The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins by Antonia Hodgson

myself as her. ‘There is no evidence. Nothing for him to discover.’
    ‘Then you should stay in your fox hole, Mr Hawkins. Let the hounds pass you by. There’ll be someone fresh for them to chase soon enough.’
    It was good advice, as ever. Betty had tried to help me once before, and I hadn’t listened. A few minutes later I had been arrested and thrown in gaol. ‘I just want to be left in peace, Betty.’
    She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. That’s why you’ve been working for James Fleet. ’
    Ah. That was the unfortunate thing about Betty. She really did know everything .
     
    Betty returned to her work while I lit a pipe, thinking about Burden and Gonson, and about Betty’s advice. I supposed it would be wise to leave London for a time. I could visit my father in Suffolk. That would require leaving Kitty alone, which I did not like. Or taking her with me to meet my father, which I did not like still more.
    I had no desire to leave the city. Why the devil should I? Why should I be chased from my home by Joseph Burden? Perhaps I should spread a few rumours about him, the blasted hypocrite. Perhaps I should tell the world that the man who lectured his neighbours on their manners all day was fucking his housekeeper at night?
    I took a draw upon my pipe and settled back in my chair, breathing smoke in a lazy stream to the ceiling. I felt comfortable at Moll’s, especially here on the fringes with a bowl of warm winter punch at hand. Disgraceful things were happening in dark corners, half-glimpsed in the fluttering candlelight. I relaxed – feeling more at ease than I had in days – and poured another glass. How many rumours had I heard and dismissed in this coffeehouse in the last three years? The punch sent a golden glow through my veins, bestowing a false contentment.
    The men at the next table were discussing the latest rift between the king and the Prince of Wales. ‘All that gold. All that power, and they still can’t muddle along together,’ one of them said, shaking his head, as if the gold and the power weren’t the problem in the first place. It’s a trifle hard to find your son agreeable when he’s tapping his toe behind you, waiting impatiently for you to snuff it.
    Bored by the conversation, I let my gaze drift across the coffeehouse. Then sat up straighter, craning my neck to look over the crowds. Was that . . .? So it was. Ned Weaver, Burden’s apprentice. I hadn’t spoken with him since the night of the invisible thief. And I had never seen him at Moll’s before. Burden would not allow it, surely. How curious. He was sitting on his own at the edge of a rowdy bench, head slumped in his hand. I knew the other men at his table – a foul bunch of villains and drunks who had prompted many of the worst fights at Moll’s. Regular customers had learned to keep their distance.
    Their leader – a short fellow, all sinew and sneer – muttered something to his companions. They shifted as one and glowered at Ned. He stared into his bowl of coffee, oblivious.
    What the devil was he doing here? In the three months I’d lived on Russell Street I had never once seen him out in the taverns and coffeehouses of Covent Garden. The men were whispering to each other now, scowling openly at the foreigner washed up upon their land. Ned was a strong, solid lad with powerful muscles from his years of labour. I’d seen him run down the street carrying an oak table twice his size on his back. But these men were ferocious bastards in a fight – and there were six of them.
    I should mind my own business. I had my bowl of punch and a fresh pipe – and troubles of my own. Stay in your fox hole, Mr Hawkins.
    Ned rubbed his hands over his face. His clothes were in disarray, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his shirt loose. He looked close to tears.
    Damn it. If he were only a bully like his master, someone I could despise and ignore. I should not trouble myself . . . And yet here I was, rising to my feet and pushing