An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

Thurloe affected to look surprised. ‘But surely that goes against the scientific method? You must accept it, until you have an alternative hypothesis.’

  ‘I accept it as a possibility, but would be reluctant to act on it unless it was more secure.’

  He stood up, slowly in the way the old are forced to do by the stiffness of their joints. ‘Please help yourself to a glass of wine, Doctor. I will return to discuss this matter further in a short while.’

  I revised my estimate of him as I poured myself a glass. An order is an order, however mildly it is given: Thurloe, I decided, was gentle because he had never needed to be other. It never occurred to me to say that Lower was expecting me, that I was hungry, or that I saw no reason to kick my heels waiting on his pleasure. I stayed where I was, for half an hour or more, until he returned.

  With him, when he finally came back, was Jack Prestcott, his gaol cell and shackles now a mere memory, grinning with embarrassment as he followed Thurloe into the room.

  ‘Ah,’ he said brightly, as I stared at him in outright astonishment, for he was the very last person I ever expected to see again, let alone in such circumstances. ‘The Italian anatomist. How do, good Doctor?’

  Thurloe smiled sadly at both of us, then bowed. ‘I will leave you both to a discussion,’ he said. ‘Please do not hesitate to call me if required.’

  And he left the room, leaving me to gape idiotically. Prestcott, a burlier man than I remembered and certainly more cheerful than he had been on our last meeting, rubbed his hands, poured himself a glass of ale from a jug on the sideboard and sat down in front of me, scrutinising my face to see if there were any danger signals.

  ‘You are surprised to see me. Good. I’m glad to hear it. You must admit, this is a pretty good hiding place, don’t you think? Who’d think of looking for me here, eh?’

  He certainly seemed to be in good spirits, very much like someone who had not a care in the world, rather than a man faced with the prospect of imminent hanging. And what, I wondered, was he doing in the house of a man like Thurloe?

  ‘Simple enough,’ he said. ‘My father and he were acquainted, after a fashion. I threw myself on his mercy. We outcasts must stick together, you know.’

  ‘So what do you want? You are taking a risk announcing your presence to me, are you not?’

  ‘We shall see. Thurloe told me what you said, but would you mind going through the matter again?’

  ‘Which matter?’

  ‘About Dr Grove. He was good to me, and the only person in Oxford I had an affection for. I was sorely grieved when I heard what had happened.’

  ‘Considering how ill you would have used him had he visited you the evening of your escape, I find that difficult to credit.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I didn’t hurt Wallis by tying him up, and I wouldn’t have hurt old Grove. But what is a man to do? Die on the scaffold to avoid being uncivil? I had to escape and this was my only opportunity. What would you have done?’

  ‘I would not have attacked someone to start with,’ I replied.

  He brushed the point aside. ‘Now think a minute. Thurloe tells me that the magistrate hovered ominously around you for a moment. What if he had clapped you in irons – as he might have done, you know, for a papist would be a popular choice. What would you do? Sit tight and hope the jury was sensible? Or decide they would likely be a bunch of drunken good-for-nothings who would hang you for the pleasure of it? I may be a fugitive, but at least I am alive. Except that Grove’s death concerns me, and I would help if it were possible, for he was kind to me once and I revere his memory. So tell me, what has been going on?’

  Again I went through the story. Prestcott proved a more appreciative audience, twisting about in his chair, getting up to refill his glass, punctuating my remarks with loud exclamations of approval or dissent. Eventually, I concluded my tale for the second time.

  ‘And now, Mr Prestcott,’ I said sternly, ‘you must tell me what this is about.’

  ‘What it is about’, he said, ‘is that I now understand a good deal more than I did a few moments ago. The question is, what am I to do about it?’

  ‘I cannot advise you until I know what you mean.’

  Prestcott took a deep sigh, then looked me straight in the eye. ‘You know the Blundy girl was his strumpet?’

  I said I had heard the story, but added that the girl did not admit it.

