“No,” I say. “There was a child. But she died.” I brace myself for words of sympathy, but she offers none.
“You are young. I imagine there will be others. Your husband has made quite a name for himself.”
“He has.”
“But he is on a wild goose chase now, you realise that?”
“I have thought him wrong before, but found that his instincts were correct.”
“And his instinct now is what? That what they say happened to Sir Edmund is false? That was what he implied in his letter. But no-one hangs themselves, stabs themselves, and then finds their way into a ditch now, do they?”
“No, they do not.”
She has not yet sat down, although I am seated by the fire with my hands folded in my lap. “So, you agree that you are wasting your time, yet here you are all the same?”
I give her the most disingenuous smile I can muster. “Who doesn’t like a scone, a cup of tea, and a gossip?” I say. “At least you will not be troubled with any more unwanted letters.”
Behind her, the kettle begins to bubble and the iron set of her jaw relaxes.
***
“Sir Edmund was a very sombre and serious gentleman,” she tells me. “Not one for laughter, or if he was, I didn’t know it. He had some kind of illness in his youth which affected his studies. Although he was a fine gentleman, he was not one to flaunt his accomplishments. He ran a plain house and lived a simple, good life. I would like to tell you more, but am not sure what there is to tell.”
“Anything you tell me is helpful,” I say. “And your tea is excellent.” I grope for something to add. “Your work day began early, I imagine.”
She settles her narrow hips in her chair.
“Of course,” she said. “Young Elizabeth was up first – she was the maid.”
“Worth her hire?”
“I would say so,” says Mistress Pamphlin, although her expression suggests that she has not always thought so kindly. “She was responsible for making up the kitchen stove and lighting a fire in the master’s study. I would be up not long after Elizabeth. The master had a taste for fresh bread, and he always praised my rolls and my pastry.” She smiles down into her teacup. “First, though, I made breakfast for myself, Elizabeth, and Henry.”
“Henry?”
“Henry Moor. Sir Edmund’s valet. Amongst other things.”
“You did not approve of Henry Moor?”
“He was a tricky one, that’s all I’m saying. Nothing more than that.”
I take a sip of tea and regard Mistress Pamphlin over the rim. “And after breakfast?”
“Then the master would either work in his study or go out on business. That could be him gone until ten in the evening, or only for a few hours. No day was the same. He would call me to him before he went out, and give his instructions for dinner.” She puts her head on one side. “He was not one for parties, but what a man for meetings,” she says. “He was forever out here and there, discussing parish business, or lawyering, or visiting property, or seeing to the coal and the wood business. He kept his hands busy, that one.”
“And when he was at home? How did he amuse himself?”
“Like any other gentlemen, I suppose. Reading and writing letters.”
She breaks off, and we are silent for a few moments thinking about the dead man. It is a melancholy picture. What kind of man spends all hours at work and then closets himself up alone? Where were his friends, his pastimes, his diversions?
“No friendships?’ I ask.
“Not many. He saw his family. His brothers. His cousin.” Her voice trails away.
“And?”
She shakes her head. “You will likely not have heard of him, but he did have a friendship with an Irishman; a faith healer, would you believe? With an outlandish name. Valentine something.”
“Valentine Greatrakes? My mother is much taken with him.” I roll my eyeballs, and am pleased to see Mistress Pamphlin nod in agreement.
“I don’t hold with that sort of nonsense,” she says. We sip our tea and she takes a second scone. With renewed confidence, I press on.
“Were you there when Titus Oates visited Sir Edmund?”
“Yes. He came twice, Dr. Oates did, both times with another man, Israel Tonge. Sir Edmund had many visitors and kept many papers secured on his clients’ behalf. But those two did stand out. Even before we knew what they were involved in.”
“In what way did they stand out?”
“Voices were raised. An argument of some kind. Sir Godfrey showed them the door himself when it was his normal custom to call on Moor for that. And after that second visit, he stayed in his workroom for hours. He refused his supper and would not even let me bring him wine. Whatever they said to him, he was most unhappy.”
“What can you tell me about his disappearance?”
Mistress Pamphlin takes a deep breath and blows out her cheeks. Suddenly there are tears in her eyes. “To live in a house where a person has been murdered, and a good person at that, is not a happy experience. You know he went missing on the Saturday? At first, it was a normal day, just ordinary. But then…” She bends toward the fire and gives it a few firm thrusts with the poker.
“I was in the kitchen around dinner time, making a sauce, when Henry Moor appeared in the doorway. He was all of a fidget, full of questions. Had I seen the master that morning? What orders had he given? When did I expect him home? I’d no time for such chatter and told him so directly, but still he hung about the doorway. I asked him what need he had of the master anyway at that time of day. He gave me some cheek about pestering him with questions. Before I could point out that he was the one with all the questions, he was off again. I went on with my work, but Moor’s jitters set me thinking.” She stops and appears lost in thought.
“What were you thinking?”
