An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  I was keen to meet this young man in any case, as I had heard much about him during my stay, and so I went there, asking at the gate where he was and whether he had company. He was with friends, I was told, and had asked not to be disturbed. Porters always say this, of course, so I ignored the advice and walked swiftly up the stairs to the gatehouse room where Wren lived, knocked and went in.

  The shock upon entering was considerable. Wren, a short, neat man with flowing locks and a not unpleasing countenance, looked annoyed as I walked into the room and stopped, staring, at the sight which I beheld. Locke had a kind of smirk on his face, like a child caught in some prank, glad to have his naughtiness known to the world. My friend, my very good friend, Richard Lower, at least had the goodness to be discountenanced and embarrassed to have his deceit so exposed that there was no possibility of any doubt about what was taking place.

  For on a wide deal table in the middle of the room, a dog was strapped, whining piteously, and rolling its eyes in distress as it struggled to free itself. Next to it was another, more resigned to the torture it was being forced to endure. A long thin tube ran from the neck of one to that of the other, and blood from the incisions made in the necks of each had splattered on to Locke’s apron and on to the floor.

  They were transfusing blood. Repeating my experiment in secret. Concealing their deeds from me, the person who had best right to be informed of what they were doing. I could not believe I had been so betrayed.

  Lower recovered first. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said without even having the courtesy to present me to Wren. ‘I must absent myself for a while.’

  He took off his apron, and threw it on to the floor, then asked me to accompany him into the garden. I dragged my eyes from the scene that so assaulted my spirits, and followed angrily down the stairs.

  We walked around the gardens, criss-crossing the box hedges and patches of grass at random for several moments while I kept silent, waiting for him to explain himself.

  ‘Not my fault, Cola,’ he said after a very long while had passed. ‘Please accept my apologies. It was unforgivable of me to behave in such a way.’

  The shock had still not passed, and I could find no words.

  ‘Locke, you see, told Wren of the experiment we – you – had devised for Mrs Blundy, and he was so excited that he insisted on repeating it. It detracts not a whit from your own achievement, you know. We merely plod along in your footsteps, emulating the master.’

  He grinned sheepishly, and turned to see how his apology was being received. I was resolved to remain cold.

  ‘The barest courtesy demanded that you inform me, even if you could not bring yourself to invite my attendance.’

  A grimace replaced the smile. ‘True,’ he said. ‘And I am properly sorry for it. I did look for you, but didn’t know where you were. And Wren wants to go back to London this afternoon, you see . . .’

  ‘So you betray one friend to accommodate another,’ I interrupted coldly.

  This justified comment disconcerted him considerably, and he pretended to become angry. ‘What betrayal? Once an idea is conceived, it does not remain the property of the person who imagined it first. We do not deny your achievement, nor did we plan to keep it a secret from you. You were not there; that is all there is to the matter. I did not know that Wren was so keen to try it out until I encountered him this morning.’

  His tone was so insistent that I felt my doubts ebbing away. I so very much wanted to believe him, and to think of him as my friend still, that I could not hold on to my conviction that I was betrayed. But then I remembered the look of shocked exposure on his face as I walked into that room, a more sure confession of guilt than anything I had seen on the face of Sarah Blundy.

  ‘We do not intend to publish this to the world without your knowledge and permission,’ he continued when he saw he had still not breached my defences. ‘And you must admit, it is a better way of doing it. If we – you – make an account of your discovery in a fashion which admits the transfusion was first attempted on a woman, you will be dismissed as reckless and dangerous. If, however, you preface it with accounts of transfusion between dogs, then the disapprobation will be greatly lessened.’

  ‘And that is what you were doing?’

  ‘Of course it was,’ he said, encouraged by the soothing of my anger. ‘I have told you of my fears if this becomes generally known too quickly. It has to be done in this fashion, and the sooner the better. I am sorry – truly sorry – that you were not there. Please accept my most humble apologies. And, on their behalf, I offer those of Locke and Wren as well, as they never intended any discourtesy.’

