The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  I sit up straight and the blanket slips from my shoulders. I reach for paper and a pen and begin to write.

  Murder? I write that on the top left of the page and draw two thin black lines under the question mark. Then on the right-hand side, I write Accident or Suicide? similarly underscored. Next, in the left column, I quickly make a list: Inquest, Trial, Miles Prance, Politics. In the right, I write: Family, Friends, Character, Physical evidence. I take another sheet and write Evidence at the top. But I stare at that with a frown and then take another. This time I write Who gained from his death? The names fly from my pen.

  The next morning, I write more letters. I write to Kineally in London. He can begin the work. I write to Southwell, asking him how soon it will be safe for me to return to the city. And then I write to Anne.

  There’s not much of a view to be had from my room, but as I fumble over what to write to my wife, I take it all in. My window looks out only upon a small passage, which they call a wynd: a narrow run between two tall stone buildings that slopes steeply away from the main High Street. Down below, people scurry about their business, carrying bundles and wrapped up warm. At least this terrible weather keeps down the smell, and the rain is an assiduous gutter-sluicer, something to be thankful for under this iron-grey sky. What does the sky look like over London right now? Where is Anne, this very minute? I long for her frank eyes, her coiling hair, her pale cheek.

  My fledgling optimism of the night before dries up with the ink in my pen. I leave the letter half-written, shrug on my coat, and go out to eat. It is a short walk down to a tavern in the Grassmarket, where I set about some black pudding and a tankard of ale. I’m in no mood for news from the city. Instead, I fish a book from my coat pockets – Aesop’s Fables, in Latin, my father’s copy. As I finger the leather, it occurs to me that after year upon year of frantic rushing and thinking and writing and arguing and reading, I have at last come to a stop. I wake up in the morning and have nowhere to go. At night, I read in bed until the wax on my candle has fully disappeared and I’m embraced by darkness and warm bedclothes. And what am I reading? Not stomach-churning horror stories about Catholics boiling children in vats of oil; not pamphlets about arbitrary government or the expansionist policies of Louis XIV. Just simple fables. A rushing temptation to forget all of it – my so-called career, Oates, Godfrey, all of it – sweeps over me.

  There is only person I would not leave behind: Anne. But what damage has been done to us? First, the loss of the child, and now this lengthy separation. I have let her down badly. As always when my thoughts tend this way, I thirst for the scald of whisky on my tongue. Without it, I will struggle to sleep. But I face down temptation and make it through the day.

  One day. And then another.

  I pass a week in this fashion, awaiting a response from London.

  First, a letter from Southwell. He has a suggestion. There might, he says, be a place for a new kind of news sheet in London; a publication that rehearses the arguments between those supporting Parliament and the exclusion of the King’s brother from the succession – he calls them Whigs – and the Tories, those who believe in tradition and the monarchy. It is kind of him to think of me. His sympathies are with the King, as mine are, although he can’t say so in public. Against all expectation, I’m interested. I scan his words for a hint that it is time I returned to London. There is nothing. But if I am to write this new publication – The Observator, I’m calling it in my mind – then I need to go home.

  Now that I have turned my back on Edinburgh’s many taverns, I have time to walk. One day, I climb to the highest point of Arthur’s Seat and let the wind whip at my face. The disappointment of the priests’ trial ebbs, although Henry writes that testifying for Oates has cast William into a dark frame of mind. To keep my own demons at bay, I busy myself writing the first several editions of The Observator. It’s humorous. It’s witty. It carries a lightness of tone that I’m nowhere near feeling but strive to conjure up for the sake of the future I pray Anne and I might yet have. I invent two outspoken characters to engage in the kind of coffee-shop debate with which I’m so familiar.

  Working helps. I exchange a constant stream of letters with Kineally that have only two topics: Titus Oates and Sir Edmund Godfrey. If at odd moments I still have the urge to throw up the whole venture – to leave London with Anne and start afresh somewhere in the provinces – I’ve only to look at my work on The Observator or reach for Kineally’s letters.

