covered her head and fell across her shoulders to her waist, where it was pinned with an ebony brooch. The gown and the shawl were of an antique style not worn in years – she must have found them in her mother’s armoire. It was an unsettling thought, Judith searching through all those old gowns, so close to the hidden door.

Judith’s appearance was so eccentric that even Crowder seemed baffled, bowing to her as if she were some old dowager duchess and not an attractive young woman. She ignored him, her grey eyes fixed on Kitty.

‘Miss Sparks. You wished to speak with me.’ The wandering, dreamy voice she had used upon me had vanished. She was clipped, imperious.

Kitty stiffened, but held her temper. ‘Indeed, Miss Burden. Alone.’

‘Impossible!’ Mrs Jenkins cried. ‘Poor Miss Burden, as if she is not weighed down enough with grief and sorrow. It is not to be endured-’

‘-Oh you must stay, Mrs Jenkins,’ Kitty interrupted. ‘I insist. I meant only that the gentlemen must leave us in peace. We must be allowed to speak freely. As women.’ She gave a delicate cough that she must have learned at the theatre.

Mrs Jenkins bit back a smile of pure joy. She patted Burden’s chair – the only comfortable seat in the room. ‘Well, then. Come Judith, you must sit here. I insist. I shall be quite content on that charming… stool.’

‘This has always been my seat,’ Judith said, sitting straight-backed upon the wooden stool furthest from the fire. She gestured to Burden’s chair. ‘That was my father’s chair. I could not bear to sit on it.’

Mrs Jenkins gave the chair a nervous glance, as if Burden’s ghost might be sprawled there. Comfort won out. She settled herself down, fanning her skirts as Kitty pushed the men from the room.

We stood outside the firmly closed door, excluded.

‘What could Judith have to say in private?’ Ned asked, mystified.

Laughter drifted from the drawing room. ‘Oh, my dear!’ Mrs Jenkins chuckled. ‘Well, we cannot blame you for that!’ The three women burst into fits of giggles.

Ned flushed. They were speaking of him, of course.

‘They’re all whores beneath their frilly gowns,’ Crowder sneered.

Ned curled his fist. I put a restraining hand on his arm. Let it be. ‘We’ll leave you to your work, Ned.’

The kitchen brought no fresh clues. It was not as full-stocked as I would have expected, but that might simply be an indication of Burden’s puritanical mania. The Society for the Reformation of Manners had a good deal to say about rich food and hard liquor. No doubt it also had a good deal to say about fucking your housekeeper against her will. Perhaps he hadn’t attended that meeting.

Beyond the kitchen lay a backyard, rather desolate. The yards on this side of Russell Street faced due north and rarely caught the sun. Burden’s yard was neat and well-tended, with winter herbs growing in pots and a small plot raked out for vegetables. I remembered something Kitty had told me when I had first moved in to the Cocked Pistol. She had been describing the peculiar family next door and how rarely she had seen the daughter out in the neighbourhood.

‘She comes out into the yard each day for an hour to tend the garden. Always the same time each morning. I think it’s the only time her father allows her out, save for church. Can you imagine, Tom? I could not stand it.’

Nor I. I stepped back so I might see the house better. Judith’s room lay at the back. One hour a day. I’d had more freedom in gaol. Eighteen years looking down upon the same view, the same little plot.

Crowder stood on the yard step, spat in the soil. ‘Nothing here.’

I pointed towards the privy in the corner. The stench leaked out across the yard – there had been no one to tend to it since Alice had left.

Crowder’s lips puckered. ‘I’m not searching in there. I’ll catch the plague.’

We argued for a time until at last I agreed to pay him a couple of shillings. He searched with such ill grace I was tempted to kick him in. But there was nothing to find – not in the corners, nor in the hole. He picked up an old plank of wood and pushed it into the filth below. It slopped and sucked against the wood, releasing an even thicker stench. As he pulled it back out there was a sharp squeal and a fat rat leaped from the hole.

I jumped back as Crowder raised the plank and dashed it hard over the rat’s body, knocking it senseless. He drew out a knife before it could recover and skewered it in the neck. The rat screamed and writhed under the blade as its blood squirted up Crowder’s sleeve. Crowder twisted the blade, gouging a hole until the rat’s head was half-severed from its body. At last, it lay still.

I staggered away, light-headed. The rat, the blood, the stench. I put my hand against the wall and bent double, heaving out a mouthful of acid bile.

Crowder found this hilarious. He kicked the dead rat back into the privy hole where it landed with a soft splat. I took a deep, steadying breath and stood up straight.

Ned was watching from the yard step. He looked puzzled.

‘The blood,’ I explained, pleased he had witnessed this. Perhaps now he would not be so ready to believe I could murder his father in such a brutal fashion.

I paid Crowder his fee and sent him off to the Turk’s Tavern. I had no further need of him. I would search the rest of the house alone.

