I’m across the street and in Nat’s arms the second they are out of sight.
***
He has to lean on me and clutches his ribs as we stagger home, but his grin is as wide as the Thames. I kiss away the blood on his lip.
“You were wonderful,” I say.
“I took a beating!”
“I wanted to hit him myself.”
“Anne!” He is smiling down at me. We are nearly home.
“In fact, I did slap him in the face once. At the Pope-burning procession.” His jaw falls open and I begin to laugh, but then stop. “I want you,” I say.
Nat’s eyes widen in shock.
We hasten home and rush to couple together. It is hot and tender; such a release that when it’s over I bury my face in the pillow to hide the tears. When I turn my head, I find that he has done the same.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nat
Two days after Medbourne’s funeral, William and I set out for Primrose Hill. It is raining again but easing away to a thin drizzle, so we save ourselves the cost of a coach and walk. William urged me to let him help find out more about Godfrey’s death, and I am glad of a companion, even a miserable one, after all those quiet months in the north. It’s no weather for chit-chat, but at one point I mention Anne and this nonsensical idea that she should visit Judith Pamphlin. William, like Henry, finds nothing wrong with the idea.
“It’s too much for her,” I say. “After all she has been through.”
“Your wife is stronger than you think.”
“She really struck Oates in the face at the procession?”
“Full in the face. She did not hesitate.” For the first time in days, William smiles.
The walk takes nearly an hour, so when we arrive I’m more than ready to sample the wares at The Horseshoe Tavern. My ankle and ribs ache as a result of that run-in with Oates, but the bruises spur me on. This pursuit of Oates began in my desire to find favour with the King and line my coffers, but there is much more at stake now. His affronts to justice cannot be allowed to continue. He cannot be allowed to continue. This morning, we are making enquiries about the night Godfrey’s body was found. Why was Godfrey strangled in Somerset House, but then found with a sword in him, all the way out here? There must be a reason, but as we walk up the rough path to the tavern door my optimism falters.
It’s not the most enticing establishment: a squat, square, two storey building, more weathered grey than white, and with a series of stables and outbuildings unsteadily shambled up next to it. There are cracks in the glass of several windows, and inside is not much better. Light from the windows crosses the worn wooden floor like the bare struts of a broken fan. Otherwise, it’s generally dark, and the damp mix of wet wood and spilt liquor puts me in mind of mildewed sheets and wet stockings. As we make our way to the bar, the soles of my shoes stick. I dread to think when the floor was last washed. Nobody appears to have heard the door open and close. William tries a polite cough.
“What is it?” calls a gruff voice from below. Moments later, a bald head and broad shoulders rise out of a square hole on the other side of the bar, and our host ascends into view. “Sorry, sirs,” he says, breathing deeply, “just down checking on barrels while all was quiet. What can I get you?”
“Ale, please.” We watch him pour our drinks. “Are you Rawson?” I ask. He looks up at me and nods. His face resembles a worn leather football, shiny and badly-shaped through overuse. “Often this quiet?”
“Sometimes. Never very busy this time of year. But mostly busier than this.”
“Wasn’t this where they held the inquest over that magistrate who was murdered a while back?”
“It was.” Rawson turns his back and begins wiping down bottles.
I sigh and clear my throat. “Perhaps you could join us. We’ve an interest in what happened to Godfrey. I’d be happy to buy you an ale or two. If you could spare us the time?”
That catches his interest. I ignore William whispering that if we have to bribe every witness, we’ll be in serious trouble in short order. And besides, it works. A gulp or two of beer and John Rawson becomes refreshingly loquacious.
“First I knew of the whole affair,” he says, “was when two of my regulars came in on the Thursday afternoon. They were talking about how they’d seen someone’s sword scabbard, stick, belt, and gloves left lying in one of the fields at the foot of the hill. They thought some fellow might have been sleeping it off down in the ditch, but I’d seen soldiers hunting hedgehogs around there a few days before and suspected the young fools might have left something of value. I gave them a drink on the house to show me where this ditch was, and so when the rain let up – about five o’clock it was – out we went. Right enough, the scabbard was still there. Then we saw it. The light was bad but there was definitely a long dark shape down in the ditch. Something was there that shouldn’t have been.
“We scrambled down, none too willingly, mind, but we did it. He was face-down, thank God, and his head was covered. I wasn’t ready to see his face. I left the two of them there while I went for the local Constable, John Brown.” Rawson picks up his tankard and drinks deeply.
“Where does he live, this John Brown?” asks William.
“Not far. Near St Giles Pound. He’ll be here any minute. Always calls in on his way home.”
‘Would you take us to the ditch?”
“You are mighty interested, aren’t you?” A light of speculation crosses his eyes, but then he blinks, and it’s gone. Rawson doesn’t care why we want to see the ditch or hear his story, and that suits me very well. He shrugs. “Not I,” he says, “but Brown will.” He nods at the door. “Here he is now.”
Constable Brown has the air of a man who has told this tale many times over but does not tire of it. Godfrey’s murder made him well-known in these parts, he tells us. After knocking back a pint of dark ale, he is more than happy to show us where the body was found.
