‘You are familiar with arsenic, then?’
I did not for one moment suspect where this line of questioning was leading, and I answered cheerfully enough that I was indeed.
‘And you admit you were possibly the last person to see Dr Grove alive?’
‘Possibly.’
‘So – please forgive me for speculating – so if, for example, you put the poison in yourself, and gave it to him when you arrived for dinner, there would be no one to query your account?’
‘Sir John, surely you are forgetting something?’ Lower said mildly. ‘Which is unless you can advance a reason for a deed, you cannot attribute it. And logic rules out the existence of that reason. Mr Cola has only been in Oxford, only in this country, in fact, for a few weeks. He had only met Grove once before that night. And, I must say, I am willing to vouch absolutely for his good character as, I am sure, would the Honourable Robert Boyle, were he here.’
This reminded the man of the absurdity of his line of questioning, I am glad to say, although it did not restore him to my esteem. ‘My apologies, sir. I did not mean to cause offence. But it is my duty to investigate, and naturally, I must ask questions of those near the events.’
‘That is quite understandable. No apologies are needed, I assure you,’ I replied with little sincerity of spirit. His remarks had alarmed me considerably, so much so that I came close to pointing out the fault in his logic – which was that I was not necessarily the last person to have seen Grove alive, for someone had seen Sarah Blundy, it appeared, going into his room after I had left him at the gate.
I was aware, however, that if an Italian and a papist would have been the ideal candidate for a murderer, then the daughter of a sectary, of loose morals and fiery temper would have been an adequate replacement. I had no desire to extricate myself from suspicion by pointing an accusing finger at her. She was, I thought, capable of such a thing, but apart from gossip, there was little to suggest any involvement. I felt quite justified in remaining silent until that situation changed.
Eventually, the magistrate gave up trying to say more, and levered himself out of his chair. ‘You must excuse me. I have to see the coroner and alert him. Then interview some other people, as well as placating Warden Woodward. Perhaps, Dr Lower, you would be kind enough to tell him what you told me? I would be happier were he convinced I was not acting out of malice towards the university.’
Lower nodded reluctantly, and went off to discharge his obligation, leaving me free to do as I pleased for the rest of the day.
I was mindful that, despite such excitements as the death of Dr Grove, it was merely a distraction from my proper business, which was above all to see to my family affairs. Although I have dwelt little on it in this narrative, I had been hard at work, and Mr Boyle had kindly done even more for me. The news, however, was dispiriting and I had little or nothing to show for my labours. Boyle had, as he promised, consulted a lawyer friend of his in London, and he had advised that I would be wasting my time in pursuing the matter. Without concrete proof of my father’s ownership of half the business, there was no chance of persuading a court to grant title to half the property. I was best advised to write off whatever assets had been lost, rather than using up more capital in a hopeless quest.
So I immediately wrote to my father and told him that, unless he had some relevant documents in Venice, it seemed the money was lost for ever, and that I might as well return home. The letters written, sealed and dispatched in the king’s post (I did not care if they were read by the government, so decided against the extra expense of sending them privately), I returned to Mr Crosse’s shop to pass the time in conversation, and prepare a bag of medicines in case I should decide to accompany Lower, although I was already minded not to do so.
‘I don’t want to go. But if you could have them ready for tomorrow morning, just in case . . .’
Crosse took my list and opened his ledger at the page listing my previous purchases. ‘I will look them out for you,’ he said. ‘There is nothing particularly rare or valuable, so it is no great labour for me.’
He looked up at me curiously for an instant, as though he was about to say something, then thought better of it and consulted the ledger once again.
‘Do not concern yourself about payment,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Lower, or even Mr Boyle, will vouch for my credit.’
‘Of course. Of course. There is no question of that.’
‘Something else concerns you? Pray tell me.’
He thought some more, and busied himself arranging vials of liquid on the counter for a few seconds before making up his mind. ‘I was talking to Lower earlier,’ he began, ‘about his experiments over Dr Grove’s death.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I said, thinking that he wanted more gossip from those in a position to offer interesting tittle-tattle. ‘A fascinating man, that Mr Stahl, if a little difficult.’
‘Are his conclusions sound, do you think?’
‘I can see no fault in his method,’ I replied, ‘and his reputation speaks for itself. Why do you ask?’
‘Arsenic, then? That is what caused his death?’
‘I can see no reason to doubt it at all. Do you disagree?’
‘No. Not at all. But I was wondering, Mr Cola . . .’
Here he hesitated once more. ‘Come on, man, out with it,’ I cried cheerfully. ‘Something is clouding your spirit. Tell me what it is.’
He was about to speak, then changed his mind and shook his head. ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing of any consequence. I was simply wondering where the arsenic might have come from. I would hate to think it came from my shop.’
‘I doubt we will ever know,’ I replied. ‘Besides, it is the job of the magistrate to find out what he can, so I am told, and no one would blame you, in any case. I would not worry yourself about it.’
He nodded. ‘You are right. Quite right.’
Then the door swung open and Lower, accompanied, I was sad to see, by Locke, swept into the shop. Both were dressed up in their finest top coats, and Lower was again daring to wear his wig. I bowed to both of them.
