I found a part of my answer in the final set of letters, which detailed a heated battle among York’s leaders concerning the fate of the city. Though they maintained a unified face in public, Stephen’s letters made clear that, much like the rest of the nation, the council had divided their loyalties between the King and Parliament, and Stephen was among the most violent supporters of the rebels. To my surprise, I found that my brother-in-law Edward’s name loomed large in the correspondence as he and Stephen argued over where the city’s best interests lay. Stephen had clearly begun a campaign to convince the godly members of York’s city council—including Edward—to take up arms against the Lord Mayor and the Royalist garrison and expel them from the city. While Edward had no love for the Lord Mayor or the King, he wrote against Stephen’s plan, saying it was too risky. In his opinion, the most likely end to such a rebellion would be execution for the conspirators and suffering for the city. Edward had won that debate, but more recent correspondence made clear that Stephen had not given up. In a letter Stephen sent to Edward the week before he died, Stephen claimed to have made contact with the besieging armies and told Edward of their plans to assault the city. He begged Edward to help him gather men and arms so that he could lead an attack on the King’s men from inside the city at the precise moment the rebels attacked the city walls. In the final letter between them, Edward sounded much like Charles Yeoman, arguing that the city would suffer far more from a rebel assault than it did under Royalist rule. He urged Stephen to give up his plotting and warned of dire consequences if he did not. The letter was dated two days before Stephen was murdered.
I sat back in my chair, stunned by what I’d found. Charles Yeoman had sworn to me that Stephen was not conspiring with the rebels, yet the letters before me, written in Stephen’s own hand, proved the contrary. This lie paled in comparison with his exaggeration about Stephen’s suit with the Hookes, but it raised the same question. Why would he mislead me in such a way? Why did he want me to focus on the Hookes but ignore Stephen’s ties to the rebels? But my puzzlement at Yeoman’s lies was more than matched by my anger at Edward. He knew that Stephen had planned a rising within the city and had hatched a conspiracy against the Lord Mayor but had said nothing about it. If Stephen had become involved in the dangerous business of treason, and had made deadly enemies among the King’s party, how could Edward allow Esther to be burned for the crime? He would answer for his deception when I next saw him.
I retied the bundles, though not so neatly as Stephen would have wanted, and placed them in my own secure chest. As I went to put away my valise, I noticed one last letter in it, the one that I had found beneath all the others in Stephen’s strongbox. I opened it and was first struck by the hand in which it was written. Unlike the rest of the letters, which clearly came from the desks of educated men, this one had been written by someone who rarely picked up a pen. The letters were out of proportion, and some were made incorrectly—it seemed to me a woman’s hand, but I could not be sure. More remarkable than the handwriting, however, was what the letter said.
Mr. Cooper,
I know what you have done and what kind of man you are. If you do not give me ten pounds, I will tell everyone what you have done. I will have the money in one week’s time. I will tell you when to deliver it.
It was unsigned, of course, but also undated, so I had no idea whether it was relevant to his murder. If it had been lying at the bottom of his strongbox for ten years, it told us little except that he had his secrets. In light of this letter, it seemed even more important that I see Esther Cooper, though I knew my next visit would be far more delicate than my first. I would have to ask about her husband’s violent outbursts, of course, but also the changed lock on the strongbox, the money missing from inside, and now the extortion letter. With every new piece of information I found, the facts of the case became ever cloudier. As I said my prayers that night, I asked God to protect Anne Goodwin, to give life to Elizabeth Wood’s son, and to provide me guidance in speaking to my brother-in-law.
That night I was visited once again by foul dreams. This time I was outside the city walls, part of a joyous throng awaiting Esther’s execution. When the sledge approached, I could see Esther wearing nothing except a white shift and holding a bundle of faggots. She was praying fervently. Then I saw her tied to the stake, up to her knees in wood. I looked down and saw that I had a torch in my hand and realized I was to be her executioner. Blessedly, I awoke before I started the blaze. I lay in bed for a time, wondering if I would be the one who sent my friend to the stake.