An Instance of the Fingerpost (70 page)

‘Mr Prestcott. You know of him?’

‘I heard the tales.’

‘He sent a message wishing to see me. Did you know I was his tutor once? Tiresome boy he was, not intelligent and no head for learning. And very strange indeed, all charm one moment, sulks and tantrums the next. A nasty, violent streak in him as well, and greatly given to superstition. Anyway, he wishes to see me, as it appears the prospect of hanging is making him reconsider his life and his sins. I do not want to go, but I suppose I must.’

And here I took a sudden decision, realising that, if I was to trade with Prestcott, I had best do it as soon as possible. It may have been mere whim, or perhaps an angel guided my lips as I spoke. It may have been simply that I did not trust a sudden display of piety from Prestcott, who had seemed in no repentant frame of mind from what his gaoler told me. It does not matter; I took the fateful decision.

‘You certainly must not,’ I said firmly. ‘Your eyes look fearfully sore, and I am certain that exposure to a night wind will only weaken them further. I will go in your place. If it is a priest he wants, I suppose I can do that as well as you. And if it is you he particularly desires to see, then you may go at a later date. There is no rush. The assize does not come for more than a fortnight, and waiting will only make the boy more compliant.’

It required few of the arts of persuasion to make him take my advice. Reassured that a needy soul was not being neglected, he thanked me most sincerely for my kindness and confessed that an evening tormenting an experimentalist was very much more to his liking. I even ordered the bottle for him as his eyes were so bad; it was delivered by my wineseller, and placed at the foot of the staircase, with my name on. That was the bottle Cola poisoned, and why I know it was intended for myself.

I SEE FROM
my commonplace book that I spent that day in an ordinary fashion. I attended divine service at St Mary’s as usual, for I always gave my loyalty when in town to the university church, and endured a tedious (and quite erroneous) sermon on Matthew 15:23, in which even the most ardent could find no merit, even though we tried in discussion afterwards. I have sat through many such in my life, and find myself having some sympathy for the papist style of worship. Irreligious, heretical and ungodly it may be, but at least Catholicism does not so greatly expose its members to the nonsense of pompous fools more in love with the sound of their own voices than with their Lord.

Then I attended to business. My correspondence took an hour or so, for I had few letters to answer that day, and I passed the rest of the morning at work with my book on the history of the algebraic method, writing with great ease those passages wherein I demonstrated with unchallengeable proofs the fraudulent claims of Vieta, all of whose inventions were, in fact, conceived some thirty years previously by Mr Harriott.

Small stuff, but it occupied me fully until I donned my gown and descended to the hall, where Grove introduced me to Marco da Cola.

I cannot put in words the suffocating loathing I felt on first casting eyes on the man who had extinguished Matthew’s life so carelessly and with such ruthlessness. Everything about his appearance disgusted me, so much so that I felt my throat tightening and thought, for a moment, that nausea would overcome me entirely. His air of amiability merely pointed up the magnitude of his cruelty, his exquisite manners reminded me of his violence, the expense of his dress the speed and coldness of his deed. God help me, I could not
bear the thought of that stinking perfumed body close to Matthew, those fat and manicured hands stroking that perfect young cheek.

I feared then that my expression must have given away something, informed Cola as that I knew who he was and what he was to do, and it may even be that it was the look of horror on my face which prompted him to move faster, and attempt my life that same night. I do not know; both of us behaved as well as we could; neither, I think gave anything away thereafter and to all outsiders, the meal must have appeared perfectly normal.

Cola has given his account of that dinner, wherein he mixes insult to his hosts with exaggeration about his own conversation. Oh, those splendid speeches, those reasoned responses, the patient way in which he smoothed ruffled feathers and corrected the egregious errors of his poor seniors! I must apologise, even at this late date, for not having appreciated his wit, his sagacity and his kindliness, for I confess all of these fine qualities completely escaped my notice at the time. Instead, I saw (or thought I saw, for I must have been wrong) an uneasy little man with more mannerisms than manners, dressed like a cockatoo and with an insinuating assumption of gravitas in his address which failed completely to disguise the superficiality of his learning. His affectation of courtly ways, and his scorn of those kind enough to offer him hospitality, was apparent to all who had the misfortune to sit near him. The flourish with which he produced a little scrap of cloth to vent his nostrils excited the ridicule of all, and his pointed remarks – in Venice everyone uses forks; in Venice wine is drunk from glass; in Venice this, in Venice that – aroused only their disgust. Like many who have little to say, he said too much, interrupting without courtesy and favouring with the benefit of his wisdom those who did not desire it.

