Antonia Hodgson - The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

‘You are guilty , sir!’ Gonson thundered. He shoved his face an inch from mine. ‘Do not think me a fool! Burden was set to testify against you this very morning and now he lies murdered in his bed – at your hand. He was a good man. A brave man.’

‘He was a hypocrite,’ I spat. ‘And a liar.’

Gonson gave a nod and one of his men punched me hard in the gut. I doubled over, knees buckling. The next moment Kitty was at my side, screaming curses at them all. A guard struck her with his fist, dashing her to the floor. I leaped at him, but there were too many of them. They took hold of my arms and legs and pulled me outside into the pouring rain. As I fought to free myself, someone knocked me to the ground with a cuff to the head. By the time I’d come to my senses, my wrists were fixed in iron. The guard captain swaggered closer, pulling a thick riding whip from his belt. He pressed it against my throat. ‘Attack me again,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll flay the skin off your back.’

I held still, eyes cast down as the rain soaked my bare scalp. I had seen men flogged before, heard their screams echoing through the streets. The captain chuckled, pushed the whip harder against my throat until I began to choke. ‘Your slut has more fight in her. I think I’ll pay her a visit while you’re locked up. I like a whore with spirit.’

I had felt anger like this before and had lashed out, my temper flaring before I could stop myself. My first day in gaol I had been mocked by the head turnkey and smashed my fists into his jaw before I could stop to think of the consequences. But I had been a boy then. I had survived torture and gaol fever and betrayal. Now I was a man, and my rage burned as ice, not fire. I lifted my chin. This guard, this ape with his whip was nothing. Nothing. I looked him deep in the eyes. ‘If you touch her, I will kill you.’

The guard’s grin faded.

‘Mr Crowder!’ Gonson called, irritably. He was standing a few paces from us and had not heard his captain’s threats. He pulled his heavy wool cloak close around his shoulders. ‘Enough chatter.’

Crowder and his men dragged me towards Covent Garden. One of them stayed behind to hold Kitty back, but I could hear her shouts and curses all the way down Russell Street. As we reached the piazza, I spied Sam returning from the market. I called out to him as we passed and he ran alongside us, eyes wide with shock.

‘Take Kitty to your father,’ I said as the guards jostled me away. ‘Keep her safe, Sam!’

He nodded and raced off at once.

I felt a moment’s relief. Crowder couldn’t touch Kitty now – not unless he fancied a battle with the most powerful gang in London. He pushed his club deep into my back, pressing me forward.

‘Mr Gonson!’ I called out to the magistrate, striding proudly at the head of the procession. ‘Where is your evidence? Where is your warrant ? You cannot…’

Crowder struck me hard across the back of the head. Pain flashed through my skull and I staggered, half-blinded. The guards dragged me on through the streets. I kept my mouth shut.

‘So, Mr Hawkins – are you ready to confess?’

Gonson paced the cell, hands clasped behind his back. He wore the satisfied air of a man unburdened with doubt; a man who walked in the light, oblivious of his own shadow. He had removed his hat and cloak; I supposed they must be drying by a fire somewhere. Here, in this room, there was no fire. He was warm enough in his frock coat, though his brown wool stockings were damp and spattered with mud. His long, full-bottomed grey wig smelled like wet goat.

Crowder guarded the door, thick arms folded high upon a belly grown fat with ale.

I shifted a little, chains clinking against the wall. I was barefoot and sore, hoisted almost on tiptoes on the ice-cold stone floor. My wrists were raised above my head, iron links fixed to a hook in the ceiling. I had thought when Gonson arrested me I would be slung in the Westminster lock-up, but instead I’d been dragged to a private house in a quiet courtyard. The guards had ripped off my stockings and waistcoat out of spite, and brought me down to the basement. Then they had left me alone for an hour, until my legs were shaking and my arms and shoulders burned. My fingers were numb; when I looked up I could see them blue-white and bloodless.

I had not expected this of Gonson. He was a man of the law. Why bring me here to this private place, except to hide what he was about? This was not lawful. Now he had returned, expecting to find me cowed and terrified, ready to confess.

Did he know what had happened to me in the Marshalsea? Did he look at me and think I was so easily broken? I glared at his smooth, bland face. ‘You have no right to keep me here, sir.’

Gonson paused in his pacing, fiddling with the fraying cuffs of his soil-coloured coat. Unlike most city magistrates, he was proud to say that he was incorruptible, which would explain his drab clothes and the outmoded square toes of his scuffed shoes. Or perhaps he thought good clothes were the devil’s work. ‘My guards have searched your rooms. They found bags packed with clothes and money – enough for a long journey. It is quite clear that your intention was to flee.’

I cursed silently. I’d packed those bags before my visit to the palace last night – and clean forgot them. ‘You have no proof I killed Burden. I thought better of you, Mr Gonson. You have a reputation for being a fair man. This is not lawful-’

‘No, sir!’ Gonson roared. ‘Do not dare lecture me on the law! Do not dare!’ He clenched his gloved fist, and for a second I thought he would strike me. Then he pulled away. ‘I should have listened to Mr Burden, but I refused to act without proof. Now he lies dead – at your hand.’

‘For God’s sake! How do you propose I murdered him? The doors and windows were locked and bolted. It must have been someone in the household, don’t you see? What if one of the children-’

Gonson signalled to Crowder. He strode across the cell and placed his hands upon my shoulders. Then he pressed down hard, wrenching my arms in their sockets. I screamed, and he grinned, pushing so fiercely that I thought my body would be torn apart. I screamed again, the pain ripping through me like fire.

At last, I was released. I sank back against the wall, my body shuddering with the shock. ‘I thought better of you, sir.’ I rasped.

Gonson frowned, stung by the insult. ‘No fault but yours, Hawkins. You force me to use these methods.’ He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out an arrest warrant, my name scratched upon it. Thomas Hawkins, for the charge of murder. Beneath it lay Gonson’s signature. I drew away, as if I might be damned by reading it. No man wishes to see such a thing. This was the arrest the queen had spoken of – the one she had overturned in exchange for my help with Charles Howard.

Gonson folded up the warrant and tucked it away. ‘I had planned to arrest you this morning. I have a witness swears you shot a man last September, in Southwark. Mr Burden had promised to testify. He heard you discuss the murder with your whore.’

‘He lied. They both lied-’

‘Quite enough to bring you to justice at last,’ Gonson said, refusing to hear me. ‘And yet the ink was barely dry upon the warrant when I was summoned to the Marshal’s house. He ordered me to cease my enquiries.’ He paused, lips pressed into a tight, bitter line. ‘He said he had been given no choice. The City Marshal , corrupted and threatened on your behalf, sir. I thought you were merely a foolish, whoring fellow – but I see now that you are a devil. I have examined Burden’s corpse, sir. You butchered the man. Who is it protects you, Hawkins? My Lord Walpole? The king?’ He grimaced at the thought. ‘I doubt your benefactor will feel as generous when he learns how you used your freedom.’ He patted his pocket. ‘I’ll wager this warrant will be granted before the sun sets tonight. And until then you will remain here, safe from the reach of your friends .’