Hill is running out of witnesses. His voice cracks as he asks for some water. His wife pulls out a sheaf of papers and tries to get a clerk to take them, but she’s roughly refused. Hill sinks back down, as crushed as Berry and Green beside him. Tears slide down his wife’s cheeks.
Green fares even worse. His single witness is discredited as a lying Catholic before he can even begin, so it’s only Berry who manages to produce anyone whose evidence is taken seriously. This hinges on the question of the removal of the body. Berry produces several soldiers who are adamant that although a sedan came into Somerset House, none could have got out without their knowing. The Attorney General looks frustrated, but it’s only one small point against so many statements stacked against them.
“Mr. Prance?”
In a moment of hush in the courtroom, Mistress Hill speaks up and calls on Prance, sitting just to the right of the jury. The people around her step away. Scroggs opens his mouth to shout her down, but perhaps the sight of her condition gives him pause. She grasps her moment. “I wish you would tell the court, Mr. Prance, why you denied all this to the King.” Her voice is not strong, but this is something out of the ordinary. The crowd leans in.
“It was because I was afraid to lose my livelihood from the Queen and other Catholics. I had not been given a pardon at that point.”
“And will you swear that you were not tortured?” she says.
Prance’s throat moves although his lips remain closed. He turns his head slightly and looks at a tall, determined-looking woman in the crowd. Mistress Prance, I presume.
“Answer the question,” says Scroggs.
“I was not.”
“But it was said widely around town that you were tortured,” Mistress Hill persists. “Several people have said that they could hear your cries in the prison. Won’t you say it?” She pushes forward, pleading with Prance with her eyes. “For it is all false, all this. It is as false as God is true. It will be shown to be false, I swear. But by then it will be too late!”
“Enough, Madam,” calls down Scroggs. He shuffles his flesh round in his chair so he can address the jury with a wry smile. “Do you think Mr. Prance will swear these three men out of their lives for nothing? Let us hear no more of it. No more.”
On his words, Mistress Hill faints clean away and has to be taken out to be revived.
Lawrence Hill puts his head in his hands and howls.
***
It is soon over. The Attorney General sums up the prosecution evidence and then Scroggs addresses the jury. His words will stay with me forever.
“Gentlemen,” he says, “this is a murder set on by priests and conducted by men yoked to the power of the Pope like beasts of burden. Their faith depends on the doctrine of belief and absolute obedience, the freedom to do right is not in these men’s hands. Indeed, all Roman Catholic gentlemen in England would do well to quit this kingdom. For they cannot be quiet in their religion unless they are disturbing us in ours. It is not possible for them to live amongst us without seeking to take away the religious freedoms we so enjoy.
“In short, there is monstrous evidence of the existence of the whole horrid plot in this one killing. Sir Edmund Godfrey was murdered because he knew something that the priests would not have him tell. I leave it to you men of the jury to look at the evidence and see if it satisfies you in your consciences that these men are guilty.”
Nat is silent as the jurors leave the Hall to find their verdict. He truly believes they are innocent and, having witnessed this, I believe it, too. There is horror and despair in his eyes. In truth, the three defendants do not match their role in this drama. They are as inept as Quince and his fellows, but sadly, this is no dream.
When all three are found guilty and sentenced, Scroggs is openly delighted.
“Gentlemen,” he declares. “You have found the same verdict that I would have found if I had been one of you, and if it were the last word I were to speak in this world, I should have pronounced them guilty.”
The crowd answers him with hoots and loud applause. In ten days’ time, Mistress Hill will be a widow.