I felt almost sorry for him as Grove, with a twinkle in his eye, goaded him like a stupid bull, pulling him first one way, then the other, persuading him to make the most ridiculous statements, then forcing him to contemplate his own absurdity. There was no matter under the heavens, as far as I could see, on which the Italian did not have a firm and fixed opinion, and not a single opinion which was in any way correct or thoughtfully arrived at. In truth, he astonished me, for in my mind’s eye I had imagined him to be quite other. It was
hard to comprehend how such a man could be anything other than a buffoon, incapable of causing harm to any man unless he bored them to death, or asphyxiated them with the wafts of perfume that escaped his body.

Only once did he let down his guard, and only for the most fleeting of instants did I penetrate through that mask to what lay underneath; then all my suspicions returned in full force, and I realised that he had almost succeeded in his aim of disarming all caution. I was unprepared for it, although I should not have been so easy in giving my contempt, for that merchant I had interviewed in the Fleet Prison had forewarned me. He had mentioned his astonishment that hardened soldiers on Candia treated the man with the greatest respect, and I allowed myself to be taken in as well.

Until the moment came when, for the only time in the evening, Cola was thrust into the background by the eruption of hostility between Grove and Thomas Ken. For Cola was like one of those actors who strut the stage, preening themselves in the light of the audience’s attention. While they have eyes on them, they are the characters they pretend to be, and all present believe that they are indeed seeing King Harry at Agincourt or a prince of Denmark in his castle. But when another speaks and they are in the background, watch them then; see how the fire in them goes out, and how they become mere actors again, and only put on their disguise once more when their turn to speak comes once more.

Cola was like such a player. When Ken and Grove exchanged quotations, and Ken walked heavily out, bowed down by the certainty of his defeat – for the election to the living had been set for the next week and Grove’s victory was assured – Cola let slip the mask he had worn so well. In the background for the first time, he leaned back to regard the scene being played out before his eyes. I alone watched him; the squabbles of college Fellows had no interest for me, as I had witnessed so many already. And I alone saw the flicker of amusement, and the way in which everything said and unsaid in that fight was instantly comprehensible to him. He was playing a game with us all, and was confident of his success, and he was now underestimating his audience as I had underestimated him. He did not realise that I saw, that instant, into his soul and perceived the devilish intent that
lay hidden there, coiled and waiting to be unleashed when all around had been lulled into thinking him a fool. I took succour from that flash of understanding and thanked the Lord for allowing me such a sign; for I knew then what Cola was, just as I knew I could defeat him. He was a man who made mistakes, and his greatest error was overconfidence.

His conversation was tedious even to Grove, but good manners dictated that he be invited back to share a drink after the supper was concluded and the final blessing given. I know this to be the case, even though Cola says differently. He says that Grove escorted him directly to the college gate, and there all contact between them ceased. This cannot be, as a man of Grove’s natural courtesy would not have acted so. I do not doubt that the refreshment was curtailed, and I do not doubt that Grove lied by saying he had to go and visit Prestcott as a way of getting rid of the man, but it is inconceivable that the evening would have ended as Cola says. It is another deliberate falsehood I have detected in his account, although by this time I believe I have indicated so many that there is scarcely point in continuing the exercise further.

