Dark Matter

“He is most impatient, and intemperate, it’s true,” agreed Titus Oates. “Why then, I will tell you as much as I know myself. Inside the Tower there’s him, Captain Lacoste, Captain Martin, Sergeant Rohan, and several men of the garrison: Cousin, Durel, Lasco, Devoe, Harald. Then, in the Mint there’s Mister Fauquier, the Deputy Master; Mister Collins, one of the assay masters, who did descend from Coligny, the great Huguenot admiral who was butchered by the French Catholics upon Saint Bartholomew’s; Vallière, who works the melt, Mister Silvester, the smith, and Peter Bayle, the victualler. That’s thirteen all told in the castle itself.

“Outside the Tower there are almost a hundred Englishmen in the barracks at Whitehall and at Somerset House; and among them several more Huguenots: Colonel Quesnal, Major Laurent, Major Sarrazin, Captain Hesse, Captain Popart, Lieutenant Delafons, and Sergeant Barre.

“Among the civilians there are perhaps a hundred more, including myself; Sir John Houblon at the Bank; Sir John Peyton; Monsieur Piozet, who’s pastor at the Savoy; Monsieurs Primerose, La Mothe, Chardin, and Moreau, who are on the grande comité français. In Soho there is Monsieur Guisard, whose father was burned for heresy, and Monsieur Peyferie, as well as several dozen hatmakers, buttoners, silk-weavers, drapers, chandlers, apothecaries and wigmakers in the City that do number at least six or seven dozen.

“Last of all, there’s Mister Defoe the pamphleteer, Mister Woodward the publisher, and Mister Downing, his printer; not to mention the several incendiaries who will help me to set the blaze at Whitehall, including young Mister Tonge, who knows much about raising fires.

“They are all good Protestants, milord,” declared Oates. “Therefore be assured that our chances of success are high.”

“For the conflagration,” said Newton, “will surely be blamed upon the Papists.”

“Aye,” said Oates, “for it is only what they would do had they sufficient opportunity.”

“Who would doubt such a thing after the Ailesbury Plot?” said Newton. “Or the insurrection of Sir John Fenwick?”

“And yet,” said I, “so many Jacobites have been arrested this year that I fear they are driven underground and we shall find fewer Papists than there are. Were not all Papists banished ten miles from London, last February?”

“Aye, milord,” said Oates. “But the measure was relaxed after only a month; and those few who were obliged to leave were soon back, like rats after the Fire.”

“Then pray tell me, Doctor Oates, how accurate are your lists of who is to be killed? We do not want any Papists getting away.”

“I’ll warrant none shall escape, milord,” said Oates, grinning most fanatically so that I saw how much he relished the bloody prospect that was plotted. “We shall begin with the Spanish Ambassador’s house in Wild Street, Covent Garden, that bestows a Roman Catholic aura upon that whole area. I expect to find papers there that were compiled for the Catholic Minister Apostolic in Flanders as to how many Papists there are in England and Wales, and their names. I do not think we shall slaughter fewer Catholics than Huguenots were murdered in Paris, milord.”

“It seems only appropriate that the number should be the same,” murmured Newton. “But when will it be done?”

“Fool,” said I, counterfeiting to Oates that I already had this knowledge, for I did not think it good that we should seem to know nothing. “I told you already. The damn fellow never listens, Doctor. Tell him.”

“Why, when the King returns from Flanders, of course,” said Oates. “What good is a Catholic plot to kill the King, if the King is somewhere else? It will all come out after this man Isaac Newton is murdered. For with his death, which will be blamed on the Catholics, the rest of their damnable plot will be revealed.”

“How is he to be murdered?” I enquired. “I have heard he is a mighty intelligent fellow, this Isaac Newton. He may yet outwit you.”

“I have not the precise details. But his movements are known to us. He will be assassinated in the street, and the blame put upon a notorious Roman Catholic who works in the Tower.”

“After the peace is concluded, then,” Newton said coolly, as if we were discussing the murder of some stranger.

“That is what we are waiting for, of course,” said I. “Let me die, but you are an ass, John. A mischief to you. Of course it will be after the peace, for when else will the King come back?” I glanced at Titus Oates and shook my head wearily. “Sometimes I wonder that I keep him in my service, Doctor, he abuses me so.”

We spoke again, and gradually and with great subtlety, we learned much of their plans, so that when the coach drew up in Axe Yard, which was between King Street and the cockpit in St. James’s Park, we knew a great deal except what was in the pamphlet which I now pronounced myself most eager to read.

“I will fetch it straightaway,” said Oates and, opening the coach door, climbed down to the street and went inside his house.