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 hell. 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 nameonto 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 Cocked 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 passed 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.’
He bit his lip. ‘I know. I told them I done it.’
I sprang to my feet and he leaped back. My God he was fast when he needed to be. There were ten paces between us before I could reach out and grab him. ‘Why?’ I cried. ‘Why in God’s name would you say such a thing?’
‘I was supposed to kill him. Pa told me I had to. And… I wanted to…’
‘For your mother.’
Tears glimmered in his eyes. ‘And for Pa. He was proud of me, when I told him. And the gang. They respect me now.’
I think if Fleet had walked into the yard at that moment I would have beaten the life out of him. ‘And what – you’re content to see me hang, boy? So you might strut about St Giles?’
‘No, sir!’ he cried. ‘Pa swore you’d be safe. He promised. Said he’d paid you fifty pounds to stand trial. He said he was going to help you escape tonight, that it was all planned. He said you was angry with me. That I mustn’t come here…’
‘That is not the deal we made, Sam. He threatened Kitty’s life.’
He flinched, as if struck.
‘That’s why I stood trial for murder. To keep Kitty safe.’
He covered his face with his hands. ‘No… he wouldn’t. Pa wouldn’t…’ But of course, he would – and Sam knew it. I reached out and he clung to me, weeping in my arms. ‘He lied,’ he sobbed. ‘He lied to me.’
‘This is good news, Sam. You are not a murderer.’
He broke free, wiping his eyes. ‘But it’s my fault you’re here.’
No, it is your father’s, I thought, but he seemed so dejected I held my tongue. I sat back down upon the bench and he joined me, elbows on his knees, head down.