An Instance of the Fingerpost (67 page)

Eventually he turned to face me, and I could see from his expression that the anger had passed. I was not, however, to escape further reproof.

‘I must commend you’, he said, ‘for the diligence your love of His Majesty has produced. I do not doubt for a minute that you have acted with the very best of intentions, and that your desire was simply and wholly the safety of the realm. You are a most excellent servant.’

‘I thank you.’

‘But in this matter, you have made a serious error. You must know that in diplomacy nothing is ever at it seems, and what may appear as common sense is often the opposite. We cannot go to war. Who should we fight? The Spanish? The French? The Dutch? All together or in combination? And with what are we meant to pay an army? Parliament will barely provide to keep a roof over the king’s head as it is. You know, I am sure, that I am partial to the Spanish, that I regard the French as our greatest enemy. Even so, I will not countenance an alliance with them, any more than I could support a pact against them. For the foreseeable future, at least, we must steer a delicate course between these obstacles, and allow nothing to push the king into the arms of one side or the other.’

‘But you know as well, sir,’ I said, ‘that Spanish agents are operating freely, spending their gold to buy support.’

‘Of course they are. And so are the French and the Dutch. What of it? As long as all spend with the same enthusiasm, and none gains the upper hand, then no harm is done. Your comments in themselves do little harm, please do not think that. But if your suspicions become generally known, then the French interest will be strengthened. Young Louis has deep coffers. His Majesty is tempted already, even though it would be a disaster. It is imperative that nothing disturbs the balance which those who have the interest of the country at heart have created. Now, tell me, does anyone else know of this suspicion you have?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘I am the only person with a full knowledge of it. My servant Matthew no doubt has some understanding, since he is an intelligent boy, but even he does not know the full story.’

‘And he is where?’

‘He is now back in England. But you need have no fears about him. He is totally bound to me.’

‘Good. Talk to him and make sure he understands.’

‘I am happy to obey your wishes in this matter,’ I continued, ‘but I must repeat that, as far as I can see, the matter is a serious one none the less. With the sanction of the Spanish crown or not, this man is coming to the country, and I believe him to be very dangerous to us. What am I to do about it? Surely you do not think that he should be left in peace.’

Bennet smiled. ‘I do not think you need have any concern on that score, sir,’ he said. ‘This is not the only tale of conspiracy, and I have finally persuaded His Majesty to increase the guard around him night and day. I see no chance of even the most desperate of assassins reaching him.’

‘This is no ordinary soldier, sir,’ I said. ‘He had a reputation for daring and ruthless murders against the Turks on Crete. He must not be underestimated.’

‘I understand your concerns,’ Bennet replied ‘But I must point out that, if you are correct – and I do not accept that you are so – the comments you made to de Moledi will have been noted. He will take infinite care to make sure nothing occurs which thrusts us into the arms of his greatest enemy. An alliance with France would surely follow any such event, for this scheme could only work if its true author never became known, and you have ensured that cannot be.’

There the interview ended. I left with my position badly, but not irrevocably, weakened. I had not lost his favour, and certainly had not been threatened with any sanction. Far more important was the fact that my confidence was shaken; I had not anticipated de Moledi’s reaction. He had, indeed, behaved as an innocent might well do in the circumstances, with surprise and protest. And what Mr Bennet said was true; an assassination made no sense, if its sole achievement was to deliver England into the hands of the French.

I did not realise, although I was beginning to suspect, that my conclusions were based on faulty propositions; this required more, and more terrible evidence, before all doubts were swept away.

I NEVER DISCOVERED
precisely when Marco da Cola arrived in England, or by what means, although I am certain he had already stepped ashore before I spoke to the Spanish ambassador; this belief was later confirmed by Jack Prestcott when I interrogated him. By the third week of March, Cola was in London and I assume he was warned that something of his purpose had become known to me; he must also have learned that Matthew was my servant, and that the lad knew much that was dangerous.

I saw Matthew that morning; he came to my house in the greatest hurry, his face flushed with achievement, to say that he had found Cola in London, and planned to go and see him. Instantly I knew I had to prevent any such encounter.

‘You will not,’ I said. ‘I forbid it.’

His face fell, then turned dark with anger, an expression I had never before seen on his face. At once, all my fears returned after I had successfuly kept them at bay, hoping that all would be well once more now he was back by my side. ‘Why? What nonsense is this? You look for this man, and when I find him for you, you forbid me to discover where exactly he is.’

‘He is a killer, Matthew. A very dangerous man indeed.’

Matthew laughed in the light-hearted way he had, and which had once given me such pleasure but did so no longer. ‘I do not think an Italian holds much danger for a child of London,’ he said. ‘Certainly not this one.’

‘Oh, but he does. You know the streets and the alleys, and all the ways across the town far better than he. But do not underrate him. Promise me you will leave him be.’

His laughter faded, and I could see I had wounded him once more. ‘Is that it? Or do you want to deny me a friend who might do me
good, who might patronise me freely, without requiring so much in return? Who listens to me, and values my opinions instead of forever criticising and imposing his own? I tell you, Doctor, this man was kind and good to me; he did not beat me and always behaved well.’

‘Stop it,’ I cried, anguished that I should be compared to another in such a cruel way, and have this Cola’s success thrust at me merely to wound my heart. ‘It is true what I say. You must not go near him. I cannot bear the thought of him touching you, hurting you in any way. I wish to protect you.’

‘I can look after myself. And I will show you that I can. I have known thieves and murderers and fanatics since the day I was born. Yet here I am, unscratched and unharmed. And you think nothing of this, and talk to me as though I was a child.’

