An Instance of the Fingerpost (88 page)

My mother presented only the most cursory of objections when I announced that Sarah had repented of her sins and added that, in any case, they were smaller than common tittle-tattle pronounced. It
was a mark of charity to forgive the sinner, if regret was genuine and I concluded that I was sure this was the case.

‘And she is a good worker, who might, perhaps, now accept a halfpenny less a week,’ she said shrewdly. ‘We’ll certainly get none better at that wage.’

So it was agreed, with yet another halfpenny earmarked from my pocket to make up the difference, and Sarah was re-engaged. There then followed the problem of her mother, and I talked to Lower about it a few days later, when I had the opportunity. He was a difficult man to get hold of then, for he was hard at work on his fine examination of the brain, the dedication of which made him most anxious.

‘To whom should I address it?’ he asked me with a worried frown before I could speak. ‘It is a most delicate matter, and by far the most concerning part of the whole enterprise.’

‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘The work itself . . .’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘The work is nothing,’ he said. ‘Pure labour and applied concentration. The expense of publication is worse than that. Do you know how much a good engraver costs? I must have high-quality illustrations; the whole point is lost if the drawings are botched, and with some of these people you can’t tell a human brain from a sheep’s once they are done. I need at least twenty, all done by a London engraver.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I envy you, Wood. You can produce all the books you want and not pay attention to these questions.’

‘I would like many engravings,’ I said. ‘It is very important that readers see the representation of the people I mention, so they can judge for themselves that my account of their characters is accurate, by comparing deeds and features.’

‘True, true. My point is that your words can stand on their own if need be. In my case, the book is all but incomprehensible if there are not illustrations of great expense.’

‘So worry about that, not the dedication.’

‘The illustrations’, he said gravely, resuming the worried look, ‘are mere money. A nightmare, but a straightforward one. The dedication is my entire future. Am I ambitious, and risk aiming too high? Or modest, aim too low and waste my effort for no gain?’

‘The book must be its own reward, I think.’

‘Spoken like a true scholar,’ he replied testily. ‘All very well for you, with no family to provide for, and content to remain here for ever.’

‘I am as jealous of fame as the next man,’ I said, ‘but that will come from admiration of the book, not by using it as a weapon to bludgeon your way into the favour of the mighty. Who do you consider giving it to?’

‘In my dreams, when I think of glory, I naturally think of giving it to the king. After all, that Galileo man in Italy addressed one piece of work to the Medici, and was given a rich court position for life as a result. I imagine His Majesty being so impressed that he straightaway appoints me royal physician. Except,’ he said bitterly, ‘that there is one already, and His Gracious Majesty is too hard up for two.’

‘Why not be more imaginative? There are so many addressed to him already and he cannot be grateful to every author in England; you would merely be lost in the mêlée.’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know. Someone who is rich, would appreciate the gesture, and whose name would attract attention. How about the Duchess of Newcastle?’

Lower cackled. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Very funny. I might as well dedicate it to the memory of Oliver Cromwell. A fine way, if I may say so, to ensure that the world of curiosity never takes me seriously again. A woman experimentalist, indeed; an embarrassment to her family and her sex. Come now, Wood, be serious.’

I grinned. ‘Lord Clarendon?’

‘Too predictable and might fall from power, or die from a seizure, before it came out.’

‘A rival? The Earl of Bristol?’

‘Dedicate a book to a professing Catholic? Do you want me to starve to death?’

‘A rising star, then? This Henry Bennet?’

‘May well become a falling star.’

‘A man of learning? Mr Wren?’

‘One of my best friends. But he can no more advance me than I can advance him.’

‘Mr Boyle, then.’

‘I like to think I have his patronage already. It would be a waste of an opportunity.’

‘There must be someone. I will think on it,’ I told him. ‘It’s not as if the book is about to go to the printers.’

Another groan. ‘Don’t remind me. Unless I get some more brains, it never will. I do wish the courts would hang someone.’

‘There is that young man in gaol at the moment, whose chances are not good. Jack Prestcott. It is likely he will be hanged in a week or so. Heaven knows he deserves it.’

And so, you see, it was I who reminded Lower of Prestcott, whose arrest had caused something of a stir in the town some ten days previously, and caused him to go off to solicit his body. And I believe it was true that Lower took Cola along, rather than Cola devising some means of visiting the young man in gaol, as Dr Wallis assumed. Indeed, as I will make clear, Mr Cola had very good reasons for not having anything to do with Prestcott if he could avoid it. It must have been a considerable shock for him to come across someone whom he had met before.

The mention of Prestcott naturally brought my mind back to Sarah Blundy, and the condition of her mother, and I suggested to Lower he might consider treating her.

‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I cannot take the patient of another physician, even if Cola is not one. That is the most appalling manners.’

‘But Lower,’ I said, ‘he will not treat her, and the woman will die.’

‘If he tells me so, then I will reconsider. But I hear she cannot pay.’

I frowned at this, for I knew well that my friend habitually and to his own disadvantage treated many who could not afford his services. Lower saw my reaction and looked very ill at ease.

‘It would have been different had I offered knowing the situation, but the daughter imposed on poor Cola quite abominably, not telling him she had no money. We physicians have our pride, you know. Besides, I don’t want to treat her. You of all people should know what the daughter’s like, and I am amazed at you asking me.’

‘Perhaps I was wrong. Sarah has been slandered, at least in part, I am sure of it. Besides, I am not asking you to treat her,
I’m asking you to treat her mother; if need be, I will stand the cost.’

