An Instance of the Fingerpost (28 page)

‘Please don’t go,’ she whispered through the shivers, ‘I’m frightened. I don’t want to die alone.’

I did not have the heart to leave, although I had no enthusiasm for staying, and my presence would make not one jot of difference without Lower there. However good my experiment, whatever hope it held for the future, he and the daughter had ruined it, and she was now going to bear the responsibility for one more life.

And so I stayed, fighting back the thought, growing now into certainty, that Lower was going to fail me when his aid was most needed. I built up the fire once more, burning more wood in a night than the Blundys had used in the previous six months, and sat wrapped in my cloak on the floor, as she slowly drifted in and out of a delirium.

And what madness she talked when she was sensible, about her husband and her daughter. Reminiscence, blasphemy, piety and lies were all mixed together so I could scarcely tell one from the other. I tried not to listen, and did my best to avoid condemning her words, for I knew that at times like these the devils which attend all of us in our lives see their chance, and speak with our mouths, uttering words we would never own to were we in full control of ourselves. This is why we give the last rites, to cleanse the soul of those demons so that it leaves the body pure, and this is why
the Protestant religion is so cruel, that it denies man that final kindness.

And I still could not understand mother or daughter, as such sweetness and perversity I had never met in combination before or since. Nor could I understand it still when, exhausted by her ravings, first the old woman, and then myself, fell asleep in the hot, airless room. I dreamt of my friend, and occasionally in the night a sound or noise disturbed me, and I awoke thinking that he had come. But each time I realised it was only an owl, or some animal, or the cracking of a log as it burst in the fire.

It was still dark when I awoke; I guessed about six, certainly not later. The fire had all but gone out, and the room was chilly once more. I rekindled it as best I could and the exercise helped loosen my joints, which were stiff from sleep. Only then did I examine my patient. She seemed little changed, perhaps even slightly better, but I knew she was in no state to withstand any new strain.

Even though my trust in him had diminished, I wished Lower was there to help and advise. But even I could no longer disguise the fact that he had failed me: I was on my own, and had little time to act. I don’t know how long I stood there in indecision, hoping that my one alternative would not prove necessary. I hesitated too long; my mind cannot have been working properly, because I stared blankly at my patient until I was brought back by a distant murmur of sound coming from the outside. I shook myself into action when I realised what it was. The sound of voices, massed voices, growing in volume.

Even before I flung open the door to make certain, I knew the sound came from the castle. The crowd was assembling, and I saw the first thin fingers of dawn in the sky. There was not long, and I had no choices left, nor could I delay a second longer.

I prepared my instruments before I woke Mrs Blundy up, laying out the quills and the ribbons and the long silver tube, so that I could manipulate them with one hand. I stripped off my coat, and rolled up my sleeve, and placed the stool in the best position.

Then I woke her. ‘Now Madam,’ I said, ‘we must proceed. Can you hear me?’

She stared at the ceiling, then nodded. ‘I hear you, Doctor, and I am in your hands. Is your friend come? I cannot see him.’

‘We must proceed without him. It will make no difference. You must have blood, and soon; it matters not where it comes from. Now, give me your arm.’

It was very much more difficult than the first time; her emaciated state made it fiendishly hard to find a suitable vessel, and I wasted time probing, then withdrawing the quill some half dozen times before I was satisfied. She bore it patiently, as though hardly aware of what was going on, and impervious to the sharp pain I inflicted on her in my haste. Then I prepared myself, cutting into my flesh and jabbing the quill in as quickly as possible while her blood dribbled down her arm.

When the flow of blood from my arm was free and easy, I moved into a better position, then picked up the silver tube and inserted it into the quill. The blood swiftly ran through and spurted out in a hot red jet from the end of the tube, splashing over the bedclothes as I manoeuvred to bring it into line with the quill in her arm.

Then it was done, the conjunction was made and when I saw there were no obstructions I started counting. Fifteen minutes, I thought, as I managed a smile at the old woman. ‘Nearly done,’ I said. ‘You’ll be fine now.’

She did not smile back, so I counted, feeling the blood pulsing out of me and growing dizzy as I struggled to keep still. In the background the noise from the castle was slowly growing in intensity as the seconds passed. After I had counted near ten minutes, an enormous roar erupted, then died away to complete silence as I pulled the quills out of our arms and bound up the wounds to staunch the flow of blood. It was difficult; in my case I had incised into a large vessel, and I lost more blood before I could close the wound with a bandage; still the blood soaked through and created a wide stain before I was sure I succeeded.

Then I was finished and all I could do was over. I took a deep breath to steady my spinning head while I packed the instruments away in the bag, hoping only that I was in time. Then the noise from the castle
began again, and I turned round to look at my patient. There was a bluish tinge on her lips, I saw, and as the drums rolled in the distance, I picked up her hand and saw that the fingers had discoloured as well. The drums picked up in intensity as she began to shake, to cry out in the most excruciating pain and gulp desperately for breath. Then, as the roar of the crowd mounted and became almost deafening, she arched her back and cried out in a strong, clear voice, clear of all sound of agony: ‘Sarah! My God! Have mercy upon me.’

Then silence. The noise from the castle stopped, the rattling, choking sound from the woman’s thin throat ceased and I knew I was holding the hand of a corpse. Only a sudden monstrous clap of thunder outside, and the noise of heavy rain suddenly beginning to pound on the roof now kept me company.

