The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

…the Prisoner was brought to the Bar at 9 in the Morning, a very great and extraordinary Audience present; diverse Gentlemen of Distinction and a Crowd of Ladies. The Prisoner pleaded Not Guilty as at his Arraignment.

The Council for the Crown open’d the Indictment; setting forth, That the said Thomas Hawkins, gentleman and former Student of Divinity, being a Person of inhuman and cruel Disposition did Assault and Murder the said Joseph Burden in the Unfortunate Victim’s own bed; and that the Prisoner did Stab him nine times with a great Dagger. And that the Prisoner did wound the said Joseph Burden with a fierce cut to the Heart, plunging the Blade to the very hilt and drawing forth great Geysers of Blood, by which the aforementioned soon died.

The King’s Council proceeded to open, That the Prisoner at the Bar was well known to hold a great Loathing and Hatred of his Neighbour, and had been witnessed upon several occasions threatening to Strike and Murder the Unfortunate Deceas’d.

The Council continued, That the Prisoner had every means of entering his neighbour’s home, which was upon Russell Street, having constructed a Secret and Ingenious Door between the attics, granting him Access whenever he so Wished. And thus the Prisoner had entered into the home of his Unfortunate Victim and murder’d him in an act most callous and cunning.

Following this Brutal Act the Prisoner compounded his crime and with Great Wickedness sought to place Suspicion upon innocent parties: Stephen Burden the son of the Deceas’d, Judith Burden who was his Daughter and Ned Weaver, his apprentice. That thus, despite a childhood bless’d with good Fortune and the best of Educations, the Prisoner shew’d himself to be not only a Cold and Pitiless murderer but also a Coward and a Liar, having no decency or honour.

To prove the Indictment, the Council for the King called several Witnesses.

The first was Judith Burden, daughter of the unfortunate deceas’d, who swore that Hawkins had threatened her Father upon several occasions. She depos’d that she had discovered the body of Joseph Burden on the morning of the 12th of January.

Being asked by the King’s Council, Was he dead? She reply’d Aye, Aye and with a Knife in his Heart. At this she broke down. The Court call’d for a Cordial to ease her Nerves. When she was recover’d the King’s Council asked, And what thoughts came to you when you saw your Father dead? And the witness reply’d that she thought Mr Hawkins had murder’d him, as he had promis’d. At which she broke down again.

The Prisoner at the Bar ask’d permission to question the Witness but the Court deemed that she was too much Distress’d, and that the Prisoner had question’d her close enough when he was at Liberty, to no avail. This Answer drew great Approval from the Audience gathered.

Stephen Burden, son of the Deceas’d, deposed that he heard the Prisoner threaten his Father on diverse occasions. That his Father held the strong conviction that Hawkins was a Violent and Dangerous man who frequent’d Brothels and Gaming Houses and consort’d with base Company, and that he was most Vex’d by his arrival in the neighbourhood. Being asked if his Father was afraid of the Prisoner, the Witness replied that he was, mortally afraid.

Hawkins asked the Witness if he had ever seen him strike his father, or shew any violence towards him. The Witness conceded he had not.

Hawkins. And did your Father not strike you often, and your sister?

The Witness did not answer. When prompt’d by the Court he replied, Aye, but only for my Instruction and I am glad of it now.

Ned Weaver, a Carpenter and Apprentice to the Deceas’d, confirmed that the Body was discover’d by Judith Burden. He testify’d that the Prisoner had threaten’d his Master, but added that he was not himself, having taken a great deal of Liquor. He describ’d the Secret Passage between the Houses and agreed that the Prisoner had both the Wit and the Opportunity to kill Joseph Burden. The Witness added he did not believe there was ample Proof, nor did he believe it was in the Prisoner’s Nature to Commit such a Foul deed. The Court interject’d that this was for the Jury to decide, and asked the Witness to step down.

The King’s Council then call’d upon Diverse members of the Neighbourhood, including Hannah Jenkins, a Baker’s Wife, Everett Felblade, an Apothecary and Joshua Purchase, aGamester. All testified that the Prisoner had threatened great Violence against the Deceas’d and that there was the strongest Animosity between them. Purchase deposed that the Prisoner was well known about the Town as a Rake and a Gambler, who consort’d with lewd women and common Whores.

Hawkins asked if the Witness were not describing himself and half the Town with it, which drew much Laughter from the lower sorts in the Gallery. The Court called for Order.

Felblade, ask’d if he agreed with his Neighbour’s testimony, said that in his Opinion all men were capable of Murder and Mr Hawkins no more than most.

Mrs Jenkins testify’d that after the Murder the Prisoner had impos’d himself upon the Family, Interrogating them in a Cold and Arrogant fashion. The Prisoner also insisted upon searching the House in a most Unseemly manner, causing great Distress to the poor Children of the Deceas’d. The King’s Council asked, Did the Prisoner Discover anything of Note to aid his Investigation?

