An Instance of the Fingerpost (25 page)

‘No. I cannot go there, and she cannot come here. And there is no one who will take a message for me. I hesitate to impose on your goodness . . .’

My heart sank. I knew what she was going to say, and I dreaded the request.

‘. . . But you know her a little. You know she could not do anything like this. She has never harmed anyone in her entire life, quite the opposite in fact; she is known – even Mr Boyle knows her – for her willingness and ability to heal. I know you cannot do anything for her but would you go and see her, tell her that I am well and she is not to worry on my behalf?’

I desperately wanted to refuse, to say that I wished to have nothing further to do with the girl. But I could not bring myself to say the harsh words; it would have weakened the poor woman still further and, if my theory was correct, then the more content the girl, the greater the mother’s chances as well. So I agreed to the request. I would visit the gaol, assuming I was allowed in, and convey the message.

I hope I have led a good life, and that the Lord recognises my efforts to conform to His laws so that I am spared the miseries of eternal torment, for if Hell is half as diabolical as the cells of an English gaol on the day before an assize, it is a terrible place indeed. The small forecourt in front of the castle was far more crowded than on the previous occasion I visited it, alive with the bustle of men and women come to succour prisoners, or drawn merely by the possibility of watching new ones arrive. The unfortunate wretches are brought in from far and wide when the judges come to town, that they may stand their turn and hear their fate. The gaol, virtually empty last time I was there, was now bursting, the stench of human bodies overwhelming and the noise of the sick, the cold and the desperate deeply affecting. However much many of the creatures deserved to be so lodged, I could not but feel sorry for them, and even had a momentary burst of panic that I might be confused
for a prisoner and refused permission to leave again once my task was done.

Men and women are separated, of course, and the poorer sort make do in two large rooms. There is no furniture of any type except straw pallets for them to lie on, and the sounds of the heavy iron chains clanking as the prisoners tossed and turned in a futile attempt to find comfort sang loudly in the background as I picked my way through the mass of bodies. It was bitterly cold, as the room was near the waterline of the old moat, and centuries of damp clung to the walls. The only light came from a few windows, so high up that only a bird could have reached them. It occurred to me that it was just as well the assizes met soon, otherwise an underfed, underclothed girl like Sarah Blundy would die of gaol fever long before the hangman had his turn.

It took some time to find her, for she was leaning against the clammy wall, arms around her legs and her head bowed down so that only her long brown hair could be seen. She was singing softly to herself, a mournful sound in that dreadful place, the plaintive lament of a caged bird, singing in memory of its freedom. When I greeted her it was some moments before she lifted her head up. Oddly, I was most saddened and alarmed to see how her normal demeanour had vanished. Instead of the insolent haughtiness, she was quiet and passive, as though as deprived of the air she needed as the dove in Boyle’s pump. She did not even reply when I asked her how she did: merely shrugged her shoulders and hugged herself as if to try and keep warm.

‘I am sorry I have brought you nothing,’ I said. ‘Had I known, I would have got some blankets and food.’

‘That is kind,’ she replied. ‘As to the food, you need not bother: the university has a charitable fund and Mrs Wood, my employer, has kindly offered to bring me meals every day. But I would welcome some warm clothes. How is my mother?’

I scratched my head. ‘That is the main reason why I have come. She asked me to tell you you must not worry about her. To which I can only add my own exhortations. Your concern does her no good, and may do her harm.’

She looked at me steadily, seeing straight through my words to the
concern on my face. ‘She is not well, is she?’ she said flatly. ‘Tell me the truth, Doctor.’

‘No,’ I replied frankly, ‘she is not as good as I had hoped. I am concerned for her.’ To my horror, she buried her head in her hands once more and I saw her body shaking, and heard her sobbing in sheer misery.

‘Come, now,’ I said. ‘It is not as bad as that. She has had a setback, that is all. She is still alive, she still has myself and Lower and now Mr Locke as well, all desperate to make her better. You must not concern yourself. It is not at all kind to those who are trying so hard for her.’

Eventually, after more such encouragement, I talked her round and she lifted up her head, eyes red with crying, and wiped her nose on her bare arm.

‘I came to reassure you,’ I said, ‘not to make you fret the more. You look to yourself and your trial; that is quite enough to keep you busy. Leave your mother to us. In your current circumstances, there is nothing you can do anyway.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘After what?’

‘After I am hanged.’

‘There, now, that is jumping ahead a little!’ I cried with very much more cheer than I felt. ‘You do not have the noose around your neck yet.’ I did not tell her that her fate might well be much worse than a mere hanging.

‘Everyone has already decided,’ she said quietly. ‘The magistrate told me when he asked me to confess. The jurors are bound to find me guilty, and the judge is bound to hang me. Who would believe someone like me when I cannot prove my innocence? And what will become of my mother then? How will she live? Who will look after her? We have no family, no means of support at all.’

‘
When
she recovers’, I said heavily, ‘she will undoubtedly find some suitable employment.’

‘The wife of a fanatic and the mother of a murderer? Who would give her work? And you know as well as I do that she will be unable to work for many weeks.’

I could not say that this was a false problem, as the chances were
high that she would be dead within a week. And, God forgive me, I could think of no other comfort to give.

