An Instance of the Fingerpost Page 49

  Boyle nodded, and accepted the counter-argument. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I concede your hypothesis is the stronger and must take priority. So I will attack your conclusion; we grant that Cola is in potential an immanent danger; does that lead inevitably to the conclusion that this danger will be realised? If I understand it rightly, you have no idea or notion of what this man might do when he comes here. What could one solitary individual accomplish that would pose such a danger?’

  ‘He can say something, do something or be a means of transmission,’ I replied. ‘These are the only types of action which are possible. Any danger he poses must be contained in one of these three categories. By transmission, I mean he could bring a message, or money, or take one of these away; I cannot think this is the case, both the radicals and the Spaniards have more than enough means of transporting anything they choose without making use of a man such as he. Similarly, I cannot see what he might say that could pose any form of threat, and which would require his presence in this country. So that leaves deeds. I ask you, sir, what deed can a single, solitary man accomplish that would pose a danger to this kingdom if, as seems reasonable, his profession is of significance in determining his movements?’

  Boyle looked at me, but did not venture an answer.

  ‘You know as well as I’, I continued, ‘that the one thing a soldier does which others do not do is kill people. And one man cannot kill many. The fewer who die, the more important they must be to make an impact.’

  I lay out this conversation – in abridged form, for we talked many hours on the matter – to demonstrate that my fears were not the product of a mind suspicious of everyone and seeing dangers in mere shadows. No other hypothesis fitted the case as exactly, and so no other should be considered until it was discredited. This is the rule of experiment, and applies to politics as much as it does to mathematics or medicine. I presented my argument to Boyle and not only did he fail to come up with an alternative explanation, he was forced to concede that my own hypothesis was by far the one which best fitted the available facts. I did not believe I had reached certainty; only a scholastic would claim such prowess. But I could claim a probability more than strong enough to justify my concern.

  Strike at the body, and the wound soon heals even though it may be a great gash. Strike only one small blow at the heart, and the effect is catastrophic. And the living, breathing heart of the kingdom was the king. One man indeed, could bring all to ruin where an entire army would be ineffective.

  Lest this seem incredible, and my fears fantastic, I beg you consider the number of such murders in recent history. Only half a century before, that great man Henry IV of France was stabbed to death, as were the Prince of Orange and Henry II before him. Under forty years ago the Duke of Buckingham was murdered by his own servant; judicial murder had ended the lives of the Earl of Strafford, Archbishop Laud and the blessed martyr Charles. I myself had encountered many plots to murder Cromwell, and even the Lord Chancellor in exile condoned the murder of the Commonwealth’s ambassadors at The Hague and Madrid. Public life was steeped in blood, and the murder of a king aroused no more repugnance in the breasts of many than did the slaughter of a domestic beast. We had become inured to the most horrendous of sins, and thought of them as instruments of policy.

  I knew now that this plot I had detected was not the work of the fanatics, whose role, I suspected, would be merely to take the blame for any atrocity committed for the benefit of others. Those others had to be the Spanish, and the ultimate aim would be to detach England from its freedoms and bring our country back into Romish subjection. Kill the king and his brother, an avowed Catholic, succeeds to the throne. His first act is to swear vengeance on the assassins of his beloved Charles. He blames the fanatics and swears to extirpate them all. Moderation is thrown to the winds, and the men of extremes take power once more. The result would be war, of course, in which Englishman would be pitted against Englishman once more. This time, though, it would be more terrible still, for the Catholics would call on their Spanish masters for aid, and the French would be bound to intervene. The nightmare of all princes since Elizabeth, that this land should become the cockpit of Europe, was fearsomely close.

  For this last speculation I had no direct evidence, yet it was a reasonable projection from the evidence to hand; for logic allows us to see the future, or at least its likely development. Just as in mathematics when we can imagine a line and then imagine it projected out further, even to infinity, through the exercise of rational thought, so in politics we can consider actions and calculate consequences. If my fundamental hypothesis was granted – and it stood up to Boyle’s criticism as well as to my own dispassionate querying – then certain results would follow. I have laid out those possibilities to ensure my fears are understood. I admit that I was wrong in detail and will, at the appropriate moment, lay out my errors pitilessly; but none the less I claim the overall structure of my hypothesis was sound, in that it was capable of accepting modification without having to be abandoned.

  Matthew would not, I was sure, make any more progress in The Hague; he had become foolish through Cola’s attentions and could not see the evidence which, I knew, was in front of his eyes. More, I was concerned about him, for he risked placing himself in peril and I desired him away from Cola as swiftly as possible. Nor was this concern misplaced, for the Lord granted me the most frightening of dreams which proved my worries had foundation. On the whole I do not greatly attend to such things, and indeed I dream only rarely; but this one was so clearly spiritual in origin, and so clearly foresaw the future, that even I resolved to take note.