Mrs Jenkins. He did not, Sir. And I hope he is Asham’d of his Wickedness.

The next Witness called was Mr Gonson, Magistrate for the Borough of Westminster and member of the Society for the Reformation of Manners. He testify’d in clear and well-documented terms how he had come to suspect the Prisoner and had indeed Detain’d him and question’d him closely upon the Matter.

Hawkins interjected, asking the Witness if he had not arrested him without just cause and subsequently order’d him chained to a wall and left for many Hours without food or water. The Witness replied that this was Regrettable but that the Prisoner had resisted his Arrest.

Hawkins. And for that I should be tortur’d and left to die of Thirst? To which the Witness acknowledg’d that he should have provided Water, but that the Circumstances had been of such an Extraordinary Nature he hoped the Court would forgive this brief lapse in Duty.

Hawkins. Pray tell me, Sir, upon God’s oath, is the Evidence for this Case enough to Judge me?

Gonson. I believe that you are Guilty, sir.

Hawkins. It is not a question of Belief, sir. Is the Evidence sound?

After a long pause, the Witness answer’d that in his View, it could not perhaps be termed sound in its entirety. He added that the Prisoner had the Cunning and the Ability to make himself appear Innocent, when the World knew he was Guilty. He Describ’d to the Court how the Prisoner had defy’d the Law, escaping his just Imprisonment by calling upon powerful Friends.

Hawkins. If I have such Friends, why do I stand here Today?

Gonson. Perhaps they have Forsaken you, sir.

The Witness added that the Prisoner had been given Opportunity and Good Fortune and chosen to Squander these gifts. That he was a Man of diverse good parts and that his Disgrace was all the more Shocking for it. He suggest’d that the Prisoner was a stern Lesson for all young Men attract’d to a life of Dissipation and Sin. He counsell’d Hawkins to look upon this Trial as preparation for the Greater Trial he must face in the next life, or else risk Damnation. He urged the Prisoner to Confess and Repent and throw himself upon God’s infinite Mercy.

The Prisoner stated once more that he was Innocent, and that it was not his Soul nor his Nature that was on trial. That he must be Judged upon the Evidence alone and that, as a man of the Law, the Witness had himself agreed there was no Case to Answer.

Gonson observed that the Prisoner shewed more Industry and Wit in Court than he had in life, and lamented a Life wasted in Gambling, Drinking and Carnal Pleasure.

The Prisoner reply’d with a pert Remark, which the Court struck from the Records.

The Council for the King then called Alice Dunn, a maid in the house of the Deceas’d at the time of the Murder. She confirmed that Judith Burden discovered the Body, but seemed most Agitated and Reluctant to answer the Questions put to her by the King’s Council, which led to a severe Reprimand from the Court. Thus Chasten’d she confessed that the Prisoner knew of the Passage between the houses.

King’s Council. Is it true you have since left the Household to act as servant for the Prisoner at the Bar?

Alice Dunn. Sir, I was hired by Mistress Sparks, who has treated me with great Kindness.

King’s Council. Is it not the Case that you Seduc’d your old Master? Was not that the reason Miss Burden ask’d you to leave the household?

Alice Dunn. Sir, my Reputation-

King’s Council. -The Witness will answer the Question.

The Prisoner at the Bar interjected, asking what Relevance this was, and that the Witness was not on Trial. He appealed to the Court that he had no wish for a Respectable young woman to be abus’d on his Account. After some Deliberation the Court order’d Alice Dunn to step down and the King’s Council called its final Witness, Catherine Sparks.

Being ask’d how she came to know the Prisoner, the Witness reply’d, We met in the Marshalsea gaol.

King’s Council. And you now live under the same Roof, at great Risk to your Reputation?

The Witness reply’d that it was her own house and that she might invite whoever she pleased to live in it with her.

King’s Council. Do you share your Bed with the Prisoner at the Bar?

Cath. Sparks. That is no Business of yours, sir.

King’s Council. It is well known about the Neighbourhood that you are a Notorious whore.

Cath. Sparks. If it is well known, why do you ask?

King’s Council. The Witness will-

Cath. Sparks. -It is well known that the King’s Council visits the [comment struck from the Record] three times a Week and likes to [comment struck from the Record] while being [comment struck from the Record].

The Court called for Order.

The King’s Council moved that the Witness Catherine Sparks be arrested following the Trial and Whipped for her Insolence.

The Witness observed that the King’s Council was most Preoccupied with Flogging and [comment struck from the Record].

The Court ask’d the Witness if she were a Relative of Nathaniel Sparks, the celebrated Physician.

Cath. Sparks. He was my Father, sir.

The Court noted that he was a man of Honour and that it was a great Calamity to see his Daughter in such a Grave and Lamentable situation.

The Witness thanked the Court but declar’d that she was quite Content with her Life, save for her current Woes. She spoke at length of the Prisoner’s Kind and Gentle acts towards her and diverse Others and swore that he was Innocent. She insist’d that the Prisoner was not capable of such a Bloody deed and that on the Night of the Murder he was in her Company at all times and Cou’d not have Done it.

