by Iain Pears
‘And I am afraid. I cannot bear to lose you,’ I added, ashamed of my own selfishness.
Sarah seemed scarcely to pay any attention, but eventually leant forward and kissed me on the forehead. ‘You should not be afraid, and should never be afraid. You are my love, my dove, my dearest and I am your friend. I will not forsake you nor ever neglect you.’
They were the last words she spoke to me, the last I ever heard from her lips, and I sat by her side, holding her hand and staring in awe at her until a noise from below roused me once more. Then I rose from the bed where she sat, staring blankly across the room, and went back down to Lower. Sarah now seemed completely unaware of my existence.
The carnage in that room downstairs was truly diabolical, and even I, who knew the truth, was appalled by it. How much greater must Cola’s shock have been when he forced his way in and saw what he thought to be Sarah’s body. For Lower had taken the corpse he had acquired in Aylesbury, and roughly hacked it into unrecognisable fragments, so brutalising the head that it was scarcely recognisable as human. He himself was covered in blood from a dog Locke had slaughtered to complete the illusion, and the stench of the alcohol in the room was unbearable, even though the window was wide open to allow the winds into the room.
‘Well, Wood?’ he said, turning to me with a grim expression. Locke, I saw, had resumed his languid, absent pose, and was standing idly by at the door. ‘Will anybody spot our imposition, do you think?’ And with a knife, he levered an eyeball out of the skull on the table, so that it hung by a thread from its socket.
‘I have cut her hair, but the experience has so affected her she is hardly capable of moving, I think. What do you suggest we do with her now?’
‘Boyle’s servant has some clothes in the cupboard next to the chamber,’ he said. ‘At least, he normally keeps them there. I think we must borrow them. Dress her up and get her out of the building so no one will recognise her. Until you can, keep her upstairs and quiet. No one must see her, or even suspect that there is anyone there.’
Again I mounted the stairs, found the clothes and began the lengthy process of getting Sarah into them. She spoke not a word during the whole operation, and when I was finished I left her and went out by Mr Crosse’s back door and followed a little lane down to Merton Street and my house.
First, however, I called into the Feathers, as I needed a few moments to steady my nerves and collect my thoughts. And was approached by Cola, looking tired and worn out himself, who wanted news of the execution. I told him the entire truth except for the one detail of importance and he, poor man, took it as confirmation of his theory about blood transfusion, that the death of the spirit in the donor must inevitably cause the death of the recipient as well. I could not, for obvious reasons, illuminate him on this point, and demonstrate that his theory had a fatal evidential flaw.
He also told me of the death of the mother, which grieved me greatly, for it was yet another burden for Sarah to bear. But I forced myself to put it aside as Cola went to remonstrate with Lower, and I went myself to my house to discover my mother in the kitchen. She had been greatly affected by Sarah’s fall, and had taken to sitting quietly by the fire when she was not praying for the girl. This morning, as I arrived – for despite everything it was still scarcely eight – she sat all alone in the chair no one else was allowed to occupy, and I saw to my astonishment that she had been crying when no one was there to see her. But she pretended not to do so and I pretended not to notice, as I had no wish to humiliate her. Even then, I think, I wondered how something of normal life could continue despite the wonders I had just witnessed and could not understand how no one had noticed anything, except myself.
‘And it is done?’
‘After a fashion,’ I replied. ‘Mother, I must ask you something in all seriousness. What would you have done to help her, had it been in your power?’
‘Anything,’ she said firmly. ‘You know that. Anything.’
‘If she had escaped, would you have assisted her, even though it meant breaking the law yourself? Not given her up?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘The law is nothing when it is wrong and deserves to be disregarded.’
I looked at her, for the words sounded strange on her lips, until I realised it was something I had once heard Sarah say herself.
‘Would you help her now?’
‘She is beyond my help, I think.’
‘No.’
She said nothing, so I continued, my words blurting out once I had gone too far to retract. ‘She died and is alive again. She is in Mr Boyle’s apartment. She is still alive, mother, and no one knows of it. Nor will they ever, unless you say something, as we have all decided to try and help her away.’
This time even my presence did not provide enough incentive to spare her dignity, and she rocked back and forth in her chair, clutching her hands together and muttering, ‘Thank God, thanks to God, all praise to God,’ with the tears welling up in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks until I took her by the hand and got her attention once more. ‘She needs hiding until we can get her out of the town. Do I have your permission to bring her here? If I hide her in my study, you will not betray her?’
Of course she gave her absolute promise, and I knew it was better than any I might make, so I kissed her on the cheek and told her I would be back after nightfall. I last saw her bustling about the kitchen, dragging out vegetables and our last winter ham for a celebratory feast when Sarah should come again.
It continued a strange day, that one, for after all the frenzied activity of the first few hours, all of us – Lower, Locke and myself – found ourselves with time on our hands, and little to do until night came. Lower realised that the events at least had made up his mind about journeying to London, for his reputation amongst the townsfolk would never be the same again, such was the disapproval of his supposed activities. He now had no choice but to risk all and begin the long task of establishing himself elsewhere. The remains of the girl he had bought in Aylesbury were taken off to the castle and burnt on the pyre – Lower’s humour returned sufficiently for him to remark that she had been pickled in so much alcohol it would be fortunate if she did not blow up the entire building – and I had been given money by Cola to ensure the decent burial of Mrs Blundy.
