An Instance of the Fingerpost (20 page)

Thus, three hours later, we knocked on the door of the magistrate’s house in Holywell to inform him that, as far as the opinion of two doctors was concerned, Dr Robert Grove had died of arsenic poisoning. The stomachs and entrails of the cats were quite definite on this point; there was absolutely no difference between them and, in addition, the excoriation closely matched that which we had noted in Grove’s own. The conclusion was inescapable by any theoretical approach, whether it be that of Monsieur Descartes or Lord Bacon.

Sir John Fulgrove saw us after only a very short delay; we were ushered into the room he used as his study and as an impromptu courtroom for deciding minor matters. He seemed a worried man, which was no great surprise. Someone like Woodward could make life very unpleasant for any lay official, even a magistrate, who incurred his wrath. Investigating a death was tantamount to alleging murder; Sir John now had to come up with a convincing case to lay before the coroner’s court; and for that he needed someone to accuse.

When we told him of our investigations and conclusions, he leant forward in his chair straining to understand what we were saying. I felt quite sorry for him; the matter was, after all, exceptionally delicate. To his credit, he questioned us closely both as to our methods and the logic of our conclusions, and made us explain several times the more complicated procedures until he understood them properly.

‘It is your belief, then, that Dr Grove died as a result of drinking arsenic dissolved in the bottle of brandy. Is that the case?’

Lower – who did all of the talking – nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Yet you will not speculate as to how the arsenic came to be in the bottle? Could he have put it there himself?’

‘Doubtful. He had been warned only that evening of its dangers, and said he would never use it again. As for the bottle, Mr Cola here might be able to assist on that point.’

So I explained how I had seen Grove pick up the bottle at the foot of the stairs as he escorted me to the gate. I added, however, that I
was not certain it was the same bottle, and naturally I did not know whether the poison was already in it.

‘Yet is this poison used medicinally? You were treating him, Mr Cole?’

‘Cola.’

Lower explained how it was sometimes used, but never in such quantities, and I said how I had done little more than wash away the medicine he was using, so that the eye might heal itself.

‘You were treating him, you dined with him that evening, and you were probably the last person to see him before he died?’

I agreed evenly that this might well be the case. The magistrate grunted. ‘This arsenic,’ he continued, ‘what is it, exactly?’

‘It is a powder,’ Lower said. ‘Derived from a mineral composed of sulphur and caustic salts. It is both expensive and often quite difficult to find. It comes from silver mines in Germany. Or it can be made by subliming orpiment with salts. In other words . . .’

‘Thank you,’ the magistrate said, holding up his hands to fend off one of Lower’s lectures. ‘Thank you. What I mean is, where is it obtained? Do apothecaries sell it, for example? Is it part of the
materia medica
of physicians?’

‘Oh, I see. On the whole, I think, physicians do not keep it about them. It is used only rarely, and as I say, it is expensive. Ordinarily they would apply to an apothecary when it was needed.’

‘Thank you, indeed.’ The magistrate’s brow furrowed in thought as he considered what we had just told him. ‘I do not see how your information, valuable though it might be, could possibly be of use should this ever come to a trial. I understand its value, of course, but I doubt that a jury would. You know, Lower, what these men are like, often enough. If a case depended on such flimsy stuff, they would be certain to acquit whomever we charged.’

Lower looked displeased, but admitted that Sir John was correct.

‘Tell me, Mister Cole . . .’

‘Cola.’

‘Cola. You are Italian, I believe?’

I said I was.

‘A doctor yourself?’

I replied that I had studied physick but was not qualified, and had
no intention of practising for a living. My father, I continued, did not want . . .

‘You are familiar with arsenic, then?’

I did not for one moment suspect where this line of questioning was leading, and I answered cheerfully enough that I was indeed.

‘And you admit you were possibly the last person to see Dr Grove alive?’

‘Possibly.’

‘So – please forgive me for speculating – so if, for example, you put the poison in yourself, and gave it to him when you arrived for dinner, there would be no one to query your account?’

‘Sir John, surely you are forgetting something?’ Lower said mildly. ‘Which is unless you can advance a reason for a deed, you cannot attribute it. And logic rules out the existence of that reason. Mr Cola has only been in Oxford, only in this country, in fact, for a few weeks. He had only met Grove once before that night. And, I must say, I am willing to vouch absolutely for his good character as, I am sure, would the Honourable Robert Boyle, were he here.’

This reminded the man of the absurdity of his line of questioning, I am glad to say, although it did not restore him to my esteem. ‘My apologies, sir. I did not mean to cause offence. But it is my duty to investigate, and naturally, I must ask questions of those near the events.’

‘That is quite understandable. No apologies are needed, I assure you,’ I replied with little sincerity of spirit. His remarks had alarmed me considerably, so much so that I came close to pointing out the fault in his logic – which was that I was not necessarily the last person to have seen Grove alive, for someone had seen Sarah Blundy, it appeared, going into his room after I had left him at the gate.

I was aware, however, that if an Italian and a papist would have been the ideal candidate for a murderer, then the daughter of a sectary, of loose morals and fiery temper would have been an adequate replacement. I had no desire to extricate myself from suspicion by pointing an accusing finger at her. She was, I thought, capable of such a thing, but apart from gossip, there was little to suggest any involvement. I felt quite justified in remaining silent until that situation changed.