The Prisoner interjected, reminding the Witness that she was speaking upon Oath and must not Perjure herself on his Behalf.

The Witness answer’d with great Vehemence that she was right Glad that the Prisoner troubled himself to Speak to her and was it not a Shame that he had not reply’d to her letters, and had refus’d to Meet with her despite her Many and Various requests to do so, giving no Consideration to her own Feelings upon the Matter, and moreover was it not a Folly that it took a Trial at the Old Bailey before he would speak two words to her and only then to Accuse her of Lying and so make further Trouble for them Both, and that she call’d upon the whole Court to Witness that the Prisoner had thus shew’d himself to be a Witless Fool and had indeed no Capacity for Murder not only because he had, she must concede, a Good Heart, but also a Muddled Head, to a Degree that was Vexing beyond all Measure, and it was truly a wonder he had surviv’d this long, and a marvel indeed that she yet cared a great deal for him – God help her – and begged that the Jury would Judge the case by its facts and not by the Prisoner’s Behaviour, which was Perplexing and Infuriating in equal Parts. And she ask’d the said Prisoner if he had turn’d mad, and should be locked in Bedlam instead of Newgate, and did he not see that her Heart was Broken? At which point she Wept most Piteously, and the Prisoner seem’d much affected, though he did not Reply.

The King’s Council, who had failed to Interrupt this testimony at Several Junctures, took this opportunity to dismiss the Witness, who was led away by Alice Dunn.

The Court observ’d that it was a great Pity to see such a spirited young woman ruined by a Black-Hearted villain, and that here was Instruction for any foolish Strumpet who had fallen into evil company. The Court then spoke thus:

Prisoner, you hear the Charge and Evidence against you; now you stand up on your Defence.

Prisoner. My Lord: notwithstanding what has been sworn against me, I am Innocent. I confess I did threaten the deceas’d but this was done in a moment of ill humour and under much provocation and also Liquor. The deceas’d had spread Vile lies about the Town and had threaten’d to Destroy me. I am Guilty of speaking Violence, my Lord, but not of committing it. Indeed I have an abhorrence of Violence. I could no more stab a man than plunge the Blade into my own Heart.

My Lord, the King’s Council has offer’d no proof that I committed the Act, only Rumour and Conjecture. I swear upon my Soul that I am Not Guilty and beg that the Jury considers the Facts and does not Judge me upon my Character, for I own that I have not always Behav’d with Good Judgement, and should I be spared will Strive to be a better Man, God help me.

The Court asked if the Prisoner still believed the Murder was committed by one of the children of the Deceas’d, or by Ned Weaver, his Apprentice?

The Prisoner reply’d that he did not. He acknowledg’d that in his Desire to prove his Innocence he had caused Distress, and express’d his Apologies to the family. He added that it was his belief that a House breaker had stolen in and disturb’d the Victim, and so murder’d him in cold blood.

Council for the King. And how does the Prisoner account for the Doors and Windows being barred and lock’d?

Hawkins. I cannot account for it, sir. I am at a loss. But I swear I am Innocent.

The Court asked if the Prisoner wished to call upon any witnesses to speak in his defence?

Hawkins. I regret that I have no witnesses to call, my Lord.

The Court observed that a Man with no Friends or Family to speak for him at such an Hour was a pitiable Wretch indeed and the Jury should consider this Fact when they came to Deliberate: that the Prisoner could not find one Soul in the whole Kingdom to speak for him.

And here the Prisoner rested his Defence.

The Court then proceeded to sum up the Evidence to the Jury with great Discernment and Observation. The Guilt or Innocence of the Prisoner was left to the Jury’s Determination, who did not leave the Court but agreed after a brief time upon their Verdict, finding Thomas Hawkins Guilty of Murder; and the Verdict was so Recorded.

FINIS

Chapter Twenty-One

The jury found me guilty. Twelve gentlemen, who cared so little for my defence that they did not even deign to leave the courtroom to deliberate. A hurried discussion, curt nods, and it was done. I have sat with friends and agreed supper plans with more care and scrutiny.

Friends. The judge had spoken the truth – what good was a man with no one to speak for him when his life hung in the balance? I had spied a few of my old companions in the crowds, watching me fight as if it were a game of skittles. No doubt they would be placing bets on how soon I would hang. These were the men I had called friends these past few years. Not one had spoken for me.

The guards led me through the courthouse, men jeering at my back. I barely heard them, barely noticed as I was taken deeper into the gaol, back to my cell with its thick stone walls and tiny window. I thought of Kitty, weeping as she left the court, her head buried on Alice’s shoulder. I saw Fleet nod his approval as I was dragged away, our business concluded. And I thought of Charles Howard, smirking with satisfaction. Fleet and Howard… These are the men who prosper in our age.