  He bowed low and, as he had no hat on, swept off his wig as he did so. My face cracked with a faint smile at the absurdity, but I was determined this time not to give way because of such a device.

  ‘Come now,’ he said, discouraged by my reaction. ‘Do you forgive me?’

  I nodded. ‘Very well,’ I said flatly, although it was one of the biggest lies I have ever told. But I still needed his good offices and had no alternative, beggar in friendship as I now was, to maintaining at least the appearance of cordiality. ‘Let us talk no more on this matter, otherwise we will quarrel once again.’

  ‘Where were you, anyway?’ he asked. ‘We really did look.’

  ‘With Mrs Blundy, who is sick and getting sicker. And with her daughter.’

  ‘In the castle?’

  I nodded. ‘I did not wish to go, but the mother begged me. And it reassured me greatly. If ever a soul was capable of murder, it is that girl. I have no doubts, even though I suspect she will deny the deed, and I would be easier still if she confessed to it freely. But it seems clear to me now that she asked Grove for money to aid her mother that morning in Tillyard’s and was rejected. So she took it anyway, murdering him and stealing from his room. It is dreadful that duty to a parent can be so corrupted and twisted.’

  Lower nodded. ‘She told you this?’

  ‘Not she,’ I said. ‘She will not admit anything. But she does want to do one good deed still, perhaps out of remorse, because I can think of no other reason for it.’

  Quickly, I told Lower of the offer of her corpse, in return for his agreeing to treat and care for the mother. Lower looked surprised, and – I hate to say it – positively eager that he should benefit in this fashion.

  ‘How does the mother?’

  ‘I doubt you will find her a lengthy burden on your pocket,’ I said. ‘That is something else I need to talk to you about. She is failing, and if the girl dies, I believe that the extinction of the spirit in one will have fatal results on the other.’

  He looked thoughtful as I told him of my fears, and of the only remedy I believed might salvage the situation. ‘She must have more blood, Lower,’ I said, ‘and from a different person, one strong enough and healthy enough to counteract the girl’s spirit. Quickly, as well. If Sarah is tried tomorrow, she will die the day after. There is little time.’

  ‘You are convinced of this?’

  ‘Totally. She has already declined along with the girl’s spirits, the signs are obvious to see. There can be no other cause that I can imagine.’

  He grunted. ‘You mean you want to do it today.’

  ‘Yes. For her sake, and for that of our friendship, I would beg some final assistance from you.’

  We walked around the garden again in a similitude of friendship as he pondered my reasoning.

  ‘You might be right,’ he said at last. ‘Unless there is something we do not know.’

  ‘If we do not know it, we cannot take account of it,’ I pointed out.

  Another grunt, then he took one of those deep breaths which indicated he had taken a decision. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This evening. I will bring one of the gardeners from the college who can be relied on to keep quiet.’

  ‘Why not this afternoon?’

  ‘Because I want to see the girl. If I am to have her, I will need a properly signed and witnessed letter to
that effect. It will take time, and must be done before the trial begins. You know she will burn?’

  ‘The magistrate told me.’

  ‘The chances of her being much use are small, unless I can persuade Sir John to intervene with the judge.’

  He bowed. ‘But don’t worry. We’ll get it done in time. Meet me at the Angel after dinner. Then we’ll take care of her mother.’

  I passed the rest of the day in correspondence and melancholy. Now I had decided to leave as soon as my obligations permitted, I was anxious to depart as swiftly as possible. Only Widow Blundy kept me there, as I had already seen what happened when I did not attend her myself. I took no joy in Sarah Blundy’s fate, had little optimism about her mother and my confidence in my friend was at an end. I wanted to accept his assurances about his fidelity, and indeed I had done so; but the seeds of doubt were sown, and had disturbed my soul.

