‘Tell me about Sir William Compton.’
Cola sighed. ‘What a lot of questions you ask! Sir William, as you know, was a friend of Sir James. He told me that if I ever came on a tour to England that Sir William would be glad to offer me hospitality. Which he most generously did.’
‘And was attacked for his pains.’
‘Not by me, as that seems to be the implication of your statement. I understand young Prestcott did that. I merely kept him alive. And no one will deny I did a fine job.’
‘Sir James Prestcott betrayed Sir William Compton, and was detested by him. You expect me to believe he would willingly ask you into his house?’
‘He did. As for the detestation, I saw no sign of it. Whatever enmity there was must have died with him.’
‘You discussed the murder of the Lord Chancellor with Sir William.’
The change in the Italian’s demeanour as I made this statement was remarkable. From an easy-going affability, the manner of a man who feels himself in no danger at all, he stiffened; only slightly, but the difference was extreme. From here on, I could sense he watched his words more carefully. At the same time, though, the air of amusement persisted in some fashion, as though he was still confident enough to anticipate no great danger for himself.
‘Is that what this is about? We discussed many things.’
‘Including an ambush on the road to Cornbury.’
‘English roads, I gather, are full of perils for the unwary.’
‘Do you deny you placed a bottle with poison in it for me to drink that night in New College?’
Here he began to look exasperated. ‘Dr Wallis, you are beginning to weary me greatly. You ask about the attack on Sir William Compton, even though Jack Prestcott was charged with the crime and all but owned his authorship by his escape. You ask about the death of Dr Grove, even though that girl was not only hanged for the offence but even confessed to it quite voluntarily. You ask about discussions on Lord Clarendon’s safety, even though I am here, quite openly in London, and the chancellor is in excellent health. May that happy state continue for him. So what is your purpose?’
‘You do not deny, either, that you killed my servant Matthew in London in March?’
Here he affected an air of puzzlement once more. ‘You lose me again, sir. Who is Matthew?’
My face must have shown the full coldness of my anger, as he looked disconcerted for the first time.
‘You know perfectly well who Matthew is. The lad you so generously took under your wing in the Low Countries. The one you took to your feast and debauched. The one you met again in London and murdered so cold-bloodedly, when all he ever wanted from you was friendship and love.’
Cola’s flippant demeanour had now evaporated, and he twisted and turned like a fish to avoid confronting what even he knew was his duplicity and cowardice.
‘I remember a young lad in The Hague,’ he said, ‘although his name was not Matthew, or so he told me. The outrageous charge of debauchery I will not even dignify with an answer, for I know not where it originates. As for murder, I merely deny it. I admit that I was set upon by a band of cutpurses shortly after I arrived in London. I admit I defended myself as best I could, and ran off the moment I could. The identity of my assailants, and their condition when we parted company, I cannot vouch for, although I did not think anyone so badly injured. If someone died, I am sorry for it. If it was this boy, I am sorry for that as well, although I certainly did not recognise him and would not have hurt him if I had, however much he had deceived me. But I would advise you, in future, to pick your servants with more care and not give employment to people who supplement their wages with night-time thievery.’
The cruelty of this statement cut through me like Cola’s sword cut Matthew’s throat, and I wished at that moment I had a knife of my own, or more freedom to act, or a soul which could encompass taking the life of another. But Cola knew full well that I was under constraint; he must have sensed it the moment I arrived, and he used his knowledge to bait and torment me.
‘Be very careful what you say, sir,’ I said, barely controlling my voice. ‘I can do you great harm if I wish.’
It was, for the time being, an empty threat, and he must have sensed it also, for he laughed easily and with contempt. ‘You will do what your masters tell you to do, Doctor. As do we all.’
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
I DRAW NOW to an end; all else I heard of at second hand, or saw as an observer, and I do not presume to comment at length on matters better left to others. I was, however, on the quay the next day when Cola was brought to the boat. I watched the carriage roll up and saw the Italian, with a carefree spring in his step, march down the gangplank on to the deck. He even saw me, and smiled, and bowed ironically in my direction before disappearing below. I did not wait to see the boat get under way, but took a carriage back to my house, and left for Oxford only after I had heard from the captain of the vessel himself that Cola, and his luggage, had been tipped into the water some fifteen miles away from the shore and in such heavy weather that he could not have survived for long. Even though my revenge was complete, it brought me little satisfaction and it took many months before anything of my old calm returned. My happiness never did.
Eventually Mr Bennet, now Lord Arlington, insisted on my services again; my reluctance and distaste proved no defence to his desires. In the months between much had happened. The alliance of Clarendon’s and Bennet’s interests held long enough for both to accomplish their aims. Faced with the destruction of his plan of murder, the open rumour that in due course Lord Clarendon’s daughter would sit on the throne of England, and the constant harassment of his people, Bristol hazarded all and tried to impeach the chancellor of treason in parliament. It excited nothing but ridicule and contempt, and Bennet dissociated himself from the move; what assurances of support he had given Bristol in advance to tempt him into action I do not know. His Majesty was so offended by the attempt to force the removal of his minister that he exiled Bristol to the Continent. Clarendon’s position was strengthened, and Bennet received his reward by adopting as his own many of Bristol’s family. More importantly, the prospect of a Spanish alliance received a mortal blow and was never mooted again.
