This consideration then has reached the result that the relation between the two men is not only inexplicable on the theory just discussed, but that it is inexplicable except upon the ground that there was more in Prance’s evidence than a work of mere fancy. Within the space of thirty-six hours, and with every condition adverse to clear and connected thought, he could not have produced the evidence which he gave on December 23 and 24 unless it had been based upon some reality in fact. On December 24 he was taken to all the places of which he had spoken, and went to each, describing the transaction on the spot in a manner perfectly consonant with what he had said under examination elsewhere. The consistence of his story, its readiness, the minuteness of its detail point to the certainty that he was speaking, not of incidents manufactured to order, but of facts within his knowledge. Prance was in fact a party to the murder.[268] From this it is a sure deduction that when Bedloe denounced him in the lobby of the House of Commons he was not, as L’Estrange asserted, making a move in a game which had been arranged beforehand, but had on the contrary really recognised the man and on the instant made an accusation not wholly devoid of truth. Bedloe too must therefore have known something about the murder. It would be an unbelievable coincidence that, if Bedloe were wholly ignorant, he should chance to choose, out of all London, one of the few who were not.
It now becomes evident what part of Prance’s evidence was true and what false. The three men whose conviction for the murder he procured were certainly innocent. Almost with equal certainty it can be said that he was not speaking at random. The truth of what he affirmed lay therefore in the facts and the manner of the transaction which he described. The murder had taken place at Somerset House in the way which he related, but he fastened the crime upon men who were guiltless of Godfrey’s death. The extent of Bedloe’s information also can be calculated. On every point of time and place he had prevaricated and contradicted himself beyond measure. On none of these is his testimony of the slightest value. Nevertheless he was possessed of enough knowledge to accuse definitely a man who was actively concerned in the crime and could relate the facts as they happened. Clearly he had become acquainted with the persons who were guilty of the murder. The probability then is that those whose names he first gave directly were the culprits. Prance he did not know by name, but by sight alone. From the beginning he had always spoken of “the waiter in the queen’s chapel,” or of the man whom “he saw often in the chapel.” If this had been a chance shot, he would afterwards have identified this man with Green, who actually answered to the description. Instead of this he recognised him in the person of Prance. As he only mentioned the fact incidentally and did not insist upon it as a circumstance in his favour, his word on the point is the more deserving of credit. If Prance himself was a party to the murder he must have known the real authors of it. He must have accused the innocent not from necessity but from choice, and in order to conceal the guilty. As he was expected and supposed to corroborate Bedloe’s evidence, his most natural course was to introduce into his story all those whom Bedloe had named. He carefully avoided mentioning any of them. No other reason is conceivable except that he knew Bedloe to have exposed the real murderers, and that he wished to shield them. What then was the motive of the crime, and how did this extraordinary complication arise?
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]