The Popish Plot: A study in the history of the reign of Charles II

by John Pollock

CHAPTER V

THE SECRET

Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey was an intimate friend of Edward Coleman, secretary to the Duchess of York. At the time of the murder Coleman lay in Newgate under an accusation of treason, and had so lain for a fortnight. He was therefore never examined on the subject of his friend’s death. The omission was unfortunate, for Coleman could probably have thrown some light upon the nature of the magistrate’s end.[269] It was constantly said, and the statement has often been repeated, that when Oates left a copy of his information with Godfrey on September 27, Godfrey at once wrote to Coleman an account of the charges contained in it to give the Duke of York warning of the coming storm.[270] The story was extensively used by those who wished to prove that Godfrey had been murdered by the supporters of the Plot, or that he had committed suicide from fear of a parliamentary inquiry into his conduct. He had not only this reason for fear, urged L’Estrange, but he had concealed the fact of Oates’ discovery to him for nearly a whole month; this was the meaning of Godfrey’s enigmatical expressions of apprehension, and his fear, combined with constitutional melancholy, drove him to take his own life.[271] Whether or no he suffered from depression is not a question of importance, since it has been proved that he did not commit suicide, but was murdered. The rest of the argument is equally unsound. When Godfrey took Oates’ first deposition on September 6, he had no copy of the information left with him and knew that it had already been communicated to the government.[272] As for the fact that Godfrey had sent an account of Oates’ revelations to the Duke of York, it would be absurd to suppose that plans of vengeance were harboured against him on this score, for the duke had been acquainted with the matter since August 31, when the forged letters were sent to Bedingfield at Windsor, so that the information he received from Godfrey was unimportant.[273] As this was a fact of which the Lord Treasurer was perfectly aware, the suggestions of North and Warner, the Jesuit provincial, that Godfrey had been threatened and finally dispatched by order of Danby, on account of his officiousness in making a communication to the duke, fall to the ground at the same time.[274] Taken in this sense the words in which Godfrey foreshadowed his doom are meaningless. He had assured Mr. Robinson that he believed he should be the first martyr. “I do not fear them,” he added, “if they come fairly, and I shall not part with my life tamely.” He declared to Burnet his belief that he would be knocked on the head. To his sister-in-law he said, “If any danger be, I shall be the first shall suffer.” He had told one Mr. Wynnel that he was master of a dangerous secret, which would be fatal to him. “Oates,” he said, “is sworn and is perjured.”[275] Clearly Godfrey was labouring under an apprehension of quite definite character. He was in possession of secret information concerning Oates’ discovery and believed that it would cost him his life. What this secret was is now to seek. The nature of it must show why danger was to be apprehended and from what quarter.

