An Instance of the Fingerpost

1

Having been sent the collected notes of the papist Marco da Cola, I feel it necessary to comment, lest others also come across his outrageous scribblings and believe what he says. So let me state it plainly that this Cola is a pernicious, deceitful and arrogant liar. The wide-eyed naïveté, the youthful enthusiasm, the openness he presents in his narration are nothing but the most monstrous of frauds. Satan is a master of deception, who has taught his servants his tricks. “Ye are of your father the devil…for he is a liar, and the father of it” (John 8:44). I intend to expose the full extent of the duplicity he reveals in this memoir of his, this true account (as he has it) of a voyage to England. This Cola was the worst of men, the most savage of murderers, and the greatest of deceivers. It was only by the grace of Providence that I escaped that night when he tried to poison me, and it was the greatest misfortune that Grove took the bottle for himself and died in my place. I had half expected some attempt once he arrived in Oxford, but had thought more in terms of a knife in the back—I never conceived of such a cowardly assault, and was not prepared for it. As for the girl, Sarah Blundy, I would have spared her had that been possible, but could not do so. An innocent died, one more of Cola’s many victims, but many more would have done so had I not kept my counsel. It was a hard decision to take, but still I try to acquit myself of wrong. The danger was great, and my own sufferings were hardly less.

I say this calmly and with consideration, but it has cost me much to do so, for the arrival of the manuscript came as the greatest shock. Lower, indeed, had not intended to send it to me even though he sent one to that man Prestcott; it was only when I heard of its existence that I demanded to see it and made it clear I would brook no refusal. My intention was to expose the manuscript as a piece of imposition as I could not believe it genuine, but now I have read it I know my initial assumption was wrong. Contrary to my belief, and the assurances of those I had reason to trust, it is clear that Marco da Cola really is still alive.

I do not know how this can be and I most certainly wish it were not so, since I did my best to ensure his death and was certain I had succeeded; I was told that he had been taken to the edge of the boat, and there pushed into the North Sea, that his deeds might be punished and his lips forever sealed. The captain himself told me the boat had hove to for many minutes until the man sank beneath the waves. The knowledge had given me some solace over the years, and it is cruel to have that consolation so rudely ripped away, for that manuscript shows plain that those I trusted lied to me and my triumph ended in fraud. I do not know why, but it is now too late to discover the truth. Too many of those who might know the answer have died, and I now serve new masters.

I feel I should explain myself; I do not say, you note, justify myself, as I believe that throughout my career I have been consistent. I know that my enemies do not accept this, and I suppose that the reasonableness of my actions in the course of my public career (if such you can call it) has not been absolutely clear to uninformed minds. How is it, they say, that a man can be Anglican, Presbyterian, loyal to the martyr Charles, then become chief cryptographer to Oliver Cromwell, deciphering the most secret letters of the king to aid the parliamentary cause, then return to the established church and, finally, use his skills to defend the monarchy once more when it was restored? Is that not hypocrisy? Is that not self-serving? So say the ignorant.

To which I reply, no. It is not, and anyone who may sneer at my actions knows very little about the difficulties of rebalancing the humors of a polity once it has become subject to disease. Some say that I changed sides from day to day, and always for my own advantage. But do you really believe that I needed to settle merely for the professorship of geometry at the University of Oxford? Had I been truly ambitious, I would have aimed at a bishopric at the very least. And do not imagine I could not have had it—it was not my aim. I have not been governed by selfish ambition and have studied more to be serviceable than great. I endeavored at all times to act by moderate principles in compliance with the powers in being. Since my earliest days when I discovered the secret patterns of mathematics and dedicated myself to their exploration, I have had a passion for order, for in order lies the fulfillment of God’s plan for us all. The joy of a mathematical problem solved with elegance and the pain of seeing the natural harmony of man disrupted are two sides of the same coin; in both cases I believe I allied myself to the cause of righteousness.

Nor did I desire fame and reputation for myself as a reward; indeed, I shunned these as vanity and was content for others to take the great positions of church and state, knowing rather that my secret influence was of far greater weight than theirs. Let others talk; it was my task to act and I did so to the best of my ability; I served Cromwell because his iron fist could bring order to the land and stop the bickering of faction when no one else could, and I served the king when that God-ordained role passed to him on Cromwell’s death. And I served each well; not for their sake certainly, but because by doing so I served my God, as I have tried to do in all things.

My desire for myself was merely to be left in peace to approach the divine through the mysteries of mathematics. But, as I am a servant of God and of the realm as I am of philosophy, I have frequently been constrained to put such selfishness aside. Now there is another who will surpass me, as David surpassed Saul, or as Alexander surpassed Philip, I can do so easily—then it was a real hardship. Mr. Newton says he sees so far because he stands on the shoulders of giants. I hope it will not seem vanitous if I say that my shoulders are among the strongest to support his glory, and I am ever mindful (though too modest to repeat in public) of that saying of Didacus Stella, a dwarf standing on the shoulders of a giant may see farther than a giant himself. More than this, I could have seen farther myself, and taken some of his great fame, had my duty not called me to other things so insistently.

Now that it is so many years ago, many people assume that the restoration of the kingdom was a simple matter. Cromwell died and in due course the king returned. Would that it had been that straightforward—the secret history of that momentous event is known only to a few. At the beginning I thought that, at best, the king might last six months, a year if he was lucky, before the passion of faction erupted once more. It seemed to me that he would have to fight for his inheritance, sooner or later. The country had been in turmoil for near twenty years; there had been war and strife, property had been trampled on, the rightful rulers of the country killed and expelled, all stations of men upturned. “I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a green bay tree” (Psalms 37:35). Were people who had become used to authority and riches simply going to renounce these baubles? Was it really to be expected that the army, unpaid and discarded, would quietly accept the king’s return and the defeat of everything they had striven to establish? And could it be hoped that the king’s supporters would remain united, when the opportunities for dissent presented to them were so great? Only men without power do not desire it; those who have felt its touch crave ever more of its embrace.

England was a country on the edge, surrounded by enemies within and without—the least spark could have rekindled the flames. And in this powder keg the most powerful men in the kingdom were engaged in a struggle for the king’s favor which only one person could win. Clarendon, Bristol, Bennet; the Duke of Buckingham, Lords Cavendish, Coventry, Ormonde, Southampton—there was not room for all in His Majesty’s favor and only one person could run his government for him, for none would tolerate partners. The battle was fought in the dark, but its consequences sucked many men in; I was one, and took upon myself the task of damping the flames before all was consumed. I flatter myself that I succeeded well, despite the efforts of Marco da Cola. He says at the start of his manuscript that he will leave out much, but nothing of significance. That is his first great lie. He puts in nothing which is of significance; I will have to do that to expose his perfidy.

My involvement in the matter which this Cola tries to hide began near two years before he arrived on these shores, when I traveled to London to attend a meeting of like-minded natural philosophers at Gresham College. This organization, which later became our Royal Society, is not now what it was, despite the presence of luminaries like Mr. Newton. Then it was a ferment of knowledge, and only someone who attended could know what a buzz of excitement and endeavor attended those early meetings. That spirit has gone now, and I fear it will never return. Who now can match that band—Wren, Hooke, Boyle, Ward, Wilkins, Petty, Goddard and so many more names which will live forever? Now its members are like a bunch of ants, forever collecting thek tawdry rocks and bugs, always accumulating, never thinking, and turning away from God. No wonder they come to be despised.

But then all was joyful optimism; the king was back on his throne, the country was peaceful once more, and the whole world of experimental philosophy was there to be explored. We felt, I think, like Cabot’s crew when they first caught sight of the New World, and the excitement of anticipation was intoxicating. The meeting itself was very fine, as befitted the occasion; the king himself attended, and graciously presented a mace to signify his royal condescension in supporting our endeavors, and many of his most powerful ministers came too—some of whom were subsequently elected to our ranks when the Royal Society was officially formed, although, it must be said, they contributed little but luster.

Afterward, once His Majesty had made a pretty speech and we were all given the opportunity of bowing personally to him, and Mr. Hooke had demonstrated one of his more ingenious (and showy) machines to entrap the royal imagination, I was approached by a man of middling stature, with quick, dark eyes and a supercilious manner. He wore an oblong black patch over the bridge of his nose, which covered (so they say) a sword wound received when he was fighting for the late king. Personally I am not so sure; no one ever saw this famed injury, and that patch drew attention to his loyalty more than it covered a wound. Then he was known as Henry Bennet, although the world later knew him as the Earl of Arlington and he had just returned from the embassy of Madrid (though this was not yet common knowledge). I had heard vague reports that he was charging himself with maintaining the stability of the kingdom, and I was swiftly to receive full confirmation that this was, indeed, the case. In brief, he asked me to attend on him the following morning at his house on the Strand, as he wished to make my acquaintance.

The next day, accordingly, I presented myself, half expecting to be hurled into the midst of a formal levee, surrounded by petitioners and claimants all wanting the attention of a man close to the court. There were indeed a few people there, but not many and they were ignored. I concluded from this that Mr. Bennet’s star had not yet risen too far or, for reasons of his own, he was keeping his connections, and even his presence in London, fairly quiet.

I cannot say that he was pleasant; indeed, he had a formality of manner which verged on the grotesque, so keen was he to observe all the niceties of protocol, and maintain rankings in a clear form. It came, I believe, from spending too long in Spain, which is notoriously prone to such excesses. He took the trouble to explain to me that he had provided a chair with a padded seat, as befitted my dignity as a doctor of the university; others, it seemed, had to make do with a hard seat or remain standing, depending on their station. It would have been unwise of me to hint that I considered such punctiliousness absurd—I did not know what he wanted and the government was about to send a visitation to the university to eject members inserted by the Commonwealth. As I had been so inserted, Mr. Bennet was not a man to annoy. I wanted to keep my position.

“How do you consider the state of His Majesty’s kingdom?” he said abruptly, not being a man to waste too much time putting his guests at ease or winning their confidence. It is a trick often played by men in power, I find.

I replied that all His Majesty’s subjects were naturally delighted at his safe return to his rightful throne. Bennet snorted.

“So how do you account for the fact that we have just had to hang another half dozen fanatics for plotting against the government?”

“ ‘This is an evil generation,’ “ I said. (Luke 11:29.)

He tossed a sheaf of papers over to me. “What do you think of those?”

I looked at them carefully, then sniffed dismissively.”Letters in cipher,” ï said.

“Can you read them?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Could you read them? Tease out their meanings?”

“Unless there is some particular difficulty, yes. I have had some considerable experience in such matters.”

“I know that. For Mr. Thurloe, was it not?”

“I provided no information which might have injured the king’s party, even though it was in my power to do it considerable harm.”

“Are you now prepared to do it any good?”

“Of course. I am His Majesty’s loyal servant. I trust you remember that I took great risks with my fortune in protesting against the murder of the late king.”

“You satisfied your conscience in the matter, but not to the point of leaving office, or turning down preferment when it was offered, I recall,” he replied coldly, and in a manner which gave me little optimism about winning his favor. “No matter. You will be pleased at the opportunity of demonstrating how great your loyalties are. Bring me those letters deciphered tomorrow morning.”

And so I was dismissed, not knowing whether to bless my luck or curse my misfortune. I went back to the inn where I habitually stayed in London—this was before I acquired my house in Bow Street on the death of my wife’s father—and settled down to work. It took all day, and most of the night, to get the letters done. The art of decipherment is a complicated one, and was getting more so. Frequently it is simply a matter of figuring out how one letter or group of letters was replaced by another—you work out by substitution that (for example) “a” stands for “the,” 4 stands for king, d=l, f=d, h=on, g=i, v=s, c=n; and it is simple enough to decide that a4gvgcdhfh means that the king is in London. You will note that while the method (much favored by the Royalists in the war, as they were, I’m afraid to say, rather straightforward souls) of substituting one letter for another is simple, the method of making a letter occasionally substitute for a letter, and occasionally for a syllable or a word, is more difficult. Nonetheless, it still presents few problems. What is more difficult is when the value attached to the letters constantly changes—a method first proposed in England by Lord Bacon but, I understand, in fact invented by a Florentine over a hundred years ago and now claimed by the French, an insolent nation which cannot abide that anything should not come from their land. They steal that which is not theirs; I suffered myself when a wretched little clerk called Fermat dared to say my work on indivisibles was his own.

I will try to explain. The essence of this method is that both sender and recipient must have the same text. The message begins with a group of numbers which reads (say) 124, 5—meaning that the key begins on page 124, word five, of this text. Let us suppose that this page begins—“So Hatach went forth to Mordecai unto the street of the city, which was before the king’s gate.” (Esther 4:6, a puzzling text on which I have given an elucidatory sermon, shortly to be published.) The fifth word, “to,” is your starting point, and you substitute “t” for “a,” thus getting an alphabet:

so that your message, “The king is in London,” now reads “maxdbgzblbgehgwhg.” The important thing is that, after a given number of letters, normally twenty-five, you move to the next word, in this case Mordecai, and start again, so that m=a, n=b and so on. Variations on this method exist, of course. But the point is to ensure that the value of letters changes sufficiently frequently for it to be all but impossible to make the code out unless you have the text on which it is based. I will explain why this was important later on.

I was worried that the scripts given me might be of this type; I could possibly have deciphered them eventually, but not in the time allowed. If I am vain about my abilities, it is with some justice; only one text has ever defeated me, and that was in special—though important—circumstances which I will deal with later. But every time I am handed a coded letter, I know that bitter experience of failure might be mine once more, for I am not infallible and the possible variant combinations are virtually infinite. I myself have constructed codes which are unreadable without the right texts for decipherment, so it was perfectly possible that others could do so as well; indeed I am surprised that I have not been defeated more often, as it is easier to construct an impregnable code than it is to breach its walls. Fortunately, in the case of Mr. Bonnet’s letters I was again lucky—the authors were as simple-minded in their approach as were the Royalist conspirators in their day. Few people, I find, are prepared to learn from experience. Each epistle had a different code, but they were simple ones and each was long enough to allow me to fix the meanings. At seven the next morning, accordingly, I presented myself once more to Mr. Bennet, and handed over my labors.

He took them, and glanced over the fair copy I had prepared. “Would you summarize them for me, doctor?”

“They appear to be a group of letters to one individual, probably in London,” I said. “All specifying a date, January twelfth. There are references in two of them to weapons, but not in the others. One mentions the kingdom of God, which I imagine rules out papists, and indicates that the authors are Fifth Monarchists or groups associated with them. Internal evidence suggests two of the letters come from Abingdon, which also indicates a seditious origin to the letters.”

He nodded. “And your conclusions?”

“That the matter should be looked into.”

“Is that all? That seems very casual.”

“The letters themselves prove nothing. Had I written them, and been arrested, my defense would be that they were all to do with my cousin’s wedding.”

Mr. Bennet snorted.

“Far be it from me to give you advice, sir, but precipitate haste might be troublesome. I assume that you obtained these letters by occult means?”

“We have an informant, that is correct.”

“So if you swoop, your informant will be of no further use to you, as it will be obvious you knew where to look. Look, sir, it is more than likely that these letters indicate that a rising of some sort will happen, and that it will be in several parts of the country, led from the capital.”

“That is what concerns me,” he said.

“Use your informant to find out where the provincial risings are to be, and on January eleventh, move troops there. I take it the king does have troops he can count on?”

“No more than a few thousand can be trusted absolutely.”

“Use them. As for London, sit back and watch; find out who is involved and how many, and have troops ready. Make sure the court is guarded. Then let the rising happen. Cut off from any support it will be easy to put down, and you will have solid evidence of treason. You may then act as you please. And collect such praise as will be your due for your prompt action.”

Bennet leaned back in his seat and watched me coldly. “My aim is to guard the king, not to gather praise.”

“Of course.”

“For a cleric you seem to have a remarkable grasp of these matters. It may be that you were in deeper with Mr. Thurloe than I suspected.”

I shrugged. “You asked my advice, and I gave it. You do not have to take it.”

He had not dismissed me, so I sat there while he stared out of the window before pretending to notice me again.

“Go away, sir,” he said tartly. “Leave me in peace.”

I did as ordered, and left thinking that I had not succeeded in disarming a man who could do me very considerable harm, and that my tenure at the university would be shortlived. I resigned myself to this as best I could; I was wealthy enough through my mother’s side and had no fear of starvation or penury but, nonetheless, I liked my position and the stipend it brought, and had no desire to relinquish it.

I had played my cards as well as I could. The great virtue of deciphering letters is that it is profoundly difficult for anyone else to say whether you have done it correctly. In this case the interpretation (allied to a certain knowledge of my own) enabled me to demonstrate my potential usefulness at no great cost. For the letters clearly indicated that the uprising which so exercised Mr. Bennet was, in fact, going to be little more than the screaming and yelling of a few dozen fanatics and could in no way threaten the king. This band might believe that, with God’s help, they could take London, the country and perhaps even the entire world; I saw fairly clearly that their so-called rising would be farcical.

But, with a little prodding from Bennet, as I later learned, the government took it seriously, and began having nightmares about the bitter and unpaid remnants of Cromwell’s army rising all over the country. In late January (such is the length of time it takes to get information from London to Oxford in winter) news began to come through that Thomas Venner’s band of Fifth Monarchist maniacs had fallen into the trap so skillfully set for them and been arrested after creating a stir that had lasted for all of five hours. More, a sudden decision had led the government to station a squadron of cavalry at Abingdon and in half a dozen other places a few days before, and to this wise move was attributed the fact that the old soldiers there had remained quiescent. In my opinion they had never considered doing anything at all, but no matter; the effect was made.

Five days after I heard of all this, I received a letter summoning me to London. I went there the following week and was instructed to visit Mr. Bennet, who had now been permitted to move into accommodations in Whitehall where he was so much closer to the king’s ear.

“I imagine you have heard of the monstrous treason which the government successfully repressed last month?” he said. I nodded.

“The court was mightily alarmed,” he went on. “And it has shaken the confidence of many. Including His Majesty, who can no longer hold on to the illusion that he is universally beloved.”

“I am distressed to hear that.”

“I am not. There is treason everywhere in this country, and it is my job to stamp it out. At least now there is a chance that someone might listen to me when I give warnings.”

I sat silently.

“When we met last, you gave me certain advice. His Majesty was impressed by the speed with which the rising was put down, and I was pleased to have talked over my policy with you.”

Which, roughly translated, meant that he had taken all the credit and that I should bear in mind that he was my sole conduit to royal favor. It was kind of him to spell it out so clearly. I nodded.

“I am glad to be of service. To you and His Majesty,” I said.

“Here,” he said, and handed me a piece of paper. It contained a document confirming the king’s trusty and well-beloved servant John Wallis in his post as Professor of Geometry at the University of Oxford, and another, appointing the same trusty and well-beloved John Wallis as Royal Chaplain to the king, at a salary of two hundred pounds a year.

“I am deeply grateful and trust I will be able to repay such favor,” I said.

Bennet smiled, a thin and unpleasant smile. “That you will, doctor. And please do not think we expect you to deliver many sermons. We have decided to take no action against the radical rump at Abingdon, or at Burford or Northampton. It is our wish that they should be left at liberty. We know where they are, and a bird in the hand…”

“Just so,” I said. “But that is of little purpose unless you are constantly informed of what they are doing.”

“Precisely. I am convinced they will try again. Such is the nature of these people; they cannot stop, for to stop would be to commit sin. They regard it as their duty to continue agitation.”

“Some as their right, sir,” I murmured.

“I do not wish to engage in dispute. Rights and duties. It is all treason, wherever it comes from. Do you agree or not?”

“I believe the king has a right to his place and it is our duty to keep him there.”

“So will you see to it?”

“I?”

“You. You do not fool me, sir. That air of the philosopher does not deceive. I know exactly what tasks you performed for Thurloe.”

“I’m sure you have heard an exaggerated report,” I said. “I acted as cryptographer, not as an intelligencer. But that is of no matter. If you want me to see to it, as you put it, I am content to serve you. But I will need money.”

“You will have what you require. Within reason, of course.”

“And I beg to remind you that communication with London is not so very rapid.”

“You will have a warrant giving you leave to act as you see fit.”

“And does that include use of the garrisons nearby?”

He frowned, then said, very reluctantly, “In an emergency, if need be.”

“And how will I stand with the Lords Lieutenant of the counties?”

“You will not stand with them at all. You will communicate only with me. No one else, not even in the government. Is that understood?”

I nodded. “Very well.”

Bennet smiled again, and stood up. “Good. I am very pleased, sir, that you agree to serve your sovereign in this fashion. The kingdom is far from secure, and all honest men must labor to prevent the spite of dissent from emerging once more. I tell you, doctor, I do not know whether we will succeed. At the moment our enemies are dispirited and fragmented. But if we ever loosen our grip, who knows what might happen?”

For once I could agree with him wholeheartedly.

I will not have it thought that I entered into my role with enthusiasm or without thought. I was not going to tie my fortunes to a man who might drag me down with him should he prove to have only an unsteady purchase on power and position. I knew little enough about this Mr. Ben-net and so, the moment I had registered my appointment as Royal Chaplain with the appropriate offices, and dispatched the confirmation of my university position back to Oxford to confound my enemies there, I set myself to find out a little more about him.

He certainly had given ample evidence of his loyalty to the king, as he had shared exile with him and been entrusted with diplomatic missions of some importance. More to the point, he was a skillful courtier—too skillful, indeed, for Lord Clarendon; the king’s first minister had spotted his abilities and, rather than enlisting his support, had instantly seen him as a threat. The enmity grew, and Bennet grew close to other of Clarendon’s rivals while he waited his chance. He also attracted a circle of young men, all of whom went around praising each other’s brilliance. He was spoken of as a man who would rise to the very top—and nothing ensures success at court as an expectation that success will be forthcoming. To sum up, he had supporters below him, and supporters above him; but as long as Clarendon enjoyed the king’s favor, Mr. Bennet would rise but slowly. It was uncertain how long his patience would last.

