Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“And the mother?”

“I have met the woman only a few times, and found her quite unremarkable. She has scraped together enough money for a washing house, and works hard for her living. I think her only concern is to put by enough money for her daughter to have a dowry, and this is Sarah’s main concern as well. Again, I know something of her reputation through my researches, but I believe the madness of faction has left her as entirely as it has left the country as a whole.”

I did not completely take Mr. Wood’s word, since I had my doubts about his ability to see deeply into such matters, but his report settled my mind and I gladly turned to more interesting quarry. Occasionally, I took note that the daughter would travel to Abingdon or Banbury or Burford; that men of doubtful loyalty—such as the Irish magus I mentioned earlier—would visit their little cottage. Nonetheless, I had few worries. They seemed determined to abandon their previous desire to remake England in their own image, and appeared content simply to make as much money as their positions and abilities would allow. To that laudable aim, I could not object, and I paid them little attention until Marco da Cola went straight to their cottage on the pretext of treating the old woman for her injury.

I have, naturally, read his words on this subject with the greatest of care, and am almost admiring at the consummate skill with which he makes all out to be innocent and charitable. His technique, I note, is to tell something of the truth in everything, but wrap each little fragment of veracity in layer upon layer of falsity. It is hard to imagine a man would take such trouble, and if I did not know the truth of the matter I would undoubtedly be convinced of the genuineness of his candor, and the extent of his generosity.

But look at the matter from a wider perspective, with the benefit of more information than Mr. Cola is willing to provide. Conversant with radical circles in the Low Countries, he comes to Oxford and within hours makes the acquaintance of the family who knows more such people than anyone else in the county. Even though they are far outside his social sphere, he visits them three or four times a day, and is more attendant than a real physician would be with even the wealthiest of clients. No man of sense or reason acts in such a way, and it is a tribute to Mr. Cola’s tale that, on reading it, such absurd and unlikely behavior seems perfectly comprehensible.

Once Mr. Boyle told me he had also gravitated into the society of the High Street Philosophers, I knew that at last I had some possibility of learning more about the man’s movements and thoughts.

“I hope you do not mind that I took him under my wing in this way,” Boyle said when he mentioned it to me, “but your account was so fascinating that when the man himself appeared in the coffee house, I could not resist examining him myself. And I must say I think you are entirely wrong about him.”

“You did not dissent from my argument.”

“But it was an easy speculation, based on abstraction. Now that I have met him, I do not concur. We must always take character into account, surely, for that is the surest guide to a man’s soul and therefore to his intentions and deeds. I see nothing in his character which would coincide with your speculations about his motives. Quite the reverse.”

“But he is cunning, and you are trusting. You might as soon say a fox is harmless to a hen because it approaches gently and softly. It is only dangerous when it strikes.”

“Men are not foxes, Dr. Wallis, and nor am I a hen.”

“You admit the possibility of error, though?”

“Of course.” And Boyle smiled in that thin and arrogant way of his which indicated his difficulty in even conceiving of the notion.

“So you see the wisdom nonetheless of keeping an eye on him.”

Boyle frowned with displeasure at the idea. “I will do no such thing. I am happy to oblige you in many ways, but I will not play informer. I know you occupy yourself in such a fashion, but I do not wish to be involved in any way. It is a base and shabby trade you profess, Dr. Wallis.”

“I greatly respect your delicacy,” I said, ruffled at his words, as he rarely expressed himself with such force. “But sometimes the safety of the kingdom cannot afford such a fastidious approach.”

“The kingdom cannot afford to be cheapened by squalid activities among men of honor, either. You should take care, doctor. You wish to guard the integrity of good society, yet you use the habits of the gutter to do so.”

“I would like to reason men into good behavior,” I replied. “But they seem remarkably impervious to such persuasion.”

“Just be careful you do not harry men too much, and push them into unreasonable behavior they would not ordinarily countenance. It is a risk, you know.”

“I would normally agree. But I have told you of Mr. Cola, and you agreed that my fears are reasonable. And I have more than enough wounds of my own now to be sure of the danger this man poses.”

Boyle expressed his sympathies for Matthew’s death, and gave me words of comfort; he was the most generous of men, and was willing to risk a rebuff by intimating that he was aware of the magnitude of my loss. I was grateful to him, but could not allow his words on Christian resignation to deflect me from my aim.

“You will pursue this man to the end, but you have no certainty that he did kill your servant.”

“Matthew was following him closely, he is here to commit a crime and is a known killer. You are right; I have no absolute proof, for I did not see the deed, nor did anyone else. I defy you, however, to assert with any reason he is not responsible.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Boyle, “but in my case I will not condemn until I have more certainty. Take my warning, doctor. Be sure your anger does not obscure your vision and drag you down to his level. ‘Mine eye affecteth mine heart,’ it says in Lamentations. Make sure the reverse does not become too true.”

He stood up to go.

“At least, if you will not help, I trust you have no objection to my approaching Mr. Lower,” I said, angered at the lofty way he could dismiss matters of such importance.

“That is between you and him, although he is careful of his friends, and quick to take offense on their behalf. I doubt he will assist if he knows what you want, as he is greatly taken with the Italian, and prides himself on his good judgment of men.”

Thus forewarned, I asked the doctor to see me the next day. I had some regard for Lower. At that time he affected a frivolous and carefree manner, but even a man less acute than myself could see that he had a burning desire for fame and craved worldly success more than anything else. I knew that staying in Oxford, cutting up his beasts and playing the assistant would not satisfy him forever. He wanted recognition for his work, and a place with the greatest of the experimentalists. And he knew as well as any that to stand a chance in London he would need luck and some very good friends indeed. This was his weak spot, and my opportunity.

I summoned him on the pretext of asking his advice about my health. There was nothing wrong with me then and, apart from a weakness about my eyes, nothing wrong with me now either. Nonetheless. I affected a pain in my arm, and submitted to an examination. He was a good physician—unlike many of those quacks who intone ponderously, come up with some complex diagnosis and prescribe an expensive and fatuous remedy, Lower confessed himself quite bemused and said he didn’t think there was really anything the matter with me. He recommended rest—a cheap enough remedy, it must be said, but one which I could not afford, even had it been needed.

“I understand that you have made the acquaintance of a man called Cola, is that right?” I asked him when we had settled down and I had given him a glass of wine for his trouble. “Taken him under your wing, in fact?”