An Instance of the Fingerpost (24 page)

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Lower was, of course, all contrition and apology, but this time it was of no use. Our friendship was breached beyond repair:
Fides unde abiit, eo nunquam redit
, as Publius Syrus put it. Now that I had determined to leave, I was less inclined to make the accommodations that such a reconciliation required and, though I accepted his apologies in form, I could not do so in my heart.

I believe he realised this, and our journey back to Oxford was full of silence and uncomfortable conversation. I missed our ease greatly, but could do nothing to retrieve our comradeship; Lower, I think, felt ashamed of himself, for he knew that he had acted unpardonably. As a result, he showed me constant little kindnesses to win his way back into my favour and fell into melancholy when his efforts went unrewarded.

One thing, though, I was obliged in honour to do, for even though I had given my word to Prestcott, I considered my obligation to Lower the greater. I knew little of the law, but I knew that I had to inform him of what had transpired at Mr Thurloe’s house, as it would have been improper for him to hear it from the magistrate or tavern gossip. He listened gravely as I recounted the tale.

‘And you didn’t tell me? Do you realise what you’ve done?’

‘What?’

‘You have made yourself as guilty as them. You may hang now, if Prestcott is ever caught. Did that never occur to you?’

‘No. But what was I to do?’

He thought. ‘I don’t know. But if the magistrate decides he wants Prestcott, and he has fled, then you will be in trouble. Do you believe him?’

‘I can’t imagine why not. He had nothing to gain. It is not as if I
would have discovered him had he not summoned me. Besides, there is Dr Grove’s ring. Sarah Blundy will have to explain how she came by that.’

‘You are sure it is his?’

‘No. But if it is, someone will be able to identify it. What do you think?’

Lower considered. ‘I think’, he said after a while, ‘that if the ring is his, and if some way can be found for Prestcott to say his testimony, then it will hang the girl.’

‘Do you believe she is guilty?’

‘I would be happier to have seen her in his room, pouring arsenic into the bottle. Or to hear it from her own lips. As Mr Stahl tells us, there is no such thing as certainty, but I am coming to think it probable she was responsible.’

Both of us hesitated then, as we realised at the same moment that we were slipping back into intimacy, and instantly an awkwardness intervened. At that moment, my mind was made up, for I realised I could never talk to him with ease, lest he explode once more. Lower knew well what was going through my mind, and fell glumly silent as the horse clopped along the muddy road. I am sure he felt he could do no more: he had apologised for his past words, and could see no need to excuse those he had not yet spoken.

I have already mentioned that my opinion of the theatre in England was not high, the tale tedious, the acting dreadful, the declamation poor. Not so with the courts, which supplied all the pomp and drama that the theatre lacked, being also better produced and more convincingly expressed.

The spectacle of an assize is not to be matched anywhere on the Continent; not even the French, who love the grandiose, have such an awful display in their justice. The essence of the grandeur lies in the fact that justice is mobile; while small crimes are dealt with by magistrates, more important cases are dealt with by the king’s representatives sent out from London at regular intervals. These patrol the country in circuit, and their arrival is attended by much
circumstance. The mayor awaits the procession at the borders of the town, the local landowners send carriages to drive behind, and the people line the streets as the carriages wend their way to the court-house, where convoluted proclamations are read out which give the judges authority to hang as many law breakers as they please.

Perhaps I ought to explain here the way the English deal with such matters, their method being as singular as many other proceedings in that country. One would have thought that a learned judge would have been sufficient as it is everywhere else, but this is not the case. For, having appointed such a person, they give all his power to a group of twelve men, chosen at random and utterly ignorant of all law. What is more, they are inordinately proud of this most bizarre system and hold this jury in awe as the bedrock of their liberties. These men listen to the arguments in court and vote about the verdict. The case is normally presented by the person who brings the prosecution or, in the case of murder, by family or by a magistrate who acts on behalf of the king. In this case, Grove having no family, the magistrate was bound to prepare the suit at the public expense.

The preparations for the assize are many and the cost considerable, which is why the High Street was all but clogged with people when we returned. I was fascinated by the spectacle, but it merely put Lower into an ill humour. It was late in the day, neither of us had eaten and we were in two minds whether to stop for nourishment or to proceed straight to Sir John Fulgrove’s house in Holywell. We decided on the latter, not least because I was also anxious about Mrs Blundy: whatever her daughter had done, she was still my patient and my hope of fame. And I was anxious to be free of Lower’s company.

Sir John saw me promptly – an aspect of the English law I greatly admire. I have had little to do with our Venetian magistrates, but I know that they believe the grandeur of the law is served by making everything as inconvenient as possible. He also listened to my story with interest, though little gratitude. His demeanour, indeed, had changed greatly in the period I had been away, and he demonstrated none of that agreeable condescension which I had received before.

‘It was your duty to report this matter immediately to those in authority,’ he said. ‘Thurloe is a traitor and should have been hanged
years ago. And you now tell me he is harbouring fugitives? Why, the man thinks he is above the law entirely.’

‘From what I hear,’ I said quietly, ‘he is.’

