Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

I must point out one thing here, which is that my account of my talk with Blundy is accurate in every single detail; it could hardly be other, for her words were engraved on my mind for years after. I say this, because it contained confirmation of everything I knew, and justification of everything that occurred thereafter. There is no room for doubt or misinterpretation—she threatened me with worse and she could hardly do me harm in any other way except through her magic. I do not need to persuade or assert on this matter—she admitted it quite freely when she had no need to do so, and it was only a matter of time before she made good on her promise. From that moment I knew that I was engaged in a battle which would end in the destruction of one or the other. I say this plainly, for it must be understood that I had no choice in what I did—I was desperate.

Instead of Thomas, I went to see Dr. Grove, for I knew that he still believed in the power of exorcism. He had once lectured us about this, when he had heard of an affair of sorcery in nearby Kineton when I was about fifteen. He warned sternly about dabbling with the devil and that evening, most strangely and generously, led us in prayer for the souls of those suspected of compacting with darkness. He told us that the invincibility of the Lord can so easily turn back Satan’s powers, if it is genuinely desired by those who have delivered themselves into His arms, and it was one of his major contentions with the Puritans that, by disparaging the rite of exorcism, they not only lowered the priesthood in the eyes of the population (who continued to believe in spirits whatever their ministers said) but also removed a potent weapon in the never-ending battle.

Apart from catching a glimpse in the distance when once I was walking down the High Street a few months earlier, I hadn’t cast eyes on him for nearly three years and I was surprised when I entered his presence once more. Fate had been kind to him. Whereas I remembered a man barely enough fed, with threadbare clothes a size too big for him and a mournful expression on his face, now here before me was a roly-poly character evidently too eager to make up for lost time in the matter of food and drink. I liked Thomas and wanted only the best for him but I felt then he was wrong in thinking Grove unqualified for the parish of Easton Parva. I could see him already, rolling down to the church after a good dinner and bottle of wine, to lecture his parishioners on the virtues of moderation. How they would love him, as well, for everyone likes a character to fit the part life has allotted him. The parish, I felt, would be a happier place with Grove as its leader than with Thomas, even if it would be less mindful of the awesome fear of the Lord’s chastisement.

“I am glad I find you well, doctor,” I said as he allowed me into his room, as packed with books and as littered with paper as I recall the quarters allotted to him at Compton Wynyates.

“You do indeed, Jack, you do indeed,” he cried, “for I no longer have to teach snotty-nosed youths like yourself. And, if God’s will be so, will shortly no longer have to teach anyone at all.”

“I congratulate you on your escape from servitude,” I replied as he gestured me to move a pile of books and sit down. “You must relish your improved estate. From being a family priest to being a Fellow of New College is a grand recovery for you. Not that we were not all extremely grateful for your earlier misfortune. For how else would we have had such a learned tutor?”

Grove grunted, pleased at the compliment, but half suspecting I was joking at his expense.

“It is indeed a great improvement,” he said. “Although I was grateful to Sir William for his kindness, for if he had not taken me into his household, I would have starved. It was not a happy time for me, I’m sure you realize that. But then, it turned out to be an unhappy period for you as well. I hope that life as an undergraduate is more to your taste.”

“Well enough, thank you. Or at least it was. At present, I am in grave trouble, and I need to beg you for help.”

Grove seemed concerned at this bald statement and earnestly asked what was the matter. So I told him everything.

“And who is this witch?”

“A woman called Sarah Blundy. I see you know the name.”

Grove looked dark and angry at the mere mention, and I thought that perhaps it might have been better had I not said, but in fact I did well.

“She has caused me great grief recently. Very great grief.”

“Ah, yes,” I said vaguely. “I did hear some slanderous talk.”

“Did you indeed? Might I ask from whom?”

“It was nothing, merely tavern gossip. I had it from a man called Wood. I straightaway told him his words were shameful. I came close to boxing his ears, I must say.”

Grove grunted once more, then thanked me for my kindness. “Not many people would have had such an honorable response,” he said curtly.

“But you see,” I continued, pressing my advantage, “she is a dangerous character, in one way or another. Everything she does causes trouble.”

“The witchcraft is confirmed by astrology?”

I nodded. “I do not trust this Greatorex absolutely, but he was adamant that I was bewitched and that she was formidably powerful. And there can be no other source of it. As far as I am aware, no one else has cause to resent me in any way.”

“And you have been attacked in your head and your guts, is that right? By animals, and visited in dreams.”

“On several occasions, yes.”

“But if I remember, you had such headaches when you were a child as well, is that not the case, or is my memory playing false?”

“All people have headaches,” I said. “I was not aware that mine were of any greater intensity.”

Grove nodded. “I feel you are a troubled soul, Jack,’’ he continued in a kindly fashion. “Which distresses me, for you were a happy child, even though wild and untameable. Tell me, what concerns you, that your face is become set in such an angry expression?”

“I am under a curse.”

“Apart from that. You know there is more than this.”

“Do I need to tell you? Surely you know the disasters that have afflicted my family. You must; you were in Sir William Compton’s family long enough.”

“Your father, you mean?”

“Of course. What distresses me most is that my family, my mother in particular, wishes to forget the whole matter. There is my father, his memory weighed down by this accusation, and no one except myself seems concerned to defend him.”

I had misjudged Grove, I think, for I had a childish apprehension of seeing him, half expecting that the passing of years would be as nothing and he would again pull out his rod; it was as well that he was more able to treat me as an adult than I was to think as one. Rather than telling me what to do, or lecturing me, or giving advice I did not wish to hear, he instead said very little, but listened to me as we sat there in his darkening room, without even getting up to light a candle when the evening lengthened. Indeed, until I spoke of my troubles that evening in New College, I had not realized I had so very many of them.

Perhaps it was Grove’s way of religion that made him so quiet, for although no papist, yet he believed in the confessional, and would give absolution in secret for those who truly desired it, and whom he trusted to keep their mouths shut. In fact, it occurred to me that, if I so wished, I could at that very moment blight his chances forever and secure Thomas’s place. All I had to do was beg him to hear me, and then report him to the authorities as a hidden Catholic. Then he would be too dangerous for preferment.

I did not do so, and perhaps it was a mistake. I thought Thomas was young, and another parish would come along in due course. It is natural (so I now know) for youth to be in a hurry, but ambition must be tempered by resignation; enthusiasm by deference. I did not think so then, of course, but I like to believe there was more than simple self-interest in my decision to spare Grove from the disgrace I could have visited upon him so easily.