by Iain Pears
God help me, I did as he asked, seeing little harm in it, and wishing to give him encouragement to continue in a co-operative fashion. I summoned the gaoler, who unlocked the shackles and presented me with the key, asking me to be so good as to relock them once more when I left. It cost a shilling in bribes.
Then he left the cell, and Prestcott listened in what I thought was mournful silence as the steps echoed down the stone staircase once more.
I will not go into the details of the humiliation I suffered at the hands of that madman once the footsteps had died away. Prestcott had the cunning of the desperate, I the inattention of the concerned, for my mind was on what he had told me. In brief, within minutes of being left alone once more, Prestcott had used violence on me, stopping my mouth, binding my hands and shackling me to the cot so tightly I could neither move nor raise the alarm. I was so outraged I could barely even think correctly, and was suffused with rage as he put his face close to mine.
‘Not pleasant, eh?’ he hissed in my ear. ‘And I have endured many weeks of it. You are lucky; you will be here only for one night. Remember; I could easily have killed you, but I will not.’
That was all. He then sat unconcernedly for some ten minutes or more until he judged the time was right, then put on my heavy cloak and hat, picked up my Bible – my family Bible, given into my hands by my own father – and bowed in a gross parody of courtesy to me.
‘Sweet dreams, Dr Wallis,’ he said. ‘I hope we do not meet again.’
After five minutes, I gave up struggling and lay until the morning brought my release.
Such is the providential goodness of the Lord, that He is at His most gentle when His judgement seems most harsh, and it is not for man to doubt His wisdom; instead he can only give thanks with the blindest faith that He will not abandon His true servant. The next morning, my complaints were revealed for the petty whinings they were, when the full extent of His goodness was revealed to me. I say now that the Lord is good, and loves all who believe in Him, for by what other means could my life have been preserved that night?
Only an angel of goodness, guided by the hand of the most high, could have steered me away from the abyss and, by preserving me, allowed the kingdom to escape calamity. For I do not believe that I was so favoured for my own worthless life, which is no more significant in His eyes than the least grain of dust. But as He has so constantly shown His favours to His people, so He chose me to be the instrument of their preservation, and in joy and humility, I accepted the responsibility, knowing that by His will I would succeed.
I was released shortly after dawn began, and straight away went to the magistrate, Sir John Fulgrove, to report what had happened so he could raise the alarm and begin the hunt for the fugitive. I did not, at that stage, report my interest in the boy, although I did urge him to make sure, if possible, that he did not lose his life if caught. Then I ate in an inn, for being a prisoner is hungry work, and I was chilled to the bone.
And only then, deep in thought, did I return to my room in New College and discover the horrors that had taken place that night, for Grove had died in my place and my room had been ransacked, with my papers gone.
Cola’s authorship of this outrage was as clear to me as if I had seen him pour the poison into the bottle with my own eyes and his calm audacity in coming back to the college to be the very first to discover (with what expressions of shock! With what distress and horror!) the results of his own wickedness appalled me. I was told by Warden Woodward that he it was who attempted, by subtle inference and weasel words, to steer the college towards thinking that Grove had died of a seizure and it was in order to expose this lie that I asked Woodward to have Lower investigate the matter.
Lower was, of course, flattered by the request and willingly obliged. My trust in his skills was not given without reason, either, for one look at Grove’s corpse made him pause and look highly perturbed.
‘I would hesitate strongly to say this was a seizure,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I have never seen any man foam at the mouth so in such a case. The blueness of the lips, and the eyelids, is consistent with such a diagnosis, however, and I have no doubt that my friend fastened on to these signs too speedily.’
‘Could he have eaten something?’ the warden asked.
‘He ate in hall, did he not? If it was that, then you should all be dead. I will examine his room, and see what there is to be found there, if you like.’
And thus Lower discovered the bottle, the sediment inside it, and returned to the warden’s lodgings in great excitement, explaining the experiments which might be devised to show what the substance was. Woodward was not at all interested in these details, although I found them fascinating and, having conversed on many occasions with Mr Stahl myself, I realised Lower was perfectly correct in proposing to use his services. There was, of course, the question of Cola, for any such move would be bound to alert him. Accordingly, I decided that it would be best to confront the matter head on, and suggested to Lower that he involve the Italian at every stage of the investigations, to see whether his actions or speech gave any hint of his thoughts. I could easily have had him arrested on the spot, but I was also certain that I had not yet fathomed the whole of the mystery. I needed more time, and Cola had to be at his liberty a while longer.
Although I did not make my reasoning plain, Lower caught the inner meaning of my recommendations.
‘Surely you do not suspect Mr Cola of this?’ he asked. ‘I know you have heard ill reports of him, but there can be no reason for him to do such a thing at all.’
I reassured him absolutely, but pointed out that, as he was perhaps the last person to see Dr Grove, naturally some doubt must attach to him. It would be discourteous to a guest to make this known, however, and I begged that no hint of the suspicion come to his attention.
