An Instance of the Fingerpost (44 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Now, was this an indirect, or a direct causation?’

‘I don’t know that I understand.’

‘You posit a minor accident; that the second was an indirect consequence of the first, without examining the possibility that perhaps the link was the inverse. You cannot argue, of course, that the loss of your land caused your father’s disgrace, for that would be temporally impossible and thus absurd. But you might, perhaps argue that the
prospect
of losing the land led to the accusation, and that in turn led to the actual loss; the
idea
of alienation generated the
reality
through the
medium
of accusation.’

I stared at him in bewilderment as the words hit home, for he had spoken the suspicion that had nagged at me ever since that night I spent in my uncle’s office. Could this possibly be the case? Could the accusation that destroyed my father have been prompted by nothing more than greed?

‘Are you saying . . .?’

‘I am not saying anything at all,’ Dr Grove said. ‘Except to suggest that you think through your arguments with greater care.’

‘You are deceiving me,’ I said, ‘because you know something of this matter which I do not. You would not direct me to think in this direction if you had not good reason to do so. I know you well, Doctor. And your way of argument would also suggest that I must consider the other obvious form of accident.’

‘Which is?’

‘Which is that the link connecting the two states of accusation and alienation is the fact that my father was indeed guilty.’

Grove beamed. ‘Excellent, young man. I am pleased with you indeed; you are thinking with the detachment of the true logician. Now, can you see any other? We may, I think, leave out random misfortune, which is the argument of the atheist.’

I thought long and hard, as I was pleased that I had pleased, and wished to win more praise; I had rarely done so in lessons and I found it a strange and warming experience.

‘No,’ I said eventually. ‘Those are the two main categories which must be considered. Everything else must be a sub-class of the two alternative propositions.’ I paused for a moment. ‘I do not wish to diminish this conversation, but even the best of arguments requires some matter of fact to give it ballast. And I have no doubt that at some stage you will indicate that in crucial areas this is lacking.’

‘You are beginning to talk like a lawyer, sir,’ Grove said. ‘Not like a philosopher.’

‘This is surely a question where law is applicable. Logic can only advance you so far. There must be some way of distinguishing between the two propositions, which are either that my father is guilty, or that he is not. And that cannot be accomplished by metaphysics alone. So tell me. You know something of the circumstances.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘There I must disabuse you entirely. I only met your father the once, and while I found him a handsome, robust man I can hardly offer any judgement, or even assessment of him. And I heard of his disgrace only incidentally when I overheard – quite by chance – Sir William telling his wife that he felt obliged to tell what he knew.’

‘What?’ I said, lurching forward in my seat with such violence that I believe I frightened the man. ‘You heard what?’

Grove queried me with an air of genuine bafflement. ‘But you must know this, surely?’ he said. ‘That Sir William was the person who made public the accusations? You were in the house at the time. Surely you heard something of what was happening?’

‘Not a word. When was this?’

He shook his head. ‘Early in the year 1660, I believe. I cannot really remember with any exactness.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was in the library, searching out a volume, for Sir William gave me free run of his books for as long as I was there. It is not the best of libraries, but it was a small oasis in the desert for me and I drank there frequently. You remember the room, no doubt; it faces east for the most part, but turns a corner towards the end, and off there is the office in which Sir William conducted all the domestic business of the estate. I never disturbed him in it, because he always got into a fearsome temper when he had anything to do with money; it brought home his reduced state too painfully. Everyone knew to steer clear of him for many hours afterwards.

‘On this occasion his wife did not, and that is why I know to tell you this. I saw little, and did not hear all, but through a crack in the door as it stood ajar, I saw that good lady on her knees before her husband, imploring him to think carefully about what he was to do.

‘“My mind is decided,” he said, not unkindly, even though he was unused to having his actions queried. “My trust has been betrayed, and my life sold. That a man could act in such a way is difficult to imagine, that a friend could do so intolerable. It cannot go unpunished.”

‘“But are you sure?” My Lady asked him. “To level such an accusation against a man like Sir James, who has been your friend twenty years, and whose son you have brought up almost as your own, cannot be done in error. And you must bear in mind that he will – he must – challenge you. And such a contest you would lose.”

‘“I will not fight him,” Sir William replied, more kindly this time, for he could see that his wife was concerned. “I acknowledge my inferiority in arms. Nor do I have the least doubt that my accusations are the absolute truth. Sir John Russell’s warning leaves no doubt of that at all. The letters, the documents, the notes of the meetings he had from Morland; I can confirm many of them from my own knowledge. I know his handwriting and I know his cipher.”

‘“Then the door shut, and I heard no more; but My Lady spent the next few days in great distress, and Sir William was more than usually preoccupied. He left for London at the end of the week, in a most secret departure, and I imagined there communicated his suspicions and evidence to others in the king’s circle.’

I almost laughed as I heard this tale, for I remembered those times
well. Sir William Compton had indeed left the house and galloped away one morning. The household had been sombre indeed the previous few days, as though the body was taking a sickness from the head which rules it, and I remember again Sir William talking to me before he left and telling me that I must soon leave. It was time he said, to return to my own people, as I was old enough to attend to my duties. My childhood was now over.

Three days later, the day after Sir William rode away at dawn, I was put on a cart with all my belongings and sent to my uncle. I had not known anything of the storm that had been brewing under my very nose.