  ‘Of course not. But it’s true. I know because we went together briefly last year before I knew what she was. Then she moved on to Grove, and seduced him, poor old man, into her clutches. It was simply done; he had an eye for prettiness, and she can be very compliant when she puts her mind to it. She was furious when he dismissed her. I came across her just afterwards, and believe me, I have never seen such a terrifying countenance in my life. She looked like a devil, and was snarling and spitting like an animal. He would pay for it, she said. And pay dearly.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought it just womanly excess at the time. Anyway, shortly afterwards I had my regrettable experience and ended up in gaol, so I lost contact with the outside world. Until I escaped. When I walked out of the castle, I had not a clue what to do next. I had no money, no proper clothes, nothing. And I thought I’d better hide lest the alarm was raised. So I went to the Blundys’ cottage. I had been there before, and knew it.’

  He had slipped quietly up the muddy alleyway to Sarah’s door, and peered through the window. It was quite dark inside, and he assumed that no one was there. He rummaged around to see if there was any food he could take, and was eating a crust of bread when Sarah returned.

  ‘She had an exhilaration which frightened me,’ he confessed. ‘She was surprised to see me, of course, but when I told her I couldn’t hurt her and didn’t intend to stay long, she relaxed. She had a small bag with her and, as I thought it might have some more food in it, I took it from her.’

  ‘She let you have it?’

  ‘Not exactly. I had to force it from her.’

  ‘And I take it there was no food there?’

  ‘No. There was money. And a ring. Grove’s signet ring,’ he said, then paused to rummage in his pocket. He took out a small packet of crumpled paper, which he unwrapped carefully. Inside was a ring with a carved blue stone in the centre.

  ‘I remember it well,’ he continued once I had taken it to examine. ‘I’ve seen it on his finger on innumerable occasions. As he never took it off, I was curious how Sarah Blundy came by it. She refused to answer, so I beat her until she snarled that it was none of my business and in any case, Grove wouldn’t need it any more.’

  ‘She said that? Grove wouldn’t need it any more?’

  ‘Yes,’ Prestcott said. ‘I had other things on my mind so didn’t pay that much attention at the time. Now, of course, it all seems quite important. The question is, what to do? I can hardly offer my testimony, as the magistrate will thank me kindly, then hang me as well. So I was wondering if you would take this ring and my story. Once you have gone back and spoken to Sir John Fulgrove I will be long gone, with luck.’

  I thought hard, clutching the ring in my hand, and astonished by how much I did not want to believe what I was hearing. ‘You give me your word that what you are telling me is true?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied promptly and frankly.

  ‘I would have more sympathy if you were not also of a violent disposition yourself.’

  ‘I am not,’ he said, colouring slightly and raising his voice. ‘And I resent the remark. Everything I have done was to protect my own, and my family’s name. There is no similarity between my case, which is an affair of honour, and hers, which is lust and theft. Sarah Blundy will do this again, believe me, Doctor. She acknowledges no laws and no restraints. You do not know her, or her sort, as I do.’

  ‘She is wild,’ I admitted. ‘But I have also seen her polite and dutiful.’

  ‘When she wishes,’ he said dismissively. ‘But she is entirely without a
sense of duty to her betters. That you must have discovered for yourself.’

  I nodded. It was certainly true. And I thought once more of my hypothesis. I wanted further evidence of unimpeachable veracity, and now I believed I had it. Prestcott had little to gain in coming forward; indeed potentially he had much to lose. It was difficult not to believe him, and he spoke with such an intensity that it was hard to imagine he was not telling me the truth.

  ‘I will talk to the magistrate.’ I suggested. ‘I would not say where you are, but merely recount the story. He is a trustworthy man, I think, and keen to conclude this matter swiftly. Many in the university resent his interference, and your witness would be of great use to him. It may be that he will look kindly on you. You must take Mr Thurloe’s advice on this, of course, but I would advise against precipitate flight.’

  Prestcott considered this. ‘Maybe. But you must promise me that you will be careful. I am terribly afraid. If someone like Lower knows where I am, he will give me up. He is obliged to do so.’