Until it was clear whether he would continue to rise, or fall in the attempt, I had as much interest as Mr. Bennet in making sure my connection to him remained unknown. Besides, he concerned me in other respects as well—his love of Spain was well known, and the idea of helping a man with such sympathies distressed me somewhat. On the other hand, I desired to be of service, and Bennet was the only conduit by which my skills and abilities could be put to use. Nor did I consider the maneuverings of the great to be my affair. Who reigned supreme at court, who had the ear of the king, made little immediate difference; the kingdom’s safety (strange days that we lived in) depended far more on the activities of those lower folk who were to win my attentions. I have mentioned the discontented radicals, soldiers and sectaries who formed such a large well of opposition to the government. From the moment the king returned, there was constant turmoil from these people, who were never as meekly accepting of the manifest will of God as their professions suggested they should be. Venner’s rising was a mere squib of no great import, badly organized, funded and led, but there was no reason to think it would be the last, and constant vigilance was of the utmost importance.

The enemies of the kingdom had men of discipline and ability in their ranks—anyone who had witnessed (as I had) the triumphs of Cromwell’s armies knew that. Moreover, they were fanatics, ready to die for their delusions. They had tasted power, and in their mouths it was as sweet as honey. (Revelation 10:9.) Even more dangerous was the fact that outsiders were ready to manipulate them and urge them on. My dealings with Cola (which I intend to narrate here) were more dangerous and more hidden still. A trust in God is very fine, but God also expects you to look to yourself. My greatest concern was that those in power would become complacent and underestimate their enemies. Although I cannot say I liked Bennet, we agreed that there was a real danger which needed to be confronted.

And so I returned to Oxford, resumed my mathematical enquiry, and began weaving a web in which to catch the king’s enemies. Mr. Bennet’s perspicacity in choosing me was considerable—not only had I some small skill in the matter already, I sat in the middle of the kingdom and, of course, had a network of contacts throughout Europe which could readily be exploited. The Republic of Learning knows no boundaries and few things were more natural than to write to colleagues in all countries to seek their views on mathematics, philosophy—and anything else. Piece by piece, and at very moderate expense, I began to have a better picture than anyone of what was going on. I did not, of course, rise to the level of Mr. Thurloe, but although never entirely trusted by my masters, I pursued their enemies and largely succeeded in heaping mischief upon them, and spending mine arrows among them. (Deuteronomy 32:23.)

2

I first heard of Marco da Cola, Gentleman (so-called) of Venice, in a letter from a correspondent in the Low Countries, to whom the government paid a moderate competence to observe the activities of English radicals in exile. Particularly, this fellow was requested to watch keenly for the slightest contact between them and anybody close to the Dutch government, and to note any absences or unusual visitors. This man wrote to me in the October of 1662 (more to justify his gold than for any other reason, I suspect) and said nothing at all except that a Venetian, one Cola, had arrived in Leiden and had spent some time in the exiles’ company.

That was all; certainly there was no reason at that time to imagine that this man was anything other than a wandering student. I gave the matter little attention beyond writing to a merchant, then traveling to Italy to acquire paintings for Englishmen with more money than sense, asking him to identify this man. I might mention in passing that picture dealers (now more common since it became legal to bring such works into the country) make excellent investigators, as they come and go as they please without causing suspicion. Their trade brings them into contact with men of influence, but they are so lowly and absurd in their pretensions to gentility and education that few ever take them seriously.

I received no reply until the beginning of 1663, my correspondent’s laxity and the winter posts both conspiring to cause delay. Even then, his response produced little of interest and, lest anybody think I was careless, I append here Mr. Jackson’s letter:

The letter then concluded with hopeful remarks saying that if I wanted to acquire any paintings, Thomas Jackson Esquire (not that he had any right to call himself such, being a mere painter) would be most grateful for the privilege of obliging.

When I received this letter, I naturally wrote to Mr. Bennet about this man Giovanni di Pietro—if the Venetians did have a correspondent in London, I felt the government should know who he was. Somewhat to my surprise, I received a curt note back—This di Pietro was already known to them, was of no danger to the government and Mr. Bennet was sure I had much more profitable areas of enquiry. He reminded me that my task was the repression of sectaries; other questions were none of my concern.

I was too occupied to be other than thankful for this as there were definite signs that the sectaries were indeed rumbling again and I had more than enough to keep me busy. Reports reached me of consignments of arms flitting about the country, of little conventicles of radicals meeting, then dispersing. Most dangerous of all, a solid report came that Edmund Ludlow, the most dangerous and able of the old generals still at liberty, had been receiving an unusually large number of visitors in his exile in Switzerland. The beast was stirring, but still it was like trying to measure the waters in the hollow of your hand (Isaiah 40:12). In several parts of the country I knew that trouble was brewing—I did not know why, or who was behind it all.

It should not be thought that my activities took place only in Oxford—I was, naturally, bound to be there during some of the term but much of the year I was at liberty, and spent a good part of my time in London, for not only did this give me access to the Secretary of State (Mr. Bennet received his reward that November), much of learned society was migrating there as well and I naturally wished to spend time in their company. The great venture of the Royal Society was under way, and it was vital that it was constructed along good lines, only admitting proper people and keeping out those who wished to pervert it to ungodly ends—papists at one extreme, atheists at the other.

Shortly after a meeting of the Society, Matthew, my servant, though far more than that, came to me. I will dwell much on this young man in my narrative, for he was as dear to me as a son; dearer, in fact. When I consider my own sons, doltish buffoons with whom no man of sense can converse, I despair of my misfortune. “A foolish son is the calamity of his father” (Proverbs 19:13); how much have I meditated on the truth of this saying, for I have two such fools. I tried once to teach the elder the secrets of decipherment, but might as well have attempted to instruct a baboon in the theories of Mr. Newton. They were left to my wife when young, since I was too busy on government business and in the university to attend to them, and she brought them up in her image. She is a good woman, everything a wife should be, and brought me an estate, yet I wish I had never been constrained to marry. The services a woman provides in no manner compensate for the inadequacy of her company, and the liberties she curtails.

I have been greatly occupied at times of my life with the problems of educating the young; I have worked on the most unpromising material, persuading the dumb to speak and trying, from that, to arrive at general principles about the malleability of the infant mind. I would have young boys entirely removed from the company of women, especially that of their mothers, from about the age of six so that their minds might be occupied with lofty conversation and noble ideas. Their reading, their education and even their play should be directed by a man of sense—and by that I do not mean those wretches who habitually pass themselves off as schoolteachers—so that they might be excited to emulate what is great, and shun what is ignoble.

Had a boy such as Matthew come into my company but a few years earlier, then I believe I could have made a great man of him. The moment I saw him, I was struck with an inexpressible regret, for in his carriage and in his eyes I saw the son and companion I had prayed God to give me. Scarcely educated, and even less well trained, he was more a man than those children of mine who had every care expended on their puny minds, and whose ambition nonetheless extended no further than a desire to secure their own comfort. Matthew was tall and fair, and had such an expression of the most perfect compliance in his manner that he compelled the favor of all who encountered him.

I first met him when he was questioned by Thurloe’s office about a group thought to be too radical for the country’s peace; he was perhaps sixteen at the time. I merely attended, rather than conducted the interview (a business for which I never had much patience) and was immediately struck by the forthright honesty in his responses, which showed a maturity beyond both his station and years. He was, in fact, entirely innocent of any wrongdoing and was never suspected of such; but he was acquainted with many dangerous people, even though he did not share their opinions in any way. He was reluctant to give information about his friends and I found this innate sense of loyalty an admirable trait and thought that, could it but be redirected to more worthy ends, this ignorant child might yet be turned into a man of worth.

His interrogation was kept secret lest he lose credit with his friends, and I offered afterward to engage him as a servant at a decent wage; he was so astonished by his good fortune that he accepted with alacrity. Already he had some small learning, for he was the orphan of a printer in the city, and could read well and write with accuracy. And as I tempted him with knowledge, he responded with an enthusiasm I have never met, before or since, in any pupil.

Those who know me may find this incredible, for I know I have a reputation for impatience. I willingly admit that my tolerance for the idle, the stupid or the willfully ignorant is swiftly exhausted. But give me a real pupil, one burning with the desire to learn, who needs only a touch of sweet water to yearn for the whole river of knowledge, and my care is all but infinite. To take such a boy as Matthew, to form him and see his comprehension expand and his wisdom develop, is the richest of experiences, if also the most difficult and calling for unrelenting effort. The getting of children is the vulgar work of nature; fools can do it, peasants can do it and women can do it. Framing those moving lumps into wise and good adults is a task fit only for men and only they can properly savor the result.

“Train up a child in the way he should go—and when he is old, he will not depart from it”(Proverbs 22:6). I had no extravagant hopes but I thought that, in time, I would establish him in some position in the government and ultimately teach him my skills in cryptography, that he might be useful and make his way to position. My hopes were more than satisfied, for however fast Matthew learned, yet I knew he could go faster. But I confess this merely excited my own desires for him still further and I often lost my temper when he misconstrued a phrase, or bungled a simple proposition in mathematics. But I always thought that he knew my anger came from love and selfless ambition for him, and he seemed to try at all times to earn my approbation.

I knew this, knew his devotion to me was so great he would sometimes labor too much, and still I pushed him even when my desire was to tell him to rest and sleep, or give him some token of my affection. Once I got up and found him sprawled at my desk. All my papers were disorganized, candle fat had spilled over my notes and a glass of water had tipped on a letter I was writing. I was furious, as I am naturally fastidious in matters of organization, and straightway pulled him to the ground and beat him. He made not one word of protest, said nothing in his own defense, but submitted patiently to my punishment. Only later (and not from him) did I learn that he had been up all night, trying to master a problem I had set him, and had finally fallen asleep through simple exhaustion. It was the hardest thing not to beg his pardon, to resist giving way to sentiment. He never suspected, I think, that I regretted my deed, for once a perfect submission is undermined and questioned, then all authority dissolves, and the weaker are the greatest losers. We see this everywhere we look.

I was aware, of course, of Matthew’s connections with men of dubious loyalty and opinion, and could not forbear to use him on occasion to run errands and listen to gossip. In this often distasteful and dishonorable business he was invaluable, for he was both observant and intelligent in his manner. Unlike many of those I was forced to rely on—cutthroats, thieves and madmen for the most part, whose word could never be taken on trust—Matthew soon won my complete confidence. I called him in to me when I was in London, and wrote to him every second day while in Oxford, for I delighted in his company and missed it badly when we were apart as, I hope, he missed mine.

By the time he came to me that morning in 1663, he had been my servant for several years and had grown in stature to the point that I knew I would soon have to find him a permanent position of his own. Already I had delayed too long, for he was rising twenty, and outgrowing his tutelage. I could see him straining, and knew that if he was not soon released, he would come to resent my authority. But I held him to me still, unable to let go. I blame myself for this greatly, and think that his desire to leave me may have made him incautious.

When he told me he was to deliver a package to the private mails on behalf of a group of radicals, I immediately took notice. He did not know what this package was but had undertaken to take it to a merchant who delivered mails on his ships. It was common enough—especially amongst those who did not wish their letters to be read. The unusual occurrence was that someone like Matthew was to perform a task more suited for a child. It was not certain, but he had a feeling that the package might be of significance, especially as the destination was the Low Countries.

For many months now, there had been rumblings all over the country, with shadowy figures flitting about and mutter-ings of discontent. But there was no form or unity to the collection of reports which allowed me to discern the shape of their plans. Left to themselves, these radicals presented no serious threat to anyone, so great were their divisions and despair; but, should a man of authority and skill organize and fund them properly they could easily become so. Matthew had, I thought, provided the first beginnings of that external correspondence I had long been looking for. As it turned out, he was wrong, but it was the best mistake he ever made.

“Excellent,” I said. “Bring me the package. I will have it opened, examine the contents and send you on your way.”

He shook his head. “Not so simple, I’m afraid, sir. We—they—have learned caution of late. I know I am not suspected in any way but I am to be accompanied from the moment it is put into my hands to the moment I hand it over. It will be impossible for you to have access to it in such a fashion. Not for the time you will need to copy it.”

“And you are sure it is worth the effort?”

“I don’t know. But you asked me to mention any communication with the exiles…”

“You did very well indeed. Now, your suggestions? You know I value your opinion.”

He smiled with pleasure at this small token of regard. “I assume it will stay in the merchant’s house until it is placed on board one of his ships. But not for long; they want it on its way as quickly as possible. That, perhaps, will be the only opportunity for obtaining it in secret.”

“Ah. And what is the name of this merchant?”

“Di Pietro. He is a Venetian and has a house near the Tower.”

I thanked him profusely for his work, and gave him some small money as a reward, then dismissed him to consider what he had said. It troubled me a little, even though it made no obvious sense. For what was a Venetian doing helping sectaries? In all probability he was merely carrying mail for a fee, uninterested in either senders or recipients, but I was mindful that this was the second time the name of di Pietro had arisen. That fact alone made me more determined to examine those letters.

I had some leisure to ponder the problem, but not much—Matthew was due to deliver the package the following evening. Bennet had told me to leave di Pietro alone; but he had also told me to find out about the king’s enemies in England. He had not told me what to do when these two commands were in contradiction.

So I went to Tom Lloyd’s coffee shop, where men of trade were wont to gather to exchange news and organize themselves into better profits. I knew some people in this world, as I would occasionally venture capital in this fashion, and had learned who was to be trusted and who deserved only to be shunned. Particularly, I knew a man called Williams who spent a considerable amount of time gathering up individuals with money to risk, and putting them in contact with traders who needed finance. Through him, I had placed to advantage some small part of my surplus funds in the East Indies, and also with a gentleman who captured Africans for the Americas. This latter was by far the finest investment I ever made, the more so because (the captain of the vessel assured me) the slaves were instructed vigorously in the virtues of Christianity on their voyage across the ocean and thus had their souls saved at the same time as they produced valuable labor for others.

I told Williams, when I ran him to earth, that I was interested in putting some funds into the activities of an Italian house called Cola, and wondered whether this man was sound and trustworthy. He looked at me a little strangely, and replied cautiously that, as far as he knew, the house of Cola was funded entirely on its own resources. He would be very surprised indeed to discover that he was bringing in outsiders. I shrugged, and said this was what I had been told.

“Thank you for the intelligence, then,” he said. “Your news confirms what I have suspected.”

“Which is?”

“That the house of Cola must be in considerable trouble.

Venice’s war against the Turks has devastated his business, which has always been in the Levant. He lost two ships last year with full cargoes, and Venice still cannot prise open markets controlled by the Spaniards and Portuguese. He is a fine trader; but he has fewer and fewer people with whom he can trade.”

“Is this why he set up here?”

“Undoubtedly. I believe that without the goods England takes from him, he would not float for long. What, exactly, is this venture?”

I said I wasn’t sure, but had been assured it was of the greatest potential.

“Probably to do with printed silks. Very profitable, if you know what you are doing, but a disaster if you do not. Sea water and silk do not mix very well.”

“Does he have his own ships?”

“Oh, yes. And very well-found vessels they are.”

“He has an agent in London, I believe. Called di Pietro. What is he like?”

“I know him only a little. He keeps himself to himself. He doesn’t mix much with others in the trading world, although he is well in with the Jews of Amsterdam. Again a warning for you, for if we go to war with the Dutch, that connection will be worse than useless. The house of Cola will have to choose which side it is on, and will inevitably lose yet more business.”

“How old is di Pietro?”

“Oh, old enough to know what he is doing. In his fifties, I believe. He talks occasionally of going back home and living an easier life, but says his employer has too many children who need to be provided for.”

“How many children?”

“Five, I believe, but three are daughters, poor man.”

I grimaced in sympathy, even though the man might well turn out to be an enemy. I knew enough to be aware that for a trader, whose lifeblood depended on keeping his capital close by, three daughters could be a killing burden. Fortunately, even though my two sons were both fools, they were presentable enough to be married to women of fortune.

“Indeed, a grave disappointment,” Williams continued.

“Especially as neither of the sons is minded to follow him. One is a priest and—begging your pardon, doctor—useful only for consuming money rather than creating it. I believe the other plays the soldier; he did so, at least. I have not heard news of him for some time.”

“A soldier?” I said with astonishment, for this quite important fact had been entirely missed by the picture dealer, and I made a note to reprove him for his laxity.

“So I understand. Perhaps he never showed any inclination to trade and the father was too wise to force him. That was why Cola married the eldest daughter to a cousin in the Levant business.”

“Are you sure he’s a soldier? How do you know this?” I said, returning to the question and, I could see, arousing Williams’s suspicions.

“Doctor, I do not know any more,” he replied patiently. “All I know is what I hear around the coffee shops.”

“Tell me what you hear, then.”

“Knowing about the son will reassure you about investing in his business?”

“I am a cautious man, and believe in knowing everything I can. Wayward children, you must admit, can be a ferocious drain. What if the son is in debt, and his creditors make a claim on the father while he has my money?”

Williams grunted, not believing me but willing not to press.

“I was told by a fellow merchant who tried to open trade in the Mediterranean,” he explained eventually. “By the time the pirates and the Genoese had finished with him, he realized it was hardly worth the trouble. But he spent some time there a few years back, cruising around, and once landed a cargo on Crete for the garrison at Candia.”

I raised an eyebrow. It was a brave, or a very desperate, man indeed who would try to run a cargo through the Turks to supply that particular market.

“As I say,” Williams said, “he had taken losses and was desperate, so he took a chance. A successful throw, it seems, as he not only sold his entire cargo but was allowed to take a cargo of Venetian glass back to England by way of reward.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, there he met a man called Cola, who said his father was a merchant in the luxury trade of Venice. Now, perhaps there are two Colas who are merchants in Venice. I do not know.”

“Go on.”

He shook his head. “There you have my entire fund of knowledge on the subject. The doings of the merchant’s children are not my concern. I have more immediate matters to worry about. What is more, doctor, so do you. So why don’t you tell me what it is?”

I smiled and stood up. “Nothing,” I said. “Certainly I know nothing which might help you to a profit.”

“In that case, I am not in the slightest bit interested. But if ever…”

I nodded. A bargain is a bargain. I am pleased to say that I discharged my debt in due course as, through me, Mr. Williams was one of the first to know about the plans to reequip the fleet the following year. I gave him enough forewarning to allow him to buy up every mast pole in the country, so he could sell them to the navy at the price he named. Between us, we profited handsomely, God be praised.

The merchant he mentioned, Andrew Bushrod, I tracked down in the Reel prison, where he had been for several months—his creditors had tired of him when a ship carrying most of his capital had gone down and his family had refused to come to his rescue. This, apparently, was his own fault—when prosperous, he had declined to contribute to a cousin’s marriage portion. Naturally, they felt no obligation to him when hard times came.

So, he was not only in the Fleet, he was also at my mercy as I had sufficient influence to have him released if he did not cooperate; then his sanctuary would be lost, and his creditors would pounce. It took some effort to sift out the dross from what he told me and his accuracy in point of detail was dubious—it is enough merely to contrast his description of Cola with the plump, perfumed dandy I later encountered, to see that, even though his wounds then perhaps affected his appearance. Briefly stated, Bushrod’s account was that he had taken a ship into the Mediterranean and to Leghorn to sell a cargo of woolen goods there. The price he gained—he was no businessman—just about paid the cost of the voyage, and he was casting around for goods to bring back to England. At this point he chanced upon a Venetian, who told of a hugely profitable voyage he had just made to Crete, running food and weapons into Candia harbor under the noses of the Turks.

The town and its defenders were so short of everything they would pay virtually any price. For his part, however, he would not go back again. Why not? asked Bushrod. Because he wanted to live into his old age, the man replied. Although the Turkish fleet was incompetent, the pirates were much more effective. Too many of his friends had been caught and a lifetime in the galleys was the best you could expect if you were. The man then pointed out a beggar in the street outside, whom he said was once a sailor in a Candia ship. He had no hands, no eyes, no ears and no tongue.

Bushrod was not brave, and was little interested in saving Crete for Christendom or for Venice. But he was out of funds, his crew had not been paid and his creditors would be waiting for him when he returned home. So he contacted the Venetian consul in Leghorn, who told him what sort of goods would be required, and then took a fat contract to bring out any wounded who were fit to travel—four ducats for a gentleman, one for a soldier, half for a woman.

They hugged the Italian coast as far as Messina, where they offloaded some pottery, then headed as quickly and directly as possible for Crete. Candia, he said, was the worst experience of his life. To be in a town of several thousand people all of whom expected to die shortly, abandoned by all Christendom, aware that their mother country was tiring of them, and persecuted endlessly by foes on sea and land, was almost too much to bear. Everything was coarsened and brutal after the longest siege in the history of the world. There was an air of desperation and violence which terrified him into lowering his prices, afraid that the townspeople would otherwise set on him and take everything he had for nothing. He still made a big enough profit to make the voyage more than worthwhile, and then set about preparing for the return journey by advertising for passengers. One of the people who took up his offer was named Cola.

“Name?” I said. “Be more precise, man. What was his name?”

Marco, he said. That was it. Marco. Anyway, this Cola was in a bad way, gaunt and thin, gloomy of attitude, dirty and unkempt, and half delirious from pain and the huge amounts of alcohol he took as his only medicine. It was difficult to believe that he could ever have been much of an advantage to the Venetian defenses, but Bushrod soon learned that he was wrong. The young man was treated with respect by officers many years his senior and held almost in awe by the common foot soldiers. Cola was, it seemed, the best scout in Candia, adept at slipping past Ottoman outposts, carrying messages to outlying fortifications, and causing all sorts of light disruption. On many occasions, he had deliberately and successfully set traps for high-ranking Turks and killed them, gaining a reputation for bloodcurdling ferocity and ruthlessness. He was skilled at striking in silence and escaping undetected and was, it seemed, something of a zealot for the Christian cause, despite all appearances to the contrary.

Curious about his passenger, Bushrod tried to engage him in conversation on several occasions during the voyage back to Venice—which this time passed without incident. But Cola was reticent, hiding behind a gruff and melancholy silence. Only on one occasion did he reveal himself, and that was when Bushrod asked if he was married. Cola’s face darkened and he said that his fiancee had been taken into slavery by the Turks. He had been sent out to Crete to examine the girl, who came from a good family, and had agreed to the match. She had been dispatched ahead of him to Venice, and the ship was captured. Not a word had ever been heard of her again, and he very much hoped she was dead. Against his father’s wishes, the young man had stayed in Candia to exact such revenge as he could.

And now?

