An Instance of the Fingerpost (94 page)

So I sat awhile and feasted my eyes on this little book of Cola’s, and traced my finger over the complexities of the binding. A room – no,
merely a shelf–of books like these would give me the greatest possible joy, although I knew I might as well aim to become Chancellor of England as hope to possess such a wonder. It was a psalter, and a fine example, and I flipped open the little clasp and opened it up to see whether the printing matched the binding, for I knew well that Venetian work was the finest to be had.

And received a tremendous shock; for inside the book had been hollowed out into two carefully cut cavities. Initially my distress was for the book, as to butcher such a wonderful object was the nearest thing to sacrilege I could imagine. Then I concentrated on the three little bottles that nestled so carefully in the hollows, each tightly corked at the top. One contained a dark, thick liquid like oil, one a clear fluid which might as well have been water. The third, however, was the most interesting, for it was the most elaborate bottle of all, covered in gold and jewels and worth, in my inexperienced estimation, many dozens of pounds. This contained nothing except a thick, ill-shaped lump of old wood. What it meant was obvious, even to a dolt like myself.

So I placed it aside and, consumed by curiosity for the first, examined the others with only a casual eye until I realised what they were. It was several minutes, as I flicked through and considered, before it dawned on me that here was something of great and strange significance. For both volumes were the same, one from Sarah’s house and the other, I assumed, Cola had already. Each was a volume from Livy’s history, in the same edition as the one which Dr Wallis had so urgently entreated me to find for him many months previously.

Sarah Blundy was arrested the next day, I now know at the instigation of John Wallis, and the news rippled through town and university like a tidal wave running up a creek in high wind. Everybody knew that she was guilty, and applauded the magistrate for his decisiveness as much as they criticised him for the delay in reaching a conclusion that had, in retrospect, been obvious to every single citizen since the moment they heard of Dr Grove’s death.

Only two people, I think, dissented from this opinion – myself, who
knew the truth, and my mother, whose belief was the more virtuous for being founded on nothing at all. But, as she said, she knew the girl. And she would not accept that anyone in her household could act in such a fashion. Had she known the truth, I say, it would have killed her.

She was a strange woman, that blessed mother of mine, as good a mother as any man had. For she was strict and punctilious in all matters, jealous of her rights and watchful of the obligations of others. No woman or man was swifter to condemn sin, or pass comment on a moral failing. No woman was so careful in her devotions, praying not less than ten minutes in the morning when she rose and more than fifteen every night before she retired. She attended the best church and listened with care to sermons which she often did not understand, but which she found uplifting none the less. And she was charitable with the greatest caution, so that neither too much, nor too little, was given from her pocket to the deserving. Careful with money she undoubtedly was, and jealous of her reputation, but not so much that either substituted for her duty to God.

And so confident was she of her knowledge of God’s mind that, when public opinion and her own differed in point of detail she had no doubt whatsoever that she knew best. When she heard of Sarah’s arrest, she waited not a moment before announcing to all in our great kitchen that a serious injustice had been committed. Sarah (for whom she now had a proprietorial affection) was without blame in the matter, she said. She had not laid a finger on that fat prelate, and if she had it was undoubtedly well deserved. Not content with mere words either, she straight away packed a hamper with food and her own home-made ale, walked boldly off to Mrs Blundy’s cottage to fetch warm clothes, took my best blanket (in fact, my only blanket) from my bed, and marched in full public gaze to the prison, where she did her best to give comfort to the poor girl, and ensure that she was as guarded as clothes and provisions and stern words to the gaoler could make her against gaol fever.

‘She has asked to see you,’ she said to me gravely on her return. She was in no good humour, as she had been jeered at by several low folk who habitually hang around outside the gaol in the run-up to the assizes, taking perverted pleasure at seeing the prisoners arriving
in chains. Why such people have nothing better to do I do not know, but I am sure that any well-run town would send them away, or punish them harshly for their idleness. ‘And you must go directly.’

