An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  Such were my thoughts, and I mentioned the puzzle to Mr Williams, my merchant friend, when I met him the day after I arrived in London in early 1663.

  ‘Let me pose you a problem as an adventurer,’ I said. ‘Let us say that you lose your main markets and trading partners through ports being closed by war. You have three daughters, one of whom is married, and two are rapidly approaching marriageable age. You have only one useful son. What tactics do you adopt to defend and expand your business?’

  ‘Once I have stopped panicking, and praying for a turn of good fortune?’ he said with a smile. ‘I can think of worse situations to be in, but not many.’

  ‘Let us say you are a naturally calm man. What do you do?’

  ‘Let us see. Much depends on the reserves I have at my disposal, and the relations I have with my family, of course. Will they step forward and help? That might fend off an urgent crisis and give me time to recover. But it gains me room to manoeuvre, it does not solve the problem. Obviously, the need is to find new markets, but to break into a new port requires money, as it is often necessary to sell at a loss for some time to establish oneself. Now, the easiest solution is to establish an alliance with another house. You marry a son if you have one and if your position is strong, a daughter if it be weak. The situation you describe indicates the need to marry a son to advantage, for that brings money into the business, rather than putting it out. However, you are also at a disadvantage, of course, for you need markets and that suggests that marrying a daughter will be required.’

  ‘And where do you find the money for that? Any possible ally will be aware of the problem and drive a hard bargain, will they not?’

  Mr Williams nodded in agreement. ‘That is precisely the case. In my position, I think I would have to consider a marriage of the son out of business to a lady of as much fortune as I could find, and immediately use the dowry to marry a daughter to trade. With good fortune my family might end up with a small surplus, without luck I might have to borrow at interest to fund the difference. But that would be no problem if my trade recovered. It is not a strategy that is guaranteed to bring success, but it offers by far the best chance of it. Why do we have sons except for such purposes?’

  ‘So if I said this trader not only seemed to have no plans to marry his son, but had even let him go wandering Europe, where he is out of reach and consuming substantial amounts of money?’

  ‘Then I would be strongly adverse to venturing money in any enterprise with which he is concerned. Am I right in thinking that you are still occupying yourself with the house of Cola?’

  I nodded, with great reluctance. I had no desire to take Mr Williams into my confidence in any way, but he was too intelligent to be fooled and an honest admission, I considered, might be enough to bind him to obligations of silence.

  ‘Do not think that such matters have not come into our minds as well,’ he said.

  ‘Our?’

  ‘We traders. We are jealously eager to hear news of our competitors and, sad though it is, rejoice too much to hear of a rival’s downfall. The better of us are always reminded that such a fate can easily befall anyone, of course. It takes very little ill fortune to turn riches into dust. One storm, or a war unforeseen, can be a catastrophe.’

  ‘You may rest easy on that score,’ I reassured him. ‘I cannot predict the weather, but no war will catch you unawares if I am able to assist you.’

  ‘I am grateful for that. I have a large cargo bound for Hamburg next week. I would like it to arrive.’

  ‘As far as I am aware, the prospect of Dutch pirates being allowed free run of the North Sea does not appear imminent. But it would still be wise to guard against the unscrupulous anticipating matters.’

  ‘Believe me, I have taken every precaution possible. I am proof against the single privateer.’

  ‘Good. Now, if I may return to Cola, what does the community of traders say?’

  ‘That the father’s affairs are bad and getting worse, in a word. He has long suffered his eastern markets to be whittled away by the Turks; Crete is now all but lost; he made a brave venture to open up a new business in London, but that has been crippled by the death of his manager here, and the audacity of his English partner, who has taken the business for his own. And there are rumours he has been selling ships to raise money. Three years ago he had a fleet of more than thirty ships; now it is down to almost twenty. And he has warehouses in Venice full of goods, which is money mouldering to no purpose. If he does not move them he cannot meet his creditors. If he does not do that, he is finished.’

  ‘He is held in good credit?’

  ‘Everyone is held in good credit until they stop paying their bills.’

  ‘So how do you explain the father’s actions? Or the son’s?’

  ‘I cannot. He has an excellent reputation, so I must assume there is very much more to the situation than is accessible to a coffee-house gossip like myself. But I cannot imagine what that might be. Be assured that if I hear anything I will let you know instantly.’

  I thanked him and left. My interpretation of the situation was correct, and for that I was glad; but I was no closer to fathoming the problem than I had been before.

  The next piece of information which advanced my enquiry came from my involvement in the Royal Society, and took another ten days to fall into my lap, more by the grace of God than my own efforts. Fortunately, there was much to occupy my mind in that period, or I would have become very ill-tempered. It is a great failing and one I have long laboured to overcome. ‘Blessed is he that waiteth’ (Daniel 12:12): the text I know by heart, but I do not find it easy to follow.

