An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  ‘Lord forgive me, your servant, for I have sinned,’ he said in Latin, which I could understand and Sarah could not. I remember it well. He was angry at himself, not at her, for she was nothing to him but a temptation which had to be resisted. Then he ran, stumbling in his hurry out of the room, not slamming the door, it is true, for he left too fast to shut it at all.

  Sarah lay there on the straw pallet, breathing deeply. She rolled over and buried her head in her arms, face down into the straw. I thought she was merely going to sleep, until I heard the unmistakable sounds of her weeping her heart out, heavy choking sobs which tore at my soul and rekindled, in an instant, all my affections.

  I could not help myself, and paused not even an instant to reflect on what I was doing. She had never cried so before, and the sound of such deep sadness flooded my heart, dissolving all bitterness and rancour, and leaving it pure and clean. I took a step forward, and knelt down beside her.

  ‘Sarah?’ I said softly.

  She jumped in fright as I spoke, pulling her dress down to cover herself and recoiling from me in terror. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I could have given long explanations, could have made up a story about how I’d just arrived and was anxious about her mother, but the sight of her face made me abandon any thought of pretence. ‘I have come to ask your forgiveness,’ I said. ‘I do not deserve it, but I have wronged you. I am so very sorry.’

  It was easy to say, and I felt as I spoke that those words had been waiting their chance for months. Instantly I felt better, and relieved of a great weight. What was more, I truly think I did not mind whether she forgave me or not, for I knew she would be quite within her rights not to do so, as long as she accepted that my apology was genuine.

  ‘This is a strange time and place to say such a thing.’

  ‘I know. But the loss of your friendship and regard is more than I can bear.’

  ‘Did you see what happened just now?’

  I hesitated before admitting the truth, then nodded.

  She did not instantly reply, then began shaking; I thought that it was with tears once more, but then discerned to my astonishment that it was with laughter.

  ‘You are a strange man indeed, Mr Wood. I cannot make you out at all. On no evidence at all, you accuse me of the most vile behaviour, and when you see a scene such as that, you ask my forgiveness. What am I to make of you?’

  ‘I hardly know what to make of myself, sometimes.’

  ‘My mother is going to die,’ she continued, the laughter ceasing, and her mood changing on the instant.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I am afraid she is.’

  ‘I must accept it as God’s will. But I find it impossible to do so. It is strange.’

  ‘Why so? No one has ever said obedience and resignation are easy.’

  ‘I am so frightened of losing her. I am ashamed, for I can hardly bear to see her the way she is now.’

  ‘How did she break her leg? She fell, Lower told me, but how could that be?’

  ‘She was pushed. She came back here in the evening when she had closed the wash house, and found a man in the house, looking through our chest. You know her well enough to realise she would not run away. He got a black eye, I think, but she was pushed to the ground and kicked. One of the blows broke her leg. She is old and frail and her bones are not strong any more.’

  ‘Why did you not say so? Make a complaint?’

  ‘She knew him.’

  ‘All the more reason.’

  ‘All the less. He is a man who worked once for John Thurloe’s office, as did my father. Even now he will never be caught or punished for anything he might do.’

  ‘But what . . .?’

  ‘We have nothing, as you know. Nothing that could interest him, at any rate. Except those papers of my father’s, which I gave to you. I said they were dangerous. Do you have them safe still?’

  I assured her it would take many hours to find them in my room, even if someone knew they were there.

  Then I told her of what I had seen that evening, and said that Cola also had made a thorough search. She shook her head sadly. ‘Lord, why dost thou persecute thy servant so?’

  I wrapped my arms around her and we lay there together, I stroking her hair and giving what comfort I could. It was not much.

  ‘I ought to tell you about Jack Prestcott,’ she began eventually, but I hushed her. ‘I do not want, or need, to hear anything,’ I said.

  Better that it should be forgotten, whatever it was; I did not want to hear, and she was grateful to be spared the humiliation of having to speak.

