An Instance of the Fingerpost (51 page)

I WAS STILL
shaky from fear and lack of sleep when Marco da Cola engaged me in conversation the next morning. I was not greatly responsive, as I was very much preoccupied with the attack on me, but his persistent efforts eventually forced me to be as civil as possible. Looking at me with his twinkling eyes and smiling quite vacuously, he began by saying he understood that my father was Sir James Prestcott.

I fully expected that he was going to examine me on my father’s fall, so answered in the coldest manner I could. But, rather than adopting a grave and distressed face, typical of those who intend to patronise with their commiseration, he brightened considerably at my reply.

‘That is excellent, indeed,’ he said in an accent so thick he was barely comprehensible. ‘Truly excellent.’

He beamed with pleasure at me.

‘Might I enquire why you say so? It is not a response I have been used to, of late.’

‘Because I knew your most admirable father well, a few years ago. I was greatly saddened to hear of his misfortunes. You must allow me to offer you my most sincere condolences on the loss of a man who must have been a perfect father.’

‘That he was, and I thank you,’ I said. I had taken a dislike to the foppish little foreigner, for such people are highly distasteful to me in ordinary circumstances. In this case, I was aware that my opinion needed revision. There were few people kind enough even to acknowledge an acquaintance with my father, let alone to praise him.

‘You must tell me how you met him,’ I said. ‘I know nothing of that time when he was out of the country, except that he was forced to sell his services as a soldier.’

‘He sold them to Venice,’ Cola replied, ‘which was grateful for them, for he was a brave man. If more people were like him then the Ottoman would not be threatening the very heart of Europe.’

‘So he was valued by your state? I am glad of it.’

‘Highly. And he was as popular with the officers as he was with the men; he was gallant but never foolhardy. When he decided to return to his home those of us who wished your king well consoled ourselves that our loss would be your sovereign’s gain. I find it difficult to believe that the man I knew could act meanly in any way.’

‘You must not believe all the information you hear,’ I assured him. ‘I am persuaded that my father was the victim of an abominable crime. With luck, I will soon have the proof of it.’

‘I am glad,’ Cola said. ‘Truly glad. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

‘You were a soldier yourself?’

He hesitated a moment before replying to my question. ‘I have trained in medicine in recent years, among other things,’ he said. ‘A most unmilitary occupation. And I occupy myself mainly with questions of curiosity. I admired your father greatly, but have never had much affection for his profession.’

And the little man walked off, leaving me to give thanks that my father’s character was such that it invariably left a favourable impression on those who encountered him, when they were unaffected by the poison of rumour.

Sir William had already left the house; he was an assiduous governor of his estate, believing firmly that it was his obligation to see to such matters himself. Besides, he always enjoyed it and would have been the happier had he devoted himself entirely to country pursuits. The profits of the court, however, could not be resisted, and at least four times a year he had to go to London to oversee his office. But the rest of the time he was in Warwickshire and nearly every day, whatever the weather, he would collect one or two of his favourite hounds and leave the house early in the morning, to pay calls, give advice and issue orders. Around noon he would return, red-faced from the exercise, radiating contentment and satisfaction before eating and taking a nap. In the evening he would see to the paperwork which any estate of size generates, and check his
wife’s governance of the household. This routine he repeated without variation every day, and I believe that every day he went to bed and slept soundly, confident of having blamelessly fulfilled all his many obligations. His life was, in my opinion, most completely admirable and content, as long as no unwelcome intrusion disturbed its placid rhythm.

Because of this I was unable to engage him in further conversation until that evening, when, his business done, he became once more the genial host. It was Cola, once Lady Compton had withdrawn, who brought up the subject of my father’s innocence. Sir William instantly looked very distressed indeed at the remark.

‘I beg you, Jack,’ he said sadly, ‘put this matter behind you. You should know that it was I who received the evidence of your father’s guilt, and I can assure you on my life that I would not have acted had I not been totally convinced. It was the worst day of my life; I would have been a happier man had I died before I discovered that secret.’

Again, I felt no anger rising in my breast as I had on so many previous occasions. I knew that this kind man spoke with the most complete sincerity. I also knew that he had been an innocent dupe, as betrayed as my father, for he had been tricked into plunging the knife into his best comrade. It was with the greatest regret, therefore, that I replied to his words.

‘I fear, sir, that I will shortly require you to bear yet more distress. Because I am within a whisker of proving what I say. I am convinced that the evidence which convinced you was forged and had been concocted by Samuel Morland to protect the true traitor. It was given to you because your honesty was so unquestioned that an accusation from your lips would be the more easily believed.’

Sir William turned deathly sombre at these words, and the silence in that room when I had finished was total.

‘You have proof?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I cannot believe it; to accept that a man could so coldly plot such a thing is incredible.’

‘At the moment my proof is incomplete. But I am certain that when it is presented properly I will induce John Thurloe to confirm it. And if that happens I do not doubt that Morland will sell his partner in deceit to save his own neck. But I will also need you to confirm some parts of the story. I believe my father was chosen as the victim so the Russell
family could remove my father’s objection to their profiteering. You are the only one who can say the information came from Sir John Russell to begin with, and that he had it from Morland. Will you say that?’

‘With all my heart,’ he said vehemently. ‘And more. If what you say is true, I will kill them both with my own hands. But please do not think badly of Sir John unless you must. I saw his face when he told me of the news, and the distress was obvious.’