I collapsed to the floor, dazed with shock. I had prepared for this moment and still it knocked me reeling. Guilty. Condemned for ever as a murderer. My heart felt like a brick lodged in my chest.

I sat unmoving as the day faded and the shadows lengthened. A cold wind blew through the window so I dragged the blanket from the bed and wrapped it about my shoulders, but it was thin and offered little comfort. At some point a voice asked if I wished for supper, but I could not bear the thought of food, not tonight. I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand, exhausted beyond all measure but unable to sleep.

My thoughts returned to Kitty, dressed in her emerald gown, her face drawn. She had seemed thinner too, her cheekbones sharp where before they had been soft and plump. She had stared at me, hoping to see beyond the mask of indifference I wore. I had forced myself to stare back, eyes cool, my true feelings buried far beyond reach.

I reached for them now, though. I clung to them in the dark. They were all I had left.

The next day I had a visitor – and she brought hope at last.

Betty appeared at my cell late in the evening, her face hidden beneath a dark riding hood. She must have bribed the turnkey on duty for his silence. He reached to grope her arse as she slipped through the door but his fingers grabbed thin air. Betty had worked at Moll’s for two years – she knew how to avoid a man’s grasp and make it appear an accident. That, indeed, was Betty’s great skill – twisting and turning and dancing out of harm’s way, without ever causing offence or bringing attention down upon her head.

The door clanged shut and we were alone. She lowered her hood but wrapped her cloak tightly about her. The air was cold and dank even in this gentlemen’s part of the gaol. She took in the limits of my cramped cell, and my ragged appearance, eyes ringed with shadow from another sleepless night. The man in the next cell had been raving all night in some feverish delirium, screaming that he was in hell and begging God to spare him. Then he was quiet. I had lain in the dark with no candle, the silence heavy and oppressive. It was so black and still that I conceived a strange fear that I was already dead and trapped inside my coffin. When dawn came, I felt a moment’s relief to know I was alive, before I remembered where I was.

Betty lowered the heavy basket she had brought with her and began to unpack it. Bread and cheese, a bottle of claret. Candles. Paper, quills and ink. A few books. A thick blanket. I snatched this eagerly. ‘Thank you.’

She winced and looked away, embarrassed to see me so desperate, but there was nowhere to rest her gaze. A narrow cell, a bed, a table and chair. Names scraped into the thick stone wall by other wretched souls.

VALENTINE CARRICK 1722

L. NUNNEY 20yrs GOD SPAREMY SOUL

ABRAHAM DEVAL – INNOCENT

All hanged.

I looked at Betty and she looked at me, just as we had done the night we’d first met. We had laughed at each other across that crowded room. Now we stood in an empty cell, in silence.

Betty worked long hours at Moll’s, but I had never seen her so tired as she was now. Her brown skin was dull and tinged almost grey, as if she had been ill, and her eyes were bloodshot. Had she been crying? For me?

She ran a finger beneath her cap, tidying her curls. ‘I have good news.’

This was unexpected. If the news were good, why did she seem so grave?

‘Mr Budge has spoken with the queen. You will be pardoned.’

It took me a moment to understand that I was saved. Then I gave a cry and dropped to my knees in joy and relief. I could not think or speak. Betty knelt down next to me, peering into my face. ‘Mr Hawkins?’

I clasped her to me, circling my arms about her waist. ‘I will live.’

She let me hold her for a time. ‘There is a cost.’

My heart dipped. She did not need to explain. The queen could ask anything of me now, and I must obey. And still the verdict would remain. Even with the pardon, I would be named a murderer for the rest of my life. I did not care, not then. I wouldn’t hang – and that was all that mattered. ‘I will live, Betty.’

She tilted her head as if to say, in a fashion. She had warned me that this day would come. I had not run when she had begged me to, and now my life was no longer my own. But it was a life. There would be a tomorrow and a tomorrow… And the chance to wriggle out of the queen’s grasp one day.

Betty returned to her basket and laid out a modest supper. She poured us both a glass of claret and we sat down together like an old married couple.

‘When will the pardon come?’

‘I don’t know. Late, I think. Budge said you must be patient.’

I lowered my glass. ‘I am sentenced to hang in ten days.’

Tears sparkled in her eyes. She seemed so anxious that I found myself trying to reassure her, acting in a more confident manner than I felt. I lit a pipe and told her of my plans to write a full confession of all that had happened to me, in the hope that one day it would help to clear my name. She did not ask why I did not speak out now and save myself – Betty did not ask questions when she knew there could be no answers. She promised to find a way to smuggle the journal from my cell when it was done, and to keep it hidden. I trusted her to read it and to understand its secrets – to know when it would be safe to pass it on to those who should know the truth.

I took Betty’s hand, unable to speak for gratitude. How many nights had she served me my punch and lit my pipe these past two years? Always quiet, always watching, anticipating what I needed. A bowl of strong coffee, most days – and a kick on the arse. She had sent me home more times than I could remember, while I protested I was good for one more drink, one more card game, one more throw of the dice. Now here she was when all my friends had abandoned me.

