An Instance of the Fingerpost (21 page)

Thus the unities, which Aristotle rightly taught us ensure that a play remains coherent, were jettisoned almost from the first scene. Far from taking place in one location, it began in a castle (I think) then moved to some moor, then to a battlefield or two, and ended up with the author seeing if he could place a scene in every town in the
country. He compounded his error by jettisoning the unity of time – between one scene and another, a minute, an hour, a month or (as far as I could see) fifteen years could pass, without the audience being informed. Also missing was the unity of subject, as the main plot was forgotten for long periods and subsidiary tales taken up, rather as though the author had taken pages from half a dozen plays, tossed them into the air, then stitched them together in whatever order they fell to earth.

The language was worse; some I missed as the actors had no sense of declamation, but instead talked as though they were in a room of friends or in a tavern. Of course, the true actor’s way, standing still, facing the audience and seducing them with the power of beautiful rhetoric, was scarcely appropriate, as there was little beauty to deliver. Instead what they had on offer was language of breathtaking foulness. At one scene in particular, where the son of some nobleman pretends to be mad and frolics on an open heath in the rain, then meets the king who has also gone mad and has put flowers in his hair (believe me, I’m not joking) I quite expected the ladies to be hustled out by protective husbands. Instead, they sat there with all signs of enjoyment, and the only thing which caused a
frisson
of shock was the presence of actresses on stage, which no one had seen before.

Finally there was the violence. God only knows how many were killed; in my opinion it quite explains why the English are notoriously so violent, for how could they be otherwise, when such disgusting events are presented as entertainment? For example, a nobleman has his eyes put out, on the stage, in full view of the audience, and in a fashion which leaves nothing to the imagination. What possible purpose could be served by this gross and unnecessary coarseness except to insult and shock?

In fact, the only real interest in the proceedings – which dragged on so long that the final scenes were played out in blessed darkness – was that it presented me with a panoramic view of local society, as virtually no one was able to resist the temptation to dabble their fingers in the muck that was on offer. Mr Wood the gossip was there, as was Warden Woodward and the severe, cold Dr Wallis, who had so tormented me at dinner and had fallen victim to Mr Prestcott that same evening. Thomas Ken was
there, as were Crosse, Locke, Stahl and many others I had seen in Mother Jean’s.

And there were many more, not even mentioning the students, whom I had never seen but who were well known to my friend. During one of the frequent interruptions in the proceedings, for example, I saw a thin, haggard man try to talk to Dr Wallis. That gentleman looked angry and embarrassed, then turned abruptly away.

‘Oho,’ said Lower, watching with interest. ‘How times do change.’

I begged an explanation.

‘Hmm? Oh, I suppose you don’t know,’ he said, his eyes still riveted on the scene being played out before him. ‘How could you? Tell me, what do you think of that little man? Do you think it is possible to read character from physiognomy?’

‘I believe so,’ I said. ‘If it is not, then a large number of face painters are wasting their time and telling us lies.’

‘Interpret away, then. We can experiment to see the usefulness of the doctrine. Or the level of your skill.’

‘Well,’ I said, carefully studying the man once more as he walked humbly back to his place and without complaint took his seat. ‘I am no artist and am not trained in the matter, but he is a man in his late forties, with the air of one born to serve and obey. Not a man who has ever held authority or power. Not favoured by fortune, although not poor. A gentleman, but of a lowly sort.’

‘A good start,’ Lower commented. ‘Continue.’

‘Not a man used to imposing himself. With none of the manner or standing of one who might cut a dash in the world. Rather the opposite: his demeanour suggests someone who will always be overlooked and ignored.’

‘Aha. Any more?’

‘One of nature’s supplicants,’ I said, warming to my theme now. ‘You can see from the way he approached, and the way he suffered his rebuff. Clearly, he is accustomed to such treatment.’

Lower nodded. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘A truly useful experiment.’