And now he no longer cared. He was badly injured and he knew that Candia would soon fall. There was neither the determination nor the money nor the faith to defend it. He was undecided whether to return or not; perhaps his skills could be better employed elsewhere.

Then Marco da Cola had reached for a bottle, and spent nearly the enure voyage sitting on deck, uttering not another word, drunk or sober, until the ship docked in Venice.

So much for that; zeal against the heathen was hardly something of which I could disapprove, and yet it was curious. We had a soldier (or ex-soldier) consorting with republicans in the Low Countries; the father’s agent a Venetian observer sending regular messages to his masters abroad and transporting messages from malcontents in England. Lots of little pieces, none of which added up. Yet there was something which needed to be unraveled, and the obvious starting point was that package which, despite Mr. Bennet’s strictures, I decided was within my competence.

Lest anyone think that I could call on an army of assistants in the fashion of Thurloe, I must hasten to state the true facts. Although I had a number of people who passed me information, I had precisely five in the entire country who could be relied on to act for me and two of these, I must confess, frightened even me. Nor was this matter my only, or even my main, occupation. I have mentioned the rising which I knew was being planned, and that naturally was my greatest concern. But there were also countless other irritations, most nonsensical although each with dangerous potential. The garrison at Abingdon had been purged, but was still less than satisfactorily quiescent. Sectaries and conventicles grew up like so many mushrooms across the landscape, giving scope for malcontents to meet and draw courage from each other. There were persistent reports that (yet again) the Messiah had returned to usher in the Millennium, and was traveling the country in some guise, preaching and teaching and sowing sedition. How many of these characters had there been in the past few years? Dozens at least, and I had hoped that quieter times had put an end to them, but it was not apparently, the case. Finally, in the middle of the affair I intend to relate, a drunken Irish magus called Greatorex turned up in Oxford and held court at the Mitre Inn to milk the gullible of their coins, so I had to divert much time to persuading him to move on his way. I had enough on my plate, in other words, and though I worked without stint I must say that neither then nor later were my efforts ever fully recognized or rewarded.

For the particular task of getting hold of these letters, I had to call on the services of one John Cooth, whose loyalty to the king was due solely to my having intervened when he nearly killed his wife in a drunken frenzy, then slit a man’s throat for (he said) trying to put a pair of horns on him. He was in no wise intelligent but was skilled at housebreaking and was thoroughly in my debt. I thought he would serve, especially as I gave him a strict lecture about what he was to do, and how he was to do it. In particular I told him there was to be absolutely no violence, and I labored the point so much even a man of his diminished wits must understand.

Or so I thought. When Matthew told me that the package had been delivered to di Pietro’s house and was to go aboard one of his ships the next morning, I told Cooth to bring it to me as rapidly as possible. Cooth dutifully returned a few hours later and gave me a package which contained all the mail being sent, including the letters delivered by Matthew. I copied them, and he took it back. And the next morning Matthew came with the news that Signer di Pietro had been murdered.

I was appalled by this, and prayed to the Lord for forgiveness for my foolishness. It was fairly obvious to me, despite Cooth’s denials, what had happened—he had gone into the house and, instead of just taking the package, had decided to help himself to the contents of the treasury as well. Di Pietro was roused, came to investigate and Cooth had coldbloodedly cut open his throat so badly the head was almost severed from the body.

Eventually I wrung a confession out of him—what was it to me, he said, whether he’d killed the man or not? I’d wanted the package, I’d got the package. I lost patience, and cut him off. He was going back to jail, I said, and if he so much as breathed a word of this, he’d hang. Even he understood my seriousness and the matter went no further; I soon learned that Cola had an English partner who wanted the entire business, and was unconcerned about discovering the author of a deed which had served him so profitably. It took many days but, after much effort, I felt I could relax, relatively certain that Mr. Bennet would not hear of the affair.

3

This unfortunate business at least provided me with di Pietro’ s mailbag, which turned out to be far more interesting than even I had hoped. For not only did it include the letters being sent to the radicals, it also contained another, unmarked in any way, which came from a different and unknown source. I only looked at it because I remembered the habits that Thurloe had inculcated into his office, one of which was that when examining a mailbag for suspicious correspondence, check everything else it contains as well. There were twelve letters in all, one from the radicals, ten entirely innocuous and concerned only with trading matters, and this one. Its lack of address alone would have alerted my attention, the fact that the seal on the back was entirely blank merely added to my determination. I only wished that little Samuel Morland had been there by my side, for no man was ever swifter at removing a seal, nor better at putting it back unnoticed. My own efforts were more laborious, and I cursed mightily as I wrestled with that most delicate task. But I did it, and did a fine job, so that once it was battered a little by transporting, I felt sure no one would see my handiwork.

And it was worth the effort. Inside was as fine a piece of coding as I had ever seen—a very long letter of about twelve thousand characters, in the complicated random cipher I described earlier. I felt a tingling of excitement as I contemplated it, for I knew it to be a challenge worthy of my skill.

But at the back of my mind was a more worrying thought, for ciphers are like music and have their own rhythms and cadences. This one, as I scanned it, sounded in my mind as being familiar, like a tune heard once before. But I could not yet place the melody.

Many times have men asked me why I took up the art of decipherment, for it seems to them to be a vulgar occupation, not in keeping with my position and dignity. I have many reasons, and the fact that I enjoy it is but the least of them. Men like Boyle are absorbed by teasing out the secrets of nature, in which I also take the greatest pleasure. But how wonderful it is also to penetrate the secrets of men’s minds, to turn the chaos of human endeavor into order and bring the darkest deeds from night into daylight. A cipher is only a collection of letters on a page; this I grant. But to take that confusion and turn it into meaning through the exercise of pure reason provides a satisfaction which I have never managed to communicate to others. I can only say that it is not unlike prayer. Not vulgar prayer, in which men chant words while their minds are elsewhere, but true prayer, so complete and profound that you feel the touch of God’s grace on your spirit. And I have often thought that my success shows His favor, a sign that what I do is pleasing to Him.

The letter sent by the sectaries was pathetically easy to unravel, and scarcely interesting; had I known what it contained I would never have bothered as it was not worth di Pietro’s life or the trouble his murder caused me. It spoke of preparations in that pompous language so beloved of sectaries, and referred elliptically to a place I confidently identified as Northampton. But there was little meat, nothing which justified the risk I had taken. If that lay anywhere, it was in the last, mysterious letter; I was determined to read it, and knew I must have the key.

Matthew came to me as I sat at my desk, the unreadable letter in front of me in all its defiance, and asked whether he had done well.

“Very well,” I told him. “Very well indeed, although largely by chance—your letter is uninteresting; it is this other one which fascinates me.” I held it up for him to examine, which he did with his habitual neatness and care.

“You know this already? You have unraveled it all?”

I laughed at his faith in me. “A different letter, a different source and, no doubt, a different addressee. But I know nothing and have unravelled less. I cannot read this letter. The code is based on a book, which determines the sequence of the cipher.”

“Which book?”

“That I do not know, and unless I can find out, I will understand nothing. But I am sure it is important. This sort of code is rare; I have come across it only a few times, and then written by men of the highest intelligence. It is too complex for fools.”

“You will succeed,” he said with a smile. “I am sure of that.”

“I love you for your confidence, my boy. But this time you are wrong. Without the key, the door will remain locked.”

“So how do we find this key?”

“Only the person who wrote it, and the person who will read it, will know what it is and have a copy.”

“So we must ask them.”

I thought he was joking and began to reprove him for his levity, but I saw in his face that he was quite serious.

“Let me return to Smithfield. I will tell them that there was an attempt to steal the letter which failed. And I will offer to go myself on the boat, to guard it and ensure it comes to no harm. Then I will discover to whom this one is sent, and what is the key.”

The mind of youth sees in such a simple and direct way that I could hardly conceal my amusement.

“Why do you laugh, doctor?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “What I say is right. There is no other way of discovering what you need to know, and you have no one else to send.”

“Matthew, your innocence is charming. You would go, you would be discovered and all would be lost, even if you escaped unharmed. Do not bother me with such foolishness.”

“You treat me always like a child,” he said, saddened by my remark. “But I can see no reason for it. How else can you discover what this book is, and who it is sent to? And if you cannot trust me, who else can you send?”

I took him by the shoulders and looked into his angry eyes. “Do not be upset,” I said, more gently. “I spoke as I did not out of contempt, but concern. You are young, and these are dangerous people. I do not wish you to come to harm.”

“I thank you for it. But I desire nothing more than to do something of value for you. I know my debt to you and how little I have repaid it. So please, sir, give your permission. And you must decide fast; the letters must be returned, and the boat leaves tomorrow morning.”

I paused, and studied his fair face, its perfection spoiled by his resentment, and knew from the sight more than from his words that I would have to loosen the bonds, or lose him forever. Still, I tried one more time.

“ ‘If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved’ “ (Genesis 43:14).

He looked at me gently, and with such kindness; I remember it still.

“ ‘Provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged’ “ (Colossians 3:21).

I bowed to that, and let him go, embracing him as he left, and watching from my window as he walked down the street outside, until he was lost from sight in the crowds. I saw the spring in his step, and the joy in his walk that came from his freedom, and I grieved over my loss. I spent the afternoon in prayer for his safety.

I did not hear from him for a whole fortnight, and was tormented by distress and fear every day, lest the boat had sunk, or he had been discovered. But he acquitted himself better than I had expected and showed more skill than many an intelligencer properly waged by the government. When I received his first letter I wept with both relief and pride.

“Most reverend sir,” the letter began, Following your instructions, I shipped aboard the bark Colombo and made my way to the Hague. The crossing was terribly bad, and at one stage I was sure the mission would fail because it seemed certain the ship would sink with all hands. Fortunately the master was an experienced man and brought us through safely, if very ill.

By the time we docked, I had thoroughly ingratiated myself with this man and learned that he did not wish to spend much time in port. He was distressed about the death of di Pietro, concerned for his job and wanted to head back for London as swiftly as possible. So I offered to deliver the letters to their destination on his behalf, saying I would be glad of the chance to spend some time in this part of the world. As he had no notion there was anything special about any of them, he agreed readily and says he will bring me back to London when he comes over with his next load of good’s.

We went through the list as properly as any post officer, and checked the addresses of each envelope against the list he had in his hand.

“This one has no address,’’ I told him, picking up the letter which interests you so much.

“Nor it has. But no matter, it is here on my list.”

And he pointed out for me to see that he had instructions, in di Pietro’s own handwriting, that this particular letter was to be delivered to a man called Cola, in Guldenstraat.

Sir, I must tell you that the house concerned is that of the Ambassador of Spain, and that this Cola is well known there. I have not yet delivered it, for I was told he would not be there until tomorrow, so I refused to hand it over, saying I was under strict instructions to give it into his hands alone. In the meantime, I have prevailed on the English in this place to give me lodging, which they agreed to with great friendliness, for they feel cut off and anxious for any news of home.

When I return I will of course call upon you to offer such further news as I have found. Please be assured, dearest and kindest sir, etc. etc….

Even though the affection of my dear boy’s salutation warmed me, I fear I might have forgotten myself sufficiently as to box his ears with frustration had he been present. I realized that he had done a fine job; but nonetheless he had not succeeded as completely as I needed. I still did not have the name of the book that formed the key, and without that I was not greatly advanced. But, however much he had failed in this, I realized he more than made up for it elsewhere. For I knew that the Ambassador of Spain, Esteban de Gamarra, was an implacable, dangerous foe of England. That one piece of information alone justified everything I had done so far. For this Cola, I had been told months earlier, was associating with radicals, and now here he was with an address at the Spanish embassy. It was a fascinating puzzle.

The information placed me in a quandary, because if I had disobeyed by pursuing di Pietro, interfering in this matter was even more grave. Mr. Bennet was still my sole protector and I could not afford to lose his good will if I could not replace him with someone better. However, any form of link between the Spanish and the radicals was of the utmost seriousness. The prospect of an alliance between the upholder of Catholicism and the most fervent fanatics of Protestantism was hardly to be countenanced, but nonetheless I held in my hand the first faint glimmerings of such a connection, and I could not allow what seemed unlikely in abstract to overawe the most direct and compelling evidence.

This has ever been my lodestone, in philosophy as in governance; the mind of man is weak, and often cannot grasp patterns that appear to be against all reason. The codes I have spent so much of my life in deciphering are a simple example of this, for who could understand (if they did not know) how a jumble of meaningless letters could inform the reader of the thoughts of the greatest in the land, or the most dangerous in the field. It is against common sense, and yet it is so. Reason beyond ordinary human understanding is often to be met with in God’s creation, so much so that I have had occasion to laugh at Mr. Locke, who makes so much of common sense in his philosophy. “Great things doeth he, which we cannot comprehend” (Job 37:5). In all things, we forget this at our cost.

Reason said Spaniards would not pay to put Republican sectaries in power, nor would these self-same sectaries willingly subordinate their desires to Spanish policy. Yet the evidence was beginning to hint at precisely some such understanding between them. I could, at that stage, make nothing of it and so declined to elaborate fantastic theories; but at the same time I refused to reject evidence simply because it did not immediately coincide with reason.

I was certain to be ridiculed if I presented my information to Mr. Bennet, who prided himself on his understanding of the Spanish and was convinced of their friendship. Nor could I take any action against the sectaries, for as yet they had done nothing ill. So I could do nothing—once I had deciphered the letter, discovered who had written it, and amassed more evidence, then perhaps I could present a stronger case, but until then I had to keep my suspicions to myself. I very much hoped that Matthew would remember my instructions that getting the key to the letter was vital, as it was extremely difficult to communicate with him in any way. In the meantime I wrote a report to Mr. Bennet informing him (in general terms) that something was stirring among the radicals, and assuring him of my best service.

A week later, Matthew repaid my trust in him, and I received another letter which contained something of the information I required. He offered four possibilities, apologizing for being able to do no better. He had delivered the letter once more, and this time had been shown into a small room, which appeared to be an office. He found it disgusting, for it was lined with crucifixes and stank with the odor of idolatry, but while waiting for Cola himself to appear, he saw four volumes on the desk and swiftly noted down their titles. I was pleased by this, as it vindicated my faith in him—to act so was intelligent and courageous, and he would have been in great danger if anyone had come through the door while he was writing. Unfortunately, the finer points of the cryptographer’s art were lost on him—he did not realize (perhaps this was my fault for not having instructed him properly) that each edition of a book differs and that the wrong edition made my message as unintelligible as the wrong book. All I had to go on was the following, which he had copied out, letter by letter, in total ignorance of its import:

Almost as importantly, and very much more dangerously, he encountered Cola himself, and gave me an early indication of the man’s powers of deception. I have the letter still. Of course, I keep every remembrance of Matthew—every letter, every little exercise book he once filled is in a silver box, lined in silk and bound with the lock of hair I stole one night while he lay asleep. My eyesight is fading now and soon I will be able to read his words no longer; I will burn them for I could not bear to have anyone else read them to me, or snigger at my weakness. My last contact with him will be lost when the light flickers out. Even now I do not open that box up very often, as I find the sadness difficult to bear.

Cola at once began to exercise his charm, trapping the lad—too young and naïve to realize the difference between kindness and its simulacrum—into acquaintanceship, then the appearance of friendship.

He is a chubby man with bright eyes, and when he appeared and I gave him the letter, he chuckled with thanks, clapped me on the back and gave me a silver guilder. Then he questioned me closely about all things, showing great interest in my replies, and even begged me to return that he might question me further.

I must say, sir, that he gave no sign of any concern with matters political, nor did he ever mention anything the slightest bit improper. Rather, he showed himself the perfect gentleman, courteous in manner, and easy to approach and talk to in all things.

So easy it is to delude the trusting! This Cola began to steal his way into Matthew’s affections, no doubt conversing with the facility of the passing acquaintance, never approaching the care that I had devoted to the lad over so many years. It is easy to entertain and fascinate, harder to educate and love; Matthew, alas, was not yet old or discriminating enough to tell the difference, and was easy prey to the ruthlessness of the Italian, who beguiled with his words until he needed to strike.

The letter disturbed me, for my main concern was that Matthew’s natural amiability might permit some ill-chosen words to slip out and alert Cola to my awareness of him. I forced my mind to concentrate on problems more easy to resolve, and took up once more the question of the coded letter and its key.

Only one of the books Matthew mentioned could be the one I needed, the problem was to determine which one. The easiest solution was denied me—for I knew that Euclid had only been printed in octavo but once, in Paris in 1621, and I had that edition in my own library. It was simple enough, therefore, to discover it was not the one I wanted. That left the remaining three. Accordingly, the moment I arrived back in Oxford I summoned a strange young man of my acquaintance, Mr. Anthony Wood, whom I knew to be an expert squirreler in such matters. I had rendered him many favors in those days, earning his gratitude for allowing him access to manuscripts in my care, and he was pathetically eager to repay my kindnesses to him, although as a price I had to listen to interminable discussions about this press and that press, one edition after another and so on. I suppose he thought I was interested in the minutiae of ancient learning and attempted to curry favor by drawing me into scholarly conversation.

It took him some considerable time before he returned to my room one evening (building works at my house having forced me, meanwhile, to rent space at New College—a regrettable fact which I will discuss later on) and reported that in all probability he had worked out which books were meant, although personally he believed that, in the case of the Thomas More and the Polydore Vergil, better editions existed at a more modest cost.

I detested having to play such silly games, but I patiently explained, nonetheless, that I had set my heart on these particular versions. I wished, I said, to experiment with making comparisons between the various editions, so as to prepare a complete version, without faults, for the world. He admired greatly my devotion, and said he understood perfectly. The Utopia of Thomas More, he said, was a quarto, and undoubtedly the translation by Robinson which Alsop had published in 1624—he could tell that because Alsop only produced one edition before changing times meant that publishing the works of Catholic saints became a risky occupation. A copy, he said, was in the Bodleian library. The History of Polydore Vergil was also simple—there were not many new editions of this fine author published in Douai, after all. It had to be the idiosyncratic edition of George Lily, an octavo printed in 1603. Copies were not hard to come by and, indeed, he had seen a version only the other day at Mr. Heath’s, the bookseller, at a price of one shilling and sixpence. He was sure he could bargain the man down—as if I cared about two pence.

“And the fourth?”

“That is a problem,” he said. “I think I know which edition you refer to here, it is the ‘Heins’ which gives it away, of course. This refers to the handsome edition of Livy’s histories by Daniel Heinsius, issued in Leiden in 1634. A triumph of skill and learning which, alas, never received the approbation it deserved. I assume this refers to volume two of the edition, which was a duodecimo, in three volumes. Few were printed and I have never seen one. I know it only by reputation—others have shamelessly used his insights without ever crediting their true author. Which is a burden true scholars must constantly bear.”

“Make enquiries for me,” I told him with heavy patience. “I will pay a good price for it, if it is to be had. You must know booksellers and antiquarians and collectors of libraries and the like. If there is one, someone like you will be able to find it, of that I feel sure.”

The silly man looked modestly down his nose at the compliment. “I will do my best for you,” he said. “And I can assure you, that if I cannot find a copy, no one else will be able to.”

“That is all I ask,” I replied, and ushered him out as quickly as was possible.

4

I have read of late a scurrilous pamphlet which (without naming me directly) said that the crisis with which I was dealing at this stage was a fabrication, whipped up by a government to foment fear of sectaries and that it did not, in fact, exist. Nothing could be further from the truth. I hope I have already made my good intentions and my honesty clear. What I did, I admit—I freely own that I overemphasized the danger of the rising which led to my employment by Mr. Bennet, and claim for myself the mistake which led to the regrettable death of Signor di Pietro. I hope there is no doubt about the sincerity of my remorse, but the fact remains that the man was carrying subversive and conspiratorial material, and it was necessary for the security of the kingdom to have it.

I feel as though I ought to set out some of my thinking, lest it be thought that my punctiliousness over letters and obscure books makes me seem fussy and obsessive. For it had struck me as obvious that these books which Matthew had told me about were most unusual. Everybody knows about the sectaries and their pathetic claims to learning. Self-taught scrabblers in the dust, most of them, seduced by second-rate reading into the delusion that they are educated. Educated? A Bible whose sublime subtlety and symbolic beauty they cannot even begin to understand, and a few screeching pamphlets by that handful of dissenters whose arrogance exceeds their shame, is all they have by way of education. No Latin, no Greek, and certainly no Hebrew; unable to read any language but their own, and assaulted by the ravings of false prophets and self-appointed Messiahs even in English. Of course they are not educated; knowledge is the province of the gentleman. I do not say that artisans cannot know, but it is obvious that they cannot assess, as they possess neither the leisure nor the training to consider free from prejudice. Plato said so, and I know of no serious person who has denied him.

And the writer of this letter to Cola was using one of these fine texts for his code? Livy, Polydore, More. Initially it made me shudder to think of such hands even touching these works, but then I reconsidered—some scruffy pamphlet I would have accepted, but these? Where did they get their hands on books which belong only in the library of a gentleman?

By the time Wood reappeared, sniffing and twitching like a little mouse, I had established that neither the More nor the Polydore Vergil was the book I required. The answer therefore lay in the Livy—find it, find who possessed it, and my investigation would advance in a great leap. Wood told me that a long-dead London bookseller had brought half a dozen copies into the country in 1643, as part of a general shipment for scholars. What had happened to them after that, alas, was unclear, as the man had been a supporter of the king, and all his stock was confiscated in fines when Parliament secured its hold on London. Wood assumed these books were dispersed then.

“So you mean to tell me, after all that, that you cannot get me a copy?”

He looked a bit surprised by my sharpness of tone, but shook his head. “Oh, no, sir,” he said. “I thought you might be interested, that is all. But they are rare, and I have identified only one person who definitely had one, which he brought in himself from abroad. I know of it because my friend Mr. Aubrey wrote to a bookseller in Italy on some other matter…”

“Mr. Wood, I beg you,” I said, my patience very near to expiring. “I do not wish to know every single detail. I merely need the name of the owner so I might write to him.”

“Ah, you see, he is dead.”

I sighed heavily.

“But do not despair, sir, for by the greatest good fortune, his son is a student here, and would no doubt know whether the book remains in the family. His name is Prestcott. His father was Sir James Prestcott.”

