The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  “And yet, now,” says Oates, “this plot, which was firmly believed in by both Houses, by judges in the highest ranks of the judiciary; this plot is now a subject of scrutiny. So, I must ask you to consider what is more likely. Is it, as I would suggest, that this is another part of one of several attempts to baffle us and disguise the truth? Have we not recently seen—” and here, the creature turns his eyes and stares directly up at Nat, “—some vile and bold attempts to overturn the murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey? Is this not another assault in the same vein? Or have our judges no sense? Have our juries no intelligence or honesty, conscience, or understanding? Have our judges and juries accepted and believed in a false plot, and therefore drawn the blood of innocent men upon their heads and the head of our Nation? Which shall it be?”

  “He is bold,” whispers Southwell. Oates runs his eyes around the court, letting the implication of his words settle, but Jeffreys is quick to respond.

  “No, no. You go a deal too far, Mr. Oates. Judges and juries shall not take a share in that blood which was spilt on your testimony and oath!”

  “But I declare it was as true then as it is now,” says Oates. “The evidence from these St Omer’s men was once recognised as to be part of a malicious, devious plan to over-set my revelations of the Popish Plot. They must be seen as such again, and I must be acquitted. There is no question. Thousands of Protestants in this land believe in the Popish Plot and know it to be true.”

  This is dangerous ground. Oates is nothing if not brave. Where I’ve previously held sheer meanness of spirit to be his defining feature, it comes to me that perhaps his greatest weapon is his audacity. We all look to Jeffreys. It’s for him to steer Oates away from all this talk of religion and the truth, or otherwise, of the earlier verdicts.

  He doesn’t do so directly. Outwardly patient at least, Jeffreys asks Oates to confine himself to the question of whether there was a Jesuit consul held in April 1678, and to prove that he was in London on the 24th of that month.

  Oates won’t comply with Jeffreys’s directions at once, but that’s not unexpected. Instead, at his insistence, we must sit and listen while the full judgements against the three priests are read aloud to the court. Another break in the trial is called for but we remain in our seats. When the court reassembles, Oates is asked to summon his witnesses to prove that he was in London as he claimed.

  Nat whispers in my ear. He wants to give William a few words of support before he’s called. He slips past me and disappears. I lose sight of Nat, but down below I finally spot William. He looks, from his fingertips to the ends of his hair, as stiff as a dog on point.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  William

  Titus calls a Mistress Mayo, and a man named Butler. I remember them from the priests’ trial – a shambling pair. Jeffreys easily finds and exploits the discrepancies in their evidence. Both were servants in the household of Sir Richard Barker but he’s apparently too unwell to appear himself. Both say Titus visited Barker’s house, in disguise, towards the end of April 1678. Jeffreys pushes them to describe Titus’s hat and style of wig. They’re asked to detail every time they saw Titus and explain over and over again how they were able to date each occasion. Better men and women would falter under Jeffreys’s close questioning. In the end, they differ on the details of his wig, of all things, and grow less and less certain about when they saw him. After the St Omer’s men, their testimonies come as something of a light relief to the crowd, but anxiety balloons in my guts.

  Jeffreys clearly enjoys the cut and thrust. “And this is all you can offer?” he says to Titus. “What about your lodgings? You say you were in London for several months. Did no-one else see you here? Only an old woman who barely knew you, and a rambling coachman? Where did you stay all that time? Where did you eat?”

  “I can tell you where I lodged,” says Titus.

  “Do so then. Let us hear it. It will benefit your defence.”

  “But is that the point in question?”

  “Upon my word, yes! It is the main point in this case. Where did you lodge?”

  “Well, My Lord, I stayed mainly with Father Whitbread.”

  Jeffreys smiles and leans back in his chair. “With Father Whitbread, the priest, hanged by virtue of your own testimony and therefore not able to give testimony?” He curls his upper lip and sniffs once or twice. “A shame for you. It sticks with me, this lack of evidence that you were here. I have to say, it does not satisfy. Have you more witnesses?”