In the drawing room the women were still talking. Ned waited outside, pacing. ‘I cannot make you out, Mr Hawkins. My father said you were a wicked devil. And yet… I cannot tell.’

Glints of gold thread in the mud. Quite a concession. Ned had been raised to believe in absolutes. Weak or strong. Friend or foe. Pious or damned. That a man could be half a rogue was an uncomfortable discovery.

The voices in the drawing room had grown louder of a sudden – and sharp with it. There was a shout, followed by the sound of crockery smashing to the floor. Mrs Jenkins gave a cry of dismay. ‘Miss Burden!’she scolded.

Judith ran from the room, her face contorted with misery.

‘Judith…?’ Ned asked, astonished. He reached to take her arm.

‘Do not touch me,’ she cried, dragging herself free. ‘Don’t… don’t…’ She broke into a sob, covering her mouth with a black-gloved hand as she stumbled up the stairs.

Mrs Jenkins clutched the door frame. She looked as though she might levitate with excitement. ‘She called Miss Sparks a-’ She stopped herself. ‘Well. I am almost dead with shock.’ She ran upstairs after Judith, thrilled.

Kitty swished her gown through the door with a triumphant smirk.

‘What have you done?’ Ned cried. ‘What did you say to her?’

‘I told her you once groped me, in the shop.’ Kitty flexed her fingers, and grinned.

Ned was aghast. ‘I did no such thing.’

‘Of course not. I’d chop your hand off. I was curious to see how she would react.’

‘That was cruel of you – tormenting a young lady in mourning.’

‘In mourning? Celebrating, I should say. Why would she mourn the man who kept her prisoner for eighteen years? Who wouldn’t let her marry her beloved Ned Weaver?’

Ned stared at her, horrified. ‘Did you… you did not tell her… that I am…’

Kitty stepped closer. ‘Her brother?’ she whispered, holding his gaze for a long, dangerous moment. Then she drew back. ‘No, I held my tongue. For now. Was that not kind of me? Are you not most grateful that I kept your secret?’

‘It would kill her,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sure of it. Felblade says she is unbalanced. Her humours… We must be kind, Miss Sparks. It is only a passing attachment.’

‘She’s in love with you, Ned. She is sure you will marry her, now her father is dead.’

An unhappy silence settled in the hallway. This was where we had seen Judith collapse upon the stairs, after she had seen Alice in her father’s bed. Whatever she had said in that moment, Burden had struck her for it. Struck the words from her mouth.

Ned shook his head. ‘Miss Burden would never hurt her father. I will not believe it.’

He walked away, back to the sanctuary of his workshop.

‘It was Judith,’ Kitty said as we headed upstairs to find Stephen. ‘I’m sure of it. That temper.’

‘It’s not proof, Kitty.’

When we reached the landing, she paused to loosen the ribbons across her stomacher. She untied the handkerchief covering her chest and released a few stray locks from her cap. ‘How do I look?’

I stared longingly down her gown.

‘Perfect,’ she grinned. ‘I shall have Stephen spilling his secrets in a heartbeat.’

‘He’ll spill something.’

But Stephen’s room was empty. His bed had been stripped, his closet was bare. I pulled back the furniture to search for any hiding places or discarded clothes, but found nothing save for a miniature, lying in the middle of the floor, of his sister as a young girl. The surface was cracked and the frame bent. It looked as though Stephen had deliberately crushed it under his shoe.

The mystery of Stephen’s disappearance was quickly solved: he had moved into his father’s room. We found him slumped in a chair by the fire, dressed in a loose chemise and velvet breeches, a pipe dangling from his fingers. Strange, that he should move so swiftly to the room where his father had been brutally killed. The floor by the bed was still stained with blood.

Stephen barely stirred as we entered. Drunk, I realised – and my thoughts flew to Henry Howard, Henrietta’s son. Another boy pretending to be a man, pretending to be his father. Stephen had struck his sister yesterday. From rage? Grief? Or the desire to fill his father’s boots?

Kitty knelt by his bare feet, offering him a generous view of her chest. He blinked and rallied a little.

‘I am sorry about your father,’ she breathed, touching his hand.

He swayed in his seat and brought his pipe to his lips. Missed, and poked his nose. Once he’d found his mouth he took a tentative draw. Coughed out the smoke, eyes watering.

Kitty attempted a few questions, but the boy was fuddled with drink – and grief, perhaps. Let us be generous. I searched through all the garments I could find – Burden’s rough work wear and sober suits, Stephen’s fine-tailored clothes. It must have cost Burden a great deal of money to send his son to school and dress him as a gentleman. And yet at the end of his life he seemed to have regretted the decision.

What a strange and sombre household. There had been so much at work beneath the surface that it was a struggle to make sense of it. That is true of all families, I suppose, but this one was… peculiar, as Kitty said. Three children, all now orphans, and yet they seemed locked in their own private gaols, barely conscious of each other’s presence. Judith trapped behind her veil, muted by Felblade’s opium. Stephen stupefied with brandy. And Ned in his workshop, brooding. Each wondering if the other were guilty. One of them knowing the truth.

