Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“And they are dead. They can’t tell you where it is now.”

“Precisely. Nor can they tell Jack Prestcott.” Thurloe smiled. “Which is the greatest relief of all. Because if he had that material, then he could have asked for an earldom and half a county, and the king would have given it to him. And Clarendon would have fallen without a murmur.”

“And this is what you told Prestcott I would give him?”

“I said merely you would give him information. Which you can now do, since I have passed it on to you.”

“You know already what Prestcott’s information is?”

“No. But I must be strictly honest and say that I can guess what it is.”

“And you decided not to tell me, so I would have that girl killed.”

“That is correct. I would have preferred to have those documents of Blundy’s so I could destroy them. But as that seemed unlikely to come about, it was best no one else should have them either. They would damage the standing and safety of too many people, including myself.”

“You had me commit murder for your own ends,” I said flatly, appalled by the man’s ruthlessness.

“I told you power is not for the squeamish, doctor,” he said quietly. “And what have you lost? You want your revenge on Cola and his patrons, and Prestcott will let you have it.”

Then he signaled for Prestcott to be brought, and the youth came in, preening himself in satisfaction at his own skill. At least I was sure that would not last long. I had agreed to spare him from trial, but I knew the knowledge he would have from my lips would be a greater punishment. Nor was I in a mood to spare him anything.

He began with lengthy and hypocritical assertions of his great gratitude to me for my kindness and mercy; these I cut short brusquely. I knew what I had done, and I wanted no congratulations. It was necessary, but my hatred and contempt for the man who had forced me to it knew few bounds.

Thurloe, I believe, saw my impatience and anger, and intervened before I became too outraged.

“The question is, Mr. Prestcott, who has guided you to your conclusions? Who gave you the hints and suggestions which have led you to your conviction about Mordaunt’s guilt? You have told me much about your enquiries, but you have not told all, and I do not like to be deceived.”

He flushed at the accusation, and attempted to pretend he was not frightened of the threat implicit in Thurloe’s quiet, gentle voice. Thurloe, who could be more terrifying with less effort than any man I knew, sat out the bluster.

“I say again, you have not told something. By your own account, you had never heard of Sir Samuel Morland, yet found out much about him and his interests quite easily. You had no introduction to Lord Bedford’s steward, yet were received by him and found him free with all manner of information. How did you know to do this? Why would such a man have talked to you? This was the critical moment in your quest, was it not? Before that all was dark and obscure, after it everything was clear and lucid. Someone told you Mordaunt was a traitor, someone told you of his connection to Samuel Morland, and encouraged you in your quest. Before then, all was suspicion and half-formed idea.”

Prestcott still refused to answer, but hung his head like a schoolboy caught cheating in his work.

“I hope you are not going to tell us you made it all up. Dr. Wallis here has taken substantial risks on your behalf, and has entered into a bargain with you. That contract will be null and void unless you fulfill your side of it.”

Eventually he raised his head and stared at Thurloe, a strange and (I would have said) almost maniacal smile on his face. “I had it from a friend.”

“A friend. How kind of him. Would you care to share the name of this friend?”

I felt myself leaning forward in anticipation of his reply, for I was sure his next words would answer the question for which I had risked so much.

“Kitty,” he said, and I stared at him in total puzzlement. The name meant nothing to me at all.

“Kitty,” Thurloe repeated, as imperturbable as ever. “Kitty. And he is…?”

“She. She is, or was, a whore.”

“A very well-informed one, it seems.”

“She is now very well-placed in her trade. It is extraordinary, is it not, how fortune favors some people? When I first met her she was walking to Tunbridge to ply her trade. Six months later, she is comfortably installed as the mistress of one of the greatest men in the land.”

Thurloe smiled encouragingly in that bland way of his.

“She is a girl of great good sense,” Prestcott continued. “Before her rise, I was kind to her, and when I encountered her by chance in London she paid me back handsomely, by retelling gossip she had heard.”

“By chance?”

“Yes. I was walking around, and she saw me and approached me. She happened to be passing.”

“I’m sure she was. Now, this great man who keeps her. His name is… ?”

Prestcott drew himself more upright in the chair. “My Lord of Bristol,” he said. “But I beg you not to say I told you. I promised my discretion.”

I sighed heavily, not only because my case was advanced immeasurably, but also because Prestcott’s answer was so obviously true. Just as it was not in Mr. Bennet’s character to risk all on a throw, so it was very much in that of Bristol to chance all he had so recklessly. He thought of himself as the king’s greatest adviser, although in truth he had no office and little authority. His open Catholicism had debarred him from position, and in all matters he was bested by Clarendon on policy. It rankled, for he was undoubtedly a man of great courage and loyalty, who had been by the king’s side as long as any, and shared exile and poverty with him. He was a man of extraordinary qualities, and had as good an education as any man of that age, a graceful and beautiful person, with great eloquence in discourse. He was equal to a good part in any affair, but was the unfittest man alive to conduct it, for, great though his qualities were, his vanity and ambition far exceeded them, and he had a confidence in his capacities which often intoxicated, transported and exposed him. He espoused policies of the smallest prudence and the greatest hazard, but did so with such sweet reason that they seemed the only course to take. It would not be difficult to persuade others that he had attempted Clarendon’s murder, for he was perfectly capable of inventing such a foolishness.

“You may rest assured that we will not betray your trust,” Thurloe said. “I must thank you, young man. You have been very helpful.”

Prestcott looked puzzled. “And that is it? You want no more of me?”

“Later maybe. But not at the moment.”

“In that case,” he said, turning to me, “you will favor me with one further piece of information as well. The evidence of Mordaunt’s guilt which Mr. Thurloe tells me undoubtedly exists. Where is it to be found? Who has it?”

Even in my mood of blackness, I felt the ability to pity him then. He was stupid and deluded, cruel and credulous by turns, violent in deed and soul, full of bile and superstition, a monster of perversion. But his one genuine feeling was the reverential love he had for his father, and his faith in his honesty was so direct it had carried him through all his journeys and troubles. That goodness had been so corrupted by rancor it was hard to see the virtuous kernel within, and yet it was there. I took no pleasure in extinguishing it, nor in telling him that his cruelty made him the author of his own, ultimate misfortune.

“There was only one person who knew where it was.”

“And the name, sir? I will go there directly.” He leaned forward eagerly, a look of unsuspecting anticipation on his youthful countenance.