Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

So the Italian sat there, thinking he was engaged in a conversation about philosophy, while all the time Grove was showing his fitness for a parish by disagreeing with everything he said. Easily enough done, since Grove removed Thomas from the contest by ignoring him and battering him with insults until Thomas despaired at being constantly interrupted and walked out, I suspect so that no man might see his tears. I believe he went mad from despair, and denounced Grove to the warden shortly after in some half-thought-out act of desperation. Then he realized that it would soon be exposed as a lie, and a malicious one at that, so he went one, fatal, step further.

Not a goodness for a man of God, and yet I knew that Thomas had much good in him; he had shown me that time and again. And even had that not been the case, I was bound to him and owed him my assistance, for he was not only a friend, he was quite incapable of looking after himself. The loyalties of Lincolnshire I have mentioned before.

It was the possibility of aiding myself at the same time which indicated that some guardian angel must be about, whispering into my mind.

I should return to my narrative, however, and say that by the time I left Grove’s room with his signet in my pocket it was nine o’clock by St. Mary’s, and I knew that I had eight hours before the jailer would come to my cell in the castle and discover my escape. My movements were unconstrained and I was at total liberty to do whatever I wished. What I wished to do at that moment was kill Sarah Blundy, as it had long been clear to me that only through the death of one or the other of us would this diabolical contest be brought to an end.

I knew, of course, that this was impossible. I could no more kill her with my own hands than she could kill me. Others had to do that and, just as she had laid a trap for me, that I should be hanged, so I could do the same to her.

It was slightly before midnight, I think, that I made my way through the fortifications that still surrounded the town and avoided the night watch. Certainly I heard the great bells of the city making their mournful toll as I walked swiftly across the fields parallel to the London road, which I dared not use until I was past Heddington Village. Dawn was beginning to come over the horizon by the time I approached the village of Great Milton.

I waited until the morning was well advanced, spending my time observing the house unseen to see how many people there were and what might be my best means of escape should that be necessary. Then, my heart thudding in my chest, I prepared myself, walked up to the door and knocked. It was pleasantly warm in the hallway, which was surprisingly far from opulent. I knew, of course, that Thurloe had made himself as rich as Croesus during his years of power as Cromwell’s henchman and was disconcerted to see him in such modest accommodation. I only saw one servant in all the time I was there, and although the house was comfortable, it was not of the size and splendor I expected. But I assumed that this was another example of the arrogant humility of the Puritans, who make such a show of their piety and disdain for worldly possessions. Personally, I always detested them for that, grabbing with one hand and praying with the other. It is the duty of men of rank to live in a suitable state, even if they have no inclination.

The servant, an old fellow who blinked like an owl brought suddenly into the light, told me that his master was busy at his books, and that I should wait in the main parlor. Mr. Thurloe would be glad of a visitor to divert him, he said. Not this one, I thought to myself as I followed his instructions and walked in the commodious, warm room at the eastern end of the house. Not this one.

He came in a few minutes later, a gaunt man with long, thin hair around a high-domed forehead. His skin was pale, almost translucent and, apart from heavy lines around his eyes, he seemed younger than I knew he must be. Now I knew what had transpired, and how he had manipulated men, good and bad, to his will, I was half minded simply to run him through then and there, without wasting further time. He’d find out who his assailant was soon enough, I thought, when the flames began to lick around his soul.

I was determined, but felt my resolution ebb with every step he took toward me. For months now, lying awake at night, I had imagined myself whipping out my father’s sword and thrusting it into his heart, intoning some suitable words as he expired with a look of cowardly terror on his face, crying for mercy, slobbering with fear, while I stood implacable over him. I had no sword, but Grove’s knife would do as well.

Easy to imagine, harder to accomplish. Killing a man in battle when the blood is hot is one thing; dispatching one in a peaceful parlor, with the fire crackling comfortably in the grate and the smell of burning apple logs in the air, is quite another. Doubt assailed me for the first time—Would killing a man unable to defend himself not suddenly lower me to his level? Would not my great act be demeaned if it was performed in an unseemly manner?

I suspect I would not be so bothered now, although as it is unlikely that I will ever be in such a situation again (the Lord having smiled on me) it is easy to say and difficult to prove. Perhaps, indeed, it was my doubt and my hesitation which earned me that divine forbearance.

“Good morning, sir, you are welcome,” he said quietly, examining me curiously all the while. “I see you are cold; pray let me get you some refreshment.”

I wanted to spit at him, and say I would not drink with a man like him. But the words stuck in my throat, and in my weakness and confusion I stood there mute while he clapped his hands and asked the servant to bring some ale.

“Do sit, sir,” he said, after another long silence when he had again examined me carefully, for I had, with my normal politeness, jumped up to bow to him when he entered. “And please be careful you do not impale yourself on your dagger.”

All this he said with a wry smile, and I blushed and stammered like a schoolchild caught throwing things in class.

“What is your name? I believe I know your face, although I see so few people now that I trick myself into recognizing total strangers.” He had a soft, gentle and educated voice, quite unlike anything I had expected.

“You do not know me. My name is Prestcott.”

“Ah. And you have come to kill me, is that right?”

“It is,” I said stiffly, feeling more and more confused.

There was another long pause, as Thurloe sat, marked the page in his book, closed it and laid it neatly on the table. Then he placed his hands in his lap and looked at me once more.

“Well? Go ahead. I would hate to detain you unnecessarily .”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

He seemed almost puzzled at the question, and shook his head. “Only if you wish to tell me. As far as I am concerned, compared with meeting the Lord and His standing in judgment of me, of what importance is the why or the wherefore of men? Do take some ale,” he added, pouring out a glass from the broad earthenware pot the servant had brought.

I shrugged the glass aside. “It’s very important,” I said petulantly, realizing as I spoke that I was drifting further and further away from my imagined behavior.

“In that case I am listening,” he said. “Although 1 cannot understand what injury I may have done you. You are surely too young to be my enemy?”

“You killed my father.”

He looked worried at the statement. “Did I? I don’t recall it.”

At last he was talking in a way which angered me, which I knew was necessary if I was going to accomplish my aim.

“You damnable liar. Of course you do. Sir James Prestcott, my father.”