The Last Queen of England (9 page)

Tayte’s interest in Naismith extended to the other four men who were hanged with him and he wondered if there was a connection.
 
He continued to read, catching the opening paragraphs and skipping ahead to find the relevant material.

‘While they lay under this Condemnation, I constantly visited them, and had them brought up twice every day, to the Chapel of Newgate, where I pray'd with them, and read and expounded the Word of GOD to them ... On the Lord's Day the 8th instant, I preach'd to them, both in the Morning and Afternoon, upon part of the Gospel for the Day, viz. Luke 21. 27. the Words being these; And then shall they see the Son of Man coming in a Cloud with Power and great Glory...’

Tayte sighed.
 
The Ordinary of Newgate seemed nothing if not thorough in his piety.
 
He reached the bottom of the page and began again at the top of the next column.
 
Other than to provide spiritual care to the condemned it was the Ordinary’s role to solicit a confession from the accused wherever possible, such that their souls may enter Heaven.
 
As Tayte reached the end of the second column, the text still knotted in God’s holy word, he thought he would have confessed to just about anything if he had to listen to this all day.
 
He turned the page and slowed when he was half way down the first column, seeing that the subject matter had returned more directly to the accused.

‘I have here dwelt the longer upon these respective Heads or chief Points of my Sermons to the Condemn'd Persons, because I may have but little else to fill this Paper with; which (as I take it) should be excus'd from the Tax, being a Paper that (for the most part) contains Matter of Divinity and Devotion, and is chiefly intended for the Instruction and Reformation of Sinners.
 
These who are the Subject of it, and are now order'd for Execution, gave me small account of their past Lives, and present Dispositions, as follows.’

Tayte read five names and five brief accounts, which amounted to little more than statements of innocence against the charges of supporting the Old Pretender and the Jacobite cause.
 
They stated their loyalty to Queen Anne and to the Church of England and upheld that no evidence to support the accusations of high treason had been proved.
 
The Ordinary noted with disdain that these five men protested their innocence all the way to the Tyburn Tree and during their pithy dying speeches.

Tayte wished they had given the Ordinary a better account of themselves.
 
He wrote the names in his notebook below the entry that was already there for the Reverend Charles Naismith, adding Dr Bartholomew Hutton, Lloyd Needham, Sir Stephen Henley and William Daws.
 
Five men connected in death, hanged as Jacobite supporters.
 
He read the last paragraph of the Ordinary’s account and began to wonder what might have connected these five men in life.

‘I finally commended their Souls to the Mercy of God in Christ, and retir'd from them; leaving them to their private Devotions, for which they had some time allotted them: And then the Cart drew away, and they were turned off, all the while calling on God to have Mercy upon their Souls.
 
This is all the Account here to be given of these dying Persons, by me THOMAS LAING, Ordinary.
 
Friday, May 4. 1708.

Tayte closed the book and they took a break, returning to the ground floor where the café hubbub after the quiet of the reading room was as welcome as the caffeine.
 
Jean sat in a chair by the window and Tayte sat opposite.
 
Officers Hampshire and Hues kept their vigil by the main doors where they remained standing with their drinks and were no doubt bored to distraction.

“So, what do you make of it?” Jean asked.

Tayte sucked the foam from the top of his coffee.
 
“Well, after your history lesson yesterday, I guess I don’t really see how five men who say they were loyal to Queen Anne could qualify as Jacobites.
 
And Naismith was Church of England clergy.”

“Jacobitism wasn’t just a Catholic thing.
 
No more than its supporters were all Scottish.”

“Movies and storybooks again?”

Jean nodded.
 
“Although the majority of longer term supporters were Scottish Catholics and that’s probably what the storytellers latched onto.”

“But what about their loyalty to Queen Anne?
 
Didn’t you say that to be a Jacobite was to be loyal to the Old Pretender calling himself James III?”

“Strictly speaking they were loyal to the bloodline - to his father, James II.
 
Support came from those who believed that his blood was the true royal blood.”

“So in a way Queen Anne’s blood was also Jacobite blood?”

“Technically, I suppose it was.
 
The word ‘Jacobite’ comes from the Latin for James, which is
Jacobus
.
 
A Jacobite is literally a follower of
Jacobus
.
 
In this case, James II.”

Tayte half drained his coffee cup.
 
“And that’s what doesn’t make any sense.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Queen Anne was still alive when these men were hanged.
 
You said she died in 1714, six years after the hangings.”

“That’s right.”

Tayte scoffed.
 
“Well, if someone openly supports the current monarchy, how can they be hanged for high treason?
 
I mean, one contradicts the other, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe they were lying about their allegiance,” Jean said.
 
“They might have said anything to escape the hangman’s noose.”

“But they didn’t escape it.
 
Why keep up the lie if that’s what it was?
 
They were religious men judging from what we’ve read.
 
Surely they would have chosen to die with a clear conscience - cleansed their souls.
 
At least one out of five would have spoken out.”

Jean seemed to be coming around to the idea.
 
“I suppose if they were Jacobites in the way we understand Jacobitism today then no, they wouldn’t have hidden that fact if they knew they were going to die anyway.
 
They would have died proud and loyal men.”

Tayte raised a brow.
 
“Things aren’t quite as they seem here, are they?”

They finished their coffee and headed back upstairs to the Document Reading Room where one record remained to be viewed.

Keep following the clues,
Tayte told himself.
 