  Reluctantly, I conclude that my attempts to write the truth about Oates were too late in the telling to change the public’s mind. The priests’ trial proved that conclusively. I must undermine belief in the Popish Plot itself if Oates is to be brought to account. Godfrey and the truth about his death may be the key. Kineally sends me everything he can about Sir Edmund’s life.

  Some facts I’m familiar with already. Godfrey was an older man, much older than Oates and myself. He was fifty-nine when he died. I learn he was the son of a Member of Parliament and attended Westminster School before going up to Oxford. Kineally reports that there had been plans for him to follow in his father’s footsteps, but Godfrey had suffered from a severe loss of hearing and been forced to change his ambitions. Information about the dead magistrate proves simple to obtain. Kineally has found Godfrey’s cousin – a Mistress Gibbon – living in Southampton Buildings, not far from Holborn. She and Godfrey were close all their lives. Her description of him doesn’t fit the public picture of the Protestant Martyr. Godfrey was morose, bordering on melancholic. He had been a dabbler in poetry. She describes an honest and kind man who valued his reputation and his privacy.

  I also spend a long time dwelling on how it should be that Godfrey was killed by Catholics because he knew the details of Oates’s revelations. Why not just kill Oates and have done with it? Or if they – whoever they were – felt they must murder Godfrey, why wait until Oates was already installed in Whitehall? By the time Godfrey disappeared, Edward Coleman, several Lords, and the priests, were already in custody. The damage had been done, the uproar was in full sway.

  I write to Southwell and outline my thoughts. His response is typically muted, but not discouraging. I point out that there is only so much work I can do on my new paper at such a far remove from the capital. He does not reply.

  Time creeps by in Edinburgh. I move forward as much as possible with The Observator, and I simmer. Southwell approves the drafts I send him, and Henry reports that he sells out of my new paper within hours. I plan a series of steps to find out what really happened to Sir Edmund Godfrey.

  Finally, Southwell writes that it is safe to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Anne

  Henry and Nat stop speaking the moment I enter the room. Henry’s face is as calm as ever, but Nat looks guilty, like a boy caught stealing cakes in the pantry. He jumps to his feet and offers me his chair, close to the fire. This is what I have become to him: a fragile object to be cossetted and tip-toed around. A few months ago, I longed to have him take care of me. But not like this. Now he pats my cushion, he brings me wine, he asks how I am with irritating regularity, but he has not talked to me about Martha, not really, and he is very quiet about his work. Worse, he has not touched me, at least not in any meaningful way. He has been home for just over a week. I want to scream at him.

  “What are you talking about?” I say.

  Henry opens his mouth but then defers to Nat.

  “Nothing important,” he says.

  “Then why stop?” I have the satisfaction of watching a blush climb up his handsome face. “If you are speaking of nothing of consequence, you may continue in comfort. And if you are saying something that is important, then you might consider remembering I am an adult, not a child, and treating me as such.”

  “Anne!” He is at a loss, and flounders for a moment before his desire to defend himself rises up as it always does. “I have never treated you as a child. I simply don’t want to worry you.”

  “No
t worry me? Do you think I don’t know that you are still the only voice speaking out against Oates and his plot? Do you think I haven’t seen or have not read your Observator?”

  “I…” His voice trails away. Has it not crossed his mind that I would read it? I clench my hands into fists and wait to see if he will duck my challenge or be fair to me. He looks at Henry and Henry, bless him, nods. “All right then,” Nat says. “We were discussing the household of Edmund Godfrey. Kineally has tracked down his housekeeper, but she has refused to see me. We were talking about that. Satisfied?”

  “Very. And it’s very clear what should be done.” I give him a little smile to charm him, and am pleased to see it mirrored in his face. “I will go and see her,” I say. “No arguments. I will think of some pretext, tell her I need a housekeeper if I must, and then set her gossiping. What is her name?”

