An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  ‘We are not in a court of law here.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You are in my parlour. But if you wish, you may turn it into a courtroom, and you may make your first speech. I will answer, and you can then make up your mind. Come now; it is a handsome offer. You get to be prosecution, judge, jury and (if you win your case) executioner. Such an opportunity comes very infrequently to a man of your age.’

  For some reason, I didn’t even question him any more. It was too late now for the bold action I had originally intended. I now wanted him to acknowledge I was right and hear him admit that he deserved my punishment. That was why I fell in with him – and why I still think that he was wrong. I would have made a good lawyer, even though I am profoundly grateful I was not reduced to such a state.

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘the thing is . . .’

  ‘No, no, no,’ he interrupted me gently. ‘We are in a court, sir. Your presentation is a disgrace. Never begin a speech with, “Well, the thing is . . .” Do they not teach rhetoric in the university any more? Now, begin properly, always making sure you address the judge respectfully – even when he’s an old fool – and the jury as though you are sure they are a benchful of Solomons, even if you’ve spent the morning bribing them. Start again. And don’t be shy; you can’t be shy if you want to win.’

  ‘My Lord, members of the jury,’ I began. Even after all these years, I am still amazed by the way I meekly did as instructed.

  ‘Much better,’ he said. ‘Go on. But try to pitch your voice a little more effectively.’

  ‘My Lord, members of the jury,’ I said heavily and with some irony, for I did not wish it thought that I gave way to this play-acting without some resentment, ‘you sit here to judge one of the most evil crimes in the history of mankind; for the defendant before you is charged not with simple theft or the murder of a man committed in hot blood, but with the cold and calculating destruction of a gentleman, too good and too honourable to be harmed in any other way.

  ‘This gentleman, Sir James Prestcott, cannot speak to tell you of the injuries done to him. His family must do that for him in the traditional manner, so that his cries for justice from beyond the grave can be assuaged, and his soul can sleep in peace.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Thurloe. ‘A handsome start.’

  ‘As the judge, I must request the defendant to keep his silence. If this is a law court, the proper forms must be maintained.’

  ‘My apologies.’

  ‘I do not ask you to condemn this man without laying out the full facts of the case; that is all I need to do to make you to realise, without a shadow of a doubt, that this man is guilty. I shall state the case and stop: no high-flown rhetorical persuasion is needed.

  ‘The goodness, the loyalty and the courage of Sir James Prestcott were such that he gave everything in the king’s cause, and was prepared to give still more. When most had given up, he returned from exile to work for the blessed Restoration which we now all enjoy. Some joined him in this struggle, but few as wholeheartedly, and some did so merely out of consideration for their own gain. Some betrayed their friends and their cause for their own advancement, and whenever John Thurloe came across such people, he used them, then protected them by ensuring the blame for the damage they caused fell on the shoulders of others. His main informant, and the man who should have been punished for the deeds which destroyed my father, was John Mordaunt.’

  I paused here to see whether revealing the depths of my knowledge so suddenly shocked him. It did not; rather he merely sat there, entirely without movement and with no sign even of interest.

  ‘Let me explain. Mordaunt was the youngest son of a noble family which was keen not to take sides in the war and instead wished to profit whoever might triumph. Mordaunt was supposedly inclined to the king but was too young to take an active part in the fighting and so was sent away, like many others, to travel abroad where he could be safe. In particular he went to Savoy, and there he met Samuel Morland, a man already in the service of the Commonwealth.

  ‘Mordaunt was already linked to the king’s cause, Morland to Cromwell’s. When exactly the two of them entered into a partnership to advance themselves is uncertain, but I think that in all essentials it was a done deed by the time Sir Samuel returned to England in 1656. Mordaunt also returned and began to gain a reputation among the Royalists, his skill, intelligence and reputation for acumen considerably aided, I believe, by the constant information which Morland gave him. But the price the Royalists paid for his reputation was high indeed, for Mordaunt bought it by betraying every single plot the king’s men developed.