The statement that Godfrey wrote to Coleman to acquaint him with Oates’ accusations is not quite correct. Burnet notes: “It was generally believed that Coleman and he were long in a private conversation, between the time of his (Coleman’s) being put in the messenger’s hands and his being made a close prisoner.”[276] Such a conversation in fact took place, though it was earlier than Burnet thought. Coleman surrendered to the warrant against him on Monday, September 30.[277] Two days before he came to the house of Mr. George Welden, a common friend of himself and the magistrate. Welden sent his servant to Godfrey’s house with the message that one Clarke wanted to speak to him. It was the form arranged between them for use when Godfrey was in company and Coleman wished to see him. Godfrey went to Mr. Welden’s and there had an interview with Coleman. “When Mr. Coleman and Sir Edmondbury were together at my house,” said Welden, “they were reading papers.”[278] It can hardly be doubted what these papers were. The date was Saturday, September 28, the day on which Godfrey had taken Oates’ deposition. In that Oates had made charges of the most serious nature against Coleman; and Coleman was Godfrey’s friend. The papers can scarcely have been other than Godfrey’s copy of the deposition. Godfrey had probably sent at once to Coleman to tell him what had passed. This much may be gathered from the reports of letters which he was said to have sent to Coleman and the Duke of York. Coleman then met him at Welden’s house, and together they went through Oates’ information, “Oates,” said Godfrey, “is sworn and is perjured.” This alone was hardly a secret so dangerous as to make him fear for his life. Many believed it. It was not an uncommon thing to say. The most grievous consequence that could ensue would be to gain the reputation of a “bloody papist,” and possibly to be threatened with implication in the Plot. Such an opinion could not conceivably lead to fears of assaults by night and secret assassination. But there was one particular in which knowledge of Oates’ perjury might be very dangerous indeed. No doubt Coleman pointed out Oates’ long tale of lies through many articles of his deposition. There was one which he certainly would not omit. The cardinal point in the Plot, according to Oates’ revelation, was a Jesuit congregation held on April 24, 1678 at the White Horse Tavern in the Strand, where means were concerted for the king’s assassination. At all the trials of the Jesuits Oates came forward to give evidence to this point. It was of the first importance. Oates’ statement was false. No congregation had met on that day at the White Horse Tavern. His perjury is more easy to prove here than in most other particulars, for it is certain that the Jesuit congregation was held on April 24 in a different place. It was held at St. James’ Palace, the residence of the Duke of York. More than five years afterwards James II let out the secret to Sir John Reresby.[279] Up to that time it had been well guarded. It was of the utmost consequence that the fact should not be known. Had it been discovered, the discredit into which Oates would have fallen would have been of little moment compared to the extent of the gain to the Whig and Protestant party. To Shaftesbury the knowledge would have meant everything. Witnesses of the fact would certainly have been forthcoming, and James’ reception of the Jesuits in his home was a formal act of high treason. The Exclusion bill would have been unnecessary. James would have been successfully impeached and would have been lucky to escape with his head upon his shoulders. Charles would hardly have been able to withstand the outcry for the recognition of the Protestant duke as heir to the throne, the Revolution would never have come to pass, and the English throne might to this day support a bastard Stuart line instead of the legitimate Hanoverian dynasty. Besides the Duke of York and the Jesuit party one man only was acquainted with this stupendous fact. It is hardly credible that Godfrey met Coleman on September 28, 1678 with any other object than to discuss with him the charges made by Oates. Still less is it credible that Coleman failed to point out Oates’ perjury in this matter. It need not be supposed that a definite statement passed from him. A hint would have sufficed. In some way, it may be conjectured, Coleman disclosed to the magistrate that which he should have concealed. Such understandings are abrupt in origin but swift in growth. Beyond doubt the secret, the shadow of which Godfrey saw stretching across the line of his life, was that the Jesuit congregation of April 24 had been held in the house and under the patronage of the Duke of York.[280]

And hence arose the perplexity and depression of mind from which he is said to have suffered during the last days of his life. He was possessed of information which, if published, would infallibly ruin the cause of the Duke of York and of the Catholics, to whom he was friendly. It had come to him in private from his friend, and to use it might seem an act almost of treachery. Yet with these sentiments Godfrey’s duty as a magistrate was in absolute conflict. It was undoubtedly his business at once to communicate his knowledge to the government. Not only was it illegal not to do so, and highly important that such a weighty fact should not escape detection, but Godfrey found himself at the centre of the investigation of Oates’ discovery, and to reveal his news was probably the only way of exposing Oates’ perjury. Nor did Godfrey underestimate the danger into which this knowledge brought him. He feared that he would be assassinated. The Jesuits were confronted with the fact that a secret of unbounded value to their enemies had come into the hands of just one of the men who could not afford, however much he might wish, to retain it. Godfrey was, by virtue of his position as justice of the peace, a government official. He might take time to approach the point of revealing his information, but sooner or later he would assuredly reveal it. All the tremendous consequences which would ensue could not then be prevented or palliated. The only possible remedy was to take from Godfrey the power of divulging the secret. His silence must be secured, and it could only be made certain by the grave. To the suggestion that the motive to the crime was not sufficient, it need only be answered that at least nine men preferred to die a horrible and ignominious death rather than prove their innocence and purchase life by telling the facts.[281] Godfrey’s death was no ludicrous act of stupid revenge, but a clear-headed piece of business. It was a move in the game which was played in England between parties and religions, and which dealt with issues graver than those of life and death.