What is certain is that Cola expected me to go to my room, find the bottle of brandy laced with poison at the foot of my stairs – who else might it have been for, since Grove was the only other person on the stairs and he was supposed to be absent that evening? – and expected me to drink it. He then returned late in the night and, though he did not find me dead, ransacked my room and took not only the letter I had intercepted, but also the letter given to me by Samuel in 1660. It was an evil scheme, made all the worse later by his willingness to stand by and let the Blundy girl die in his place, for I have no doubt he procured that arsenic in the Low Countries, then lied outright in saying he had none in his pharmacopoeia. It is monstrous to contemplate, but some men are so wicked and depraved that no deceit is beyond their powers.

What Cola did not anticipate is that the real object of his murderous venom would be so far beyond his reach. For I did go to see Prestcott and, even though I had to suffer the greatest indignation at that wretched boy’s hands, at least the affront was matched by useful information. It was a cold evening, and I wrapped myself up as well
as I could for the interview; Prestcott at least had enough friends in the world to provide him with blankets and warm clothing, although their generosity did not extend to allowing him a fire in the grate or anything other than candles of the cheapest pig fat, which sputtered and stank as they gave off their feeble light. I had mistakenly omitted to bring any of my own, so the conversation took place in virtual darkness, and to this, as well as my foolish generosity of spirit, do I attribute Prestcott’s ability to surprise me in the way he did.

The meeting began with Prestcott’s refusal even to listen to me unless I had promised to unshackle him from the thick heavy chains which bound him to the wall – a necessary restraint, as I later learned.

‘You must understand, Dr Wallis, that I have been chained up like this for nearly three weeks, and I am mightily tired of it. My ankles are covered in sores, and the noise of the chains rattling every time I turn over is sending me mad. Does anyone expect that I will escape? Burrow through the four foot of stonework to the outside world, leap down sixty feet into the ditch and run away?’

‘I will not unchain you’, I said, ‘until I have some expectation of co-operation.’

‘And I will not co-operate until I have some expectation of continuing to live beyond the next assize.’

‘On that I may be able to offer you something. If I am satisfied by your replies, then I will assure you of a pardon from the king. You will not go free, as the insult to the Compton family would be too great for them to bear, but you will be suffered to go to America, where you can make a new life.’

He snorted. ‘More freedom than I desire,’ he said. ‘Freedom to plough the earth like some peasant, wearied to death by the dronings of Puritans and hacked to death by Indians whose methods, I may say, we would do well to imitate here. Some of these people would make any sensible man reach for his hatchet. Thank you, good Doctor, for your generosity.’

‘It is the best I can do,’ I said, although I am not sure even now whether I intended to do it. But I knew that if I offered him too much he would not believe me. ‘If you accept, you will surely live,
and later on you may win a reprieve and be allowed to return. And it is the only chance you have.’

He thought a long while, slumped on his cot and huddled in his blanket. ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I suppose I have no choice. It is better than the offer I received from Mr Lower.’

‘I’m glad you at last see reason. Now then, tell me about Mr Cola.’

He looked genuinely surprised at the question. ‘Why on earth do you want to know about him?

‘You should only be glad that I do. Why did he come and see you here?’

‘Because he is a civil and courteous gentleman.’

‘Do not waste my time, Mr Prestcott.’

‘Indeed, I do not know what else to say, sir.’

‘Did he ask you for anything?’

‘What could I give him?’

‘Something of your father’s, perhaps?’

‘Such as?’

‘A copy of Livy.’

‘That again? Tell me, Doctor, why is that so important to you?’

‘That is not your affair.’

‘In that case I do not care to answer.’

I thought it could do me no harm, as Prestcott did not have the book in any case. ‘The book is the key to some work I am doing. If I have it, I can decipher some letters. Now, did Cola ask you about it?’

‘No.’ Here Prestcott rolled on his little cot and convulsed with merriment at what he thought was a fine joke at my expense. I began to weary mightily of him.

‘Truly, he did not. I am sorry, Doctor,’ he said, wiping his eye. ‘And to make amends I will tell you what I know. Mr Cola was recently a guest of my guardian and was staying there when Sir William was attacked. Without his skill, I understand Sir William would have died of his injuries that night, and he is evidently a formidably clever surgeon to patch him up so neatly.’ He shrugged. ‘And that is all there is to be said. I can tell you no more.’