“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Will said with a thin smile. “But how?”
“We’ll borrow a page from Joseph,” I replied. “He published books to advance his cause, we’ll publish one to advance our own. If we can turn the city in your favor, the Lord Mayor will have a harder time finding a jury to convict you.”
Will nodded in agreement. “Then I guess you’ll have to take up the pen.”
Chapter 15
After we returned home, Martha and I spent the rest of the day in the dining room planning and writing our answer to Joseph’s accusations against Will. We hunched over ink-stained pages, trying different phrases and restarting our work more times than I care to remember.
“We must find a way to lay the murder at Joseph’s doorstep, but still hide our hands,” Martha said.
I agreed, though I did not think Joseph would be fooled for long. But what other choice did we have?
“Joseph was right in connecting George Breary’s death with Edward Hodgson’s,” I said. “But we can put them both on Joseph rather than Will.”
Martha nodded. “It was Joseph who gained power and wealth from their father’s death, not Will,” she replied, scribbling her ideas as she spoke. “Will has gained nothing but suffering.”
“Aye,” I said. “When Edward died, it was Joseph who took over his household and expelled his younger brother … no, his crippled younger brother.” I knew Will would not appreciate the reference to his misshapen foot, but our goal was to gain sympathy from the city, not appeal to his pride.
“And when Mr. Breary challenged his plans for a witch-hunt, Joseph acted as he always has—with violence,” Martha concluded with a flourish.
We continued to polish our pamphlet until it shone like the stones in my favored necklace. At every turn we reminded the reader that Joseph had far more to gain from Edward’s and George’s deaths than Will did. As we wove together the various strands of our story, I felt increasingly confident that our plan would bear fruit. It helped, of course, that we truly believed in Joseph’s guilt, and to our eyes, the indictment seemed irrefutable: Joseph had killed countless men in wartime, and he’d brought the fight back to York, killing his enemies in the city as easily as he had on the battlefield.
When we had finished our work, Martha and I hurried to the shop behind the Minster. The same young man that Elizabeth and I had met the week before answered our knock. Over his shoulder I could see a boy pulling a sheet of paper off the press and replacing it with a new one.
“Business is still good, it seems,” I said by way of greeting.
The printer smiled and shook his head in wonder at his good fortune. “In troubled times, people crave news, whether it is true or not. What brings you back to my shop, my lady?”
“More business for you,” I said, handing him the sheets that Martha and I had written. “I should like these printed and given to the city’s chapmen.”
As the printer read our work I could see the growing concern on his face. When he finished, he tried to hand them back. “My lady, I cannot print these,” he said. “You know very well what Mr. Hodgson’s reaction would be. He would see me out of business without a moment’s hesitation.”
“I’ll pay you well for your trouble,” I replied. “Pounds, not pence.” I knew that he could not earn more than two pounds a month, and if I could buy Will’s freedom for that price it would be money well spent.
“You could claim it was printed elsewhere,” Martha suggested. “Put Printed in Hull on the cover, and then dispose of all your copies. There will be no way to prove the contrary.”
The printer still seemed uncertain, but I could tell that we had his attention. I handed him a purse of coins in an effort to close the deal.
“No reason it couldn’t have come from Hull,” he said as he hefted the purse. “And with this I could hire another boy. I’ll have it ready in a week.”
I looked at him aghast. “We haven’t got a week,” I said. “A week would be too late.” I caught a glint in his eye—a glint the color of a silver coin—and realized what he was doing. It was not often a printer could claim the upper hand in such a matter, but we both knew that he had it.
“I have far more work than time, my lady,” he replied. “And I should like to keep the customers I have.”
I sighed and handed him a few more coins. “This should compensate for your loss,” I said.
“Yes, it should,” he replied. He looked once again through the sheets we’d given him. “It’s not long, so I should have the book to the chapmen by Friday.” My face must have betrayed my disappointment. “Between setting the type, the cutting, and the sewing, that is the best I can do. The work takes time,” he explained.