Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

My frustrations at this stage were gigantic; when talking to Prestcott, I had the whole affair in the palm of my hand, but it had slipped away from me through my own foolishness. I admit also that I was anxious to preserve my own life as well, and was fearful that another attack would be launched against me. It was for this reason that I took the step of informing the magistrate that, in my opinion, Dr. Robert Grove had been murdered.

He was aghast at the news, and perturbed at the implications of what I told him.

“The warden has no suspicions of foul play, and would not thank me for telling you of mine,” I continued. “Nonetheless, it is my duty to inform you that in my opinion there is sufficient reason for suspicion. And it is therefore imperative that the body be not buried.”

Of course, it mattered not to me what happened to the body; the confrontation with Cola had already taken place and yielded no useful result. I was more concerned that Cola know his deed was being uncovered, bit by bit, and that he felt my opposition to his aims. With luck, I thought he might communicate with his masters to tell them of all that had transpired.

For a brief while I was on the verge of having the man arrested. I changed my mind because of Mr. Thurloe, who traveled into Oxford to see me shortly after. Cola has described the way he approached me at the play in his memoir and I have no intention of repeating it. The shock he noted on my face was well seen—I was astonished, not only because I had not seen Thurloe for near three years, but because I hardly recognized him.

How changed he was from his days of greatness! It was like meeting a total stranger who yet reminds you of a person once known. In appearance there was little obvious alteration, for he was the sort of man who looks old when young, and young when old. But his demeanor bore no trace of that power which he had held so firmly in his hands. While many had bitterly resented the loss of authority, Thurloe seemed like one glad to be rid of the burden, and content in his reduction to insignificance. The set of his head, his face and the expression of deep concern had passed from him so totally that, these small details altered, the whole had changed almost beyond recognition. When he approached me, I paused awhile before making my greeting; he smiled back quietly, as if seeing my confusion, and acknowledging the cause of it.

I do believe he had so firmly placed that period of his life behind him that, even had it been offered, he would have declined to take on any public office. He later told me that he spent his days in prayer and meditation, and counted that as of more worth than all his efforts for his country. He was largely unconcerned with the society of his fellow men and, as he made clear, did not like to be disturbed by those who sought to recall what was now irretrievably past.

“I bring a message from your friend Mr. Prestcott,” he murmured in my ear. “Perhaps we might talk?”

Once the play was over I went straight home (I had moved back to my domestic comforts that afternoon) and awaited him. He was not long in coming and sat down with all the calm imperturbability that was his normal mode of conduct.

“I understand your taste for power and influence has not been slaked, Dr. Wallis,” he said. “Which does not surprise me in the slightest. I hear you have been questioning this young man, and have enough influence to have him pardoned if you so desire. You are attached to Mr. Bennet now, I believe?”

I nodded.

“What is your interest in Prestcott, and this Italian gentleman you ask him about?” he asked.

Even the shadow of Thurloe’s authority still blinded more than full exposure to the powers of a man like Mr. Bennet, and I say that it never occurred to me not to answer him, nor to point out that he had no right whatsoever to question me.

“I am certain that there is a plot which might return this country to civil war.”

“Of course there is,” Thurloe said, in that calm way with which he greeted all matters, however serious. “When at any stage in the past few years has there not been? What is new about this one?”

“What is new is that I believe it to be organized by the Spanish.”

“And what is it to be this time? Massed attack by Fifth Monarchists? A sudden cannonade by rebellious guardsmen?”

“One man. The Venetian gentleman who now passes as a philosopher. He has already killed twice, my servant and Dr. Grove. And he stole letters from me which are of the greatest importance.”

“This is the physician you asked Prestcott about?”

“He is no physician. He is a soldier, a known killer, and is here to murder the Earl of Clarendon.”

Thurloe grunted. For the first time in my life, I saw him surprised.

“You would be best to kill him first, then.”

“Then his paymasters will try again, and swiftly. At least this time I know who he is. Next time I might not be so lucky. I must use this opportunity to uncover the English end of the conspiracy and stop it once and for all.”

Thurloe stood up, took the heavy poker from the hearth and rearranged the logs on the fire so that he sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. He did this for some time; it was always a habit of his to occupy himself with some trivial physical task while he thought.

Eventually he turned to me once more. “If I were you, I should kill him,” he repeated. “If this man is dead, then the plot is at an end. It may be revived, but it may not. If he slips away from you, then you will have blood on your hands.”

“And if I am wrong?”

“Then an Italian traveler dies, ambushed on a road by highwaymen. A great tragedy, no doubt. But all except his family will forget it within weeks.”

“I cannot believe you would take your own advice in these circumstances.”

“You must. When I looked out for Oliver, I always moved immediately when I heard of a plot against his person. Risings, conspiracies, all those minor matters, they could be left to run a little, because they could always be defeated. Assassination is different. One mistake and you are ruined forever. Believe me, Dr. Wallis—do not overreach yourself with subtlety. You are dealing here with men, not geometry; they are less predictable, and more given to causing surprise.”

“I would agree wholeheartedly with you,” I said, “were it not for the fact that I have no man I could rely on to do this, and a botched attempt would only make him more cautious. And for suitable help I would have to inform Mr. Ben-net more thoroughly. I have told him a little, but very far from all.”

“Ah, yes,” Thurloe replied thoughtfully. “That ambitious and pompous gentleman. You consider him less than safe?”

I reluctantly nodded—I still did not know how Cola had found out so quickly about Matthew; it was certainly possible, though dreadful to contemplate, that Bennet himself might have passed on that information and might also be involved in the plot against Clarendon.

Thurloe leaned back in his chair and considered, sitting so long and quietly that I was half afraid he had fallen asleep in the heat of the fire, that perhaps his mind was no longer what it was, and that he could no longer occupy himself with such matters.

But I was wrong; eventually he opened his eyes and nodded to himself. “I would doubt his involvement, if that is what concerns you,” he said.

“Is there something you know that makes you conclude this?”

“No; I know less of the man than you do. I proceed from character, no more. Mr. Bennet is an able man; very able indeed. Everyone knows it, and the king is more aware than most. For all his faults, this is not a prince who surrounds himself with fools; he is not like his father. Mr. Bennet will dominate the government when Clarendon goes, as soon he must. He has power within his grasp; all he has to do is wait for the fruits of office to fall in profusion into his lap. Now, is it likely that a man such as this would suddenly indulge himself in these grandly extravagant actions, which can in no way improve his prospects? Risk all on the throw of dice when patience will soon bring all he wants? That is not his way, I think.”