‘This way.’
A guard ushers me into a small waiting room. It’s cold and smells of mildew. A middle-aged woman bustles in after me, closing the door behind her. I smile, thinking her to be the wife of another conspirator.
‘Remove your hat.’
Assuming she is used to this routine, I do as she instructs.
‘And cap.’
She probes my hair with her fingers, leaving me dishevelled and embarrassed.
‘What are you doing?’ I say, struggling to keep my poise.
‘Checking for small metal objects that might pick a lock.’
I realise she’s no visitor and is acting on orders to search me.
‘Take off your coat and dress.’
Her eyes are lined and deep pockmarks scar her sallow skin. It’s clear she’ll take no nonsense. I remove my dress and shiver.
‘Stays.’
‘Surely not!’
The woman glares.
I reach behind my back and pull at the lace to loosen it. Clothed only in my shift, I stand erect and feign confidence while the woman pats up and down my legs and across my body. This humiliation should infuriate me, but Arthur is charged with murder and high treason, and I accept she must be thorough.
‘Put your clothes back on.’
The woman flings the door wide open, permitting two yeoman guards to see me in a state of undress. I ignore their chuckles and do as instructed.
‘This was Walter Raleigh’s room,’ says Arthur, preening.
‘Then you’re in good company, but no doubt he enjoyed a few more home comforts.’
Arthur’s prison is a sizeable room with two small mullioned windows. A fireplace occupies one corner with cold ashes lingering in the grate. Bread and water sit untouched on a rickety old table, while discoloured plaster peels from the walls. There are tiny droppings on the floor confirming Arthur is not alone in this prison. There’s a basic wooden chair which Arthur pushes towards me. He leans against a wall, his sweat-stained shirt fluttering in a brisk draught from a gap at the side of the window frame.
‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Sometimes. But when I consider what lies ahead, I forget about it.’
‘How long will you stay here?’
Arthur shrugs. ‘Depends on the trial date. They’ll move me to Newgate before it starts – sooner rather than later, I hope. I want to get this over with.’
‘Arthur, what happened?’
He turns towards me. In three days, he has turned from a neat, upright man with a soldier’s bearing to a thin and grubby felon.
‘A group of us assembled at Cato Street to collect weapons. We were due to go to Lord Harrowby’s house for nine o’clock, by which time the Cabinet ministers would have been sitting together in the dining room, making them easy pickings. But the Runners knew our plans.’ He pauses. ‘Remember Davidson?’
I nod, recalling the charming gentleman with excellent carpentry skills.
‘He was downstairs keeping watch. Two officers grabbed him. Others came up the ladder to a small hayloft where we were checking weapons. It was chaos. I snuffed the candles for a chance at a getaway, but it made things worse and someone gave the order for the Runners to kill us. One drew a sword, so I dealt with him before he used it.’ Arthur smiles. ‘It was his life or mine.’
The rest of the visit drags and I’m eager to leave. At last, Arthur grows weary and lies on a lumpy mattress on the cold flagstone floor. When his throat rumbles with the first sign of sleep, I knock on the door for the guard to let me out.
I begin the long walk home, my mood subdued. If Arthur’s found guilty at trial, my actions will have contributed to condemning him to a traitor’s death. I too will have blood on my hands. But I recall the dread of sharing his bed, the beatings, the violations of my body, and his fingers pressing against my neck. It would only be a matter of time before he went too far.
I did what I had to do. It was his life, or mine.
Chapter 47
The wedding is a merry occasion, and I’m glad Anna and Beckey persuaded me to accept the invitation for the three of us to sing. Jane looks radiant in her gown, and the embroidered forget-me-nots weaving around anchors have created a stir among the ladies. In return for our needlework skills and angelic voices, we feast on heaped bowls of lemon syllabub. If I’m ever blessed with the chance to remarry, I will have it served to my guests as part of the wedding breakfast.