My heart sank at this, and I felt like a bull on a rope, being dragged into the butcher’s yard for slaughter with all its efforts to escape the inevitable coming to naught. Before I heard of the arrest, I had convinced myself that the worst danger was over; if no one was ever blamed for the death of Grove, then it would be foolish to volunteer my own neck. The moment I heard about Sarah, I heard also the rustle of the rope and my bowels tightened as I saw the inevitable looming up in front of me.

Of course I had to go to the girl. I even managed to make myself angry at her, as though it was her fault she had fallen quite unfairly into suspicion. But as I walked up the stone steps to the gaol, I knew as well that this was merely distress at my situation, and the trap I was now firmly in. Sooner or later, I would have to own my deeds, for if I had committed a crime in killing Grove, I would not have any other souls weighed in the balance against me as well.

Sarah was surprisingly cheerful when I saw her; the women’s cell had not yet filled with the congregation of crones who would soon be brought in from all over the country to await the judge’s pleasure, and she had only been there a few hours. The dark and the damp had not yet begun its deadly work on her spirits.

‘Stop looking like that,’ she said, when she saw my sorrowful countenance looming up at her out of the dark. ‘I’m the one in gaol, not you. If I can be cheerful you can manage to look a little more light-hearted.’

‘How can you be so, in such a place?’

‘Because my conscience is clear, and I believe the Lord will look after me,’ she said. ‘I have done my best for Him in my life, and refuse to accept He will forsake me now.’

‘And if He does?’

‘Then it will be for a good reason.’

Sometimes, I confess, such humility tired me excessively. But I had come to give courage, and finding it already present, I could hardly settle down to convince her that her optimism was misplaced.

‘You think me foolish,’ she said. ‘You are wrong. For I know that I had nothing to do with this business.’

‘Indeed, and God knows it too. As I do. Whether the courts will be in His confidence is another matter.’

‘What can they say? Courts have to produce evidence, do they not? And you know as well as I where I was that night.’

‘And, if necessary, you must say so,’ I told her. But she shook her head. ‘No. That would replace one scandal with another, and I will not. Believe me, Anthony, it will not be necessary.’

‘Then I will.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I suppose you think you are being kind, but you will not be the one to suffer. The law on this would hardly touch you, but I would have to leave and I cannot with my mother in such a condition. Nor could I expose those people in Abingdon and elsewhere to sanction. Believe me, Anthony, there is no danger. No one could possibly think I would, or could, behave in such a way.’

I did my best to persuade her she was wrong, that not only could the town think it, it was already convinced. But she would have none of it, and eventually told me either to talk of something else, or to leave her in peace, an imperious command, which was strange in her circumstances, but quite like her.

‘You will say nothing of this to anyone,’ she said. ‘It is my wish and my command. You will say what I permit you to say and no more. You will not interfere in this matter. Do you understand me?’

I looked at her strangely, for serving girl though she was, she looked and spoke like one born to command: no sovereign could have given orders with as much resolution, or with as much confidence of being obeyed.

‘Very well, then,’ I said, reluctantly after a long pause in which she waited for the assent she knew I must give. ‘Tell me about this Cola.’

‘What is there to say you have not seen with your own eyes?’

‘It may be important,’ I replied. ‘And what I saw confuses me slightly. I saw him approach you, then recoil. It was not your doing that made him pull back; it was more as though he had horrified himself. Is that true?’

She admitted it.

‘And you would have let him have his way, had he not removed himself?’

‘You had already told me I had nothing to lose, and I suppose that is the case. If he insisted on payment, there was little I could do to prevent him taking it. Nor would any protests before or after have helped me. I have learned this with others.’ She touched my arm as she saw my face fall. ‘I do not mean you.’

‘And yet he pulled away. Why?’

‘I suppose he found me disgusting.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘That is not possible.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you for that.’

‘I mean, it does not fit with what I saw.’

