Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“Her name is Sarah Blundy. The person you insisted must die. You have stopped her mouth for good, and that proof will now remain hidden forever, for she must have hidden it well. You will now never prove your father’s innocence, nor get your estates back. You name will be forever tarnished with the title of traitor. It is a just punishment for your sins. You must live knowing you are the author of your own misfortunes.”

He sat back again with a knowing smile, “You are making fun of me, sir. It is your way, perhaps, but I must ask you to be more direct with me. Tell me the truth, please.”

I told him again. Adding more details, then still more details until the smirk faded from his face, and his hands began to tremble. I say again, I took no pleasure in it, and though it was just, I took no satisfaction either in the hideous additional punishment that was then meted out to him. For as I told him precisely how his father had betrayed the king, and come close even to murdering him, his voice fell into a growl, and the hideous demonic look that came over his twisted and contorted features frightened even Thurloe, I believe.

It was well that he had not lost his old habits of caution, and had a servant in the background, ready for all eventualities. As I finished, Prestcott launched himself at my throat, and would surely have torn the very life from me had he been granted just a few more seconds before being manhandled to the ground.

As a priest, I necessarily believe in the possession of men by demons, but I think that I had always used the notion in careless, thoughtless ways. I could not have been more wrong, and those skeptics who disbelieve in such things are deluded by their own vanity. There are indeed demons, and they can take over the bodies and souls of men and drive them to frenzies of malice and destruction. Prestcott was all the proof I could ever need to persuade me to put aside skepticism forever, for no human form would be capable of the violent bestiality I saw in that room. The monstrous devil in Prestcott, I believe, had controlled his thoughts and deeds for many months, but in such careful, subtle ways that its presence was unsuspected.

Now it was finally frustrated, its fury and violent activity burst out in hideous extremity, making him roll on the floor, scratching the boards with his fingernails until the blood spurted from them and was dragged in thin red lines down the grain of the wood. It took a great effort to restrain him, and even we were unable to stop him crashing his head, time and again against the furniture, and trying to bite us whenever we incautiously put a hand near him. And he screamed hideous obscenities all the while, although fortunately most of the words could not be made out, and continued thrashing around until he was bound and gagged and taken to the university prison, there to wait the arrival of some member of his family to take him in charge.

I would have left for London immediately even had I not been told, by Mr. Wood of all people, that Cola had fled Oxford after hearing of Sarah Blundy’s death. Both she and the mother were now dead, and I felt that, at the very least, some of his plans were frustrated; his ability to communicate with those supposedly assisting him was greatly diminished, enough to make any further sojourn in Oxford useless to him. More importantly, I considered he must have heard of Prestcott’s descent into frenzy—if Thurloe was right, and the first attempt on Clarendon was to be through the young lunatic, then he would have realized that the move had failed, and it was now time for him to act. This thought, more than any other, prompted me to leave as speedily as possible.

The journey was as tedious as ever, and I lurched along, conscious that my quarry was but a few hours ahead of me. But no one at Charing Cross recalled someone answering his description when I arrived and asked questions. So I went directly to Whitehall, where Mr. Bennet was most likely to be found, and sent in a message begging the favor of an interview with the utmost urgency.

He saw me within an hour; I resented the delay, but had prepared myself for an even greater one.

“I hope this is indeed important, doctor,” he said as I entered his chamber which, I was relieved to see, was empty save for himself. “It is unlike you to cause such a commotion.”

“I believe it is, sir.”

“So tell me what is on your mind now? Still concerned with plots?”

“Indeed. Before I explain, I must ask a question of the greatest importance. When I informed you of my suspicions a few weeks ago, did you communicate this to anyone? Anyone at all?”

He shrugged, and frowned at the implied criticism. “I may have done.”

“It is important. I would not ask otherwise. Less than two days after I spoke to you, Cola murdered my most trusted servant, whose name I gave you. He then came to Oxford and attempted to kill me also. He knew I had a copy of a letter of his, and he stole it, along with another I have kept by me for years. I have since become convinced that the man who has organized his presence here is Lord Bristol. What I must know is whether you informed his lordship of my suspicions.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing for a long while, and I could see that his acute and rapid mind was assessing every aspect of what I said, and every implication of my words as well.

“I hope you do not suggest…”

“Had I done so, I would hardly have raised the subject with you. But your loyalty to your friends is well known, and you would not expect any man so indebted to the king to act against his interest. And I believe Cola’s target is not the king, but the Lord Chancellor.”

This surprised him, and I could see that all now began to make sense to his mind in a way it had not before. “The answer to your question is that I believe I did mention it to Lord Bristol, or at least to one of his entourage.”

“And his relations with Lord Clarendon are as bad as ever?”

“They are. But not so bad that I can easily consider he would act in such a way. He is given to mad schemes, but I have always considered him too weak to achieve much. Perhaps I underestimated him. You had best tell me exactly why you conclude this.”

I did so, and Mr. Bennet listened with the greatest gravity throughout, not even interrupting when I confessed to having been in consultation with John Thurloe. When I finished he again said nothing for a long while.

“Well, well,” he said at last. “A string to hang an earl. It is difficult to credit, and yet I must do so. The question is, how to deal with the situation.”

“Cola must be stopped, and Bristol punished.”

Mr. Bennet looked at me with contempt. “Yes, of course. It is easier said than done, however. Do you know what Cola’s plans are?”

“Not in detail.”

“How he communicates with Lord Bristol?”

“No.”

“Whether there be any letters or hard evidence that he has ever done so?”

“No.”

“And you expect me to do what? Charge his Lordship with high treason, perhaps? You forget, perhaps, that just as I am your patron, so he is mine. If I am to break with him then I must justify myself absolutely, or be accused of perfidy. If Lord Bristol falls, half the court falls with him, and there will be few restraints on Clarendon, and even fewer on the king. The economy of the entire government will be disrupted and crippled. I tell you, Dr. Wallis, I find it hard to credit that the man can risk so much.”

“He does. He must be stopped and you must take his place.”

Bennet looked at me.

“I do not flatter you, or tell you anything you do not feel in your own heart. Your value to His Majesty is well known. Your usefulness in balancing the interests of Lord Clarendon would be equally clear. Lord Bristol’s lack of moderation has prevented him from doing that. You can, and can do so the better if you are free of his foolishness. You have to break with him and pull him down yourself. If you do not, you can be certain that he will fall anyway, and you will go down with him.”