An Instance of the Fingerpost Page 21

  The judge – clearly not a cruel man, and scrupulously fair – interrupted to thank the prosecutor and wondered if he might proceed. Fine speechifying could take place at the end, if they got that far.

  ‘Certainly, certainly. Now, as to her being a whore; it is well attested that she had seduced poor Dr Grove and lured him into her power. We have a witness to this, one Mary Fullerton’, here a young girl in the audience smiled broadly and preened herself, ‘who will swear that one day she delivered some food to Dr Grove’s room and he, mistaking her for Blundy, grabbed her and started fondling her in a lascivious fashion as though she was well used to it.’

  Sarah looked up at this point and stared sullenly at Mary Fullerton, whose smile disappeared when she felt the gaze upon her.

  ‘Secondly, we have testimony that Dr Grove, when these accusations were made known, discharged the girl from his employ, so that he might take himself away from temptation and return to a virtuous life. And that she most bitterly resented this.

  ‘Thirdly, we have the testimony of Mr Crosse, an apothecary, that on the same day as she was discharged Sarah Blundy bought arsenic from his shop. She has said Dr Grove asked her to do so, but no one has found any record of such an expenditure in Dr Grove’s papers.’

  ‘Fourthly, we have the testimony of Signor Marco da Cola, an Italian gentleman of impeccable integrity, who will tell you that he warned of the dangers of this powder, and heard Dr Grove say that he would never use it again – a few hours before he died of it.’

  All eyes, including Sarah’s, were on me at this point, and I looked down to avoid the sadness in her eyes. It was true, every word of it; but I wished fervently at that moment that it was not.

  ‘Next, we have the testimony of Mr Thomas Ken, a divine, that the girl was seen in New College that very evening, and it will be shown that, although she denies this, she refuses absolutely to say where she was, nor has anyone else come forward to say where she was.

  ‘Finally, we have proof of an unimpeachable nature, for we have a witness, Mr Jack Prestcott, a young gentleman at the university, who will testify that she confessed to him that very evening of her deed, and showed him a ring which she had ripped from the corpse. A ring which has been identified as Dr Grove’s own signet ring.’

  The whole room, it seemed, sucked in its breath at this point, as all knew that the testimony of a gentleman on such a matter was unlikely to be gainsaid. Sarah knew it too; for her head sank lower on her chest at the words, and her shoulders slumped in what seemed like the abandonment of all hope.

  ‘Sir,’ the lawyer resumed, ‘the considerations against the accused, of motive, character and station are as strong as the particular evidence. This is why I have no doubt that, whatever the girl pleads – indeed, whether she pleads or not – the outcome will be the same.’

  The prosecutor beamed around him to acknowledge the applause from the room, waved his hand in a stately fashion, then sat down. The judge waited until some silence had returned and then turned his attention to Sarah.

  ‘Well, child? What have you to say? You know, I believe, the consequences of what you may utter.’

  Sarah looked very much as though she might collapse and, though I had little sympathy for her any more, I did feel that it would have been a kindness to have given her a seat.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ someone cried from the audience, ‘speak up. Struck dumb, are you?’

  ‘Silence,’ thundered the judge. ‘Well?’

  Sarah lifted her head, and I could see properly for the first time what a sad state she was in. Her eyes were red from crying, her face pale, her hair lank and dirty from the gaol. A large bruise on her cheek had turned blue from the beating the gaoler had given her when she assaulted me. Her mouth trembled as she tried to speak.

  ‘What? What?’ the judge said, leaning forward and cupping his hand to his ear. ‘You’ll have to speak louder than that, you know.’

  ‘Guilty,’ she whispered, then slid to the floor in a faint as the audience erupted into catcalls and whistles of disappointment at being denied their fun. I tried to walk over to her, but was prevented from moving by the press of bodies.

  ‘Silence,’ the judge shouted out. ‘All of you. Be quiet.’