But the way I left Compton Wynyates is far from my story, and I must tell more of my meeting with Dr Grove. On the matter I had called on him for, he refused to help. He would not perform an exorcism, for Blundy had reached into his soul ahead of me, and made his selfishness such that he was afraid to open himself to criticism at this most delicate moment of his career. Try as I might, I could not persuade him; all he would say was that, if I could provide him with better demonstration of the enchantment, then he would reconsider the matter. Until then, he would only offer that we might pray together. I did not wish to offend him, but I demurred at the prospect of spending an evening on my knees; besides, the news he had given me had galvanised my senses and I was willing, for a while, to put all superlunary matters aside.

The important thing was that I now had a further connection in my chain of deceit, and I questioned the Doctor closely on the matter. ‘Documents he had off Morland via Sir John Russell.’ Which meant that Sir John had merely forwarded these materials from someone else. He was happy to spread the rumour, it seemed, but had not initiated it. Was that a fair inference? Dr Grove said it sounded so, although he was sure that Russell had acted in good faith. But he could not help me further about the source. It was infuriating; one word from Russell would have saved me much trouble but I knew, from the way he had behaved in Tunbridge Wells, that I would never
hear that word from his lips. As I left Grove’s room in New College, I decided it was time to visit Mr Wood.

In my haste and excitement, I had forgotten one important detail, and as the heavy studded door of Wood’s house in Merton Street was dragged open I remembered that Sarah Blundy was employed by the family. To my great relief, however, it was not the girl who opened, but Wood’s mother, who looked not at all pleased to see me, even though it was not late.

‘Jack Prestcott’s compliments to Mr Wood, and he would beg the indulgence of an interview,’ I said. I could see she was half-minded to tell me to go away, and return only when an appointment was made, but she relented and instead gestured for me to enter. Wood came down to meet me a few moments later, also looking not best pleased. ‘Mr Prestcott,’ he said when all the bowing was done, ‘I am surprised to see you. I wish I could have had more time to prepare for the honour.’

I ignored the rebuke, and told him that it was a matter of urgency. I was in town only for a short while. Wood grumbled like the fusspot he was, pretended that he had so many matters of import to deal with, then gave way and led me to his room.

‘I am surprised not to see that Blundy girl here,’ I said as we climbed back up the stairs. ‘She does work as a maid for you, does she not?’

Wood looked uncomfortable. ‘We discussed the matter’, he said, ‘and decided it would be best to dismiss her. Probably a sensible decision, and certainly the best for my family’s reputation. But I am not content with it, none the less. My mother was very partial to her. Remarkably so, in fact; I could never account for it.’

‘Perhaps she was bewitched,’ I said as lightly as possible. Wood gave me a look which indicated something of the same had passed through his mind. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied slowly. ‘Strange how we all end in thrall to our servants.’

‘Some servants,’ I said. ‘Some masters.’

A suspicious, furtive look showed he had seen the criticism but
wished to deflect it. ‘You are not here to talk about the difficulty of hiring reliable maids, I think,’ he said.

I told him of my problem, and something of my interview with Dr Grove. ‘I know this evidence, presumably the same material Lord Mordaunt told me about, was made known to the world by Sir William. I now know he had them via Sir John Russell from someone called Morland. Now, who is Morland?’

‘That, I think,’ he said as he scurried around the room like a lost mole, searching through one pile of papers after another until he came on to the pile he needed, ‘that, I think is not a great mystery. I think this must be Samuel Morland.’

‘And he is . . .?’

‘He is now, I understand, Sir Samuel. Which is in itself quite remarkable, and gives much food for thought. He must have rendered a very signal service to be so favoured, considering his past. Unmasking a traitor in the king’s ranks might well qualify.’

‘Or passing forged documents which purported to do so.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ Wood said, nodding his head and snuffling. ‘Indeed, for Morland was noted for what you might call his pensmanship. He worked in Thurloe’s office for some time, I believe, and even tried to succeed him when Thurloe was thrown out in the last days of the Republic, if I remember the story properly. Then, I think, he threw in his lot with the Royalists. His timing was impeccable.’

‘So the idea of forged documents does not strike you as being absurd.’

Wood shook his head. ‘Either your father was guilty, or he was not. If he was not then some device must have been employed to create the illusion of culpability. But the only way you will find out, I think, is to tackle Morland himself. He lives somewhere in London, I imagine. I was told by Mr Boyle that he concerns himself with hydraulic engines for drainage schemes and suchlike. They are said to be most ingenious.’

I almost fell on my knees to thank the silly little man for the information, and had the grace to admit that Thomas had been correct in recommending him to me. As quickly as was decent, I left that house. The next morning, after a night made sleepless by my fevered excitement, I coached to London.

I HAD NEVER
been in a large metropolis before; Oxford was by far the grandest town I had ever entered. Most of my life had been spent either on country estates where the largest habitation was a village of a few hundred souls, or small market towns, such as Boston or Warwick, with populations of only a few thousand. London (so I am told although I do not believe anyone knows for certain) contained then some half million people. It sprawled over the landscape like a vast, bleeding pustule on the face of the earth, sickening the land, and poisoning all who lived in it. I was at first fascinated, as I pulled up the leather to peer out of the coach window, but this amazement turned to disgust as I perceived the shocking meanness of life in such a place. I am not (as must be clear by now) much of a bookman, but there is a line in a poem which I was forced to construe by Dr Grove in my youth, which has stuck with me. I do not recall the poet, but he was obviously a wise and sober man, for he said, ‘I cannot live in the city, for I have not learnt to lie.’ So it always will be; the honesty of the countryman is at a disadvantage in the town, where duplicity is prized, and straightforwardness scorned, where all men look after only themselves, and generosity occasions only laughter.