Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

For all that, I always found Thomas patient and understanding, and we were useful to one another in the way that people of opposite character can sometimes be. I would give advice about his theological ditherings—soundly, I may say, as he is now a bishop. And he would listen with enormous patience when I would describe, for the fiftieth time, how I would take John Thurloe and slit his throat.

I could hear him let out his breath as he prepared to argue with me again. “I must remind you that forgiveness is one of the gifts of God, and that charity is strength, not weakness,” he said.

“Piffle,” I said. “I do not intend to forgive anybody, nor do I feel in the slightest bit charitable. The only reason he is still alive is because I do not have the proof I need to avoid a charge of murder.” Then I went on to tell him the entire story again.

“The trouble is,” I concluded, “I don’t know what to do. What do you think?”

“You want my considered opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Accept the will of God, get on with your studies and become a lawyer.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant, how do I find this proof? If you are a friend, please put aside your nit-picking theology for a while and help.”

“I know what you meant. You want me to give you bad advice, that can only imperil your soul.”

“Exactly. That’s just what I want.”

Thomas sighed. “And supposing you find your evidence? What then? Will you go ahead and commit murder?”

“That depends on the evidence. But, ideally, yes. I will kill Thurloe, as he killed my father.”

“No one killed your father.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You maintain that your father was betrayed and falsely disgraced. Justice was not done. Would it not be better to right that wrong by making sure it was, this time?”

“You know as well as I do how much it costs to prosecute someone. How am I meant to pay for it?”

“I merely mention it as a possibility. Will you give me your word that, if it is possible, then you will do it rather than taking matters into your own hands?”

“If it is possible, which I doubt, then I will.”

“Good,” he said with relief. “In that case we can begin to plan your campaign. Unless, of course, you have one already. Tell me, Jack, I have never asked, since your countenance always discourages such questions. But in what was your father’s treachery supposed to consist?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds foolish, but I have never been able to discover. My guardian, Sir William Compton, has not spoken to me since; my uncle refuses even to mention my father’s name; my mother shakes her head in sorrow and will not answer even the most direct questions.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed at my blunt statement. “You have your criminal, but do not yet know with any precision what the crime was? That is an unusual position for a man of law to find himself in, is it not?”

“Perhaps. But these are unusual times. I assume my father was innocent. Do you deny that I must do so? And that, in religion as in law, I have no choice in this matter? Quite apart from the fact that I know my father was quite incapable of acting in so base a fashion.”

“I grant it is a necessary starting point.”

“And you grant also that John Thurloe, as Secretary of State, was responsible for all that pertained to the destruction of anyone who challenged Cromwell’s position?”

“Yes.”

“Then Thurloe must be guilty,” I concluded simply.

“So why do you need proof, if your legal logic is so fine?”

“Because we live in distempered times, when the law has become the cat’s paw of the powerful, who tangle it in rules so that they may escape punishment. That is why. And because my father’s character has been so abused that it is impossible to make people see what is obvious.”

Thomas grunted at this, for he knew nothing of the law and believed it to have something to do with justice. As I had once done myself, until I studied it.

“If I am to triumph at law,” I continued, “I must establish that my father’s character was such that he could not have betrayed anyone. At present he is cast as the betrayer; I must discover who put this story about and for what purpose. Only then will a law court listen.”

“And how do you intend to do this? Who could tell you?”

“Not many people, and most of those will be found at court. Already a problem, as I cannot possibly afford to go there.”

Thomas, dear soul that he was, nodded in sympathy. “It would be a pleasure if you would let me assist you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I said. “Why, you are even poorer than I am. God knows I’m grateful, but I’m afraid my requirements far exceed your resources.”

He shook his head, and scratched his chin in the way he always did before launching into a confidence.

“My dear friend, please don’t concern yourself. My prospects are good and getting better. The parish of Easton Parva is coming up in the gift of my Lord Maynard in nine months’ time. He has asked the warden and thirteen senior Fellows to recommend a candidate, and the warden has already hinted that he thinks I would be more than suitable, as long as I can make clear my full adherence to doctrine. It will be a struggle, but I will grit my teeth, and then eighty pounds a year will be mine. If, that is, I can fight off Dr. Grove.”

“Who?” I asked in astonishment.

“Dr. Robert Grove. Do you know him?”

“Very well. And I still have some tender spots to prove it. He was the curate at Sir William Compton’s when I was sent to that family. He acted as my tutor for many years. Such as I know, he put there. What has he got to do with this?”

“He is now back in his place as a Fellow of New College, and he wants my living,” Thomas explained, “even though he has no claim to preferment except that he has not received any. Frankly, I am very much better suited. A parish needs a young and sound minister. Grove is an old fool who only gets excited when he thinks about the wrongs done to him in the past.”

I laughed. “I would hate to be between Dr. Grove and something he wants.”

“I have no great objection to him,” Thomas said, as though I needed to be reassured on this point. “I would be happy for him to be pastured out to a comfortable living, if there were two of them. But there is one only, so what can I do? I need that living more than he. Jack, can I tell you a secret?”

“I will not stop you.”

“I wish to marry.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s it, is it? And how much has the lady?”

“Seventy-five a year, and a manor in Derbyshire.”

“Very nice,” I said. “But you need a living to persuade the father. I see the problem.”

“Not only that,” he said in some obvious distress. “I am obviously not allowed to marry as long as 1 am a Fellow of the college, and I cannot cease being a Fellow until I have a living. What is worse,” he concluded ruefully, “I like the girl.”

“How unfortunate. Who is she?”

“The daughter of my aunt’s cousin. A woolen draper in Bromwich. A soundly based man in all respects. And the girl is obedient, meek, hard-working and plump.”

“Everything a wife should be. With her teeth as well, I hope.”

“Most of them, yes. Nor has she had smallpox. We would do well, I feel, and her father has not dissuaded me. But he has made it clear that he would not countenance the alliance if I cannot match her portion. Which means a living and, as I have no other connections, one that comes from New College or through its influence. And Easton Parva is the only one likely to come vacant in the next three years.”

“I see,” I said. “These are serious times. Have you been on campaign?”