  Eventually, they once more calmed down, and the judge looked around him. ‘The girl has pleaded guilty,’ he announced, ‘which is a great blessing, as we can now proceed quickly. Members of the jury, any disagreement from you?’

  The jury members all shook their heads sombrely.

  ‘Does anyone else have anything to say here?’

  There was a rustle from the crowd as all turned to see if anyone would speak. Then I saw that Wood had stood up, red-faced with embarrassment at his temerity, and at the catcalls which greeted him.

  ‘Quiet, now,’ said the judge. ‘Let us not rush. Please sir, say your piece.’

  Poor Wood; he was no advocate, and had none of the assurance of even a man like Lower, let alone someone like Locke. And yet he was the only person who stood up for the girl, and tried to say something in her favour. It was doomed to fail, even Demosthenes himself could scarcely have succeeded in the task, and I am sure Wood proceeded from generosity of spirit, rather than true faith in his cause. And he did the girl no good at all, for he was so overcome by the sudden light of public attention that he froze into incoherence, and did little more than stand there, babbling in a half-voice that hardly anyone could hear. The crowd put a stop to it; the booing began at the back, then whistling, until even the greatest orator could not have been heard. It was Locke, I think, who ended the misery, and with surprising gentleness, pulled him down. I could see the look of abject failure and dejection on the poor man’s face, and grieved for his shame as much as I rejoiced that the moment was over.

  ‘Thank you for your eloquence,’ said the judge, playing shamelessly to the crowd and unable to resist piling on further humiliation. ‘And I will take your words into account.’

  Then he pulled out the black felt cap and put it on his head; as he did so, there was an expectant rustling from the crowd, whose mood had changed from sympathy to the greatest malice. ‘Hang her,’ cried one voice from the back.

  ‘Quiet,’ said the judge, but it was too late. Thus encouraged, more of the crowd joined in, then more, and within seconds, the whole room was full of the sound of that lust for blood which comes over soldiers in battle, or huntsmen as they near their quarry. ‘Hang her, kill her’; again and again in a rhythmic chanting, with much stamping of feet and whistling. It took the judge several minutes before he successfully restored order.

  ‘I will have no more of this,’ he said sternly. ‘Now, is she recovered? Can she hear me?’ he asked the court clerk, who had given up his seat that she might be placed on it.

  ‘I believe so, my lord,’ the clerk said, even though he was bodily holding her upright and had slapped her several times to bring her round.

  ‘Good. Sarah Blundy, listen to me carefully now. You have committed a most horrendous crime, and the sentence the law insists upon for a woman who murders so treasonably is unavoidable. You will be taken to a pyre and burnt.’

  He paused to look around at the courtroom to see how this went down. It was not well received; necessary though it seemed to be, the English did not derive much satisfaction from the pyre, and a subdued mood settled over the room.

  ‘However,’ the judge continued, ‘as you have pleaded guilty, and spared the court a great deal of trouble, we intend to be merciful. You will be given the grace of being hanged before your body is consumed, to lessen the suffering you will have to endure. That is your sentence, and may God have mercy on your soul.’

  He stood up and dismissed the court, grateful for having had such a short and satisfactory afternoon. The audience sighed as though it was waking from an exciting dream, shook itself and began to leave while two bailiffs carried the now insensible Sarah out of the room and back to the castle. The whole trial had lasted less than an hour.

&nbs
p; Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  MY MOOD OF despondency increased markedly when I saw Mrs Blundy a few hours later, for the battle was being waged and lost as I watched.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Doctor.’ Her voice was fainter even than before, almost a whimper, so sharply did the pain cut into her. But she was brave, and did her best not to let it show, lest it be taken as a criticism of my efforts.

  ‘It is I who should apologise,’ I said, once I had examined her and realised how bad it all was. ‘You should never have been left alone for so long.’

  ‘How is Sarah?’ she asked, and it was the question I was dreading. I had decided in advance to avoid telling her the truth that not only had she been found guilty, but that she had admitted the deed as well.

  ‘She is well,’ I said. ‘As well as can be expected.’

