“Nearly is not enough, Nat. For you, for me, for Anne, all of us. We must be rid of Titus Oates.”
***
I associate Ely with Cromwell and his New Model Army, with the Civil War that raged at the time of my birth and left me fatherless. I expect an austere, unfriendly place. Yet, a few hours away from London, when the horses slow and the coachman directs me to look out of the window to the left, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s a cloudless day. Flat fields of golden rye spread away into the distance. It’s as if there is nothing in the world except this bold expanse of nodding crops and the bright, blue sky. Then I shuffle forward and look at the road ahead. The skyline is broken by a looming, grey building erupting out of the earth, still some five miles off. Ely Cathedral.
At the close of the journey, golden fields give way to fruit crops. Young cherry trees and strawberry hedges remind me that I’ve not always lived in the city. One step out of the coach, however, and I’m quickly brought back to sober reality. We’ve pulled into the yard of an inn, but the whole area is inches deep in water. Drainage is clearly a pressing issue in Ely. Wrinkling my nose, I resolve once more to go about my business and return to London as quickly as possible. It doesn’t take long to discover Henry Moor.
While Ely might lack the polish of London – its menfolk more concerned with the price of wool than with the immortal soul of the next King of Great Britain – certain aspects of society are little different. I find Moor at lunch-time, in a thick-walled, bustling tavern, eating mutton pie, washed down with a strong ale. My recollection of him from my one sighting at the viewing of Godfrey’s body is hazy, but once I clap eyes on the small, stiff back, the grey curling hair, and his sharp beak of a nose, I’m sure it is him.
After Moor leaves, a modest outlay to the landlord buys me information about the former servant’s life since his return to Ely. To my reckoning, Moor must have left London very soon after his meeting with Prance. But in the miles between city and town, he underwent a transformation. Moor arrived in Ely with his pockets well-lined. He bought up the row of houses where he had lived as a boy, and leased them out. He brought his wife with him and purchased a substantial house near the river on the south side of the Cathedral. Then he set about elbowing his way into parish affairs. There is no gossip about Moor himself, except that the old man has picked himself a much younger wife and mayhap wishes he hadn’t. He is rarely found at home, the landlord says, and it is widely believed that the little woman has a sharper tongue than the old boy bargained for.
I take myself out into the streets then, and spend an hour taking in the sights of Ely. The Cathedral is wonderful to behold, especially its octagonal tower panelled with stained glass, through which the sun spills a rainbow of colour. I pace the marble floors thinking about Moor and how best to approach him. My thoughts centre on his money and his new young wife, and I decide to take a look at their home.
The house is not far from the Cathedral and it’s a pretty property, built of sturdy split beams, set well back from the street with a neat box hedge. White wisteria has insinuated itself up and around a dozen little windows. There’s no doubt that Moor has come into money, and I’m flushed with certainty that his success and my mystery are connected.
I stop some ten yards or so from the house and have a hand above my brow to keep the bright sun from my eyes, so that I don’t see her until she is almost past me. Only the lightest clicking of wooden heels alerts me that someone is approaching. A slim young woman, dressed in a deep blue gown with a muslin shawl across her shoulders, swiftly crosses to the house, slips up the path, and is inside in a matter of moments. I catch only a fleeting glimpse of her, but it’s enough for me to recognise Elizabeth Curtis – Godfrey’s former maid, the one who gave evidence at the trial of Green, Berry, and Hill. She is dressed very much as the lady now, though, and must be, for there is no other explanation to be had, married to Henry Moor.
I can use this.
***
By eleven the following morning, I’ve given myself a new name and inveigled my way into Moor’s house. I confront Godfrey’s maid in her own well-appointed parlour.
“Well, sir,” she says. “Your note said you had important family news for me from London?”
“Yes, it did.” I make her a small bow, and a vain little smirk replaces her haughtiness. “But sadly, I lied.”
Unhappy thoughts ripple across her face like wind wrinkling cloth. She is pretty but has a weak chin and small eyes. I take a seat, uninvited, and her mouth falls open.