Organising the burial was a simple, if painful, process; there were plenty of people who were now prepared to do something, so great was the revulsion felt for the fate of the girl, that they were happy to make some amends by treating the mother as well as possible, especially as they were to be paid for their kindness. I had the priest at St Thomas’s undertake to perform the rites, and set them for that evening, and he also sent his men round to collect the body and prepare it. It was not either the priest or the church the woman would have chosen for herself, but I had no clear idea who should do it, and as asking anybody but an established minister would create untold difficulties, I decided it was best to avoid unnecessary complications. The service was set for eight o’clock that evening and, as I left, the priest was already shouting at the sexton, telling him to dig a grave in the poorer, more neglected part of the churchyard so that a more valuable plot, such as is occupied by gentlemen, was not used by accident.
I had entirely put out of my mind the unwelcome task of telling Sarah what had occurred. It would have to be done, of course, and I knew I would have to do it, but I simply postponed it as long as possible. Lower had already been told by Cola, and looked greatly upset by the news.
‘I cannot understand it,’ he said. ‘She was not well and was very weak, but when I saw her she was not dying. When did she die?’
‘I do not know. Mr Cola told me of it. He was with her, I think.’
Lower’s face darkened. ‘That man,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he killed her.’
‘Lower! That is a terrible thing to say.’
‘I don’t mean deliberately. But his grasp of theory is better than his practice.’ He sighed heavily, and looked mightily concerned. �
�I feel bad about this, Wood. I really do. I should have attended the woman myself. You know Cola planned to give her more blood?’
‘No.’
‘He did. I could not stop him, of course, as she was his patient, but I refused to have anything to do with it.’
‘It was the wrong treatment?’
‘Not necessarily. But we had a falling out, and I did not wish to be associated with him. I told you that Wallis said he has in the past stolen other men’s ideas.’
‘Many times,’ I said. ‘So?’
‘So?’ Lower repeated, greatly affronted. ‘Is there anything worse?’
‘He might be a scheming Jesuit, here in secret to rekindle civil strife and subvert the kingdom,’ I suggested. ‘That might be accounted worse.’
‘Not by me.’
And the remark broke the tension which had been building up all day, and all of a sudden both Lower and I found ourselves collapsing in gales of laughter, roaring until the tears rolled down our cheeks, gripping each other tightly as our bodies shook with the most strange merriment. We ended on the floor, Lower flat on his back, still heaving, I with my head between my knees as the laughter made my head spin and my jaw ache. I loved Lower dearly then, and knew that, whatever our differences and whatever gruffness of character he might have, I would always love him, for he was a truly good man.
When we recovered and wiped the tears from our eyes, it was Lower who brought up the topic of what to do with Sarah. No laughing matter, that.
‘She must obviously leave Oxford immediately,’ I said. ‘She cannot stay in my chamber for ever and even with her hair cut, she is easily recognisable. But where she should go, and what she should do, I am at a loss to suggest.’
‘How much ready money do you have?’
‘About four pounds,’ I said. ‘Much of which is the money due to you and Cola for her mother’s treatment.’
He waved that aside. ‘Another patient defaults. Not the first, and not the last, I’ll be bound. For my part I have two pounds, and in a fortnight I am due my annuity from my family. Out of that, I can afford another two.’
‘If you make it up to four, I will repay you the difference when my own quarterly comes in.’
He nodded. ‘Ten pounds then. Not a lot, even for a girl of her condition. I wonder . . .’
‘Hmm?’
‘You know my younger brother is a Quaker?’
He said it quite naturally, and without evident shame, although I knew it was a topic he touched on with only the greatest reluctance. Indeed, there were many who knew him well who were entirely unaware that Lower even had a brother, so greatly did he fear being damaged by the association. I met this man once and did not dislike him. Just as his face was like Lower’s without the same expression, so his character was like that of his brother without the merriment and easy laughter, for laughter, I am told, is forbidden among them as a sin.
I nodded.
‘He is in business with a group of like-minded people who wish to go to places where they will not come under attack; the countries of Massachusetts and suchlike. I could write to him, and ask him to get Sarah Blundy sent there. She could leave as a servant, or as someone’s relative, and would then have to make her own way when she arrives.’
‘It is a harsh punishment for one who has done no wrong.’
‘Few who go there of their own volition have done anything wrong. Yet they go none the less. She will be in good company, and will find more people there of her like than she will ever do here.’
After all that had happened, the thought of her leaving, of never seeing her again, tore at my heart and I know that I argued against the plan for selfish reasons. But Lower was right; if she stayed in England, then sooner or later she would be discovered. Someone – an old comrade of her father, or a travelling man from Oxford, or an old student – would see her and recognise her. Her life would be in the balance every day and so would ours be. I had no idea what, technically, the law said about what we had done, but I knew that few judges looked kindly on anyone who presumed to interfere with their prerogatives. She had been condemned to death, and was alive. All Locke’s cleverness in argument would have a hard time explaining that one away.