  ‘And when is the trial?’

  I breathed a sigh of relief at that; she had lost her sense of time and had forgotten what day it was; it made my task a good deal easier.

  ‘Soon,’ I said. ‘I am sure that it will go well. Concentrate on your own troubles; that is the best help you can give her, because she must be free of distractions if she is to keep her wits about her.’

  She was content with that, at least, and I felt for the first time in my life that sometimes it is better to lie than to tell the truth. Like all people, I suppose, I had had it beaten into me from an early age that respect for the truth was the most basic attribute of the gentleman; but it is not correct. Sometimes it is our duty to lie, whatever the consequences for ourselves. My falsehood contented her; truth would have made her last hours the purest anguish. I am proud that I spared her.

  As no one else was around, I had to do everything myself; I simply hoped as I worked that Lower would come soon, so we could perform the task ahead of us. He was already late and I was concerned. Grim and miserable work it is, cleaning and wiping and feeding, knowing that it is all for show, to give comfort while the inevitable beckons. The daughter’s spirit, a stronger force in all ways, was dragging the mother down with her. Her face was livid, she had pains in her joints, as well as acute gripes in the guts; she trembled, and flushed hot and cold rapidly.

  When I had finished, a shivering fit came over her, and she curled up in the bed, her teeth chattering, even though I had built a fire and it was, for the first time, almost warm in the room.

  What was I to do? I tried to leave to search for Lower and remind him of his obligations, but this produced the first real movement in her since I had arrived. She grabbed my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, and refused to let go.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ she whispered through the shivers, ‘I’m frightened. I don’t want to die alone.’

  I did not have the heart to leave, although I had no enthusiasm for staying, and my presence would make not one jot of difference without Lower there. However good my experiment, whatever hope it held for the future, he and the daughter had ruined it, and she was now going to bear the responsibility for one more life.

  And so I stayed, fighting back the thought, growing now into certainty, that Lower was going to fail me when his aid was most needed. I built up the fire once more, burning more wood in a night than the Blundys had used in the previous six months, and sat wrapped in my cloak on the floor, as she slowly drifted in and out of a delirium.

  And what madness she talked when she was sensible, about her husband and her daughter. Reminiscence, blasphemy, piety and lies were all mixed together so I could scarcely tell one from the other. I tried not to listen, and did my best to avoid condemning her words, for I knew that at times like these the devils which attend all of us in our lives see their chance, and speak with our mouths, uttering words we would never own to were we in full control of ourselves. This is why we give the last rites, to cleanse the soul of those demons so that it leaves the body pure, and this is why the Protestant religion is so cruel, that it denies man that final kindness.

  And I still could not understand mother or daughter, as such sweetness and perversity I had never met in combination before or since. Nor could I understand it still when, exhausted by her ravings, first the old woman, and then myself, fell asleep in the hot, airless room. I dreamt of my friend, and occasionally in the night a sound or noise disturbed me, and I awoke thinking that he had come. But each time I realised it was only an owl, or some animal, or the cracking of a log as it burst in the fire.

  It was still dark when I awoke; I guessed about six, certainly not later. The fire had all but gone out, and the room was chilly once more. I rekindled it as best I could and the exercise helped loosen my joints, which were stiff from sleep. Only then did I examine my patient. She seemed little changed, perhaps even slightly better, but I knew she was in no state to withstand any new strain.

  Even though my trust in him had diminished, I wished Lower was there to help and advise. But even I could no longer disguise the fact that he had failed me: I was on my own, and had little time to act. I don’t know how long I stood there in indecision, hoping that my one alternative would not prove necessary. I hesitated too long; my mind cannot have been working properly, because I stared blankly at my patient until I was brought back by a distant murmur of sound coming from the outside. I shook myself into action when I realised what it was. The sound of voices, massed voices, growing in volume.

  Even before I flung open the door to make certain, I knew the sound came from the castle. The crowd was assembling, and I saw the first thin fingers of dawn in the sky. There was not long, and I had no choices left, nor could I delay a second longer.

