Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“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.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I gathered they had a joint interest in trading matters. Cola’s father is a merchant, and Sir William is Master of the Ordnance. One sells goods, the other uses government money to buy them. Both desire to make as much money as possible, and naturally they wished to keep their association quiet, for fear of Lord Clarendon’s wrath. That, at least, is how I understand things.”

“And why do you understand them so?”

Prestcott gave me a look of contempt. “Come now, Dr. Wallis. Even I know how Sir William and Lord Clarendon detest each other. And even I know that if the faintest whiff of corruption attached itself to Sir William’s exercise of his office, Clarendon would use it to eject him.”

“Apart from your own supposition, do you have any reason to think this fear of Lord Clarendon’s wrath is why Cola’s association with Sir William was kept hidden?”

“They talked of Clarendon incessantly. Sir William hates him so much, he cannot keep him out of his conversation at times. Mr. Cola was exceptionally courteous, I think, in listening so patiently to his complaints.”

“How is that?”

Prestcott was so naïve that he did not even begin to comprehend my interest in everything that Cola did or said, and as gently as a lamb I led him through every word and gesture that he had heard the Italian utter, or seen him make.

“On three occasions when I was there, Sir William returned to the subject of Lord Clarendon, and every time he harped on about what a malign influence he was. How he held the king in the palm of his hand, and encouraged His Majesty’s licentiousness, so that he might have free run to loot the kingdom. How all good Englishmen wished to oust him, but were unable to summon the resolve or the courage to take decisive action. You know the sort of thing, I am sure.”

I nodded to encourage him and to establish that sympathy in conversation which encourages greater openness of discourse.

“Mr. Cola listened patiently, as I say, and made valiant attempts to deflect the conversation into less heated areas, but sooner or later it came back to the Lord Chancellor’s perfidy. What particularly incensed Sir William was Clarendon’s great house at Cornbury Park.”

I believe I must have frowned here, as I could not grasp the meaning of it. The wealth that had been heaped on Clarendon since the Restoration had, indeed, incited great envy, but there seemed no particular reason why this should focus on Cornbury. Prestcott saw my perplexity, and for once was kind enough to enlighten me.

“The Lord Chancellor has acquired large portions of land right up into Chipping Norton, deep into Compton territory. Sir William believes that a concerted assault is being launched on his family’s interest in South Warwickshire. As he said, not long ago the Comptons would have known how to deal with such impudence.”

I nodded gravely, since my penetration into this great mystery was deepening with every word that dropped from Prestcott’s lips. I was beginning to think, even, that I would keep my word to the lad, for his testimony might well prove useful in the future, and I could not have that were he to swing.

“Mr. Cola successfully diverted the talk onto other matters, but nothing was safe. Once he mentioned his experience of English roads; even that brought Sir William back to the topic of Clarendon.”

“How so?”

Prestcott paused. “It is a very trivial matter.”

“Of course it is,” I agreed. “But tell me nonetheless. And when you have done, I will ensure you are unshackled, and remain so for the rest of your short stay in this place.”

I have no doubt that, like all people in similar circumstances, he invented where he could not remember; such duplicity is common and was expected. It is the task of the expert interrogator to separate wheat and chaff, and allow the winds to blow away the rubbish from the precious seed.

“They were talking of the road which runs northward from Witney to Chipping Norton, and which Cola had taken on his way to Compton Wynyates. Why he did so I cannot imagine, as it is not the most direct route. But I gather he is one of these curious gentlemen. Nosy, I call them, who peek and pry at all things not their affair, and call it enquiry.”

I suppressed a sigh, and smiled at the boy in what I hoped would appear as sympathy. Prestcott, at least, appeared to take it as such.

“It is, apparently, the road which my Lord Clarendon takes on his way to Cornbury, and Cola joked that if Sir William was fortunate, Clarendon might be shaken to death by the journey, or drowned in a water-filled hole, so bad was the condition of the road, and so lax the county at maintaining it. Do you really want to hear this, sir?”

I nodded. “Continue,” I said. I could feel the tingle in my blood as I knew I was almost there, and could brook no further delays. “Tell me.”

Prestcott shrugged. “Sir William laughed, and tried to match him by saying that maybe he would be shot by a highwayman as well, for it is known he always travels with only a small retinue. Many a man had been murdered of late, with the assailant never apprehended. Then the conversation went on to other things. And that,” Prestcott said, “is that. End of the story.”

I had it. I knew I had unraveled the layers of the problem and penetrated deep into its heart. It was like one of those conundra, sent out in competition by mathematicians to challenge their rivals. However formidable in appearance, however deliberately designed to perplex and confuse, yet there is always a simplicity at their core, and the art of victory lies in careful thought and a calm working through of the outer reaches until that center is arrived at. Like an army laying siege to a castle, the skill lies not in a wide assault around the perimeter, but a gentle probing of the outworks until the weak spot of the defenses—for there always is one—is revealed. Then all the strength of the attack can be focused on that one point until it gives way. Cola had made the mistake of visiting Prestcott; I had persuaded Prestcott to tell me of their connection.

And now I had nearly the whole plot in my hand, and my earlier error was made clear. Cola was not here to kill the king, as I had thought. He was here to murder the Lord Chancellor of England.

But I still could not credit that this thick-headed gentleman, Sir William Compton, was capable of such subtle de-viousness that he might plot with the Spanish for months and sponsor a hired murderer. As I say, I knew him. A challenge, or some such bravado, I could have understood. But not this. I had gone far; but not far enough. Behind Compton, I was sure, lay another. There had to be.