All too soon, it’s time to take our leave. First, we stop at Beckey’s and recall the highlights of the day over a glass of wine or two. Then, as the spring evening brings a fall in temperature, Anna and I pull our shawls about our shoulders and head for our homes.
Our mood is buoyant as we scurry along the street. Coal fires are no longer needed to chase away the cold, and most of the smog has cleared. I gaze up at a clear blue sky, and for a few delicious moments I believe anything is possible.
‘Anna, would you consider moving home?’
Anna smiles. ‘I would love to, Susan, but I don’t have enough money.’
‘What if we moved in together? Between us, we could pay the rent for a respectable home, and I’d enjoy sharing with you.’
‘And George? He can be boisterous, you know.’
‘Of course, with George. I’d love to have a child in my life. I’m unlikely to have one of my own, and I miss Julian. He’s almost a man now, and I don’t see him as often as I’d like. Please take your time, but at least consider it. George could attend lessons during the daytime if we find a home with a school nearby.’
Anna looks at me through shining eyes. ‘I dream of a better neighbourhood and an education for George. But it’s a lot to ask of you.’
‘It would be a joy.’
‘Then I’ll give it serious consideration.’
At the corner of Stanhope Street, we part company and I quicken my pace. When my home comes into view, I’m returned to the reality of my life and my happiness evaporates. Arthur’s trial begins tomorrow. When I open the door, I find two notes jammed underneath, one written in an elegant script, the other an untidy scrawl. I study the elegant handwriting first. It’s an instruction to attend a meeting for friends and family of the accused conspirators. Many of the families have fallen upon hard times with their husbands no longer able to provide for them, so we are to meet with Mr Harmer, solicitor to all the accused. He will appeal on behalf of us all for support from the nation during our time of hardship. A meeting has been scheduled for seven o’clock at Mr Harmer’s office, so I must rush to make it on time.
I run upstairs to fetch a warmer pelisse, clutching the scrawled note. As I reach into the clothes press, I squint at the scruffy handwriting. The words chill me to my core:
One of us must be an informer. How else would our husbands have been caught so easily? Watch the wives and help us trap the traitor. We will administer the punishment she deserves.
Sarah Davidson and Celia Ings
Even though Arthur is secure behind bars, I am still in danger.
A large crowd has gathered outside Newgate Gaol. Julian grasps my hand and pulls me through the throng and into the Sessions House, where we take our places and sit in silence. Julian’s relationship with Arthur is as complicated as mine, and no doubt he has mixed feelings about his father. The large hand on a wall clock flicks into place. Ten o’clock. Time for the trial to begin.
The accused men file into the courtroom, with Arthur in the lead. He hangs his head, his pale face a striking contrast to his black woollen coat. When he raises his right hand and swears his name, his voice is hollow and unrecognisable.
Asked how he pleads to the charges of murder and high treason, Arthur looks towards the judge and replies ‘Not guilty.’
‘How would you be tried?’ asks an official.
‘By God and my country,’ says Arthur.
Each man takes a turn. The charges are read out, followed by an announcement that Arthur’s trial will begin on Monday. Then the prisoners are
led away.
Julian and I part company with the promise of meeting early on Monday morning so we may sit together. Today is Saturday. If I hurry, I might arrive at Mr Brown’s for half an hour of browsing before closing time.
Mr Brown is quick to greet me. He knows precisely who I am. Thistlewood is an uncommon name, and the newspapers are full of reports about Arthur. But Mr Brown is a true gentleman and I’m a long-standing customer. We are loyal to each other.
‘I hope you are well, Mrs Thistlewood?’ His left eyebrow rises in genuine concern.
I glance around the shop. No other customers are present. ‘I am, thank you, considering the circumstances.’
‘A troublesome time,’ he murmurs. ‘But I have something to lift your spirits.’
He turns his back towards me and switches the sign on the door to “Closed”. He reaches behind the counter for his coat, then presses the door key into my hand. ‘I must attend an appointment. Lock the door behind me and you’ll not be disturbed for thirty minutes.’