  “My Lord, I take this very hard,” Titus whines. “Many months have passed. Witnesses have moved away, become ill or infirm. I take it hard that I am asked to prove something now, something already proved to the satisfaction, to the enthusiastic satisfaction, of the courts, the judiciary, and even Parliament, at the time. I would move to another part of my defence.” He bends and rakes through his papers. I imagine that he’s busier controlling his temper than finding anything in his bundles, for he comes up empty-handed yet plunges forth in strident tones. “I would contend, in my defence, that I am not the guilty party here, but a victim. It is clear to me – and to many here, I am sure – that this whole event is part of a wider conspiracy to cover up and deny the history of the plot.”

  “Really?” Jeffreys throws his hands up in distaste, but Titus won’t be deterred.

  “We have seen the recent attempts to baffle the public over the death of Justice Godfrey; we have all been subject to a torrent of misinformation and—”

  “Mr. Oates!” Jeffreys bellows down. Impassioned though he is, Titus freezes, his mouth hanging open.

  “Mr. Oates, I must and will keep you to evidence that is proper. Evidence of fact, not opinion or hearsay. The jury will not attend to that which is not proper evidence. Confine yourself to the question of this meeting in April 1678, or the jury will be asked to quit the chamber until you can behave appropriately!”

  It’s stormy, even by the usual standards of our judiciary. My stomach heaves. Sweat forms on my brow. My voice must not fail me. I must be steady.

  It seems Titus had planned to distract the jury from the question of his being or not being in London, by parading a gallery of public figures from the House of Commons and the Lords to testify that he should be believed now, as he once had been. Unfortunately for him, the majority of the great and the good whom he’s subpoenaed, quite simply fail to appear. Some are ill; others have been present, but left; some are too busy, or their whereabouts are unknown. Finally, Titus spots one peer in the crowd, the Earl of Huntingdon, and asks if he might be called. Huntingdon takes the stand and is sworn in as a witness, but he does no good to Titus’s defence. When asked to give account of what credit Oates had been given by the House of Lords, he doesn’t mince his words.

  “Mr. Oates’s discovery, it is true,” says Huntingdon, “found a good reception in the House of Lords, but this was grounded on the opinion that he was an honest man and that what he said was true. Indeed, had the matter been true, it was of the highest importance that it be examined. But since that time, it has become apparent that his evidence was so full of contradictions, falsehoods, and perjuries on which innocent blood has been shed, that I believe a great many men are heartily sorry for what happened in those earlier trials and regretful of their part in what took place. I do believe, My Lord, that the majority of peers have quite altered their opinion of this man and of his evidence, and think – as I do – that his evidence was completely false.”

  “Do you have anything to say, Mr. Oates?” asks Jeffreys.

  “Only that the Earl was asked to give evidence of opinion in the past, not the present.”

  Titus has grown sulky. He knows things are not going his way.

  The Crown begins to call its witnesses against Titus’s character. The temperature in the courtroom rises as more spectators arrive. We are pressed too close together for comfort. The man beside me smells of onions. I force a mouthful of bile back down my throat and shuffle though the press of bodies to find a dif
ferent vantage point. The Queen’s physician, George Wakeman, who was tried but acquitted of involvement in the Popish Plot is called and appears to enjoy himself on the stand. Wakeman testifies that the claims Titus made about Jesuits paying him to poison the King were lies. I like the doctor. What must he must have gone through? He deserves this moment. He certainly never takes his eyes off Titus, even though the man in question occupies himself with his papers, as if this part of the proceedings has nothing to do with him. Next, we have the pleasure of hearing the perjury charge against Titus in the case of William Parker in Hastings finally read out in full. Truly the season has changed: the wind is all against him now, but I can’t bear to look up to where Nat and Anne are sitting. The thought that Henry should be up there with them crushes me all over again.