She slipped her hand from mine.

‘Don’t leave,’ I said, and my voice crumbled. ‘Please.’

She hesitated. Shifted closer. It was enough. I gathered her in my arms and held her as if she were a rock in the ocean, the only safe harbour for a thousand miles. Found her lips and kissed her, because I was lost and afraid. Because Kitty was so far beyond reach.

A key rattled in the door. ‘Gate’s closing,’ the turnkey hissed.

Betty took my arm, whispered in my ear. ‘If you find another way to escape, take it.’

I nodded, though we both knew the pardon was my only hope.

She raised her hood, masking her face from the turnkey. Her eyes were soft and sad. ‘Fare well, Tom.’

I gave a low bow; lower than I would have given the queen. By the time I looked up, she was gone.

Tom. Only now, as I write down Betty’s last words to me, do I notice it. She had never called me by my Christian name before. I was always sir, or Mr Hawkins. We might flirt and tease, but I was never Tom. I stare at my name on the page and I wonder about her visit. Was it truly a kindness? Or something more devious?

Well, Betty – am I right to doubt you? Nine days I have waited for the king’s pardon. Nine sleepless nights. When the waiting became unbearable, I began to write this account as a distraction, from the first moment I heard Alice Dunn scream Thief! until this moment here, remembering that final kiss and the look in your eye when you called me by my name. Fare well.

Now, on the eve of my hanging, you send word at last – Be patient. Always the same message. Will the pardon come on the morrow, as they load me on the cart? Or is this merely a cunning way to keep me quiet until the hangman silences me for ever? Tell me – if I smuggle these pages to you, will you truly keep them safe? Or will you burn them and all the queen’s secrets with them?

I hope, my dear, that you have not betrayed me.

I had planned to end my story here. I have spent so much time writing that I have neglected everything else. My hand is cramped from long hours holding a quill, my fingers stained indigo-black with ink. My past is written, but at the expense of my soul. Three others are set to hang with me tomorrow. While I have sat scribbling in my cell, they have spent long hours praying and begging God’s mercy for their sins. They are ready for their journey.

In vain the Reverend James Guthrie has visited me each day. He is a pompous man, well-pleased with himself. No, that is not just. He has rescued countless souls from damnation. I only wish he did not brag about it quite so much.

It is Guthrie’s duty to write an account of every prisoner hanged at Tyburn. He recounts their short, squalid lives with gleeful disapproval, then casts himself as their saviour. By the time they reach the gallows they are weeping with gratitude. They rejoice at their redemption, eager to leave this world so that their souls might fly to heaven.

These, at least, are the stories Guthrie likes to tell. There are some obstinate sinners who refuse to play his game. They repent in private or not at all – drinking and whoring their way through their final days. He does not like these stories so well, but he can still bend them to his use. Examples of the witless fools who will burn in hell for their ignorance and obstinacy.

But what is he to do with a man such as me? A man who refuses to confess? Who protests his innocence, even as he is led to the gallows? There can be no repentance without guilt. No salvation without guilt. Instead there is only doubt, thin but persistent. What if we are wrong? What if we are hanging an innocent man?

There are no lessons to be learned from such a story. At least, not the sort of lesson the Reverend James Guthrie wishes to teach.

Guthrie visits my cell not to offer comfort, but to seek resolution. And every day I disappoint him. He tells me I am bound for hell. I correct his quotations from the Bible. He reminds me that Pride is the greatest of all sins, and leaves.

What will he write of me, I wonder?

This afternoon I summoned John Eliot and directed him to write my will. I do not have a great deal of capital – ten pounds at most. It should be enough.

When I named the beneficiary of my meagre fortune, Eliot raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘How will I find the boy? He’s disappeared.’

‘Aye. He’s good at that. He’ll magick himself back once I’m gone.’

Eliot scratched the nameonto the paper with a reluctant hand. Sam Fleet of St Giles, nr Phoenix Street.

Sam has not quite disappeared. I know this because he came to visit me this morning.

I was sitting alone on a bench in the press yard. I had paid Mr Rewse a bribe so that I might have some time to myself in the open air. I think he did it out of kindness as much as profit. Since my conviction, Rewse had allowed dozens of curious souls to tramp past my cell. They’d peered in through the grate, eager to see the gentleman as beast, trapped in his cage. They gossiped about me as if I could not hear or understand them. If I turned away it must be out of shame. If I held their gaze, they swore they saw the devil in my eyes. If I covered my face, or paced about the cell, or stared gloomily at the cold stone floor, then I must be in despair at my guilt, and the wretched state of my soul. Not one of them thought I looked innocent.