“Well, I don’t know why I’m even telling you,” she says, shaking herself slightly. “It has nothing to do with the matter. Yet, it is all in my mind now, so you shall hear it. Moor’s tetchiness reminded me that Sir Edmund had been rattled the night before. I had knocked at his study at nine o’clock to see if he needed anything further before I retired. I found him out of his seat and stuffing papers in the fire. He was in shirtsleeves, with the arms rolled up and his collar band discarded on the floor beside his chair. His hands were full of folded documents, which he was thrusting furiously into the flames.”
“My goodness! What was it? What could he have been burning?”
She looks up at me tight-lipped and slightly pink in the cheeks. “I thought it might have been something of mine. I had a cottage mortgaged to him. I feared he might be burning my deeds in with Lord knew what else. But no. He said my deeds were safe and that I had nothing to fear. He said that for me, all was safe.”
“And what did you take to be his meaning?”
“I took nothing from it at the time, except disliking his manner of speaking to me. Later, I wondered if he was hiding something. If he was, it did him no good. They killed him anyway.”
A hundred ideas about what Godfrey might have been burning wheel around my mind. “How did he say the words? With what emphasis? He said that you had nothing to fear. Was there any implication that although you were safe, he was not?’
“Oh certainly,” says Mistress Pamphlin, folding her arms across her chest. “And that was how the brothers, Mr. Michael and Mr. Benjamin, took his meaning. They said it meant their brother knew his life was at risk. And he was right.”
“When did you realise he was missing?”
She tells me that the uneasiness felt by Godfrey’s household grew throughout that Saturday. When the master failed to arrive home in the early evening as expected, the three servants held conference in the kitchen. It was agreed between them that Henry Moor should go to the brother, Michael Godfrey. He returned with the instruction that they wait until morning before taking things further, so they each took a small brandy and then retired for the night.
The following mo
rning, she confirmed with her own eyes that Godfrey’s bed had not been slept in. Moor then fetched the two brothers, Michael and Benjamin, and between them they tried to contact Godfrey’s close acquaintances and business colleagues – anyone who might have seen him the day before. Mistress Pamphlin had tried to be optimistic, but the brothers and Moor were shaking their heads. As early as the Sunday, she overheard them talking about papists following Sir Edmund around the city.
“Is it true that the brothers were very clear and vocal in declaring that Sir Edmund was murdered by papists? Did they ever indicate what led them to that conclusion?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. But we were all at sixes and sevens. Moor was absent all hours of the day and night. Mr. Michael spoke to me and Elizabeth and made it clear it was the papists they feared. Then the body was found. And there’s no doubting the fact that the master was much put about by being involved with Titus Oates.”
“Can you remember anything else about Oates’s visits? Do you know what they argued about?”
“No. I only know that after their second visit he was particularly distressed. He wouldn’t eat or drink. He only called for more candles and then sent Moor out delivering letters.”
“Where is Henry Moor these days, do you know?”
“Not the least idea. He disappeared into thin air, not days after the funeral. But he’s no loss to anyone, that one.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nat
Our investigation into Godfrey’s death isn’t moving forward fast enough. I want – I need – to see Oates brought to heel. In order to undermine public belief in him and his plots, I take regular aim at him in The Observator. In every edition, I make sure to launch a personal attack on the good doctor. I dwell on the lack of evidence for his doctorate and his bizarre career, particularly in Hastings and in the Navy. I send Kineally back to every place where Titus has lived and worked, and have him gather criticism upon criticism of Oates’s lifestyle, his language, his religious attitudes, his drunkenness. Anything that is said against Oates, Henry and I print. I invent a series of dialogues featuring Titus and one of his fawning little cronies. My trick is that the friend is terribly dim and keeps asking questions that Titus does not wish to answer. When Kineally finally obtains evidence that Oates’s doctorate from Salamanca is a complete fiction, we devote a whole page of The Observator to Titus being probed by this “friend” for details of his time studying divinity.
“He is still dangerous,” cautions William, sitting back in his chair at our dining table.
“What can he do that he has not done already?” I say.
William opens his mouth as if to speak, but then closes it again. Anne, bless her kind heart, asks him a question about one of Henry’s print boys who has been unwell. The awkward moment dissolves. William continues to be morose but Anne brings out the best in him. We are all assembled – Henry, William, Anne, Kineally and I – to review what we have learned so far about Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death. Anne describes her visit to Mistress Pamphlin.
“What I want to know,” she says in summary, “well, there are several things I want to know. First, where is Henry Moor?”
I nod at Kineally. He will take that on.
“Then, what did Godfrey burn the night before he disappeared?”
“That may be relevant,” said Henry. “A man does not usually know that he is going to be murdered. Murder victims are not known for putting their papers in order before they die. A suicide, on the other hand…”
“True,” I say. “Yes. I would very much like to know what it was.”
“Then there is the question of Oates and this other man, Tonge,” says Anne. “Why was their business so upsetting to Sir Edmund?”
“I will go and visit Israel Tonge,” I say. “Although after what his son did to us, I may struggle to keep a civil tongue in my head.”
“Use it to your advantage,” says Henry. “He is a lonely, crazed old man. Tell him he is lucky that you have not sought revenge against Simpson for his attempt to entrap you. Tell him he owes you some answers.”
“I shall. Anything else?”
“Only Valentine Greatrakes,” says Anne. “Such a strange choice of friend for the magistrate.”
