An Instance of the Fingerpost (32 page)

‘And how do you intend to do this? Who could tell you?’

‘Not many people, and most of those will be found at court. Already a problem, as I cannot possibly afford to go there.’

Thomas, dear soul that he was, nodded in sympathy. ‘It would be a pleasure if you would let me assist you.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ I said. ‘Why, you are even poorer than I am. God knows I’m grateful, but I’m afraid my requirements far exceed your resources.’

He shook his head, and scratched his chin in the way he always did before launching into a confidence.

‘My dear friend, please don’t concern yourself. My prospects are good and getting better. The parish of Easton Parva is coming up in the gift of my Lord Maynard in nine months’ time. He has asked the warden and thirteen senior Fellows to recommend a candidate, and the warden has already hinted that he thinks I would be more than suitable, as long as I can make clear my full adherence to doctrine. It will be a struggle, but I will grit my teeth, and then eighty pounds a year will be mine. If, that is, I can fight off Dr Grove.’

‘Who?’ I asked in astonishment.

‘Dr Robert Grove. Do you know him?’

‘Very well. And I still have some tender spots to prove it. He was the curate at Sir William Compton’s when I was sent to that family. He acted as my tutor for many years. Such as I know, he put there. What has he got to do with this?’

‘He is now back in his place as a Fellow of New College, and he wants my living,’ Thomas explained, ‘even though he has no claim to preferment except that he has not received any. Frankly, I am very much better suited. A parish needs a young and sound minister. Grove
is an old fool who only gets excited when he thinks about the wrongs done to him in the past.’

I laughed. ‘I would hate to be between Dr Grove and something he wants.’

‘I have no great objection to him,’ Thomas said, as though I needed to be reassured on this point. ‘I would be happy for him to be pastured out to a comfortable living, if there were two of them. But there is one only, so what can I do? I need that living more than he. Jack, can I tell you a secret?’

‘I will not stop you.’

‘I wish to marry.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s it, is it? And how much has the lady?’

‘Seventy-five a year, and a manor in Derbyshire.’

‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘But you need a living to persuade the father. I see the problem.’

‘Not only that,’ he said in some obvious distress. ‘I am obviously not allowed to marry as long as I am a Fellow of the college, and I cannot cease being a Fellow until I have a living. What is worse,’ he concluded ruefully, ‘I like the girl.’

‘How unfortunate. Who is she?’

‘The daughter of my aunt’s cousin. A woollen draper in Bromwich. A soundly based man in all respects. And the girl is obedient, meek, hard-working and plump.’

‘Everything a wife should be. With her teeth as well, I hope.’

‘Most of them, yes. Nor has she had smallpox. We would do well, I feel, and her father has not dissuaded me. But he has made it clear that he would not countenance the alliance if I cannot match her portion. Which means a living and, as I have no other connections, one that comes from New College or through its influence. And Easton Parva is the only one likely to come vacant in the next three years.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘These are serious times. Have you been on campaign?’

‘As much as possible. I have talked to all the Fellows, and find myself well received. In fact, many have given me to understand I have their support. I am confident of the outcome. And the fact that the gold men will advance my funds now indicates my confidence is not ill placed.’

‘And the decision is taken when?’

‘Next March or April.’

‘Then I suggest you start living in the chapel, just in case. Recite the thirty-nine articles in your sleep. Praise the archbishop of Canterbury and the king every time you take a drink of wine. Let not a breath of dissent escape your lips.’

He sighed. ‘It will be hard, my friend. I can only do it for the good of the country and the Church.’

I applauded his sense of duty. Do not think me selfish, but I was very keen for Thomas to win his place or, at least, to be the favoured candidate for as long as possible. If it was noised that he would not get the living, the moneylenders would shut their coffers with a snap and that would spell disaster for me as well as for him.

‘I wish you the very best of good luck, then,’ I said, ‘and I counsel you once more to be cautious. You are prone to saying what you think, and there can be no more dangerous habit in one wanting preferment in the Church.’

Thomas nodded, and reached inside his pocket. ‘Here, my good friend. Take this.’

It was a purse, containing three pounds. How can I put this? I was overcome, as much with gratitude for his generosity as I was by disappointment over his limited means. Ten times that much would have been a start; thirty times could have been spent with ease. And yet, sweet man that he was, he gave me all he had and risked his own future in the gift. You see how much I owed him? Remember this; it is important. I take my debts as seriously as my injuries.

‘I cannot thank you enough. Not only for the money, but because you are the only person who believes in me.’

Thomas courteously shrugged it aside. ‘I wish I could do more. Let us turn to business now. Who might you approach to tell you about what happened to your father?’

‘There is only a handful who might know something. Sir John Russell was one, Edward Villiers another. And there was Lord Mordaunt, who did so well from helping the king back on to his throne that he gained a barony and a lucrative sinecure at Windsor as part of his reward. Then, of course, there is whatever I might one day persuade Sir William Compton to tell me.’

‘Windsor is not far from here,’ Thomas pointed out. ‘Scarcely a day’s journey, and only a couple if you walk. If Lord Mordaunt is to be found there, then it would be the most economical place to start.’

‘What if he will not see me?’

‘You can only ask. I recommend that you do not write in advance. It is discourteous, but avoids the possibility that he might be forewarned of your arrival. Go and see him. Then we can decide what to do next.’

We. As I say, underneath that clerical exterior, there was a man yearning for the sort of excitement that a little bit of bread and wine could never provide.