Mr Rewse was different. He has met more cut-throat villains than anyone in England. I am no murderer, and he knows it. He also knows the way of the world. He won’t help me, but he is courteous, regretful. When I asked if I might sit in the yard for a while on my own he agreed and sent the turnkey to escort me out just before the dawn. I watched the light spread across the sky and felt the early spring sunshine upon my face. I closed my eyes. A few hawkers were calling their wares on the other side of the wall, but otherwise the city was at peace. And for once I liked it better that way.

‘Your cousin,’ the turnkey said.

I opened my eyes and there was Sam. He looked smaller than I remembered, and younger, more like the link boy who had scampered through the streets than the young man I’d come to know at the Cocked Pistol.

The turnkey strode away, calling over his shoulder. ‘One half-hour.’

I had spent a great deal of time wondering what I would say to Sam should I ever see him again. I had ridden the waves of my feelings like a raft upon the ocean. Anger at his betrayal, naturally. Shame too, that I had let a boy of fourteen fool me for the second time. Most of all, I felt a profound sorrow for us both. I would most likely die for Sam’s crime tomorrow. But he would have to live with it.

He was a boy – a clever, capable boy. Had he been born into a different family I was sure he would not have killed Joseph Burden – nor anyone else for that matter.

I gestured for him to sit, but could think of nothing to say. And so we sat in silence for a long time.

‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said at last. He twisted his body so that he could look hard into my eyes. ‘I am very sorry.’

To my surprise, it was enough. And a whole sentence, indeed – what progress! I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘You still have a choice, Sam. Even now. You do not have to follow your father’s path.’

His shoulder sagged beneath my hand. It must seem impossible – a prison he could never escape.

‘You know, my father wanted me for the Church. I defied him.’

Sam glanced at me, and then up at the walls around us, and the high windows barred with iron.

‘Yes, very well. Perhaps I am not the best example.’

His lips twisted into a half-smile.

I lit a pipe, thinking about Sam and wondering how I might help free him from his father’s murderous grip. My own life was ruined, but there was a chance I could save Sam’s. Wouldn’t that be the greatest revenge upon James Fleet? To turn his only son against him?

‘If you could do anything in the world, Sam – any occupation you wished. What would you choose?’

‘Surgeon,’ he replied, without hesitation.

I was pleased with his answer. It seemed fitting somehow, that he should atone for the life he took by saving others.

‘I’d study the body,’ Sam added, eyes brightening. ‘Every detail. I think it is like… like a wondrous machine. Imagine – a corpse, its parts cut free, laid out and-’

‘-yes, yes,’ I said hurriedly. If I hanged on the morrow, and no one rescued my body from the anatomists, this would be my fate. The very thought left me light-headed. ‘A surgeon. Very good.’

‘Pa would never allow it.’

I smiled to myself. Precisely.

The bells of St Sepulchre sounded across the yard. Sam rose and straightened his jacket, squinting in the sun. ‘Mr Hawkins. Did you do it, sir?’

I frowned at him, confused. He could not mean…

We stared at each other. As the seconds passed and the bells tolled, confusion turned to horrified understanding. No. No. Not possible. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you kill Mr Burden?’

I half rose to my feet, then sat down again, hard. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.

Sam saw my consternation. ‘You think I killed him?’

‘You did not?’

‘No.’ He winced, as if ashamed.

‘You swear, upon your soul?’

‘I swear, sir.’

I lowered my head, trying to think, but all was confusion. How could this be? It made no sense. It wasn’t possible. ‘But your mother told me… your father says you are guilty.’

He bit his lip. ‘I know. I told them I done it.’

I sprang to my feet and he leaped back. My God he was fast when he needed to be. There were ten paces between us before I could reach out and grab him. ‘Why?’ I cried. ‘Why in God’s name would you say such a thing?’

‘I was supposed to kill him. Pa told me I had to. And… I wanted to…’

‘For your mother.’

Tears glimmered in his eyes. ‘And for Pa. He was proud of me, when I told him. And the gang. They respect me now.’

I think if Fleet had walked into the yard at that moment I would have beaten the life out of him. ‘And what – you’re content to see me hang, boy? So you might strut about St Giles?’

‘No, sir!’ he cried. ‘Pa swore you’d be safe. He promised. Said he’d paid you fifty pounds to stand trial. He said he was going to help you escape tonight, that it was all planned. He said you was angry with me. That I mustn’t come here…’

‘That is not the deal we made, Sam. He threatened Kitty’s life.’

He flinched, as if struck.

‘That’s why I stood trial for murder. To keep Kitty safe.’

He covered his face with his hands. ‘No… he wouldn’t. Pa wouldn’t…’ But of course, he would – and Sam knew it. I reached out and he clung to me, weeping in my arms. ‘He lied,’ he sobbed. ‘He lied to me.’

‘This is good news, Sam. You are not a murderer.’

He broke free, wiping his eyes. ‘But it’s my fault you’re here.’

No, it is your father’s, I thought, but he seemed so dejected I held my tongue. I sat back down upon the bench and he joined me, elbows on his knees, head down.

‘If I’d done what I promised. If I’d took the pillow and…’

And smothered a man to death. ‘But Alice was there.’

