An Instance of the Fingerpost (75 page)

‘Precisely. Nor can they tell Jack Prestcott.’ Thurloe smiled. ‘Which is the greatest relief of all. Because if he had that material, then he could have asked for an earldom and half a county, and the king would have given it to him. And Clarendon would have fallen without a murmur.’

‘And this is what you told Prestcott I would give him?’

‘I said merely you would give him information. Which you can now do, since I have passed it on to you.’

‘You know already what Prestcott’s information is?’

‘No. But I must be strictly honest and say that I can guess what it is.’

‘And you decided not to tell me, so I would have that girl killed.’

‘That is correct. I would have preferred to have those documents of Blundy’s so I could destroy them. But as that seemed unlikely to come about, it was best no one else should have them either. They would damage the standing and safety of too many people, including myself.’

‘You had me commit murder for your own ends,’ I said flatly, appalled by the man’s ruthlessness.

‘I told you power is not for the squeamish, Doctor,’ he said quietly. ‘And what have you lost? You want your revenge on Cola and his patrons and Prestcott will let you have it.’

Then he signalled for Prestcott to be brought, and the youth came in, preening himself in satisfaction at his own skill. At least I was sure that would not last long. I had agreed to spare him from trial, but I knew the knowledge he would have from my lips would be a greater punishment. Nor was I in a mood to spare him anything.

He began with lengthy and hypocritical assertions of his great gratitude to me for my kindness and mercy; these I cut short brusquely. I knew what I had done, and I wanted no congratulations. It was necessary, but my hatred and contempt for the man who had forced me to it knew few bounds.

Thurloe, I believe, saw my impatience and anger, and intervened before I became too outraged.

‘The question is, Mr Prestcott, who has guided you to your conclusions? Who gave you the hints and suggestions which has led you to your conviction about Mordaunt’s guilt? You have told me much about your enquiries, but you have not told all, and I do not like to be deceived.’

He flushed at the accusation, and attempted to pretend he was not frightened of the threat implicit in Thurloe’s quiet, gentle voice. Thurloe, who could be more terrifying with less effort than any man I knew, sat out the bluster.

‘I say again, you have not told something. By your own account, you had never heard of Sir Samuel Morland, yet found out much about him and his interests quite easily. You had no introduction to Lord Bedford’s steward, yet were received by him and found him free with all manner of information. How did you know to do this? Why
would such a man have talked to you? This was the critical moment in your quest, was it not? Before that all was dark and obscure, after it everything was clear and lucid. Someone told you Mordaunt was a traitor, someone told you of his connection to Samuel Morland, and encouraged you in your quest. Before then, all was suspicion and half-formed idea.’

Prestcott still refused to answer, but hung his head like a schoolboy caught cheating in his work.

‘I hope you are not going to tell us you made it all up. Dr Wallis here has taken substantial risks on your behalf and has entered into a bargain with you. That contract will be null and void unless you fulfil your side of it.’

Eventually he raised his head and stared at Thurloe, a strange and (I would have said) almost maniacal smile on his face. ‘I had it from a friend.’

‘A friend. How kind of them. Would you care to share the name of this friend?’

I felt myself leaning forward in anticipation of his reply, for I was sure his next words would answer the question for which I had risked so much.

‘Kitty,’ he said, and I stared at him in total puzzlement. The name meant nothing to me at all.

‘Kitty,’ Thurloe repeated, as imperturbable as ever. ‘Kitty. And he is . . .?’

‘She. She is, or was, a whore.’

‘A very well-informed one, it seems.’

‘She is now very well placed in her trade. It is extraordinary, is it not, how fortune favours some people? When I first met her she was walking to Tunbridge Wells to ply her trade. Six months later, she is comfortably installed as the mistress of one of the greatest men in the land.’

Thurloe smiled encouragingly in that bland way of his.

‘She is a girl of great good sense,’ Prestcott continued. ‘Before her rise, I was kind to her, and when I encountered her by chance in London she paid me back handsomely by retelling gossip she had heard.’

‘By chance?’