‘He is a good actor, then.’

‘And he also pledged himself, through his family, with your father’s creditors for a while, so the estate could be sold at the best possible price. Had he not done so, you would now be in very dire straits indeed.’

That, of all things, made me angry; the idea that I was meant to be grateful to such a man was infuriating, and the cunning way he had hidden his depredations under the appearance of selfless virtue and kindness sickened me beyond belief. It was desperately hard for me to resist jumping up there and then, denouncing all the Russell family, and upbraiding Sir William himself for his foolishly trusting blindness.

But I succeeded, although I let Cola converse with him for upwards of half an hour before I was confident enough to speak again. Then I merely told him that I was sure, absolutely sure, that what I said was correct. And that in due course I would prove it to him.

‘What evidence do you have so far?’ he asked.

‘Some,’ I said, unwilling to go into further details and dismay him by the fact that my case was not yet complete. ‘But not enough. I do not have the forged letters; when I have them I will be able to confront Thurloe directly.’

‘And where are they?’

I shook my head.

‘You do not trust me?’

‘I trust you completely. You are the nearest thing I have on this earth to a father, now that my own is no more. I honour and reverence you for all you have done for me. And I would not for the world burden you with the knowledge I possess. I am proud to place myself in danger of assault from these men, for they know that
I am on their trail. I will not place others in danger without good reason.’

This pleased him, and he told me that if my father was as guiltless as I believed, then I was a worthy son to him. Then the conversation diverted on to other paths with the Italian, a man most eager to learn about foreign lands, earnestly plying Sir William and myself with questions about the country and the way it was governed. Sir William told him much and I learned a great deal also, for although I knew that he did not like Lord Clarendon, I had thought that their dislike was mainly personal. Instead, I received my first great lesson in the politics of the land, for he told me how Clarendon, a man of little background, was so extending himself from his country estate near by, that he was pushing his interest deep into the land usually controlled by the Compton family, up through Oxfordshire and across Warwickshire.

‘He had the presumption to insist, absolutely insist, that one of the Warwick county Members of Parliament at the last election be one of his men, because he said it was vital there should be sympathetic men in the Commons to do the king’s business. As if my family does not know, has not always known, where its duties lie. He has reached an understanding with the Lord Lieutenant of Oxfordshire, and is now handing out bribes to the gentlemen of Warwickshire.’

‘I understand he is in ill health,’ Cola said. ‘If so, he cannot remain in his position for long.’

‘I can only hope not,’ replied my guardian. ‘He is out to destroy my family.’

‘That is not surprising,’ I said sadly. ‘His friends have already destroyed mine.’

We talked no more of this, as Sir William showed signs of distress at the thought, and Cola kindly began to ask about the late wars. Sir William reminisced about the battles and the heroic deeds he had seen; Marco da Cola talked of his country’s war on Crete, and its brave resistance to the brutality of the Turk. I, having no stories of daring to contribute, listened to their tales, basking in their acceptance of my presence and feeling myself a man among equals. If only, I thought, it could always be like this. Then I would be happy, and want for nothing. A fire, a glass and amiable companionship is all
any man needs for true contentment. I have them all now, and the future I glimpsed that evening is every bit as good as I imagined.

I could have stayed in that house for a long time, and I was most reluctant to tear myself away; the tasks that lay before me were daunting and the prospect of renewing the struggle brought no pleasure. But I resolved that the sooner I began the better, so, when Cola had retired to his chamber and Sir William went back to his office to attend to business, I slipped softly down the stairs and out of the great door.

It was entirely dark, with no moon and not even a star visible in the sky as I walked; it was only because I knew the house so well that I managed to find the track which led to the road; the small torch I had brought with me from the fire scarcely gave enough light to see more than a few yards ahead of me. It was cold as well, and my feet crunched on the frost that lay thick on the frozen ground. All around the night-birds fluttered, and the animals patrolled their nocturnal domain, searching for their prey, or trying to escape their fate.

I was not frightened, nor was I even apprehensive. I am told that this is unusual, for often we are given to know of impending danger, and our necks prickle or our scalp itches as the peril approaches. Not so in my case; I was concerned merely with finding the gate and the road to Banbury, and I had to concentrate so much to keep my feet on the path, and avoid the ditches which I remembered on either side, that I had no thought for anything else.

It was only the noise which broke that caution, and even then I did not react immediately, thinking – if I thought at all – that it was some fox or badger crossing in front of me, just out of reach of my torch’s light. Only at the very last moment did all my senses scream out that I was in mortal peril, and force me to leap bodily out of the way of the hideous fiend which rose up out of the earth and blocked my path.

It had taken the form of a man, but such apparitions are never perfect, and the careful eye can always see where the imitation fails. In this case it was the movement, all jerky and irregular, that betrayed the
fact that here was a monster, not a human being. It had tried to take the form of an old gentleman, but it was covered in rancid pustules and hideous deformities, with bent back and irregular gait. And its eyes – strange this, and I never understood how it could be – were dark as pitch, but burned brightly in the dark, and I could see the flames of hell itself deep within. The noise it made as it wheedled and cajoled and tried to fascinate me into its trust was the most revolting of all. Indeed, I believe it did not speak; rather, I heard its entreaties like the hissing of a snake and the squeaking of a bat as they sounded in my head, but not in my ears. ‘No, Jack,’ it hissed, ‘you must not leave yet. Please stay with me. Come with me.’