Chapter Twelve
William
The loss of my license to teach is a blow in the guts every morning when I wake up and remember that I have nowhere to go. Henry Broome tolerates me in his print shop but we both know that my heart is not in it. Something has been stripped out of me. Some days I don’t get out of bed at all. Anne’s gentle kindness is like a balm to my soul, but I do not want kindness. Instead, I torture myself by listening to Nat. My friend’s talk is all of Titus Oates, and I have not even told him of how he threatened me. I don’t want to relive that interview, and Nat is fired up enough about Oates without my poor story to feed on. His pamphlet pouring scorn on Oates’s revelations is the talk of every tavern and coffee shop for a week. Nat rants for days about the trial of Godfrey’s murderers, and when the time comes, I go with him to the hangings. He is concerned that Anne will insist on going. She can be deceptively stubborn, but she waves us off without a word. The sight of the pregnant wife of Lawrence Hill collapsing as the rope around his neck tears his life from him is not one I will quickly forget. “Thank God Anne stayed away,” is all Nat says.
In the weeks that follow he continues his public pursuit of Titus and repeatedly asks me to take him to Newgate to meet Matthew Medbourne. I give in at last, although fearing no good will come of it. I should hold out, but I’m too exhausted. I don’t see any other way to stop Nat’s badgering.
Rebuilt since the Great Fire, Newgate’s new exterior sits in stark contrast to the horrors inside. They retained the gatehouse front it always had, but now new columns, battlements, gargoyles, and stone statues of Justice, Mercy, and Truth provide an ornate facade. Inside, it assaults my senses. I’m seasick as a stowaway, trapped in the dark. I’m thankful though for every step that takes us from the lower regions of the prison. Matthew has not been well, and his friends – by which I mean his wealthy friends, a group that I was never a part of and have no hope of joining now – have paid for an improvement in his accommodation. But it is still Newgate.
To make matters worse, we are here on a Monday. Execution day. The fires in Ketch’s Kitchen are out by now, but this morning the gaol woke to the sound of bells ringing for the condemned. They were taken from the hold across the press yard to the chapel. From there, their route to Tyburn is well known, but most people give little thought to their journey back, to the bodies returned to Newgate and delivered to the kitchen. That’s where Jack Ketch completes his work; he is not only a hangman. He’s also responsible for stripping the bodies, and poaching heads and limbs in his kettle to better make them last out on those spikes and gibbets, and to keep the birds away. As Nat and I make our way through the prison, the smell of bay and cumin turns my stomach; that, and the bouquet of boiling flesh.
In contrast, Matthew’s room above the press yard is almost civilised. It’s small, and although it’s sparsely furnished, he has a sumptuous throw piled on his narrow bed and a quantity of drawing paper and good quality inks and pens stowed on a small table near the door.
It sickens to see him here, so completely out of place. He’s a soft-featured, childish-looking man, with thin wispy hair and a weak chin. Always, his face puts me in mind of a sweet, chubby puppy with long, curling eyelashes and a dimple in each cheek. There’s a youthful look about him, although he is older than me. His hand grasps mine. I try to will strength to him through my fingers.
“Mr. Thompson,” he says, turning to Nat. “I’m very happy to make your acquaintance. Very happy indeed. These surroundings are ghastly, of course, but please take a seat.”
“Thank you.” The room has only one chair, which Nat takes, while Matthew sits on the bed and I station myself next to the narrow window.
“Have you had occasion to visit Newgate before?” Matthew asks.
“Sadly, yes. I’ve written about the prison and its inmates. I’ve been inside several times now,” Nat say
s. “Although I am not sure I’ll ever get used to the smell.”
“The smell? Ah, if only I could say the same. I have been here, well, longer than I had anticipated, and it barely registers with me now.” He shakes his head in mock dismay.
“Do you have any hopes of obtaining your freedom? Friends working on your behalf?”
“Some. I have many friends, and most have stood by me despite this setback. But many of them are Catholics and their influence currently is – how shall I put it? – a little limited. I was hoping that you might have come to join in their number.” Matthew’s eyes narrow and some of his smooth way of talking slips. “Have you come to be my friend?”
“Not as such, no,” Nat says. “There is no reason why I might not become your friend, but I must be honest. I’m here because I want information from you, not because of anything I may be able to do for you. Do you see?”
“Yes.” Matthew purses his lips and folds his arms across his chest, throwing me a glance. “Well, I shall have to think about that, shan’t I?” he says.
