Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

It was not to my advantage to pursue the conversation much further that night; I did not wish to seem overanxious and, in any case, I was desperately tired. Shortly after, then, I put on my cloak, picked up a candle and made my way from the warmth of the fire to the chamber I had always used. Presumably Sir William had roused out a servant when I arrived, for the room was already prepared for me; there was even a small fire burning in the grate, although it gave out more consolation than warmth. I shivered in that cramped little room, but nonetheless gave thanks as I knelt down to pray that I was not in one of the great, cavernous chambers more honored guests received. The Italian gentleman, I thought, would be suffering mightily that night. My devotions finished, and in that calm frame of mind which habitually comes over men of faith when they give thanks in true humility, I was in half a mind to wrap myself up as much as I could and get straight into the bed. But I was grimy from the journey and reluctantly decided to wipe my face first. A bowl of water had been placed on the chest by the great window and, after I had shuttered the casements tight, I cracked the thin layer of ice, then plunged my face into the bitterly cold water.

Then I received a rude reminder of the hydra-headed nature of my woes. Even after so many years I cannot bring myself to write down the obscene images that were conjured up in that bowl of water, illuminated solely by the flickering candle on the chest. The lubricious and foul torments presented to me were such that only the most devoted slave of Lucifer could have imagined them; to send them forth to anguish the soul of a Christian after prayer was an act of the most profound evil. The noises that reverberated through my head as I found myself leaning heavily over that bowl, desperate to tear away my eyes yet unable to move a single muscle, made me cry out with horror and terror. And yet (I confess) I was fascinated by the scenes I witnessed. Even the spirits of the pure and innocent were subjected to most violent depravity, and made to enjoy the abuse. I saw the image of my father—not he indeed, but a devil in his guise—stretched out as Sarah Blundy pleasured him in the most disgusting fashion imaginable. All sorts of demons cavorted lewdly in my sight, sure I was watching and relishing the torture they imposed. I could not speak, and could not move to take myself away from the foulness, because I was not prepared for it any more. I had grown weak, and believed that perhaps the assault was over, that perhaps the Blundy girl had relented, or given up her revenge. I now had all the evidence I needed that she had been merely preparing an ever more vicious attack. Nor, it seemed, did it involve only myself, if her diabolical master’s reach could torment those who should be beyond harm and impervious to pain.

It took the mightiest of efforts to tear myself away from that monstrous sight, to cast the bowl onto the floor and fling myself into the corner of the room, where I lay panting, unable to believe that it was all over. I lay there much of the night, I think, cowering in sheer terror lest it start again, and remained motionless until my limbs were stiff and my body icy with the cold. When I could stand it no more, and the pain overwhelmed my fear, I rose from my hiding place and spent some considerable time checking that the windows were firmly closed, and pulling the chest across the room so that the door was barred so tightly even the devil himself would have trouble gaining entry. Then I tried to sleep, afraid of the moment when the candle would finally gutter out. I had never been afraid of the dark before then. That night it terrified me.

I was still shaky from fear and lack of sleep when Marco da Cola engaged me in conversation the next morning. I was not greatly responsive, as I was very much preoccupied with the attack on me, but his persistent efforts eventually forced me to be as civil as possible. Looking at me with his twinkling eyes and smiling quite vacuously, he began by saying he understood that my father was Sir James Prestcott.

I fully expected that he was going to examine me on my father’s fall, so answered in the coldest manner I could. But, rather than adopting a grave and distressed face, typical of those who intend to patronize with their commiseration, he brightened considerably at my response.

“That is excellent, indeed,” he said in an accent so thick he was barely comprehensible. “Truly excellent.”

He beamed with pleasure at me.

“Might I enquire why you say so? It is not a response I have been used to, of late.”

“Because I knew your most admirable father well, a few years ago. I was greatly saddened to hear of his misfortunes. You must allow me to offer you my most sincere condolences on the loss of a man who must have been a perfect father.”

“That he was, and I thank you,” I said. I had taken a dislike to the foppish little foreigner, for such people are highly distasteful to me in ordinary circumstances. In this case, I was aware that my opinion needed revision. There were few people kind enough even to acknowledge an acquaintance with my father, let alone to praise him.

“You must tell me how you met him,” I said. “I know nothing of that time when he was out of the country, except that he was forced to sell his services as a soldier.”

“He sold them to Venice,” Cola replied, “which was grateful for them, for he was a brave man. If more people were like him then the Ottoman would not be threatening the very heart of Europe.”

“So he was valued by your state? I am glad of it.”

“Highly. And he was as popular with the officers as he was with the men; he was gallant but never foolhardy. When he decided to return to his home those of us who wished your king well consoled ourselves that our loss would be your sovereign’s gain. I find it difficult to believe that the man I knew could act meanly in any way.”

“You must not believe all the information you hear,” I assured him. “I am persuaded that my father was the victim of an abominable crime. With luck, I will soon have the proof of it.”

“I am glad,” Cola said. “Truly glad. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“You were a soldier yourself?”

He hesitated a moment before replying to my question. “I have trained in medicine in recent years, among other things,” he said. “A most unmilitary occupation. And I occupy myself mainly with questions of curiosity. I admired your father greatly, but have never had much affection for his profession.”

And the little man walked off, leaving me to give thanks that my father’s character was such that it invariably left a favorable impression on those who encountered him, when they were unaffected by the poison of rumor.

Sir William had already left the house; he was an assiduous governor of his estate, believing firmly that it was his obligation to see to such matters himself. Besides, he always enjoyed it and would have been the happier had he devoted himself entirely to country pursuits. The profits of the court, however, could not be resisted, and at least tour times a year he had to go to London to oversee his office. But the rest of the time he was in Warwickshire and nearly every day, whatever the weather, he would collect one or two of his favorite hounds and leave the house early in the morning, to pay calls, give advice and issue orders. Around noon he would return, red-faced from the exercise, radiating contentment and satisfaction before eating and taking a nap. In the evening he would see to the paperwork which any estate of size generates, and check his wife’s governance of the household. This routine he repeated without variation every day, and I believe that every day he went to bed and slept soundly, confident of having blamelessly fulfilled all his many obligations. His life was, in my opinion, most completely admirable and content, as long as no unwelcome intrusion disturbed its placid rhythm.