This was how Burden had raised his children – isolated from the world, breathing in a noxious atmosphere of threat and mistrust. Who did they have, save for Mrs Jenkins? No family that I could tell. Where was their lawyer? Where were their friends from church, their uncles and aunts? They had no one but each other – and yet they had rejected even this small comfort. Each one a fortress, guarded and alone.

Stephen was burbling about his plans to leave Russell Street. It was not suitable, not fashionable. This eastern side – filled with lower sorts, disgusting. One must move west, west, west. He would hire Ned to build a grand new house on Grosvenor Square. I am not my father, Miss Sparks. Scrimping old fool. Wouldn’t spend a farthing and see how he’s rewarded. Dead at three and forty. I will have new clothes, new furniture, new everything. I want nothing of this place. Nothing. Let them tear it down. Burn it to the ground for all I care. Burn it all.

He began to weep.

‘And your sister?’ Kitty asked softly. ‘She approves this plan?’

‘Damn my sister. Damn her!’ Flecks of spit showered from his lips. ‘What do I care of Judith? She may starve in the street if she wishes. Or… let her marry Ned Weaver and ruin herself.’

Kitty rose to her feet, brushing dust from her gown. ‘Well, I’m sure your father would have approved.’ She smiled down at Stephen. ‘He was most fond of Ned, I hear.’

Stephen gave what he hoped was a scornful laugh, but it came out shrill and piping. ‘My father had promised to throw Ned out on to the street. Why does he stay here? I shall send him away.’

Kitty tightened the ribbons on her gown, tucked the lock of hair back beneath her cap. ‘But your father loved Ned, did he not? Much more than he loved you?’

‘No!’ Stephen cried. He leaped from his chair with his fist raised, but he was too drunk. He swung wide and slipped, crashing to the ground. ‘No…’ he sobbed. ‘It’s not true. It’s not true.’ He clutched the bottom of her gown.

Kitty pulled away and left the room. Stephen curled himself into a ball, tears streaming down his face. It was the drink in part, turning him maudlin. But there was grief, too. Kitty’s talk had struck his heart. I looked down at him, wondering what words of comfort I could give. ‘Your father loved you, Stephen.’

He glared up at me. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he snarled, hating my pity. ‘Get out! Get out of my house!’

Kitty waited for me on the landing, tucking her handkerchief back over her chest.

‘That was ill-done, Kitty.’

‘I wrung some truth from him, didn’t I? You could hang for this, Tom. If we cannot prove it was Judith or Stephen…’ She lowered her voice. ‘If they find the passage. We can be gentle and honourable if you wish. And you will die.’

We searched the rest of the house for another hour, breaking our nails as we dragged up floorboards and pulled at loose bricks. I found a few spatters of blood on the staircase leading up to the attic, but guessed that these had come from Alice’s flight back to her room after she found Burden’s body.

‘Why did you hire Alice, Kitty?’

We were in the abandoned attic room where Burden stored his wife’s old gowns. I had not seen the armoire in daylight – it was a huge, ugly thing, but it served its purpose. Kitty had thrown the contents to the floor, searching for any bloodstained clothes buried at the back. My God, so close to the hidden door… it made me sweat just to think of it. I was glad Ned had returned to his workshop sanctuary.

Kitty shook out an old gown and held it to the light. ‘I told you. We lost Jenny, and Alice needed somewhere safe to stay.’

Somewhere safe, right under our noses. ‘You’re keeping her prisoner.’

Kitty gave me a sly look. ‘She wants to work for us, Tom. And you must admit it’s rather clever, keeping her close by. And the house has never been so clean.’

Not for the first time, I thanked God Kitty fought on my side. ‘You would sacrifice her, if it came to it? You know she’s innocent.’

‘Do I?’ She rummaged through the rest of the late Mrs Burden’s dresses, black and heavy. The stiff material rustled as it fell to the floor. ‘She appeared in our house in the middle of the night, covered head to foot in blood. I am not saying she’s guilty, Tom. I am only stating the facts. It would be for a jury to decide.’

‘They would damn her in a second.’

‘Then we must discover the real killer.’

Ned, Stephen, or Judith. We had returned to that old conundrum. It must be one of them – and still we had no proof.

We finished the search with nothing. I couldn’t understand it. There should be something – some fragment to help us. We returned home in gloomy silence. Alice had laid out an excellent supper, which I picked at with my head in my hand, feeling sick with fear. I had been so sure of discovering something.

I know now why we failed in our search. It had all been based upon a false assumption.

Ned, Stephen, or Judith. Which was guilty?

The answer? None of them. They were innocent, every one.

Sitting here in my prison cell with the promise of a noose just a few days away, I could curse myself for my mistake. But I have been cursed enough these past weeks. I need all the luck left in the world. So I say nothing – just bow my head and pray.