Perhaps it’s unkind to threaten such a young girl. She is twenty years old, at most, but she has that look about her that makes me think she has seen a thing or two. I don’t waste any time. I tell her I know who she is, and that I’m prepared to advise anyone in Ely who will listen that the fine lady they are treating so well is no better than a kitchen maid.
She doesn’t like the idea. “What do you want?” She takes the chair opposite me and folds her hands in her lap.
“Information.”
“About?”
“About the death of Sir Edmund Godfrey.”
She doesn’t like this, but neither does she look particularly surprised. “And who are you? Why do you want to know about the old man?”
I say nothing.
“Perhaps,” she says, “you might be satisfied with something other than information?” Her words are heavy with suggestion.
“I’m not interested in your money.”
“And do you think I’ve nothing else to offer?”
The kind of offer she has in mind is all too clear.
“Understand me, Mistress Moor, I’m here solely for information. I’ve come here for the truth about what happened in London. I want to know why you lied in court, and I want to know who has paid you and Moor so handsomely. I want to know what you and he did, to earn all this.” I stand and spread my arms wide to indicate the fine furniture, the maps, the ornate little clock, all the trappings of her new life. She turns, flushed and open-mouthed, about to say more, but I raise a warning finger. “Believe me, I will know what happened and I will hear your tale today. I will wait in this room. When your husband returns, you’ll convince him to tell me the truth. If not, I will ruin you both. I have heard that you manage your husband very well, Mistress Moor. Manage this, and you will not hear from me again.”
With that, I pick up a slim volume from the bookcase near my chair and sit back. I begin to read and don’t so much as glance her way. After a few seconds, she leaves the room and closes the door behind her.
About an hour later, Moor enters. His face is fixed like a mask and his hands are tight-clenched at his sides. He orders me out of the house, of course, and has some choice comments on my appearance, including – in his assessment – my obvious lack of physical strength. We bandy a few insults back and forth. William might be right. I may have to choke the truth from this man.
But Mistress Moor is not finished. She bustles into the room with teacups rattling, and although she tries to cut off my view, I see her grip her husband’s ear between one finger and thumb and twist it. She leaves us but doesn’t close the door. I’m sure she’s right outside, hanging on every word.
Grudgingly, Moor begins to talk. He says Sir Edmund Godfrey was out of sorts for some days, possibly weeks, before he vanished. He was curt, off-hand, preoccupied. By the Saturday afternoon, the first day of his disappearance, Moor claims he knew something was seriously wrong. Godfrey had failed to meet a business acquaintance at five o’clock, and such a thing was unheard of. Moor’s first action had been to inform his master’s brother, Michael. From that moment, all had been in the Godfrey brothers’ hands.
“In the early days, they asked me to keep the disappearance quiet,” he says. “But when the Tuesday came and there was still no word – when rumours began to spread that their brother had been murdered by papists – then they went to the authorities. Up until the Tuesday, there had only been me, working alone, searching all Sir Edmund’
s haunts, tracking down anyone he might have spoken to, looking for witnesses, and trying to keep the other servants back in Hartshorn Lane from falling into a panic.”
There’s a note of pride in his voice that makes him believable.
“How did it come to be rumoured that he had been murdered by Catholics?” I ask.
“I have no idea. But I wasn’t surprised. I spoke to anyone that might have seen Sir Edmund and anyone that knew him. That was a lot of people. And I’m sure that they spoke to their friends, who discussed it with their friends. You know what London is. The coffee shops thrive on gossip and speculation. And the master was most upset after the visits of Dr. Oates. Didn’t he tell some of his friends he was afraid? No, I wasn’t surprised by the rumours. And of course, they were proved right.”
“But what did you – what did the brothers think – when the body was found in such strange circumstances?”
“Honestly?”
I nod.