I was too late; the ripping of the daughter’s spirit from her body had been too powerful and violent for such a weakened body to resist; it had torn the life out of the mother through its departure. There was not enough time for my blood to give her the strength she needed. My indecision, and Lower’s failure, had made all my efforts worthless.

I do not know how long I sat there, holding her hand, hoping that I had made a mistake and that she had simply fallen into a fit. I was vaguely aware of more tumult from the castle, but paid it little attention. Then I closed her eyes, and combed her hair, and arranged the mean bedclothes as best I could. Finally, though she was not of my religion and might well have scorned me for my efforts, I knelt by the bed to pray for the souls of them both. I believe I was praying for myself as well.

I suppose I left that miserable place for the last time about an hour later. I was in no mood to reprimand Lower; instead, I felt a ferocious and overwhelming hunger mingling with my despair, so I went to a tavern to eat for the first time in more than a day. Dimly, as I sat there lost in my misery and thoughts, I listened to the conversation going on all around me; festive and cheerful, and so completely at odds with my spirits that I felt more a stranger than ever before.

At that moment, I hated the English for their heresy, the way they
turned a hanging into a festival, timed for market day to profit the traders. I loathed their bigotry and certainty of their own correctness; I hated Lower for his temper and the way he had scorned and betrayed and abandoned me. And I decided, then and there, that I would leave forthwith this terrible little town and this grim, cruel country. There was nothing more for me to do. I had my patient, and she was dead. I had my task from my father, but that was futile. I had my friends, but they, it was now clear, were hardly friends of mine. So it was time to be gone.

The resolution made me feel better. I could pack and leave within the day, if need be, but first I realised I would have to inform someone of Mrs Blundy’s death. I did not know what, exactly, was to be done with her body but I was resolved she would not be buried as a pauper. I would ask Lower to perform me this one last service, to take some of my almost exhausted money and see that she was interred with proper solemnity.

The decision brought me back to myself, or maybe it was the food and drink that did it. I picked up my head and noticed, for the first time, all that was going on around me. And realised they were talking of the hanging.

I could not make out exactly what had happened, but it was clear some scandal had attended the event; so, when I saw Mr Wood in a far corner, I asked him how he was, and whether he knew what had happened.

We had met only a few times in the past, and it was no doubt impolite of me to approach him, but I was desperate to know, and Wood was more than keen to tell me the story.

His eyes bright with the pleasure of scandal, and with a most inappropriate air of suppressed excitement, he asked me to sit by him so that he might tell me in full.

‘It is done?’ I asked.

I thought maybe he had been drinking, early though it was, for he laughed immoderately at my question. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Done it is. She has died.’

‘I am sorry for you,’ I said. ‘Did she not work for your family? It must have been distressing.’

He nodded. ‘It was. Especially for my poor mother. But justice
must be served, and it has been.’ He laughed again, and I felt like striking him for his heartlessness.

‘Did she die well? Please tell me,’ I asked. ‘I am upset, because the girl’s mother has just died as well, and I attended her in her last moments.’

Oddly, this upset him a great deal, far more than the hanging of his own servant. ‘That is very sad indeed,’ he said quietly, sober all of a sudden. ‘I knew her, and found her both interesting and gentle.’

‘Please,’ I repeated, ‘tell me what happened.’

So Wood began. However much embroidered already, it was a dreadful tale, which reflected badly on all concerned, except for Sarah Blundy herself who, alone, had behaved with dignity and correctness. Everyone else, in Wood’s account, disgraced themselves.

He said he had assembled in the castle forecourt just after four to be sure of a good vantage point. He was not the first by any means, and had he delayed even another half-hour, he would have missed most of what occurred. Long before the ceremony began, the courtyard was crowded with a sober, sombre crowd, all facing the tree, which already had the rope dangling from a strong branch, and a ladder propped up against it. A few dozen yards away, the gaol officials kept watchers away from the pyre which was to consume the girl’s body after she was dead. Some people took logs for mementoes, others to warm themselves at home, and on several occasions in the past a punishment had been postponed because too much wood had been taken to permit the body’s consumption.

Then, exactly as the first light dawned, a little door opened, and Sarah Blundy, heavily chained, her hair pulled back and shivering in a thin cotton shift, was brought out. The crowd, he said, grew very quiet at the sight, for she was a pretty girl, and it was hard to believe anyone of her delicate appearance could possibly deserve such a punishment.

Then Lower pushed himself forward and muttered a few words to the hangman, and bowed ceremoniously to the girl as she was led forward.

‘Did she say anything?’ I asked. ‘Did she admit her guilt once more?’ Strangely, it was important to me at that moment to hear that she was truly guilty. Her admission in the courtroom had reassured me greatly,
for it was the final information I required: no one confesses to a crime of that magnitude unless they are certainly guilty, for to do so is to abandon hope of life. It is no less than suicide, the greatest of sins.

‘I do not think so,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t hear it all. She spoke very softly, and even though I was close by, I missed much of it. But she owned herself one of the worst sinners in the world and said that she prayed for forgiveness, even though she knew she did not deserve it. It was a short speech, and was very well received. Then a minister offered to pray with her and she turned him down, saying she needed no prayers from him. He is one of the new men put in by the king, and very far from the views of Sarah and her sort. That, of course, caused more of a stir. Some of the crowd looked displeased, but a fair number – mainly the rougher folk – approved of her courage.’