He leaves the shop, giving me no time to protest. Turning the key in the lock, I relish the opportunity to indulge myself in any book I fancy. I’m in the mood for poetry and select an anthology of modern poems from a display on the counter. Mr Brown’s office has a well-worn chair which will be a comfortable place to sit, so turning to the first page, I read as I walk into the room at the rear of the store.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
I spin around, and there is dear, sweet William standing behind the door. After dropping the book onto a small table, I fling my arms around him and bury my face against his neck.
He holds me at arm’s length. ‘How are you?’
I sigh. ‘With Arthur as the ringleader for the conspiracy, the widows look to me to head petitions for all those standing accused. I thought life would be easier with him behind bars, but it’s harder.’
‘Be strong, dear Susan. It’ll be worth it.’
‘I’m frightened, William.’
‘Don’t be.’
I realise he’s unaware of the note. I pull it from my reticule.
William’s face drops. ‘Take care, my love. The danger should fade when the judge passes sentence but do protect yourself in the meantime.’
A sob escapes from my throat. Tears flow.
‘Come to me.’ William holds me tight while I soak his shirt with distress. I silently chastise myself for wasting these snatched precious moments.
‘How long must we continue this deception?’
‘Hard to say. For now, we can pass letters via Mr Brown, but should keep our distance otherwise. Your husband’s case draws a lot of attention, and I fear the repercussions if the wrong person were to see us together.’
We spend several minutes enjoying being close to one another before a tapping at the door announces Mr Brown’s return. I pass the key to William and he strides across the shop floor, then slips outside as Mr Brown enters.
Mr Brown sees the poetry book in my hand. ‘Keep it, with my compliments. You’ve bought several books over the years. Consider it a reward for your patronage.’
I haven’t bought as many as he’s suggesting, and certainly not as many as I’d have liked. ‘You’re very kind, Mr Brown. I’m in your debt.’
‘Nonsense. Would you like it wrapped?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll take it as it is. Thank you.’
He hands me the book and opens the door, releasing me to an uncertain world.
Chapter 48
I share a handful of dried apple slices with Julian while waiting for Arthur’s trial to begin. Neither of us could face breakfast, but now we are both hungry. The viewing area of the courtroom is noisy with family members and curious onlookers. We are so tightly wedged on the benches that it’s difficult to move without irritating the person seated on either side.
After initial formalities, we watch with interest as the wise men of law spout words and phrases we don’t understand. Arthur’s permitted to sit, because they expect proceedings to extend beyond the day.
The first witness is called at the start of the afternoon session. My buttocks are numb, my concentration waning, but I do my best to follow all that he says. He makes all kinds of allegations against Arthur, some of them barely credible while others are uncomfortable truths.
The trial enters a second day, and more witnesses take the stand. I daydream about life twelve months from now. Anna, George and I will have long since settled into new lodgings, and this case will have faded to smudged print on discarded newspapers. Mr George Edwards is called as a witness, and suddenly I’m alert. I watch the door, eager to see who walks in, but no witness appears, and the wise men of the law make no fuss about his absence. Could the elusive George Edwards be the gentleman who visited my home? The man who stoked the fire in Arthur’s belly and fuelled his appetite for violence? I don’t understand why there’s no reaction to the witness failing to respond to his summons. Arthur’s confused too. His puzzlement turns to anger, and he makes a poor effort at hiding it. His eyes seek mine, and I read disappointment in his expression. Now it makes sense. Mr Edwards was a spy.
The rest of the day passes in a blur and we return for a third day of Arthur’s trial. It pleases me that his counsel makes an issue of the elusive Mr Edwards, as I too am curious about his absence. The court becomes rowdy. The wives howl their discontent. I join in with them, for fear they still hunt their own traitor.
The court returns to order. Reliable testimonies are revisited, showing how Arthur led an army hell-bent on carrying out the most heinous of crimes. The jury withdraws to another room to consider four separate counts of Arthur’s alleged high treason. Their absence is brief. Before fifteen minutes have elapsed, they file back to their benches.
