An Instance of the Fingerpost (29 page)

This, he told me, was nothing too much out of the ordinary. It was the task of the Church to impose itself at such moments and it was naturally open to the condemned – who had little to lose, after all – to make a last gesture of defiance, if they felt so inclined. Sarah prayed alone, on her knees in the mud and with a quietness and decorum that elicited a sympathetic murmur from the crowd. Then she stood up and nodded to the hangman. Her hands were bound and she was helped up the ladder until her neck was level with the rope. There the hangman stopped her, and began tying the noose.

She moved her head to make herself as comfortable as possible, and then all was ready. She had refused to have her head bound or covered in any way, and the crowd fell silent as they saw her eyes close and her lips move so the name of God would be the last sound to pass her lips. The drummers began their roll, and at the end the hangman leant forward and simply pushed her off the ladder.

Then the thunderstorm started, and within minutes all was awash with muddy water, the torrents so heavy it was hard even to see what was going on.

Wood paused here to take another drink. ‘I hate hangings,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I go and see them, of course, but I do hate them. I don’t know anybody who thinks otherwise, or could do once they have seen one. The way the face contorts, and the tongue protrudes, is so hideous that you understand why normally they insist on the head being covered. And the smell as well, and the way the
arms and legs twist and jerk.’ He shuddered. ‘Let me talk of that no more. For it didn’t last long, and when it was done Lower staked his claim. Did you know he’d bought the body, and come to some sort of arrangement with the judge so that he might have it, and not the professor?’

I nodded. I thought he must have done so.

‘It was done in the worst possible way, because the university had heard and the Regius professor thought his prerogatives were being infringed. So he came along as well, to claim his right. There was a brawl in the mud. Can you believe it? Two proctors fighting for the body, held off by half a dozen friends of Lower, who got Locke to help him pick it up and carry it out of the yard. I don’t think many knew exactly what was going on, but those who realised were furious and began throwing stones. There was very nearly a riot, and would have been had not the rain persuaded many to leave.’

I think this was the last straw for my friendship with Lower. I know what he would say, that a body is a body, but there was a callousness about his action which distressed me greatly. I believe it was because he had abandoned me in order to advance his own career, that given a choice between assisting me in treating the mother, and gaining the daughter for dissection, he had chosen the latter. He would now have his book on the brain, I thought grimly. Much might it profit him.

‘So Lower has his way?’

‘Not exactly. He took the body to Boyle’s and is virtually under siege there. The proctors complained to the magistrate and said that if they can’t have the corpse, no one should have it. So the magistrate has now changed his mind, and is demanding it back. Lower, so far, has refused to give it up.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose because he is doing as much work on the corpse as he can in the time allowed.’

‘And what about Mr Boyle?’

‘Fortunately, he is in London. He would be appalled to be involuntarily dragged into such an affair.’ He stood up. ‘I am going home. If you will excuse me . . .’

I wrapped myself up as well as I could and braved the rainfall to walk along the High Street to the apothecary’s. I found Mr Crosse
along with the boy he employed to mix ingredients guarding the door, firmly making sure that no one entered unless Lower gave permission. Including myself. I could not believe it when he held his hand against my chest and shook his head. ‘I’m truly sorry, Mr Cola,’ he said. ‘But Lower is adamant. Neither you, nor any of these other gentlemen here, are to be allowed to interrupt him while he is working.’

‘That is absurd,’ I cried. ‘What is going on?’

Crosse shrugged. ‘I believe that Mr Lower has agreed to hand the body back to the hangman, so that it can be burnt as ordered. Until that gentleman comes, he sees no reason why he should not conduct such investigations as he sees fit. He has little enough time, hence his insistence on not being disturbed. I’m sure he would be glad of your participation under ordinary circumstances.’ He added that he was saddened by what he had heard of our argument, and counted himself still my friend. It was kindly done.

And so, like any common citizen, I had to stand and wait for Lower’s pleasure, although Crosse at least did me the favour of allowing me to wait indoors, rather than having to stamp my feet outside, until the hangman arrived to claim his booty.

Then Lower came down, looking tired and worn, his hands and apron still bloody from his labours. The sight of him inside the building caused a small tremor to run through the crowd.

‘Are you prepared to submit to the magistrate’s orders?’ the hangman asked.

Lower nodded, then caught the hangman by the sleeve as he was preparing to take his assistants upstairs.

‘I have taken the liberty of ordering a box for the body,’ he said. ‘It would not do for her to be carried out as she now is. It will be here shortly and it would be best to wait.’

The hangman assured him that he had seen many gruesome sights in his time, and this would not bother him. ‘I was thinking of the crowd,’ Lower said as he disappeared up the stairs. He followed, and, as there was no one to stop me, I followed Lower.

One glance, and the hangman changed his mind; indeed, he turned ashen white at the sight. For Lower had abandoned the delicate workmanship which normally characterised his dissections. In his
haste to take the organs he wanted for his work, he had quartered the body, and ripped it open with savagery, removed the head, and sawn it open to take the brain, tearing off the face in his haste and then tossed the pieces on to some sacking on the floor. Those fine, beautiful eyes, which had so captivated me the first time I saw her, had been torn from their sockets; tendons and muscles hung from the arms as though savaged by a wild beast. Bloody knives and saws lay all around, along with the piles of the long, dark, lustrous hair which he had hacked off to attack the skull. There was blood everywhere, and the stink of blood filled the room. A large bucketful which he had drained from her stood in another corner, next to glass jars full of his trophies. And the smell was indescribable. In a corner, in a small pile, was the cotton shift she had worn, stained and soiled from her last ordeal.