Thus my story and Cola’s tales (as fictional as boccaccio and as unlikely as the rhymes of Tasso, though less finely hewn) begin to intersect through the medium of poor deluded Prestcott, and I must lay out the details as best I can, although I fully admit that I am not entirely clear about some of the circumstances.

The lad had come to my attention several months previously, when I heard of his visit to Lord Mordaunt. Mordaunt had properly communicated with Mr. Bennet, and news of the event was passed on to me as a matter of course; students, and sons of traitors, seeing fit to interrogate members of the court was no usual occurrence, and Mr. Bennet thought that an eye should be kept on the young man.

I knew few of the details but had heard enough to be certain that Prestcott’s belief in the innocence of his father was as ludicrous as it was touching. I was uncertain what the precise nature of his betrayal was, for I had left the government’s employ by then, but the noise he created signified something of great importance. I knew something of it because, as my skills were indispensable, in early 1660 I was requested to work on a letter with the greatest urgency. I have mentioned it before, for it was my one failure and the moment I saw it, I knew that there was little chance of success. As much to preserve my reputation as my position (the fall of the Commonwealth was becoming increasingly certain, and I had no wish to prolong my association with it) I declined the task.

The suasion placed upon me was great, however. Even Thurloe himself wrote to me, using a mixture of flattery and threat to win compliance, but still I refused. All communications were brought by Samuel Morland himself, a man whose weaselly words and concern for self-advancement I detested, and his presence alone made me obdurate.

“You cannot do it, can you, doctor?” he said in his sneering way, on the surface so amiable, but still barely hiding his cocky contempt for all others. “That is why you refuse.”

“I refuse because I am doubtful why I am asked. I know you too well, Samuel; everything you touch is corrupt and deceitful.”

He laughed merrily at this, and nodded in agreement. “Perhaps so. But this time I have noble company.”

I looked at the letter once more. “Very well,” I said. “I will try. Where is the key?”

“What do you mean?”

“Samuel, do not treat me like a fool. You know very well what I mean. Who wrote this?”

“A Royalist soldier, called Prestcott.”

“Ask him for the key, then. It must be a book, or a pamphlet. I must know what the code is based on.”

“We don’t have him,” Samuel replied. “He fled. The letter was found on one of our soldiers.”

“Why so?”

“A very good question indeed,” Samuel said. “That is why we want this letter deciphered.”

“Ask this soldier, then, if you cannot lay your hands on Sir James Prestcott.”

Samuel looked apologetic. “He died a few days ago.”

“And there was nothing else on him either? No other paper, no book, no piece of writing with it?”

Morland looked discountenanced for once, a fact which gave me some pleasure, for he usually adopted such a self-satisfied air that it was satisfying indeed to see him uncertain and nervous. “This was all we found. We had been expecting more.”

I tossed the letter onto my desk. “No key, no solution,” I said. “Nothing I can do, and nothing I will try to do. I do not intend to work myself to death because of your foolish incompetence. Find Sir James Prestcott, find the key, and I will assist you. Not until then.”

Rumors that had swept through government and army in the previous few weeks gave some clue of course; I had heard of fighting down in Kent, also of a frenzied investigation, conducted with the greatest secrecy and ferocity. Later I heard of the flight of Sir James Prestcott abroad, and of his being accused of betraying the 1659 rising against the Commonwealth. That, in itself, struck me as highly unlikely—I knew something of the man and considered him about as supple as a large piece of oak planking, with an absolute conviction in his own beliefs. Men had sinned, men must be punished and revenge taken—that was the alpha and omega of his politics, and this limited vision was strengthened by his own privations in the war. It made him useless as a conspirator but, in my opinion, also made him unlikely to conceive of anything so subtle as betrayal—he was too upright, too honorable, and far too stupid.

On the other hand he clearly had done something which made both Royalists and Thurloe earnestly desire his death and his silence, and I did not know what that was. I assumed the answer lay in the letter which made little Samuel sweat so, and when he had gone I naturally tried my hand to make it out. I made no progress at all, for the skill of its author was great, far beyond anything I would have expected from a military dolt like Prestcott.

I mention this because the words which Wood spoke to me so innocently brought me to a realization I should have had some time before. Mentioning it now, when it actually occurred to me, risks making me seem foolish; all I can say is that I will not accept judgment from those with inferior skills to mine. Recognizing a form of code is like recognizing a style in composition or poetry; it is impossible to say what triggers the realization, and I doubt there is another man alive who would have seen that the letter I had found in di Pietro’s mailbag, sent to this Marco da Cola, was written in the same code, had the same form, the same feel as that letter of Sir James Prestcott’s, brought to me some three years earlier by Samuel Morland. Once I had grasped the form, I could examine the structure—two days’ hard work on both of them led me to the inevitable and clear conclusion that both were constructed with the same book. A copy of Livy, I knew, had been used to encode the letter to Cola, and so now I knew that the same Livy had been used for the Prestcott letter.

Had I been more sure of my ground, I would have summoned young Prestcott, told him the position and asked for the Livy. However, I clearly could not do this without telling him of its significance and as I knew of his obsessions, I did not want to be responsible for reopening a matter so obviously sensitive—many people had worked hard to keep those events hidden, whatever they were, and I would receive no thanks for drawing attention to them once again. So, I had to approach him in a more subtle fashion and therefore decided to make use of Thomas Ken.

This Ken was a desperately ambitious young man who had the utmost clarity about his desires. For Ken, God’s interests and his own were indistinguishably mingled, so much so that one might have thought the whole of salvation itself depended on his getting £80 a year. He once had the presumption to ask me for my favor in securing a living in the gift of Lord Maynard and disposable by New College. Not being a member of that society, I naturally had little say in the matter and it was obvious that Dr. Robert Grove—more learned and balanced, and certainly more deserving—would carry the day whatever I said. But it was an inexpensive way of securing his devotion, and I gave him the expression of my support, for what that was worth.

In return, I insisted that he help me when I required his services and, in due course, recommended that he persuade Mr. Prestcott to seek my assistance. Prestcott duly came, and I questioned him closely about his father’s possessions. Alas, he knew nothing of any book by Livy, nor indeed of any documents at all, although later on he did confirm what Mor-land had said—it appeared his mother had been expecting a package from his father which never arrived. It was exceptionally frustrating—I needed only a little good fortune and I could not only unravel the secret correspondence of this Marco da Cola, I could also take to myself one of the closest secrets of the realm.

But that fool Samuel had allowed the only man who might tell me the answer to die.

5

My duties in this period enforced a strange rhythm of life upon me, for I was forced to exist like some nocturnal creature, which hunts while others sleep, and rests from its labors while most of creation is active. When all people of rank left London for their estates, or to follow the court from one place of idle amusement to the other, so I left the country to take up residence in London. When the court returned to Westminster, I removed myself back to Oxford.

I did not find this displeasing. The obligations of the courtier are time-consuming and largely fruitless unless you are chasing the prizes of fame and position. If you are merely concerned with the safety of the kingdom, and the smooth running of the government, then maintaining a presence there is pointless. In the entire country, fewer than half a dozen people have true power. The rest are governed, in one way or another, and I had more than sufficient contact with those who were truly of significance.

Among these, I found few natural allies and many who, either deliberately or because of the limits of their comprehension, worked against the interests of their own country. Such a state, I may say, was to be found everywhere in those days, even amongst the philosophers who thought they were merely teasing out the secrets of nature. Having no care for thought, they did not consider what they did, and allowed themselves to be led down the road to the most dangerous of all positions.

As the years have gone by, the parallels have become ever more clear to me, for it is easy, out of greed or generosity, to fall into traps set by others. A few weeks ago, for example, I prevailed in a controversy which, until I pointed out the dangers, seemed the most minor of matters, a question that could excite only the most abstruse minds. The Secretary of State (no longer Mr. Bennet) wrote to me to ask whether this land should join with the rest of the continent and adopt the Gregorian calendar. I believe my opinion was solicited merely to gain approval for something which had already been agreed—it was surely absurd for this country, alone in Europe, to have a different calendar and be forever seventeen days behind everyone else.

They changed their minds swiftly when I pointed out the implications of such a seemingly harmless move. For it struck at the heart of church and state, encouraging papists, and dismaying those who fight to keep foreign dominance at bay. Do our armies contest the arrogant might of France, merely for our independence to be given away under more peaceable guise? To accept this calendar is to accept the authority of Rome; not merely (as the unsubtle say) because it was a reform that the Jesuits devised, but because to bow our heads means also to accept the right of the Bishop of Rome to determine when our church celebrates Easter; to say when all major festivals and holy days fall. Once conceded in principle, all else follows naturally; to bow to Rome in one thing will lead to obedience in others as well. It is the obligation of all Englishmen to resist the blandishments of those siren voices who say that such small matters will bring benefits with no disadvantages. It is not true, and if we must stand alone, then so be it. England’s glory has ever been to resist the pretensions of continental powers, which seduce into slavery, and wheedle into subjection. Honoring God is more important than the unity of Christendom. Thus my response, and I am glad that it prevailed; the argument has been settled once and for all.

So it was after the Restoration and the stakes were then even higher. Many men were open or concealed Catholics and had insinuated themselves into places of high influence at court. There were those (I do them credit and say it was for reasons genuinely held) who believed that the best interests of the state lay in binding it closely to France; others wished to obstruct the ambitions of the Bourbons by making common cause with the Spanish.

Week by week, and month by month, the factions contested with each other, and foreign bribes flowed in. Not a minister, nor officeholder, failed to enrich himself from this battle, for that is what it was. At one moment the Spanish faction held the upper hand, as Mr. Bennet and others consolidated their positions and took more power into their hands. At another the French struck back, subsidizing the dowry paid for the king’s new wife. And the Dutch looked anxiously from one great enemy to another, knowing that if they allied with one, they would be attacked by the other. The interests of justice and religion were lost sight of in their entirety as the battles at court played out in miniature the greater battles that were yet to come on the seas and fields of Europe.

And there were two great enigmas—the king, who would have allied with anyone who paid enough to subsidize his pleasure, and Lord Clarendon, who opposed any foreign entanglements, believing His Majesty’s position at home to be so insecure that the least trembling from abroad would shake his throne irrecoverably. His views prevailed in 1662, but others, such as Lord Bristol, held the opposite view, thinking either that fine victories abroad would strengthen the crown, or secretly hoping for the opportunities that defeat would offer. For many wanted to bring about Clarendon’s fall, and worked tirelessly to accomplish his ruin. A defeat in arms would destroy his career more surely than anything else, and I do not doubt that many loyal servants of the king lay awake at night, hoping that one would come to pass.

For the moment, though, the greatest weapon the opponents of Clarendon had was the scandalous behavior of his daughter, which had convulsed the court scarcely six months before, and severely weakened the chancellor’s position. For the wretched woman had married the king’s brother, the Duke of York, without troubling to gain permission first.

That his daughter was well pregnant by the time of the nuptials, that Clarendon loathed the Duke of York deeply, that he was as deceived as the king, none of this was of any consequence. Royal authority had been held to ridicule, and the king had lost a valuable card in the diplomatic game—the duke’s hand in marriage would have been a fine inducement to seal an alliance. It was said Clarendon himself would not have the subject raised in his presence, and was said to pray daily that the queen would give birth to an heir, so that he could be acquitted of conniving to put his own daughter on the throne, which would surely happen should the king die without legitimate issue. It was not a matter easily forgiven, and his enemies, above all Lord Bristol, who had the finest wit of them all, made sure it could not be forgotten either.

Such maneuverings among the mighty and the puffed-up did not attract my attention overmuch; foolishly so, perhaps, as more attention to the details of such petty squabbles would have helped me greatly. I was, as yet, far from understanding that these intrigues were fundamental to my own enquiries, and without them I would have had no grounds for concern over anything. This, however, is a matter which will become clear in its proper place. At that time, I saw myself in all modesty as a servant—one of importance, perhaps, but nonetheless with no interest in courtly battles nor even with a concern for influencing the policy of the realm. My task was to tell my masters the secret history of the kingdom, so they might reach their decisions with knowledge, if they wished to do so. In this, my importance was crucial, for good intelligence is the mother of prevention, and the measures of suppression being taken were far from complete. Town walls were being razed, but not fast enough; sectaries of all sorts were being arrested and fined, but there were always more, and the more cunning kept themselves in concealment.

Anybody reading this account may wonder why I was prepared to give such attention to the question of Marco da Cola, since I have as yet described little to justify my effort. In fact, he was still only of passing interest to me, one of those lines of enquiry which are pursued for the sake of thoroughness—there was nothing solid on which I could concentrate, and little more than curiosity to keep my attention focused. I had, it was true, established a possible link between the exiles and the Spanish, and he and his family formed that link. I had an incomprehensible letter and an intriguing connection with another document written three years previously. Finally, I had the enigma of Cola himself, for it struck me as unusual that he could spend many months in the Low Countries without his profession of soldier being commonly known. Nor could I understand why his father, a man of known ability, was prepared to release his only effective son from his family obligations. Yet, not only was the younger Cola apparently entirely unengaged in trade, he was not even married.

Such were my thoughts, and I mentioned the puzzle to Mr. Williams, my merchant friend, when I met him the day after I arrived in London in early 1663.

“Let me pose you a problem as an adventurer,” I said. “Let us say that you lose your main markets and trading partners through ports being closed by war. You have three daughters, one of whom is married, and two are rapidly approaching marriageable age. You have only one useful son. What tactics, do you adopt to defend and expand your business?”

“Once I have stopped panicking, and praying for a turn of good fortune?’’ he said with a smile. “I can think of worse situations to be in, but not many.”

“Let us say you are a naturally calm man. What do you do?”

“Let us see. Much depends on the reserves I have at my disposal, and the relations I have with my family, of course. Will they step forward and help? That might fend off an urgent crisis and give me time to recover. But it gains me room to maneuver, it does not solve the problem. Obviously, the need is to find new markets, but to break into a new port requires money, as it is often necessary to sell at a loss for some time to establish oneself. Now, the easiest solution is to establish an alliance with another house. You marry a son if you have one and if your position is strong, a daughter if it be weak. The situation you describe indicates the need to marry a son to advantage, for that brings money into the business, rather than putting it out. However, you are also at a disadvantage, of course, for you need markets, and that suggests that marrying a daughter will be required.”

“And where do you find the money for that? Any possible ally will be aware of the problem and drive a hard bargain, will they not?”

Mr. Williams nodded in agreement. “That is precisely the case. In my position, I think I would have to consider a marriage of the son out of business to a lady of as much fortune as 1 could find, and immediately use the dowry to marry a daughter to trade. With good fortune my family might end up with a small surplus, without luck I might have to borrow at interest to fund the difference. But that would be no problem if my trade recovered. It is not a strategy that is guaranteed to bring success, but it offers by far the best chance of it. Why do we have sons except for such purposes?”

“So if I said this trader not only seemed to have no plans to marry his son, but had even let him go wandering Europe, where he is out of reach and consuming substantial amounts of money?”

“Then I would be strongly adverse to venturing money in any enterprise with which he is concerned. Am I right in thinking that you are still occupying yourself with the house of Cola?”

I nodded, with great reluctance. I had no desire to take Mr. Williams into my confidence in any way, but he was too intelligent to be fooled and an honest admission, I considered, might be enough to bind him to obligations of silence.

“Do not think that such matters have not come into our minds as well,” he said.

“Our?”

“We traders. We are jealously eager to hear news of our competitors and, sad though it is, rejoice too much to hear of a rival’s downfall. The better of us are always reminded that such a fate can easily befall anyone, of course. It takes very little ill fortune to turn riches into dust. One storm, or a war unforeseen, can be a catastrophe.”

“You may rest easy on that score,” I reassured him. “I cannot predict the weather, but no war will catch you unawares if I am able to assist you.”

“I am grateful for that. I have a large cargo bound for Hamburg next week. I would like it to arrive.”

“As far as I am aware, the prospect of Dutch pirates being allowed free run of the North Sea does not appear imminent. But it would still be wise to guard against the unscrupulous anticipating matters.”

“Believe me, I have taken every precaution possible. I am proof against the single privateer.”

“Good. Now, if I may return to Cola, what does the community of traders say?”

“That the father’s affairs are bad and getting worse, in a word. He has long suffered his eastern markets to be whittled away by the Turks; Crete is now all but lost; he made a brave venture to open up a new business in London, but that has been crippled by the death of his manager here, and the audacity of his English partner who has taken the business for his own. And there are rumors he has been selling ships to raise money. Three years ago he had a fleet of more than thirty ships; now it is down to almost twenty. And he has warehouses in Venice full of goods, which is money mold-ering to no purpose. If he does not move them he cannot meet his creditors. If he does not do that, he is finished.”

“He is held in good credit?”

“Everyone is held in good credit until they stop paying their bills.”

“So how do you explain the father’s actions? Or the son’s?”

“I cannot. He has an excellent reputation, so I must assume there is very much more to the situation than is accessible to a coffee-house gossip like myself. I cannot imagine what that might be. Be assured that if I hear anything I will let you know instantly.”

I thanked him and left. My interpretation of the situation was correct, and for that I was glad; but I was no closer to fathoming the problem than I was before.

The next piece of information which advanced my enquiry came from my involvement in the Royal Society, and took another ten days to fall into my lap, more by the grace of God than my own efforts. Fortunately, there was much to occupy my mind in that period, or I would have become very ill-tempered. It is a great failing and one 1 have long labored to overcome. “Blessed is he that waiteth” (Daniel 12:12)—the text I know by heart, but do not find it easy to follow.

I have mentioned this august organization already, and hinted how communications developing with men of curiosity all over the world aided my work. I had initially taken on the task of secretary for correspondence myself, but found my other duties burdensome, and gradually relinquished the task to Mr. Henry Oldenburg, a man of no experimental bent but with a pleasing ability to encourage others. He called one morning to summarize recent correspondence with me, because I knew well that notice of experiments and discoveries properly communicated was of the greatest importance to prevent foreigners claiming credit which was not theirs. The reputation of the society was the honor of the country, and the prompt establishment of priority was vital.

I may say here that this process gives the lie to Cola’s complaints over the matter of blood transfusion, as it was established (and not by us) that public knowledge of discoveries gives precedence. Lower did this, Cola did not—what is more, he is unable to provide any evidence whatsoever of his claims, while Lower can not only produce letters announcing his discovery, but can also call on men of unimpeachable integrity, like Sir Christopher Wren, to vouch for him. To demonstrate I am not partial in this matter, I can also cite Mr. Leibniz when he laid claim to a new method for interpolation by contrasting series of differences. When told that Regnauld had already communicated a similar proposition to Mersenne, Leibniz immediately withdrew any claim to priority—he accepted that making the matter known was decisive. Similarly, it is clear that Cola’s complaints are quite without foundation, for who did what first is unimportant. Not only did he fail to publish, his initial experiment was conducted in secret, and ended with the patient’s death.

In contrast, Lower not only performed before witnesses, he eventually gave a demonstration before the whole society, long before any squeak of protest was heard from Venice.

During my discourse with Oldenburg, we discussed many questions of membership and regulation with great amiability before passing onto more liberal matters. Then I received the greatest shock.

“I have heard, by the way, of a most interesting young man, who might be considered at some stage as a corresponding member in Venice. We lack, as you know, any useful contacts with the curious of that Republic.”

I was genuinely delighted, and not at all suspicious at this, for Oldenburg was always keen to search out new ways of binding philosophers of all lands together, and make the enterprise of one known to others.

“I am delighted to hear of it,” I said. “Who is this young man?”

“I heard of him from Dr. Sylvius,” he replied, “for he has been sitting at that great man’s knee and is highly thought of for his skill. His name is Cola, and he is a wealthy young man from a good family of well established traders.”

I expressed the greatest of interest.

“Better still, he is to come to England shortly, so we will have an opportunity to talk to him and find out his qualities for ourselves.”

“Sylvius says this? He is coming to England?”

“Apparently so. He intends to come next month, I believe. I was about to write him a letter, expressing our desire to welcome him on his arrival.”

“No,” I said. “Do not do that. I greatly admire Sylvius for his knowledge, but not for his judgment of his fellows. If you extend an invitation to this young man, and he turns out to be of no great ability, we may find it difficult to avoid a snub by not electing him. We will find him soon enough when he arrives, and can examine him at our leisure.”

Oldenburg agreed to this without demur, and as an extra precaution I took the letter from Sylvius to study more carefully. There was little more in it, although I noted that what he said was that Cola was due to come to England on a matter of “urgent business.” Now what could that be? He had no interest in trade, and coming to tour this part of the world could hardly be described as a matter of urgency. So why was this former soldier corning here? The next day, I thought I could guess.

6

Most Reverend Doctor and Revered Master, the letter from Matthew began,

He listened silently as I laid out—in greater detail than I originally planned—the whole pattern of hint and suspicion which concerned me so greatly.

“I am greatly flattered,” he said when I had done, “that you choose me for such confidence; but I am not certain what you want of me.”

“I want your opinion,” I said. “I have certain evidence, and I have a partial hypothesis which is in no way contradicted by any of it. Yet it is not confirmed either. Can you think of an alternative which fits as well, if not better?”

“Let me be clear. You know this Italian gentleman is connected both to radicals and to the Spanish; you know that he is coming to our shores next month; those are your essential, though not your only, facts. You believe that he is coming here to cause us harm; that is your hypothesis. You do not know what that harm might be.”

I nodded.

“So let us see if indeed there is an alternative which might supplant your main hypothesis. Let us start by proposing that Cola is what he says—a young gentleman touring the world, with no interest in politics. He falls in with English radicals because he meets them by chance. He knows high Spaniards because he is a gentleman of quality from a wealthy Venetian family. He plans to come to England because he wishes to gain some knowledge of us. He is, in fact, entirely harmless.”

“You leave out the secondary facts,” I said, “which bolster one proposal but weaken the other. Cola is the senior son of a trader in considerable difficulties, his first obligation should be his family, yet he is in the Low Countries spending money in idle amusements. You need a good reason for such behavior, which my thesis can absorb, while yours cannot. He had little or no reputation for curiosity until the moment he arrived in Leiden, but was known for his courage and bravado with arms. In your thesis we must account for a remarkable change in character; in mine we do not. And you do not take account of the central matter, which is that he was the recipient of a letter disguised in a code previously used by a traitor against the king. Innocent tourists of curiosity, I think, rarely receive such missives.”