He thought a moment, as I knew he would, for he was too good a man – and as a physician too much in need of practice – to turn down an opportunity.

‘I will talk to Cola, and see what he says,’ he said. ‘I will no doubt see him later. Now, you must excuse me, my friend, for I have a busy day. Boyle is running an experiment I wish to observe. I will have to consider approaching this young man you mention in gaol, and then I have to go to Dr Wallis for a consultation.’

‘Is he ill?’

‘I hope so. He would be a fine patient to have, if I can cure him. He is well in at the Royal Society, and if I have both him and Boyle behind me, then my entrance will be assured.’

And with high hopes he went off, only to be told, so I see from Wallis’s manuscript, that his friend Cola was out to steal his ideas. Poor man; no wonder he was so ill humoured with Cola later that day, although it does him credit that he spoke not a word against the Italian, for Lower tried not to level accusations unless he was sure of his ground. Few, alas, put their principles into action in this way; I have met many a scientist who will intone gravely of Lord Bacon and the virtues of the inductive method, yet will rush to believe the idlest gossip without any thought of contradiction. ‘It seems reasonable to me,’ they say, not realising this is merest nonsense. Reason cannot seem anything; I thought this was the whole point of it. It must be capable of demonstration, and if it is merely ‘seems’, then it is not reason.

As is known, Lower did speak to Cola, and I to Sarah, and persuaded her that she had no option but to apologise to the Italian so that he would consent to treat the mother once more. This, I may say, was a hard task to accomplish and, had it been her own death that was in prospect, no words or arguments would have persuaded that proud, strange girl to give way. But it was another’s life that was at stake, and she accepted that she must submit. For my part, I was concerned lest the Italian renew his advances and decided to reduce the possibility by offering payment myself. It meant doing without near two months’ supply
of books, but it was an act of charity that I thought would be well made.

I did not, however, have any money. My income in those days came from an annuity on funds I had lent to my cousin to buy his tavern, and he had undertaken to pay me the sum of
£
67 every Lady Day. He performed this task dutifully, and I was content that I had placed my small fortune to advantage, for nothing is more secure than one’s own family – though even this is not always certain. However, he would not, and could not, pay in advance and I had grossly exceeded my budget recently in buying a new viol. Apart from food, and the money I gave my mother, I was almost without funds for several months, and had to live modestly myself to avoid disaster. The three pounds I needed for Cola were a sum far beyond my resources. I could advance near twenty-four shillings, borrowed another twelve from various friends who held me in good credit, and raised nine shillings by selling some books. That left me with fifteen shillings to find, and it was because of this that I summoned my courage and made an appointment to see Dr Grove.

I HAD NEVER
met the man, and knew only of his reputation, which stated that he was irascible and difficult in character, backward in outlook and with a pronounced tendency to cruelty when he had drunk more than a little. He was none the less said to be of great brilliance, but time and misfortune had perverted this, and dedicated his acumen to rancour and bitterness. Wallis, I note, speaks well of him, as does Cola, and I do not doubt that he could display great courtesy when he chose; indeed there was none more charming if he thought you worthy or of a similar rank to himself. But a meeting with Grove was a lottery, and the reception he accorded one was in no way influenced by the occasion; instead he would use his interlocutors for his own purposes, as his mood dictated.

I was aware of all this, and went none the less, for I could think of no other who might assist: I have never had wealthy friends and at that time most of my acquaintance were poorer even than I. I was certain now that, in the matter of the tales I had heard, Grove had been slandered as badly as had Sarah, and was equally sure that he would be grieved his servant had been so punished by baseless malice. I understood, of course, that he might not wish to offer public assistance for the sake of his reputation, but was confident that an opportunity for private aid would be most welcome to him.

So I went and, as a result, brought about his death. I state the fact baldly, so there should be no mistaking the matter. All in their reports give their conclusions, their thoughts, their reasons and their suspicions about why and how this event took place. Many sorts of evidence have been called into the matter; Cola used confession to conclude Sarah was responsible and believed that personal testimony could not be gainsaid. She admitted the deed, therefore had committed it and I agree that in most cases this is the
strongest evidence there is. Prestcott, in his muddled way, used the procedures of legal reasoning, deciding who best benefited and then, as no other information contradicted this, concluded that Thomas Ken was responsible. Dr Wallis applied his own power of logic, convinced that his fine mind could encompass all relevant issues and draw valid conclusions. All were convinced of the infallibility of their forensical technique, resorted to because the one type of witness which could conclude the matter was unavailable to them: none of them saw who put the poison in the bottle. I did.

My Lord Bacon, in his
Novum Organum
, discusses this point, and investigates with his habitual brilliance the various categories of evidence and finds them all flawed. None conveys certainty, he decides, a conclusion which (one might think) would be devastating for scientists and lawyers alike: historians and theologians have learned to live with this, the former modestly tempering their claims, the latter resting their glorious edifice on the more reliable foundations of revelation. For without certainty what is science except glorified guesswork? And without the conviction of certainty, total and absolute, how can we ever hang anyone with an easy conscience? Witnesses can lie and, as I know myself, even an innocent can confess to a crime they did not commit.

But Lord Bacon did not despair, and claimed one instance of a fingerpost which points in one direction only, and allows of no other possibility. The perfectly independent eye-witness, who has nothing to gain from his revelation, who is, in addition, schooled in observation and report through a gentlemanly status and education: this is the nearest we can get to a reliable witness and his testimony may be said to be conclusive, overwhelming all lesser forms. I claim here that status, and assert that what follows eliminates all possibility of further argument on the subject.