  ‘At one stage, the traitors made a bad mistake and in 1658 Mordaunt was arrested in a general round-up of Royalist sympathisers. It is inconceivable that a man as ruthless as John Thurloe would let someone so important escape had he truly been in the king’s cause. But was he led to the gallows like his associates? Was he tied to a chair and tortured to discover his valuable hidden knowledge? Was he at the very least kept in close custody? Not at all. He was released within six weeks, it was said because the jury was bribed by his wife.

  ‘It would, I believe, have taken a very large bribe indeed to persuade a juror to run the risk of releasing the most dangerous man in England, and incurring Thurloe’s wrath. But, in fact, no bribe was needed; the jurors were instructed how to vote, and followed those instructions without payment. Mordaunt returned to the fray, his fame for audacity and courage enhanced, and his position unquestioned.

  ‘By this stage it was clear to the Royalists that a traitor did exist, and must be unmasked. Thurloe, accordingly, began to hatch a plan to deflect attention on to others and protect his source of information. So he had a series of documents concocted to protect the true traitor. They used a cipher my father used, contained information he would have known. But why pick on him, rather than any of the other Royalists, who would have served just as well?

  ‘Perhaps Mr Thurloe can be acquitted in this respect, for I believe that Samuel Morland’s greed played a part here, as he profited hugely from my father’s disgrace, knowing that the Russell family would reward him well if he helped them sweep aside obstacles to their plans for the Fenlands. So he approached that family, and told them that Sir James Prescott could be removed if it was made worth his while. Sir John Russell leapt on the information Morland provided and began to disseminate it widely, and his passionate advocacy deceived Sir William Compton into denouncing and destroying his closest friend.

  ‘Thus, the second aspect of the plan, which joined the destruction of my father’s reputation to that of his estate, was brought into being. I do not know whether he ever imagined that so many powerful people desired, indeed required, his fall. Thurloe, protecting the government; Mordaunt and Morland, whose future rested on his shouldering the blame for their deeds; and the might of the Russell family, which gained the freedom it needed to exploit the Fenlands. Everybody profited handsomely from the arrangement, and the cost was small. The life and honour of a single man alone needed to be sacrificed.

  ‘It is impossible to counter accusations made in such a way; there were no charges, so how could they be refuted? No evidence was produced, so how could it be shown to be forged? My father withdrew with a dignity that was mistaken for cowardice. He fled to avoid calumny, false imprisonment and even the assassin’s knife, and this was mistaken for guilt. And all along Thurloe, the author of his misfortunes and the one man who could have cleansed his honour, said not a word. Who else could have conceived of such a scheme? And who else had the means to put it into operation? Only John Thurloe, who knew everything, saw everything, and was the moving force behind all occult activities.

  ‘And I, members of the jury, am reduced to the sorry state which you behold. I have no resources, no connections and no influence except that of argument and my unquenching belief in the justice of my case, and the goodness of this court. I am sure it will be more than enough.’

  Is this what I said, word for word? No; of course i
t is not; I am sure that my youth tripped my tongue and that the speech was not half as assured as I like to remember it. My friends who read books tell me this is the way of history. Even great historians write down what the actors should have said, rather than what they did. So it is with myself, and if I have improved and polished over the years, then I do not apologise for it. I remember the occasion, though, as if I did speak in this way, restrained but passionate, zealous but controlled, standing before him, fixed upon his countenance, strangely concerned to convince him that what I said was true but realising that I was as concerned to convince myself.

  He did not reply at once, that I remember clearly. Rather, he continued to sit impassively, nodding quietly. After a short while, when there was no sound but the crackling and hissing of the logs in the grate, he began to reply, still maintaining the fiction of the drama.