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 imminent danger; does that lead inevitably to the conclusion that this danger will be realized? 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 either 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 farther, 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 nonetheless 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 disabused 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 criticize, 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 realized. “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 forever. I knew that before very long I would have to reim-pose 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 became more somber 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 recognizing 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 1 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 afterward was always merry and free. I straightaway asked Mr. Oldenburg if he would do me the favor of inviting Señor de Moledi as a guest of honor, 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 bowlings 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 honored 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 we men of curiosity distasteful. I know that it must seem a strange interest, and that some consider it impious.”

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. Spain is a country which had ruthlessly subjected all enquiry to persecution, and 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 realize 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 is 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.”

“So great is your reputation as the finest man in the world, that I was wondering whether you might share your knowledge.”

“With whom?”

“With all men of good will, who wish to bring the darkness into light, and ensure the peace of all Christendom.”

“You mean I should write a book about it?”

“Maybe you should,” he said with a smile. “But that would be a long operation, and bring you little reward. More, I wondered whether you might travel to Brussels, and give instruction to some young men of my acquaintance, who would prove, I am sure, to be some of the finest pupils you have ever had. Naturally, this labor would be well rewarded.”

The audacity of the man was astonishing; he slipped so easily and readily into the suggestion, it fell from his lips so normally, that I did not even feel resentment at the proposal. There was, of course, not the slightest chance of my even considering the offer; perhaps he knew that. In my life I have had many such proposals; I have turned them all down. Even good Protestant states I have declined to aid in any way at all, most recently rejecting a hint that I should instruct Mr. Leibniz in my art. I have always been determined that my skill should be my country’s alone, and should not be available to any who might become an antagonist.

“Your offer is as generous as my worth is small,” I replied. “But I fear my university duties are such that I would never be allowed leave to travel.”

“A great pity,” he replied, with no trace at all of surprise or disappointment. “If your circumstances ever change, the offer will undoubtedly be renewed.”

“As you have done me a great honor, I feel obliged to repay your kindness instantly,” I said. “For I must tell you that a plot is afoot by your enemies to besmirch your reputation, by spreading the most scurrilous rumors.”

“And this comes from your work, does it?”

“It comes from different places. I know many people of high standing, and converse frequently with them. Let me tell you frankly, sir, that I feel strongly you should be allowed to defend yourself against idle tittle-tattle. You have not been in this country long enough to understand the power of gossip in a country so ill-used to the discipline of strong and firm government.”

“I am grateful for your concern. Tell me, then. What is this gossip I should concern myself with?”

“It is said that you are no friends of our monarch, and that should misfortune befall him, people would not have to look far to find the source of his troubles.”

De Moledi nodded at these words. “Slander indeed,” he said. “For it is known that our love for your king is complete. Did we not aid him in his exile, when he was cast out and penniless? Provide him and his friends with a home, and money? Risk war with Cromwell because we would not abandon our obligations to him?”

“Few people,” I replied, “remember past goodness. It is in the nature of mankind to think the worst of their fellows.”

“And does a man such as yourself harbor such suspicions?”

“I cannot believe that any man of honor could intend harm to a man so manifestly loved by God,” I said.

“That is true. The great difficulty with lies is that they are hard to contradict, especially when others spread them with malicious intent.”

“They must be contradicted,” I said. “If I may speak plainly?”

He gave his assent.

“Your interest at court, and your friends there, will be hurt by these stories if they are allowed to go unchecked.”

“And you wish to assist me? Forgive me for saying so, but I did not expect such a kindness from a man such as you, whose opinions are well known.”

“I freely admit I have no great love for your country. Many men within it I honor deeply, but your interests and ours must ever be in conflict. I can say the same for France, however. The well-being of England must always lie in ensuring that no foreign country ever attains a predominant position amongst us. That has been the policy of the wisest of our princes for generations, and must continue. When France is strong, we must look to the Habsburgs; when the Habsburgs are strong, we should bolster France.”

“And do you speak for Mr. Bennet as well?”

“I speak for no man but myself. I am a mathematician, a priest, and an Englishman. But I am sure you know the admiration Mr. Bennet has for your country. His position, also, will not be aided by such talk.”

De Moledi stood up, and bowed graciously. “I understand well that you are the sort of man to whom thanks should only be offered in words, and so in words alone do I offer them. I will say only that a different man would go from this room very much the richer for his kindness.”

I wrapped up my warning to de Moledi in no bad advice and, as was my continual habit before my failing eyes made the practice impossible, I wrote down a short account of my meeting with him to aid my memory. I have the note still, and I see that the counsel I gave was practical and wise. I had little expectation that it would be taken, however. The state is like a large ship with a numerous crew; once set on a course, it is difficult to change tack with any speed, even when such an alteration is manifestly sensible.

De Moledi’s response to my conversation was swift, however; far faster and more determined than I had anticipated. The following evening, one of Mr. Bennet’s men came to my house and handed me a letter which informed me that my presence was urgently required.

His standing had increased grandly since our previous meeting, and he wished all to know of his power as Secretary of State for the South. It is unwise even now to compare any man unfavorably with Cromwell, but there was a simplicity about that great bad man which was far more impressive for being totally unpracticed and unfeigned. For Cromwell truly was a great man, the greatest, I believe, this country has ever known. His clarity of mind, his strength and certainty were such that, born to a gentleman’s estate, he made himself a kingdom; had he been born to a kingdom, he would have made himself an empire. He reduced three nations, which perfectly hated him, to entire obedience; governed by an army which wished his ruin, and inspired fear across a continent and beyond. He held the country in his palm yet would often greet a visitor himself, and pour wine with his own hands. He had no need of display, for there was no mistaking his authority. I said this once to Lord Clarendon, and he agreed with my account.

Mr. Bennet was a lesser man, with smaller genius; all of his worth could have fitted into Cromwell’s thumbnail. And yet, what pomp he had adopted. The progression through the antechambers had increased to positively Spanish proportions, and the obsequious behavior of the servants had grown to such an extent that it was hard for a simple man such as myself to repress a certain sense of disgust at the display. It took a full fifteen minutes to make my way from the entrance to his chambers into his presence; King Louis in all his present magnificence, I think, cannot be more difficult to approach than was Mr. Bennet then.

It was all for show, and in conversation he was as English as he was Spanish in manners. Indeed, his bluntness came close to discourtesy, and he kept me standing throughout the interview.

“What, exactly, do you think you are doing, Dr. Wallis?” he shouted, waving a piece of paper at me, too far away for me to see. “Are you mad that you disobey my express orders?”

I told him I did not understand the question.

“I have here a strongly worded note,” he said, breathing heavily that I might feel, see and hear his anger all at the same time, “from a very indignant Spanish ambassador. Is it true that you had the presumption yesterday evening to lecture him on the peace of Christendom, and tell him how his country’s foreign policy should be run?”

“It most certainly is not,” I replied. My curiosity at this turn of events was overcoming my alarm at the evident anger my patron was demonstrating. I knew Mr. Bennet well enough to know that he lost his temper very rarely, for he believed firmly that such demonstrations were inappropriate in a gentleman. False shows of rage were not tactics he used to overawe his clients, and I came to the conclusion that, on this occasion, he was perfectly sincere and genuinely furious. This, of course, made my own situation the more perilous, since he was not a man whose favor I could afford to lose. But it also made the conversation more interesting, as I could not easily understand the source of his fury.

“How do you explain the offense you have given him then?” Bennet continued.

“I do not know what the offense is. I conversed—I thought most pleasantly—with Señor de Moledi yesterday evening, and we parted with mutual expressions of regard. It may be that I angered him by refusing a large bribe, I do not know; I thought I had turned down the offer with the greatest of tact. Might I ask what is the complaint?”

“He says you all but accused him of fomenting a plot to kill the king. Is that true?”

“It is not. I never mentioned any such thing, nor would I ever have dreamed of doing so.”

“What do you think you said?”

“I merely told him that it was strongly held by many that his country wished England no good. It was not an important part of the conversation.”

“But it was cautiously said,” Bennet said. “You say nothing without deliberation. So now I want to know why. Your reports to me in the last few months have been so obviously full of half-truths and evasions that I am beginning to tire of them. Now I command you to tell me the exact truth. And I warn you that if I am not satisfied of your total candor I will be highly displeased.”

Faced with such an ultimatum, I could do no other. And it was the greatest mistake that ever I made. I do not blame Mr. Bennet; I blame myself for my weakness, and I know that the punishment meted out to me for my error was so crushing a burden that I have suffered for it every day of my life since. I am graced in that I come from a hardy, long-living family on both my mother’s and my father’s sides, and I live in full expectation of continuing in this world for many years yet. On innumerable occasions since that day I have prayed that this blessing be taken from me, so great is the remorse I suffer.

I told Mr. Bennet of my suspicions. In full and, I now believe, in greater detail than I needed provide. I told him of Marco da Cola, and the threads of suspicion that had attached themselves to him. I told him of my understanding that he was, if not already here, then on his way to this country. And I told him of what I believed he planned to do when he arrived.

Bennet listened at first impatiently, then with becoming gravity, to my account. And when I had finished, he got up and stared for many minutes out of the window of the little chamber where he habitually carried on his business.

Eventually he turned to face me, and I could see from his expression that the anger had passed. I was not, however, to escape further reproof.

“I must commend you,” he said, “for the diligence your love of His Majesty has produced. I do not doubt for a minute that you have acted with the very best of intentions, and that your desire was simply and wholly the safety of the realm. You are a most excellent servant.”

“I thank you.”

“But in this matter, you have made a serious error. You must know that in diplomacy nothing is ever as it seems, and what may appear as common sense is often the opposite. We cannot go to war. Who should we fight? The Spanish? The French? The Dutch? All together or in combination? And with what are we meant to pay an army? Parliament will barely provide to keep a roof over the king’s head as it is. You know, I am sure, that I am partial to the Spanish, that I regard the French as our greatest enemy. Even so, I will not countenance an alliance with them, any more than I could support a pact against them. For the foreseeable future, at least, we must steer a delicate course between these obstacles, and allow nothing to push the king into the arms of one side or the other.”

“But you know as well, sir,” I said, “that Spanish agents are operating freely, spending their gold to buy support.”

“Of course they are. And so are the French and the Dutch. What of it? As long as all spend with the same enthusiasm, and none gains the upper hand, then no harm is done. Your comments in themselves do little harm, please do not think that. But if your suspicions become generally known, then the French interest will be strengthened. Young Louis has deep coffers. His Majesty is tempted already, even though it would be a disaster. It is imperative that nothing disturbs the balance which those who have the interest of the country at heart have created. Now, tell me, does anyone else know of this suspicion you have?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I am the only person with a full knowledge of it. My servant Matthew no doubt has some understanding, since he is an intelligent boy, but even he does not know the full story.”

“And he is where?”

“He is now back in England. But you need have no fears about him. He is totally bound to me.”

“Good. Talk to him and make sure he understands.”

“I am happy to obey your wishes in this matter,” I continued, “but I must repeat that, as far as I can see, the matter is a serious one nonetheless. With the sanction of the Spanish crown or not, this man is coming to the country, and I believe him to be very dangerous to us. What am I to do about it? Surely you do not think that he should be left in peace.”

Bennet smiled. “I do not think you need have any concern on that score, sir,” he said. “This is not the only tale of conspiracy, and I have finally persuaded His Majesty to increase the guard around him night and day. I see no chance of even the most desperate of assassins reaching him.”

“This is no ordinary soldier, sir,” I said. “He had a reputation for daring and ruthless murders against the Turks on Crete. He must not be underestimated.”

“I understand your concerns,” Bennet replied. “But I must point out that, if you are correct—and I do not accept that you are so—the comments you made to de Moledi will have been noted. He will take the greatest of care to make sure nothing occurs which thrusts us into the arms of his greatest enemy. An alliance with France would surely follow any such event, for this scheme could only work if its true author never became known, and you have ensured that that cannot be.”

There the interview ended. I left with my position badly, but not irrevocably, weakened. I had not lost his favor, and certainly had not been threatened with any sanction. Far more important was the fact that my confidence was shaken; I had not anticipated de Moledi’s reaction. He had, indeed, behaved as an innocent might well do in the circumstances, with surprise and protest. And what Mr. Bennet said was true; an assassination of the king now made no sense, if its sole achievement was to deliver England into the hands of the French.

I did not realize, although I was beginning to suspect, that my conclusions were based on faulty propositions; this required more and more terrible evidence, before all doubts were swept away.

7

I never discovered precisely when Marco da Cola arrived in England, or by what means, although I am certain he had already stepped ashore before I spoke to the Spanish ambassador; this belief was later confirmed by Jack Prestcott when I interrogated him. By the third week of March, Cola was in London and I assume he was warned that something of his purpose had become known to me; he must also have learned that Matthew was my servant, and that the lad also knew much that was dangerous.

I saw Matthew that morning; he came to my house in the greatest of hurry, his face flushed with achievement, to say that he had found Cola in London, and planned to go and see him. Instantly I knew I had to prevent any such encounter.

“You will not,” I said. “I forbid it.”

His face fell, then turned dark with anger, an expression I had never before seen on him. At once, all my fears returned after I had successfully kept them at bay, hoping that all would be well once more now he was back by my side. “Why? What nonsense is this? You look for this man, and when I find him for you, you forbid me to discover where exactly he is.”

“He is a killer, Matthew. A very dangerous man indeed.”

Matthew laughed in the lighthearted way he had, which had once given me such pleasure but did so no longer. “I do not think an Italian holds much danger for a child of London,” he said. “Certainly not this one.”

“Oh, but he does. You know the streets and the alleys, and all the ways across the town far better than he. But do not underrate him. Promise me you will leave him be.”

His laughter faded, and I could see I had wounded him once more. “Is that it? Or do you want to deny me a friend who might do me good, who might patronize me freely, without requiring so much in return? Who listens to me, and values my opinions instead of forever criticizing and imposing his own? I tell you, doctor, this man was kind and good to me; he did not beat me and always behaved well.”

“Stop it,” I cried, anguished that I should be compared to another in such a cruel way, and have this Cola’s success thrust at me merely to wound my heart. “It is true what I say. You must not go near him. I cannot bear the thought of him touching you, hurting you in any way. I wish to protect you.”

“I can look after myself. And I will show you that I can. I have known thieves and murderers and fanatics since the day I was born. Yet here I am, unscratched and unharmed. And you think nothing of this, and talk to me as though I were a child.”

“You owe me a great deal,” I said, angry with his anger, and wounded by his words. “And I will have your respect and courtesy.”

“But you will not give it, as I also deserve. You never have.”

“That is enough. Get out of my room, and come back when you are ready to apologize. I know why you wish to see him. I know what he is and what he wants of you; I see it better than you can. Why else would a man like him keep a boy like you by his side? Do you think it is for your wit? You have little. Your money? You have none. Your learning? You have what I gave you. Your breeding? I picked you up from the gutter. I tell you, if you go to him tonight, I will not have you in this house again. Do you understand?”

I had never threatened him so before, and had not intended to do so then. But he was fast slipping from my grasp. The temptation of dissoluteness was growing on him, encouraged by this man, and it had to be stopped immediately. He had to know I commanded, and was his master. Otherwise he would have been quite lost.

But it was too late; I had delayed too long, and the corruption had already gone too deep. Still, I thought he would have asked my pardon and realized his error, as he had been prepared to do so recently in the past. But he stared at me, not knowing whether I was serious or not, and seeing that gaze I weakened and spoiled all.

“Matthew,” I said, “my boy, come to me.” For the first time in my life, but God help me, not for the first time in my dreams, I took him in my arms and held him tightly to me, hoping to feel the softness of his response. Instead, Matthew stiffened, then pushed his arms hard against my chest, and broke away, stumbling backward in his haste to part from me.

“Leave me be,” he said in a hushed voice. “You cannot command me, nor forbid me anything. It is not me who has done wrong here, and not this Italian who keeps me for impure reasons, I think.”

And he walked out, leaving me to bitter anger, and the sadness of regret.

I never saw Matthew alive again. That same evening Marco da Cola cold-bloodedly cut his throat in a dark alley, and left him to bleed to death.

Even now, I can hardly bear to recall the details of the day I learned that no amends would ever be made. My housekeeper’s husband (I had allowed the woman to marry the previous year, and had such a regard for her honesty that I did not see fit to throw her out) came himself to Gresham College, where I was dining with Mr. Wren, to tell me of the calamity. He was a big, slow, stupid man, fearful of my wrath but courageous enough to bring the bad news himself.

He trembled as he stood there before me and told me what had happened. With some resource, he had gone to the scene itself when the news came, and asked those who lived nearby what had transpired. It appeared there had been a murderous assault a few hours previously. Matthew had been attacked from behind, his mouth covered and his throat slit with a single cut. There had been no noise, no sound of any shouting, none of the normal commotion that signifies a struggle or a robbery in progress. The culprit was not seen by anyone and Matthew was left to die. It was not a duel, not a fight of honor, he was not given the chance to die in the knowledge at least of having acted as a man should. It was pure and simple murder, carried out in the most despicable manner. My dream had warned me, and I had let it happen nonetheless.

I see from Cola’s memoirs he even has the audacity still to indicate his crime, although he pretends it was self-defense. He says he was set on by bravoes, who (he claims) he thought were sent by the former associate of his father. With what nobility and courage did he defend himself against such bloodthirsty rogues! With what modesty does he recount how, all alone, he sent them packing. He does not say, of course, that his assailant was but a boy of nineteen, who never fought a man in his life and who certainly intended him no harm. He does not say that he followed the boy, and deliberately set upon him, leaving him no chance of defending himself. He omits to say that he committed this one crime that he might be free to commit still greater ones later.

And he does not say that he extinguished the light of my life by that deed, cast all into darkness and ended all joy forever. Matthew’s death rested on my shoulders, for my mistrust excited him to bravado, and it mattered not that I suffered most from the mistake. Such a glory to God, my Absalom, my clay, which I had fashioned myself into the finest of creation. Would to God I had died for thee, my son, my son. (2 Samuel 18:33.)

His obedience matched his piety, his piety his loyalty, and his loyalty his beauty. I had imagined growing old with him by my side, to comfort me as no woman ever could. He alone made the day bright, and the morning glow with hope. Such love had Saul for David, and I wept at the bitterness of my punishment.

“He that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me” (Matthew 10:37). How often had I read those words without understanding the burden they lay on all mankind, for I had never loved any man or woman before.

And the lesson was swift and harsh, and I rebelled against it. I begged the Almighty it should not be, that my servant was wrong, that another had died in his place.

And I knew the cruelty of desiring that another suffer instead of me, that another father should grieve for me. Our Lord had accepted His cross, but even He had prayed the burden might be taken from Him, and so I prayed as well.

And the Lord told me I had loved the boy too much, and made me remember those nights when he had slept in my bed, while I lay awake listening to his breathing, wishing only to reach out and touch him.

And I remember how I begged deliverance from my desires, and also wished them fulfilled.

This was my punishment, so fully deserved. I thought I would die under the pain of it, and never recover from the loss.

And in my heart my anger grew fierce and cold, for I knew also that it was Marco da Cola who had tempted my dearest boy away from me, and seduced him so he would not notice as the knife slipped from its scabbard.

I asked that God should say to me as he had to David, “I will deliver thine enemy into thine hand, that thou mayest do to him as it shall seem good unto thee” (1 Samuel 24:4). I vowed that this Cola’s brutality would undo him.

It is written—“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed” (Genesis 9:6).

I give thanks that I allow no man to see my emotions and that I have ever had a deep sense of duty, for it was only that which forced me to rise and rededicate myself to my purpose. And so I prayed, then forced myself once more to my task; a harder deed I have never done, for I maintained always my habitual demeanor, which men call coldness, while all the time my very heart was bleeding with grief. I will add no more of this matter; it is properly for no man’s ears. But I will say that from then on, I had one purpose in mind, one aim and one desire, and that stayed with me in my dreams and every second of my waking day. I abandoned all desire to show my superiority by deciphering that which defeated all others. Books by Livy, letters to Cola now become mere links in my great evidential chain—I knew of them already and did not need to hold the one in my hand, or comprehend the precise meaning of the other. They had served their purpose, and I had a more urgent task before me than the solution of intellectual puzzles.

Matthew had said he did not believe that he was suspected by Cola in the Low Countries; had the Italian done so, the boy would surely have died before ever he set foot on English soil. It was accordingly clear that Cola had discovered this in London, and thus also certain that the information had reached him because I had told Mr. Bennet of my suspicions, and named Matthew as one privy to them. I should have known that there is no such thing as a discreet courtier, nor can any man keep a secret in Whitehall. So I resolved that I would no more inform Mr. Bennet of my progress—not only did I not want loose talk to warn Cola further, I also wished to stay alive myself, and knew that if the Italian had slaughtered Matthew because of the little he knew, then how could he avoid making a similar attempt on my life?

Nonetheless, it was no surprise to me at all when I heard that a young gentleman of curiosity had arrived in Oxford and had expressed the intention of staying some time.

But it was a considerable surprise when virtually his first move was to establish contact with the Blundy family.

8

Here I must pause and give an account of that family, since Cola’s own narrative is not to be believed in any particular and it is obvious that, if Prestcott touches on the subject in his scribblings, then he will give nothing but a wildly misguided account. He formed some strange fascination for the girl and was convinced she intended him harm, although how she could have accomplished this feat I do not pretend to understand. Nor was it necessary—since Prestcott seemed intent on doing himself so much harm there was little point in anyone else adding to it.

I knew of Edmund Blundy’s reputation as an agitator in the army and heard he had died; equally I was naturally aware that his wife had settled in Oxford along with her daughter. Through my informers I kept watch on them for a while but on the whole let them be—if they kept within the law, then I saw no reason to persecute them, even though their dissent in matters of religion was blatant. As I hope I have made clear, my concern was the good ordering of society, and I had little interest in quibbling as long as an outward show of conformity was maintained. I know that many (some people for whom I have a high regard in other matters, such as Mr. Locke) hold to the doctrine of toleration; I disagree most strongly if that is taken to mean worship outside the body of the Established Church. A state can no more survive without general unity in religion than it can without common purpose in government, for to deny the church is, ultimately, to deny all civil authority. It is for this reason I support the virtuous mediocrity which the Anglican settlement observes between the meretricious gaudiness of Rome, and squalid sluttery of the fanatical conventicles.