  I promised him this with great reluctance and, if I did not keep my word because of my obligations to Lower, at least I can say that it did Prestcott no harm.

  My decision to keep quiet, however, led to a sad deterioration in my relations with Lower, as my absence with what he assumed was a valuable and lucrative client led him once more into jealous despondency. I have met people who would turn so to some degree but I have never met anyone like Lower, whose humour would change on the instant, without warning or good reason.

  Twice now he had lashed out and vented his temper on me and I had endured it out of friendship; the third time was worst and the last. Like all the English, he drank prodigious amounts, and had thus occupied himself in my absence, so was violent in mood when I returned. When I entered the house, he was sitting by the fire, clutching himself as though to keep warm, and staring blackly at me. When he spoke he spat his words as though I was his worst enemy.

  ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’

  Tempted though I was to recount everything, I replied that I had been to see a patient, who had summoned me.

  ‘You have reneged on our agreement, that I was to have such patients.’

  ‘We had no agreement,’ I said, astounded. ‘Although I am happy for you to have them. But you were bathing.’

  ‘I would have dried myself.’

  ‘And the patient would have been no use to you.’

  ‘That is for me to decide.’

  ‘Then decide now. It was John Thurloe, and as far as I could see, he is in perfect health.’

  Lower snorted derisively. ‘You don’t even lie well. Dear God, how I am sick of your company, with your foreign ways and mincing speech. When do you go back home? I shall be glad to see the back of you.’

  ‘Lower, what is the matter?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you are concerned about me. The only thing you are interested in is yourself. I have shown you real friendship; I took you in when you arrived, introduced you to the best people, shared my ideas with you, and see how you repay me.’

  ‘And I am grateful,’ I said, beginning to grow angry now. ‘Truly grateful. And have done my best to earn what I have been given. Have I not also shared my ideas with you?’

  ‘Your ideas!’ he said with total contempt. ‘Those aren’t ideas. Those are fancies, idle nonsense with no foundations, dreamt up merely to amuse yourself.’

  ‘That is completely unfair. You know it. I have done nothing at all to earn your anger.’

  But my protests were of no use at all. As with the last time, what I said was of no importance; when the storm burst it had to blow itself out and I could do no more to calm it than a tree caught in a tempest. This time, however, I grew angry and resentful and, rather than seeking to mollify him, I felt more keenly his unfairness and fought against his rage.

  I will not repeat what was said, except to say that it was too much. Lower grew angrier and I, still unable to fathom the cause, became equally heated. All I know is that this time I was set on resisting him, and this determination drove him to more extravagant fits of fury. I was, he said, a thief, a charlatan, a fop, a papist, a liar, untrustworthy and deceitful. Like all foreigners I preferred the knife in the back to the way of honesty. I was planning to set up in London as a physician, he said, and my strenuous insistence that I fully intended to leave England as swiftly as possible only made him more furious.

  Under any other circumstances, honour would have demanded that I call him out, and I suggested this, earning myself more sneers. Eventually I withdrew, exhausted and hungry, for we did not stop to eat while we battled. I went to bed deeply saddened, for I had liked him, and realised now that friendship was for ever impossible. His society had brought me advantage, that is certainly true; but the cost I was forced to pay was too great. I was certain that my father, when he received my letters, would give me permission to leave and I decided that perhaps it would be best to anticipate that grant. I was, however, determined to complete the experiment I had undertaken with Mrs Blundy; if the woman survived and I could demonstrate its efficacy, then at least I would reap something more than bitterness from the sojourn.

  Chapter Sixteen

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Lower was, of course, all contrition and apology, but this time it was of no use. Our friendship was breached beyond repair: Fides unde abiit, eo nunquam redit, as Publius Syrus put it. Now that I had determined to leave, I was less inclined to make the accommodations that such a reconciliation required and, though I accepted his apologies in form, I could not do so in my heart.