  ‘Will you return to work for us?’ I asked. ‘It is not much to offer, but if it becomes known in the town that the Woods will admit you into their house, it will begin to mend your reputation, quite apart from giving you money.’

  ‘Will your mother have me?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She was very angry when you left, and has never stopped complaining how much better the housework was done when you were there.’

  She smiled at that, for I knew my mother had never once allowed herself to issue even the faintest word of praise in Sarah’s hearing, lest it make her grow proud.

  ‘Perhaps I will. Although as it seems I am not to pay for doctors now, then my need for money is the less.’

  ‘That’, I said, ‘is carrying submission to divine will too far. If it can be done, then your mother must have attention. How do you know this is not a test of your love for your mother and that she is meant to survive? Her death would be punishment for your negligence otherwise. You must have treatment for her.’

  ‘All I can afford is a barber, and even they might refuse. She has refused any treatment I can give her, and I could not help in any case.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She is old and it is her time to die, I think. I can do nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps Lower could.’

  ‘He can try, if he will, and I would be happy if he succeeded.’

  ‘I will ask him. If this Cola will say she is no longer his patient, then he might be prevailed upon. He will not abuse a colleague by doing so without his leave, but it sounds as though there should be no trouble gaining that.’

  ‘I cannot pay.’

  ‘I will see to that, somehow. Don’t you worry.’

  With the very greatest reluctance I pulled myself up. For all the world, I would have stayed there all night, something I had never done before, and which I found strangely enticing; to hear her heart beat against mine, and feel her breath against my cheek, were the sweetest sensations. But it would have been an imposition and would also have been noticed the next day. She had a reputation to rebuild, and I had one to preserve. Oxford then was not like the king’s court, nor even had it the laxity of the town now. All had ears, and too many were swift to condemn. I was myself.

  My mother presented only the most cursory of objections when I announced that Sarah had repented of her sins and added that, in any case, they were smaller than common tittle-tattle pronounced. It was a mark of charity to forgive the sinner, if regret was genuine and I concluded that I was sure this was the case.

  ‘And she is a good worker, who might, perhaps, now accept a halfpenny less a week,’ she said shrewdly. ‘We’ll certainly get none better at that wage.’

  So it was agreed, with yet another halfpenny earmarked from my pocket to make up the difference, and Sarah was re-engaged. There then followed the problem of her mother, and I talked to Lower about it a few days later, when I had the opportunity. He was a difficult man to get hold of then, for he was hard at work on his fine examination of the brain, the dedication of which made him most anxious.

  ‘To whom should I address it?’ he asked me with a worried frown before I could speak. ‘It is a most delicate matter, and by far the most concerning part of the whole enterprise.’

  ‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘The work itself . . .’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘The work is nothing,’ he said. ‘Pure labour and ap
plied concentration. The expense of publication is worse than that. Do you know how much a good engraver costs? I must have high-quality illustrations; the whole point is lost if the drawings are botched, and with some of these people you can’t tell a human brain from a sheep’s once they are done. I need at least twenty, all done by a London engraver.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I envy you, Wood. You can produce all the books you want and not pay attention to these questions.’

  ‘I would like many engravings,’ I said. ‘It is very important that readers see the representation of the people I mention, so they can judge for themselves that my account of their characters is accurate, by comparing deeds and features.’

  ‘True, true. My point is that your words can stand on their own if need be. In my case, the book is all but incomprehensible if there are not illustrations of great expense.’

  ‘So worry about that, not the dedication.’

  ‘The illustrations’, he said gravely, resuming the worried look, ‘are mere money. A nightmare, but a straightforward one. The dedication is my entire future. Am I ambitious, and risk aiming too high? Or modest, aim too low and waste my effort for no gain?’

  ‘The book must be its own reward, I think.’

  ‘Spoken like a true scholar,’ he replied testily. ‘All very well for you, with no family to provide for, and content to remain here for ever.’

  ‘I am as jealous of fame as the next man,’ I said, ‘but that will come from admiration of the book, not by using it as a weapon to bludgeon your way into the favour of the mighty. Who do you consider giving it to?’

