***
Within minutes of knocking at his door I am in his study and launching into my story of Henry Moor and Godfrey’s brothers. I tell him about Moor interfering with the evidence by abandoning the body in a ditch and thrusting him through with his own sword.
“Michael and Benjamin Godfrey would have lost all their brother’s wealth if it was known he had taken his own life.”
“If he took his own life.” Southwell knocks the wind from my sails with one sally from the other side of his grand oak desk. “Sit down and take a breath. Why do you suggest suicide?”
“Why else have Moor go to all that trouble? The anti-Catholic hysteria created by Oates was a gift to them. It was in many people’s interest to make the Popish Plot credible. I’m sure the brothers could hardly believe their good fortune. But without this cornerstone fact of Godfrey’s murder, Oates is vulnerable.”
“Perhaps,” Southwell says. He holds up a hand when I start to speak. “I have read The Observator and applaud your efforts. Do I take it that Henry’s accident does not deter you?”
I swallow and think of Anne. “I am only more set on seeing Titus Oates in gaol.”
“As am I. Henry was my friend for more than forty years.” He reaches down and strokes the head of a spaniel that I had not even noticed sitting next to him. “You need to lie low,” he says, and nods in approbation when I explain my morning’s work. “Good. Because when you print these accusations, you will be highly unpopular with Oates. Your lives will be at risk, if they are not already. The Godfrey brothers may well want to speak to you, too. At least Shaftesbury is unwell and not in a position to make trouble. That makes the brothers less influential, too, at least for the moment. It may be worth hinting that they were politically, as well as financially, motivated to obscure the facts around Godfrey’s death. And I’d certainly advise you to disappear for a week or so.”
“They won’t be charged over this?”
“You have no proof that it was suicide. And only Moor’s word against theirs.”
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“Ah, but never forget that this is a means to an end,” he says. ‘History is full of innocent men who’ve hanged, and guilty men who’ve died in their sleep in their own warm beds. You are no lawyer, and you can only fight with the tools you have to hand. Thus far, you’re doing an excellent job.”
“So, what do we aim for, for Oates? A treason trial?”
“Hardly that!”
Hearing the derision in Southwell’s voice, my temper catches fire. “Why not? The man has lied and made fools of everyone. Not to mention the deaths he has caused!”
“Yes, but think of the implications, Nat. Think beyond Titus Oates.” Southwell leans forward and jabs a finger at me. “Did Henry Broome teach you nothing? Such arrogance you have. That’s been your problem all along, young man.”
“What implications?”
“Who has thrown their weight behind Oates? Who has publicly praised him? How many fine dinners has the man eaten? In whose houses has he run tame? You said it yourself. He has made fools of everyone. But not every fool wants to be known as one.”
“So, truth and honesty, these things mean nothing any more?” I’m out of my chair, pacing the room. ‘It’s all about politics and reputation and keeping steady, regardless of the cost. Damn it, where’s your soul, Southwell? You cast up Henry to me, but he was not as cold as this, by God. He would have seen this as I do. I’m sure of it.”
“Really?” Southwell is as calm as I am outraged. “Henry was, as I am, a pragmatist. We’ve been through things in our lifetimes that young men like you don’t even dream of. Did you see a King’s head taken from his shoulders on the steps of Whitehall? No. But we did. Have you seen Englishmen killing Englishmen, heard Cromwell thunder? Did you see the city fill with colour at the Restoration, or then turn black with plague and fire? No. There is a difference, Nat, between knowing the truth and knowing what to do with it. Actions have consequences. A lesson I thought you might have learned.”
“But where’s your passion? How can you tolerate what Oates has brought on us?”
“Don’t underestimate the situation, Nat. Look at the King. He has no legitimate children. James will inherit, and there will be a Catholic King in England again. What will that mean for us all? Perhaps if we waited for a few years. Perhaps if James was King, Oates could be tried for treason.”
“Perhaps. What good is perhaps?”
“What good is any of it?” Southwell gets to his feet and starts poking at the fireplace. “I mean for what, or for whom, are you doing this, Nathaniel? Even if Oates is tried for treason and hanged, what will have changed? Henry will still be dead.”
His words silence me. While I ponder, he pours us some wine.
“I am not without passion,” he continues. “I am a courtier, though. And I do know, whether I like it or not, what is possible and what is not. You are right that Titus Oates is an affront to honest men. You are right that something should be done about it. But it will not be a treason trial. That puts too many reputations at risk.”
The wine tastes burnt on my tongue. The disappointment is crushing, but I have promised Anne that we will pursue this to the end. I force myself to focus, and piece by piece I walk Southwell through my attack on Titus Oates. I show him a new pamphlet, re-visiting the trial of Godfrey’s supposed murderers.
“However the man died, it was certainly not at the hands of Robert Green, Lawrence Hill, and Henry Berry. As you know, Oates’s plot revelations were known to the Privy Council days prior to Godfrey’s disappearance. I’m ready to wager that the Queen’s residence and the Savoy next door were already under observation. Inside Somerset House, it’s a warren of rooms and apartments. You know that every bit as well as I. On the night of Godfrey’s murder, I will prove that the King and his whole court were there.”