“I gave it barely a thought. I’m not ashamed of it. When a master dies, a servant has his own future to look to. I’ll admit I was surprised when they found him near Primrose Hill. I had been there myself, earlier in the week. Passed the very place, and there was no sign of him. His body must still have been in Somerset House.” Moor shakes his head. “But you see, Elizabeth was very upset. None of us servants knew what would happen to us. I did what I could for the family in the hope that the master’s brothers might offer me another position, but they did not. I saw nothing of them after the funeral, and was given notice to leave the house before the end of November.”
“Yet you are remarkably comfortable here.”
“Aye. I’ve been a lucky man. An aunt of mine died and her son with her. Quite sudden, but timely for me. I’ve no other family living. But now I hope for a son. Do you have any children?”
“I… no. No, none.” The question throws me. Moor is more suited to be a grandfather than a new father, and I’m suddenly furious. Imagining that this venal, old liar might soon have a child on his knee while Anne and I just wait and hope, burns me inside. I turn on him. “Yet your wife perjured herself at the trial of your master’s murderers.”
“Did she? Who says so?” Moor’s tone has changed, as mine has. He raises his eyebrows and looks belligerent.
“Miles Prance.”
It’s a direct hit. Moor unbends his knees and stands up. “We should walk a little.”
He leads me out of the house and into the garden in silence. His mind is surely busy, wondering what I know and what he might have to tell me. I have a boiling need to finish this and get back home to Anne. When Moor steers me into a tunnel of dog-rose, the hairs on my arms stand up.
We’re side by side when Moor twists away, as if his coat’s snagged on a thorn. In the next moment, he has a blade at my throat. He pins me back against the foliage, one hand gripping my neck-band and the other pressing his steel into my skin. He’s shorter than me, but there is strength in the wiry arm against my chest.
“Who are you?” he demands.
“No-one.”
“Who sent you?” His spittle lands on the side of my face.
“Does it matter?”
“Answer the question.”
I take a step into the unknown. “Michael Godfrey,” I say.
“What?” Moor blinks rapidly, and the pressure of the knife at my throat eases a fraction. It’s enough for me to shove him back and punch him in the jaw. He drops the knife, and I grab it while he clutches his face. I push the blade against his skin just below his right ear. A line of red appears.
“You set up Miles Prance. You and Titus Oates came across Prance and saw an opportunity. But that kind of service doesn’t bring this level of reward. There must have been more.” William’s desperation to have this finished spurs me on. “Tell me the rest or I’ll kill you.”
My free hand is on his throat. My fingers press so hard that his eyeballs roll and he’s gasping for breath. Anger rolls through me. “Tell me what you did and who you know, or I’ll kill you, and when I’m done I’ll go and visit your pretty wife.” My breath is on his face.
Then I smell it. Warm liquid spreads across Moor’s breeches and his mouth gapes open. I grit my teeth and push the knife a fraction harder.
“I’ll tell you, you bastard,” he says, tears of shame rising his eyes. “They found the body. I don’t know where. The brothers found him and sent for me. They paid me to make arrangements. They told me nothing of how he had died but said I must hide the body. A few days later, they told me to leave it somewhere – a place with no connection to anyone in the family. I was to stick a sword in him, so everyone would know he’d been murdered. The money was beyond anything I could have hoped for. It’s not as if he left me anything. I was jobless and desperate, and he was already dead. I just made the best of it.”
“So, you put the body in the ditch at Primrose Hill?”
“Yes.”
“It was never at Somerset House?”
“No.”
“And why did you choose Primrose Hill?”
“I had to choose somewhere. I knew that the Horseshoe Tavern was friendly to Catholics. By the time they told me the body should be dumped, half the city was certain Godfrey had been murdered by Catholics. It was as good a place as any. The rest I’ve told you already.”
He is less afraid now and, thank God, I am myself again. I let the blade off his skin.
“What happens now?” he says.
“You go home and change, and I go back to London.”
“And the Godfreys? Will they find out I’ve told you?” His eyes narrow. I need to let him go and then get out of Ely, before he decides to come after me.
“I don’t know, Moor,” I say. “You will just have to wait and see.”
