Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“And you knew Thurloe as well? That must have been extraordinary.”

He was flattered by the compliment, and this goaded him to try and impress me the more. “Indeed. I was almost his right-hand man for three years.”

“You are a family connection of his?”

“Oh, dear me no. I was sent as an envoy to Savoy to plead on behalf of the persecuted Protestants. I was there for several years, and kept my eye on exiles there as well. So I was useful, and became trusted and was offered the post when I returned. Which I kept until I fled when discovered passing intelligence to His Majesty.”

“His Majesty is lucky in his servants, then,” I said, despising the man suddenly for his self-satisfaction.

“Not all of them, by any means. For every loyal man like myself, there was another who would have sold him for a bag of sovereigns. I unmasked the worst of them by making sure that some of the documents Wallis produced were seen by the king.”

I was so close, I knew it. If I could only keep calm so that his suspicions were not aroused, I knew I could tease unheard-of treasures from him.

“You hint that Dr. Wallis and yourself are no longer on good terms. Is it because of what happened in those days?”

He shrugged. “It no longer matters. It is all past now.”

“Tell me,” I said, insisting, and I knew the moment the words were out of my mouth that I had pushed too far. Mor-land’s eyes narrowed, and the air of eccentric good humor drained out of him like sour wine from a bottle.

“Perhaps you have acquired more interests at Oxford than in your studies, young man,” he said quietly. “I would advise you to go back to your Dorset estate, and concern yourself with that, if indeed any such estate exists. It is a dangerous business for any man to occupy himself with matters that are none of his affair.”

He took me by the elbow and tried to guide me to the front door. I shook my arm free scornfully, and turned to confront him. “No,” I said, confident that he would be no match for me, and that I could shake the information out of him if I so wished. “I wish to know…”

The sentence went uncompleted. Morland clapped his hands, and instantly a door opened, and a rough-looking man came into the room, a dagger thrust obtrusively in his belt. He said nothing, but stood awaiting orders.

I do not know whether I could have defeated such a man; it is possible, but it was just as possible that I would not. He had the air of the old soldier about him, and was certainly far more experienced in swordplay than I was myself.

“You must excuse my conduct, Sir Samuel,” I said, controlling myself as best I could. “But your stories are fascinating. It is true I have heard many tales at Oxford, and they interest me greatly, as they must all young men. You must forgive the enthusiasm and curiosity of youth.”

My words did not conciliate him. His suspicion, once aroused, could not be laid to rest. In his years of deceit and duplicity he had no doubt learned the value of silence, and he was not to be tempted into taking any risk. “Show this gentleman out,” he said to the servant. Then he bowed to me politely, and withdrew. I was back on the noisy street outside a few moments later, cursing myself for my stupidity.

It was obvious by this stage that I needed to get back to Oxford. My quest was nearing its end and the answer to my remaining questions lay in that county. But it was too late to leave, as the next coach did not go until the following day. Had I been less exhausted, the constant scratching of the fleas in the straw pallet that was my communal bed would have irritated, and the noise of my companions disgusted, my senses. As it was, they occasioned no dismay at all, once I had securely bound my money bag to my waist, and ostentatiously placed my dagger under my pillow so that all could see that they were to beware of taking advantage of my sleep.

The following morning I dawdled like a true gentleman of leisure, slowly drinking a pint of ale with my bread, and only leaving the place when the sun was well up.

As I had nothing better to do, I played the viewer of sights, visiting St. Paul’s Cathedral—a scandalously run-down pile of stone, quite reduced from its former glory by the depredations of the Puritans, and yet more glorious in its decrepitude than the ill-formed conceit which is now being built to replace it. I watched the booksellers and hawkers of pamphlets who congregated in St. Paul’s yard, and listened to the criers and constables reciting the list of crimes and deceits which had been the previous night’s crop of malice. So many thefts, assaults, riots, it seemed the whole town must have been up all night to have committed them. Then I walked to Westminster and saw the palace and gazed in awe at the very window from which King Charles stepped to his bloody martyrdom, covered now in black crepe to commemorate that evil deed, and reflected awhile on the punishments the nation had endured because of that sinful act.

Such entertainments tired me quickly, though, so I bought myself some more bread from a street seller, and walked back through Covent Garden, which was no more agreeable to my senses now than it had been the previous day. I was hungry, and trying to decide whether to spend the vast quantity of money needed for a pint of wine in that place, when I felt a light touch on my arm.

I was not such a bumpkin that I did not realize what was probably about to take place, and I spun round and reached for my knife, then hesitated when I saw a finely dressed young woman standing beside me. She had a good face, but it was so covered in wig and beauty spots and rouge and whitening that God’s gifts to her could scarcely be discerned. Most noticeable of all, I remember, was the stink of perfume which so covered her natural aromas that it was like being in a flowershop.

“Madam?” I said coldly as she raised an eyebrow and smiled at my alarm.

“Jack!” cried the creature. “Do not say you have forgotten me?”

“You have the advantage.”

“Well, you may have forgotten me, but I cannot forget the gallant way you protected me under the stars near Tun-bridge,” said she.

Then I remembered—the young whore. But how changed she was, and though her fortunes had obviously improved, in my eyes she had not changed for the better.

“Kitty,” I said, remembering her name at last. “What a fine lady you have become. You must forgive me for not knowing you, but the transformation is so great you cannot blame me too much.”

“No, indeed,” she said, waving a fan in front of her face in an affected manner. “Although no one calls me lady who knows me truly. Whore I was, and now I am raised a mistress.”

“My congratulations,” I said, for evidently she thought this was in order.

“Thank you. He is a fine man, well connected and extremely generous. Nor is he too repulsive; I am a lucky woman indeed. With fortune, he will give me enough to buy myself a husband before he tires of me. But tell me, what are you doing here, gaping like a yokel in the middle of this street? It is not the place for you.”

“I was looking for some food.”

“There is plenty here.”

“I cannot—will not—afford that.”

She laughed merrily. “But I can and will.”

And with a brazenness which took my breath away, she linked her arm in mine and led me back to the Piazza and a coffee shop called Will’s, where she demanded a room to herself, and for food and drink to be brought. Far from being affronted at such a request, the servant obliged with obsequiousness as though she was indeed a lady of consequence, and a few minutes later we were in a commodious room on the second floor, overlooking the bustle below.

“No one will object?” I asked anxiously, concerned that her lord might send some bravoes around in a fit of jealousy. It took her some moments to work out what I meant by this, but then she laughed again.