An Instance of the Fingerpost Page 25

  Despite the prelates, I must say I have yet to find any man who really disbelieves in spirits, or doubts that they have the most profound influence on our lives. Any man who has lain awake at night has heard the ghosts of the air as they pass by, all men have been tempted by evil and many have been saved by good inhabitants of that aethereal space which surrounds this world and joins us to heaven. Even by their own standards, the sour-faced prelates are wrong, for they hold fast to Scripture, and that states clearly that such creatures exist. Does not St Paul talk of a voluntary worshipping of Angels? (Colossians 2:18) What do they think Christ drove into the Gadarene swine?

  Naturally, it is hard to tell angels from evil spirits, for the latter are adept at disguise, and often beguile men (and more frequently women) into believing they are other than they truly are. The greatest caution is required when making contact with such beings, for we put ourselves in their hands, by creating a debt of obligation to them, and just as a lord or master remembers his debts, so do these creatures, good or evil. By going to old Blundy I took risks that, in the maturity of age’s wisdom, I would now shun. Then I was too carefree and too impatient to be cautious.

  Old Blundy was a washerwoman, and by reputation a cunning woman, some said even a witch. This I doubt; I smelt no whiff of sulphur in her presence. I had once encountered what was supposed to be a real witch, who was burnt nearby in 1654, and a smelly old hag she was. I now believe this poor woman was probably innocent of the charges which brought her to the stake; the devil is too cunning to make his servants so easily identifiable. He makes them young, and beautiful and alluring, so gracious they might never be detected by the eye of man. Like Sarah Blundy, in fact.

  None the less, the mother was a strange old crone. Cola’s description of her is wildly off the mark. Of course, she was not at her best when he encountered her, but I never saw any sign of that sympathetic understanding of which he speaks, nor of gentleness and kindness. And constantly asking questions. It was simple enough what I wanted, I told her eventually. Who betrayed my father? Could she help or not?

  It all depended, she said. Did I have suspicions? It made a difference to what she did. And to what she would not do.

  I asked her to explain. She said that really difficult problems involved conjuring up particularly powerful spirits; it could be done, but it was dangerous. Although I said I would take the risk, she said she did not mean spiritual dangers; she was afraid of being arrested and charged with necromancy. After all, she did not know who I was. How did she know whether I was sent by a magistrate to trap her?

  I protested my innocence, but she would not be moved, and repeated instead her question. Did I or did I not know the identity of my target? Even vaguely? I said I did not.

  ‘In that case we cannot roll names in water. We will have to gaze instead.’

  ‘A crystal ball?’ I sneered, for I had heard of such baubles, and was on my guard to avoid being duped.

  ‘No,’ she replied seriously. ‘That is just nonsense used by charlatans. There is no virtue in balls of glass. A bowl of water will suffice just as well. Do you want to go further?’

  I nodded tersely. She shuffled off to get a saucer of water from the well outside, and I put my money on the table, feeling the skin of my palms beginning to prick with sweat.

  She did not bother with any of the mumbo-jumbo that some practitioners adopt: no darkened rooms, no incantations or burning herbs. Just put the bowl on the table, then had me sit in front of it and close my eyes. I heard her pour the water in, and heard her pray to Peter and Paul: papist words which sounded strange from her lips.

  ‘Now, young man,’ she hissed in my ear when she had finished, ‘open your eyes and gaze at the truth. Be forthright and be fearless, as the chance may not come again. Look into the bowl and see.’

  Sweating profusely, I slowly opened my eyes and bent forward, staring intently at the still and placid water on the table top. It shimmered slightly, as though some movement had disturbed it, but there was none; then I saw it grow darker and change in its texture, rather as though it was a curtain or hanging of cloth. And I began to see something emerging from behind this cloth. It was a young man with fair hair, whom I had never seen before in my life though he seemed somehow familiar. He was there only for an instant, and then passed from view. But it was enough; his features were embedded in my mind for ever.

  Then the curtain shimmered again and another figure came into view. An old man, this time, grey with age and worry, bent over from the years and so sad it made your heart break to see it. I could not see the face clearly; there was a hand over it, almost as though the apparition was rubbing its face in utter despair. I held my breath, desperate to see more. And bit by bit I did; the hand slowly came away, and I saw that the despairing old man was my father.

  I cried out in anguish at the sight, then swept the bowl from the table in rage, making it spin across the room and shatter against the damp wall. Then I jumped up, spat an insult at the old woman and ran out of that disgusting hovel as fast as I could go.

  It took another three days, and the careful ministrations of Thomas and the bottle, before I was myself again.

  I hope I will not be considered credulous if I say that this strange encounter was the last time I saw my father; I am convinced that his soul was there, and that the disturbance I caused played a great part in the events that came after. I do not remember him well; after the age of about six I met him only a few times, as the war meant I was sent first to live with the great-aunt I have mentioned, then in the household of Sir William Compton in Warwickshire, where I spent those years under the tutelage of Dr Grove.

