Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

By the time we docked, I had thoroughly ingratiated myself with this man and learned that he did not wish to spend much time in port. He was distressed about the death of di Pietro, concerned for his job and wanted to head back for London as swiftly as possible. So I offered to deliver the letters to their destination on his behalf, saying I would be glad of the chance to spend some time in this part of the world. As he had no notion there was anything special about any of them, he agreed readily and says he will bring me back to London when he comes over with his next load of good’s.

We went through the list as properly as any post officer, and checked the addresses of each envelope against the list he had in his hand.

“This one has no address,’’ I told him, picking up the letter which interests you so much.

“Nor it has. But no matter, it is here on my list.”

And he pointed out for me to see that he had instructions, in di Pietro’s own handwriting, that this particular letter was to be delivered to a man called Cola, in Guldenstraat.

Sir, I must tell you that the house concerned is that of the Ambassador of Spain, and that this Cola is well known there. I have not yet delivered it, for I was told he would not be there until tomorrow, so I refused to hand it over, saying I was under strict instructions to give it into his hands alone. In the meantime, I have prevailed on the English in this place to give me lodging, which they agreed to with great friendliness, for they feel cut off and anxious for any news of home.

When I return I will of course call upon you to offer such further news as I have found. Please be assured, dearest and kindest sir, etc. etc….

Even though the affection of my dear boy’s salutation warmed me, I fear I might have forgotten myself sufficiently as to box his ears with frustration had he been present. I realized that he had done a fine job; but nonetheless he had not succeeded as completely as I needed. I still did not have the name of the book that formed the key, and without that I was not greatly advanced. But, however much he had failed in this, I realized he more than made up for it elsewhere. For I knew that the Ambassador of Spain, Esteban de Gamarra, was an implacable, dangerous foe of England. That one piece of information alone justified everything I had done so far. For this Cola, I had been told months earlier, was associating with radicals, and now here he was with an address at the Spanish embassy. It was a fascinating puzzle.

The information placed me in a quandary, because if I had disobeyed by pursuing di Pietro, interfering in this matter was even more grave. Mr. Bennet was still my sole protector and I could not afford to lose his good will if I could not replace him with someone better. However, any form of link between the Spanish and the radicals was of the utmost seriousness. The prospect of an alliance between the upholder of Catholicism and the most fervent fanatics of Protestantism was hardly to be countenanced, but nonetheless I held in my hand the first faint glimmerings of such a connection, and I could not allow what seemed unlikely in abstract to overawe the most direct and compelling evidence.

This has ever been my lodestone, in philosophy as in governance; the mind of man is weak, and often cannot grasp patterns that appear to be against all reason. The codes I have spent so much of my life in deciphering are a simple example of this, for who could understand (if they did not know) how a jumble of meaningless letters could inform the reader of the thoughts of the greatest in the land, or the most dangerous in the field. It is against common sense, and yet it is so. Reason beyond ordinary human understanding is often to be met with in God’s creation, so much so that I have had occasion to laugh at Mr. Locke, who makes so much of common sense in his philosophy. “Great things doeth he, which we cannot comprehend” (Job 37:5). In all things, we forget this at our cost.

Reason said Spaniards would not pay to put Republican sectaries in power, nor would these self-same sectaries willingly subordinate their desires to Spanish policy. Yet the evidence was beginning to hint at precisely some such understanding between them. I could, at that stage, make nothing of it and so declined to elaborate fantastic theories; but at the same time I refused to reject evidence simply because it did not immediately coincide with reason.

I was certain to be ridiculed if I presented my information to Mr. Bennet, who prided himself on his understanding of the Spanish and was convinced of their friendship. Nor could I take any action against the sectaries, for as yet they had done nothing ill. So I could do nothing—once I had deciphered the letter, discovered who had written it, and amassed more evidence, then perhaps I could present a stronger case, but until then I had to keep my suspicions to myself. I very much hoped that Matthew would remember my instructions that getting the key to the letter was vital, as it was extremely difficult to communicate with him in any way. In the meantime I wrote a report to Mr. Bennet informing him (in general terms) that something was stirring among the radicals, and assuring him of my best service.

A week later, Matthew repaid my trust in him, and I received another letter which contained something of the information I required. He offered four possibilities, apologizing for being able to do no better. He had delivered the letter once more, and this time had been shown into a small room, which appeared to be an office. He found it disgusting, for it was lined with crucifixes and stank with the odor of idolatry, but while waiting for Cola himself to appear, he saw four volumes on the desk and swiftly noted down their titles. I was pleased by this, as it vindicated my faith in him—to act so was intelligent and courageous, and he would have been in great danger if anyone had come through the door while he was writing. Unfortunately, the finer points of the cryptographer’s art were lost on him—he did not realize (perhaps this was my fault for not having instructed him properly) that each edition of a book differs and that the wrong edition made my message as unintelligible as the wrong book. All I had to go on was the following, which he had copied out, letter by letter, in total ignorance of its import:

Almost as importantly, and very much more dangerously, he encountered Cola himself, and gave me an early indication of the man’s powers of deception. I have the letter still. Of course, I keep every remembrance of Matthew—every letter, every little exercise book he once filled is in a silver box, lined in silk and bound with the lock of hair I stole one night while he lay asleep. My eyesight is fading now and soon I will be able to read his words no longer; I will burn them for I could not bear to have anyone else read them to me, or snigger at my weakness. My last contact with him will be lost when the light flickers out. Even now I do not open that box up very often, as I find the sadness difficult to bear.

Cola at once began to exercise his charm, trapping the lad—too young and naïve to realize the difference between kindness and its simulacrum—into acquaintanceship, then the appearance of friendship.

He is a chubby man with bright eyes, and when he appeared and I gave him the letter, he chuckled with thanks, clapped me on the back and gave me a silver guilder. Then he questioned me closely about all things, showing great interest in my replies, and even begged me to return that he might question me further.

I must say, sir, that he gave no sign of any concern with matters political, nor did he ever mention anything the slightest bit improper. Rather, he showed himself the perfect gentleman, courteous in manner, and easy to approach and talk to in all things.