Eventually, the magistrate gave up trying to say more, and levered
himself out of his chair. ‘You must excuse me. I have to see the coroner and alert him. Then interview some other people, as well as placating Warden Woodward. Perhaps, Dr Lower, you would be kind enough to tell him what you told me? I would be happier were he convinced I was not acting out of malice towards the university.’

Lower nodded reluctantly, and went off to discharge his obligation, leaving me free to do as I pleased for the rest of the day.

I was mindful that, despite such excitements as the death of Dr Grove, it was merely a distraction from my proper business, which was above all to see to my family affairs. Although I have dwelt little on it in this narrative, I had been hard at work, and Mr Boyle had kindly done even more for me. The news, however, was dispiriting and I had little or nothing to show for my labours. Boyle had, as he promised, consulted a lawyer friend of his in London, and he had advised that I would be wasting my time in pursuing the matter. Without concrete proof of my father’s ownership of half the business, there was no chance of persuading a court to grant title to half the property. I was best advised to write off whatever assets had been lost, rather than using up more capital in a hopeless quest.

So I immediately wrote to my father and told him that, unless he had some relevant documents in Venice, it seemed the money was lost for ever, and that I might as well return home. The letters written, sealed and dispatched in the king’s post (I did not care if they were read by the government, so decided against the extra expense of sending them privately), I returned to Mr Crosse’s shop to pass the time in conversation, and prepare a bag of medicines in case I should decide to accompany Lower, although I was already minded not to do so.

‘I don’t want to go. But if you could have them ready for tomorrow morning, just in case . . .’

Crosse took my list and opened his ledger at the page listing my previous purchases. ‘I will look them out for you,’ he said. ‘There is nothing particularly rare or valuable, so it is no great labour for me.’

He looked up at me curiously for an instant, as though he was
about to say something, then thought better of it and consulted the ledger once again.

‘Do not concern yourself about payment,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Lower, or even Mr Boyle, will vouch for my credit.’

‘Of course. Of course. There is no question of that.’

‘Something else concerns you? Pray tell me.’

He thought some more, and busied himself arranging vials of liquid on the counter for a few seconds before making up his mind. ‘I was talking to Lower earlier,’ he began, ‘about his experiments over Dr Grove’s death.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I said, thinking that he wanted more gossip from those in a position to offer interesting tittle-tattle. ‘A fascinating man, that Mr Stahl, if a little difficult.’

‘Are his conclusions sound, do you think?’

‘I can see no fault in his method,’ I replied, ‘and his reputation speaks for itself. Why do you ask?’

‘Arsenic, then? That is what caused his death?’

‘I can see no reason to doubt it at all. Do you disagree?’

‘No. Not at all. But I was wondering, Mr Cola . . .’

Here he hesitated once more. ‘Come on, man, out with it,’ I cried cheerfully. ‘Something is clouding your spirit. Tell me what it is.’

He was about to speak, then changed his mind and shook his head. ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing of any consequence. I was simply wondering where the arsenic might have come from. I would hate to think it came from my shop.’

‘I doubt we will ever know,’ I replied. ‘Besides, it is the job of the magistrate to find out what he can, so I am told, and no one would blame you, in any case. I would not worry yourself about it.’

He nodded. ‘You are right. Quite right.’

Then the door swung open and Lower, accompanied, I was sad to see, by Locke, swept into the shop. Both were dressed up in their finest top coats, and Lower was again daring to wear his wig. I bowed to both of them.

‘I have not seen two finer gentlemen since I left Paris,’ I said.

Lower grinned and bowed back, an awkward movement as he was still unsure enough to hold his wig in place with his hand as he did so.

‘The play, Mr Cola, the play!’

‘What play?’

‘The one I told you about. Or did I forget? The entertainment I promised. Are you ready? Are you not excited? The whole town will be there. Come along. It starts in an hour, and unless we hurry, we won’t get the best seats.’

His good humour and air of urgency swept all other matters from my mind instantly, and without so much as a further thought about Mr Crosse and his air of vague concern, I bade him good afternoon, and accompanied my friend out into the street.

Going to a play in England, for any person of sensibility who has been exposed to the refinements of Italian and French theatre, is something of a shock and more than anything else reminds one how very recently this race of islanders has emerged from barbarism.

It is not so much their behaviour, although the vulgar in the audience were perpetually noisy, and, it must be said, some of the better-born were far from quiet. This was due to the wild enthusiasm that the troupe of players generated. It was only a few years since such events had been allowed once more, and the joy of having some novelty to witness had sent the entire town into a frenzy. The very students, it seemed, had been selling their books and blankets to buy tickets, which were outrageously expensive.

Nor was the production so dreadful, although it was fearfully rustic, reminiscent more of Carnival burlesque than the theatre proper. Rather, it is the type of play which the English admire that reveals what a crude and violent people they really are. It was written by a man who had lived not far from Oxford and who, alas, had clearly neither travelled nor studied the best authors, for he had no technique, no sense of plot, and certainly no decorum.