  I believe he realised this, and our journey back to Oxford was full of silence and uncomfortable conversation. I missed our ease greatly, but could do nothing to retrieve our comradeship; Lower, I think, felt ashamed of himself, for he knew that he had acted unpardonably. As a result, he showed me constant little kindnesses to win his way back into my favour and fell into melancholy when his efforts went unrewarded.

  One thing, though, I was obliged in honour to do, for even though I had given my word to Prestcott, I considered my obligation to Lower the greater. I knew little of the law, but I knew that I had to inform him of what had transpired at Mr Thurloe’s house, as it would have been improper for him to hear it from the magistrate or tavern gossip. He listened gravely as I recounted the tale.

  ‘And you didn’t tell me? Do you realise what you’ve done?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have made yourself as guilty as them. You may hang now, if Prestcott is ever caught. Did that never occur to you?’

  ‘No. But what was I to do?’

  He thought. ‘I don’t know. But if the magistrate decides he wants Prestcott, and he has fled, then you will be in trouble. Do you believe him?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why not. He had nothing to gain. It is not as if I would have discovered him had he not summoned me. Besides, there is Dr Grove’s ring. Sarah Blundy will have to explain how she came by that.’

  ‘You are sure it is his?’

  ‘No. But if it is, someone will be able to identify it. What do you think?’

  Lower considered. ‘I think’, he said after a while, ‘that if the ring is his, and if some way can be found for Prestcott to say his testimony, then it will hang the girl.’

  ‘Do you believe she is guilty?’

  ‘I would be happier to have seen her in his room, pouring arsenic into the bottle. Or to hear it from her own lips. As Mr Stahl tells us, there is no such thing as certainty, but I am coming to think it probable she was responsible.’

  Both of us hesitated then, as we realised at the same moment that we were slipping back into intimacy, and instantly an awkwardness intervened. At that moment, my mind was made up, for I realised I could never talk to him with ease, lest he explode once more. Lower knew well what was going through my mind, and fell glumly silent as the horse clopped along the muddy road. I am sure he felt he could do no more: he had apologised for his past words, and could
see no need to excuse those he had not yet spoken.

  I have already mentioned that my opinion of the theatre in England was not high, the tale tedious, the acting dreadful, the declamation poor. Not so with the courts, which supplied all the pomp and drama that the theatre lacked, being also better produced and more convincingly expressed.

  The spectacle of an assize is not to be matched anywhere on the Continent; not even the French, who love the grandiose, have such an awful display in their justice. The essence of the grandeur lies in the fact that justice is mobile; while small crimes are dealt with by magistrates, more important cases are dealt with by the king’s representatives sent out from London at regular intervals. These patrol the country in circuit, and their arrival is attended by much circumstance. The mayor awaits the procession at the borders of the town, the local landowners send carriages to drive behind, and the people line the streets as the carriages wend their way to the court-house, where convoluted proclamations are read out which give the judges authority to hang as many law breakers as they please.

  Perhaps I ought to explain here the way the English deal with such matters, their method being as singular as many other proceedings in that country. One would have thought that a learned judge would have been sufficient as it is everywhere else, but this is not the case. For, having appointed such a person, they give all his power to a group of twelve men, chosen at random and utterly ignorant of all law. What is more, they are inordinately proud of this most bizarre system and hold this jury in awe as the bedrock of their liberties. These men listen to the arguments in court and vote about the verdict. The case is normally presented by the person who brings the prosecution or, in the case of murder, by family or by a magistrate who acts on behalf of the king. In this case, Grove having no family, the magistrate was bound to prepare the suit at the public expense.

  The preparations for the assize are many and the cost considerable, which is why the High Street was all but clogged with people when we returned. I was fascinated by the spectacle, but it merely put Lower into an ill humour. It was late in the day, neither of us had eaten and we were in two minds whether to stop for nourishment or to proceed straight to Sir John Fulgrove’s house in Holywell. We decided on the latter, not least because I was also anxious about Mrs Blundy: whatever her daughter had done, she was still my patient and my hope of fame. And I was anxious to be free of Lower’s company.