We had met the previous autumn, when I was thrown in the Marshalsea for debt. For the past three months we had been living beneath the same roof. Some of our neighbours thought it a scandal. The rest did not think of it at all, not in this disreputable part of town. I had spent the first few weeks recovering from a sickness of body and spirit that had left me weary and out of sorts. I had been tortured, beaten and betrayed in prison, witnessed murder and almost met my own death. It was the betrayal that lingered in me, an infection that would not heal. I kept old friends and acquaintances at a wary distance, wondering, wondering… Kitty was not without her faults, but I knew this much – I could trust her with my life.
Slowly, I recovered my strength. I read and worked quietly at my desk, strolled about the town in the daytime, and spent my nights with Kitty. I was content – for a while. Yes, yes, damn me for a fool, but a man of my temperament may grow tired of anything. Put me in heaven, and after a short, blissful period I would be knocking at the gates of hell, asking if anyone cared for a game of cards. Lessons that had felt so sharp and certain on my release from prison began to fade. What harm could it do, one trip to the coffeehouse? One short visit to the gaming tables? And perhaps another? I was not so bad – not quite so bad as I had been. Surely that was enough? I was not a monk, damn it.
Kitty did not mind this so very much – better to let me ramble about the town than have me sit scowling into the fire. What troubled her was that I had begun to slip out alone, without her.
‘It isn’t fair Tom,’ she had said, the last time she caught me sneaking from the house. ‘I am not some timid song bird for you to keep locked in its cage.’
‘That is true,’ I agreed. I had heard her singing. ‘But tell me what I must do, sweetheart? The world is how it is.’
‘Well you might look a little less pleased with it,’ she muttered.
I’d sighed and lifted my hands. A weak apology, but it was not my fault the town was made for bachelors. The women who frequented the coffeehouses and gaming tables and taverns could not be called respectable. Kitty didn’t care, but it troubled me that I couldn’t protect her in such wild places. Nor did I like the hungry looks of the men, slavering like dogs around her. I knew what they saw when she arrived upon my arm – a rich, unmarried wench sharing her bed with a penniless rogue. A whore, in other words. And men do not treat whores well, in the main.
‘Perhaps if we were married…’ I’d added, slyly.
I turned down Russell Street, leaving the piazza and the market behind me. I had asked Kitty to marry me a hundred times, and she had refused me a hundred times in return – with good reason. A few months ago she had inherited a fortune from her guardian, Samuel Fleet, including the house and print shop where we now lived together. If she married me, the business and all her fortune would fall under my control. How could she trust me not to gamble away her inheritance? She had never admitted her concerns to me, but I could see the doubt in those sharp green eyes of hers, whenever I asked for her hand. Given the choice between being rich or respectable she had chosen to keep her money and let her reputation fend for itself. I couldn’t blame her for it. I’m sure I wouldn’t marry me either.
A blurred shape leaped down from a wall into my path, startling me from my thoughts. A cat, out hunting. It pounced hard into a pile of stinking rubbish a few feet ahead. There was a scuffle, and then a long, vicious squeal. A moment later the cat trotted past, triumphant, a huge rat dangling in its mouth. I skirted the rubbish heap with an anxious eye. I had almost walked straight through it.
Russell Street is like a young country girl, fresh arrived on the London coach. It begins with good intentions – smart coffeehouses, handsome private homes. Then after a short distance it takes on a pragmatic but profitable air – an apothecary’s, a grocer’s store. After that comes a fast, sordid descent – a grimy gin shop, a gaming house, a brothel with broken windows and a rotting roof. And opposite the brothel, a bookseller’s and print shop, selling filth and sedition under the counter. A sign hangs above the door – a pistol tilted at a lewd angle. And underneath the pistoclass="underline" Proprietor, S. Fleet. No longer. S. Fleet was dead – burning in hell or causing havoc in heaven, who could guess? This was Kitty Sparks’ place now.
The Cocked Pistol is set back from the street, as if ready to slink away at the first glimpse of trouble. It is also narrower than the houses upon either side, which gives it the appearance of being squeezed slowly to death by its neighbours. I paused at the dark-green door, preparing myself for Kitty’s wrath. It could be a fearsome thing to behold, and rather thrilling for us both. Her face would flush and she would bunch her fists tight into her gown, her chest heaving. She would call me a selfish dog, a scoundrel, an inconstant son of a whore. At some point the questions and accusations would falter and she would grab me or I would grab her and we would fling ourselves up the stairs. She had the most bewitching way of slipping her fingers beneath the band of my breeches and pulling me into bed, while staring deep into my eyes. A simple thing, but my God it was worth all the shouting.
‘Thief!’
A muffled scream, close by. I gave a start, and peered up and down the dark street. There was no one there; not that I could see. The street fell silent, as if holding its breath. I felt the hair prickle along my neck. Was someone hiding in the shadows? I reached for my sword, drawing it smoothly from my side.
Someone shouted again, a sharp cry of fear. ‘Help! Help! Oh, Lord, spare us!’
A young woman’s voice – a maidservant, I thought. She was calling from the house I’d just passed – Joseph Burden’s home. The very last place I would expect a commotion. There were churches that were less quiet and respectable. I ran back to the door and thumped my fist against it.
‘Holla! Mr Burden! Is all well?’
No one replied. I could hear shouts and screams within, and footsteps on the stairs. Burden bellowing angrily for more light. The girl was still weeping. ‘I saw him! I swear I saw him!’
A housebreaker, it must be. January was their favourite month – long, dark nights and no one out on the frozen streets to see them. Except men like me. I pounded harder on the door. ‘Mr Burden!’
The bolts slammed free. Burden’s apprentice, Ned Weaver, stood in the doorway, clutching a hammer in his fist. His broad shoulders blocked the view into the hallway. He ducked his head to save it from catching upon the frame.
‘Thief?’ I whispered.
‘Aye.’ He gestured with his hammer, back over his shoulder. Still inside.
‘Is someone hurt? I heard screams…’
He shook his head. ‘It’s just Alice. Gave her a fright.’ An odd, rather sour look crossed his face. ‘He woke her up. The thief. He was standing over the bed.’
I took a step towards the piazza to fetch help.
‘Wait!’ Ned seized my arm and pulled me back to the front step, almost lifting me from my feet. It felt as if I were held in the jaws of some great hound. Burden was a master carpenter and worked his apprentice hard. ‘We have him trapped. Stay here on guard, sir, I beg you. Don’t let the devil pass.’
He thundered back up the stairs. Trouble, I thought, rubbing my arm. Well – I had a talent for it. I squared my shoulders and gripped my blade a little tighter, wishing I had not drunk quite so much punch. Or indeed been left with just the one shoe. I could still hear sobbing in an upper room, and boots thumping back and forth as the men searched the house – but nobody came back to the door. The more I waited, alone in the dark, the more puzzled I became. Why had the thief picked Joseph Burden’s home, of all the houses in London? There were finer places to rob even on this street, and Burden always kept his windows and doors firmly locked and bolted at night. He was known and mocked in the neighbourhood for securing his house as early as six o’clock in winter.