So far the matter is clear. Sir Edmund Godfrey was an intolerable obstacle to the Jesuit party. He was in possession of a secret the disclosure of which would utterly ruin them. He recognised himself that his life was in danger and went in expectation of being assassinated. His murder was, like Charles the First’s execution, a cruel necessity. Two men gave evidence as to his death. The one, Bedloe, contradicted himself beyond belief. Nevertheless he was able to recognise and accuse the other, Prance, whose minute and consistent descriptions of time and place mark him as a partner in the crime. The inference therefore is sound that, as Bedloe accused correctly a man whom he knew by sight and not by name, some of the men whose names he gave directly in his account of the murder were probably the real criminals. These were Le Fevre, the Jesuit confessor of the queen, Charles Walsh, a Jesuit attached to the household of Lord Bellasis, and Charles Pritchard, a third member of the Society of Jesus. With them were associated the Roman Catholic silversmith, Miles Prance, whom Bedloe recognised as the man whom he had taken for a waiter in the queen’s chapel, and a servant of Lord Bellasis, whom he named as Mr. Robert Dent.[282] Strictly, it is only a matter of conjecture that these men undertook the deed, but it is supported by considerable probability. They were singularly unfitted for the task. Godfrey had to be killed and his corpse to be disposed in such a way that the crime might not be traced to its true source. The men to do this were not professional criminals. They did not know, what constant experience has demonstrated, that the most apparently simple crimes are the hardest to bring home to their authors. Their proper course was to waylay the magistrate in the darkness of a narrow street, strip his body of every article of value, and leave it to be supposed that the murder had been committed for a vulgar robbery. Instead of this they determined to dispose the corpse in such a way that Godfrey might be thought to have committed suicide. The disposal would need time, and to gain the time necessary it was needful that they should choose a spot to which they could have free access, and where they would be undisturbed. As the most secret spot known to them they chose exactly that which they should have most avoided, the queen’s palace, Somerset House. To decoy Godfrey was not difficult, for, contrary to the practice of the day, he went abroad habitually without a servant.[283] The court of Somerset House was not, as the Duke of York afterwards declared in his memoirs, crowded with people; on the contrary, it was understood that the queen was private, and orders were given that visitors were not to be admitted in their coaches.[284] The queen’s confessor and his friends however could doubtless secure an entrance. Here Godfrey was murdered, and in Somerset House his body remained for four nights. In what place it was kept cannot be decided. Hill’s lodgings were certainly not used. Perhaps the spot chosen was the room in the same passage where Prance said that the body had lain during one night.[285] The drops of white wax which Burnet afterwards saw must have here been spilt upon the dead man’s clothes. Godfrey himself never used wax candles.[286] On Wednesday night the body was removed from Somerset House and carried to the field in which it was found. That it was not taken through the gate is made certain by the sentries’ evidence. It must therefore have been carried through a private door. Thence it was taken in a carriage to the foot of Primrose Hill; marks of coach wheels were seen in the ground leading towards the spot in a place where coaches were not used to be driven.[287] Godfrey’s sword was driven through his body, and the corpse was left lying in the ditch, where it was found next day.

In lodgings near Wild House lived four men. Two of them were Le Fevre and Walsh, parties to the murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey; the others were Captain William Bedloe, “the discoverer of the Popish Plot,” and his coadjutor, Charles Atkins. Atkins had declared before the secretary of state that he lodged at Holborn, but Bedloe let the truth appear in his examination. As it was a slip, which he immediately tried to cover, and he was far from bringing it forward as a point in his favour, his statement may be accepted.[288] Bedloe was thus in daily contact with two of the criminals. He was on terms of intimacy with them. They went about in his company and confided in him enough to allow him to be present at secret celebration of the mass.[289] From this quarter Bedloe’s information was derived. It is easy to conjecture how he could have obtained it. Walsh and Le Fevre were absent from their lodgings for a considerable part of the nights of Saturday and Wednesday, October 12 and 16. Bedloe’s suspicions must have been aroused, and either by threats or cajolery he wormed part of the secret out of his friends. He obtained a general idea of the way in which the murder had been committed and of the persons concerned in it. One of these was a frequenter of the queen’s chapel whom he knew by sight. He thought him to be a subordinate official there. If he went afterwards to the chapel to discover him he must have been disappointed, for the man occupied no office. He had failed to learn his name. It was only by accident that nearly two months later he met Prance and recognised him as the man he wanted. As he had no knowledge himself of the murder and could not profess to have been present at it, he devised the story that he had been shewn the body as it lay in a room in Somerset House on the night of October 14. At this point he introduced the name of Samuel Atkins. Le Fevre and Walsh had in the meantime disappeared, and Bedloe was left without any fish in his net. Doubtless the fact that Charles Atkins was his fellow-lodger suggested the idea of implicating Pepys’ clerk. Samuel Atkins was well known to his namesake and had in times past given him considerable assistance.[290] Charles Atkins now shewed his gratitude by arranging with Bedloe to accuse his benefactor of complicity in Godfrey’s murder.