I have one last question for the landlord. “Have you seen much of Miles Prance lately?”
Rawson’s eyebrows lift, creating waves that ripple the skin over his wide bald head. “Who is he?”
“A silversmith. A small man. Sandy hair. I was told he was a regular here.”
“Never heard of him.”
Outside, Brown leads us down a couple of deep rutted lanes running between the patchwork of fields, and then points across to a drainage ditch just at the south edge of Primrose Hill. In a sense it is remarkable for being so unremarkable. It’s not particularly large, or deep, but it runs at least ten feet along and is a mess of brambles and briars. The ground falls away steeply from where we stand.
“Where was Godfrey’s scabbard and so on?” I ask.
“Right here.”
This is significant. Why bring a dead man to a place like this and then stab him? That must have been what occurred. Otherwise, why would the scabbard be here? “And where was the body?”
Brown looks at me and then at the ditch.
“In you go,” he says. “I’ll tell you when you’re in the right spot.”
I take a moment to add a good pair of shoes and stockings to my list of Oates’s victims, and clamber down. Freezing water floods my toes. I slosh along – thoroughly ridiculous – but to my relief, Brown doesn’t keep me down here longer than necessary.
“Stop!” he calls. “There, where you stand now, that’s where the head was.”
“And the feet running that way?” I gesture along the ditch away from where Brown stands.
“Yes.”
What a drab end. The sky is a band of grey, and the green of the grass has been sucked away in the gloom.
“Tell us about the body being moved,” I say, once I’ve struggled out.
“It was early evening, the light was gone, and I was keen to move quickly,’ he says. “I went down, same as you did. I found a tall man lying face-down, with a sword run through him so that the tip stuck out of his back some seven or eight inches. I called a coupl
e of the lads to help roll the body to its side, so I could look at his face. As soon as they did, I knew what we were dealing with.”
“You recognised him?” I ask, glancing at William. For all his willingness to join me, now he barely seems to be following the conversation.
“At once. He was well known, particularly to those of us working in the law. A fine man. I am sorry to think of him dying in that way and at the hands of those damned papists. It was a travesty.”
We walk back to the tavern in silence and bitter disappointment. Brown is no help. He is as convinced as everyone else that Godfrey was murdered by Catholics. I’m tempted to let it drop and go home, but that means admitting failure.
“What did you do next?” I ask.
“I made sure I was clear in my mind about how the body lay and pulled out the sword. I carried his hat and wig in my own hands as the men brought the body here.”
Pushing through the tavern doors, he points at a long trestle table under the windows. “We laid him out on that table. Rawson brought candles. The place was busy for once – wouldn’t you know it – and I had some trouble keeping back all the nosy bastards, pressing forward, trying to get a look at the corpse. Everyone knew the man was missing, I suppose. It took some stern words before I could get the space I needed to do the necessary. I searched the body first.”
“What did you find?”
“Enough to show it was no robbery. There were several guineas in one pocket, as well as some pieces of gold and half a crown. In the other, he had some silver and a couple of rings. He wore another ring on one finger, and of course there were also the sword and the scabbard, his gloves, and his stick. I had them all laid out next to the body and left three fellows on guard.”
“While you…?”
“Went to notify the family.”
Brown says it was around ten o’clock when he arrived at Hartshorn Lane. “That old manservant – Moor was he called? – answered the door and took me into the parlour where Godfrey’s two brothers, Michael and Benjamin, were in conference with Sergeant Ramsay. He’s an officer of the court. Sir Edmund’s disappearance was a matter of grave concern, as you know. It was my unpleasant duty to confirm the family’s worst fears.”
“How did they take it?”
“Much as you would expect, I’d say. One of the brothers swore a little. Damned and blasted, said he had known his brother was dead, that kind of thing. The sergeant from the court slid off to take the news to Whitehall.”
“Who identified the body?”
“Benjamin Godfrey. The other, Michael, was keen to remain in town in case they were wanted at Whitehall. He’s a very fine fellow, and very full of his own consequence. I remember he was full of talk of repercussions and implications.”
“What did you take him to mean?” I ask. William has stopped paying any attention. He’s been no help at all.
“That’s clear enough,” says Brown. “He thought his brother had been killed for political reasons. He hadn’t been robbed. It was political or personal. Had to be one of the two.”
“I see. And you brought Benjamin Godfrey back here?”
“Yes. He was very shaken up at the sight of the body. Upset by the dark bruises round his brother’s neck. He wanted to know where Godfrey’s cravat was, but it wasn’t found with the body. He made us take him out by torchlight to look at the ditch. After that, he agreed to go back into town and give the news to the rest of the family. I reported to Sergeant Ramsay, who assured me that the Middlesex Coroner, Mr. Cooper, had been notified. It was a long day, but all done right and proper the way I like it.”
Rawson brings us another round of drinks without being asked. It pains me to pay for them, or to stay there a minute longer listening to Brown who is shaking his head and opining over it all.