The court falls silent, preparing for the verdict.
‘On the third count of the indictment, where the prisoner is charged with conspiring to levy war, we find the accused guilty. On the fourth count of the indictment, where the prisoner is charged with the actual levying of war against the king, we find the accused guilty.’
The verdicts come as no surprise. The courtroom remains silent as guards escort Arthur away. Julian slumps beside me. Relief or disappointment, I cannot tell. The presiding judge, Lord Chief Justice Abbot, adjourns the court, and the room fills with the noise of men and women shuffling to their feet, eager to stretch their legs and step outdoors.
Julian and I walk home in silence. We struggle through a simple meal of bread and ham, and when his sad figure walks away from the house my heart aches for him.
Mortals judged Arthur, and now the day has come for God to take His turn. It’s early in the morning and a large crowd has assembled. Julian forces a path through the heaving mass until we reach the front, pressed against a barrier. He insisted on coming with me today. A mature seventeen-year-old, he dismissed my protests with a flick of his hand so reminiscent of one of Arthur’s mannerisms. All vantage points are occupied. Residents hire out balconies as viewing decks, young men cling to lamp posts, and two youths perch on top of the main Newgate water pump. A man inspects the gallows while another scatters sawdust across the scaffold platform. The crowd cheers.
I’ve never been one for executions, but I’m eager to watch Arthur leave this life. Today, he releases me from my marriage vows. Today, he sets me free.
Soldiers stand guard in neat formation opposite the entrance to Newgate gaol while onlookers wait in silence for events to unfold. A hangman comes out. A man who has executed at least one hundred and seventy men. Coffins lie in a neat row on the scaffold platform. They too have sawdust thrown into them.
Arthur is the first convicted man to emerge from the cells. He tilts his face towards the sky and speaks to his guardians, although I cannot hear his words. When his shackles are removed, he stands still and waits for his accomplices to join him. He shakes hands with the next condemned man to arrive, and they hold a brief conversation.
Five conspirators stand in a row,
but not all are as composed as Arthur. Arthur has an orange in his hand. He steps forward and surveys the crowd. I wonder if he is looking for me. Julian waves. My arms stay rigid by my sides.
‘God Almighty bless you,’ cries someone in the crowd.
Arthur bites into his orange, and one of his companions bursts into song. The hangman ties ropes around their necks, fumbling with the knots, making me doubt his suitability for the role. Arthur refuses the offer of a hood and then his accomplices follow his lead.
The spectators fall silent while the chaplain stands with the condemned. When he walks away, there’s a loud crash as the trapdoors fall open. I stare without blinking until my eyes ache. I want to witness the moment of Arthur’s death. His legs jerk several times then hang lifeless, the rope swaying back and forth, the creak just audible above a deafening silence.
A single tear slides down Julian’s cheek. I wipe it away with my fingertip and we both turn our eyes back towards the scaffold. Minutes pass while the dead bodies are arranged like floppy dolls on the stage, ready for the last stage of punishment. A masked headsman approaches Arthur, a small knife in one hand. He places the blade against Arthur’s neck and the crowd roars as the sharp edge connects with his skin. He hacks at Arthur with less care than a novice butcher dissembling a carcass. The headsman holds Arthur’s head by the hair and passes it to the hangman’s assistant.
‘This is the head of Arthur Thistlewood, the traitor.’
The crowd roars. I breathe in and out, slowly. Arthur’s body is hauled into a coffin and his head is dropped in afterwards. Then the headsman moves along to the next man.
‘Come,’ I say to Julian. ‘We’ve seen enough.’
We make our way to Fleet Street. I have agreed to meet with other wives, to write a letter to petition for the bodies of our husbands. I will deliver it by hand tomorrow morning. Success or failure is of no consequence to me, but my pretence of loyal wife must continue a while longer. If our request is refused, I’ll direct a second petition to the Privy Council, marked for the attention of His Highness, the King. The widows must not have any reason to suspect my contribution to the downfall of our men.
The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 21