  ‘I will not condescend to my learned prosecutor by complimenting him on a fine speech, sincerely delivered as only a son could manage. The honesty of the words I do not doubt; the courage and zeal for justice is also beyond question, and it is honourable in one so young to take such a weighty task on his shoulders unsupported.

  ‘But this is a court of law, and cannot admit of sentiment. So, I must point out that the case for my guilt is thin, and the proof offered is insubstantial. The word of a father carries weight with a son, but not with a court. If you are to translate your own convictions into accepted fact, you must rest your case on much more than the protestations of a man under accusation. That I destroyed an innocent is a grave charge, and cannot be allowed to stand by mere assertion.

  ‘Sir James Prestcott was accused of treachery, and he was destroyed: I admit I am the obvious person to suspect. For long years I was responsible for the safety of the government, and I do not deny that the methods I used were many and various. This was necessary, for there were indeed plots against us; so numerous that I can no longer recall them all. Time and again agitators tried to return the country to the horrors of war and civil strife. It was my job to prevent this, and I performed the task to the best of my abilities.

  ‘Was there an informer, a traitor, in the ranks of the king’s men? Of course; not one, but very many. There are always people willing to sell their friends for money, but often I did not need the wares they tried to peddle. The Royalists were always the most foolish of conspirators. The proposed risings involved so many people with loose tongues that we would have been deaf indeed not to have heard of them. The satanic skill attributed to me was flattering, but wrong: for the most part my success was due solely to the stupidity of those who pitted themselves against me.

  ‘As for Samuel Morland, he was not without ability, but his greed and faithlessness made him less than useful and I had long wanted to dismiss him from my office. I could not do so, because he held in his hands our most useful informer on the doings of the king’s men, whom he called Mr Barrett.

  ‘Of all the government’s sources of information, this Mr Barrett was by far the best. We merely had to ask and Mr Barrett provided the answer through Samuel. And Samuel refused to say who this man was. If I disposed of Samuel’s services, I also lost Mr Barrett, and Samuel was clever enough to realise this was the only reason I tolerated his presence. I often wondered whether he was passing information as well as receiving it, and took care that he knew as little as possible about our office’s operations. As long as this trade did not become too disadvantageous, I did not discourage it.

  ‘Who was Mr Barrett? You are quite right; I also concluded it was John Mordaunt, and had him arrested so I could interview him personally and try to establish a direct connection that would eliminate the need for Samuel. But Mordaunt denied everything; either he suspected a trap, or he was indeed innocent, or his loyalty to Samuel was too great. Either way, I got nothing from him.

  ‘It was a mistake on my part, for my action made clear my enmity to Samuel, and when his opportunity came he conspired against me, and caused my temporary ejection from office. When I recovered my position, he then went over to the king’s party for fear of my revenge and denounced your father to win acceptance.

  ‘So you see I do not wish here to dispute your case that the traitor was John Mordaunt and that your father was sacrificed to protect him, although I would dispute some details if there was leisure to do so.

  ‘I dispute one assertion only, however, and do so because your case against me rests entirely on it, and I can prove it wrong. You say I caused your father’s disgrace, that I organised the forgeries and their dissemination, and I say plainly that not only did I not do so, I could not have done so, for when this happened I no longer had any place or influence in the government.

  ‘I was dismissed from the Republic’s service late in 1659, when Richard Cromwell decided he could no longer survive as Protector and gave up the struggle. A pity; he was not without ability. I fell from power with him, and was without influence for many months. It was in this period that the material relating to your father was created and was passed to Sir John Russell, and thence to Sir William Compton. This is a matter of simple fact. I said there was a grave flaw in your reasoning, and this is that flaw. However true your general case might be, I cannot have been responsible for it.’