‘Maybe he had a conscience. In which case he joins you as the only two men in my acquaintance so equipped.’

I bowed my head at those words. Conscience I had indeed; scarcely a minute went by that I was not aware of it these days. Listening to its warnings, and acting upon them, however, were different. Here I was, the author of this girl’s misfortunes, able with one word to bring them to an end, and what was I doing? I was giving her comfort and acting the part of the sympathetic helper. I was so generous, and so helpful that it entirely covered my turpitude, so no one suspected the depths of a guilt which daily grew ever deeper and more monstrous. And still I lacked the courage to do as I should. It was not for lack of desire: many times, I imagined myself going to the magistrate and telling him what had happened, and exchanging my life for hers. Many times I saw myself standing as the stoic, making my sacrifice with unflinching honesty and bravado.

‘I have recovered the object he stole,’ I said, ‘and I am mightily puzzled by it. It is a book by Livy. Where did it come from?’

‘I believe it was with the bundle my father left, just before he died.’

‘In that case, with your permission, I would like to open that package. I have never touched it, because you asked me not to, but now I think we must; it may contain the answer.’

Then I made to leave; but before I did I once again implored her
to let me speak, hoping that there might be a way for her to escape without my having to confess. But she would not allow it, and I was bound to her wishes; in the circumstances I could hardly hope to escape by inflicting more hardship on her.

I MUST TALK
about this book, I think, for I have forgotten to mention my examination of it. To look at there was nothing especially worthy of note; it was an octavo, bound in only inferior calfskin, with tooling done by a man of skill, but who was no master in his trade. There were no markings to give its ownership, and I was sure it had not come from a scholar’s library, for I knew of none who did not mark meticulously his ownership, and the place on the shelves where it might be found. Nor were there any of the marginalia I might expect to have found in a book that had been well read and studied. It was battered and bashed, but my practised eye told me that this was more due to the ill treatment of movement and abuse, rather than excessive reading; the spine was in perfect condition, and was the most undamaged part of the whole.

Inside, the text was untouched, except for some small ink markings, which underlay certain letters. On the first page a ‘b’ was so marked on the first line; an ‘f’ on the second, and so on. Each line had one letter marked and, knowing that Wallis was interested in puzzles, I thought perhaps they made up some acrostic. So I wrote them all down, and came up with the merest jumble, which had no sense in it at all.

I spent a good half-day on these fruitless pursuits before admitting defeat, placing the volume on my shelves behind some other books so that it would not be noticed should anyone come alooking. Then I turned my attention to the packet, still secured with unbroken seals. Even now, it is strange to consider that such a small object could unleash such fury in the world, that so many people could contemplate such cruelty to gain possession of it, that I could have had about me such a powerful weapon all unknowing for so long a time. Nor did I even realise this until I opened it.

Half a day’s careful consideration opened up all the secret history
of this realm to my eyes, but it was not until I read Wallis’s account that I understood fully how these matters fully affected the tragedy unfolding before me, and grasped the extent to which the mathematician was deceived by John Thurloe, still perhaps the most powerful person in the kingdom despite his lack of position. What he told Wallis was, to some extent, true: his account of how Sir James Prestcott and Ned Blundy, both fanatics though for different causes, formed an alliance was confirmed in every particular, for half of the documents or more consisted of letters between Thurloe and Clarendon, Cromwell and the king, in which their mutual courtesy was as striking as their knowledge of each others’ character and aspirations. One letter in particular would have caused uproar had it been publicly known, for it expressly said that the king had instructed Mordaunt to pass on details of the rising of 1659; and an accompanying piece of paper listed some three dozen names, many locations of arms and details of gathering places. Even I knew that many of those names were subsequently killed. Another was an outline of an agreement between Charles and Thurloe, sketching out conditions for a restoration of the monarchy, saying who was to be favoured, what limits were to be placed on royal power, and outlining details of laws to control Catholics.