  I am not prideful, but I am jealous of my honour and fidelity. And Lower had placed both of those in jeopardy by acceding to Wren’s request above my right. Even though he owned to the fault, it did not erase the hurt he had caused me, and completed the distrust which his violent temper had already generated.

  I was, in other words, in a grey humour by the time Lower marched into the Angel, trailing behind him a cadaverous and sickly looking wretch whom he introduced as one of the under-gardeners at his college. For a shilling he would give his blood to Mrs Blundy.

  ‘But he’s no good!’ I cried. ‘Look at him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in worse health than Mrs Blundy. It would be better to transfer her blood into him. I wanted someone strong and full of vitality.’

  ‘He’s enormously strong. Aren’t you?’ he said, addressing the man for the first time. This latter, noticing Lower had turned in his direction, gave a gap-toothed smile and whinnied like a horse.

  ‘His great virtue’, Lower said as the man drank a quart pot of ale eagerly, ‘is that he is deaf and dumb. Dr Wallis tried to teach him to speak, but to no avail. He can’t write either. It means, you see, that his discretion is assured. Which, you must admit, is important. That family is held in enough disapprobation already and if it became commonly known that the mother was being kept alive by such means I wouldn’t be surprised if she was burnt along with the daughter. Here, fellow. Have another.’

  He signalled for another quart, which was soon set in front of the poor wretch. ‘Best if he has a little,’ he said. ‘I don’t want him running away when he sees what we intend.’

  I was not happy, although I saw the justice of the point. But it says something about how my attitude had changed that I distrusted the motive behind the use of someone who could not testify to what had occurred.

  ‘Did you visit the gaol?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Lord, yes,’ he said. ‘And what a day I have had.’

  ‘Had she changed her mind?’

  ‘Not at all. We wrote out a suitable letter – did you know she could read and write as well as you and I? I was astonished – and had it witnessed. That was no trouble. It was the magistrate.’

  ‘He opposed the idea? Why?’

  ‘Because I could not persuade him that he was under any obligation to the girl. A damnable nuisance, if I may say so.’

  ‘So that’s it? No body?’

  He looked despairingly at me. ‘Even if I got her, I’d have to give her over to the pyre when I was finished. The magistrate would only allow me temporary possession. But even that would have been better than nothing. I’m going back to him later to see if there is some way of persuading him.’

  He glanced at the gardener, who was now well into the third quart of ale. ‘Oh, come on. Let’s get on with it before he’s insensible. Do you know,’ he said as we pulled the wretch up, ‘I am getting heartily sick of this family? The sooner they are both dead, the better. Oh, damnation! Oh, Cola, I am sorry.’

  Both his explanation and his apology were justified. For the half-wit must have been drinking even before Lower brought him in, and the three quarts he drank while we talked were too much. With a foolish smile on his face turning to a look of alarm, he slid to the floor, then vomited on Lower’s shoes. Lower jumped out of the way and looked at the sight with distaste, then kicked the wretch to confirm his insensibility.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I’m not going to use him,’ I said. ‘We’d have to carry him there ourselves. It’s difficult enough with someone who is co-operative.’

  ‘He seemed sober when we left the college.’

  I shook my head sadly. ‘This is your fault, Lower. You knew how important this was, and you have failed me.’

  ‘I have apologised.’

  ‘That serves me nothing. We’ll have to postpone the treatment until tomorrow. And hope she survives that long. The delay may kill her.’

  ‘I think your treatment will accomplish that in any case,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I did not hear you saying that before.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but gave up. What was the point? For reasons I could not fathom, almost everything we said to each other was taken as a slight or an insult. As he would not explain his behaviour, and I could truly find not fault in my own, there was nothing I could do.

  ‘I will not argue with you,’ I said. ‘You have undertaken to supply me with some blood, and I hold you to that promise. Then our association can end, as you clearly wish. Will you bring him tomorrow, after the trial?’