‘Was I correct?’

‘Let us say it was an interesting set of observations. Ah. The play is beginning again. Splendid.’

I groaned inwardly: he was right, and the players were coming on
once more, fortunately for the
dénouement
. I could have done better myself: rather than a morally pleasing resolution, the king and his daughter die just at the moment that any reasonable playwright would see that they must live for there to be any moral instruction in the play at all. But, of course, by then everyone else is dead as well, and the stage a virtual charnel house, so I suppose they just decided to follow suit, for want of anyone to talk to.

I emerged rather dazed, not having seen so much blood since we anatomised Dr Grove. Fortunately, Lower suggested an inn immediately afterwards. As I needed a stiff drink to recover, I did not even demur when Locke and Wood decided to join us: not my idea of ideal company, but after such a performance I would have taken a drink with Calvin himself, had it been necessary.

By the time we had walked across town and settled down in the Fleur-de-Lys, Lower had told Locke of my comments about the man’s demeanour, which produced nothing more than a sneering smile.

‘If I’m wrong, you should tell me how,’ I said a little heatedly, not liking at all to be used for sport in this fashion. ‘Who was this man?’

‘Go on, Wood. You are the repository of all human gossip. You tell him.’

Clearly pleased to be included in our company and relishing his moment of attention, Wood took a sip of his drink, and called over to the serving hatch for a pipe to be brought. Lower added his call for one as well, but I declined. Not that I object to a little tobacco in the evening, especially when my bowels are tight, but sometimes pipes which have been overused by the general clientèle of taverns do have a taste of sour spittle. Most do not mind, I know, but I find it unpleasant and only smoke from my own.

‘Well,’ Wood began in his pedantic fashion when he was refilled with ale and safely alight, ‘this little man who is so much one of life’s failures, so much a natural servant, so much a supplicant, is in fact John Thurloe.’

He stopped here for dramatic effect, rather as though I should be impressed. I asked him a bit more sharply than was strictly necessary who, exactly, was John Thurloe?

‘Never heard of him?’ he said with an air of amazement. ‘Many
in Venice have. And almost everywhere else in Europe. For near ten years that man murdered, stole, bribed and tortured his way across this land and others. He once – and not so very long ago – held the fate of kingdoms in his hand, and played with monarchs and statesmen as though they were mere puppets.’

He paused again, and finally realised that he wasn’t being clear. ‘He was Cromwell’s Secretary of State,’ he explained, as though talking to a child. Truly, the man irritated me. ‘His spymaster. Responsible for keeping the Commonwealth secure and Cromwell alive, a task he accomplished with great success, for Cromwell died in his bed. While John Thurloe was there, no assassin ever got close. He had spies everywhere: if ever there was a conspiracy by the king’s men, John Thurloe knew about it before they did themselves. He even planned some of their plots himself, I am told, just for the pleasure of destroying them. As long as he had Cromwell’s confidence, there were no controls on what he could do at all. None at all. It was Thurloe, they say, who lured Jack Prestcott’s father into betraying the king.’

‘That little man?’ I said in astonishment. ‘But if that’s true, what is he doing walking around and going to plays? Surely any sensible government would have hanged him as quickly as possible.’

Wood shrugged, unwilling to admit to not knowing something. ‘A mystery of state. But he lives quietly, a few miles from here. By all accounts he sees no one, and has made his peace with the government. Naturally, all those who swarmed around him when he had power no longer even remember his name.’

‘Including John Wallis, evidently.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Wood said, his eyes twinkling, ‘including him. Dr Wallis is a man with an instinct for power. He can smell it. I am sure the first inkling a man of state has of his downfall is when John Wallis stops paying court.’

Everybody likes tales of dark and obscure happenings, and I was no different. Wood’s tale of Thurloe gave an insight into the kingdom. Either the returned king was so secure that he could allow such people their freedom without fear, or he was so weak he could not bring them to justice. It would have been different in Venice: Thurloe would long ago have been devoured by the Adriatic fishes.