‘Yes. I was walking around, and she saw me and approached me. She happened to be passing.’

‘I’m sure she was. Now, this great man who keeps her. His name is . . .?’

Prestcott drew himself more upright in the chair. ‘My Lord of Bristol,’ he said. ‘But I beg you not to say I told you. I promised my discretion.’

I sighed heavily, not only because my case was advanced immeasurably, but also because Prestcott’s answer was so obviously true. Just as it was not in Mr Bennet’s character to risk all on a throw, so it was very much in that of Bristol to chance all he had so recklessly. He thought of himself as the king’s greatest adviser, although in truth he had no office and little authority. His open Catholicism had debarred him from position and in all matters he was bested by Clarendon on policy. It rankled, for he was undoubtedly a man of great courage and loyalty, who had been by the king’s side as long as any and shared exile and poverty with him. He was a man of extraordinary qualities and had as good an education as any man of that age, a graceful and beautiful person, with great eloquence in discourse. He was equal to a good part in any affair, but was the unfittest man alive to conduct it, for, great though his qualities were, his vanity and ambition far exceeded them, and he had a confidence in his capacities which often intoxicated, transported and exposed him. He espoused policies of the smallest prudence and the greatest hazard, but did so with such sweet reason that they seemed the only course to take. It would not be difficult to persuade others that he was the author of such an absurd scheme as to attempt Clarendon’s death, for he was perfectly capable of inventing such a foolishness.

‘You may rest assured that we will not betray your trust,’ Thurloe said. ‘I must thank you, young man. You have been very helpful.’

Prestcott looked puzzled. ‘And that is it? You want no more of me?’

‘Later maybe. But not at the moment.’

‘In that case,’ he said, turning to me, ‘you will favour me with one further piece of information as well. The evidence of Mordaunt’s guilt which Mr Thurloe tells me undoubtedly exists. Where is it to be found? Who has it?’

Even in my mood of blackness, I felt the ability to pity him then. He was stupid and deluded, cruel and credulous by turns, violent in deed and soul, full of bile and superstition, a monster of perversion. But his one genuine feeling was the reverential love he had for his father, and his faith in his honesty was so direct it had carried him through all his journeys and troubles. That goodness had been so corrupted by rancour it was hard to see the virtuous kernel within, and yet it was there. I took no pleasure in extinguishing it, nor in telling him that his cruelty made him the author of his own, ultimate misfortune.

‘There was only one person who knew where it was.’

‘And the name, sir? I will go there directly.’ He leant forward eagerly, a look of unsuspecting anticipation on his youthful countenance.

‘Her name is Sarah Blundy. The person you insisted must die. You have stopped her mouth for ever, and that proof will now remain hidden for ever, for she must have hidden it well. You will now never prove your father’s innocence, nor get your estates back. Your name will be for ever tarnished with the title of traitor. It is a just punishment for your sins. You must live knowing you are the author of your own misfortunes.’

He sat back again with a knowing smile, ‘You are making fun of me, sir. It is your way, perhaps, but I must ask you to be more direct with me. Tell me the truth, please.’

I told him again. Adding more details, then still more details until the smirk faded from his face and his hands began to tremble. I say again, I took no pleasure in it and, though it was just, I took no satisfaction either in the hideous additional punishment that was then meted out to him. For as I told him precisely how his father had betrayed the king and come close even to murdering him, his voice fell into a growl, and the hideous demonic look that came over his twisted and contorted features frightened even Thurloe, I believe.

It was well that he had not lost his old habits of caution, and had a servant in the background, ready for all eventualities. As I finished, Prestcott launched himself at my throat, and would surely have torn the very life from me had he been granted just a few more seconds before being manhandled to the ground.

As a priest, I necessarily believe in the possession of men by demons, but I think that I had always used the notion in careless, thoughtless ways. I could not have been more wrong, and those sceptics who disbelieve such things are deluded by their own vanity. There are indeed demons, and they can take over the bodies and souls of men and drive them to frenzies of malice and destruction. Prestcott was all the proof I could ever need to persuade me to put aside scepticism for ever, for no human form would be capable of the violent bestiality I saw in that room. The monstrous devil in Prestcott, I believe, had controlled his thoughts and deeds for many months, but in such careful, subtle ways that its presence was unsuspected.