  Such a simple mistake I made, and it hit me as a hammer blow. With all my earnest inquisition, I had never stopped for a single moment to consider the chaos that attended the dying days of the Commonwealth, the incessant struggling for position and treachery amongst old partners as they strove to save themselves and their corrupt edifice from destruction. Cromwell died, his son took over, fell from power and was replaced by cabals of fanatics in parliament. And in all this, Thurloe lost his grip, for a while. I knew that, and had not considered it important; had not checked the facts and the dates. And from the moment I had started talking, Thurloe had sat there calmly waiting for all my eloquence to end, knowing that with a simple puff he could blow over my entire case against him.

  ‘You are telling me that Morland alone brought about the destruction of my father?’

  ‘That would be one interpretation,’ Thurloe said gravely. ‘Indeed, from the evidence you have presented it would be the obvious one.’

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘I thought you had come here to kill me, not to ask my advice.’

  He knew he had escaped. In effect he had told me that, on two occasions, when I had seen Mordaunt and later Morland, I had had the guilty ones in my grasp. One I had left with my thanks and best wishes. The other I had considered a mere instrument, a greedy little wretch perhaps, but essentially a source of information and nothing more. I felt a fool, and was ashamed that this man should see my stupidity, and lay it out so calmly.

  ‘It is time to draw this to an end,’ Thurloe resumed. ‘Do you find me guilty, or not? I have said you have the decision. I will abide by your verdict.’

  I shook my head, tears of frustration and shame welling up in my eyes.

  ‘Not good enough, sir,’ he pressed. ‘You must pronounce.’

  ‘Not guilty,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Pardon? I am afraid I did not hear.’

  ‘Not guilty,’ I shouted at him. ‘Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. Do you hear now?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you. Now, as you have shown your devotion to justice – and I appreciate how much it has cost you – I will show mine. If you want my advice, I will give it. Tell me everything you have done, read, said, thought and seen. Then I will see if there is any way I can help you.’

  He clapped his hands again, and again the servant appeared, this time to be asked for some food, and more fuel for the fire. And then I began to talk and explain, starting at the very beginning and leaving out only the help and assistance given to me by Lord Bristol. I had promised to say nothing, and did not wish to anger a future patron by going back on my word. I even told him of my enchantment by Sarah Blundy and my determination to bring our contest to an end once and for all. But this topic I dropped; it was none of
his business and I could see from his face that he did not believe in such matters.

  ‘You have a gift to offer in your ability to accuse Mordaunt, for many people dislike him, and he is closely associated with Lord Clarendon. You must sell your goods to the right people, and you will get a high price.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Sir William Compton, I imagine, will be understandably anxious to prosecute you for your attack. As he also detests Lord Clarendon, he might consider it worth while waiving his suit if you contributed to the downfall of his greater enemy. And if Clarendon’s friend Mordaunt is weakened, then Clarendon will be gravely weakened. More people than Sir William Compton would thank you generously for that. You must approach them, and see what they offer in return.’

  ‘That is all very well,’ I said, scarcely daring to hope for so much after so many frustrations. ‘But I am a fugitive. I cannot go to London, nor even to Oxford, without being arrested. How can I approach anyone?’

  The majesty of the king’s justice, however, he shrugged off. People like Thurloe, I was learning, did not consider the law a matter of great importance. If his enemies wished to destroy him, innocence at law would not save his life; if he had sufficient strength, no amount of guilt would bring him into danger. The law was an instrument of power, no more. And he offered me a dangerous bargain, a terrible choice. I wanted justice, but Thurloe told me there was no such thing, that all motion was the conflict of power. If I wanted to re-establish myself, I had to drag down the enemies of others in the same way they had dragged down my father. I could achieve my aim, but only by abandoning the purpose of it. It took many days of thought and prayer before I accepted.

  When I had done so, Thurloe made the journey into Oxford, during which he discussed the matter with Dr Wallis after their encounter at the play. Although I had strong misgivings, he told me that Wallis was by far the easiest way of communicating with those men in government who might assist. Despite the way I had abused him in the jail, Thurloe did not seem to think it would be hard to win Wallis’s co-operation, although he never troubled to explain to me why this should be so.