Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“Lord Bristol is jealous of your ascendancy; if he believes for certain that you connived to place your own daughter on the throne by exploiting the queen’s incapacity, he will be consumed with jealousy at your prospects, and could be persuaded to try and impeach you in the House of Commons. If Mr. Bennet refuses to support such a move at the crucial moment, it will fail, and the king will have to deal with a man who has tried publicly to usurp his authority by forcing his chief minister out. He would have to act to preserve the crown’s reputation.”

“How would this tale be put into circulation?”

“A young colleague of mine at Oxford, Dr. Lower, is greatly desirous of making his way in London. Were you to favor him, I am sure he would allow it to be said that he had been called in secret to examine the queen and found clear evidence of her barrenness. Naturally, if put on oath, Mr. Lower would tell the truth, and deny he had performed any such examination.”

“Of course,” Mr. Bennet intervened, “you have no choice, if you accept this proposition, but to trust that I will come out in your support at that crucial moment. I am happy to give you my word, but on such a matter as this, do not expect it will be enough.”

“I think, sir, that ways can be found to make it in your interest to keep your word.”

Bennet nodded. “That is all I ask.”

“You agree to this idea?” I said in astonishment that it should meet with so little resistance or objection.

“I believe so. I will endeavor to use the fall of Lord Bristol to bolster my position as the king’s chief minister; Mr. Ben-net will use it to strengthen his so that he might pull me down in due course. That comes afterward, however; for the time being we must consider ourselves allies in a common, and necessary, purpose.”

“And the Italian must not cause any troubles,” Bennet said. “He cannot be arrested, nor brought to any account where he can speak. The government cannot afford to be shaken by tales of treason so close in amongst the king’s friends.”

“He must be killed,” I said. “Lend me some soldiers, and I will ensure it is done.”

And this too was agreed. I left the meeting some time later, confident that my duty was complete, and that now I could concentrate on my personal vengeance.

After this encounter, Clarendon kept to his house surrounded by guards, and put it out that his gout (a real complaint, for he was tormented by the disease mercilessly, and had been for many years past) was upon him again. His visit to Cornbury was canceled and he cowered at home, leaving only to make the short journey from Piccadilly to Whitehall to wait on the king.

And I hunted for Cola, using all the powers I had been given to search out his whereabouts. I had fifty soldiers ready for use, and every informer was pressed into service. All of the radicals I could lay my hands on were arrested, in case the Italian had taken refuge with them; the Spanish ambassador’s house was discreetly watched, back and front, and I had people going around nearly every tavern, inn and hostel asking for information. The docks were watched as well, and I asked my merchant friend Mr. Williams to put it abroad that any foreigner asking for a passage was to be reported to me immediately.

The French, I believe, do these things more effectively, as they can call on what they term a police to ensure order in their towns. After the experience of searching for Cola, I came to think that such a body might be of some use in London as well, although there seems no chance of it ever being established. Perhaps with such a force, Cola might have been found more quickly; perhaps he might not have come so close to accomplishing his aim. All I knew was that, for three days of disappointment, I searched in vain. There was not even a whisper of the man, which I considered incredible for one normally so noticeable. That he was in London was certain, there was nowhere else for him to go. But it was as if he had dissolved into the air like a spirit.

I had, of course, to make regular reports to Lord Clarendon and Mr. Bennet about my progress, and I could sense their ebbing confidence as, day after day, I told them of my failure. Mr. Bennet said nothing directly, but I knew him well enough to see that my own position was now at stake as well, and that I had to find the Italian speedily if I was not to lose his support. The visit on the fourth day of my search was the worst, for I had to stand throughout the interview once more and suffer his ever-growing coldness, which bore heavily on me as I walked afterward across the courtyards of the palace to the river.

Then I stopped, for I knew that I had detected something of the utmost importance, but could not instantly place in my mind what it could be. But I had a presentiment of the greatest danger which would not leave me, however much I thought and tried to discover what idea had been raised in my mind. It was a beautiful morning, I remember, and I had decided to revive my spirits by walking from Mr. Bennet’s quarters across Cotton Garden, then through a small passageway into St. Stephen’s Court to get to Westminster Stairs. It was in this little passageway, enclosed by heavy oak doors at either end, that the worry came upon me first, but I shrugged it off and continued to walk. Only as I stood on the quayside and was about to get into my boat did the understanding come to me, and I immediately made my way as swiftly as possible back to the nearest guards.

“Sound the alarm,” I said, once I had established with him my authority. “There is an assassin in the building.”

I gave him a swift description of the Italian, then returned to Mr. Bennet, and burst in on him without, this time, waiting for any formalities. “He is here,” I said. “He is in the palace.”

Mr. Bennet looked skeptical. “You have seen him?”

“No. I smelled him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I smelled him. In the corridor. He wears a particular perfume, which is quite unmistakable, and which no Englishman would ever use. I smelled it. Believe me, sir, he is here.”

Bennet grunted. “And what have you done about it?”

“I have alerted the guards, and they are beginning to search. Where is the king? And the chancellor?”

“The king is at his prayers, and the chancellor is not here.”

“You must place extra guards.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, and straightaway summoned some officials and began giving orders. For the first time, I think, I understood why His Majesty held him in such high regard, for he acted calmly and without any show of disturbance, but moved with the greatest dispatch. Within minutes, guards were surrounding the king, the prayers were brought to an early conclusion—although not so hastily that any alarm was given to the attending courtiers—and small parties of soldiers fanned out across the palace, with its hundreds of rooms and courtyards and corridors, searching for the intruder.

“I hope you are right, sir,” Mr. Bennet said, as we watched a small party of officials being stopped and scrutinized. “If you are not, then you will not have to answer to me.”

Then I saw the man I had sought for so many days. Mr. Bennet occupied a set of rooms on the corner, with one pair of windows giving out onto the Thames, the other onto the alleyway leading to Parliament Stairs. And down this, walking calmly from Old Palace Yard past the Prince’s Lodgings, I saw a familiar figure. Without any shadow of a doubt, it was Cola, as cool as ever, though dressed less conspicuously, looking for all the world as though he had a perfect right to be there.

“There,” I shouted, grabbing Mr. Bennet by the shoulder. It took him a long time to forgive the action. “There he is. Quickly now!”