Now it was finally frustrated, its fury and violent activity burst out in hideous extremity, making him roll on the floor, scratching the boards with his fingernails until the blood spurted from them and was dragged in thin red lines down the grain of the wood. It took all three of us to restrain him, and even we were unable to stop him crashing his head, time and again against the furniture, and trying to bite us whenever we incautiously put a hand near him. And he screamed hideous obscenities all the while, although fortunately most of the words could not be made out, and continued thrashing around until he was bound and gagged and taken to the university prison, there to wait the arrival of some member of his family to take him in charge.

I WOULD HAVE
left for London immediately even had I not been told, by Mr Wood of all people, that Cola had fled Oxford after hearing of Sarah Blundy’s death. Both she and the mother were now dead, and I felt that, at the very least, some of his plans were frustrated; his ability to communicate with those supposedly assisting him was greatly diminished, enough to make any further sojourn in Oxford useless to him. More importantly, I considered he must have heard of Prestcott’s descent into frenzy: if Thurloe was right, and the first attempt on Clarendon was to be through the young lunatic, then he would have realised that the move had failed, and it was now time for him to act. This thought, more than any other, prompted me to leave as speedily as possible.

The journey was as tedious as ever, and I lurched along, conscious that my quarry was but a few hours ahead of me. But no one at Charing Cross recalled someone answering his description when I arrived and asked questions. So I went directly to Whitehall, where Mr Bennet was most likely to be found, and sent in a message begging the favour of an interview with the utmost urgency.

He saw me within an hour; I resented the delay, but had prepared myself for an even greater one.

‘I hope this is indeed important, Doctor,’ he said as I entered his chamber which, I was relieved to see, was empty save for himself. ‘It is unlike you to cause such a commotion.’

‘I believe it is, sir.’

‘So tell me what is on your mind now. Still concerned with plots?’

‘Indeed. Before I explain, I must ask a question of the greatest importance. When I informed you of my suspicions a few weeks ago, did you communicate this to anyone? Anyone at all?’

He shrugged, and frowned at the implied criticism. ‘I may have done.’

‘It is important. I would not ask otherwise. Less than two days after I spoke to you, Cola murdered my most trusted servant, whose name I gave you. He then came to Oxford and attempted to kill me also. He knew I had a copy of a letter of his, and he stole it, along with a similar one I have kept by me for years. I have since become convinced that the man who has organised his presence here is Lord Bristol. What I must know is whether you informed His Lordship of my suspicions.’

Mr Bennet said nothing for a long while, and I could see that his acute and rapid mind was assessing every aspect of what I said, and every implication of my words as well.

‘I hope you do not suggest . . .’

‘Had I done so, I would hardly have raised the subject with you. But your loyalty to your friends is well known, and you would not expect any man so indebted to the king to act against his interest. And I believe Cola’s target is not the king, but the Lord Chancellor.’

This surprised him, and I could see that all now began to make sense to his mind in a way it had not before. ‘The answer to your question is that I believe I did mention it to Lord Bristol, or at least to one of his entourage.’

‘And his relations with Lord Clarendon are as bad as ever?’

‘They are. But not so bad that I can easily consider he would act in such a way. He is given to mad schemes, but I have always considered him too weak to achieve much. Perhaps I underestimated him. You had best tell me exactly why you conclude this.’

I did so, and Mr Bennet listened with the greatest gravity throughout, not even interrupting when I confessed to having been in consultation with John Thurloe. When I finished he again said nothing for a long while.

‘Well, well,’ he said at last. ‘A string to hang an earl. It is difficult to credit, and yet I must do so. The question is, how to deal with the situation.’

‘Cola must be stopped and Bristol punished.’

Mr Bennet looked at me with contempt. ‘Yes, of course. It is easier said than done, however. Do you know what Cola’s plans are?’