  He bowed stiffly, and he promised he would not fail me again. Once the trial was over, I should go to Mrs Blundy’s cottage and await him. He would come with the gardener, and we would perform the treatment. There was enough time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * *

  AT ONE O’CLOCK the following afternoon, the trial of Sarah Blundy for the murder of Dr Robert Grove began in the assize court of Oxford. The crowd was eager; not only did the trial promise much scandalous entertainment, the previous day had seen not a single hanging verdict, and ended not with the judge wearing a black cap, but being presented with the traditional pair of white gloves to show that his hands were clean of blood. But such mercy was considered dangerous, for the awful majesty of the law needs sacrifice. One maiden session (as they are called) was merciful, two in a row would seem weak. What was more, Wood, an assiduous attender of trials who spoke to me briefly before the pushing of the crowd separated us, told me that the judge realised this: someone, that day, would hang. We both knew, I think, who it would be.

  There was a murmur of anticipation as Sarah, terribly pale, was led before the court, to stand facing the crowd and listen to the sonorous charges against her. That she, Sarah Blundy, not having the fear of God before her eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil, in the fifteenth year of our sovereign Lord the King, at New College in the City of Oxford, did make an assault upon the Reverend Robert Grove, Fellow of that place and formerly her master, feloniously, wilfully and traitorously. And the said Sarah Blundy feloniously, wilfully, traitorously and out of malice, did place arsenic in a bottle and cause the said Robert Grove to drink it, of which poisoning the said Robert Grove died. So that the said Sarah Blundy in manner and form aforesaid, feloniously, wilfully, traitorously and of malice aforethought, did kill and murder, against the peace of our sovereign Lord, his crown and dignity.

  Mutterings of approval, which caused the judge to look up with warning in his eye, erupted from the mob as they heard this accusation read; it took some time for order to be restored – not that there is ever very much in an English court. Then the judge, who did not strike me as very fearsome in aspect, turned to Sarah and asked her to plead.

  She did not reply, but stood with head bowed.

  ‘Come, girl,’ the judge said, ‘you must plead, you know. Guilty or not guilty, it is all the same to me. But you must say something, or it will go ill with you.’

  Still she said nothing, and an expectant hush fell on the audience,
as they looked at her standing there, head bowed to hide her terror and shame. I felt a wave of sympathy for her, for who would not be silenced by facing, all alone, the formidable power of justice?

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ the judge said, a look of concern on his face that the proceedings were about to be disrupted, ‘we’ll run through the charges and the evidence against you. See if that’ll make up your mind about your chances of escaping justice. How about that? Sir? Are you ready?’

  The prosecutor, a cheerful soul retained by the magistrate to do such business, bounded to his feet and bowed obsequiously. ‘Your lordship’s reputation for kindness is well deserved,’ he said, and the mob burst into applause to echo the sentiment.

  The man next to me, squeezed against me so tightly I could feel every breath he took, turned to me and whispered in my ear that this was no more than the truth; by rights, the law is most harsh on those who flout its authority by refusing to plead, shackling them with weights until either they give in, or die from the pressure upon their chests. Nobody likes this proceeding, but it is the only solution for recalcitrance. By giving the girl a second chance, so to speak, the judge was indeed exceptionally merciful. My neighbour – evidently a regular at trials – said he had never heard of such kindness before.

  The prosecutor then began to explain his case: he said that, although he was not the victim of the crime, in matters of murder the victim could obviously not appear for himself; hence his presence. It was not an onerous task, for it was simple enough to see who had committed this foul deed.

  In his opinion, he said, the jury would have no trouble at all in bringing in the right verdict. For it was obvious to all – and the town knew well enough already, without having to remind them of it – that Sarah Blundy was a whore of intemperate and violent parentage. So far was she from knowing her correct place, so badly trained, and so unknowing of all morality and decency that the idea of murder did not shock her in the slightest, such are the monsters produced when parents turn their face from God, and the country from its rightful king.