‘I would not have him return to his native country speaking ill of us for all the world,’ I said, ‘which is why I think it a good idea if you persuade him to attend the dissection. For you can have him stand alone near the body and touch it, and see whether it accuses him.’
‘I have no reason to believe that is an accurate test of such matters,’ he said.
‘Nor I. But it is a recommended procedure in such matters, and has been employed for generations. Many of the finest lawyers admit it as a useful part of examination. Should some prodigious eruption of blood occur from the corpse when Cola approaches it, then we will know of it. If not, then his name is half-cleansed of stain already. But do not let him know he has been tested in such a fashion.’
Chapter Ten
* * *
IT IS NOT my intention to repeat what others have said, nor to retell stories which I did not myself witness. Everything I say comes from my direct encounter, or from the testimony of men of unimpeachable character. As Cola was unaware of the suspicion in which he was already held, he had no reason to distort his account of that evening when he, Lower and Locke cut up Dr Grove in Warden Woodward’s kitchen. For that reason, I understand the account he gives of it is largely truthful.
Lower reported to me that he had arranged for Cola to stand alone by the naked corpse before any incision had been made into the flesh, and seen well that the soul of Grove had not called out for vengeance, nor accused his murderer of the deed. Whether this means such examinations are in fact of no merit, or whether proper prayers must be offered, or whether (as some say) the test must take place on consecrated ground to work, I do not presume to speculate. For a while at least, Lower had the suspicions of the man he thought his friend lifted from his shoulders, and I had the leisure to pursue my thoughts and conduct my first examination of the Blundy girl.
I summoned her to my room the following afternoon on the pretext of wishing to interview her for a post in my household, for the builders, wretched idlers though they were, were at last coming to the end of their labours and there was every prospect I might once again have a home to call my own. Having risen in state somewhat in the previous year, I had d
ecided that I would have four servants, not three as before, and give in to my wife’s ceaseless importuning by giving her a girl of her own. The prospect filled me with sadness, for I was having at the same time to consider finding a replacement for Matthew, and the weight of his loss bore the more heavily on me by contemplating the dirty, illiterate, stupid wretches who presented themselves, and who were no more fit to clean his shoes than to fill them.
Not that I would ever have considered Sarah Blundy for any post, although in all matters of outward show I could have done a great deal worse. I am not one of those men who might allow a good Christian wife to have some French strumpet to comb her hair. A sober, hard-working girl of sense and piety is required instead, clean in her habits and unslovenly of behaviour. Such girls are hard to find and, with different antecedents and beliefs, Sarah Blundy would have been in all respects admirable.
I had not encountered her directly before, and I noted with interest the dignified subservience of her entry, the modesty of her address and the sense of her words. Even Cola, I recall, comments on these very same qualities. But the impertinence that he also detected was not hidden for long, for the moment I told her frankly that I had no intention of giving her a position, she raised her jaw and her eyes flashed with defiance.
‘You have wasted my time in summoning me here, then,’ she said.
‘Your time is there to be wasted, if that is what I choose to do with it. I will have no insolence from you. You will answer my questions, or face serious trouble. I know well who you are, and where you are from.’
Her life, I must say here, was no concern of mine. Had she foisted herself off on some unsuspecting man, who was ignorant of what she was, her good fortune would not have grieved me greatly. But I knew no man would willingly take her if her past was known, for to do so would expose him to public contempt. Through this, I could force her to comply.
‘You have, I believe, recently acquired the services of an Italian physician for your mother. A man of great standing, and high dignity in his profession. Might I ask by what means you pay for this?’
She flushed and hung her head at the accusation.
‘Remarkable, is it not, that such generosity should be offered? Few English physicians, I am sure, would be so carefree of their time and skills.’
‘Mr Cola is a good, kind gentleman,’ she said, ‘who does not think of payment.’
‘I’m sure not.’
‘It is true,’ she said, with more spirit. ‘I told him frankly I could not pay him.’
‘Not in money, anyway. And yet he labours on your mother’s behalf anyway.’
‘I think of him only as a good Christian.’
‘He is a papist.’
‘Good Christians can be found everywhere. I know many in the Church of England, sir, more cruel and ungenerous than he.’
‘Mind your tongue. I do not want your opinions. What is his interest in you? And your mother?’
‘I know of none. He wishes to make my mother better. I care to know no more than that. Yesterday he and Dr Lower conducted a strange and wonderful treatment, which cost them great trouble.’
‘And has it worked?’
‘My mother is still alive, praise be, and I pray she will improve.’
‘Amen. But to return to my question, and this time do not try to evade. To whom have you delivered messages on his behalf? I know your connections with the garrison at Abingdon, and with the conventicles. To whom have you gone? With messages? Letters? Someone must take his communications, for he sends none in the post.’
She shook her head. ‘No one.’
‘Do not make me angry.’
‘I do not wish to. I am telling you the truth.’