Prance’s conduct is now easy to explain. He was denounced by a man who, as he had good reason to know, was not a party to the crime and could have no certain knowledge of it. If he could shew a bold front and stoutly maintain his perfect innocence all might be well. But to do this meant to expose himself to the danger of being hanged. Bedloe had moreover named other of the real criminals. They might yet be taken and the secret be dragged from them. This at any cost must be prevented. So Prance determined to pose as the repentant convert and to shield the real culprits by bringing to death men whom he knew to be innocent. His knowledge of the crime enabled him to describe its details in the most convincing manner, while his acquaintance with the circle of Somerset House enabled him to fit the wrong persons to the facts. No doubt, when he was once out of the condemned cell, he felt that he would prefer to keep free of the business altogether. Perhaps too he was not without shame and horror at the idea of accusing innocent men. He recanted. A recantation moreover, if he could persevere in it, might succeed in shattering Bedloe’s credit as well as his own and in diverting the line of inquiry from Somerset House. Pressure was immediately put upon him, he was forced to retract and to return to his original course of action. In this he was perfectly successful. Not only was the investigation removed from a quarter unpleasantly near to the Duke of York, but Prance manipulated his evidence so cleverly that even the keen inquisitors who sat on the parliamentary committees never for a moment suspected that the germ of truth for which they were seeking was not contained in his but in Bedloe’s information. After the appearance of Prance that was relegated to a secondary position; but as Bedloe gained the reward of £500 offered for the discovery of the murder, was lodged in apartments at Whitehall, and received a weekly pension of ten pounds from the secret service fund, he had no reason to be dissatisfied with the result. Prance too received a bounty of fifty pounds “in respect of his services about the plot.”[291] The fact that the murder was sworn to have taken place in Somerset House was not without danger to the queen herself. At Bedloe’s first information she acted a prudent part. She sent a message to the House of Lords expressing her grief at the thought that such a crime could have taken place in her residence, and offered to do anything in her power that might contribute to the discovery of the murderers. When an order was given to search the palace, she threw open the rooms and in every way facilitated the process. The course which she adopted was most wise. The Lords were touched by her confidence and voted thanks for her message.[292] Her confessor, who had been accused by Bedloe, was not charged by Prance. In spite of the libels which assailed her she was never again molested on the matter.[293]

Prance’s attitude as it has here been sketched accorded entirely with the rest of his evidence. In his examination before the council he began his story; “On a certain Monday.”[294] When he was taken by Monmouth and Ossory to Somerset House he said “that it was either at the latter end or the beginning of the week” that Godfrey had met his death.[295] The significance of this is clear. No one wishing to construct a false account of the murder could possibly have made these statements. It was notorious that Godfrey had disappeared upon Saturday, October 12. To postpone the date of the murder would be to add a ludicrous difficulty to the story. This is exactly what Prance wanted to do. If only he could be branded as a liar and thrust ignominiously out of the circle of inquiry, his dearest object would be accomplished. Other statements in his information make it certain that this was the case. After naming Monday night as the time of the murder, he went on to say to the council that the body lay in Somerset House for four days, and was then carried away on the night of Wednesday. Reckoning at the shortest, the fourth day from Monday night was Friday, twenty-four hours after Godfrey’s body was found. Reckoning backwards from Wednesday, the fourth day was Saturday, when Godfrey was missed. Prance was therefore deliberately falsifying his evidence in point of time when he named Monday. A similar result is obtained from his examination by the Duke of Monmouth. In that he said that the day of the murder was either at the latter end or the beginning of the week. He further said “that the body lay in Somerset House about six or seven days before it was carried out.” Counting the week-end from Friday to Tuesday, six days from either of those or the intermediate points brings the calculation at least to Thursday. At the same time Prance declared that the body was removed at midnight on Wednesday. It is evident that he was trying to throw dust in the eyes of the investigators. These tactics were in vain, and he was forced to tell the story in point of time truthfully. As for the fictitious view of the body on the night of October 14, Prance simply told Bedloe’s story with as little variation as possible, with the exception that he did not mention Bedloe at all. Bedloe had landed himself in hopeless confusion when he was taken to Somerset House to shew the room where it had taken place.[296] Prance did not attempt to point it out.