With the Blundys, mother and daughter, I was pleased to see that the lesson inflicted on them by the failure of their aspirations was learned. Although I knew that they kept up contact with all manner of radical acquaintance in Oxford and in Abingdon, their personal behavior gave little cause for concern. Once every three months they attended church and, if they sat resolutely and stony-faced at the back, refusing to sing and standing only reluctantly, that did not concern me. They signified their obedience, and their acquiescence was a lesson to all who might have contemplated defiance. For if even the woman who had once directed the fire of soldiers on royalist troops at the great siege of Gloucester no longer had the will to resist, then why should less fiery folk do otherwise?

Few people know of this tale nowadays; I mention it here partly because it illustrates the character of these people and partly because it deserves to be recorded, the sort of anecdote, indeed, in which a man like Mr. Wood takes such delight. Ned Blundy was already in the service of Parliament at that stage, and his wife followed him with all the other soldiers’ women, that her man might be fed and clothed in decency on the march. He was part of Edward Massey’s troop and was in Gloucester when King Charles laid siege. Many know of that fierce encounter, in which the resolution of one side was met by the determination of the other, and neither lacked anything in courage. The advantage was with the king, for the town’s defenses were slight and ill-prepared, but His Majesty, as was usual with a prince ever more noble than wise, failed to move with the necessary speed. The Parliamentarians began to hope that a little more endurance on their part would enable the relieving army to come to their assistance.

Persuading the citizenry and the ordinary soldiers of this was not an easy task, the more so as the officers’ bravery depleted their ranks, leaving many platoons and companies headless. On the occasion I refer to, a company of Royalist soldiers attempted to break through one of the weaker sections of the town’s defenses, knowing that the soldiers defending it were disheartened and irresolute. Indeed, it seemed initially that the bold assault would be successful, for many gained the walls, and the discouraged defenders began to pull back. Within minutes, the wall would be theirs and the entire besieging army would pour over.

Then the woman of the tale stepped forward, girded her petticoat into her belt and picked up the pistol and sword of a fallen soldier. “Follow or I die alone,” she is said to have shouted, and charged into the mob of attackers, hacking and cutting all around. So ashamed were the Parliamentarians at having their cowardice exposed by a mere woman, and so commanding was the tone of their new leader, that they reformed themselves and charged also. They refused to give any further ground, and the ferocity of their assault forced the Royalists back. As the attackers made their way to their lines once more, the woman formed the defenders into a line, and directed fire into their backs until the very last musket ball had been used up.

As I have said, this was Edmund Blundy’s woman, Anne, who already had a reputation for bloodcurdling ferocity. I do not necessarily believe that she bared her breasts before charging into the Royalist ranks, so that they would be less able to strike at her through gallantry, but it is certainly possible and would be quite appropriate to the reputation she established for immodesty and violence.

Such was this woman who, I believe, was more violent in temper and deed than was her husband. She laid claim to being a wise woman, saying her mother had such power, and her mother’s mother before her. She even intervened to make speeches at soldiers’ gatherings, exciting awe and derision in equal part. She it was, I believe, who incited her husband onto ever more dangerous criminal belief, for she utterly scorned all authority unless she chose, willingly, to accept it. A husband, she maintained, should have no more authority over a wife, than a wife over a husband. I have no doubt that she would eventually have claimed that man and donkey should live in equal partnership as well.

And it was certainly true that neither she nor her daughter had renounced such beliefs. While most, grudgingly or with enthusiasm, set aside old opinions when times changed and the king returned, some persisted in error despite the manifest withdrawal of divine favor. These were the people who saw the return of the king as God’s test of their belief, a brief hiatus before the coming of King Jesus and the establishment of His thousand-year rule. Or they saw the Restoration as a sign of God’s displeasure, and an incentive to become ever more fanatical to win back His approval. Or they spurned God and all His works, bemoaning the turn of events, and sank into the lassitude of greed disappointed.

Anne Blundy’s exact beliefs I never fathomed, and indeed had no interest in doing so; all that counted for me was that she remained quiescent and in this she seemed more than willing to oblige. I did, however, once question Mr. Wood on the matter, for I was aware that his mother employed the girl in their house as a general work-all.

“You know of her background, I imagine,” I asked him. “Her parentage and her beliefs?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I know what they were, and I know what they are now. Why do you ask?”

“I have an affection for you, young man, and I would not wish your family, or your mother, to be besmirched.”

“I am grateful for the attention, but you need have no fear. The girl is in perfect conformity with all the laws, and is so dutiful that I do not believe I have ever heard her express a single opinion. Except when His Majesty returned, when her eyes filled with tears of perfect joy. You may rest assured that this must be so, for my mother will scarcely have even a Presbyterian in the house.”

“And the mother?”

“I have met the woman only a few times, and found her quite unremarkable. She has scraped together enough money for a washing house, and works hard for her living. I think her only concern is to put by enough money for her daughter to have a dowry, and this is Sarah’s main concern as well. Again, I know something of her reputation through my researches, but I believe the madness of faction has left her as entirely as it has left the country as a whole.”

I did not completely take Mr. Wood’s word, since I had my doubts about his ability to see deeply into such matters, but his report settled my mind and I gladly turned to more interesting quarry. Occasionally, I took note that the daughter would travel to Abingdon or Banbury or Burford; that men of doubtful loyalty—such as the Irish magus I mentioned earlier—would visit their little cottage. Nonetheless, I had few worries. They seemed determined to abandon their previous desire to remake England in their own image, and appeared content simply to make as much money as their positions and abilities would allow. To that laudable aim, I could not object, and I paid them little attention until Marco da Cola went straight to their cottage on the pretext of treating the old woman for her injury.

I have, naturally, read his words on this subject with the greatest of care, and am almost admiring at the consummate skill with which he makes all out to be innocent and charitable. His technique, I note, is to tell something of the truth in everything, but wrap each little fragment of veracity in layer upon layer of falsity. It is hard to imagine a man would take such trouble, and if I did not know the truth of the matter I would undoubtedly be convinced of the genuineness of his candor, and the extent of his generosity.

But look at the matter from a wider perspective, with the benefit of more information than Mr. Cola is willing to provide. Conversant with radical circles in the Low Countries, he comes to Oxford and within hours makes the acquaintance of the family who knows more such people than anyone else in the county. Even though they are far outside his social sphere, he visits them three or four times a day, and is more attendant than a real physician would be with even the wealthiest of clients. No man of sense or reason acts in such a way, and it is a tribute to Mr. Cola’s tale that, on reading it, such absurd and unlikely behavior seems perfectly comprehensible.

Once Mr. Boyle told me he had also gravitated into the society of the High Street Philosophers, I knew that at last I had some possibility of learning more about the man’s movements and thoughts.

“I hope you do not mind that I took him under my wing in this way,” Boyle said when he mentioned it to me, “but your account was so fascinating that when the man himself appeared in the coffee house, I could not resist examining him myself. And I must say I think you are entirely wrong about him.”

“You did not dissent from my argument.”

“But it was an easy speculation, based on abstraction. Now that I have met him, I do not concur. We must always take character into account, surely, for that is the surest guide to a man’s soul and therefore to his intentions and deeds. I see nothing in his character which would coincide with your speculations about his motives. Quite the reverse.”

“But he is cunning, and you are trusting. You might as soon say a fox is harmless to a hen because it approaches gently and softly. It is only dangerous when it strikes.”

“Men are not foxes, Dr. Wallis, and nor am I a hen.”

“You admit the possibility of error, though?”

“Of course.” And Boyle smiled in that thin and arrogant way of his which indicated his difficulty in even conceiving of the notion.

“So you see the wisdom nonetheless of keeping an eye on him.”

Boyle frowned with displeasure at the idea. “I will do no such thing. I am happy to oblige you in many ways, but I will not play informer. I know you occupy yourself in such a fashion, but I do not wish to be involved in any way. It is a base and shabby trade you profess, Dr. Wallis.”

“I greatly respect your delicacy,” I said, ruffled at his words, as he rarely expressed himself with such force. “But sometimes the safety of the kingdom cannot afford such a fastidious approach.”

“The kingdom cannot afford to be cheapened by squalid activities among men of honor, either. You should take care, doctor. You wish to guard the integrity of good society, yet you use the habits of the gutter to do so.”

“I would like to reason men into good behavior,” I replied. “But they seem remarkably impervious to such persuasion.”

“Just be careful you do not harry men too much, and push them into unreasonable behavior they would not ordinarily countenance. It is a risk, you know.”

“I would normally agree. But I have told you of Mr. Cola, and you agreed that my fears are reasonable. And I have more than enough wounds of my own now to be sure of the danger this man poses.”

Boyle expressed his sympathies for Matthew’s death, and gave me words of comfort; he was the most generous of men, and was willing to risk a rebuff by intimating that he was aware of the magnitude of my loss. I was grateful to him, but could not allow his words on Christian resignation to deflect me from my aim.

“You will pursue this man to the end, but you have no certainty that he did kill your servant.”

“Matthew was following him closely, he is here to commit a crime and is a known killer. You are right; I have no absolute proof, for I did not see the deed, nor did anyone else. I defy you, however, to assert with any reason he is not responsible.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Boyle, “but in my case I will not condemn until I have more certainty. Take my warning, doctor. Be sure your anger does not obscure your vision and drag you down to his level. ‘Mine eye affecteth mine heart,’ it says in Lamentations. Make sure the reverse does not become too true.”

He stood up to go.

“At least, if you will not help, I trust you have no objection to my approaching Mr. Lower,” I said, angered at the lofty way he could dismiss matters of such importance.

“That is between you and him, although he is careful of his friends, and quick to take offense on their behalf. I doubt he will assist if he knows what you want, as he is greatly taken with the Italian, and prides himself on his good judgment of men.”

Thus forewarned, I asked the doctor to see me the next day. I had some regard for Lower. At that time he affected a frivolous and carefree manner, but even a man less acute than myself could see that he had a burning desire for fame and craved worldly success more than anything else. I knew that staying in Oxford, cutting up his beasts and playing the assistant would not satisfy him forever. He wanted recognition for his work, and a place with the greatest of the experimentalists. And he knew as well as any that to stand a chance in London he would need luck and some very good friends indeed. This was his weak spot, and my opportunity.

I summoned him on the pretext of asking his advice about my health. There was nothing wrong with me then and, apart from a weakness about my eyes, nothing wrong with me now either. Nonetheless. I affected a pain in my arm, and submitted to an examination. He was a good physician—unlike many of those quacks who intone ponderously, come up with some complex diagnosis and prescribe an expensive and fatuous remedy, Lower confessed himself quite bemused and said he didn’t think there was really anything the matter with me. He recommended rest—a cheap enough remedy, it must be said, but one which I could not afford, even had it been needed.

“I understand that you have made the acquaintance of a man called Cola, is that right?” I asked him when we had settled down and I had given him a glass of wine for his trouble. “Taken him under your wing, in fact?”

“I have indeed, sir. Signor Cola is a gentleman and a subtle philosopher. Boyle finds him very useful. He is a man of charm and knowledge, and his thoughts on blood are fascinating.”

“You greatly relieve me,” I said. “For I have a high opinion of your judgment in these matters.”

“Why do you need relieving? You don’t know him, do you?”

“Not at all. Think nothing more on the subject. I have always taken it as a principle to doubt the word of foreign correspondents; certainly when their opinion is in contestation with that of an Englishman I set them aside with pleasure. I gladly forget the tales I have heard.”

Lower frowned. “What tale is this? Sylvius penned a very favorable portrait of him.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” I said. “And no doubt accurate, as far as he could see. We must always take men as we find them, must we not, and assess contradictory reports in the light of our own experience? ‘But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison’ “ (James 3:8).

“Somebody says something evil about him? Come sir, be frank with me. I know you are too good a man to calumnize, but if malicious reports are being spread it is best the subject of them know, so he can defend himself.”

“You are right, of course. And my only hesitation is that the report is so weak that it is scarcely worth giving it any attention. I have no doubt in my mind that it is utterly false. Certainly it is difficult to believe that a gentleman could act in such a coarse fashion.”

“Which coarse fashion is this?”

“It concerns Signor Cola’s days at Padua. A mathematician there with whom I have correspondence mentioned the matter. He is known to Mr. Oldenburg of our Society, and I can vouch for his good faith. He said merely that there had been a duel. It seems that one man had conducted some ingenious experiments on blood and had told all about them to this Cola. Cola then claimed the experiments as his own. When called to acknowledge the true author, he issued a challenge. Fortunately the fight was stopped by the authorities.”

“These misunderstandings do happen,” Lower said thoughtfully.

“They do, of course,” I agreed heartily. “And it may well be that your friend was entirely in the right. As he is your friend, indeed, I expect that he was. Some people are greedy for fame, though. I am glad philosophy is usually so free of such impositions; to suspect one’s friends, and mind one’s words lest they steal the glory that is rightfully one’s own, would be intolerable. Although, as long as the discovery is made, what does it matter who is credited with it? We do not conduct ourselves for fame, after all. We are doing God’s work, and He will know the truth of the matter. What should we care, then, for the opinions of others?”

Lower nodded, so firmly that I could see I had successfully put him on his guard.

“Besides,” I carried on, “nobody would be so foolish as to enter a dispute with someone like Boyle, for who would believe his claims against the word of such a man? It is only those whose reputation is not well established who are vulnerable. So there is no problem, even if Cola is as my correspondent described.”

My reasoning in talking thus to Lower was entirely honorable, even if it involved a deception. I could not tell him of my real concerns, but it was vital that Cola should not have liberty to practice his deceit by exploiting Lower’s trust. “He that taketh warning shall deliver his soul” (Ezekiel 33:5). By exciting Lower’s concern over Cola’s probity, I had made him more likely to discover the man’s duplicity where it truly lay. I persuaded him not to mention the matter, for I told him that if the report were true no good would come of it and if it were false it would merely create an enmity where none should exist. He left me a more sober man, more distrustful than he had been when he arrived and that, also, was a goodness. It was unfortunate, however, that his lack of control so nearly frightened Cola away—he was too open to dissemble, and Cola’s manuscript shows all too well how easily his doubts and worries bubbled to the surface in anger and harshness.

During the conversation, lower also mentioned that Cola had accompanied him to visit Jack Prestcott in his jail cell, that the Italian had willingly provided the boy with wine and, it appeared, returned to deliver it in person, spending a good long while in his cell conversing with him. This was another curiosity which had to be examined with care. Cola was a Venetian and Sir James had served that country, and perhaps he was merely showing consideration for the son of a man who had served his country well. The other link was the copy of Livy, for Sir James had encoded a letter using it in 1660, and Cola had received one disguised with the same book three years later. I could not fathom it at all, so realized I would have to interview young Prestcott again—and this time thought I would get the truth from him, as his current situation left him little scope for being difficult with me.

I may say that I was beginning to have some doubts about my understanding of Cola’s aims, for his actions did not correspond with what I assumed he intended to accomplish. I was not (I repeat again) at all dogmatic in my belief; the conclusions I reached derived from fair principles and a reasoned, unprejudiced comprehension. To put it simply, it was borne in on me that if he desired to strike against the king, who now divided his time between Whitehall, Tunbridge and the racecourses at Newbury, then Oxford was a strange place to be living. And yet, here Cola was and showing no signs whatsoever of moving away. It was for this reason that, when Dr. Grove informed me the Italian was to dine in college that day, I overcame my repugnance and concluded that I must be present, so I could see and hear the man for myself.

Perhaps here I should sketch a character of Dr. Grove, for his end was tragic and he was, along with Warden Woodward, the only Fellow of New College for whom I had any regard. That we had nothing in common apart from Holy Orders is certainly true; the merits of the new philosophy had entirely escaped him, and he was also even more severe than I in his belief in the necessity for total conformity in the church. For all that, he was nonetheless a man of kindly disposition, whose ferocity of policy lay oddly with his generosity of spirit; he had no cause to love me, for I represented everything he detested, yet he sought out my acquaintanceship—his principles were of a general nature, and in no way affected his judgment of individuals.

Apart from being a divine, he thought of himself as a private astronomer, although nothing had ever been published and, I am sorry to say, nothing ever was. Even had he lived, I suspect that the fruit of his labors would never have seen the light of the day, for Grove was so modest of his skills, and so unconcerned with public acclaim, that he believed publishing both arrogant and presumptuous. Rather, he was one of that ever-rarer breed of man who honor God and University in modest silence, believing learning to be its own reward.

He had returned to his university when the king had returned to his throne, and he now wished to leave and take up a living of his own in the country when the next one came available. The chances of him doing so were good, for against him was ranged merely the paltry and youthful figure of Thomas Ken, whose claim appealed to some simply because they wished to rid themselves of a dreary presence in the college. In some ways his imminent departure saddened me, for Grove’s company I found strangely conducive. I would not say we were friends; that would be going too far, and certainly he had a manner of address that was easily found objectionable by those who did not perceive the goodness within. Grove’s weakness was a quick tongue and a barbed wit, which he had never mastered. He was a man of contradiction, and his conversation could never be taken for granted; he could be the kindest of men, or the most waspish. He had, indeed, perfected the technique of being both at the same time.

It was Grove who invited me to lodge at New College when building works made my home uninhabitable. Death and a delayed election to a Fellowship had created a vacancy in a room and the college, as was its practice, had decided to rent the space out until a new Fellow staked a claim. I had never before enjoyed the common life, even as an undergraduate myself, and was more than content to put it behind me when I gained my first preferment. As a professor, of course, I was entitled to marry and keep my own home, and so it was near twenty years since I had lived cheek-by-jowl with others. I found the experience strangely entertaining, and the solitude of my own room suitable for work. I even regretted my youth and wished again for that irresponsibility when all is still to be done, and nothing is certain. But the feeling soon passed, and by this time, the appeal of New College was waning fast. Apart from Grove, all the Fellows were of low quality, many were corrupt and most inattentive to their duties. I withdrew more and more, and spent as little time as possible in their midst.

Grove was my companion on many evenings, for he took to knocking on my door in his desire of discussion. I did my best to discourage him at first, but he was not easily put off, and eventually I found that I almost welcomed the disturbance, for it was impossible to brood overmuch when he was there. And the disputes we had were of high quality, even though we were often sadly mismatched. Grove had trained himself in scholastic disputation, which I had done my best to shake off as constricting the imagination. And, as I endeavored to point out to him, the new philosophy simply cannot be expressed in terms of the definitions and axioms and theorems and antitheses and all the other apparatus of fonnal Aristotelianism. For Grove this was fraud and deceit, as he held, as a matter of doctrine, that the beauties and subtleties of logic contained all possibilities, and that if a case could not be argued through its forms, then that proved the flaw of the case.

“I am sure you will find Mr. Cola an interesting disputant,” I said when he told me that the Italian would sup that same evening. “I gather from Mr. Lower that he is a great enthusiast for experiment. Whether he will understand your sense of humor I cannot predict. I think I will dine in myself, to see what results.”

Grove beamed with pleasure, and I remember him wiping his red, inflamed eye with a cloth. “Splendid,” he said. “We can make up a threesome, and maybe drink a bottle together afterward and have a real discussion. I will order one. I hope to have great sport with him, as Lord Maynard is dining, and I wish to show my skills in dispute. Lord Maynard will then know what sort of person will be taking his living.”

“I hope this Cola does not take offense at being used in such a fashion.”

“I’m sure he will not even notice. Besides, he has a charming manner and is perfectly respectful. Quite unlike the reputation of Italians, I must say, since I have always heard it said they are fawning and obsequious.”

“I understand he is Venetian,” I said. “They are said to be as cold as their canals, and as secretive as the doge’s dungeons.”

“I did not find him so. Muddle-headed and with all the errors of youth, no doubt, but far from cold or secretive. You may find out for yourself, though.” Here he paused and frowned. “But I forget. I have no sooner offered you a bottle than I find I must withdraw my invitation.”

“Why is that?”

“Mr. Prestcott. You know of him?”

“I heard the tales.”

“He sent a message wishing to see me. Did you know I was his tutor once? Tiresome boy he was, not intelligent and no head for learning. And very strange indeed, all charm one moment, sulks and tantrums the next. A nasty, violent streak in him as well, and greatly given to superstition. Anyway, he wishes to see me, as it appears the prospect of hanging is making him reconsider his life and his sins. I do not want to go, but I suppose I must.”

And here I took a sudden decision, realizing that, if I was to trade with Prestcott, I had best do it as soon as possible. It may have been mere whim, or perhaps an angel guided my lips as I spoke. It may have been simply that I did not trust a sudden display of piety from Prestcott, who I had been told only the day before was in no repentant frame of mind. It does not matter; I took the fateful decision.

“You certainly must not,” I said firmly. “Your eyes look fearfully sore, and I am certain that exposure to a night wind will only weaken them further. I will go in your place. If it is a priest he wants, I suppose I can do that as well as you. And if it is you he particularly desires to see, then you may go at a later date. There is no rush. The assize does not come for more than a fortnight, and waiting will only make the boy more compliant.”

It required few of the arts of persuasion to make him take my advice. Reassured that a needy soul was not being neglected, he thanked me most sincerely for my kindness and confessed that an evening tormenting an experimentalist was very much more to his liking. I even ordered the bottle for him as his eye was so bad; it was delivered by my wine seller, and placed at the foot of the staircase, with my name on. That was the bottle Cola poisoned, and why I know it was intended for myself.

9

I see from my commonplace book that I spent that day in an ordinary fashion. I attended divine service at St. Mary’s as usual, for I always gave my loyalty when in town to the university church, and endured a tedious (and quite erroneous) sermon on Matthew 15:23, in which even the most ardent could find no merit, even though we tried in discussion afterward. I have sat through many such in my life, and find myself having some sympathy for the papist style of worship. Irreligious, heretical and ungodly it may be, but at least Catholicism does not so greatly expose its members to the nonsense of pompous fools more in love with the sound of their own voices than with their Lord.