  ‘In my dreams, when I think of glory, I naturally think of giving it to the king. After all, that Galileo man in Italy addressed one piece of work to the Medici, and was given a rich court position for life as a result. I imagine His Majesty being so impressed that he straightaway appoints me royal physician. Except,’ he said bitterly, ‘that there is one already, and His Gracious Majesty is too hard up for two.’

  ‘Why not be more imaginative? There are so many addressed to him already and he cannot be grateful to every author in England; you would merely be lost in the mêlée.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone who is rich, would appreciate the gesture, and whose name would attract attention. How about the Duchess of Newcastle?’

  Lower cackled. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Very funny. I might as well dedicate it to the memory of Oliver Cromwell. A fine way, if I may say so, to ensure that the world of curiosity never takes me seriously again. A woman experimentalist, indeed; an embarrassment to her family and her sex. Come now, Wood, be serious.’

  I grinned. ‘Lord Clarendon?’

  ‘Too predictable and might fall from power, or die from a seizure, before it came out.’

  ‘A rival? The Earl of Bristol?’

  ‘Dedicate a book to a professing Catholic? Do you want me to starve to death?’

  ‘A rising star, then? This Henry Bennet?’

  ‘May well become a falling star.’

  ‘A man of learning? Mr Wren?’

  ‘One of my best friends. But he can no more advance me than I can advance him.’

  ‘Mr Boyle, then.’

  ‘I like to think I have his patronage already. It would be a waste of an opportunity.’

  ‘There must be someone. I will think on it,’ I told him. ‘It’s not as if the book is about to go to the printers.’

  Another groan. ‘Don’t remind me. Unless I get some more brains, it never will. I do wish the courts would hang someone.’

  ‘There is that young man in gaol at the moment, whose chances are not good. Jack Prestcott. It is likely he will be hanged in a week or so. Heaven knows he deserves it.’

  And so, you see, it was I who reminded Lower of Prestcott, whose arrest had caused something of a stir in the town some ten days previously, and caused him to go off to solicit his body. And I believe it was true that Lower took Cola along, rather than Cola devising some means of visiting the young man in gaol, as Dr Wallis assumed. Indeed, as I will make clear, Mr Cola had very good reasons for not having anything to do with Prestcott if he could avoid it. It must have been a considerable shock for him to come across someone whom he had met before.

  The mention of Prestcott naturally brought my mind back to Sarah Blundy, and the condition of her mother, and I suggested to Lower he might consider treating her.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I cannot take the patient of another physician, even if Cola is not one. That is the most appalling manners.’

  ‘But Lower,’ I said, ‘he will not treat her, and the woman will die.’

  ‘If he tells me so, then I will reconsider. But I hear she cannot pay.’

  I frowned at this, for I knew well that my friend habitually and to his own disadvantage treated many who could not afford his services. Lower saw my reaction and looked very ill at ease.

  ‘It would have been different had I offered knowing the situation, but the daughter imposed on poor Cola quite abominably, not telling him she had no money. We physicians have our pride, you know. Besides, I don’t want to treat her. You of all people should know what the daughter’s like, and I am amazed at you asking me.’

  ‘Perhaps I was wrong. Sarah has been slandered, at least in part, I am sure of it. Besides, I am not asking you to treat her, I’m asking you to treat her mother; if need be, I will stand the cost.’

  He thought a moment, as I knew he would, for he was too good a man – and as a physician too much in need of practice – to turn down an opportunity.

  ‘I will talk to Cola, and see what he says,’ he said. ‘I will no doubt see him later. Now, you must excuse me, my friend, for I have a busy day. Boyle is running an experiment I wish to observe. I will have to consider approaching this young man you mention in gaol, and then I have to go to Dr Wallis for a consultation.’

  ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘I hope so. He would be a fine patient to have, if I can cure him. He is well in at the Royal Society, and if I have both him and Boyle behind me, then my entrance will be assured.’