‘You deny you went to Abingdon . . .’ I consulted my notebook, ‘last Wednesday, the Friday before that, the Monday before that? That you walked to Burford and stayed there the Tuesday? That you have met Tidmarsh as part of his conventicle even in this town?’
She did not reply; and I could see my knowledge of her was a shock.
‘What were you doing? What messages were you delivering? Who did you see?’
‘No one.’
‘Two weeks ago, an Irishman called Greatorex also visited you. What did he want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’
‘I do not take you for anything.’
I hit her for that for, though a tolerant man, I will not accept more than a certain degree of insolence. Once she had wiped the blood from her mouth, she seemed more subdued; but still she gave me nothing.
‘I have delivered no messages for Mr Cola. He has said little to me, and less to my mother,’ she whispered. ‘He talked to her a great deal on one occasion; that was when he sent me to buy him drugs from the apothecary. I do not know what they said.’
‘You must find out.’
‘Why should I so?’
‘Because I tell you.’ I paused and realised that appealing to her better nature was fruitless, so took some coins from my desk and placed them before her. She looked at them with astonishment and disdain, then pushed them back.
‘I have told you. There is nothing.’ But her voice was weak, and her head bowed as she spoke.
‘Go away now, and think well on what you say. I know you are lying to me. I will give you one further chance to tell me the truth about this man. Otherwise you will regret your silence. And let me give you a warning. Mr Cola is a dangerous man. He has killed on many occasions in the past, and will do so again.’
Without further words she left. She did not take the money still in front of her, but gave me a look of burning hatred before she turned away. She was cowed, I knew that. Even so, I was not sure it was enough.
Reading through these words, I can see already that an ignorant would consider me harsh. I can hear the protests already. The necessary courtesies between high and low, and so on. To all of which I agree without reservation; gentlemen are indeed under an obligation to give a daily demonstration that the positions in which God established us all are just and good. As with children, they should be chided with love, corrected with kindness, chastised with a firm regret.
The Blundys, however, were very different. There was no point in treating them with kindness when they had already thrown off any acknowledgement of their superiors. Both husband and wife had scorned the links which bind each to all, and accompanied this revolt against God’s manifest will with quotations from the Bible itself. All these Diggers and Levellers and Anabaptists thought they were shedding their chains with God’s blessing; they were instead severing the silken cords which kept men in harmony, and would have replaced them with shackles of thickest iron. In their stupidity they did not see what they were doing. I would have treated Sarah Blundy, and anyone, with kindness and respect: if it had been deserved, if it had been reciprocated, if it had not been dangerous so to do.
My frustrations at this stage were gigantic; when talking to Prestcott, I had the whole affair in the palm of my hand, but it had slipped away from me through my own foolishness. I admit also that I was anxious to preserve my own life as well, and was fearful that another attack would be launched against me. It was for this reason that I took the step of informing the magistrate that, in my opinion, Dr Robert Grove had been murdered.
He was aghast at the news, and perturbed at the implications of what I told him.
The warden has no suspicions of foul play, and would not thank me for telling you of mine,’ I continued. ‘None the less, it is my duty to inform you that in my opinion there is sufficient reason for suspicion. And it is therefore imperative that the body be not buried.’
Of course, it mattered not to me what happened to the body; the confrontation with Cola had already taken place and yielded no useful result. I was more concerned that Cola know his deed was being uncovered, bit by bit, and that he felt my opposition to his aims. With luck, I thought he might communicate with his masters to tell them of all that had transpired.
For a brief while I was on the verge of having the man arrested, as now that I had lost Prestcott I was concerned the matter might slip entirely out of my hands. I changed my mind because of Mr Thurloe, who travelled into Oxford to see me shortly after. Cola has described the way he approached me at the play in his memoir and I have no intention of repeating it. The shock he noted on my face was well seen. I was astonished, not only because I had not seen Thurloe for near three years, but because I hardly recognised him.
How changed he was from his days of greatness! It was like meeting a total stranger who yet reminds you of a person once known. In appearance there was little obvious alteration, for he was the sort of man who looks old when young, and young when old. But his demeanour bore no trace of that power which he had held so firmly in his hands. While many had bitterly resented the loss of authority, Thurloe seemed like one glad to be rid of the burden, and content in his reduction to insignificance. The set of his head, his face and the expression of deep concern had passed from him so totally that, these small details altered, the whole had changed almost beyond recognition. When he approached me, I paused awhile before making my greeting; he smiled back quietly, as if seeing my confusion, and acknowledging the cause of it.
I do believe he had so firmly placed that period of his life behind him that, even had it been offered, he would have declined to take on any public office. He later told me that he spent his days in prayer and meditation, and counted that as of more worth than all his efforts for his country. He was largely unconcerned with the society of his fellow men and, as he made clear, did not like to be disturbed by those who sought to recall what was now irretrievably past.
‘I bring a message from your friend Mr Prestcott,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘Perhaps we might talk?’
