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 a.r.s.e 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 h.e.l.l and begging G.o.d 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed this eagerly. 'Thank you.'

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

VALENTINE CARRICK 1722.

L. NUNNEY 20yrs G.o.d SPARE MY 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. 'I am sentenced to hang in ten days.'

Tears sparkled in her eyes. She seemed so anxious that I found myself trying to rea.s.sure 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 pa.s.s it on to those who should know the truth.

I took Betty's hand, unable to speak for grat.i.tude. How many nights had she served me my punch and lit my pipe these past two years? Always quiet, always watching, antic.i.p.ating what I needed. A bowl of strong coffee, most days and a kick on the a.r.s.e. 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 G.o.d'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 d.a.m.nation. 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 grat.i.tude. 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l. 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 name onto 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 c.o.c.ked 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 pa.s.sed 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.'