Southwell nods.
“Is that the place that any sane person would choose to stage a murder?”
“No.”
“I’ve interviewed all the witnesses, the Catholic witnesses whose testimony was outrageously disregarded during the trial. Even the greatest dunderhead alive could not argue with it. There is simply no way those men could have hidden Godfrey’s body in Somerset House. On the day Henry was killed I was out visiting the apartments Prance alleged were used.” From my bag I pull an illustration of the rooms in question and we pore over it together. “The body was supposed to have lain in a small chamber off the main living apartments of a Dr. Godden. Godden, his niece Mary, and their servant Mistress Broadstreet, all gave me clear, straightforward statements. Every night they ate supper beside the door where the body was supposed to have been concealed. Every night Hill helped Mistress Broadstreet serve them, and then their doors were locked for the night while they read or played cards together. The little room was barely more than a cupboard. It had only one entrance. If Hill’s witnesses had not been Catholic, it was certain that he would never have been found guilty. The story makes me sick to my stomach.”
“You must impart that sentiment to your readers.”
“I will.”
He hands me my papers and his eyes flit toward the clock in the corner.
“I had some other ideas about Godfrey,” I say.
“Go on.”
“As you said, I have only Moor’s word for it that Godfrey killed himself. I don’t know if I will ever be able to prove it. I have been thinking, though, about why he might have done so. What motive did he have to take his own life? If I find that, I destroy any vestige of support for Oates’s claims about Godfrey’s so-called murder.”
“I like your reasoning.”
“Good. It occurred to me that Godfrey might have given someone access to Oates’s deposition.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Henry.”
“Explain.”
“When Henry and I viewed Godfrey’s body, he talked about him a little. You know what Henry was like. He c
ollected titbits of information like cat hair on a blanket. He told me Godfrey was friends with Edward Coleman.”
“He did?” Southwell’s voice betrays his interest. Good.
“And then there is old Tonge. Israel Tonge told me he saw Coleman outside Godfrey’s house on the morning that they went to Whitehall. I put myself in Godfrey’s shoes. I have this incendiary deposition in my hands. I’ve been given it by two clear rascals, neither of whom I’d trust an inch. I’m a shrewd man, a fair judge of character, and I know my politics. If this story grows wings, then my friends, all of us, are in danger.”
“Why wouldn’t Godfrey have believed them? Instinct? Experience?”
“Probably both. Tonge has never impressed anyone and Oates was poor back then, with no-one but Israel Tonge standing between him and vagrancy. He’d been begging alms from priests outside Somerset House only weeks before. Imagine how he must have appeared to Godfrey. Godfrey probably knew from instinct and from fact that Oates was a liar. Tonge said Oates spoke against one of the priests, Fenwick, and that Godfrey knew him as well as Coleman. Perhaps that’s how he knew it was a pack of falsehoods. He decided to tell Edward Coleman what was happening.”
Southwell says nothing.
“It makes perfect sense,” I say. “Godfrey let Coleman read his copy of the deposition, and Coleman took it straight to his employer, the King’s brother, James, Duke of York.”
For a full minute we stare at each other.
“You would have confided in Henry,” I say.
Southwell gets slowly to his feet and goes to the fireplace. “It’s ironic really,” he says, his back facing me as he stares into the fire. “Henry would have enjoyed this aspect, I am sure. You see, Godfrey did have everything to do with the Popish Plot being taken seriously, but not in the way the public imagines.
“The truth, Nathaniel, is that the King was trying to hush it all up. His advisors were toying with Tonge and Oates while working out the easiest way to get rid of them and their outlandish claims. But Godfrey told Coleman, and Coleman told James. The King’s brother is not known for his politicking, is he? In front of the Privy Council, he insisted that Charles investigate these slanders against Catholics most fully. It was Godfrey’s actions that caused the plot to reach the public. Not his death, however that came to be construed.”
It’s so enormous and yet so simple at the same time. Godfrey had told Coleman. Coleman had told James. Godfrey, arguably, had committed treason.
“Sir Edmund Godfrey was an upright, uptight, moralist,” I say. “Yet he suddenly found himself embroiled in something totally abhorrent to his whole code of living. We have witness testimonies that Godfrey had been in fear for his own life in his last days. His housekeeper told Anne he was burning papers the night before he disappeared. The explanation of his suicide is there, crystal clear.”
“But there is still no evidence. And I will never confirm this conversation. You know that.”
I do know that, but him saying so dashes me to despair yet again. If there is a way forward, I am struggling to see it.
“What about a charge of perjury?” I say, finally. “Surely we must be able to disprove some of Oates’s statements. He has lied many times under oath. I’ll look at the court records. Find discrepancies.”
Southwell, back behind his desk, takes a long sip of wine and slowly inclines his head. “That is much more likely. And now that your friend William Smith has come forward—”
“He has what?”
“You didn’t know?” Southwell is smiling, back to his smooth, cold self again. “Your friend came to visit me the day after Henry’s funeral. He was much distressed, but in the end, he told me something highly significant. He is to sign a statement to be taken to the Privy Council.”
