Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

Even before I flung open the door to make certain, I knew the sound came from the castle. The crowd was assembling, and I saw the first thin fingers of dawn in the sky. There was not long, and I had no choices left, nor could I delay a second longer.

I prepared my instruments before I woke Mrs. Blundy up, laying out the quills and the ribbons and the long silver tube, so that I could manipulate them with one hand. I stripped off my coat, and rolled up my sleeve, and positioned the stool in the best position.

Then I woke her. “Now, madam,” I said, “we must proceed. Can you hear me?”

She stared at the ceiling, then nodded. “I hear you, doctor, and I am in your hands. Is your friend come? I cannot see him.”

“We must proceed without him. It will make no difference. You must have blood, and soon; it matters not where it comes from. Now, give me your arm.”

It was very much more difficult than the first time; her emaciated state made it fiendishly hard to find a suitable vessel, and I wasted time probing, then withdrawing the quill some half dozen times before I was satisfied. She bore it patiently, as though hardly aware of what was going on, and impervious to the sharp pain I inflicted on her in my haste. Then I prepared myself, cutting into my flesh and jabbing the quill in as quickly as possible while her blood dribbled down her arm.

When the flow of blood from my arm was free and easy, I moved into a better position, then picked up the silver tube and inserted it into the end. The blood swiftly ran through and spurted out in a hot red jet, splashing over the bedclothes as I maneuvered the tube to bring it into line with the quill in her arm.

Then it was done, the conjunction was made and when I saw there were no obstructions I started counting. Ten minutes, I thought, as I managed a smile at the old woman. “Nearly done,” I said. “You’ll be fine now.”

She did not smile back, so I counted, feeling the blood pulsing out of me and myself growing dizzy as I struggled to keep still. In the background the noise from the castle was slowly growing in intensity as the seconds passed. After I had counted near ten minutes, an enormous roar erupted, then died away to complete silence as I pulled the quills out of our arms and bound up the wounds to staunch the flow of blood. It was difficult; in my case I had incised into a large vessel, and I lost more blood before I could close the wound with a bandage. Still the blood soaked through and created a wide stain before I was sure I succeeded.

Then I was finished and all I could do was over. I took a deep breath to steady my spinning head while I packed the instruments away in the bag, hoping only that I was in time. Then the noise from the castle began again, and I turned round to look at my patient. There was a bluish tinge on her lips, I saw, and as the drums rolled in the distance, I picked up her hand and saw that the fingers had discolored as well. The drums picked up in intensity as she began to shake, and cry out in the most excruciating pain and gulp desperately for breath. Then, as the roar of the crowd mounted and became almost deafening, she arched her back and cried out in a strong, clear voice, clear of all sound of agony—“Sarah! My God! Have mercy upon me.”

Then silence. The noise from the castle stopped, the rattling, choking sound from the woman’s thin throat ceased and I knew I was holding the hand of a corpse. Only a sudden monstrous clap of thunder outside and the noise of heavy rain suddenly beginning to pound on the roof now kept me company.

I was too late. The ripping of the daughter’s spirit from her body had been too powerful and violent for such a weakened body to resist; it had torn the life out of the mother through its departure. There was not enough time for my blood to give her the strength she needed. My indecision, and Lower’s failure, had made all my efforts worthless.

I do not know how long I sat there, holding her hand, hoping that I had made a mistake and that she had simply fallen into a fit. I was vaguely aware of more tumult from the castle, but paid it little attention. Then I closed her eyes, and combed her hair, and arranged the mean bedclothes as best I could. Finally, though she was not of my religion and might well have scorned me for my efforts, I knelt by the bed to pray for the souls of them both. I believe I was praying for myself as well.

I suppose I left that miserable place for the last time about an hour later. I was in no mood to reprimand Lower; instead, I felt a ferocious and overwhelming hunger mingling with my despair, so I went to a tavern to eat for the first time in more than a day. Dimly, as I sat there lost in my misery and thoughts, I listened to the conversation going on all around me; festive and cheerful, and so completely at odds with my spirits that I felt more a stranger than ever before.

At that moment, I hated the English for their heresy, the way they turned a hanging into a festival, timed for market day to profit the traders. I loathed their bigotry and certainty of their own correctness; I hated Lower for his temper and the way he had scorned and betrayed and abandoned me. And I decided, then and there, that I would leave forthwith this terrible little town and this grim, cruel country. There was nothing more for me to do. I had my patient, and she was dead. I had my task from my father but that was futile. I had my friends, but they, it was now clear, were hardly friends of mine. So it was time to be gone.

The resolution made me feel better. I could pack and leave within the day, if need be, but first I realized I would have to inform someone of Mrs. Blundy’s death. I did not know what, exactly, was to be done with her body but I was resolved she would not be buried as a pauper. I would ask Lower to perform me this one last service, to take some of my money and see that she was interred with proper solemnity.

The decision brought me back to myself, or maybe it was the food and drink that did it. I picked up my head and noticed, for the first time, all that was going on around me. And realized they were talking of the hanging.

I could not make out exactly what had happened, but it was clear some scandal had attended the event; so, when I saw Mr. Wood in a far corner, I asked him how he was, and whether he knew what had happened.

We had met only a few times in the past, and it was no doubt impolite of me to approach him, but I was desperate to know, and Wood was more than keen to tell me the story.

His eyes bright with the pleasure of scandal, and with a most inappropriate air of suppressed excitement, he asked me to sit by him so that he might tell me in full.

“It is done?” I asked.

I thought maybe he had been drinking, early though it was, for he laughed immoderately at my question. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Done it is. She has died.”

“I am sorry for you,” I said. “Did she not work for your family? It must have been distressing.”

He nodded. “It was. Especially for my poor mother. But justice must be served, and it has been.” He laughed again, and I felt like striking him for his heartlessness.

“Did she die well? Please tell me,” I asked. “I am upset, because the girl’s mother has just died as well, and I attended her in her last moments.”

Oddly, this upset him a great deal, far more than the hanging of his own servant. “That is very sad indeed,” he said quietly, sober all of a sudden. “I knew her, and found her both interesting and gentle.”

“Please,” I repeated, “tell me what happened.”

So Wood began. However much embroidered already, it was a dreadful tale, which reflected badly on all concerned, except for Sarah Blundy herself who, alone, had behaved with dignity and correctness. Everyone else, in Wood’s account, disgraced themselves.