‘You owe me a great deal,’ I said, angry with his anger, and wounded by his words. ‘And I will have your respect and courtesy.’

‘But you will not give it, as I also deserve. You never have.’

‘That is enough. Get out of my room and come back when you are ready to apologise. I know why you wish to see him. I know what he is and what he wants of you; I see it better than you can. Why else would a man like him keep a boy like you by his side? Do you think it is for your wit? You have little. Your money? You have none. Your learning? You have what I gave you. Your breeding? I picked you up from the gutter. I tell you, if you go to him tonight, I will not have you in this house again. Do you understand?’

I had never threatened him so before and had not intended to do so then. But he was fast slipping from my grasp. The temptation of dissoluteness was growing on him, encouraged by this man, and it had to be stopped immediately. He had to know I commanded and was his master. Otherwise he would have been quite lost.

But it was too late; I had delayed too long, and the corruption had already gone too deep. Still, I think he would have asked my pardon and realised his error, as he had been prepared to do so recently in the past. But he stared at me, not knowing whether I was serious or not, and seeing that gaze I weakened and spoiled all.

‘Matthew,’ I said, ‘my boy, come to me.’ For the first time in my life, but God help me, not for the first time in my dreams, I took him in my arms and held him tightly to me, hoping to feel the softness of
his response. Instead, Matthew stiffened, then pushed his arms hard against my chest and broke away, stumbling backwards in his haste to part from me.

‘Leave me be,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘You cannot command me, nor forbid me anything. It is not me who has done wrong here and not this Italian who keeps me for impure reasons, I think.’

And he walked out, leaving me to bitter anger, and the sadness of regret.

I never saw Matthew alive again. That same evening Marco da Cola cold-bloodedly cut his throat in a dark alley, and left him to bleed to death.

Even now, I can hardly bear to recall the details of the day I learned that no amends would ever be made. My housekeeper’s husband (I had allowed the woman to marry the previous year, and had such a regard for her honesty I did not see fit to throw her out) came himself to Gresham College, where I was dining with Mr Wren, to tell me of the calamity. He was a big, slow, stupid man, fearful of my wrath but courageous enough to bring the bad news himself.

He trembled as he stood there before me and told me what had happened. With some resource, he had gone to the scene itself when the news came, and asked those who lived nearby what had transpired. It appeared there had been a murderous assault a few hours previously. Matthew had been attacked from behind, his mouth covered and his throat slit with a single cut. There had been no noise, no sound of any shouting, none of the normal commotion that signifies a struggle or a robbery in progress. The culprit was not seen by anyone and Matthew was left to die. It was not a duel, not a fight of honour, he was not given the chance to die in the knowledge at least of having acted as a man should. It was pure and simple murder, carried out in the most despicable manner. My dream had warned me, and I had let it happen none the less.

I see from Cola’s memoirs he even has the audacity still to indicate his crime, although he pretends it was self-defence. He says he was set on by a bunch of bravos, who (he claims) he thought were sent by the former associate of his father. With what nobility and courage did he defend himself against such a pack of bloodthirsty rogues! With what modesty does he recount how, all alone, he sent them packing. He
does not say, of course, that his assailant was but a boy of nineteen, who never fought a man in his life and who certainly intended him no harm. He does not say that he followed the boy and deliberately set upon him, leaving him no chance of defending himself. He omits to say that he committed this one crime that he might be free to commit still greater ones later.

And he does not say that he extinguished the light of my life by that deed, cast all into darkness and ended all joy for ever. Matthew’s death rested on my shoulders, for my mistrust excited him to bravado, and it mattered not that I suffered most from the mistake. Such a glory to God, my Absalom, my clay, which I had fashioned myself into the finest of creation. Would God I had died for thee, my son, my son (2 Samuel 18:33).

His obedience matched his piety, his piety his loyalty and his loyalty his beauty. I had imagined growing old with him by my side, to comfort me as no woman ever could. He alone made the day bright, and the morning glow with hope. Such love had Saul for David and I wept at the bitterness of my punishment.

He that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me (Matthew 10:37). How often had I read those words without understanding the burden they lay on all mankind, for I had never loved any man or woman before.

And the lesson was swift and harsh, and I rebelled against it. I begged the Almighty it should not be, that my servant was wrong, that another had died in his place.

And I knew the cruelty of desiring that another suffer instead of me, that another father should grieve for me. Our Lord had accepted His cross, but even He had prayed the burden might be taken from Him, and so I prayed as well.

And the Lord told me I had loved the boy too much, and made me remember those nights when he had slept in my bed, while I lay awake listening to his breathing, wishing only to reach out and touch him.

And I remember how I begged deliverance from my desires, and also wished them fulfilled.

This was my punishment, so fully deserved. I thought I would die under the pain of it and never recover from the loss.

And in my heart my anger grew fierce and cold, for I knew also that it was Marco da Cola who had tempted my dearest boy away from me, and seduced him so he would not notice as the knife slipped from its scabbard.

I asked that God should say to me as He had to David, I will deliver thine enemy into thine hand, that thou mayest do to him as it shall seem good unto thee (I Samuel 24:4). I vowed that this Cola’s brutality would undo him.

It is written: whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed (Genesis 9:6).

I give thanks that I allow no man to see my emotions and that I have ever had a deep sense of duty, for it was only that which forced me to rise and re-dedicate myself to my purpose. And so I prayed, then forced myself once more to my task; a harder deed I have never done, for I maintained always my habitual demeanour, which men call coldness, while all the time my very heart was bleeding with grief. I will add no more of this matter, it is properly for no man’s ears. But I will say that from then on, I had one purpose in mind, one aim and one desire, and that stayed with me in my dreams and every second of my waking day.