“A statement? To what effect?”
“That he perjured himself in the priests’ trial. Oates forced him to do it, he says.”
“My God.”
“Quite.”
“I haven’t laid eyes on him since Henry died.”
“He is greatly ashamed, and avoiding both you and your wife.”
“I need to see him!”
“I am not sure you would find him. He has refused to furnish me with an address. But if you choose to wait and promise to be gentle with the poor fellow, I am expecting him here later this afternoon. He will need his friends around him if he is to stand up in court and condemn Titus Oates to his face. Perhaps you will return later and hear his story for yourself?”
“You know I will.”
***
William looks haggard and unwell. At the sight of me, he staggers, as if his legs will go from under him. I grab his elbow and manoeuvre him into the chair in front of Southwell’s desk. With a tact I had not suspected him of possessing, Sir Robert removes himself from the room for a few minutes.
“You could have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“I wanted to. I should have done. I sincerely wish I had. If only I had told you earlier. If we had acted against Titus sooner… I have nothing but ifs and regrets.” William smacks his fists against his temples. It’s an alarming sight. “I should not have been so rash at the theatre. I should never have lied for him. I haven’t been able to face you and Anne. You have lost your dearest friend. And all my fault!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, William. Listen to me. Heaven knows, what you say is an echo of what I have been saying to myself every moment since that damned fire. I should never have spoken out against Oates. I should not have written as I did, or fought with him in the street, or attacked him at the theatre, or insulted him every day. I’ve pursued this relentlessly, desperate to destroy him for any number of reasons, not all of them noble. Even after being forced to abandon my grieving wife, I could not give it up. Now I have lost a man who was a second father to me, and to what end?”
“You are a good man, Nat. Anne believes in you and so did Henry. Oates did this to him, no-one else.”
“If that’s true, then the same holds true for you, William. Titus Oates’s men set that fire. We must not forget it. Whatever the provocation, the act and its consequences are his responsibility, not yours.”
A half smile. “Or yours.”
The storm in his eyes eases a little. We are both bruised. Both guilty. But not totally responsible.
“I want to put this right, Nat,” says William. “In as much as I can.”
“The evidence at the priests’ trial was a lie? He threatened you? While I was in Edinburgh?”
William nods. “I had to swear that Oates was in London on a certain date or he would make sure that Matthew would die in Newgate.” He presses his lips together, keeping his obvious emotions in check. “Amongst other things.”
I want to say that I understand, but we have always stepped carefully around this friendship of William and Matthew’s, and I don’t want to make a mistake now.
“So, you will give evidence to your own perjury? You could go to gaol yourself.”
“I will do so gladly, so long as the same is true for Titus Oates.”
From the door, Southwell interrupts us. “It may not come to that, but it is well to consider the possibility and be prepared. Mr. Smith, you might also think about staying south of the river, near your friend here, for a period. I will prepare the grounds for Titus’s arrest with the Privy Council but you, Nat, are in charge of the court of public opinion. This time we will need our Catholic witnesses to be heard. Hide out and stay safe, both of you. When the warrant for Oates’s arrest is ready, I will send word.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Anne
Not long after Nat leaves to seek out new lodgings, I knock on Sarah’s dressing room door.
“Can I talk to you for a moment, Sarah?” I ask.
“Of course, dearest.” She pulls me in to sit by her on a narrow couch. “What is it?”
“I have decided to go and see our mother.”
***
> Two hours later, we are admitted to our parents’ house. I have planned what to say and how to act, but I dread this meeting. The splendour of my old home surprises me. I was once so accustomed to all this finery – the high ceilings, the liveried footmen, the army of candles like a small forest – but now I see with new eyes. No wonder Nat has been afraid of disappointing me and nagged with doubt about what I had left behind. I must let him know how little it means to me.
Sarah whispers her hopes that we will heal the rifts in the family, but I’ve no serious intention of reconciliation. This visit is purely a means to an end.
My mother sweeps into the room and greets us both as if we were acquaintances arriving for tea, not her own children. She and Sarah have similar colouring and features, but where my sister’s expression is always warm and welcoming, my mother has a perpetual look of suspicion on her face. She is on the watch for disappointments or slights, and she broods on what she finds. I’m thankful that we have been able to keep news of the fire at our home from her. This would be an impossible task otherwise.
“I have come to apologise, Mama,” I say, squeezing my fingers together in my lap. “I hope you will forgive me for being distant for all these months.”
“Distant? Is that what you call it?” Her shoulders are tight and her lip quivers. There is anger there, but also anxiety, and I’m surprised by a tugging desire to comfort her. The next words I have planned to say are far from easy to deliver.
“I’m sorry. My letter was unkind. I was ungrateful.”
Beside me, Sarah’s lips part. “Are you actually apologising, Anne?” she says.
“Yes! I told you that’s why I wanted to come. Is it so shocking?”
“Frankly yes!” says Sarah. “When have you ever apologised for anything in all of your days? I can’t wait to tell Roger.”
“Our brother has nothing to do with this!” My sister has broken into laughter now. “Sarah!”
“You were ever the hothead, Anne,” says Mother, with an eyebrow raised.
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