  “Judith Pamphlin. But, Anne, I’m not sure.” His mouth sets in a line. There is argument coming, but before he begins, the door opens. William stumbles into the room.

  “What has happened?” Nat asks.

  Our friend crumples into a chair and sobs.

  Two days later, we attend Matthew Medbourne’s funeral.

  ***

  The walls are draped in black cloth. All normal furniture has been removed so that there is only the coffin in the room, set upon two stools and laid open so that the body can be viewed. Nat and I enter slowly, arm in arm. I crush the decorative ticket advising us of the funeral between my fingers. There have been too many funerals of late.

  I never met Matthew Medbourne in life. His body has been tidied into a white flannel shift, tied at the feet and hands. He’ll be buried with a square of cloth covering his face, but this is put off to one side until his body has been viewed and condolences made to his family. I’m glad there’s no mark of the syphilis on his face. No need to picture the fleshy insults hidden by his shroud.

  In time, the pall-bearers – one of them William – assume their burden. The coffin is closed, draped in white because Matthew was unmarried, and carried out into the street on six men’s shoulders. It’s early evening. To the west, pink ribbons of cloud trail up from the horizon, and gradually the greyness of the day shades down towards dark. We are handed wax torches and sprigs of rosemary, and follow the beadle, the coffin, and the family, out into the street.

  It’s a slow business, this procession from the home of the dead to their burial spot. Often, families take more circuitous routes to better express to their neighbours their sadness and loss, as demonstrated by the expensive accoutrements of a funeral. I don’t know the area particularly well, but I’ve enough of a sense of direction to know we don’t take the shortest route to the churchyard. He’s to be buried outside, like Martha.

  It’s fully dark by the time the body is interred. We’re on the east side of the churchyard. Torches cast wild shadows across the stone walls and pick out the grass at our feet, a dull mosaic in shades of grey. The air is damp and rain inevitable. More than one mourner’s eyes are raised speculatively at the skies overhead. My thoughts turn to Titus Oates.

  His actions tell the story of his character. He used Matthew. William and Nat think they are discreet when they talk of it, but I understand fully. Oates took advantage of Medbourne’s affection for him. He used him for his money and his contacts, and then abused him for it. Judging from Matthew and William’s experiences, Oates is someone who demands sympathy and support but then despises the very people who have helped him. When he no longer needs them, he turns on them. He uses the power he’s gained to hurt them – even, in this case, to their death.

  As the pallbearers lower the coffin into the ground, I consider all Oates’s victims. I count the men who’ve been executed for treason since Oates made his revelations. There are Green, Berry, and Hill, and others, like Matthew, who were caught up in the panic and did not survive the disease and distress of Newgate. There are five Catholic Lords languishing in the Tower, and several prominent politicians who lost their positions because of the way they dealt with the Plot. There are the three priests I saw tried, all dead now. Then there are countless Catholics forced out of the city, losing friends, livelihoods. Not to mention the pain endured by William, Nat, and myself, through our entanglement with him. I glance at my husband’s profile. Nat can’t forgive himself that he had to leave me after Martha died, but there’s no doubt in my mind about who’s truly at fault.

  The sound of earth rattling down on the coffin brings me out of my reverie. I want to see how William is faring, but some movement beyond him, near the iron gates, draws my eye instead. Several men are loitering there, peering through the bars at the mourners. There’s nothing unusual about that, but the build, the height, and the bulk, something in the way one of them holds himself, makes my nerves scream. I tear my eyes away for a second and then look again. I’m not wrong.

  “He’s here!”

  “What? Where?” Nat doesn’t ask who I mean.

  “There. William must not see him.”

  “Stay here. I’ll meet you back at the house.” Nat releases my hand and slips out of the crowd, half walking, half running, toward the gate. Of course, I follow. Nat moves quickly. He bursts through the gate and is on Oates in seconds.

  “You!” He pushes him with both hands so that Oates stumbles back away from the gate and into the road.

  “Hey!” One of his cronies tries to take Nat’s arm, but he strikes at him with an elbow.