‘And this man Wallis? He intrigues me . . .’

But I found out no more, as a young man I recognised as the magistrate’s servant came to our table and stood there stiffly until Lower put him out of his misery by asking him his business.

‘I am looking for Mr Cola and Dr Lower, sir.’

We acknowledged ourselves. ‘And what do you want?’

‘Sir John requires your immediate presence at his house in Holywell.’

‘Now?’ asked Lower. ‘Both of us? It is past nine, and we have not even eaten.’

‘I believe it cannot wait. It is a matter of the utmost urgency,’ the lad replied.

‘Never keep a man waiting if he has the power to hang you,’ Locke said encouragingly. ‘You’d better go.’

The house on Holywell seemed warm and inviting as we arrived and waited in the hallway before being ushered into the interview room once more. The fire blazed in the open hearth, and I warmed myself before it, conscious again of how cold the country was in winter, and how underheated were my own lodgings. I was also, I realised, formidably hungry.

The magistrate was decidedly stiffer than he had been only that morning. Once the formalities were over, he led us into the little room, and sat us both down.

‘You work very late, Sir John,’ Lower said amiably.

‘Not through choice, Doctor,’ he replied. ‘But this is a matter which cannot wait.’

‘It must be serious, then.’

‘It is indeed. It concerns Mr Crosse. He came to see me this afternoon and I wish to check his credentials as he is not a gentleman, although, no doubt, eminently trustworthy in all respects.’

‘Examine away, then. What about old Crosse? He is as good a man as I know, and gives false weight only rarely, and then only to customers he does not know.’

‘He brought his ledger of sales from his shop,’ the magistrate
said, ‘which shows quite clearly that a substantial quantity of arsenic was bought four months ago by Sarah Blundy, a serving girl of this town.’

‘I see.’

‘Blundy was discharged by Grove for ill behaviour on that same day,’ the magistrate continued. ‘She comes from a violent family.’

‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ Lower said, ‘but have you asked the girl? Perhaps she has a perfectly straightforward explanation.’

‘I have. After I talked to Mr Crosse, I went straight there. She said she bought the powder on Dr Grove’s instructions.’

‘Which may be true. It would be difficult to contradict.’

‘It may be so. I intend to see if Dr Grove kept a ledger. The cost of the powder was near a shilling, and an item that expensive might well have been noted. You can vouch for Crosse? He is of good character, and unlikely to bear false witness out of malice?’

‘Oh, no. In that respect he is utterly trustworthy. If he says the girl bought arsenic, then the girl bought arsenic.’ Lower said.

‘Did you accuse the girl directly?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Sir John replied. ‘It is too early for that.’

‘You think it a possibility?’

‘Maybe so. Might I ask why neither of you mentioned to me the report that she had been seen entering Dr Grove’s room that night?’

‘It is not my job to report tittle-tattle,’ Lower said sternly. ‘Nor yours to repeat it, sir.’

‘It is not that,’ Sir John replied. Warden Woodward told me, and brought Mr Ken to repeat his accusation.’

‘Ken?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure he was telling the truth?’

‘I have no reason to doubt him. I am aware he and Dr Grove were at odds, but I cannot believe he would lie on such an important matter.’

‘And what did the girl say?’

‘She denied it, of course. But she also would not say where she was.’

I remembered that she would not tell me either, and my heart filled with foreboding for the first time. Even the most terrible immorality, after all, would be worth while owning if it diverted suspicions such as these. So what could the girl have been doing, assuming, that is, that she was not lying to cover her guilt?

‘In which case it will be her word against Ken’s,’ Lower said.

‘His word will naturally carry the more weight,’ the magistrate pointed out. ‘And, from the gossip I have heard, it seems the girl had a reason, however perverted, for such a deed. Do I understand that you are treating the mother, Mr Cole?’