See where they lead.

At his office in Central London, politician Trenton McAlister gazed out of his window towards Trafalgar Square.
 
His eyes were fixed on Nelson’s Column, taking in nothing of the morning rush hour, which was as much a part of the view as the enduring pigeons.
 
He was deep in thought, not really looking at the effigy of the man whom after all these years he felt he knew so well, but through it.
 
He was subconsciously tapping his foot, feeling both excited and overwhelmed by the news he had just received.

McAlister was in his fifties, clean-shaven with dyed brown hair that he had cut twice a week to keep up the impeccable image he strove to maintain.
 
He wore a pinstripe suit, shoes polished to a high shine and a tie that bore the red, white and green stripes of the British republican tricolour.
 
He was as proud of his support for a British republic as he was open about it, and having built his career from humble beginnings he liked to think of himself as the perfect role model for a New Britain, engendering the belief that possibility was for all and not just for the lucky few.
 
There were no skeletons in McAlister’s closet.
 
At least, none that anyone had ever found.

When a tap came at the door he turned away from the bright window with a tear in his eye.
 
Like the foot tapping it was something he hadn’t been overly aware of until he felt that tear roll down his cheek.
 
He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, but little escaped the attention of his long-serving assistant, Beatrice, who had just entered the room.

“Anything wrong?” she asked as she set McAlister’s morning cup of tea down on the desk.

“Thank you, Bea,” he said, his accent a gentle blend of Edinburgh Scots on his father’s side and Middle English on his mother’s.
 
He sipped his tea and turned back to the window.

“Well?” Beatrice said.
 
“
Is
something wrong?”

“Far from it,” McAlister said.
 
“I’ve had some good news.
 
Great news in fact.”

“Tears of joy then?”

McAlister turned and smiled, flashing whitened teeth that any Hollywood actor would have been proud of.
 
“If I’m feeling a little emotional this morning it’s because I believe that all my campaigning might finally be getting somewhere.
 
And maybe sooner than I’d hoped.”

“Anything you want to share?”

“In good time, Bea, in good time.”

“Suit yourself,” Beatrice said.
 
She turned to leave, adding, “Your ‘news man’ confirmed seven-thirty this evening.
 
I’m sure you’ll tell him what you’re feeling so emotional about, won’t you?”

McAlister ignored the familiar quip and checked his watch.
 
“He called already?” he said, surprised at such an early response to a message left no more than half an hour ago.
 
“My, but he’s a keen one, isn’t he?”

As Beatrice left the room McAlister sat down and sipped his tea again, smiling to himself as his thoughts turned to his two sons.
 
They were both in their thirties now and had taken up the republican campaign with him as soon as they were old enough to deliver pamphlets door-to-door.
 
He had no doubt they were both equally proud of him, but he hoped he would soon make them prouder still.

For the first time in Trenton McAlister’s political career he believed he might actually see his efforts come to fruition in his own lifetime.
 
The dream felt almost tangible, but there was still much work to be done.
 
Public opinion polls showed that around seventy percent of the nation believed that Britain would be a republic in fifty years time.

Fifty years,
he thought, chuckling to himself.
 
If his caller made good his claim then he believed Britain could see its first president long before that.

Tayte couldn’t recall having seen a copy of the newspaper he and Jean were now looking at inside the Document Reading Room, which by now had begun to fill with visitors.
 
It was called the Daily Courant.
 
He knew of it but he’d never actually held a copy - not that he could quite do that now as this single sheet newspaper was inside a clear protective cover.
 
Even so, he liked to see original records whenever he had the chance.
 
Marcus was right about that.
 
It wasn’t the same looking at a digital scan on the Internet or a copy on a microform reader.

He thought about Marcus again and about technology, adding newspapers to the list of diminishing physical documents, knowing that you could already have your favourite newspaper delivered digitally to your PC or e-reader.
 
He supposed that things were certainly going to be different for the genealogist of the future.
 
But not quite yet,
he thought as he leant in and studied what was reputedly England’s first successful daily newspaper, published between 1702 and 1735.
 
This edition was dated Thursday, April 7th, 1708.
 
A little over two weeks before the hangings he and Jean had read about in the Newgate Calendar.
 
The text was similarly divided into two heavily worded columns.

Tayte raced over it.
 
Something had to be related, but what?
 
There were a few paragraphs of translated foreign affairs and a large section concerning the debates of Parliament.
 
He saw an account of a hanging and thought that was it until he reminded himself that this newspaper was published too early for such a report to be relevant.
 
Then Jean made him jump.

“There!” she said, forgetting where she was.

Tayte felt the weight of a hundred eyes on them, although Jean was so caught up in their research that she seemed not to realise.
 
Tayte followed the line of her index finger to an advertisement section at the bottom of the right hand column.
 
It wasn’t quite what he’d expected but he saw a name he’d recently scribbled into his pad.

‘
At the Sign of the Cheshire-Cheese, a Tinshop in Walbrook, near Stocks-Market, Liveth a Gentlewoman, the Daughter of eminent Physician and Royal Society Fellow, Dr Bartholomew Hutton, who has practis'd in London upwards of thirty Years.
 
She has an Ointment call'd the Royal Ointment, for the Gout, and Rheumatick Pains, and of great Ease and Comfort to both Sexes at Home and Abroad.
 
NB. Originally prepar'd by this Gentlewoman, and sold for her no where else.’