Then I attended to business. My correspondence took an hour or so, for I had few letters to answer that day, and I passed the rest of the morning at work with my book on the history of the algebraic method, writing with great ease those passages wherein I demonstrated with unchallengeable proofs the fraudulent claims of Vieta, all of whose inventions were, in fact, conceived some thirty years previously by Mr. Harriot.

Small stuff, but it occupied me fully until I donned my gown and descended to the hall, where Grove introduced me to Marco da Cola.

I cannot put in words the suffocating loathing I felt on first casting eyes on the man who had extinguished Matthew’s life so carelessly and with such ruthlessness. Everything about his appearance disgusted me, so much so that I felt my throat tightening and thought, for a moment, that nausea would overcome me entirely. His air of amiability merely pointed up the magnitude of his cruelty, his exquisite manners reminded me of his violence, the expense of his dress, the speed and coldness of his deed. God help me, I could not bear the thought of that stinking perfumed body close to Matthew, those fat and manicured hands stroking that perfect young cheek.

I feared then that my expression must have given away something, informed Cola as that I knew who he was and what he was to do, and it may even be that it was the look of horror on my face which prompted him to move faster, and attempt my life that same night. I do not know; both of us behaved as well as we could; neither, I think, gave anything away thereafter and, to all outsiders, the meal must have appeared perfectly normal.

Cola has given his account of that dinner, wherein he mixes insult to his hosts with exaggeration about his own conversation. Oh, those splendid speeches, those reasoned responses, the patient way in which he smoothed ruffled feathers and corrected the egregious errors of his poor seniors! I must apologize, even at this late date, for not having appreciated his wit, his sagacity and his kindliness, for I confess all of these fine qualities completely escaped my notice at the time. Instead, I saw (or thought I saw, for I must have been wrong) an uneasy little man with more mannerisms than manners, dressed like a cockatoo and with an insinuating assumption of gravitas in his address which failed completely to disguise the superficiality of his learning. His affectation of courtly ways, and his scorn of those kind enough to offer him hospitality, was apparent to all who had the misfortune to sit near him. The flourish with which he produced a little scrap of cloth to vent his nostrils excited the ridicule of all, and his pointed remarks—in Venice everyone uses forks; in Venice wine is drank from glass; in Venice this, in Venice that—aroused only their disgust. Like many who have little to say, he said too much, interrupting without courtesy and favoring with the benefit of his wisdom those who did not desire it.

I felt almost sorry for him as Grove, with a twinkle in his eye, goaded him like a stupid bull, pulling him first one way, then the other, persuading him to make the most ridiculous statements, then forcing him to contemplate his own absurdity. There was no matter under the heavens, as far as I could see, on which the Italian did not have a firm and fixed opinion, and not a single opinion which was in any way correct or thoughtfully arrived at. In truth, he astonished me, for in my mind’s eye I had imagined him to be quite other. It was hard to comprehend how such a man could be anything other than a buffoon, incapable of causing harm to any man unless he bored him to death, or asphyxiated him with the wafts of perfume that escaped his body.

Only once did he let down his guard, and only for the most fleeting of instants did I penetrate through that mask to what lay underneath; then all my suspicions returned in full force, and I realized that he had almost succeeded in his aim of disarming all caution. I was unprepared for it, although I should not have been so easy in giving my contempt, for that merchant I had interviewed in the Reel prison had forewarned me. He had mentioned his astonishment that hardened soldiers on Candia treated the man with the greatest respect, and I allowed myself to be taken in as well.

Until the moment came when, for the only time in the evening, Cola was thrust into the background by the eruption of hostility between Grove and Thomas Ken. For Cola was like one of those actors who strut the stage, preening themselves in the light of the audience’s attention. While they have eyes on them, they are the characters they pretend to be, and all present believe that they are indeed seeing King Harry at Agincourt or a Prince of Denmark in his castle. But when another speaks and they are in the background, watch them then; see how the fire in them goes out, and how they become mere actors again, and only put on their disguise once more when their turn to speak comes once more.

Cola resembled such a player. When Ken and Grove exchanged quotations, and Ken walked heavily out, bowed down by the certainty of his defeat—for the election to the living had been set for the next week and Grove’s victory was assured—Cola let slip the mask he had worn so well. In the background for the first time, he leaned back to regard the scene being played out before his eyes. I alone watched him; the squabbles of college fellows had no interest for me, as I had witnessed so many already. And I alone saw the flicker of amusement, and the way in which everything said and unsaid in that fight was instantly comprehensible to him. He was playing a game with us all, and was confident of his success, and he was now underestimating his audience as I had underestimated him. He did not realize that I saw, that instant, into his soul and perceived the devilish intent that lay hidden there, coiled and waiting to be unleashed when all around had been lulled into thinking him a fool. I took succor from that flash of understanding, and thanked the Lord for allowing me such a sign; for I knew then what Cola was, just as I knew I could defeat him. He was a man who made mistakes, and his greatest error was overconfidence.

His conversation was tedious even to Grove but good manners dictated that he be invited back to share a drink after the supper was concluded and the final blessing given. I know this to be the case, even though Cola says differently. He says that Grove escorted him directly to the college gate, and there all contact between them ceased. This cannot be, as a man of Grove’s natural courtesy would not have acted so. I do not doubt that the refreshment was curtailed, and I do not doubt that Grove lied by saying he had to go and visit Prestcott as a way of getting rid of the man, but it is inconceivable that the evening would have ended as Cola says. It is another deliberate falsehood I have detected in his account, although by this time I believe I have indicated so many that there is scarcely point in continuing the exercise further.

What is certain is that Cola expected me to go to my room, find the bottle of brandy laced with poison at the foot of my stairs—who else might it have been for, since Grove was the only other person on the stairs and he was supposed to be absent that evening?—and expected me to drink it. He then returned late in the night and, though he did not find me dead, ransacked my room and took not only the letter I had intercepted, but also the letter given to me by Samuel in 1660. It was an evil scheme, made all the worse later by his willingness to stand by and let the Blundy girl die in his place, for I have no doubt he procured that arsenic in the Low Countries, then lied outright in saying he had none in his pharmacopoeia. It is monstrous to contemplate, but some men are so wicked and depraved that no deceit is beyond their powers.

What Cola did not anticipate is that the real object of his murderous venom would be so far beyond his reach. For I did go to see Prestcott and, even though I had to suffer the greatest indignation at that wretched boy’s hands, at least the affront was matched by useful information. It was a cold evening, and I wrapped myself up as well as I could for the interview; Prestcott at least had enough friends in the world to provide him with blankets and warm clothing, although their generosity did not extend to allowing him a fire in the grate or anything other than candles of the cheapest pig fat, which sputtered and stank as they gave off their feeble light. I had mistakenly omitted to bring any of my own, so the conversation took place in virtual darkness, and to this, as well as my foolish generosity of spirit, do I attribute Prestcott’s ability to surprise me in the way he did.

The meeting began with Prestcott’s refusal even to listen to me unless I had promised to unshackle him from the thick heavy chains which bound him to the wall—a necessary restraint, as I later learned.

“You must understand, Dr. Wallis, that I have been chained up like this for nearly three weeks, and I am mightily tired of it. My ankles are covered in sores, and the noise of the chains rattling every time I turn over is sending me mad. Does anyone expect that I will escape? Burrow through the four feet of stonework to the outside world, leap down sixty feet into the ditch and run away?”

“I will not unchain you,” I said, “until I have some expectation of cooperation.”

“And I will not cooperate until I have some expectation of continuing to live beyond the next assizes.”

“On that I may be able to offer you something. If I am satisfied by your replies, then I will assure you of a pardon from the king. You will not go free, as the insult to the Compton family would be too great for them to bear, but you will be suffered to go to America, where you can make a new life.”

He snorted. “More freedom than I desire,” he said. “Freedom to plow the earth like some peasant, wearied to death by the dronings of Puritans and hacked to death by Indians whose methods, I may say, we would do well to imitate here. Some of these people would make any sensible man reach for his hatchet. Thank you, good doctor, for your generos-ity.”

“It is the best I can do,” I said, although I am not sure even now whether I intended to do it. But I knew that if I offered him too much he would not believe me. “If you accept, you will surely live, and later on you may win a reprieve and be allowed to return. And it is the only chance you have.”

He thought a long while, slumped on his cot and huddled in his blanket. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose I have no choice. It is better than the offer I received from Mr. Lower.”

“I’m glad you at last see reason. Now then, tell me about Mr. Cola.”

He looked genuinely surprised at the question. “Why on earth do you want to know about him?”

“You should only be glad that I do. Why did he come and see you here?”

“Because he is a civil and courteous gentleman.”

“Do not waste my time, Mr. Prestcott.”

“Indeed, I do not know what else to say, sir.”

“Did he ask you for anything?”

“What could I give him?”

“Something of your father’s, perhaps?”

“Such as?”

“A copy of Livy.”

“That again? Tell me, doctor, why is that so important to you?”

“That is not your affair.”

“In that case I do not care to answer.”

I thought it could do me no harm, as Prestcott did not have the book in any case. “The book is the key to some work I am doing. If I have it, I can decipher some letters. Now, did Cola ask you about it?”

“No.” Here Prestcott rolled on his little cot and convulsed with merriment at what he thought was a fine joke at my expense. I began to weary mightily of him.

“Truly, he did not. I am sorry, doctor,” he said, wiping his eye. “And to make amends I will tell you what I know. Mr. Cola was recently a guest of my guardian and was staying there when Sir William was attacked. Without his skill, I understand Sir William would have died of his injuries that night, and he is evidently a formidably clever surgeon to patch him up so neatly.” He shrugged. “And that is all there is to be said. I can tell you no more.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I gathered they had a joint interest in trading matters. Cola’s father is a merchant, and Sir William is Master of the Ordnance. One sells goods, the other uses government money to buy them. Both desire to make as much money as possible, and naturally they wished to keep their association quiet, for fear of Lord Clarendon’s wrath. That, at least, is how I understand things.”

“And why do you understand them so?”

Prestcott gave me a look of contempt. “Come now, Dr. Wallis. Even I know how Sir William and Lord Clarendon detest each other. And even I know that if the faintest whiff of corruption attached itself to Sir William’s exercise of his office, Clarendon would use it to eject him.”

“Apart from your own supposition, do you have any reason to think this fear of Lord Clarendon’s wrath is why Cola’s association with Sir William was kept hidden?”

“They talked of Clarendon incessantly. Sir William hates him so much, he cannot keep him out of his conversation at times. Mr. Cola was exceptionally courteous, I think, in listening so patiently to his complaints.”

“How is that?”

Prestcott was so naïve that he did not even begin to comprehend my interest in everything that Cola did or said, and as gently as a lamb I led him through every word and gesture that he had heard the Italian utter, or seen him make.

“On three occasions when I was there, Sir William returned to the subject of Lord Clarendon, and every time he harped on about what a malign influence he was. How he held the king in the palm of his hand, and encouraged His Majesty’s licentiousness, so that he might have free run to loot the kingdom. How all good Englishmen wished to oust him, but were unable to summon the resolve or the courage to take decisive action. You know the sort of thing, I am sure.”

I nodded to encourage him and to establish that sympathy in conversation which encourages greater openness of discourse.

“Mr. Cola listened patiently, as I say, and made valiant attempts to deflect the conversation into less heated areas, but sooner or later it came back to the Lord Chancellor’s perfidy. What particularly incensed Sir William was Clarendon’s great house at Cornbury Park.”

I believe I must have frowned here, as I could not grasp the meaning of it. The wealth that had been heaped on Clarendon since the Restoration had, indeed, incited great envy, but there seemed no particular reason why this should focus on Cornbury. Prestcott saw my perplexity, and for once was kind enough to enlighten me.

“The Lord Chancellor has acquired large portions of land right up into Chipping Norton, deep into Compton territory. Sir William believes that a concerted assault is being launched on his family’s interest in South Warwickshire. As he said, not long ago the Comptons would have known how to deal with such impudence.”

I nodded gravely, since my penetration into this great mystery was deepening with every word that dropped from Prestcott’s lips. I was beginning to think, even, that I would keep my word to the lad, for his testimony might well prove useful in the future, and I could not have that were he to swing.

“Mr. Cola successfully diverted the talk onto other matters, but nothing was safe. Once he mentioned his experience of English roads; even that brought Sir William back to the topic of Clarendon.”

“How so?”

Prestcott paused. “It is a very trivial matter.”

“Of course it is,” I agreed. “But tell me nonetheless. And when you have done, I will ensure you are unshackled, and remain so for the rest of your short stay in this place.”

I have no doubt that, like all people in similar circumstances, he invented where he could not remember; such duplicity is common and was expected. It is the task of the expert interrogator to separate wheat and chaff, and allow the winds to blow away the rubbish from the precious seed.

“They were talking of the road which runs northward from Witney to Chipping Norton, and which Cola had taken on his way to Compton Wynyates. Why he did so I cannot imagine, as it is not the most direct route. But I gather he is one of these curious gentlemen. Nosy, I call them, who peek and pry at all things not their affair, and call it enquiry.”

I suppressed a sigh, and smiled at the boy in what I hoped would appear as sympathy. Prestcott, at least, appeared to take it as such.

“It is, apparently, the road which my Lord Clarendon takes on his way to Cornbury, and Cola joked that if Sir William was fortunate, Clarendon might be shaken to death by the journey, or drowned in a water-filled hole, so bad was the condition of the road, and so lax the county at maintaining it. Do you really want to hear this, sir?”

I nodded. “Continue,” I said. I could feel the tingle in my blood as I knew I was almost there, and could brook no further delays. “Tell me.”

Prestcott shrugged. “Sir William laughed, and tried to match him by saying that maybe he would be shot by a highwayman as well, for it is known he always travels with only a small retinue. Many a man had been murdered of late, with the assailant never apprehended. Then the conversation went on to other things. And that,” Prestcott said, “is that. End of the story.”

I had it. I knew I had unraveled the layers of the problem and penetrated deep into its heart. It was like one of those conundra, sent out in competition by mathematicians to challenge their rivals. However formidable in appearance, however deliberately designed to perplex and confuse, yet there is always a simplicity at their core, and the art of victory lies in careful thought and a calm working through of the outer reaches until that center is arrived at. Like an army laying siege to a castle, the skill lies not in a wide assault around the perimeter, but a gentle probing of the outworks until the weak spot of the defenses—for there always is one—is revealed. Then all the strength of the attack can be focused on that one point until it gives way. Cola had made the mistake of visiting Prestcott; I had persuaded Prestcott to tell me of their connection.

And now I had nearly the whole plot in my hand, and my earlier error was made clear. Cola was not here to kill the king, as I had thought. He was here to murder the Lord Chancellor of England.

But I still could not credit that this thick-headed gentleman, Sir William Compton, was capable of such subtle de-viousness that he might plot with the Spanish for months and sponsor a hired murderer. As I say, I knew him. A challenge, or some such bravado, I could have understood. But not this. I had gone far; but not far enough. Behind Compton, I was sure, lay another. There had to be.

And so I questioned Prestcott further, seeking out every contact he had made, every single name Sir William or Cola had mentioned. He gave some useless answers, but then decided to bargain some more.

“And now, sir,” he said, moving his legs so the chains around his ankles rattled and chinked against the floor, “I have talked long enough, and had confidence in your fidelity to give you much with nothing in return. So now unlock these shackles, that I may walk about the little room like a normal man.”

God help me, I did as he asked, seeing little harm in it, and wishing to give him encouragement to continue in a cooperative fashion. I summoned the jailer, who unlocked the shackles and presented me with the key, asking me to be so good as to relock them once more when I left. It cost a shilling in bribes.

Then he left the cell, and Prestcott listened in what I thought was mournful silence as the steps echoed down the stone staircase once more.

I will not go into the details of the humiliation I suffered at the hands of that madman once the footsteps had died away. Prestcott had the cunning of the desperate, I the inattention of the concerned, for my mind was on what he had told me. In brief, within minutes of being left alone once more, Prestcott had used violence on me, stopping my mouth, binding my hands and shackling me to the cot so tightly I could neither move nor raise the alarm. I was so outraged I could barely even think correctly, and was suffused with rage when he finally put his face close to mine.

“Not pleasant, eh?” he hissed in my ear. “And I have endured many weeks of it. You are lucky; you will be here only for one night. Remember; I could easily have killed you, but I will not.”

That was all. He then sat unconcernedly for some ten minutes or more until he judged the time was right, then put on my heavy cloak and hat, picked up my Bible—my family Bible, given into my hands by my own father—and bowed in a gross parody of courtesy to me.

“Sweet dreams, Dr. Wallis,” he said. “I hope we do not meet again.”

After five minutes, I gave up struggling and lay until the morning brought my release.

Such is the providential goodness of the Lord, that He is at His most gentle when His judgment seems most harsh, and it is not for man to doubt His wisdom; instead he can only give thanks with the blindest faith that He will not abandon His true servant. The next morning, my complaints were revealed for the petty whinings they were, when the full extent of His goodness was revealed to me. I say now that the Lord is good, and loves all who believe in Him, for by what other means could my life have been preserved that night?

Only an angel of goodness, guided by the hand of the Most High, could have steered me away from the abyss and, by preserving me, allowed the kingdom to escape calamity. For I do not believe that I was so favored for my own worthless life, which is no more significant in His eyes than the least grain of dust. But as He has so constantly shown His favors to His people, so He chose me to be the instrument of their preservation, and in joy and humility, I accepted the responsibility, knowing that by His will I would succeed.

I was released shortly after dawn began, and straightaway went to the magistrate, Sir John Fulgrove, to report what had happened so he could raise the alarm and begin the hunt for the fugitive. I did not, at that stage, report my interest in the boy, although I did urge him to make sure, if possible, that he did not lose his life if caught. Then I ate in an inn, for being a prisoner is hungry work, and I was chilled to the bone.

And only then, deep in thought, did I return to my room in New College, and discover the horrors that had taken place that night, for Grove had died in my place and my room had been ransacked, with my papers gone.

Cola’s authorship of this outrage was as clear to me as if I had seen him pour the poison into the bottle with my own eyes, and his calm audacity in coming back to the college to be the very first to discover (with what expressions of shock! with what distress and horror!) the results of his own wickedness appalled me. I was told by Warden Woodward that he it was who attempted, by subtle inference and weasel words, to steer the college toward thinking that Grove had died of a seizure and it was in order to expose this lie that I asked Woodward to have Lower investigate the matter.

Lower was, of course, flattered by the request and willingly obliged. My trust in his skills was not given without reason, either, for one look at Grove’s corpse made him pause and look highly perturbed.

“I would hesitate strongly to say this was a seizure,” he said doubtfully. “I have never seen any man foam at the mouth so in such a case. The blueness of the lips, and the eyelids, is consistent with such a diagnosis, however, and I have no doubt that my friend fastened onto these signs too speedily.”

“Could he have eaten something?” the warden asked.

“He ate in hall, did he not? If it was that, then you should all be dead. I will examine his room, and see what there is to be found there, if you like.”

And thus Lower discovered the bottle, the sediment inside it, and returned to the warden’s lodgings in great excitement, explaining the experiments which might be devised to show what the substance was. Woodward was not at all interested in these details, although I found them fascinating and, having conversed on many occasions with Mr. Stahl myself, I realized Lower was perfectly correct in proposing to use his services. There was, of course, the question of Cola, for any such move would be bound to alert him. Accordingly, I decided that it would be best to confront the matter head on, and suggested to Lower that he involve the Italian at every stage of the investigations, to see whether his actions or speech gave any hint of his thoughts. I could easily have had him arrested on the spot, but I was also certain that I had not yet fathomed the whole of the mystery. I needed more time, and Cola had to be at his liberty a while longer.

Although I did not make my reasoning plain, Lower caught the inner meaning of my recommendations.

“Surely you do not suspect Mr. Cola of this?” he asked. “I know you have heard ill reports of him, but there can be no reason for him to do such a thing at all.”

I reassured him absolutely, but pointed out that, as he was perhaps the last person to see Dr. Grove, naturally some doubt must attach to him. It would be discourteous to a guest to make this known, however, and I begged that no hint of the suspicion come to his attention.

“I would not have him return to his native country speaking ill of us for all the world,” I said. “Which is why I think it a good idea if you persuade him to attend the dissection. For you can have him stand alone near the body and touch it, and see whether it accuses him.”

“I have no reason to believe that is an accurate test of such matters,’’ he said.

“Nor I. But it is a recommended procedure in such matters, and has been employed for generations. Many of the finest lawyers admit it as a useful part of examination. Should some prodigious eruption of blood occur from the corpse when Cola approaches it, then we will know of it. If not, then his name is half-cleansed of stain already. But do not let him know he has been tested in such a fashion.”

10

It is not my intention to repeat what others have said, nor to retell stories which I did not myself witness. Everything I say comes from my direct encounter, or from the testimony of men of unimpeachable character. As Cola was unaware of the suspicion in which he was already held, he had no reason to distort his account of that evening when he, Lower and Locke cut up Dr. Grove in Warden Woodward’s kitchen. For that reason, I understand the account he gives of it is largely truthful.

Lower reported to me that he had arranged for Cola to stand alone by the naked corpse before any incision had been made into the flesh, and seen well that the soul of Grove had not called out for vengeance, nor accused his murderer of the deed. Whether this means such examinations are in fact of no merit, or whether proper prayers must be offered, or whether (as some say) the test must take place on consecrated ground to work, I do not presume to speculate. For a while at least, Lower had the suspicions of the man he thought his friend lifted from his shoulders, and I had the leisure to pursue my thoughts and conduct my first examination of the Blundy girl.

I summoned her to my room the following afternoon on the pretext of wishing to interview her for a post in my household, for the builders, wretched idlers though they were, were at last coming to the end of their labors and there was every prospect I might once again have a home to call my own. Having risen in state somewhat in the previous year, I had decided that I would have four servants, not three as before, and give in to my wife’s ceaseless importuning by giving her a girl of her own. The prospect filled me with sadness, for I was having at the same time to consider finding a replacement for Matthew, and the weight of his loss bore the more heavily on me by contemplating the dirty, illiterate, stupid wretches who presented themselves, and who were no more fit to clean his shoes than to fill them.

