‘Mistress King has a lot of friends,’ Betty said, then sucked in her breath. Her fingers traced the bruises along my jaw. ‘I heard you was attacked.’
‘Defending a lady.’
Betty looked amused. I raised my hands to protest my innocence.
‘Gonson asked about you last night.’ She leaned closer. Betty wore a rare perfume, laced with the warm, sweet scent of jasmine. It smelled expensive and intoxicating, an intriguing counterpoint to the rough tang of coal smoke caught in her hair. How could she afford it? Perhaps she had a secret lover; a nobleman, or a rich merchant who traded in exotic scents. And at the thought of this I felt a tinge of jealousy, though I was not entitled to such a feeling. She put her lips to my ear. ‘He wanted to know if you’d killed a man. And there was plenty willing to talk.’
I muttered an oath. ‘What did they say?’
‘Lies. Half-truths. Your neighbour came with him – Burden. Went about the room, offering to pay good coin to any man who’d tell the magistrate what a foul villain you were. He’s set upon chasing you from your home.’
Or worse. I covered my mouth with my hand. A few months ago I would have laughed at such nonsense and dismissed it. But I had learned not to be so careless. Gonson was persistent and patient, and Burden hated me. A dangerous combination.
Across the room, Moll was calling for more wine. She would not drink it – but she was playing cards with a gang who would. Easier to win against drunken fools. Her table cheered their approval and it seemed to raise the din throughout the coffeehouse, as men shouted to be heard over their neighbours. But Betty’s voice was soft against my ear. ‘Gonson knows about the murder on Snows Fields.’
And for a moment, that dark night enveloped me once more. The desperate fight to survive. An open grave and the taste of dirt in my mouth. The smell of gun smoke and blood. Kitty. ‘It wasn’t murder.’
‘Was it not?’ Betty asked, softly.
I drank my punch while Betty watched me, worried. ‘Gonson follows the law,’ I said, as much to reassure 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 through the crowds. Might a few coins settle this? I arrived at the bench just as one of the gang shoved Ned hard in the ribs. He started as if from a dream, then leaped to his feet, fists raised. Oh, God – not another fight. Pain stabbed through my jaw at the thought. If someone hit me again tonight my head would probably fall off.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said, putting a hand on Ned’s shoulder and pulling him back.
Six men scowled up at me. There was a moment’s tense silence. I kept my shoulders back. Ned was tall and strong and so was I. Between us we could… run very fast for the street, God help us.
And then, to my astonishment, all six men drew back, nervous. After a moment’s pause, the leader dipped his chin at me. ‘Mr Hawkins.’ The rest of the gang followed, nodding sharply and turning back to their punch.
I looked from face to face, amazed by my good fortune and not quite sure I believed in it. But no – it seemed they had no appetite for a fight this evening, possibly for the first time in their lives. Half faint with relief, I grabbed Ned and led him away, back to my table. ‘That was a piece of luck,’ I muttered, leaning across to borrow a glass for him from the next table.
Ned stole a glance across the room as I poured him some punch. ‘There was no luck to it, sir. They was afraid of you.’
‘Nonsense.’ I relit my pipe.
Ned took a mouthful of punch, then coughed half of it back on to the table. He wiped his mouth with a smile of embarrassment. ‘Mr Burden don’t allow liquor in the house.’
‘So I hear.’ I took a long draw on my pipe. ‘But he allows Alice in his bed.’
Ned’s handsome, open face flashed with anger. ‘That… that is not true,’ he floundered. He was a terrible liar.
‘The walls are very thin, Ned.’
He struggled for a moment, loyal to his master. But I could see the desire to confide in someone playing through him, and there was anger there too. His fists, resting on the table, were clenched tight. ‘It’s wicked, sir,’ he said at last. ‘Alice Dunn is a respectable woman. But if she doesn’t… If she refused him… She’s nowhere to go. She’d end up like them.’ His eyes flickered to the girls at the lawyers’ table, gowns pulled down to their waist. Hands working under loosened breeches.