  Though I had not yet received Matthew’s letter about the feast, yet it was in my vision and, I later discovered, that was the very night the feast took place. For it was on Olympus, and Matthew was servant to the Gods, who plied him with all manner of food and wine until he was drunk and silly. Then one man at the table, whom I knew to be this Cola though I did not know his face, crept up and took him from behind, plunging a sharp sword into his belly again and again, until Matthew cried out with the greatest of pain. And I was in another room, seeing it all but unable to move, telling Matthew to get away. But he would not do so.

  I woke up in great fear, knowing that the greatest danger threatened; I hoped Matthew was safe, and worried without end until I knew he was unharmed. I thought Cola was on the way to England, but could do little to discover his whereabouts, so meagre were my resources. I also had to decide whether I should pass a warning to His Majesty, but decided against because I knew it would not be taken seriously. He was a courageous, not to say foolhardy, man and had lived so long in the expectation of sudden murder that it no longer swerved him from his devotion to pleasure. And what was I to say? ‘Highness, a plot exists to kill you so your own brother might take your place?’ Without proof, such a statement would at the very least mean a swift end to my pensions and places. I do not accept that the diagonal of a square is incommensurable with its sides because someone tells me; I accept it because it can be demonstrated to be so and, in this matter, while I could advance a theory better than any other, I could not yet demonstrate it.

  A week later, Matthew returned to England and told me that Marco da Cola had indeed left the Low Countries, and that he did not know where he had gone. What was more, the man had near a ten-day start, for Matthew had been unable to find a boat which would take him to England for some days after this farewell feast of his and (I suspect) had so convinced himself of the man’s harmlessness he had not hurried to return to my side.

  Disappointed and concerned though I was, Matthew’s very presence in the room lifted my heart. The intelligent gaze which gave his face such beauty rekindled the warmth in me which was extinguished in his absence; it was no surprise to me that Cola had taken to him, and kept him by his side. I thanked God for his safe return, and prayed that all my fears had been merely phantasms of a disordered and worried mind, with no substance to them.

  But I was swiftly disabus
ed of that, for when I chastised him for his laxness, and told him he was most certainly in error about the Italian, for the first time in our acquaintanceship he refused to bow to my superiority, and told me frankly I was wrong.

  ‘What do you know?’ he asked. ‘You who have never met the man, who have no proof but only suspicion? I tell you, I do know him, have spent very many hours in the most pleasant conversation, and he is no danger to you or any other man.’

  ‘You are deceived, Matthew,’ I replied. ‘You do not know what I know.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘I will not. These are high matters of state, which are no concern of yours. It is your duty to accept my word, without question, and not be deceived into thinking a man harmless because he pays you compliments and gives you presents.’

  ‘You think he bought my affections? You think me such a fool? Is that it? Because you never say a word to me except to criticise, and whose only gift has been to beat me when I make a mistake.’

  ‘I think you are young and inexperienced,’ I said, certain now that my worst fears had indeed been realised. ‘You must remember that I know what is best for you. But I forgive you for your words.’

  ‘I do not want your forgiveness. I have done everything you asked of me, and more. It is you, who accuse all men falsely, who should ask forgiveness.’

  I was tempted to hit him, but held myself back and instead made an attempt to end a discussion which was as foolish as it was inappropriate.

  ‘I will not justify myself to you, except to say that when I can tell you everything I will do so, and you will understand how wrong you are. Now, come, Matthew, my boy. You are just arrived and we are fighting. This is no way to begin. Come and take a drink, and tell me of your adventures. I truly wish to hear it all.’

  Eventually he was calmed and reassured, and sat beside me and bit by bit we resumed our habitual relation, spending the next few hours in solitary and pleasant company. He told me of his travels, delighting me with his skill at observing and his ability to go to the heart of the matter without diversion, although he said nothing of Cola’s farewell, and I found that I did not ask him. In return, I told him how I had passed the time in his absence, of the books I had read, explaining to him the importance of controversies and disputes in a way which (I confess) I had not done before. He left me that evening and I thanked God in prayer for such a companion, for without him my life was empty indeed. But my heart was uneasy, as for the first time I had failed to command him and had had to ask for his friendship. He had given it, but I did not know whether I could count on it for ever. I knew that before very long I would have to reimpose the correct order, and remind him of his subservience, lest he become arrogant. The thought deadened my mood, and then, when I considered what he had told me, I become more sombre still.

  I was sure that, if not actually in England already, then Cola was on his way and was likely to arrive before I could pick up his trail again. Whatever the Italian intended, I hoped very much that he would not act swiftly. The next morning I sent Matthew back to his friends in East Smithfield in the hope that they would have heard some news. I did not expect much from this, and was not greatly disappointed when he reported that they knew nothing, but it was an obvious step to take, and one of the few that I could take with ease.

  Then I went amongst my trader friends, enquiring with as much subtlety as urgency allowed whether they knew of any boat which had brought a lone passenger to these shores. Italian, Spanish or French; Cola might well have passed himself off as any of these, and many sailors would not have cared to tell the difference. Again, my hopes were not high, and again I learned nothing of interest. It was not certain, but I thought it likely he would have arrived by one of the lesser ports of East Anglia and, if he had Spanish money at his disposal, could well have come in a boat hired for the purpose.

