Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“I?” he said in mock surprise. “What makes you think that?”

“Sir Samuel Morland took some letters you worked on, and passed them on to the king. They supposedly demonstrated my father was a traitor. I believe that those coded letters were forged on Thurloe’s instructions. I would like to see them so I can demonstrate this.”

“Samuel told you all this?”

“He told me a pack of lies. It is a truth I discovered on my own.”

“In that case I congratulate you,” he said, suddenly friendly. “It seems you have been cleverer than myself, for I never suspected that I was in any way duped by either Thurloe or Samuel.”

“Will you give them to me?”

“Alas, I cannot, young man. I don’t have them.”

“You must. Morland said…”

“Samuel is a great romancer. It is possible that what you say is true and that Samuel imposed himself on me in this fashion. But I have none of the originals.”

“So where would they be?”

He shrugged, and I knew from the way he moved and the way his eyes would not meet mine that he was lying. “If they still exist, I imagine Mr. Thurloe would have them. If you can find sufficient patience, I will make discreet enquiries for you…”

With great expressions of thanks on my part, and an equally hypocritical expression of admiration on his side, I left his room soon after, as convinced as I could be that Dr. Wallis had those letters close by him somewhere.

I was laid low in my bed for several days after this meeting, which distressed me. However, I knew the cause of the infirmity, and also knew well that summoning a physician would be throwing good money after bad, so I lay and suffered until the worst of the affliction was passed and my head had cleared enough for me to move. Much of the time I spent in prayer, and I found that blessed exercise a great comfort to me, calming my soul and filling me with a strange and powerful strength, enough to complete the task my father had set me.

It was the second day of March before I set out for Comp-ton Wynyates, slipping from my tutor’s bed before dawn, dressing on the landing so as not to disturb the other students slumbering within, and wrapping myself up with the thickest and warmest clothes I had. I took one of my fellow students’ pair of boots, having tried them on in secret a few days before. My need was very great. The cold was dreadful, worse than anything for many years, and without stout high leather my suffering would have been intolerable. Then I prevailed on a tradesman heading north with a consignment of gloves and other goods for Yorkshire to let me sit in the back of his wagon until Banbury, in exchange for which I pushed when the cart bogged down in the road, and took a turn driving the horses when he wearied.

From Banbury I walked, and arrived at Compton Wynyates late in the evening, well after darkness had fallen. I clapped my hands as I walked through the great front door to summon the servant that my arrival could be announced. I did so with bravado, but I was highly nervous, for I had no idea whether I would be well received. In the back of my mind all the time was the reception I had received from Sir John Russell; I could not bear to be so rejected by Sir William also.

But I was swiftly reassured, for he soon descended to greet me himself, and made a great show of welcoming me to the house. Whatever resentment he may have harbored for my name did not rise to the surface.

“I am astonished to see you, Jack,” he said cordially. “What brings you here? Surely term is on at the university and you are still a student? I am surprised you were given permission to leave the town. Such laxity never existed in my day.”

“This was a special dispensation, and I have an indulgent tutor,” I said.

“Well, I am pleased you are here,” he said. “It has been too long. We have a fine fire in the parlor, so come and warm yourself immediately. This hall is as cold as charity itself.”

I was dumbfounded with relief by this reception, and upbraided myself for doubting his kindness. Amiability was Sir William’s natural demeanor and he was very much the country gentleman in that regard. Thickset, and with a florid complexion, he had a simple directness that made him devotedly loyal to such causes and people as he clasped to his heart.

I was too cold and tired to pursue that question at that moment; rather, I allowed him to lead me through to the great fire, and sit me down within the aura of its warmth, which made such a delightful contrast with the chill of the room beyond the flames’ influence. There I was served hot wine and food by a servant, and left alone in peace until I had finished my meal. Sir William excused himself, saying he had small business that would not wait, but that he would be back in a half hour.

I was almost asleep when he returned; not that he took such a long time, but the heat and the drink drugged my mind and made me realize how dreadfully weary I was. I was also saddened as I sat there, so warm and comfortable. Not long ago, this had been my home and I found that, despite everything that had happened, I still felt it to be such. I had spent more time in the company of his family than I had in that of my own; this house I knew better than that abode which was no longer mine even in name. In a conflict of slumbering emotions I sat quietly by the fire drinking my wine, pondering such strangeness until the return of Sir William forced me back into some semblance of alertness.

It is at this point that I must return to one essential purpose of my narrative, or at least to that matter which caused me to reach for pen and paper to start with. I must discuss my dealings with Signor Marco da Cola and the worth of his narrative. As I said much earlier in this account, I find his memory a strange one indeed, for he discourses at length on the trivial, and ignores studiously matters of much greater import. I do not know and, at this great distance, I care less, why this is; my only concern here is to correct his account in those passages where I am directly concerned.

The first was that evening at Sir William’s house, for by his side when he returned to the fire was Marco da Cola.

I must assume that he had some good reason for falsifying the story of his arrival in England, for I can attest that it is erroneous. He cannot have arrived as he said; he did not come to London, then proceed more or less directly to Oxford. He was in this country many days beforehand. A strange little fellow I found him, too; his clothes, all lavender and purple with the strangest of cuts, were such as would draw attention in such a place, and the aroma of perfume that entered the room long before he did was quite unforgettable. Later, when he saw me in prison in the company of Lower, I could almost tell who my visitor was long before the jailer opened the cell door, so strong was the smell he gave off.

But I took to him, odd though he was, and only later discerned that there was more to him than instant appraisal suggested. To meet, he was short and stout, with merry eyes and an easy laugh. Everything amused him, and everything attracted his interest. He said little, not being greatly proficient in English (though much better than I at first imagined) but sat quietly, bobbing his head and chuckling with appreciation at our conversation, as though he was hearing the best jokes in the world, and the wittiest of conversations.

Only once, during that first encounter, did I even have half a suspicion there might be more to him; when Sir William and I were talking, I saw a flash in his eyes, and the most fleeting glimpse of cunning passed across that chubby, harmless-looking face. But who pays attention to such details, when all else indicates the opposite? It was a trick of the light only; a reflection of the flames in the dimness of the room, and nothing more.