  My father tried to come and assure himself of my progress, although his duties ensured that this was rare. On one occasion only did I spend more than a day in his company, and that was shortly before he was forced into his second and last exile. He was everything a child could hope for in a father; stern, disciplined and wholly conscious of the obligations which exist between a man and his heir. He taught me little directly; but I knew that if I could be half the subject he was, then the king (should he ever return) would count me as one of his best and most faithful servants.

  He was not one of these effeminate apologies for gentry whom we see strutting and mincing their way through the court these days. He eschewed fine clothes (although he was fine looking when he chose) and was disdainful of books. Nor was he a great conversationalist, idling away his hours in talk when practical things were to be done. A soldier, in short, and no man was ever grander in leading a charge. He was lost in the welter of back-stabbing and conspiracy that the courtier must master; too honest to dissimulate, too frank ever to win favour. It marked him out, and if it was a fatal flaw, I cannot consider he was diminished by it. His fidelity to his wife was as pure as a poet could imagine, and his courage a byword in the army. He was at his happiest at Harland House, our main seat in Lincolnshire, and when he left it he was as grieved as if his wife had died. And rightly so, for the land at Harland Wyte had been in our family for generations; it was our family, you might say, and he knew and loved every square inch of it.

  The sight of his soul in such distress rekindled my enthusiasm for my task, as it was clear it was tormented by the injustice he still suffered. So, when I had sufficiently recovered my strength, I concocted a story about the illness of an aunt from whom I had expectations to gain my tutor’s permission to leave town, and set off one bright morning for Windsor. I coached as far as Reading, as the university has no monopoly on the route and prices are affordable, and then walked the remaining fifteen miles. I slept in a field, as it was still just warm enough and I did not wish to spend unnecessarily, but breakfasted in a tavern in the town, so I could brush myself down and wipe my face and present a reasonably proper appearance. I also learned from the keeper that Lord Mordaunt – whom I discovered was bitterly detested in the town for his lack of extravagance – was indeed in residence as warden of the castle, having returned only three days
before from Tunbridge Wells.

  There was no point in dallying; having come so far, it would have been foolish indeed to hesitate. As Thomas had said, a refusal was the worst I could suffer. So I marched boldly to the castle, then spent the next three hours sitting in an ante-room while my request for an audience was conveyed through an army of lackeys.

  I was grateful for my breakfast, as it was well past dinnertime before I received any response. In the interval I marched up and down, awaiting the condescension of the mighty, vowing that I would never behave in such a way to those seeking my patronage when my fortune turned. A promise, I must say, I broke the moment I had the opportunity to do so, as by then I understood the purpose of all this attending: it establishes the proper boundaries, creates a due deference amongst those seeking favours and (most practically) discourages all but the most serious. And eventually my reward came when a servant, more cordial now than before, opened the door with ceremony, bowed and said that Lord Mordaunt would grant me an interview. If I would come this way . . .

  I had hoped that simple curiosity, at least, would prompt just such a response and was glad that my guess had proven correct. It was not often, I imagine, that anyone had the presumption to present himself on the noble gentleman’s doorstep in such a fashion.

  I knew little of the man whom I had travelled to see, except that all expected him to become a figure of great consequence in the government, a Secretary of State at the very least, and soon to improve his barony to a full earldom because of his favour with Lord Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor and the most powerful man in the land. He was a brave plotter on the king’s behalf, a man of great fortune from one of the highest families in the land, with a notably virtuous wife and the sort of good looks that make any man a place. His devotion to the king’s service was all the more remarkable since his family had kept out of the struggle as much as possible, and were masters at not committing themselves and emerging with their fortunes intact. Mordaunt himself was said to be cautious in advice, but bold when needful, and disinclined to faction and petty squabbling. This was the surface appearance of the man, at least. His only weakness was impatience and an abrupt way of dealing with those he considered incompetent: but that was a great flaw, for there were many such at court, and even more who wished ill on any friend of Clarendon.

  I approached through a series of rooms until eventually I was led into his presence: a grand and, in my mind, unnecessarily pompous proceeding. At least the final room was small and commodious enough, a bureau stacked with piles of paper and shelves of books. I made my bow and waited for him to address me first.

  ‘I gather you are the son of Sir James Prestcott. Is that correct?’

  I nodded. He was a man of medium height, with a well-formed face spoiled only by a nose disproportionately small. His figure was fine, especially in the legs, his movements gracious and, however grand the ceremony of introduction, he cast that aside the moment that the interview began, and engaged in the most amiable conversation which gave the lie to rumours of his pride and haughtiness. I came away admiring the man for his sagacity; he seemed a worthy comrade in arms for my father, and I believed that each had been equally honoured by the trust and love of the other. The contrast with a man like Thurloe could not be greater, I thought: the one tall, fair and open, like a Roman of old in bearing and manner, the other wizened and twisted, operating in the dark, never doing anything in the open, always using the instruments of deceit.

  ‘An unusual approach, verging on the discourteous,’ he commented severely. ‘I imagine you must have a good reason.’