And so we agreed; or at least, we agreed that it should be put to Sarah, as the scheme was impossible if she would not give her consent. Lower undertook to suggest the scheme, as it was his idea and he would have to do all the arranging with the dissidents. I took myself back to St Thomas’s to ensure that the preparations for the funeral were going well and fully expected that I would be the only person there at the service itself.
But Sarah was not content with the plan because she did not wish to leave her mother, and it was only Lower informing her that the woman was dead which brought her to sense. All her own trials she had borne with fortitude; the loss of this woman brought out all her weakness. I will say no more, except that Lower was not the best of people to deliver comfort. He was kind and desired the best for all; but he did have a tendency to become gruff and unsympathetic when confronted with a misery he could do nothing to alleviate. I have little doubt that his tone – matter of fact to the point of being brutal – only made matters worse.
Sarah insisted on coming to the funeral, even though Lower remonstrated with her forcefully about the foolishness of such a desire, but she insisted and was quite impossible to divert. The fact that my mother backed her up, and said she would bring the girl to the church whatever Dr Richard Lower said, decided the matter.
I was distressed when all three of them arrived, Lower looking anxious, my mother grim and Sarah blank, as though some vitality had left her body, never to return. They had done their best to disguise her appearance and had dressed her as a boy, covering her head with a cap pulled down low in front of her eyes, but I was terrified that at any moment the priest would look up from his book, and stare goggle-eyed before rushing off to call the watch. But he did nothing of the sort; merely droned through the service faster than was seemly, refusing to make the slightest effort for the soul of a woman who was not a lady, not a rich parishioner, nor indeed anyone who should attract the condescension of someone as grand as he. I felt, I must say, like slapping him and telling him to do his job properly, so ashamed I was. With priests like that, no wonder so many people turn elsewhere. When he was over, he snapped the book shut, nodded at us, held out his hand for his fee, then stalked off. He would not, he said, finish the rest of the ceremony at the graveside as the woman was all but a heathen. He had done his legal requirement, and he would do no more.
Lower, I think, was even more furious than I at this callousness, although I like to believe the man would have been more considerate had he known that a member of the woman’s family was present. But he did not, so made no effort, and the result was one of the most painful events I have ever witnessed. And for Sarah it must have been many times more anguishing. I did my best to comfort her.
‘She will be sent on her way by her daughter, who loved her, and her friends, who tried to help her,’ I said. ‘That is far better, and more appropriate. She would not have liked to be intoned over at the graveside by a man like that in any case.’
So Lower and I picked up the bier ourselves and carried it out of the church, stumbling across the yard in the dark with only one taper to guide us. A more different occasion than the one which attended the burial of Dr Grove could not be imagined, but we were, at least, all at one now the minister was gone.
It fell to me to make the speech, for Lower did not know her well, and Sarah seemed unable to speak. I had no idea what was appropriate, but simply spoke the first thoughts that came into my head. I said that I had known her only in the last few years, that we were not of the same faith, she and I, and could not be further apart in matters of politics. Yet I honoured her as a good woman, and a courageous one, who did right as she saw it, and was also a seeker after the truths she wished to know. I would not say she was the most obedient of wives, for she would have scorned
to be described in such a way. Yet she was the greatest support for her husband, and both loved and helped him in all the ways he wanted and expected. She fought herself for what he also believed and brought up a daughter who was courageous, true, gentle and good, better than anyone could conceive. In this best of fashions she honoured her creator and was blessed for it. I believed she had no faith in the afterlife, for she distrusted anything that came from the mouths of priests. Yet I knew she was wrong, and that she would be welcomed into God’s embrace.
It was an inarticulate mish-mash, that speech of mine, delivered rather much to give such comfort as I could to Sarah than to paint a true portrait of the dead woman. Yet I believed it all then and believe it still. I know it is inconceivable that a woman like her, of her religion and her opinions, of her status and her deeds, could ever be accounted worthy or noble or virtuous in any form. But she was all of these and I do not trouble any more about reconciling my beliefs with those of other men.
When I had done, there was an awkward pause before my mother led Sarah up to the body and pulled back the cloth so that the face was exposed. It was raining heavily and inexpressibly miserable as little spots of mud were thrown up by the rain, spattering on the dead woman as she lay there on the damp, cold ground. Sarah knelt down, and we all stood back while she muttered a prayer of her own; she finished by leaning over and kissing her mother’s forehead, then gently tidied away a wisp of hair that had come loose from the old woman’s best bonnet.
She stood up once more. Lower tugged me by the arm and together we lowered the corpse into the ground as gently and decorously as we could manage before Sarah performed her final duty as a daughter and scattered the earth over the grave opening. We all followed suit, and finally Lower and I wielded the shovels ourselves, filling up that hole as swiftly as we could. When it was all completed, and we were all thoroughly drenched and muddy and cold, we simply turned and walked away. There was nothing else to be done, except attend once more to the living.