‘Mr Cola, sir, I must ask you a question. How much does Dr Lower pay?’

I took a moment before I understood what she was talking about. ‘You mean . . .?’

‘I understand he buys bodies,’ she said, frighteningly calm now. ‘How much does he pay? Becuase I am willing for him to have mine if he will undertake to look after my mother. Please do not look so uncomfortable. It is the only thing I have left to sell, and I will not be needing it,’ she concluded simply.

‘I – I – I do not know. It depends on the condition of – ah . . .’

‘Will you ask him for me? I am thought to have sold my body while alive, so it will hardly be a scandal if I sell it again when I am dead.’

Even Lower, I think, would have had trouble with such a conversation; I found it quite beyond my powers. Could I say that, after the pyre, even Lower would not want what remained? I stammered that I would mention it to him, but was desperately keen to change the subject.

‘You must not abandon hope,’ I said. ‘Are you planning what you will say?’

‘How can I?’ she asked. ‘I barely know what I am charged with; I cannot know who is to give evidence against me. I have no one on my side, unless someone like yourself, Doctor, will attest to my good character.’

A fraction of a second’s hesitation was enough for her. ‘There you are,’ she said softly. ‘You see? Who is to help me?’

She looked intently at me as she waited my reply. I did not want to respond; it had not been my intention of coming, but somehow I could not resist her. ‘I do not know,’ I said eventually. ‘I would have liked to, but I cannot explain Dr Grove’s ring.’

‘What ring?’

‘The one stolen from his body, and discovered by Jack Prestcott. He told me all about it.’

The moment my answer registered I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that my suspicions were true, and that the magistrate had
done his job well. She had murdered Grove. She turned pale when the import of my words hit home. She could have explained almost everything else in one way or another, but she could find no answer to this charge.

‘Well, Sarah?’ I said when she kept silent.

‘It seems there is no escape for me, then. I think it time you went away.’ It was a resigned, pathetic statement, very much the words of one who realised her deeds were finally proved beyond doubt.

‘Are you not going to answer? You will have to answer the court if you do not answer me. So how do you defend yourself against the charge that you killed Grove for revenge, and stole from his body as it lay on the floor?’

The whirlwind which hit me then was one of the greatest shocks in my life. Suddenly transformed from submission, the true features of the girl were suddenly revealed as, snarling with hatred and frustration, she lunged at me, tearing at my face with her nails, eyes wild with madness. Fortunately the chains around her wrist and ankle restrained her, or I swear she would have had my eyes out. As it was I fell backwards on to a foul-smelling old woman who instantly reached inside my coat for my purse. I cried out in alarm, and within a few seconds a gaoler came in to rescue me, kicking the prisoners, and clubbing Sarah to calm her down. She fell back on to the pallet, screaming and crying harder than I have ever heard any person cry before.

I stared appalled at the monster before me, then collected myself enough to assure the anxious gaoler that I was unhurt, apart from a scratch down my cheek, and stood at a safe distance, gulping the foul air to get my breath back.

‘If I ever had any doubts about you,’ I said, ‘they are gone now. For your mother’s sake I will speak to Lower. But do not expect anything further from me.’

And I left, so glad to escape the hellish place and the demons within it, that I went straight to the nearest tavern to recover myself. My hands were still shaking half an hour later.

Although my mind was now at rest about the girl’s guilt, I cannot say
that I was contented in any other way. On the contrary: to be in the presence of such evil is profoundly disturbing, and the manifestation I had witnessed was not forgotten so easily. When I left the tavern, I was much in need of company, to have my mind taken off the sights and the sounds I had encountered. Had my relations with Lower been easier, his natural manner would have restored me. But I had no desire to see him and did not do so until I remembered the girl’s request; for my patient’s sake, and because I had given her my word, I felt obliged to deliver the message, however futile it might be.

Lower, however, was not to be found in any of his usual haunts, nor was he in his rooms at Christ Church. I asked, and eventually someone told me that he had seen him with Locke and the mathematician Christopher Wren an hour or so previously. As Wren still maintained rooms at Wadham, I should perhaps try there.

I was keen to meet this young man in any case, as I had heard much about him during my stay, and so I went there, asking at the gate where he was and whether he had company. He was with friends, I was told, and had asked not to be disturbed. Porters always say this, of course, so I ignored the advice and walked swiftly up the stairs to the gatehouse room where Wren lived, knocked and went in.

The shock upon entering was considerable. Wren, a short, neat man with flowing locks and a not unpleasing countenance, looked annoyed as I walked into the room and stopped, staring, at the sight which I beheld. Locke had a kind of smirk on his face, like a child caught in some prank, glad to have his naughtiness known to the world. My friend, my very good friend, Richard Lower, at least had the goodness to be discountenanced and embarrassed to have his deceit so exposed that there was no possibility of any doubt about what was taking place.

For on a wide deal table in the middle of the room, a dog was strapped, whining piteously, and rolling its eyes in distress as it struggled to free itself. Next to it was another, more resigned to the torture it was being forced to endure. A long thin tube ran from the neck of one to that of the other, and blood from the incisions made in the necks of each had splattered on to Locke’s apron and on to the floor.