WELL AND GOOD;
but before I went, I made the acquaintanceship of the Blundys, mother and daughter, who play such a large role in Cola’s story. In doing so, I set in train events which gained me the most terrible enemy, whom it demanded all my ingenuity and strength to defeat.

I do not know who will read this scribbling of mine; possibly no one except Lower, but I realise that in these pages I will be recording some acts in which I can take little pride. Some I feel no need to apologise for; some cannot be rectified now; some can at least be explained. My dealings with Sarah Blundy were due to my innocence and youthful, trusting nature: by no other means could she have entrapped me, and come close to destroying me entirely. For this I must blame my early upbringing. Before the age of six I was raised for a while by a great-aunt on my mother’s side; a pleasant lady, but very much the country woman, forever brewing and planting and serving physick to the entire area. She had a marvellous book, vellum-bound and grey with ages of fingering, handed down from her own grandmother, of herbal receipts which she would make herself and dispense to all and sundry, highborn or low. She was a powerful believer in magic, and despised those modern preachers (such she called them, for she was born when the great Elizabeth was still thought beautiful) who scorned what she believed to be self-evident. Scrumpled bits of paper and cloud reading and divination by key and Bible were part of my upbringing.

Despite the prelates, I must say I have yet to find any man who really disbelieves in spirits, or doubts that they have the most profound influence on our lives. Any man who has lain awake at night has heard the ghosts of the air as they pass by, all men have been tempted by evil and many have been saved by good inhabitants of that aethereal
space which surrounds this world and joins us to heaven. Even by their own standards, the sour-faced prelates are wrong, for they hold fast to Scripture, and that states clearly that such creatures exist. Does not St Paul talk of a voluntary worshipping of Angels? (Colossians 2:18) What do they think Christ drove into the Gadarene swine?

Naturally, it is hard to tell angels from evil spirits, for the latter are adept at disguise, and often beguile men (and more frequently women) into believing they are other than they truly are. The greatest caution is required when making contact with such beings, for we put ourselves in their hands, by creating a debt of obligation to them, and just as a lord or master remembers his debts, so do these creatures, good or evil. By going to old Blundy I took risks that, in the maturity of age’s wisdom, I would now shun. Then I was too carefree and too impatient to be cautious.

Old Blundy was a washerwoman, and by reputation a cunning woman, some said even a witch. This I doubt; I smelt no whiff of sulphur in her presence. I had once encountered what was supposed to be a real witch, who was burnt nearby in 1654, and a smelly old hag she was. I now believe this poor woman was probably innocent of the charges which brought her to the stake; the devil is too cunning to make his servants so easily identifiable. He makes them young, and beautiful and alluring, so gracious they might never be detected by the eye of man. Like Sarah Blundy, in fact.

None the less, the mother was a strange old crone. Cola’s description of her is wildly off the mark. Of course, she was not at her best when he encountered her, but I never saw any sign of that sympathetic understanding of which he speaks, nor of gentleness and kindness. And constantly asking questions. It was simple enough what I wanted, I told her eventually. Who betrayed my father? Could she help or not?

It all depended, she said. Did I have suspicions? It made a difference to what she did. And to what she would not do.

I asked her to explain. She said that really difficult problems involved conjuring up particularly powerful spirits; it could be done, but it was dangerous. Although I said I would take the risk, she said she did not mean spiritual dangers; she was afraid of being arrested and charged with necromancy. After all, she did not know
who I was. How did she know whether I was sent by a magistrate to trap her?

I protested my innocence, but she would not be moved, and repeated instead her question. Did I or did I not know the identity of my target? Even vaguely? I said I did not.

‘In that case we cannot roll names in water. We will have to gaze instead.’

‘A crystal ball?’ I sneered, for I had heard of such baubles, and was on my guard to avoid being duped.

‘No,’ she replied seriously. ‘That is just nonsense used by charlatans. There is no virtue in balls of glass. A bowl of water will suffice just as well. Do you want to go further?’

I nodded tersely. She shuffled off to get a saucer of water from the well outside, and I put my money on the table, feeling the skin of my palms beginning to prick with sweat.

She did not bother with any of the mumbo-jumbo that some practitioners adopt: no darkened rooms, no incantations or burning herbs. Just put the bowl on the table, then had me sit in front of it and close my eyes. I heard her pour the water in, and heard her pray to Peter and Paul: papist words which sounded strange from her lips.

‘Now, young man,’ she hissed in my ear when she had finished, ‘open your eyes and gaze at the truth. Be forthright and be fearless, as the chance may not come again. Look into the bowl and see.’

Sweating profusely, I slowly opened my eyes and bent forward, staring intently at the still and placid water on the table top. It shimmered slightly, as though some movement had disturbed it, but there was none; then I saw it grow darker and change in its texture, rather as though it was a curtain or hanging of cloth. And I began to see something emerging from behind this cloth. It was a young man with fair hair, whom I had never seen before in my life though he seemed somehow familiar. He was there only for an instant, and then passed from view. But it was enough; his features were embedded in my mind for ever.

Then the curtain shimmered again and another figure came into view. An old man, this time, grey with age and worry, bent over from the years and so sad it made your heart break to see it. I could not see the face clearly; there was a hand over it, almost as though the
apparition was rubbing its face in utter despair. I held my breath, desperate to see more. And bit by bit I did; the hand slowly came away, and I saw that the despairing old man was my father.

I cried out in anguish at the sight, then swept the bowl from the table in rage, making it spin across the room and shatter against the damp wall. Then I jumped up, spat an insult at the old woman and ran out of that disgusting hovel as fast as I could go.

It took another three days, and the careful ministrations of Thomas and the bottle, before I was myself again.