Prance did not stop at his evidence on the subject of the murder, but went on to give information as to the Plot. Unless he had done so he could hardly have hoped to escape from prison, for it would seem incredible to the authorities that he should know so much and yet not know more. Perhaps too he was bitten with the excitement and glory of an informer’s life. His evidence was not however calculated to assist materially the party whose interest it was to prosecute the plot. He had already aroused annoyance by contradicting Bedloe’s evidence concerning the murder.[297] He now proceeded to spin out a string of utterly ridiculous stories about the Jesuits and other Roman Catholics. All that was important in his evidence was hearsay or directed against men who had already to contend against weightier accusations. He declared that Fenwick, Ireland, and Grove had told him that four of the five Popish lords were “to command the army.”[298] They had for some time past been in prison in the Tower on far more direct charges. At the trial of Ireland and Grove Prance was not produced as a witness at all. At the trial of Whitbread, Fenwick, and Harcourt he made the same statement. Fenwick had told him also that he need not fear to lose his trade in the case of civil war, for he should have plenty of work to do in making church ornaments.[299] These stories were again retailed at the trials of Langhorn and Wakeman.[300] When he was summoned as a witness against Lord Stafford he could say no more than that one Singleton, a priest, had told him “that he would make no more to stab forty parliament men than to eat his dinner.”[301] Much of his evidence about the Plot was so ludicrous that it could never be brought into court at all. Four men were to kill the Earl of Shaftesbury and went continually with pistols in their pockets. One Bradshaw, an upholsterer, had said openly in a tavern that it was no more sin to kill a Protestant than to kill a dog, and that “he was resolved to kill some of the busy lords.” It was the commonest talk among Roman Catholics that the king and Lord Shaftesbury were to be murdered. It was equally an ordinary subject of conversation that a great army was to be raised for the extirpation of heretics. A surgeon, named Ridley, had often told him “that he hoped to be chirurgeon to the Catholic army in England”; and when he complimented one Moore, a servant of the Duke of Norfolk, upon “a very brave horse” which he was riding, “Moore wished that he had ten thousand of them, and hoped in a short time that they might have them for the Catholic cause.” In his publication Prance added to this a disquisition on the immorality of the secular priests, among whom he had at the time two brothers.[302] So tangled and nonsensical a tale could be a source of strength to no prosecution. Dr. Lloyd was alarmed at the extent and facility of Prance’s new information.[303] Bishop Burnet thought, “It looked very strange, and added no credit to his other evidence that the papists should thus be talking of killing the king as if it had been a common piece of news.[304] And Warner, the Jesuit provincial, characterised Prance’s later evidence as of little scope and less weight.”[305]