Sir John scowled. ‘It is intolerable that this should continue. He is in open rebellion against the king’s government, and yet it does nothing.’

‘I do not wish to defend him,’ I said, ‘as if half of what I have heard is true then he should be hanged forthwith. But in this case, I do not think he believes Mr Prestcott truly guilty of the crimes of which he is accused. And by keeping him close by, he has surely done a service, if the man has important testimony about Dr Grove.’

The magistrate grunted.

‘Do you think this tale unimportant?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘The girl is going to stand trial?’

‘She is. She will answer the case on the last day of the assize.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Petty treason.’

‘What is that?’

‘Grove was her master; it matters not that she was discharged, because it was as her master that he was killed. That is treason, because a master is as a father to his children, or the king to his people. It is the worst of all crimes; far more serious than murder. And carries a far harsher punishment. When she is found guilty, she will burn.’

‘You are in no doubt about her guilt?’

‘None. My investigations have uncovered a character so foul, so sordid, that it is a wonder she was not unmasked before.’

‘Has she confessed?’

‘Not she. She denies it all.’

‘And what will you do with my information?’

‘I intend’, he said, ‘to take some soldiers and ride straight out to Milton. Where I will clap both Mr Prestcott and his protector in irons and drag them both back to jail. We will see if Mr Thurloe can evade the law this time. You must excuse me. I am in a hurry.’

That alarming duty done, I returned to the High Street to be told that Mr Boyle had fallen ill at his sister’s house in London and intended to stay there for a few days yet. Then I went to Tillyard’s, to fill my stomach and catch up on the news. Locke was there, and seemed mightily glad to see me; I was not so content to see him.

‘Next time you have a patient, Mr Cola,’ he said once I was settled, ‘pray keep her to yourself. I have had the devil of a run with her. She has deteriorated since you left.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. Why, exactly?’

He shrugged. ‘I have no idea at all. But she is weakened a little. It began the day that daughter of hers was arrested.’

He willingly told me all the details, as he had been attending the woman when it occurred. It appeared that the bailiff had come for Sarah at her house, and had shackled her and dragged her away in full view of the mother. Sarah had not gone quietly; she had screamed and scratched and bitten until she was forced to the floor and bound; even then she continued screaming and had to be gagged as well. The mother had attempted to rise from her bed and it had required Locke’s full strength to force her back.

‘All the time the poor woman screamed that her daughter had not done anything, and they should leave her alone. I must say, when I saw the girl’s performance I could quite believe that she had killed someone. I’ve never seen such a transformation in a human being before. All quiet and gentle one moment, the next a screaming, raging monster. Quite a horrible performance. And the strength she had! Do you know, it took three full-grown men to pin her down while the chains were put on?’

I grunted. ‘Her mother?’

‘She curled up on the bed and began to cry, of course, and afterwards became weak and fretful.’ He paused and looked at me frankly. ‘I did what I could, but it had no effect; please accept my assurances on that.’

‘I will have to go and see her,’ I said. ‘This is something which has concerned me ever since I heard of the arrest. I greatly fear the mother’s condition is bound to get worse, unless we do something drastic.’

‘Why is that?’

‘The transfusion, Mr Locke. The transfusion. Think of it. I didn’t know for sure, but I wondered whether the state of the girl might affect that of the mother, now their spirits are so intermingled in her body. Sarah, no doubt, can withstand the effects; her mother is so much older and weaker, I have no doubt this is what has caused her decline.’

Locke leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows raised in what seemed like supercilious disdain but which I now thought was his habitual appearance when deep in thought. ‘Fascinating,’ he said eventually. ‘This experiment of yours has all sorts of consequences. So what do you intend?’

I shook my head sorrowfully. ‘I do not know. I have no ideas at all. You must excuse me. I should go and see her immediately.’

And so I did, the visit confirming the very worst of my fears. The woman was indeed weaker, whatever progress her wound had made had stopped and the stench of sickness hung in the dank little room. I could have wept to see the sight. But she was conscious, and had not yet deteriorated too far. Close questioning discovered that she had not eaten now in near two days; the girl Lower had hired to watch over her had abandoned her post when Sarah was taken, refusing to stay in the house of a murderess. Naturally, she did not refund the money.

It seemed to me that part of the trouble was that the woman was hungry; she needed to eat well and regularly to have any chance at all, so the first thing I did was march straight to a cookhouse and demand some bread and broth for her. This I fed to her myself, spoonful by spoonful, before I examined and redressed the wound. It was not as bad as I feared. Locke had done a decent job in that respect, at least.

But she still should not have been that ill. Hunger and the dismay of seeing her daughter taken no doubt made her despondent, but I was sure – indeed my entire theory depended on it – of a communication between her and the daughterly blood now commingled in her veins. And if being cast into a rat-infested prison could have this effect, then clearly worse was to come.

‘I beg you, kind doctor,’ she said when I had finished, ‘how is my Sarah, do you know?’

I shook my head. ‘I have only just returned from the country, and
know less than you do. All I have heard is that she is to go on trial. Have you not had any messages?’