He nodded, miserable. ‘Tried to practise on Jenny. See how much noise it took to wake a girl. You can get quite close, Mr Hawkins,’ he added conversationally, as if describing the best way to approach a nervous horse. ‘Tried again, but Alice woke. Sleeps light. Screamed the house down.’

There was more he wanted to say; I could see the struggle in him. I waited, letting him find his way through it. ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he confessed at last, in a whisper. ‘I’m glad Alice woke. I’m glad now, that I never killed Mr Burden.’

I squeezed his shoulder.

‘I think she done it,’ he added. ‘Alice.’

I froze. I had not even thought so far. I was still learning to accept the fact that Sam was innocent. But no, please God – not Alice, after all. Not Alice, sleeping under the same roof as Kitty. With her bloodstained gown dismissed as evidence by my own hand.

‘Sir,’ Sam said, tugging at my sleeve. ‘What now?’

What indeed.

‘I must tell Pa-’

‘No! No. Let me think, Sam.’ I shuffled the possibilities in my head. It was too late to accuse Alice. I had told Rewse that the dress was a counterfeit. That Alice’s appearance in our house on the night of the murder was a story, nothing more – told to cast doubt on my own guilt.

And how would I explain this sudden change in my confession, to Rewse, to Guthrie or Gonson – to the world? Ah, yes, sirs – I was led to believe that a young boy called Sam Fleet had murdered Mr Burden, at the request of his parents. I then struck a deal with the boy’s father – who is, by the way, a murderous gang captain – to stand trial for the murder. I was coerced into this agreement by Mr Fleet, who promised to kill the woman I love if I did not comply with his wishes. So you see – I am quite innocent and I trust you will now release me at once, although I have been convicted of murder and am set to be hanged on the morrow.

They would not believe a word of it. It would sound like the desperate ravings of a mad man. I would be mocked and dismissed as a coward and a lunatic. Nothing worse than a man who cannot go to his death with dignity. And could the queen risk sending a pardon under such circumstances? And of course, for my story to make even a hint of sense, I would have to betray Fleet to the authorities. Such a betrayal would bring swift retaliation.

Kitty.

No, there was nothing to be gained from telling the truth – and a great deal to be lost. I must stay silent, at least for now. But it gave me a glimmer of hope, that she would be safe after tomorrow. If I was hanged, the killer would have no reason to feel threatened by Kitty. If the pardon came, the sentence would still be placed upon my name. And as Sam was innocent, Fleet would have no need to fret about what Kitty might say on the matter.

‘You have trapped yourself, sir,’ Sam said, when I had explained it all.

‘I suppose I have.’

‘Love,’ he said, as if it were some exotic disease. ‘Dangerous.’

Yes, indeed. But hopefully not fatal.

From the corner of my eye I saw the turnkey step into the yard. My fellow prisoners edged out through the door, blinking at the sun.

‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered, guiding Sam from the yard. ‘I will not hang tomorrow.’

‘The queen?’

I halted. Was a man allowed no secrets, damn it?

‘The walls are thin at the Pistol.’

‘Aye, especially with your ear to them.’ I cuffed him lightly. I’d only spoken of the queen to Kitty. Alone in our bed. What else had he heard? Little sod.

As we reached the edge of the yard, he hesitated. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir,’ he said, shyly. ‘I think you would have made a good parson.’ He gave a short bow and vanished through the door.

Who killed Joseph Burden? I cannot believe I have reached the end of my story and still cannot fathom the answer. Not Sam, after all. Then who? Those old names I had rejected return to haunt me. Ned Weaver. Stephen Burden. Judith Burden. And Alice Dunn – I suppose I must consider her again. Any one of them could have done it. And every one of them had good cause.

I cannot believe it was Ned. He does not strike me as the sort of fellow who could let another man hang for his crime. He does not strike me as the sort of fellow who would murder a man, either.

Kitty had been certain it was Judith. There was enough anger in her, true enough. But was there enough strength in her to fight her father? To stab him nine times before he could even call for help?

Stephen had the most to gain. With his father dead he thought he would inherit a fortune. And though in truth he had inherited nothing, at least he was free to live as he chose after years of oppression and cruelty.

Then there was Alice. Was this not the simplest explanation? She had stumbled into Sam’s attic room covered in blood and holding a knife in her hand. Burden had raped her, night after night. And yet he had also vowed to marry her, and she had said yes. She would have been mistress of the house. Mistress over Judith.

I have spent the night pacing my cell, turning these thoughts over and over until they have become tangled together in an endless jumble of possibilities. My God, the four of ’em might have done it together for all I know.

I can think on it no more. I can do no more. There is no time left to reflect upon the sins of others. In a few hours they will sling me on a cart and drag me through the streets to Tyburn. I must tend to my own soul.

