An Instance of the Fingerpost (96 page)

‘“For we have seen the star, and are come to worship,”’ I said quietly, and Anne Blundy looked sharply at me.

‘Do not say things like that, Mr Wood,’ she said. ‘Please do not. Or you will turn as mad as I am becoming.’

‘I am well past the stage of madness,’ I said. ‘And I am frightened beyond speech.’

I now had only a short time to follow the urgings of my conscience, for the trial was due to begin, and the preparations for the assize were already under way. I drank a certain amount before I could force myself to act, and I still recoiled from my task. But eventually I succeeded in overcoming my cowardice and walked to Holywell to ask for an audience with Sir John Fulgrove, the magistrate. Though it was his busiest day of the year, he granted my request, but did so with such brusqueness that I became even more nervous, and stammered and shook as I tried to speak.

‘Well, man? I don’t have all day.’

‘It is about Sarah Blundy,’ I said eventually.

‘Well? What of her?’

‘She is innocent, I know it.’ A simple sentence, but it cost me an agony to come out with it, to step over the cliff and willingly cast myself down into the inevitable perdition that must follow. I claim nothing for my courage, my honour or my fortitude. I know, better than most, what I am. I was not born to be a hero, and will never be one of those to whom future ages look for example and instruction. Other men than myself, better men I should say, would have said these words earlier, and with more dignity of manner than the poor, sweating, shaking performance that I put on. Yet we must do as we can; I could do no more than this and, though it might elicit a sneer from those stronger than myself, I say that it was the most courageous act of my life.

‘And how do you know it?’

As best I could, I repeated my story, and said that I had placed the poison in the bottle.

‘She was seen in the college,’ he said.

‘She was not there.’

‘How do you know?’

To this I could not reply, having given my solemn word that I would not betray her on the matter of her prophesying. So I lied instead, and in the lie, ruined all.

‘She was with me.’

‘Where?’

‘In my room.’

‘When did she leave?’

‘She did not. She stayed with me all night.’

‘And your family will say this?’

‘They did not see her.’

‘They were in the house, I imagine? I can ask them, you know.’

‘I’m sure they were in the house.’

‘And did not see her enter, did not see her climb to your room, did not see her leave again?’

‘No.’

‘Heard nothing all night long?’

‘No.’

‘I see. And you took this powder to his room for the purpose?’

‘No. He had it there, and asked me to add it to his bottle for his stomach ache.’

‘But not half an hour before, he had been told it was useless, and said he would never use it again.’

‘He did not mean it.’

‘Everybody who heard him believed he did, and was grateful to the Italian for the advice.’

‘He was not.’

‘That is corroborated by witnesses who were present.’

‘I cannot help that.’

‘And can you tell me how Dr Grove’s gold signet ring came to be discovered in her hands? Did you steal from his body and place it there?’

‘No.’

‘So how did she come by it?’

‘I know nothing of this.’

Sir John leant back in his chair and eyed me gravely. ‘I do not know what you are trying to accomplish, sir. It is clear to me that you are lying to protect this creature and it is a serious business, to deflect justice from its true path. I beg you to think more carefully and stop acting in this foolish fashion.’

‘But it is true; it is all true.’

‘It is not. It cannot be so. You cannot explain away the evidence proving her guilt, and those facts you cite to demonstrate her innocence are in no way convincing.’

‘You will not help me?’

‘What do you want? She has been before the grand jury, and a case was found. If you persist in this nonsense, I cannot stop you from rising in court, and saying your piece there. Although if you do so, I tell you it will make no difference, and the judge may well see fit to punish you as well.’

So I went to Dr Wallis, hoping to persuade him to use his secret influence on the girl’s behalf, not knowing he had already determined on her death. And I told my story a second time and for a second time it seemed I was not believed.

‘I owe you no favours, Mr Wood,’ he said, ‘and can in any case do nothing for you. It is for the judge and the jury to decide the girl’s fate. I know you have heard stories of my works for the government, but they are exaggerated. I can no more stop her trial than I can start it.’

‘Do you at least believe me?’

We were in his room, and the interview was a strange one: there was a weariness about the man that I had not noticed before. I did not know, of course, how much this matter was plucking at his conscience, and how aware he was of the wrong he was doing. He had convinced himself that he was acting nobly, and when a man does this to assuage his soul, it is a rash person indeed who seeks to persuade him otherwise.

‘I do not. I believe this tale comes from your selfishness. I think you would rather have your pleasure with this girl than see justice
served. I know more about her than you think, and I am convinced that if she hangs then no great injustice will be done.’

‘She did not do this.’

Wallis took a step towards me, overwhelming me with his bulk, and the sheer power and malice of his personality.

‘That whore you like so much, Mr Wood, is helping a conspirator, a subversive and an atheist. She is helping the most dangerous man in the country commit a monstrous crime, and that man has already slaughtered my servant. I will have my revenge and that man will die. If Sarah Blundy’s death helps me to my revenge, then so be it. I care not whether she is innocent or guilty. Do you understand me now, Mr Wood?’

‘Then you are the greatest of sinners,’ I said, my voice shaking in shock at what I heard. ‘You are no priest and are not fit to hold the bread in your hands. You are not . . .’