  I have mentioned this august organisation already and hinted how communications developing with men of curiosity all over the world aided my work. I had initially taken on the task of secretary for correspondence myself, but found my other duties burdensome and gradually relinquished the task to Mr Henry Oldenburg, a man of no experimental bent but with a pleasing ability to encourage others. He called one morning to summarise recent correspondence with me, because I knew well that notice of experiments and discoveries properly communicated was of the greatest importance to prevent foreigners claiming credit which was not theirs. The reputation of the Society was the honour of the country and the prompt establishment of priority was vital.

  I may say here that this process gives the lie to Cola’s complaints over the matter of blood transfusion, as it was established (and not by us) that public knowledge of discoveries gives precedence. Lower did this, Cola did not; what is more, he is unable to provide any evidence whatsoever of his claims, while Lower can not only produce letters announcing his discovery, but can also call on men of unimpeachable integrity, like Sir Christopher Wren, to vouch for him. To demonstrate I am not partial in this matter, I can also cite Mr Leibniz when he laid claim to a new method for interpolation by contrasting series of differences. When told that Regnauld had already communicated a similar proposition to Mersenne, Leibniz immediately withdrew any claim to priority: he accepted that making the matter known was decisive. Similarly, it is clear that Cola’s complaints are quite without foundation, for who did what first is unimportant. Not only did he fail to publish, but his initial experiment was conducted in secret and ended with the patient’s death. In contrast, Lower not only performed before witnesses, he eventually gave a demonstration before the whole Society, long before any squeak of protest was heard from Venice.

  During my discourse with Oldenburg, we discussed many questions of membership and regulation with great amiability before passing on to more liberal matters. Then I received the greatest shock.

  ‘I have heard, by the way, of a most interesting young man, who might be considered at some stage as a corresponding member in Venice. We lack, as you know, any useful contacts with the curious of that republic.’

  I was genuinely delighted, and not at all suspicious at this, for Oldenburg was always keen to search out new ways of binding philosophers of all lands tog
ether, and make the enterprise of one known to others.

  ‘I am delighted to hear of it,’ I said. ‘Who is this young man?’

  ‘I heard of him from Dr Sylvius,’ he replied, ‘for he has been sitting at that great man’s knee and is highly thought of for his skill. His name is Cola, and he is a wealthy young man from a good family of well-established traders.’

  I expressed the greatest of interest.

  ‘Better still, he is to come to England shortly, so we will have an opportunity to talk to him and find out his qualities for ourselves.’

  ‘Sylvius says this? He is coming to England?’

  ‘Apparently so. He intends to come next month, I believe. I was about to write him a letter, expressing our desire to welcome him on his arrival.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Do not do that. I greatly admire Sylvius for his knowledge, but not for his judgement of his fellows. If you extend an invitation to this young man and he turns out to be of no great ability, we may find it difficult to avoid a snub by not electing him. We will find him soon enough when he arrives and can examine him at our leisure.’

  Oldenburg agreed to this without demur and as an extra precaution I took the letter from Sylvius to study more carefully. There was little more in it, although I noted that what he said was that Cola was due to come to England on a matter of ‘urgent business’. Now what could that be? He had no interest in trade, and coming to tour this part of the world could hardly be described as a matter of urgency. So why was this former soldier coming here?

  The next day, I thought I could guess.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Most revered doctor and revered master, the letter from Matthew began,

  I write in the greatest haste, for I have news which may be of some considerable importance to you. I have ingratiated myself most thoroughly in the servants’ quarters of the Spanish embassy and pride myself that I have learned many secrets. Should I be discovered, my life will be at an end, but the danger is such that I must take the risk.

  I do not know what is planned with any exactitude, for I pick up only gossip. But servants always know far more than they should, or than their masters suspect, and it is noised here that a great coup is being planned for April against our country. Señor de Gamarra has, it seems, been planning this for some time with men of high rank in England itself, and his scheming is near to fruition. More than this I cannot discover, for there are limits to the knowledge even of chambermaids, but it may be that I will know more later.

  I must tell you, sir, that I believe your suspicions of Marco da Cola to be erroneous, for he is a gentleman of the greatest friendliness and I have detected no military aspect to him at all; quite the opposite in fact, he seems made for gayness and amusement, and his generosity (as I can myself attest) is great indeed. A kinder, less secretive, gentleman I have rarely met. Moreover, it appears he is to leave shortly, and in a few days’ time is to give a farewell feast, with music and dancing, to which he has invited me as his particular guest, so great has been my success at winning his favour. He pays me a great compliment in keeping me by his side, and I am sure you will agree it is the best place for me to be if I am to determine whether or no he means us ill.

  I am sorry, sir, that I cannot say more at present; I fear my enquiries will arouse suspicions if I ask too much.