Even now, on the day of my hanging, I cannot believe that things have come to such a pass. Surely I will wake from this nightmare and find myself at home in the Cocked Pistol, with Kitty beside me. She will roll upon her side and put a hand upon my cheek. And she will say, ‘Be still, Tom. You’re safe. You were only dreaming.’

Then I press my fingers to the thick walls of my cell. I drum my fists against the stone. This is real. This is real and I must prepare myself for the worst. If the king’s pardon does not come, I must be ready.

God forgive me. Father forgive me. My beloved sister Jane: your brother loves you always.

Kitty. If I live, read this and know that I am out in the world somewhere, thinking of you. Maybe you and Sam can discover Burden’s killer together. But keep safe, above all. I fear you should not trust Alice. I fear you should not trust anyone.

And if I should die today, know that my last thoughts were of you. Live well, my love, and remember me.

Hooper, the hangman, climbs down from the gallows and pulls the pipe from his lips. He gestures to Hawkins’ wig. ‘I’ll need to take that now, sir.’ The air chills his bare scalp. Hooper pats his arm, surreptitiously stroking the blue velvet of his coat. These clothes will be his payment, when it is over.

He ties the rope around Hawkins’ neck. The knot presses tight against the back of his neck.

From the cart, Hawkins can see thousands of men and women, stretching out to the horizon. Every eye is turned upon him. The air is hot with sweat and dirt and perfume. The noise is deafening, it rolls over him and thrums beneath his feet. People are singing and shouting. Some are laughing. A few good souls are praying for him. It does not seem real. Even now, some small part of him is sure they will realise their mistake. That they are hanging an innocent man.

‘Confess!’ someone cries.

A cheer rises up to shake the heavens. This is what they want from him. This is the story they demand of Tyburn. Crime. Confession. Repentance. Death. Salvation. They wait, expectant.

The noose is rough about his throat. It chafes his skin as he cries out. ‘I am not guilty!’

Boos. Jeers and catcalls. Mud flung at the cart. Hooper ducks, eyeing the blue velvet tenderly. ‘Better confess, Mr Hawkins. It’s what they want.’

Hawkins sighs. What does it matter now what the crowd wants from him? But then he thinks of them all, a hundred thousand souls laughing and jeering as he dies slowly on the rope. It could take a man a quarter-hour to die. It would be better, he thinks, to be cheered out of this world than cursed from it.

So – it is a confession they demand of him. Very well. He takes a deep breath and begins to speak. ‘My friends. Upon my soul. I confess…’ The crowd screams its approval. He shouts to be heard above it. ‘… I confess that I have lived a wicked life. Immersed in every vice.’

A few groans, but more laughter. A spattering of applause. The court beauties lean forward in their seats.

‘I confess that I am a gambler. I confess that I am over-fond of liquor and low company. I have wasted many nights in taverns and brothels and cannot say that I regret it. I confess that I broke a woman’s heart – and that I do regret, more than anything in this world.’ He swallows hard. The ladies fan themselves. ‘I confess all these things. But I swear upon my soul, I am not guilty of murder.’

A cheer goes up, the loudest of the morning. He has won them over, now at the end, with the rope about his neck. They do not care if he is guilty or innocent. In the face of death, he has conducted himself well, with wit and swagger. This is a good dying. And in the end, that’s all that matters. Beneath him, a few paces from the gallows, he sees the Reverend James Guthrie shaking his head, face tight with disapproval. It is his duty to record the last confessions and dying words of the condemned. He will have to write these words in his own hand.

This is the first cheerful thought Hawkins has had all day. He looks up at the gallery, at the rows of women. My God, all those women. His lips curve slowly in a wolf’s grin. Let them remember that…

And then he sees her. Judith Burden. She is sitting in the middle of the gallery, black-gloved hands in her lap. She holds his gaze. Smiles.

His heart slams into his chest. That dress. That black, widow’s gown.Of course.

‘Wait!’ he cries, but it is too late. Who would believe him now?

‘Courage, sir,’ Hooper murmurs.

The white hood slips over his head, rolls down until it covers his face. He breathes, and the air sucks the cloth against his lips. Courage. Yes. That’s all he has now. That and a few last, precious breaths. Use them well.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Kitty. The fresh, sweet scent of her. Powder-white skin, smooth and soft as silk. Her fingers against his chest, her breath hot and urgent on his throat. A soft cry of pleasure.

He had this, at least, before the end.

The noose tightens about his neck.

God forgive my sins.

Someone pulls the horse forward. He feels the cart move beneath his feet. A moment later his body swings free.

The Ballad of Thomas Hawkins

Tom Hawkins was a parson’s son

With evil in his heart

A deed most wicked he has done

And so he’ll ride the cart.

He stabbed Jo Burden with his blade

The blood is on his hands

A noose old Hooper he has made

The gentleman will hang.

They rode him off to Tyburn’s tree

They led him to his death

They stretched his neck for all to see

He took his final breath.

All rakes and scoundrels, now I pray

You learn this lesson well

A gentleman was hanged this day

And now he burns in hell.