Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

And so I questioned Prestcott further, seeking out every contact he had made, every single name Sir William or Cola had mentioned. He gave some useless answers, but then decided to bargain some more.

“And now, sir,” he said, moving his legs so the chains around his ankles rattled and chinked against the floor, “I have talked long enough, and had confidence in your fidelity to give you much with nothing in return. So now unlock these shackles, that I may walk about the little room like a normal man.”

God help me, I did as he asked, seeing little harm in it, and wishing to give him encouragement to continue in a cooperative fashion. I summoned the jailer, who unlocked the shackles and presented me with the key, asking me to be so good as to relock them once more when I left. It cost a shilling in bribes.

Then he left the cell, and Prestcott listened in what I thought was mournful silence as the steps echoed down the stone staircase once more.

I will not go into the details of the humiliation I suffered at the hands of that madman once the footsteps had died away. Prestcott had the cunning of the desperate, I the inattention of the concerned, for my mind was on what he had told me. In brief, within minutes of being left alone once more, Prestcott had used violence on me, stopping my mouth, binding my hands and shackling me to the cot so tightly I could neither move nor raise the alarm. I was so outraged I could barely even think correctly, and was suffused with rage when he finally put his face close to mine.

“Not pleasant, eh?” he hissed in my ear. “And I have endured many weeks of it. You are lucky; you will be here only for one night. Remember; I could easily have killed you, but I will not.”

That was all. He then sat unconcernedly for some ten minutes or more until he judged the time was right, then put on my heavy cloak and hat, picked up my Bible—my family Bible, given into my hands by my own father—and bowed in a gross parody of courtesy to me.

“Sweet dreams, Dr. Wallis,” he said. “I hope we do not meet again.”

After five minutes, I gave up struggling and lay until the morning brought my release.

Such is the providential goodness of the Lord, that He is at His most gentle when His judgment seems most harsh, and it is not for man to doubt His wisdom; instead he can only give thanks with the blindest faith that He will not abandon His true servant. The next morning, my complaints were revealed for the petty whinings they were, when the full extent of His goodness was revealed to me. I say now that the Lord is good, and loves all who believe in Him, for by what other means could my life have been preserved that night?

Only an angel of goodness, guided by the hand of the Most High, could have steered me away from the abyss and, by preserving me, allowed the kingdom to escape calamity. For I do not believe that I was so favored for my own worthless life, which is no more significant in His eyes than the least grain of dust. But as He has so constantly shown His favors to His people, so He chose me to be the instrument of their preservation, and in joy and humility, I accepted the responsibility, knowing that by His will I would succeed.

I was released shortly after dawn began, and straightaway went to the magistrate, Sir John Fulgrove, to report what had happened so he could raise the alarm and begin the hunt for the fugitive. I did not, at that stage, report my interest in the boy, although I did urge him to make sure, if possible, that he did not lose his life if caught. Then I ate in an inn, for being a prisoner is hungry work, and I was chilled to the bone.

And only then, deep in thought, did I return to my room in New College, and discover the horrors that had taken place that night, for Grove had died in my place and my room had been ransacked, with my papers gone.

Cola’s authorship of this outrage was as clear to me as if I had seen him pour the poison into the bottle with my own eyes, and his calm audacity in coming back to the college to be the very first to discover (with what expressions of shock! with what distress and horror!) the results of his own wickedness appalled me. I was told by Warden Woodward that he it was who attempted, by subtle inference and weasel words, to steer the college toward thinking that Grove had died of a seizure and it was in order to expose this lie that I asked Woodward to have Lower investigate the matter.

Lower was, of course, flattered by the request and willingly obliged. My trust in his skills was not given without reason, either, for one look at Grove’s corpse made him pause and look highly perturbed.

“I would hesitate strongly to say this was a seizure,” he said doubtfully. “I have never seen any man foam at the mouth so in such a case. The blueness of the lips, and the eyelids, is consistent with such a diagnosis, however, and I have no doubt that my friend fastened onto these signs too speedily.”

“Could he have eaten something?” the warden asked.

“He ate in hall, did he not? If it was that, then you should all be dead. I will examine his room, and see what there is to be found there, if you like.”

And thus Lower discovered the bottle, the sediment inside it, and returned to the warden’s lodgings in great excitement, explaining the experiments which might be devised to show what the substance was. Woodward was not at all interested in these details, although I found them fascinating and, having conversed on many occasions with Mr. Stahl myself, I realized Lower was perfectly correct in proposing to use his services. There was, of course, the question of Cola, for any such move would be bound to alert him. Accordingly, I decided that it would be best to confront the matter head on, and suggested to Lower that he involve the Italian at every stage of the investigations, to see whether his actions or speech gave any hint of his thoughts. I could easily have had him arrested on the spot, but I was also certain that I had not yet fathomed the whole of the mystery. I needed more time, and Cola had to be at his liberty a while longer.

Although I did not make my reasoning plain, Lower caught the inner meaning of my recommendations.

“Surely you do not suspect Mr. Cola of this?” he asked. “I know you have heard ill reports of him, but there can be no reason for him to do such a thing at all.”

I reassured him absolutely, but pointed out that, as he was perhaps the last person to see Dr. Grove, naturally some doubt must attach to him. It would be discourteous to a guest to make this known, however, and I begged that no hint of the suspicion come to his attention.

“I would not have him return to his native country speaking ill of us for all the world,” I said. “Which is why I think it a good idea if you persuade him to attend the dissection. For you can have him stand alone near the body and touch it, and see whether it accuses him.”

“I have no reason to believe that is an accurate test of such matters,’’ he said.

“Nor I. But it is a recommended procedure in such matters, and has been employed for generations. Many of the finest lawyers admit it as a useful part of examination. Should some prodigious eruption of blood occur from the corpse when Cola approaches it, then we will know of it. If not, then his name is half-cleansed of stain already. But do not let him know he has been tested in such a fashion.”

It is not my intention to repeat what others have said, nor to retell stories which I did not myself witness. Everything I say comes from my direct encounter, or from the testimony of men of unimpeachable character. As Cola was unaware of the suspicion in which he was already held, he had no reason to distort his account of that evening when he, Lower and Locke cut up Dr. Grove in Warden Woodward’s kitchen. For that reason, I understand the account he gives of it is largely truthful.