  At this point, the resources I had at my disposal were exhausted. I could, of course, write to every portmaster in East Anglia, although not without making my interest generally known. Receiving the replies could take up to a month, and even then I would be unable to judge the usefulness of any information received, not being personally acquainted with my correspondents. What was I to do otherwise? Walk the streets of London, in the hope of recognising a man I had never seen and who was known to no one in this country? Sit in my study and hope that he made himself known to me before he executed his task?

  Neither option seemed sensible and, with the very greatest reluctance, I decided I would have to provoke some sort of reaction that would bring him to light, or frighten him off. It was a finely judged experiment, which would only be successful if it produced a single result. I was like an experimentalist who has his theory, and conducts an experiment to confirm it; I had not the luxury of the true philosopher, who can perform his operations and construct his theory from the evidence of his eyes.

  I pondered this matter for a day before concluding that I had no alternative and, as the opportunity offered, I decided to throw hesitation aside. The Society was to hold a meeting, at which many matters were to be discussed, and the evening concluded by the public vivisection of a dog. These are always popular, and I fear that several operators conducted their experiments more to excite the pleasure of the audience than for any utility.

  But many always wished to come, guests were encouraged to spread the fame of our work, and the company afterwards was always merry and free. I straight away asked Mr Oldenburg if he would do me the favour of inviting Señor de Moledi as a guest of honour, impressing on that gentleman that his presence would be warmly appreciated.

  This de Moledi was Spain’s representative in England, and a close associate of Caracena, the governor of the Spanish Netherlands and a man with a great hatred of all things English. It was inconceivable he would be ignorant of any attempt on the king, even though he would have been wise not to know too many details. Consequently, if I was to stir the pot a little, he was by far the best person to approach. If my intervention worked and produced some practical response, I might at last have the solid evidence I needed, and would be finally in a position to lay out my suspicions with some hope of being believed.

  The meeting that evening was a crowded one, although the communications read out by Mr Oldenburg in his dull monotone scarcely deserved much attention. One paper on the geometry of the parabola was as absurd as it was incomprehensible and my opinion was crucial in having it, and its author, rejected out of hand. Another by Mr Wren on the sundial was, as usual with that fine man, a model of lucidity and elegance but scarcely of major significance. Correspondence from abroad produced its usual crop of interest, mixed in with bombast and faulty thinking. The only matter of moment I recall (and consulting the minutes of the meeting I see my memory serves me well) was an excellent reading by Mr Hooke on his work with a microscope of his own devising. However detestable that man was as an individual, he was one of the finest artisans of our little group, close in observation, meticulous in recording. His revelations of the entire worlds to be found in a simple drop of water astonished us all, and produced an almost tearful commentary from Mr Goddard, who praised the Lord mightily for His creation, and for His goodness in allowing His creatures to comprehend ever more of His works. Then, prayers ended the formal session, and those who had a mind to watched the experiment with the dog.

  I could see from his expression that de Moledi had as little taste for the howlings of a tormented beast as I, and so I approached him and said that no one would take it as an insult to the gathering if he did not attend; for my part I also intended to absent myself, and if he wished to take a glass of wine with me, I would be honoured by his company.

  To this he assented and, having already arranged the matter beforehand, I led him through to the room Wren maintained at Gresham College, where a good Canary wine awaited us.

  ‘I hope, sir, you did not find the occupations of us men of curiosity distasteful. I know that it must seem a strange interest, and that some consider it imp
ious.’

  We spoke in Latin, and I was pleased to find that his own fluency in that blessed tongue was no less than mine. He seemed the most courteous of men and, if most Spaniards were like him, I could see how a man like Mr Bennet, who placed such store in the niceties of address, might be seduced into loving the nation. For my part, I was safe from being deceived by such matters, for I knew all too well what lay behind the fine manners.

  ‘On the contrary; I found it eminently diverting, and I very much hope that men of good curiosity from all over Christendom will join together in free discourse. There are many in Spain, as well, who are interested in these matters and I would willingly introduce them to your Society, if you find that agreeable.’

  I accepted with pleasure, and made certain I would remember to warn Oldenburg of the danger. For a country which had so ruthlessly subjected all enquiry to persecution, for such a place as this to desire communication with us would have been laughable had it not been so cruel.

  ‘I must say I am glad to make your acquaintance, Dr Wallis, and even more pleased to have the opportunity of talking to you in private. I have, of course, heard much of you.’

  ‘You surprise me, Your Excellency. I do not know how my name has come to your ears; I did not realise you took an interest in mathematics.’

  ‘I take very little; excellent pursuit though it no doubt is, I have no head for figures at all.’

  ‘That is a pity. I have long believed the purity of mathematical reasoning is the finest training a man might have.’

  ‘In which case, I must own to my deficiencies, for my great interest in canon law. But I did not hear of you for your expertise in algebra. Rather for your skill in the comprehension of codes.’

  ‘I am sure whatever you heard was greatly exaggerated. I have few abilities in that line of work.’