“As you wish.” Nat sits back in his chair and waits for Matthew to decide. He has told me he can offer Matthew nothing more than the chance to proclaim his innocence. Nat is an honest fellow. I’ve never heard him make a promise he cannot keep.
“Tell him about Titus,” I say.
Matthew rubs his hand over his mouth and stares at me for a few moments. Then he begins.
“I first met Titus around Bartholomew-tide, back in ’76. It was my birthday, so I remember it quite well. I was a different man then. I am an actor by trade, and a writer, a comic, and a member of the Duke of York’s company. Perhaps you have seen my translation of Tartuffe, or seen me on the stage even? I had a pretty role in Otway’s play, Venice Preserv’d, the other year. You didn’t catch it? Well, no matter.
“I suppose I would say I was at the height of my powers when I met him. I was approaching forty, although no-one knew it. I had a good reputation, there was work whenever I wanted it, and my work was my life. I am a single man and have never been interested in finding a wife.
“I was with a band of fellows in the Fuller’s Rent Tavern near High Holborn – my treat. As I said, I was doing well and celebrating. We were rather swollen with a good deal of claret, and while my friends laughed and broke into some ribald song, I sat back on my bench, just enjoying the warmth of the wine and their companionship. That was when I saw him. He was sitting several benches away, hunched over a tankard of ale that he sipped while he eyed our antics. He was an awkward-looking fellow, all chin and gloomy eyes. I thought him brooding and, in my rather luscious state, very interesting. Some idea of warmth and human friendship took hold of me, perhaps something about his way of sitting reminded me of a lonelier, younger version of myself – I don’t know any more. But I approached him, that’s what counts.
“I offered him a drink. He refused at first, mumbling about having no funds, but I was having none of it. I dragged him with me to join my circle. Even now, I can’t explain it. There was something so unusual about him. I just wanted to have him near me. He said very little. I saw he took to the wine very easily, though. I hoped it would mellow him, and so it proved.”
Matthew pauses in his tale and looks at me. All I can do is nod.
“Titus soon opened up,” he says. ‘What no-one understands,’ I remember him saying particularly, ‘is that I have a special knowledge of spiritual matters’—”
Matthew breaks off again. His imitation of Oates’s drawl is quite perfect, and Nat bows his head in acknowledgement. Matthew loves the approbation. His cheeks pink for a moment but then he cuts back to his story.
“I hadn’t the faintest idea what the boy was talking about,” he says, “but I pressed up next to him to hear more.
“I remember his exact words. He said he knew about hypocrisy. He said he knew how hubris, avarice, and sanctimony dominated the priesthood. He said he’d been badly treated but that his enemies would regret their treatment of him.
“Now, William here will tell you that this shows you what a fool I am.” Matthew’s tone is light, but he doesn’t look at me, only at Nat. He spreads his arms theatrically wide. “And you will probably think the same, Mr. Thompson. Or even worse. But I have little to lose by giving you the truth of myself, and you have asked for my story and will have it. You see, I liked Titus. I thrilled at his darkness. You may not understand it, but the more he swore and muttered and groaned, the more I was drawn to him. He was unusual. Damaged. I felt something for him.”
Matthew’s eyes fly towards me and away again. “Of course, I wish now that I had never laid eyes on him, but what is done, is done. I sat with him. I put my arm around him and we drank more wine. I bent my head to his as he told me some story of being unjustly accused of some crime he could not reveal. Still, it might have come to nothing.”
“Matthew.” I can’t stop myself. “Are you really going to blame me?”
“What? Of course not!”
“But—”
“But nothing, William. I am merely telling Mr. Thompson that you arrived and Titus recognised you. Seeing you so far from delighted to meet him, made me even more intrigued. You see. All my fault. Mine.”
Is that true? I dare not ask. What must Nat make of this? Of Matthew, and of me?