  ‘The very best, My Lord,’ I said. ‘I greatly regret troubling you, but I have no one else to turn to. You alone can help me, if you will. I can offer nothing in return, but my needs are small. I want a little of your time; that is all.’

  ‘You cannot be so foolish as to expect preferment. I could not help you in that regard.’

  ‘I want to talk to people who knew my father. To clear his honour of stain.’

  He considered this remark fully, digesting all the implications it contained, before he replied, gently but cautiously, ‘That is commendable in a son, and understandable in a child whose fortune depends on it. But I think you will have an uphill struggle.’

  In the past, my tendency when faced with such remarks was to erupt into a burning rage, during which I would voice all manner of angry ripostes; as a youth I returned home with many a black eye and bloody nose. But I knew such behaviour would not help here: I wanted help, and that could only be obtained through politeness and deference. So I choked back my anger, and maintained a serene countenance.

  ‘It is a struggle I must undertake. I believe my father was innocent of all wrong, but I do not even know what he was accused of. It is my right to know and my duty to repudiate the accusations.’

  ‘Your family, surely . . .’

  ‘They know little, and tell less. Forgive me for interrupting, sir. But I need to know at first hand what transpired. As you were one of the key figures in His Majesty’s Great Trust, and are reputed for your fairness, I thought to approach you first of all.’

  A little delicate flattery often oils the wheels of converse, I find; even when it is recognised for what it is, such comments show a recognition of indebtedness. The only requirement is that the compliments be not too coarse, and do not jar on the ear too loudly.

  ‘Do you think my father was guilty?’

  Mordaunt considered the question, still with a faint air of surprise on his face that the discussion was taking place at all. He made me wait a long time so that the kindness he did me was fully appreciated before he sat down, then indicated he would permit me to sit also.

  ‘Do I think your father was guilty?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid I do, young man. I tried hard to believe in his innocence. Such belief was earned by a brave comrade, even though we rarely saw eye to eye. You see, I never had any direct indication myself that he was a traitor. Do you understand how we operated then? Did he tell you?’

  I told him that I was working more or less in the dark; I had rarely encountered my father once I had come to an age at which such matters were understandable to me, and then he had been as discreet with his family as, I am convinced, he had been with everyone else. There was always the possibility that the soldiers would come for us, and he wanted us to know as little as possible for our sake and his own.

  Mordaunt nodded, and thought awhile. ‘You must understand’, he said quietly, ‘that I – very reluctantly – concluded that your father was indeed a traitor.’ I moved to protest here, but he held up his hand to quieten me. ‘Please. Hear me out. That does not mean that I would not be happy to be proven wrong. He always struck me as a good man, and it shocked me to think that was a sham. It is said that the face mirrors a man’s soul, and that we can read there whatever is written on his heart. Not with him. With your father, I read wrongly. So if you can prove this was not the case, then I will be in your debt.’

  I thanked him for his openness – the first time, indeed, I had come across such an even devotion to justice. I thought to myself, that if I could persuade this man, then I would have a case; he would not judge unfairly.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘how exactly do you plan to proceed?’

  I do not remember exactly what I said, but I fear that it was of a touching naïveté. Something about finding the true traitor and forcing him to confess. I added that I was already certain John Thurloe was the man behind it all, and that I intended to kill him when I had the evidence. However I phrased it, my remarks brought a small sigh from Mordaunt.

  ‘And how do you intend to avoid hanging yourself?’

  ‘I suppose I must discredit the evidence against my father.’

  ‘Which evidence are you talking about?’

  I bowed my head as the depths of my ignorance forced my confession. ‘I do not know.’

  Lord Mordaunt looked at me carefully awhile, although whether it was with pity or contempt
I could not make out. ‘Perhaps’, he said after a while, ‘it might help you if I told you something of those days, and what I know of the events. I do not speak because I believe you are correct, but you do have a right to know what was said.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said simply, and my gratitude to him then was whole and unfeigned.

  ‘You are too young to remember much, and were certainly too young to understand,’ he began, ‘but until the very last moment His Majesty’s cause in this country seemed doomed to extinction. A few people continued to fight against Cromwell’s tyranny, but only because they thought it right to do so, not because there was any anticipation of success. The number of people sick of despotism increased year by year, but they were too cowed to act without a lead. The task of giving that lead was taken on by a handful of loyal subjects, of whom one was your father. They were given the name of the Sealed Knot, because they bound each to the other so tightly through their love of each other and their king.

  ‘They accomplished nothing, except to keep hope alive in men’s hearts. Certainly they were active; scarcely a month went by without some scheme or another – a rising here, an assassination there. If these had come to fruition, Cromwell would have been dead a dozen times long before he died in his bed. But nothing of substance took place, and Cromwell’s army was always there, a vast block against anyone who wanted change. Unless that army could be defeated, the road to the Restoration would be for ever closed, and you do not defeat the most effective army in the world with hope and pinpricks.’

  I suppose I must have frowned at his criticism of these heroic, lonely men and their struggle, and he noticed it and smiled regretfully. ‘I do not disparage,’ he said softly, ‘I state the truth. If you are serious you need all the information, good and bad.’