The understanding between the two men could not last long; both of them knew that, and all the world knows how it ended. Lord Clarendon, as good a servant as a king ever had, was eventually forced into exile himself, confronting from his poverty in France the ingratitude of his king, the cruelty of his comrades and the open avowal of Catholicism by his daughter. Bennet rose to take his place and ultimately he too fell from power, toppled by another, as he had toppled Clarendon. Such is politics, and such are politicians.
But for a while at least my efforts safeguarded the kingdom; the discontented, though well funded from Spain, could achieve nothing when faced by a government undistracted by division. I am still constantly aware, so many years later, of the terrible cost of this triumph.
All was caused by my desire to punish the man who had brought me such sorrow. And now I discover that this man, whom I hated as much as I loved Matthew, eluded my grasp and escaped my wrath. I performed ignoble deeds and even so was frustrated of my revenge. I know in my heart that I was betrayed, as the captain of that vessel who told me plain he had seen Cola drown would not have dared lie to me unless he was frightened of another more powerful still.
But I do not know who took these decisions to spare Cola and hide it from me, nor yet why they were taken. Nor do I have much chance now of discovering; Thurloe, Bristol, Clarendon, they are all dead; Bennet sulks in his gloomy retirement and talks to no man. Lower and Prestcott manifestly do not know, and I cannot imagine Mr Cola will deign to enlighten me. The only person I have not talked to is that man Wood, but I am certain he knows little except scraps and details of no significance.
I have never disguised what I have done, though I have never advertised my deeds either. I would not have done so
now, but for the arrival of this manuscript. What I have done, I own. At least events proved me correct in all substance. Even those who would criticise me must take this into account: had I not acted, Clarendon would have died and the country might well have been consumed once more. That fact, and that alone, more than justifies all I did, the injuries I suffered and those which I imposed on others.
And yet, though I know this to be true, the memory of that girl has begun to haunt me. It was a sin to wash my hands of her and stay quiet while she was condemned to death. I have known it always but never accepted it before now. I was tricked by Thurloe into that dreadful deed, and was motivated solely by my desire for justice and always thought this excuse enough.
All is known to the highest Judge of all and to Him I must entrust my soul, knowing that I have served Him to the best of my ability in all my acts.
But often now, late at night when I lie sleepless in my bed once more, or when I am deep in the frustration of prayers which no longer come, I fear my only hope of salvation is that His mercy will prove greater than was mine.
I no longer believe it will.
An Instance of
the Fingerpost
When in a Search of any Nature the Understanding stands suspended, then Instances of the Fingerpost shew the true and inviolable Way in which the Question is to be decided. These Instances afford great Light, so that the Course of the Investigation will sometimes be terminated by them. Sometimes, indeed, these Instances are found amongst that Evidence already set down.
Francis Bacon, Novum Organum Scientarum,
Section XXXVI, Aphorism XXI
Chapter One
* * *
A FEW WEEKS ago, my old friend Dick Lower sent me this huge pile of paper, saying that, as I am a voracious collector of curios and suchlike, perhaps I should have it. For himself, he was tempted to throw it all away, such were the lies and sad contradictions it contained. He said (in a letter, for he has now retired to Dorset, where he lives in considerable ease) that he found the manuscripts wearisome. Two men, it seems, can see the same event, yet both remember it falsely. How, he went on, will we ever reach certainty on anything, even when of good will? He pointed out several instances in which he was a direct participant and said they had occurred in an entirely different fashion. Naturally, one is the extraordinary attempt to decant new blood into Widow Blundy through a goose quill, which Signor Cola claims as his own. Lower (whom I know to be a very honest man) disputes this account entirely.
He mentions two men, you note, Cola and Wallis, though there be three manuscripts. Naturally, he omits entirely that of Jack Prestcott, as he is bound to do. The law cannot punish and indeed takes no note of a man who is insane; if his current actions are beyond reason, how can his memories be trusted? They are merely the babblings of disorder, filtered through the distortions of disease. Prestcott’s sad mind has thus transformed Bedlam into his great house; his head is not shaved for his wig as he says, but to allow the application of vinegar to his frenzy; those poor wretches who restrain the lunatics become his servants, and the many visitors he complains of are those characters who pay their penny every Saturday to peer through the iron bars of the cages and laugh at the madmen in their distress. I have done it myself, on the occasion recently when I went to talk to Prestcott on the matter, but I found no diversion or satisfaction in it.
But several of Prestcott’s statements are true. I know it and admit it, even though I have no cause to love him. He went mad, Lower tells me, when he was confronted with proof that his own malice had frustrated all his hopes and efforts and that the warnings he had received from that Irishman were true after all. Perhaps so; my point is that, up to then, he was more or less sane and so perhaps his recollections are as well, even if the meaning he drags from them are entirely false. It requires intelligence, after all, to present a case as he does: had he kept his wits he might have been a fine advocate. Every single person he talked to told him that his father was guilty, and he was. With the greatest of skill he points to evidence of innocence and skilfully ignores all that which suggests the true depths of his father’s turpitude. At the end, I almost believed him, even though I knew better than most that it was a tissue of nonsense.