Matthew draws a breath and continues. “And so I came to know Titus Oates. He talked and I listened. He told me that he had been harshly treated by his father, although I could tell that he still sought his approval. He spoke of early beatings, of being ignored at school, of all the alienation that I could understand only too easily. He was less than charming about our dear William here, something that I found terribly amusing. I was all comfort. I patted his knee. I may have stroked his cheek. I let him indulge his anger and self-pity wholeheartedly.”
“And then?” asks Nat.
“And then when he asked if I thought you, William, might be a friend to him now, having been less than kind – in his mind – when you were his teacher, I said I was sure you that would and furnished him with your address.”
“You did what?” I start forward from the window and have to stop myself. “I always thought that he followed me.” He lays his hand across his forehead. “You told him. Oh Matthew!”
“Well, I was drunk, William. And I had no idea of what he really was. No-one did. Not even you.”
“But you gave him the means to find me, and thereby you, whenever he wanted!”
“Yes. If I am honest, that is what I intended.”
Matthew looks from me to Nat and back again. If Matthew has regrets, it seems that he has come to terms with them. He has no fear of Nat’s opinion. I wish I felt the same.
“Titus was adrift in London,” he continues. “He had few friends and little money, and I enjoyed showing him my rather glamorous existence. I took him to the theatre. His eyes lit up when we stood in the Royal Box. I loved his contradiction. He was always so brooding and so self-contained, and then he’d simply burst out with some outrageous profanity. It was as though a whole swell of blackness was swimming about in his gut somewhere and every so often a bubble of bile would erupt.
“What his true beliefs were, or are, I couldn’t begin to say. When I met him, he was disgruntled but firmly Protestant. As he became familiar with my friends at the Fuller’s Rent Tavern, he became less so. It is a rule of our club that religion is never mentioned. Perhaps that was part of our attraction for Titus. Certainly, he did not come so often in search of little old me. Our friendship was – I see it now – always all on my side. Please—” Matthew waves Nat away with his hand, although I see no sign of Nat interrupting him.
“Please,” he says. “I have been vain all my life and have never put anyone first but myself. I’m a selfish creature and have indulged myself whenever I could. But I have never been a fool. Oates took up with me whenever he was short of funds, when there was no-one else to sponge from, because he knew I liked him. He told me he was drummed out of the Navy fo
r sodomy, you know. I gave him the introduction to Norfolk and he gained a place in that household. He would have been sleeping on the streets if I had not. Still, within a week I found him imitating my voice and mannerisms to a crowd of fellows over a bowl of punch. Many a time he walked past me in the street without a greeting, without a nod, without a glance. Once or twice in the Fuller’s Rent I approached him, but he just turned his back as though I wasn’t even there. Yet when he came to me, I could not refuse him. Why? Oh, all the obvious reasons. You wouldn’t like me to lay it out for you any more than that, would you?”
“No,” Nat says. “I understand you.”
Matthew almost smiles. “So, there you have my story with the famous Titus Oates. Through the years of his alleged evidence-gathering and assumed Catholicism, I saw him not regularly, but fairly often. Always, of course, when he was in need of money or a place to stay.”
“But you must have had some rupture with him, some falling out?” Nat says.
“No. What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re here. Because you are imprisoned on his say-so. You don’t strike me as a dangerous traitor. It is hard to see you as a threat to King Charles, or as any kind of fanatic.”
“I should hope not! All I am is a self-pleasing old ham. I’m a tired-out, lucked-out, randy old player, whose tastes have never been run of the mill but have never run to treason, not at all. You wonder why Titus named me?”
“Yes!”
“Well, obviously, because he could.”
***
Nat is quiet when we leave the prison. I wait for the sign that he is repelled by all he has heard. I don’t imagine he will be rude to my face, but I may see less of him after this. We trudge through the streets under a clear, spring evening sky, stepping in and out of the gutters, passing storekeepers pulling their shutters fast. Children fill the streets, chasing balls and shrieking at each other. Ahead of us, two lamplighters set a string of lanterns aglow, and by the time we reach Fleet Street darkness has descended. We pause at Temple Bar.
The Road to Newgate Page 9