  “You!” Nat hisses again, going for Oates, shoving him across the road and towards a narrow alley. My breath catches in my throat. My teeth are clenched. I’m screaming silently – yes, get him away from here, take him by the throat, do more. Hurt him.

  One of Oates’s friends jumps Nat from behind, but he’s ready. He twists away and kicks out, making contact with a fat midriff, sending the man sprawling.

  There are three of them, though, and Nat is only one. In the gloom, he launches himself at Oates, but Oates steps aside and Nat staggers forward, off balance. Oates kicks hard at Nat’s shins. My hand is at my mouth at the crack of boot on bone. As Nat stumbles, they yank him by the coat and throw him down the dark alley. It’s almost pitch black. I grip the railings of the churchyard and hold myself back. I’m desperate to go to him but can only make out dark shapes. Nat pulls himself up, but they kick him as he finds his knees, and he goes down again. They give him a few more kicks as he lies there, and then they begin to laugh. Tears slide down my cheeks.

  “Well, Mr. Thompson. What a pleasant surprise.” Oates’s nasal whine is breathy but thick with satisfaction. ‘What a terrier you are. No wonder they call you Towser in the papers. Did you see that picture of Mr. Thompson in the Weekly Pacquet?’

  His friends snigger. Nat’s attacks in The Observator have attracted attention, and those rumours that he is a secret Catholic have never quite been dispelled, despite no-one coming forward to support Miles Prance’s testimony. Nat continues to be depicted as a snapping little dog, either on a leash held by a priest or sitting in the Pope’s lap.

  “Might I pick myself out of the gutter?” Nat asks.

  “Literally you may. I can’t speak for metaphorically.” Oates titters at his own wit as Nat struggles to his feet. “Poor Mr. Thompson. I fear you will not look as pretty as usual tomorrow morning.” Oates shakes his head, his eyes large with feigned concern. “Shall we go?” he says to his friends.

  They turn and begin to walk away, but Nat is not finished.

  “I’m fascinated by your recent ventures into publication, Mr. Oates,” he calls after them. His voice is strained, every word must be costing him a volley of pain. Oates stops at the top of the alley. “Although the plot narrative remains my favourite. Yes, something in the nature of a Homeric effort, I thought. I even had some time for your style and turn of phrase. A better grasp on the truth might befit a man of the cloth, however.”

  “The truth?” Oates doesn’t move. He doesn’t sound worried – why would he, with those two thugs fl
anking him? – but he is listening.

  “I’m very fond of the truth,” Nat says. “Passionate about it, even. And about history. Personal history. I like to know where a man comes from. What his record says of him. After all, any man can call himself many things: an apothecary, a lawyer, a man of property, a Doctor of Divinity even, but for all these there must be evidence. Evidence of truth.”

  Oates stares. His eyes bulge angrily, and the words that would send his thugs back onto Nat are surely twitching at his fat lips. At that moment a coach clatters down the street towards them. All three turn their heads at the sound, and Nat manages to stagger a few more steps up the alley. A group of men walk down the street towards them. With witnesses coming, they surely won’t attack him again. Nat takes the opportunity to goad Oates further.

  “I know all about Hastings, Oates. I know what you did to Parker there. An interesting tale you told. I wonder what you took as inspiration?” Oates flinches and Nat plunges on. “I know what kind of man you were in the Navy, and what kind of man you were in the Fuller’s Rent Tavern. You, Titus Oates, have climbed up into this city’s heart on the bodies of innocent men. Every day you walk the street in the robes of my religion you are an affront to me and the rest of London. And one day, Oates, they will see you as I do.”

  I long to clap my hands and cheer my dear, brave, foolish husband, but dare not make a sound. For a moment, Oates’s face squirms with anger and hate but then, as if a fragrant smell had wafted under his nose, he breaks into a smile. “Fine words, Mr. Thompson. But then you are all words, aren’t you? When you speak against me, what happens? Nothing.” With that, he claps the shoulders of his friends and they move off without a backward glance.