‘I have not seen two finer gentlemen since I left Paris,’ I said.
Lower grinned and bowed back, an awkward movement as he was still unsure enough to hold his wig in place with his hand as he did so.
‘The play, Mr Cola, the play!’
‘What play?’
‘The one I told you about. Or did I forget? The entertainment I promised. Are you ready? Are you not excited? The whole town will be there. Come along. It starts in an hour, and unless we hurry, we won’t get the best seats.’
His good humour and air of urgency swept all other matters from my mind instantly, and without so much as a further thought about Mr Crosse and his air of vague concern, I bade him good afternoon, and accompanied my friend out into the street.
Going to a play in England, for any person of sensibility who has been exposed to the refinements of Italian and French theatre, is something of a shock and more than anything else reminds one how very recently this race of islanders has emerged from barbarism.
It is not so much their behaviour, although the vulgar in the audience were perpetually noisy, and, it must be said, some of the better-born were far from quiet. This was due to the wild enthusiasm that the troupe of players generated. It was only a few years since such events had been allowed once more, and the joy of having some novelty to witness had sent the entire town into a frenzy. The very students, it seemed, had been selling their books and blankets to buy tickets, which were outrageously expensive.
Nor was the production so dreadful, although it was fearfully rustic, reminiscent more of Carnival burlesque than the theatre proper. Rather, it is the type of play which the English admire that reveals what a crude and violent people they really are. It was written by a man who had lived not far from Oxford and who, alas, had clearly neither travelled nor studied the best authors, for he had no technique, no sense of plot, and certainly no dec
orum.
Thus the unities, which Aristotle rightly taught us ensure that a play remains coherent, were jettisoned almost from the first scene. Far from taking place in one location, it began in a castle (I think) then moved to some moor, then to a battlefield or two, and ended up with the author seeing if he could place a scene in every town in the country. He compounded his error by jettisoning the unity of time – between one scene and another, a minute, an hour, a month or (as far as I could see) fifteen years could pass, without the audience being informed. Also missing was the unity of subject, as the main plot was forgotten for long periods and subsidiary tales taken up, rather as though the author had taken pages from half a dozen plays, tossed them into the air, then stitched them together in whatever order they fell to earth.
The language was worse; some I missed as the actors had no sense of declamation, but instead talked as though they were in a room of friends or in a tavern. Of course, the true actor’s way, standing still, facing the audience and seducing them with the power of beautiful rhetoric, was scarcely appropriate, as there was little beauty to deliver. Instead what they had on offer was language of breathtaking foulness. At one scene in particular, where the son of some nobleman pretends to be mad and frolics on an open heath in the rain, then meets the king who has also gone mad and has put flowers in his hair (believe me, I’m not joking) I quite expected the ladies to be hustled out by protective husbands. Instead, they sat there with all signs of enjoyment, and the only thing which caused a frisson of shock was the presence of actresses on stage, which no one had seen before.
Finally there was the violence. God only knows how many were killed; in my opinion it quite explains why the English are notoriously so violent, for how could they be otherwise, when such disgusting events are presented as entertainment? For example, a nobleman has his eyes put out, on the stage, in full view of the audience, and in a fashion which leaves nothing to the imagination. What possible purpose could be served by this gross and unnecessary coarseness except to insult and shock?
In fact, the only real interest in the proceedings – which dragged on so long that the final scenes were played out in blessed darkness – was that it presented me with a panoramic view of local society, as virtually no one was able to resist the temptation to dabble their fingers in the muck that was on offer. Mr Wood the gossip was there, as was Warden Woodward and the severe, cold Dr Wallis, who had so tormented me at dinner and had fallen victim to Mr Prestcott that same evening. Thomas Ken was there, as were Crosse, Locke, Stahl and many others I had seen in Mother Jean’s.
And there were many more, not even mentioning the students, whom I had never seen but who were well known to my friend. During one of the frequent interruptions in the proceedings, for example, I saw a thin, haggard man try to talk to Dr Wallis. That gentleman looked angry and embarrassed, then turned abruptly away.
‘Oho,’ said Lower, watching with interest. ‘How times do change.’
I begged an explanation.
‘Hmm? Oh, I suppose you don’t know,’ he said, his eyes still riveted on the scene being played out before him. ‘How could you? Tell me, what do you think of that little man? Do you think it is possible to read character from physiognomy?’
‘I believe so,’ I said. ‘If it is not, then a large number of face painters are wasting their time and telling us lies.’
‘Interpret away, then. We can experiment to see the usefulness of the doctrine. Or the level of your skill.’
‘Well,’ I said, carefully studying the man once more as he walked humbly back to his place and without complaint took his seat. ‘I am no artist and am not trained in the matter, but he is a man in his late forties, with the air of one born to serve and obey. Not a man who has ever held authority or power. Not favoured by fortune, although not poor. A gentleman, but of a lowly sort.’
‘A good start,’ Lower commented. ‘Continue.’
‘Not a man used to imposing himself. With none of the manner or standing of one who might cut a dash in the world. Rather the opposite: his demeanour suggests someone who will always be overlooked and ignored.’
‘Aha. Any more?’