  At last, the clerk calls on me. The court falls silent. I push my way through to the witness box and lift my eyes to stare across at Titus. He raises an eyebrow and cracks his knuckles.

  “My Lord,” begins a lawyer. “We have heard a great deal of complaint from Mr. Oates that he has been asked to answer these questions and prove his veracity after a lapse of time of several years. The reason that we would like to give Mr. Oates, to the jury and to the wider public, is that we have evidence now of his actions and corruption which, balanced with the overwhelming evidence from St Omer’s, creates a damning picture against him. If Mr. Oates had been truthful in the trial of February 5th, 1680, it would be natural to expect that he would call again all the available witnesses who gave evidence of his being in London at the April meeting. Yet he has not. Mr. William Smith, please tell the court what evidence you gave in this regard in the aforementioned trial.”

  “I gave evidence, My Lord, that Mr. Oates was in London during April and May of the year 1678.”

  “And was that statement correct and true?”

  “It was not.”

  The reaction around the room is instantaneous, the collective gasp like steam escaping from a giant kettle. I keep my eyes down and bite on my lip to stop its trembling.

  Titus’s voice rises above the crowd: “My Lord, a point of law! He is a perjurer! The man condemns himself out of his own mouth! Are we to submit to this? To listen to the lies of an admitted criminal?”

  The scorn in his voice is like a whip across my face. I lift my eyes long enough to see Judge Jeffreys scowl. He turns and confers with his colleagues on the bench. The Bible rests on the stand in front of me. I finger its leather and pray to be allowed to continue.

  Jeffreys finishes his conference and takes a moment resettling himself, adjusting his robes and making sure he has the attention of the whole court. His expression concerns me. Then he speaks.

  “The court finds the witness is, by his own admission, unreliable.”

  This is my nightmare.

  Titus slaps the table. The crowd begins to jeer and boo. In the gallery, Southwell frowns and Anne’s hands are on her cheeks. Nat is nowhere to be seen.

  “We will hear from the Attorney General on this,” says Jeffreys. ‘If he has any evidence as to this man’s perjury, let him explain how this is the responsibility of the accused. But we will not tolerate dishonest men to be heard in a court of law. Criminals, convicted by law or by their own admission, are a disgrace to our good society and the court of our King. Stand down the witness.”

  I should move. But the judge’s words are blows to the head. To be spoken of in such terms with no avenue of redress, is terrible. Failing to bring this evidence against Titus Oates un-mans me. I am led away in a daze. People in the crowd shout and complain. They call me a lying make-bait and a sham.

  I am all that. And worse.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Nat

  William is as far away from me in the court as it is possible to be. The top of his head disappears from view as he’s bustled away. Disappointed, I push my way back up to the balcony to Anne. Her eyes are wide and bright with tears.

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispers.

  We sit there, stunned, hoping the Attorney General can salvage something. He’s an experienced prosecutor and quickly recovers. “My Lords and gentlemen of the jury, it is a point of fact,” he says, “that this man you have seen today, Mr. William Smith, first came to the Crown’s attention in 1678, when he was accused by Titus Oates of being a conspirator in the supposed Popish Plot. I refer you to Mr. Oates’s own narrative, Article 54.”

  My lips move in time to the Attorney General’s as he reads it; I’ve gone over Oates’s words so often. He reads: “That one Matthew Medbourne, a player in the Duke’s Theatre, one Mr. Penny, Mr. Mannock, Mr. Sharpe, and one Mr. William Smith, a schoolteacher, did meet in a club on Thursday nights in the Fuller’s Rent near Gray’s Inn. And these men did meet there with diverse Jesuits and priests, and with them would vilify the House of Commons and plan to go about the city spreading dissent against our representatives and make further treasonable remarks against the King and the Protestant religion.”

  That was it. That article had led to both William’s and Matthew’s arrests. While William spent only days in prison, Matthew died there. No mention of Medbourne’s fate is made in court, though. His is just another name in the long list of Oates’s forgotten victims.