Chapter Thirty
Anne
Nat is different after his trip to Ely. He tells me what he has learned about Moor’s part in the Godfrey mystery, but where I expect him to be jubilant, he is sombre: no less passionate to destroy Oates, yet more subdued than I anticipate. He tells me little about Henry Moor, beyond the astonishing fact that Moor and the housemaid are married. I must call on Mistress Pamphlin and let her know. Her mouth will form a perfect ‘o’ in surprise.
When I ask how he got the truth from Moor, he shrugs off my questions. I’m hurt, although I won’t show it, and old fears re-surface. I dread him retreating from me and returning to the way he was in the early days of our marriage when he kept his thoughts and plans so close to his chest. But a couple of days later, Nat gives me the draft of his new edition of The Observator to read – even before he takes it to Henry. It’s casually done, and I don’t remark upon it. I simply take the paper and sit down to read by the window. But my heart pounds and I am close to tears. This is the first time he has asked my opinion of his work.
The piece declares that Nat has found the truth about the death of the magistrate, Sir Edmund Godfrey. He writes that Godfrey killed himself on Saturday, October the 12th, 1678. He hanged himself, and the fact that he was not robbed supports this theory. The only thing missing was his pocketbook. Who, Nat asks, might not want Godfrey’s personal notes left in public hands? Next, Nat announces that he has new evidence about what happened to the corpse. The accepted tale of his body being moved from room to room at Somerset House is utter flim-flam. The reason no soldier saw Godfrey’s body being removed in a sedan chair, as Miles Prance testified it was, is obvious. The body was never there in the first place. Nat takes a side-swipe at Prance, too, and declares that the little silversmith is shortly to be arrested for perjury.
“Is this true? About Prance?”
“Being arrested?” says Nat with a smile. “No. It ought to be. But he is long gone.”
I smile back and read on.
He quickly demolishes the physical evidence of murder. The doctor, Skillard, is a drunk. With witness testimonies from patients, Nat easily discredits Skillard and his confusing evidence at the trial of Green, Berry, and H
ill. More witness evidence comes from people present at the hasty inquest held in the Horseshoe Tavern. Several jurymen complain vigorously about the length of time the inquest had taken, the muddle of the evidence between the broken neck, the stab wounds made by his own sword, and the bruising to Godfrey’s chest and neck.
“I like this bit,” I say. Nat puts a hand on my shoulder as I point to a passage where he anticipates the counter-arguments. He acknowledges the possibility that Godfrey was beaten first and then hanged. It is undeniable that the body was somehow transported to a ditch and impaled upon his own sword. Rawson and Brown’s evidence is incontrovertible. But what kind of murderer acts in this way? His fingers squeeze my shoulder, and a burst of happiness fills my stomach.
“What about this section with Lazenby?” he asks, and I read about this other physician Nat has found. Lazenby has read up every description of the marks about Godfrey’s neck, and spent hours mulling over the bruises on his chest. He will swear that the neck damage is as consistent with self-strangulation as with strangulation by another. As no blood had been found in the ditch or on Godfrey’s clothing, he suggests that the bruising might be due to a pooling of blood.
“It isn’t watertight,” he says.
“You don’t mention Henry Moor,” I say, still greedily reading.
“I won’t until I need to. That will come in time.”
“I love this section on motive.” This time, his hand grazes my cheek and I raise my free hand and stroke his fingers. What kind of murderer, he has rightly asked, strangles a man and then ferries him halfway into the countryside to leave him with his sword in him, in a ditch? To what purpose, to what end, could such proceedings relate? It makes no sense. And it made no sense because the story told at the trial of Green, Berry, and Hill, was not founded in sense, but in nonsense. Nat has employed all the tricks he has honed in The Observator, setting up the argument he opposes, and then grinding it into the dust point by point. Why would the Catholics murder Godfrey? Obviously, because he had knowledge of their Plot. But by mid-October, Oates’s deposition had been accepted by the Privy Council and the Commons was in uproar. That bird had flown.
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