‘One of nature’s supplicants,’ I said, warming to my theme now. ‘You can see from the way he approached, and the way he suffered his rebuff. Clearly, he is accustomed to such treatment.’
Lower nodded. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘A truly useful experiment.’
‘Was I correct?’
‘Let us say it was an interesting set of observations. Ah. The play is beginning again. Splendid.’
I groaned inwardly: he was right, and the players were coming on once more, fortunately for the dénouement. I could have done better myself: rather than a morally pleasing resolution, the king and his daughter die just at the moment that any reasonable playwright would see that they must live for there to be any moral instruction in the play at all. But, of course, by then everyone else is dead as well, and the stage a virtual charnel house, so I suppose they just decided to follow suit, for want of anyone to talk to.
I emerged rather dazed, not having seen so much blood since we anatomised Dr Grove. Fortunately, Lower suggested an inn immediately afterwards. As I needed a stiff drink to recover, I did not even demur when Locke and Wood decided to join us: not my idea of ideal company, but after such a performance I would have taken a drink with Calvin himself, had it been necessary.
By the time we had walked across town and settled down in the Fleur-de-Lys, Lower had told Locke of my comments about the man’s demeanour, which produced nothing more than a sneering smile.
‘If I’m wrong, you should tell me how,’ I said a little heatedly, not liking at all to be used for sport in this fashion. ‘Who was this man?’
‘Go on, Wood. You are the repository of all human gossip. You tell him.’
Clearly pleased to be included in our company and relishing his moment of attention, Wood took a sip of his drink, and called over to the serving hatch for a pipe to be brought. Lower added his call for one as well, but I declined. Not that I object to a little tobacco in the evening, especially when my bowels are tight, but sometimes pipes which have been overused by the general clientèle of taverns do have a taste of sour spittle. Most do not mind, I know, but I find it unpleasant and only smoke from my own.
‘Well,’ Wood began in his pedantic fashion when he was refilled with ale and safely alight, ‘this little man who is so much one of life’s failures, so much a natural servant, so much a supplicant, is in fact John Thurloe.’
He stopped here for dramatic effect, rather as though I should be impressed. I asked him a bit more sharply than was strictly necessary who, exactly, was John Thurloe?
‘Never heard of him?’ he said with an air of amazement. ‘Many in Venice have. And almost everywhere else in Europe. For near ten years that man murdered, stole, bribed and tortured his way across this land and others. He once – and not so very long ago – held the fate of kingdoms in his hand, and played with monarchs and statesmen as though they were mere puppets.’
He paused again, and finally realised that he wasn’t being clear. ‘He was Cromwell’s Secretary of State,’ he explained, as though talking to a child. Truly, the man irritated me. ‘His spymaster. Responsible for keeping the Commonwealth secure and Cromwell alive, a task he accomplished with great success, for Cromwell died in his bed. While John Thurloe was there, no assassin ever got close. He had spies everywhere: if ever there was a conspiracy by the king’s men, John Thurloe knew about it before they did themselves. He even planned some of their plots himself, I am told, just for the pleasure of destroying them. As long as he had Cromwell’s confidence, there were no controls on what he could do at all. None at all. It was Thurloe, they say, who lured Jack Prestcott’s father into betraying the king.’
‘That little man?’ I said in astonishment. ‘But if that’s true, what is he doing walking around and going to plays? Surely any sensible government would have hanged him as quickly as possible.
’
Wood shrugged, unwilling to admit to not knowing something. ‘A mystery of state. But he lives quietly, a few miles from here. By all accounts he sees no one, and has made his peace with the government. Naturally, all those who swarmed around him when he had power no longer even remember his name.’
‘Including John Wallis, evidently.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Wood said, his eyes twinkling, ‘including him. Dr Wallis is a man with an instinct for power. He can smell it. I am sure the first inkling a man of state has of his downfall is when John Wallis stops paying court.’
Everybody likes tales of dark and obscure happenings, and I was no different. Wood’s tale of Thurloe gave an insight into the kingdom. Either the returned king was so secure that he could allow such people their freedom without fear, or he was so weak he could not bring them to justice. It would have been different in Venice: Thurloe would long ago have been devoured by the Adriatic fishes.
‘And this man Wallis? He intrigues me . . .’
But I found out no more, as a young man I recognised as the magistrate’s servant came to our table and stood there stiffly until Lower put him out of his misery by asking him his business.
‘I am looking for Mr Cola and Dr Lower, sir.’
We acknowledged ourselves. ‘And what do you want?’
‘Sir John requires your immediate presence at his house in Holywell.’
‘Now?’ asked Lower. ‘Both of us? It is past nine, and we have not even eaten.’
‘I believe it cannot wait. It is a matter of the utmost urgency,’ the lad replied.
‘Never keep a man waiting if he has the power to hang you,’ Locke said encouragingly. ‘You’d better go.’
The house on Holywell seemed warm and inviting as we arrived and waited in the hallway before being ushered into the interview room once more. The fire blazed in the open hearth, and I warmed myself before it, conscious again of how cold the country was in winter, and how underheated were my own lodgings. I was also, I realised, formidably hungry.