But is the poor soul’s account any less trustworthy than the others, which are also twisted and distorted, albeit by different passions? Prestcott may be mad, but Cola is a liar. Perhaps there is but one lie of commission, in contrast to all the omissions and evasions which might otherwise be discounted. He lies none the less, for as Ammian says, Veritas vel silentio consumpitur vel mendacio; truth is violated by silence and by falsehood. The falsity is contained in such an innocuous sentence it is not surprising that even Wallis overlooked it. But it distorts every other thing in the manuscript and makes truthful words false because, like a schoolman’s argument, it draws conclusions with impeccable logic from a false premise. ‘Marco da Cola, gentleman of Venice, respectfully presents his greetings.’ So he begins, and from there on every word must be considered carefully. Even the manuscript’s existence must be considered, for why did he write it at all after so many years? On the other hand, to say he is mendacious does not mean that the motives and deeds attributed to him by Wallis are correct. The Venetian was not at all what he seemed, nor what he claims now to be, but he certainly never had designs on the safety of the kingdom or the life of Lord Clarendon. And Wallis himself was so used to living in the dark and sinister world of his own devising that he could no longer tell truth from invention, or honesty from falsehood.
But how can I tell which assertion to believe, and which to reject? I cannot repeat the same events time and again with subtle variations as Stahl did with his chemicals to demonstrate how Dr Grove had died. Even if I could, the infallible philosophical method seems inadequate when it comes to problems in which motion derives from people rather than dead matter. I once attended a class on chemistry given by Mr Stahl and must say I emerged none the wiser. Lower’s own experiments on blood transfusion first produced the belief that this was the greatest cure for all ills, and later (when many people in France had died) the savants decided that no, on the contrary, this was a fatal and inadmissible procedure. It cannot be both, gentlemen of philosophy. If you are right now, how were you so wrong before? How is it that when a man of God shifts his opinion it proves the weakness of his views and when a man of science does so it demonstrates the value of his method? How is a mere chronicler such as myself to transmute the lead of inaccuracy in these papers into the gold of truth?
My main qualification for commenting on these bundles is the disinterested state which is (we are told) the primum mobile of a balanced understanding: little of this has anything to do with me. Second, I think I can with justice claim a certain knowledge: I have lived my entire life in Oxford and know the city (as even my detractors admit) better than anyone else has ever done. Finally, of course, I knew all the actors in this drama; Lower was then my constant companion, as we ate together at least once a week at Mother Jean’s; through him I met all the men of philosophy, including Signor Cola. I worked with Dr Wallis for many years when he was the keeper of the university archives and I was their most assiduous frequenter. I even had the honour of discoursing with Mr Boyle and once attended a levée in the presence of My Lord Arlington although, I regret to say, I did not have the opportunity of making my addresses to him.
More than this, I knew Sarah Blundy before her misfortune and (not being a man given to puzzles and conundrums) I will reveal my secret immediately. For I knew her after it as well, hanged, dissected and burnt though she was. More, I think I am the only person who can give a proper accounting of those days, and show all the goodness which prompted such cruelty, and the providential grace that brought out such malice. On certain matters, I can appeal to Lower, for we share many secrets; but the crucial knowledge is mine alone, and I must convince on my own authority and by the dexterity of my words. Curiously, the less I am believed, the more certain I will be that
I am correct. Mr Milton set out in his great poem to justify the ways of God to men, as he says. He has not considered one question, however: perhaps God has forbidden men to know His ways, for if they did know the full extent of His goodness, and the magnitude of our rejection of it, they would be so disheartened they would abandon all hope of redemption, and die of grief.
I am an historian, and to this title I adhere despite critics who make out that I am what they term an antiquarian. I believe truth can come only from a solid foundation of fact and I set myself from an early age to begin the task of building such a basis. I intend no grandiose schemes for the history of the world, mind; you cannot build a palace before you have levelled the ground. Rather, just as Mr Plot has written (very finely) the natural history of our county, so I am engaged in its civil history. And what a deal there is! I thought it would take a few years of my life; now I see I will die an old man and the task will still be unfinished. I began (once an early intention of the priesthood had left me) by wishing to write about our late troubles during the siege, when the Parliament men first took the town, then cleansed the university of those less than perfectly in agreement with them. But I rapidly perceived that there was a nobler task awaiting me, and that the entire history of the university might vanish for ever were it not safeguarded. So I abandoned my original work and began the greater one, even though I had amassed considerable material by that stage and publication would, undoubtedly, have gained me both the fame in the world and the patronage of the mighty which have forever eluded my grasp. However, I care not for this: animus hominis dives, non arca appellari solet; and if it be considered one of Tully’s paradoxes to say that it is a man’s mind, not his coffers which confers richness, then that shows that the age of Rome was just as blind and corrupt as our own.