Wallis was a big man, powerfully built and very much taller than me. Without any more words he stood up and grabbed me by my collar, and began dragging me to the door. I tried to protest, and say this was no behaviour for a priest, but when I began to speak he shook me like some dog, and pushed me hard against the wall before opening the door on to the street.

‘Do not meddle, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘I care nothing for your concerns, and have no time for your whining. Leave me in peace and say no more, or you will pay heavily for it.’

Then he pushed me out of the door, and kicked me hard with his foot, so that I tripped down the stone steps into a cold, muddy puddle, which splashed up all over my clothes.

As I knelt there, with the water seeping into my shoes and breeches, I knew I had failed. Even if I shouted from the rooftops, it seemed, people would stop their ears and refuse to acknowledge what was so obviously the truth. I do not know whether it would have been different had I spoken earlier, but it was certainly too late now, and the realisation made me sink my head into that puddle and weep with anguish as the rain spattered more mud on to me. It was as though heaven itself had intervened, and made me like some lunatic in the street, shouting out to all the world but finding people averting their eyes and pretending not to notice. In the
deepest rage, I beat my fist on the muddy earth and cried in despair at God’s cruelty, and for my reward and solace, heard two passers by laugh with disgust at the raving drunkard they saw on his knees before them.

THE START OF
Sarah’s trial began the most anguishing, wonderful two days of my life, in which I felt with full force both the power of God’s punishment, and the sweet grace of His forgiveness. Again, Cola has described the proceedings, and does so with perspicacity. I will not repeat his account, but rather must add to it, for he has quite naturally omitted certain events which he could not know.

Sarah had commanded me not to interfere, and I had already done so, but could not bring myself to disobey in her presence. This will seem weakness on my part, but I do not care if it does: I speak the truth and say that no man who knew her as I did would have acted differently. I was hoping someone else would speak for her, or present evidence of her innocence, yet they did not. Sarah herself said nothing except to admit her guilt so that her body could go to Lower and her mother receive treatment, and when she uttered that word, ‘Guilty’, so quietly and with such resignation, my heart broke, and I determined that I would try for the third time to persuade people of the truth. Then I heard the judge say those words, ‘Does anyone else have anything to say here? For if there is one who will speak for the defendant, then he must do so now.’

‘My Lord,’ I said. I was going to cry out to the whole room that this poor girl was as innocent as Christ himself, that she had no hand in Grove’s death, and that I was responsible for his end. I was going to demonstrate the truth of my assertions with every scrap of evidence and eloquence I had, and was confident that while the latter might let me down, the former would carry conviction. I was going to save her.

And I hesitated, tongue-tied in my anguish and my indecision, and in that moment, the opportunity was lost. I know many in the town,
even in the university, hold me in contempt, and ridicule me behind my back, and I have always taken care not to allow the opportunities for humiliation to be created. This time I disregarded all thought of my dignity, and in my brief pause some fellow made a ribald remark, and others laughed, and this encouraged still more. For the court as a sentence of death is to be passed becomes a solemn place full of apprehension and dread; men leap eagerly at anything which will break that atmosphere, and render it less awful. Within seconds, the court erupted in jeers and, even had I shouted at the top of my voice, I would not have been heard. Red-faced with embarrassment, and consumed by shame at my failure, I felt Locke pull me down again, hoping as I resumed my place that the judge would restore order, and call on me once more to say my piece.

He did not. Rather, with a supercilious smirk on his face, he thanked me for my eloquent words and deliberately encouraged more laughter. Then he sentenced Sarah Blundy to die.

When I heard those words, I ran out of the courtroom to avoid further misery, and took myself to my room, where I locked myself in and prayed for guidance. I had no idea what I should do and I stayed, in mute immobility, until my mother put her head around the door and told me there was a visitor who would not take no for an answer. She had told him to go away, and he had refused absolutely to budge until he had seen me.

And, a few moments later, in marched Jack Prestcott, as cheerful as he was insane. He frightened me greatly, for his deterioration since I had last seen him was very great indeed, and the look in his eyes, to my mind, suggested a man who could fall into violence at any moment should he be crossed or contradicted.

‘Ho there, my friend,’ he said as he walked in, for all the world like a seigneur condescending to pay a call on one below his social rank. ‘I hope I find you well.’

I neither know nor care what reply I made; I could have recited an extract from the Bodleian catalogue, I think, for all the difference it would have made. Jack Prestcott was not interested in anything but the sound of his own delusions, which poured from his mouth in a thick torrent. He kept me there for half an hour, as he recited to me all his ills and how he had overcome them. Every detail was put in, much
as he later put it down in his manuscript. Indeed, some of the words and phrases and sentences, some of the little asides and comments, were precisely the same and I believe that in all the years that have passed between that visit and his putting pen to paper, he has done nothing except go over in his mind the self-same account, repeating endlessly in his delirium the same events. When he dies he may go to hell; it would be no more than deserved. But in my opinion he is in it already, for Tully says true,
a diis quidem immortalibus quae potest homini major esse poena furore atque dementia
, what greater punishment can the gods inflict upon a man than madness?