  My anger and dismay at this piece of youthful folly knew no bounds, although I did not know whether I was more angry at Matthew for his stupidity, or at this Cola for the way he had so filthily wormed his way into his affections. I had never permitted him such entertainments, for they are both sinful and spoil a child’s education faster than any other mistake in their upbringing. Rather, I had attended to his soul, knowing that, hard though it is because of the natural frivolity of youth, work and the inculcation of duty were both more proper and rewarding. That this Cola should use such tricks to turn him away from righteousness – and, I feared, away from me – caused great anger, as I knew how easy it was to do as well as I knew the difficulty of remaining unyielding when all my desire was to see a smile of pleasure on his face. Unlike Cola, though, I would not buy his affection.

  Even more, the way such devices were used to befuddle his senses concerned me, as even at a distance, I could see that Matthew’s assurances about Cola were wrong: I knew already he was coming to England, for Oldenburg had told me so. And the coup being planned was set for the time when he would arrive on our shores. It was easy to forge the connection between the two, and I realised that the time I had at my disposal was very much less than I anticipated. I felt as though I was a novice playing a game of chess, and that my opponent’s pieces were slowly moving across the board, setting up an assault which, when it came, would be as irresistible as it was sudden. On every occasion I thought that, if only I had more information, I could make sense of the whole business; but every time that extra intelligence came into my hands, it again proved insufficient. I knew there was some plot, and I knew approximately when it was to take place. But although I knew its agent, I did not know its object or its sponsors.

  I may say that I found myself very lonely in my thoughts, for I was being forced to consider great matters, without the advice of others to temper my mind and hone my argument. Ultimately, I decided I would have to present my case to someone else, and thought carefully about whom I might choose. I could not, of course, talk frankly to Mr Bennet as yet, nor could I countenance an approach to another member of Thurloe’s old intelligencing organisation, as their loyalties were suspect. Indeed, I felt entirely alone in a suspicious and dangerous world, for there were few who were not, potentially at least, sympathetic to one side or the other.

  Accordingly, I made an approach to Robert Boyle, too abstracted of mind to be concerned with politics, too noble of purpose to be seduced by faction, and a man of the most notorious discretion in all matters. I had, and have still, a high opinion of his ingenuity and piety, although I must say I do not believe his achievement as great as his fame. Yet he was the best possible advocate of the new learning for, faced with his ascetic nature, his cautious endeavour and his profound devotion, it was difficult for any man to accuse our Society of harbouring subversive or impious notions. Mr Boyle (who disguised, I think a certain naïveté under the cloak of gravity) believed that the new science would aid religion, and that the fundamental truths of the Bible would be confirmed by rational means. I felt, in contrast, that this would hand a weapon of unparalleled power to the atheists, since they would soon insist that God submit to the proofs of the scientist, and if He could not be pinned to a theorem, they would say they had proved He did not exist.

  Boyle was wrong, but I admit it was with the best of reasons, and this dispute between us never produced a breach in our friendship which, if never warm, was of great duration. He was of the best family, and had a balanced (though weak) constitution and sound education; all these produced an excellent judgement which was never swayed by considerations of gain. When I discovered him at his sister’s house in London, I asked him to visit and gave him a fine meal of oysters, lamb, partridge and pudding and then persuaded him to treat the conversation in the utmost confidence.

  He listened silently as I laid out – in greater detail than I originally planned – the whole pattern of hint and suspicion which concerned me so greatly.

  ‘I am greatly flattered,’ he said when I had done, ‘that you choose me for such confidence; but I am not certain what you want of me.’

  ‘I want your opinion,’ I said. ‘I have certain evidence, and I have a partial hypothesis which is in no way contradicted by any of it. Yet it is not confirmed either. Can you think of an alternative which fits as well, if not better?’

  ‘Let me be clear; you know this Italian gentleman is connected both to radicals and to the Spanish; you know that he is coming to our shores next month; those are your essential, though not your only, facts. You believe that he is coming here to cause us harm; that is your hypothesis. You do not kn
ow what that harm might be.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So let us see if indeed there is an alternative which might supplant your main hypothesis. Let us start by proposing that Cola is what he says; a young gentleman touring the world, with no interest in politics’. He falls in with English radicals because he meets them by chance. He knows high Spaniards because he is a gentleman of quality from a wealthy Venetian family. He plans to come to England because he wishes to gain some knowledge of us. He is, in fact, entirely harmless.’

  ‘You leave out the secondary facts,’ I said, ‘which bolster one proposal but weaken the other. Cola is the senior son of a trader in considerable difficulties, his first obligation should be his family, yet he is in the Low Countries spending money in idle amusements. You need a good reason for such behaviour, which my thesis can absorb, while yours cannot. He had little or no reputation for curiosity until the moment he arrived in Leiden, but was known for his courage and bravado with arms. In your thesis we must account for a remarkable change in character; in mine we do not. And you do not take account of the central matter, which is that he was the recipient of a letter disguised in a code previously used by a traitor against the king. Innocent tourists of curiosity, I think, rarely receive such missives.’