  And with high hopes he went off, only to be told, so I see from Wallis’s manuscript, that his friend Cola was out to steal his ideas. Poor man; no wonder he was so ill humoured with Cola later that day, although it does him credit that he spoke not a word against the Italian, for Lower tried not to level accusations unless he was sure of his ground. Few, alas, put their principles into action in this way; I have met many a scientist who will intone gravely of Lord Bacon and the virtues of the inductive method, yet will rush to believe the idlest gossip without any thought of contradiction. ‘It seems reasonable to me,’ they say, not realising this is merest nonsense. Reason cannot seem anything; I thought this was the whole point of it. It must be capable of demonstration, and if it is merely ‘seems’, then it is not reason.

  As is known, Lower did speak to Cola, and I to Sarah, and persuaded her that she had no option but to apologise to the Italian so that he would consent to treat the mother once more. This, I may say, was a hard task to accomplish and, had it been her own death that was in prospect, no words or arguments would have persuaded that proud, strange girl to give way. But it was another’s life that was at stake, and she accepted that she must submit. For my part, I was concerned lest the Italian renew his advances and decided to reduce the possibility by offering payment myself. It meant doing without near two months’ supply of books, but it was an act of charity that I thought would be well made.

  I did not, however, have any money. My income in those days came from an annuity on funds I had lent to my cousin to buy his tavern, and he had undertaken to pay me the sum of £67 every Lady Day. He performed this task dutifully, and I was content that I had placed my small fortune to advantage, for nothing is more secure than one’s own family – though even this is not always certain. However, he would not, and could not, pay in advance and I had grossly exceeded my budget recently in buying a new viol. Apart from food, and the money I gave my
mother, I was almost without funds for several months, and had to live modestly myself to avoid disaster. The three pounds I needed for Cola were a sum far beyond my resources. I could advance near twenty-four shillings, borrowed another twelve from various friends who held me in good credit, and raised nine shillings by selling some books. That left me with fifteen shillings to find, and it was because of this that I summoned my courage and made an appointment to see Dr Grove.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  I HAD NEVER met the man, and knew only of his reputation, which stated that he was irascible and difficult in character, backward in outlook and with a pronounced tendency to cruelty when he had drunk more than a little. He was none the less said to be of great brilliance, but time and misfortune had perverted this, and dedicated his acumen to rancour and bitterness. Wallis, I note, speaks well of him, as does Cola, and I do not doubt that he could display great courtesy when he chose; indeed there was none more charming if he thought you worthy or of a similar rank to himself. But a meeting with Grove was a lottery, and the reception he accorded one was in no way influenced by the occasion; instead he would use his interlocutors for his own purposes, as his mood dictated.

  I was aware of all this, and went none the less, for I could think of no other who might assist: I have never had wealthy friends and at that time most of my acquaintance were poorer even than I. I was certain now that, in the matter of the tales I had heard, Grove had been slandered as badly as had Sarah, and was equally sure that he would be grieved his servant had been so punished by baseless malice. I understood, of course, that he might not wish to offer public assistance for the sake of his reputation, but was confident that an opportunity for private aid would be most welcome to him.

  So I went and, as a result, brought about his death. I state the fact baldly, so there should be no mistaking the matter. All in their reports give their conclusions, their thoughts, their reasons and their suspicions about why and how this event took place. Many sorts of evidence have been called into the matter; Cola used confession to conclude Sarah was responsible and believed that personal testimony could not be gainsaid. She admitted the deed, therefore had committed it and I agree that in most cases this is the strongest evidence there is. Prestcott, in his muddled way, used the procedures of legal reasoning, deciding who best benefited and then, as no other information contradicted this, concluded that Thomas Ken was responsible. Dr Wallis applied his own power of logic, convinced that his fine mind could encompass all relevant issues and draw valid conclusions. All were convinced of the infallibility of their forensical technique, resorted to because the one type of witness which could conclude the matter was unavailable to them: none of them saw who put the poison in the bottle. I did.