“He was left lying like a dog, face-down in a ditch, Godfrey was.” Brown says. “Murdered for what he knew and because he was a good, upstanding, honest Protestant.”
I down my drink, hope souring with every swallow.
***
On the long walk back to the city, my irritation at William can’t be contained.
“What the hell was that about?”
“What?”
“You barely said a word in there. Were you even listening? I’m not sure why you bothered to come.”
He is silent for a moment or two while I simmer. When he does speak, he surprises me.
“Why Miles Prance?”
“What? What do you mean, why Miles Prance?”
“Why did you ask about him?”
“Because he said at the trial of Green, Berry, and Hill that he was a member of a club here and that leaving the body here was his suggestion. Another lie, clearly.”
“Another lie?”
I tell William about Prance’s appearance before the Privy Council where he claimed to have seen me taking Mass.
“I did not know that was Miles Prance.”
I have plenty of choice remarks I could make about Prance at this point, but I hold my tongue. And besides, William is not finished.
“That tavern,” he says. “It’s not the sort of place Miles would ever go to. It’s far from his home. It’s falling down. I doubt he has even heard of the place.”
“Miles? You know a lot about Miles Prance, suddenly.”
“Not suddenly. I have known him for several years.”
I swallow. “You did not say so.”
“You did not ask.”
I don’t like his tone, but remind myself that William is grieving. He has not been the same man since his arrest and the loss of his job, truth be told.
“Well, I am asking now,” I say. “Prance lied at the murder trial. He said he was a frequent visitor to this tavern. The rest was surely lies, too. Maybe the key to this mess is getting him to tell the truth now. But why would he do that? Lord knows what kind of hold Oates has on him.”
“Can’t you guess?” says William. “Miles Prance is a member of the Fuller’s Rent Tavern. Just like I am. Just as Matthew was.”
“But he’s a married man! His wife was at the murder trial, shaking her head, denying he was tortured.”
William laughs softly. “You are more naïve than I imagined, Nat,” he says. “Let me put some pressure on Miles Prance. The fact that he has a wife might work in our favour. He is a weak man. I should know.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Anne
Nat does not embrace my proposed visit to the housekeeper, Mistress Pamphlin, but neither does he forbid it. He is unhappy after his visit to Primrose Hill, for the first time faltering in his certainty that there is more to Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death than is currently known. I need to help. Nat is not the only one who Titus Oates hurt last summer. And so, I walk past the rising mass of St Paul’s Cathedral, flinching at the sound of metal on stone, and thinking furiously about what I will say to Mistress Pamphlin. For the past couple of days, I have thought of little else, working up convoluted stories to explain my arrival at her door uninvited, but this morning the way to do it came to me clearly. Since then, I have been rehearsing what I will say. I have only one chance to impress her.
She lives in a small back street, just far enough away from the Cathedral to escape the dust of these years of rebuilding. It is a tidy property. Her windows are clean and there are drying marks at the doorstep. Mistress Pamphlin has been at work already this morning. With my heart in mouth, I raise my knuckles and knock.
“Yes?” An old woman with a long nose and a small frowning mouth opens the door barely wide enough for her own head and shoulders. She regards me less than favourably.
“Mistress Pamphlin?”
“Who is asking? I hope you are not selling anything.” She cranes her neck to see if anyone else is here.
“I am alone,” I say with a smile. “My name is Anne Thompson. I was hoping, if you were not too busy, that I might introduce myself and ask you a few questions.”
“Questions? What kind of questions? What so
rt of funny business is this?”
“Nothing untoward, Mistress Pamphlin, please, let me assure you. Here.” I have a basket over my arm and I lift it toward her, pulling back the cloth to show her some warm scones I have baked. “My name will mean nothing to you, I am sure, but my husband has written to you. Nathaniel Thompson?”
Her eyebrows rise in recognition, and she releases her grip on the door a little. “So, when I refuse to see him he sends his wife to bother me? What kind of a man does that?”
“Oh, no. He has no idea I am here. And please, if I am wrong, please take these scones as an apology. It was simply that he mentioned you frequently and remarked that you must know so much more about Sir Edmund than anyone would realise. I thought how true that must be. And then I thought that perhaps you would rather be visited and spoken to in a friendly way over a cup of tea and something to eat than be sent letters and be quizzed and questioned. And so here I am.”
“I have nothing bad to say about my employer.”
“Of course not!”
For a moment or two we stand on the threshold. I have pinned my hopes on the idea that her loneliness mixed with my very nearly truthful appeal will be enough for her to invite me in. She looks me over. I have dressed simply and neatly. The scones smell good. I am no threat to anyone.
At last, she shrugs. “I will heat the water then, come inside.”
Mistress Pamplin’s room is simple but comfortable. She has a starched white tablecloth and an ordered basket of threads and wool next to her chair. A faded green and red hanging screens off a section where I presume she sleeps.
As soon as I am seated, she proceeds to question me. “So, Mistress Thompson, your husband is a writer. Not the most stable profession, but common enough in this day and age. No children yet?”
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