To how many persons Prance’s real position in the tortuous intrigues which circled round the murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey was known is a question very difficult to answer. By the Jesuit writers on the Plot his character is treated with a moderation foreign to their attacks on the other informers. He is to them “a silversmith of no obscurity,” and “by far less guilty than the rest in the crimes of their past lives.”[306] It is hard to think that some of them were not acquainted with the part which he had played. There are stronger indications that within a select circle his true character was appreciated. When James II came to the throne Prance was brought to trial for perjury, and on June 15, 1686 pleaded guilty to the charge. The court treated him to a lecture in which his conduct was compared favourably to that of Oates, who had remained hardened to the end, and promised to have compassion on a true penitent. He was sentenced to pay a fine of a hundred pounds, to be three times pilloried for the space of an hour, and to be whipped from Newgate to Tyburn. The last and heaviest part of the punishment, the flogging, under which Oates’ iron frame had nearly sunk, was remitted by the king’s command.[307] There is considerable reason to believe that the trial was collusive and the result prearranged. That Prance should confess himself perjured is easy to understand: to understand why Prance’s sentence was lightened, unless it was in reward for good service done, would be very difficult. All the reasons which had worked before for the exculpation of the Roman Catholics from the guilt of Godfrey’s murder were now redoubled in force. Oates had already suffered for his crimes. The Popish Plot, as Sir John Reresby told James, was not only dead, but buried. To overthrow the Protestant story of Godfrey’s death would be to throw the last sod upon its grave. This was much; but James was not the man to forego without reason the sweetest part of his vengeance upon the witness who had set up that story. The rancour with which he pursued Oates and Dangerfield seemed to have completely vanished when the turn came to Prance. Prance had certainly diverted the investigation from James’ personal neighbourhood; but Oates had been saved nothing of his terrible punishment by the fact that he had cleared the Duke of York in his first revelation of the plot. The harm done by Dangerfield to the Catholic cause was nothing compared to that accomplished by Prance, if the surface of events told a true tale. Dangerfield was whipped, if not to death, at least to a point near it. But Prance was let off the lash. Without the flogging his sentence was trifling. James had no love for light sentences in themselves. His action is only explicable on the ground that he was acquainted with the truth, and knew how valuable an instrument Prance had proved himself.

One man at least could have told him the facts: Father John Warner, late provincial of the Jesuits in England and confessor of the king. Less than three years later, when the storm of revolution burst over the Catholic court and drove its supporters to seek a penurious refuge on the continent, a shipload of these was setting out from Gravesend in mid December. They were bound for Dunkirk with as many valuables as they could carry with them. Before they could set sail, information was laid and an active man, aided by the officers of the harbour, boarded the vessel. The last passengers were being rowed out from shore. They were arrested in the boat and carried back with the others seized on the ship. They were Father Warner and Miles Prance. While the officers were busy in caring for the captured property, their prisoners escaped. Warner made his way to Maidstone and by means of a forged passport crossed the Channel. Prance was soon after retaken in the attempt to follow under a false name. The vessel on board which he was found was seized, but those on her were discharged, and Prance was probably successful in his third endeavour to reach the continent.[308] Supposing that Prance had been the Protestant puppet which he has been believed, this was queer company in which to find him. He had attacked Warner’s religion, accused his friends, and brought to death those of his faith by false oaths. His confession of perjury would hardly weigh down the scale against this. At least he was not the man whom Warner would choose as a travelling companion on a journey in which detection might at any moment mean imprisonment and even death. The risk that Prance would turn coat again and denounce him was not inconsiderable. Prance’s conduct too was remarkable. Why should he fly from the Revolution? True, he had confessed that his accusations of the Catholics were false, and he could not expect great gratitude from the party in power; but he had only to retract his words once more, on the plea that his confession had been extorted against his will, to live in safety, at any rate, if not with prosperity. Away from England, surrounded by those whom he had wronged, the future before him was hopeless.

The supposition cannot be supported. Prance’s position in the politics of the plot is not easy to set in a clear light. The attempt made here to do so at least offers a hypothesis by which some of the difficulties are explained. The last phase of the informer’s career, at all events, becomes intelligible. Prance had been throughout one of the most astute and audacious of the Jesuit agents, and Warner must have been perfectly aware of the fact.

The success of Godfrey’s murder as a political move is indubitable. The Duke of York was the pivot of the Roman Catholic schemes in England,[309] and Godfrey’s death saved both from utter ruin. Nevertheless it was attended by gravely adverse consequences. If the fact of the Jesuit congregation at St. James’ Palace had become known, nothing could have saved the duke. But the crime which prevented this gave an impetus to the pursuit of the Plot and a strength to the Whig party, so great that it all but succeeded in barring him from the throne and establishing a Protestant dynasty. Godfrey’s fame rose almost to the height of legend. On a Sunday in the February after his murder a great darkness overspread the face of the sky of London. The atmosphere was so murky that in many churches service could not be continued without the aid of candles. It was said that in the midst of the gloom in the queen’s chapel at Somerset House, even while mass was being said, the figure of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey appeared above the altar. Thereafter the place went by the name of Godfrey Hall.[310]