  I prepared my instruments before I woke Mrs Blundy up, laying out the quills and the ribbons and the long silver tube, so that I could manipulate them with one hand. I stripped off my coat, and rolled up my sleeve, and placed the stool in the best position.

  Then I woke her. ‘Now Madam,’ I said, ‘we must proceed. Can you hear me?’

  She stared at the ceiling, then nodded. ‘I hear you, Doctor, and I am in your hands. Is your friend come? I cannot see him.’

  ‘We must proceed without him. It will make no difference. You must have blood, and soon; it matters not where it comes from. Now, give me your arm.’

  It was very much more difficult than the first time; her emaciated state made it fiendishly hard to find a suitable vessel, and I wasted time probing, then withdrawing the quill some half dozen times before I was satisfied. She bore it patiently, as though hardly aware of what was going on, and impervious to the sharp pain I inflicted on her in my haste. Then I prepared myself, cutting into my flesh and jabbing the quill in as quickly as possible while her blood dribbled down her arm.

  When the flow of blood from my arm was free and easy, I moved into a better position, then picked up the silver tube and inserted it into the quill. The blood swiftly ran through and spurted out in a hot red jet from the end of the tube, splashing over the bedclothes as I manoeuvred to bring it into line with the quill in her arm.

  Then it was done, the conjunction was made and when I saw there were no obstructions I started counting. Fifteen minutes, I thought, as I managed a smile at the old woman. ‘Nearly done,’ I said. ‘You’ll be fine now.’

  She did not smile back, so I counted, feeling the blood pulsing out of me and growing dizzy as I struggled to keep still. In the background the noise from the castle was slowly growing in intensity as the seconds passed. After I had counted near ten minutes, an enormous roar erupted, then died away to complete silence as I pulled the quills out of our arms and bound up the wounds to staunch the flow of blood. It was difficult; in my case I had incised into a large vessel, and I lost more blood before I could close the wound with a bandage; still the blood soaked through and created a wide stain before I was sure I succeeded.

  Then I was finished and all I could do was over. I took a deep breath to steady my spinning head while I packed the instruments away in the bag, hoping only that I was in time. Then the noise from the castle began again, and I turned
round to look at my patient. There was a bluish tinge on her lips, I saw, and as the drums rolled in the distance, I picked up her hand and saw that the fingers had discoloured as well. The drums picked up in intensity as she began to shake, to cry out in the most excruciating pain and gulp desperately for breath. Then, as the roar of the crowd mounted and became almost deafening, she arched her back and cried out in a strong, clear voice, clear of all sound of agony: ‘Sarah! My God! Have mercy upon me.’

  Then silence. The noise from the castle stopped, the rattling, choking sound from the woman’s thin throat ceased and I knew I was holding the hand of a corpse. Only a sudden monstrous clap of thunder outside, and the noise of heavy rain suddenly beginning to pound on the roof now kept me company.

  I was too late; the ripping of the daughter’s spirit from her body had been too powerful and violent for such a weakened body to resist; it had torn the life out of the mother through its departure. There was not enough time for my blood to give her the strength she needed. My indecision, and Lower’s failure, had made all my efforts worthless.

  I do not know how long I sat there, holding her hand, hoping that I had made a mistake and that she had simply fallen into a fit. I was vaguely aware of more tumult from the castle, but paid it little attention. Then I closed her eyes, and combed her hair, and arranged the mean bedclothes as best I could. Finally, though she was not of my religion and might well have scorned me for my efforts, I knelt by the bed to pray for the souls of them both. I believe I was praying for myself as well.

  I suppose I left that miserable place for the last time about an hour later. I was in no mood to reprimand Lower; instead, I felt a ferocious and overwhelming hunger mingling with my despair, so I went to a tavern to eat for the first time in more than a day. Dimly, as I sat there lost in my misery and thoughts, I listened to the conversation going on all around me; festive and cheerful, and so completely at odds with my spirits that I felt more a stranger than ever before.