  “Mr. William Smith was arrested and released in the month of October 1678, due to lack of corroborating evidence, but he lost his licence to teach as a result of his arrest. He next appears on February 5th, 1680 giving evidence in support of Mr. Oates. Something of a turnaround, is it not? What love would this schoolteacher have for the man who cost him his career and livelihood? Is it not reasonable to ask what would have induced him to give evidence in support of one who must be considered his enemy?”

  Oates is back on his feet. “Perhaps he gave evidence because he was subpoenaed to do so, and he spoke the truth! He stated that he dined with me the day before the priests’ meeting – on April 23rd in London – and that was the truth.”

  “Then why have you not called him to give testimony on your behalf again, Mr. Oates?” Jeffreys folds him arms and peers down at Oates. “You did not call him; the prosecution did. Why would that be?”

  “Because he has been got at, of course,” squeals Oates. “Because there is a plot to overthrow me and overturn the people’s true understanding of the threat these damned Catholics pose to every good Englishman up and down our land!”

  “Or,” declares the Attorney General, raising his voice to match Oates’s. “Or, because he would have foresworn himself – as he did do – though it brings him into great shame and subject to public remark!” He slams his hand on the table. “I have here a paper,” he says, his voice steely hard. “This is a certificate, written by Titus Oates, concerning the honesty of Mr. Smith. It is dated just three days before the Jesuits’ trial, in February 1680. Have I permission to read it, your Lordship?”

  Jeffreys indicates that he has.

  “It says, ‘These are to certify that William Smith is no Papist, and that he is upon good service at this time for his King and Country, of which, I hope, those that are enquirers after recusants will take notice.’ The document is witnessed, My Lord, and signed by Titus Oates.”

  “Is this your handwriting, Mr. Oates?”

  The paper is handed to Oates, who scrunches up his face, peering at it uncertainly.

  “I cannot say it is my hand. I do not believe it is,” he says.

  “He says it is not his hand,” says Jeffreys, and glares at Oates.

  “Well, I do not say it is not my hand. But I do not remember it; not the writing of it, nor what it contains.”

  “Really? Because many reading this may think it appears remarkably like a bribe.” Jeffreys’ gaze is withering. ‘Mr. Attorney General, have you any further comment?’

  “That’s not fair,” whispers Anne. “He didn’t lie in exchange for that piece of paper. He did it for Matthew. And for us.”

  I squeeze her hand. She is right, and this whole trial disappoints me greatly. I
came here for revenge but wish it would come on the wings of truth instead of injustice in a different form.

  The prosecution is answering the Judge. “I only wish to add, your Honour, that the jury consider the evidence before them and find the facts that they demonstrate. William Smith was denounced by Mr. Oates, his career ruined. Yet three days before the Jesuit trial, Mr. Smith received a letter from Mr. Oates freeing him from all suspicion. On the 5th of February, Mr. Smith gave material evidence which he now claims was false. I would suggest to the jury that William Smith was pressured into giving evidence in support of Mr. Oates claims, and that this paper was his reward.”

  “And what do you think, My Lord? Will you suffer this evidence?” splutters Oates. “It is implication and suggestion, not hard evidence against me. I am hardly used, My Lord, hardly used!” He throws himself back into his chair like a child baulking at his dinner.

  “Settle yourself, Mr. Oates! Behave in a manner appropriate to my courtroom or I will be obliged to ask you to absent yourself!” calls Jeffreys. “It’s not my opinion that is your concern here. My opinion will be given only after our good gentlemen in the jury have drawn their own conclusions. They have heard the prosecution’s evidence and attended to your answers. Have you anything further for them? Can you prove by other witnesses that this meeting between you and Mr. Smith did in fact take place? Or perhaps you would like to explain to them why you impugned Mr. Smith in your narrative, yet later issued him with a character reference? Mr. Oates? Anything to add?”