Free The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins by Antonia Hodgson Page B

chin to a corner table away from the main company. After a few minutes she brought me a bowl of punch, taking a glass for herself and settling down across the table.
    People underestimated Betty. They ignored her, in fact. There was always one black serving maid at Moll’s – it was a tradition. And she was always called Betty – no matter her real name. Two years ago this Betty had replaced another girl. Some customers hadn’t even noticed the change – she was just the black maid pouring their coffee. The first time I saw her, it was a quiet evening. I was pretending to read a newspaper while listening to a conversation at the next bench. I’d glanced up to find Betty watching me from a corner, a half-smile on her lips. I grinned back. She’d caught me eavesdropping on the customers and I’d caught her spying on me. Kindred spirits.
    I liked Betty – I liked the way she watched the world from beneath her thick black lashes. I think she liked me too. There was something unfinished between us – some path I had missed too long ago to trace again. A secret heat I felt in her gaze. Another life, indeed .
    She sipped her punch. ‘Gonson paid us a visit last night.’
    This was not surprising news. Gonson seemed to spend half his days raiding the Cocked Pistol, and the other half searching the coffeehouses for thieving whores to punish. For a man who hated vice so much, he certainly spent a great deal of time immersed in it.
    ‘Anyone arrested?’
    Betty cupped a hand to my cheek and guided my attention towards the next bench. Two of Moll’s girls were astride the table, lazily pulling up their skirts for an elderly judge and a fawning band of lawyers. The men watched with glazed expressions as one of the girls knelt down, then ran her tongue up the other girl’s thigh and . . . Well. Not everyone shared Gonson’s crusading moral spirit, it seemed.
    ‘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