I agree with her. “Does anyone know anything about him?” The men around the table shake their heads, but Anne bites her lip.
“I do,” she says. “My mother is one of his clients.”
***
The next day, as I head off to see what I can shake out of old Israel Tonge, I mull over the matter of the Irishman, Greatrakes. I told Anne that it is probably not worth pursuing. She has her reasons for not seeing her mother and I have agreed with her, at least in part because it suits me to forget their disapproval. When I returned from Edinburgh, she told me that she was finished with her family, excepting only Sarah, and I did not shed a tear for her decision. But now? How much have I thought about what is best for Anne? And am I even thinking of her now, or do I just want an easy route to talking to Valentine Greatrakes about Godfrey? Perhaps a little of both? The man I was before those months alone in Edinburgh was never so introspective or questioning.
Israel Tonge is perfectly horrified to see me. I lean against the door frame with my arms folded, and smile broadly at him as he peers out. Behind wire frames, his large eyes blink in alarm. Brown liver spots dance across his bald head and grey hair sprouts from his fleshy ears. They stretch south like melted wax.
“What?” He is all bluster and spittle as I push open the door and stroll past him. “I shall… I shall call a constable!”
I find my way into his little parlour room. He has no choice but to follow.
“Mr. Thompson,” he begins, his hands fluttering. “My son—”
“I’m not interested in your son,” I say. “I want to sit down and talk to you, not about Simpson, but about you. Where shall I sit?”
He is flummoxed, but gestures to one of the chairs and then sits down opposite me.
“I want to talk about Titus Oates. And about Sir Edmund Godfrey. I take it you can spare me half an hour.” The room is full of open books and disordered papers. Under the window, a large oak table is piled with manuscripts, and towers of papers are stacked up against the walls. Israel’s reputation is well known. If the disorder in the room is reflected in his mind, then rumours of his weak hold on reality may be well-founded.
“Why should I speak to you?” he snaps.
“Mmm.” I pretend to consider this for a moment and then bend forward, glaring directly into his mossy eyes. “I said I wasn’t interested in Simpson – and I’m not, at least not right now. But that could change. I would argue your family owes me some assistance, after what he did last year.”
“But you are not after him?” Tonge seems genuinely worried for his son.
“No. I won’t touch him. But you must answer my questions honestly. Can you do that?”
Tonge nods.
“Excellent.”
They say Israel Tonge’s mind was shattered when he lost his living to the same Great Fire that had brought Godfrey a knighthood. He’s a fanatic, one of many who have laid the blame for every disaster in London at the door of the Catholics. He has been finding out plots and foul conspiracies every year since 1666. Once he knows I am not after revenge against his fool of a son, he becomes quite talkative, as lonely old men often will.
“Did Titus ever stay here?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, of course he did.” Tonge’s forehead erupts with wormy wrinkles. “He had nowhere else to stay, poor man. He was so harshly treated by those Jesuits.” Tonge’s fingers dig into the arm of his chair.
“Was he a good companion?”
“Yes. He was always busy, mind you. In and out. In and out. And then working on his evidence.” Tonge gestures towards the table by the window and I try to picture Titus there, pen in hand. It is a struggle. In my mind, Oates is always swaggering around, with his flock of followers in tow.
“This wa
s the evidence that you took before Sir Edmund Godfrey?”
Tonge nods.
“Why Godfrey?”
He looks up at me sharply. “Why Godfrey?”
“Yes. How did you come to take your evidence to him? There are so many magistrates in London. Why choose him?” Tonge looks unsure. I wait.
“We were advised to,” he says.
“By?” It’s like walking through mud.
“The Lord Chief Justice.”
“The Lord Chief Justice? Scroggs?”
Tonge sneers at my surprise. “Yes, of course Scroggs. He was tasked by His Majesty to investigate our findings, and did so thoroughly. Then he asked us to lodge Titus’s statements with Sir Edmund Godfrey, and tell him to show them to no-one. And so we did.”
“And when was that?”
“The first time was in the beginning of September.”
“And you both went? You and Oates?”
“Yes.”
“What was your impression of Godfrey?”
He stares off into the fireplace for a few moments. “Well, he was very stiff.” I send a silent invocation to the heavens to help me find some patience.
“He was formal – which I suppose you would expect – but he was cold to the point of rudeness, very distant. Titus detested him, but then he is quick to take dislikes, isn’t he?” Tonge may have forgotten who I am, speaking about Oates so familiarly, but I have no intention of interrupting his flow of thought.
“He was reluctant to take our evidence,” Tonge continues. “Godfrey asked numerous questions before he’d even look at Titus’s statement. Perhaps that was what Titus didn’t like? What do you think?”
I manage to shrug my shoulders. No doubt Tonge is a little wandered in his understanding, but his grasp of the past is firm so I keep probing. “Can you remember any of the questions?”
“I suppose so.” Tonge works his fingers backwards and forwards across his brow. “He asked what it was about. And Titus said it was about fires. About criminals planning fires in London. Then he asked who these criminals were and Titus mentioned the priest, Fenwick. Godfrey said he knew him a little. He was even stiffer with us after that.”
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