‘Dear God,’ the hangman exclaimed, looking at Lower with horror, ‘I should take this out and show it to the crowd. Then you would join her on the pyre, which is no more than you deserve.’

Lower shrugged with exhaustion and unconcern. ‘It is for the common good,’ he said. ‘I feel no need to apologise, to you or anyone else. It is you, and that ignorant magistrate, who should apologise. Not me. If I had had more time . . .’

I stood in the corner and felt the tears welling up in me, so tired and sad to see how all my hopes and faith shattered. I could not believe that this man whom I had called my friend could act in such a callous way to me, show such a side of himself that previously had been so well hidden. I have no sentimental notions about the body once the soul has departed; I believe it is fitting and honourable to use it for the purposes of science. But it must be done with humility, in honour of something which was made in God’s image. To advance himself, Lower had descended to the level of a butcher.

‘Well,’ he said, looking at me for the first time, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘The mother is dead,’ I said.

‘I am grieved to hear it.’

‘So you should be, as it was your doing. Where were you last night? Why did you not come?’

‘It would not have done any good.’

‘It would have,’ I said. ‘If she’d enough spirit to dilute the daughter’s. She died the moment her child was hanged.’

‘Nonsense. Pure, unscientific superstitious nonsense,’ he said, rattled by my willingness to confront him with what he had done. ‘I know it is.’

‘You do not. It is the only explanation. You are responsible for her death and I cannot forgive you.’

‘Then do not,’ he said brusquely. ‘Hold to your explanation, and to my responsibility if you wish. But do not trouble me at the moment.’

‘I demand to know your reasons.’

‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I will give you no reasons, and no explanations. You are no longer welcome here, sir. Go away, I say. Mr Crosse, will you escort this foreign gentleman out?’

The exchange went on a little longer than this, but in essence those were the last words he ever spoke to me. Since then, I have heard nothing from him at all, and so I still am unable to explain why his friendliness turned to malice and his generosity to the most extreme cruelty. Was the prize so great? Was his feeling of disgust with his deeds turned on me so that he could avoid owning his own fault? But one thing I soon became certain of. His failure to help me with Mrs Blundy was deliberate. He wanted my experiment to fail, because I could not then claim success.

I am fairly certain now that he already knew what he was going to do. Perhaps he had already started writing that communication which, a year later, appeared in the
Transactions
of the Royal Society.
An Account of the Transfusion of the Blood
, by Richard Lower, detailing his experiments on dogs conducted with Wren, and followed up with another which described transfusion between two individuals. So generous he was in acknowledging Wren’s help. So open in admitting his debt to Locke. Such a gentleman.

But not a word about myself, and I am sure now that Lower had already determined that I would have no acknowledgement. All he had said in the past about others beating him to recognition, about
foreigners and his distaste for all of them came back to me and I realised that anyone less naïve than myself would have been on his guard long before.

But I am still shocked by how far he was prepared to go to steal my fame, for, in order to make sure my claims were not entertained, he spread wicked stories about me among his friends, saying I was a charlatan, a thief and worse. He had narrowly, it was believed, stopped me from stealing
his
idea, rather than the other way around, and only good fortune exposed my duplicity at the last moment.

I left Oxford that same day, travelled to London and, after a week, took ship on an English merchantman headed for Antwerp, then found another to take me to Livorno. I was back in my home by June. I have never left my country again, and have long since abandoned philosophy for the more respectable activities of the gentleman; it pains me to return, even in memory, to those dark, sad days.

One last thing I did before I left, however. I could not ask Lower, so I went to see Wood, who was still willing to receive me. He told me that Sarah’s remains had burnt that same afternoon, as I was packing my bags, and that all was finally over. There was no one but himself and the hangman at the pyre, and it had burned ferociously. It grieved him to attend, but he felt he had owed her that last attendance.

I gave him a pound, and asked him to see to Mrs Blundy’s funeral, so that she might avoid a pauper’s grave.

He agreed to take care of it for me. I do not know whether he kept his word.

Ideas of the Cavern are the Ideas of every Man in particular; we every one of us have our peculiar Den, which refracts and corrupts the Light of Nature, because of the differences of Impressions as they happen in a Mind prejudiced or prepossessed
.

Francis Bacon,
Novum Organum Scientarum
,
Section II, Aphorism V

IT IS SOMETHING
of a surprise, and even an embarrassment, to have scarce remembered faces and facts summoned from the gloom of antiquity like so many ghosts. This has been my experience while perusing the manuscript written by that strange little Venetian, Marco da Cola, lately sent to me by Richard Lower. I never imagined he had such a formidable, if selective, memory. Perhaps he took notes as he went along, expecting to entertain his countrymen on his return. Such travellers’ memoirs are popular enough here; it is possible the same is true in Venice, although I am told the inhabitants are a narrow-minded people, convinced nothing is worthwhile if it lies more than ten leagues from their city.

As I say, the manuscript was a surprise; its arrival as much as its contents, for I had not heard from Lower for some time. We were somewhat in company, he and I, when we were both making our way in London; but then our paths diverged. I married well, to a woman who brought me a good addition to my estate, and began to associate with men of the very highest rank. Whereas Lower somehow missed, failing to endear himself to those most able to do him good. I do not know why this was. He did, certainly, have an irritability about him which never sits well in a doctor, and was perhaps too mindful of his philosophy and not enough of his pocket to make a mark in the world. But my loyalty and forbearance mean that at least he still numbers the Prestcott family among his few patients.