Not that I would ever have considered Sarah Blundy for any post, although in all matters of outward show I could have done a great deal worse. I am not one of those men who might allow a good Christian wife to have some French strumpet to comb her hair. A sober, hard-working girl of sense and piety is required instead, clean in her habits and unslovenly of behavior. Such girls are hard to find and, with different antecedents and beliefs, Sarah Blundy would have been in all respects admirable.

I had not encountered her directly before, and I noted with interest the dignified subservience of her entry, the modesty of her address and the sense of her words. Even Cola, I recall, comments on these very same qualities. But the impertinence that he also detected was not hidden for long, for the moment I told her frankly that I had no intention of giving her a position, she raised her jaw and her eyes flashed with defiance.

“You have wasted my time in summoning me here, then,” she said.

“Your time is there to be wasted, if that is what I choose to do with it. I will have no insolence from you. You will answer my questions, or face serious trouble. I know well who you are, and where you are from.”

Her life, I must say here, was no concern of mine. Had she foisted herself off on some unsuspecting man, who was ignorant of what she was, her good fortune would not have grieved me greatly. But I knew no man would willingly take her if her past was known, for to do so would expose him to public contempt. Through this, I could force her to comply.

“You have, I believe, recently acquired the services of an Italian physician for your mother. A man of great standing and high dignity in his profession. Might I ask by what means you pay for this?”

She flushed and hung her head at the accusation.

“Remarkable, is it not, that such generosity should be offered? Few English physicians, I am sure, would be so carefree of their time and skills.”

“Mr. Cola is a good, kind gentleman,” she said. “Who does not think of payment.”

“I’m sure not.”

“It is true,” she said, with more spirit. “I told him frankly I could not pay him.”

“Not in money, anyway. And yet he labors on your mother’s behalf.”

“I think of him only as a good Christian.”

“He is a papist.”

“Good Christians can be found everywhere. I know many in the Church of England, sir, more cruel and ungenerous than he.”

“Mind your tongue. I do not want your opinions. What is his interest in you? And your mother?”

“I know of none. He wishes to make my mother better. I care to know no more than that. Yesterday he and Dr. Lower conducted a strange and wonderful treatment, which cost them great trouble.”

“And has it worked?”

“My mother is still alive, praise be, and I pray she will improve.”

“Amen. But to return to my question, and this time do not try to evade. To whom have you delivered messages on his behalf? I know your connections with the garrison at Abing-don, and with the conventicles. To whom have you gone? With messages? Letters? Someone must take his communications, for he sends none in the post.”

She shook her head. “No one.”

“Do not make me angry.”

“I do not wish to. I am telling you the truth.”

“You deny you went to Abingdon…”—I consulted my notebook—“last Wednesday, the Friday before that, the Monday before that? That you walked to Burford and stayed there the Tuesday? That you have met Tidmarsh as part of his conventicle even in this town?”

She did not reply; and I could see my knowledge of her was a shock.

“What were you doing? What messages were you delivering? Who did you see?”

“No one.”

“Two weeks ago, an Irishman called Greatorex also visited you. What did he want?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“I do not take you for anything.”

I hit her for that for, though a tolerant man, I will not accept more than a certain degree of insolence. Once she had wiped the blood from her mouth, she seemed more subdued; but still she gave me nothing.

“I have delivered no messages for Mr. Cola. He has said little to me, and less to my mother,” she whispered. “He talked to her a great deal on one occasion; that was when he sent me to buy him drugs from the apothecary. I do not know what they said.”

“You must find out.”

“Why should I so?”

“Because I tell you.” I paused, and realized that appealing to her better nature was fruitless, so took some coins from my desk, and placed them before her. She looked at them with astonishment and disdain, then pushed them back.

“I have told you. There is nothing.” But her voice was weak, and her head bowed as she spoke.

“Go away now, and think well on what you say. I know you are lying to me. I will give you one further chance to tell me the truth about this man. Otherwise you will regret your silence. And let me give you a warning. Mr. Cola is a dangerous man. He has killed on many occasions in the past, and will do so again.”

Without further words she left. She did not take the money still in front of her, but gave me a look of burning hatred before she turned away. She was cowed, I knew that. Even so, I was not sure it was enough.

Thinking about my deeds once more, I can see already that an ignorant would consider me harsh. I can hear the protests already. The necessary courtesies between high and low, and so on. To all of which I agree without reservation; gentlemen are indeed under an obligation to give a daily demonstration that the positions in which God established us all are just and good. As with children, they should be chided with love, corrected with kindness, chastised with a firm regret.

The Blundys, however, were very different. There was no point in treating them with kindness when they had already thrown off any acknowledgment of their superiors. Both husband and wife had scorned the links which bind each to all, and accompanied this revolt against God’s manifest will with quotations from the Bible itself. All these Diggers and Levellers and Anabaptists thought they were shedding their chains with God’s blessing; they were instead severing the silken cords which kept men in harmony, and would have replaced them by shackles of thickest iron. In their stupidity they did not see what they were doing. I would have treated Sarah Blundy, and anyone, with kindness and respect. If it had been deserved, if it had been reciprocated, if it had not been dangerous so to do.

My frustrations at this stage were gigantic; when talking to Prestcott, I had the whole affair in the palm of my hand, but it had slipped away from me through my own foolishness. I admit also that I was anxious to preserve my own life as well, and was fearful that another attack would be launched against me. It was for this reason that I took the step of informing the magistrate that, in my opinion, Dr. Robert Grove had been murdered.

He was aghast at the news, and perturbed at the implications of what I told him.

“The warden has no suspicions of foul play, and would not thank me for telling you of mine,” I continued. “Nonetheless, it is my duty to inform you that in my opinion there is sufficient reason for suspicion. And it is therefore imperative that the body be not buried.”

Of course, it mattered not to me what happened to the body; the confrontation with Cola had already taken place and yielded no useful result. I was more concerned that Cola know his deed was being uncovered, bit by bit, and that he felt my opposition to his aims. With luck, I thought he might communicate with his masters to tell them of all that had transpired.

For a brief while I was on the verge of having the man arrested. I changed my mind because of Mr. Thurloe, who traveled into Oxford to see me shortly after. Cola has described the way he approached me at the play in his memoir and I have no intention of repeating it. The shock he noted on my face was well seen—I was astonished, not only because I had not seen Thurloe for near three years, but because I hardly recognized him.

How changed he was from his days of greatness! It was like meeting a total stranger who yet reminds you of a person once known. In appearance there was little obvious alteration, for he was the sort of man who looks old when young, and young when old. But his demeanor bore no trace of that power which he had held so firmly in his hands. While many had bitterly resented the loss of authority, Thurloe seemed like one glad to be rid of the burden, and content in his reduction to insignificance. The set of his head, his face and the expression of deep concern had passed from him so totally that, these small details altered, the whole had changed almost beyond recognition. When he approached me, I paused awhile before making my greeting; he smiled back quietly, as if seeing my confusion, and acknowledging the cause of it.

I do believe he had so firmly placed that period of his life behind him that, even had it been offered, he would have declined to take on any public office. He later told me that he spent his days in prayer and meditation, and counted that as of more worth than all his efforts for his country. He was largely unconcerned with the society of his fellow men and, as he made clear, did not like to be disturbed by those who sought to recall what was now irretrievably past.

“I bring a message from your friend Mr. Prestcott,” he murmured in my ear. “Perhaps we might talk?”

Once the play was over I went straight home (I had moved back to my domestic comforts that afternoon) and awaited him. He was not long in coming and sat down with all the calm imperturbability that was his normal mode of conduct.

“I understand your taste for power and influence has not been slaked, Dr. Wallis,” he said. “Which does not surprise me in the slightest. I hear you have been questioning this young man, and have enough influence to have him pardoned if you so desire. You are attached to Mr. Bennet now, I believe?”

I nodded.

“What is your interest in Prestcott, and this Italian gentleman you ask him about?” he asked.

Even the shadow of Thurloe’s authority still blinded more than full exposure to the powers of a man like Mr. Bennet, and I say that it never occurred to me not to answer him, nor to point out that he had no right whatsoever to question me.

“I am certain that there is a plot which might return this country to civil war.”

“Of course there is,” Thurloe said, in that calm way with which he greeted all matters, however serious. “When at any stage in the past few years has there not been? What is new about this one?”

“What is new is that I believe it to be organized by the Spanish.”

“And what is it to be this time? Massed attack by Fifth Monarchists? A sudden cannonade by rebellious guardsmen?”

“One man. The Venetian gentleman who now passes as a philosopher. He has already killed twice, my servant and Dr. Grove. And he stole letters from me which are of the greatest importance.”

“This is the physician you asked Prestcott about?”

“He is no physician. He is a soldier, a known killer, and is here to murder the Earl of Clarendon.”

Thurloe grunted. For the first time in my life, I saw him surprised.

“You would be best to kill him first, then.”

“Then his paymasters will try again, and swiftly. At least this time I know who he is. Next time I might not be so lucky. I must use this opportunity to uncover the English end of the conspiracy and stop it once and for all.”

Thurloe stood up, took the heavy poker from the hearth and rearranged the logs on the fire so that he sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. He did this for some time; it was always a habit of his to occupy himself with some trivial physical task while he thought.

Eventually he turned to me once more. “If I were you, I should kill him,” he repeated. “If this man is dead, then the plot is at an end. It may be revived, but it may not. If he slips away from you, then you will have blood on your hands.”

“And if I am wrong?”

“Then an Italian traveler dies, ambushed on a road by highwaymen. A great tragedy, no doubt. But all except his family will forget it within weeks.”

“I cannot believe you would take your own advice in these circumstances.”

“You must. When I looked out for Oliver, I always moved immediately when I heard of a plot against his person. Risings, conspiracies, all those minor matters, they could be left to run a little, because they could always be defeated. Assassination is different. One mistake and you are ruined forever. Believe me, Dr. Wallis—do not overreach yourself with subtlety. You are dealing here with men, not geometry; they are less predictable, and more given to causing surprise.”

“I would agree wholeheartedly with you,” I said, “were it not for the fact that I have no man I could rely on to do this, and a botched attempt would only make him more cautious. And for suitable help I would have to inform Mr. Ben-net more thoroughly. I have told him a little, but very far from all.”

“Ah, yes,” Thurloe replied thoughtfully. “That ambitious and pompous gentleman. You consider him less than safe?”

I reluctantly nodded—I still did not know how Cola had found out so quickly about Matthew; it was certainly possible, though dreadful to contemplate, that Bennet himself might have passed on that information and might also be involved in the plot against Clarendon.

Thurloe leaned back in his chair and considered, sitting so long and quietly that I was half afraid he had fallen asleep in the heat of the fire, that perhaps his mind was no longer what it was, and that he could no longer occupy himself with such matters.

But I was wrong; eventually he opened his eyes and nodded to himself. “I would doubt his involvement, if that is what concerns you,” he said.

“Is there something you know that makes you conclude this?”

“No; I know less of the man than you do. I proceed from character, no more. Mr. Bennet is an able man; very able indeed. Everyone knows it, and the king is more aware than most. For all his faults, this is not a prince who surrounds himself with fools; he is not like his father. Mr. Bennet will dominate the government when Clarendon goes, as soon he must. He has power within his grasp; all he has to do is wait for the fruits of office to fall in profusion into his lap. Now, is it likely that a man such as this would suddenly indulge himself in these grandly extravagant actions, which can in no way improve his prospects? Risk all on the throw of dice when patience will soon bring all he wants? That is not his way, I think.”

“I am glad you think so.”

“But there must be a sponsor in England, this is certainly true. Do you know who this is?”

I shrugged helplessly. “It could be any one of many dozen people. Clarendon has enemies without end, for good reasons and bad. You know that as well as I do. He has been attacked in print and in person, in the House of Commons and in the House of Lords, through his family and his friends. It was only a matter of time, I think, before someone attacked his body. That moment may be soon.”

“A rash man, it must be,” Thurloe observed, “to act in such desperation, as however good a soldier your Venetian is, the chance of him missing and being captured must always be there. It may be, of course, that he is being held in reserve, that he will be called into action only if other attempts to ruin Lord Clarendon fail.”

“Such as?” I asked, feeling that once again, Thurloe was teaching me as he had an entire generation of servants of the state. “How do you know all this, sir?”

“I keep my ears open, and I listen,” Thurloe replied with quiet amusement. “A course I recommend to you, doctor.”

“And you have heard of another plot?”

“Maybe so. It seems that enemies of Clarendon are trying to weaken him by associating him with treason. In particular, the treason of John Mordaunt in betraying to me the rising of 1659. In this matter they seek to employ the good offices of Jack Prestcott, the son of the man who took the blame for that regrettable event.”

“Mordaunt?” I asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, perfectly serious, thank you. Shortly before Cromwell died,’’ he continued, “I myself attended a meeting alone with him where he mapped out his own death, which he knew could not be greatly delayed. He could barely walk, so much had his final illness gripped him, and so severe were the treatments meted out to him by his physicians. He knew as well as any he had but a little time remaining, and he regarded the prospect unflinchingly, wanting only to ensure that his affairs on earth were settled before the Lord took him.

“He instructed me how to proceed, confident that his orders would be obeyed, even though he was no longer here to enforce them. His protectorate would pass temporarily to his son Richard, he said, and that would buy the time necessary to conclude negotiations with Charles about how best to effect a restoration of the monarchy. The king was to be allowed back only if he was shackled with so many chains limiting his deeds that he would never act as his father had.

“Naturally, the whole affair was to be kept the closest guarded secret; no meeting was to be noted, no letters, and not a word should be spoken outside the small circle on both sides privy to the talks.

“I did as I was told because he was right—only Cromwell kept civil war at bay, and when he went it would resume unless the breach in the nation was healed. And the English are a monarchical people, who love subjection more than freedom. It was desperately difficult, as if the fanatics on either side knew of it, then we would all be cast aside. Even so, they carne close to taking power again, and I was thrown out of office for a while. Even then, though, I kept the talks going, with John Mordaunt representing His Majesty. One of the conditions, of course, was that all plans and plots for risings should stop—and if the Royalists themselves could not stop them we were to be given enough information so we might do so. Accordingly, Mordaunt gave us full details of the 1659 rising, which was put down with considerable loss of life.

“Many more would have died had war resumed properly, but that would not save Mordaunt if the details of this transaction were known. The trouble is that this young man Prest-cott is trying to prove his father innocent, and must inevitably prove Mordaunt guilty if he is to succeed, for he has been told enough to know who was really responsible. Then it would be assumed that Clarendon gave Mordaunt his orders.”

“Did he?”

Thurloe smiled. “No. The king gave them himself. But Clarendon would accept the blame to save His Majesty from criticism. He is a good servant, and better than this king deserves.”

“Prestcott knows of all this?”

“Not exactly. He is convinced that Mordaunt was a traitor, acting on his own behalf. I have encouraged him in his belief that Samuel Morland was in league with him.”

“This gets ever more bizarre,” I commented. “Why did you do that?”

“For the obvious reason that otherwise he would have acted on his belief in my responsibility and slit my throat. You might, incidentally, do me the service of seeing Samuel next time you are in London and warning him that this young man has decided to kill him.”

“And you say someone has been helping Prestcott?”

“I believe so,” Thurloe replied.

“Who?”

“He is too cunning to say unless the price is right.”

“His testimony is worthless in any case,” I said, furious that the little wretch dared bargain with me, and on such a matter.

“In a court? Of course it is. But you understand politics better than that, doctor.”

“What does he want?”

“Proof of his father’s innocence.”

“I do not have it.”

Thurloe smiled.

I grunted. “I suppose there is no reason why I should not promise him anything he wants. Once I have his testimony, of course…”

Thurloe wagged his finger at me. “Indeed. But do not take him for a fool, sir. He has some wit, even though I doubt his sanity. He is not a trusting man, and wants an indication of your good will first. You do something for him, he will reciprocate. He does not trust anyone.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants charges against him abandoned.”

“I doubt I could accomplish that. My relations with the magistrate are not such that he will readily do me any favor.”

“You do not need one. Mr. Prestcott is willing to provide damning evidence that some woman called Blundy murdered this man Grove. I am not certain how he came by it, especially as you tell me fhis Italian was responsible. But we must use such opportunities as we are given. It should be possible to persuade the magistrate that a certain conviction in a murder case is better than a possible conviction in one of assault. Her trial means his freedom, and cooperation.”

I stared at him uncomprehending, before realizing he was perfectly serious. “You want me to connive in judicial murder? I am not an assassin, Mr. Thurloe.”

“You do not need to be. All you have to do is talk to the magistrate, then keep your silence.”

“You never did such a wicked thing,” I said.

“Believe me, I did. And gladly. It is the servant’s duty to take sin onto his own shoulder so that his prince may remain safe. Ask Lord Clarendon. It is to safeguard good order.”

“That is, no doubt, how Pontius Pilate consoled himself.”

He inclined his head. “No doubt he did. But I think the circumstances are different. It is not, in any case, as if you do not have an alternative. This woman does not have to die. But you would not then find out who is sponsoring the Italian. Nor would you have that much chance of bringing him to trial. But I sense you want more than this.”

“I want Cola dead, and I want those who brought him here destroyed.”

Thurloe’s eyes narrowed as I said this, and I knew that the intensity of my reply, the hatred in my voice had let him see too much. “It is unwise,” he said, “in matters such as this, to be swayed by sentiment. Or by a desire for revenge. By grasping too much, you may lose everything.” He stood up. “And now I must leave you. I have delivered my message, and given my advice. I am sorry that you find it so hard, although I understand your reluctance. If I could persuade Mr. Prestcott to be more reasonable, then I would certainly do so. But he has the pig-headedness of youth, and will not be swayed. You, if I may say so, have some of the same qualities.”

11

I prayed for guidance that night, but no word of help or comfort came to me; I was entirely deserted and abandoned to my own indecision. I was not so blind as to forget that Thurloe undoubtedly had his own reasons for intervening, but I did not know what these might be. Certainly, he would not avoid deceiving me if he felt it necessary. He had few powers left, and I fully expected him to use those that remained.

At the very least, I felt I should keep open all possible courses, and a few days later I spoke to the magistrate who immediately placed Sarah Blundy under arrest. As she had already been questioned it was natural that she would be afraid and I did not wish anything to be rendered impossible by her precipitate flight. Had she run, she knew more than enough people to give her refuge, and I would have had little chance of ever finding her again.

By that stage Cola had gone on his medical tour with Lower. I was furious when I heard of this and immediately feared that his expedition might be the culminating point of his conspiracy, but Mr. Boyle reassured me when he informed me in a letter from London that the Lord Chancellor did not intend to leave for his country estate for another few weeks. My nightmare of an imminent ambush on the London road, the coaches ravaged and all blamed on old soldiers turned highwaymen, ebbed away from me, as I realized that Cola must bemerely filling in idle time as he waited. Perhaps, indeed, Thurloe was right, and Cola was in England only for employment if a more peaceable attempt to unseat Clarendon failed.

Moreover, I was glad of the breathing space the knowledge gave me, for I had momentous decisions to make and was about to embark on a course which would either bring me to ruin, or would pull down one of the great men in the land—this is not something anyone does with a light heart.

So in that peaceful week in which Cola traveled the countryside (I understand that his account is again accurate in some details, for Lower told me that he labored with diligence among his patients) I considered all the possibilities which lay before me, went over all the evidence indicating my conclusions about the dangers this man Cola posed were correct. And I could see no fault in them, and defy anyone else to doubt them either—no innocent ever acted in such a guilty fashion. Apart from that, I renewed my assault on Sarah Blundy, for I thought that if I could persuade her to say what interest Cola had in her family, then I might spare myself from the humiliation of having to give in to the wishes of a half-crazed adolescent like Jack Prestcott.

She was brought to me in a small room normally occupied by the castle warden. Incarceration had done little for her appearance and, as I swiftly discovered, had in no way eroded her insolence.

“I trust you have meditated on the matters we talked of before. I am in a position to help you, if you will only allow me to do so.”

“I did not kill Dr. Grove.”

“I know that. But many people think you did, and you will die unless I help you.”

“If you know I am innocent, then surely you must help me anyway? You are a man of God.”

“Perhaps that is true. But you are a loyal subject of His Majesty, yet you refused to help me when I asked you for only the slightest assistance.”

“I did not refuse. I knew nothing that you wanted to hear.”

“For someone who may shortly be hanged you seem remarkably reluctant to avert that terrible fate.”

“If it is God’s will that I should die, then I will do so willingly. If it is not, then I shall be spared.”

“God expects us to labor on our own behalf. Listen, girl. What I ask is not so dreadful. You have become involved, no doubt innocently, in the most fiendish scheme imaginable. If you assist me you will not only go free, you will be rewarded well.”

“What scheme?”

“I certainly do not intend to tell you.”

She fell silent.

“You said,” I prompted, “that your benefactor, Mr. Cola, talked on occasion with your mother. What did they talk about? What did he ask? You said you would find out.”

“She is too sick to be asked. All she has told me is that Mr. Cola always showed her the greatest courtesy, and listened with great patience whenever she felt like talking. He said little himself.”

I shook my head in exasperation. “Listen, you stupid girl,” I all but shouted at her. “This man is here to commit a horrendous crime. The first thing he did when he got here was contact you. If you are not helping him, what was the purpose of that?”

“I do not know. All I know is that my mother is sick, and he has helped her. No one else offered, and without his generosity she would be dead. More than that I do not know, or care to know.”

She looked at me straight in the eyes as she continued. “You say he is a criminal. No doubt you have good reason for that. But I have never seen or heard him behave in any way except with the utmost civility, more, perhaps, than I properly deserve. Criminal or papist, that is how I judge him.”

I state here that I wished to save her, if I could, if she would only allow me to do so. With all my heart I willed her to break, and say everything she knew. With good fortune she would make Prestcott’s testimony unnecessary, and I could then refuse his bargain. I pressed again and again, far longer than I would have done with anyone else, but she would not give way.

“You were not in New College that evening, nor were you at home tending your mother. You were running errands for Cola. Tell me where you were and who you spoke to. Tell me what other errands you have run for him in Abing-don and Bicester and Burford. That you will counter the evidence against you, and win my help at one and the same time.”

She lifted her head to me, defiant once more.

“There is nothing I know that can help you in any way. I do not know why Mr. Cola is here; if he was not motivated by Christian charity I do not know why he is helping my mother.”

“You have been carrying messages for him.”

“I have not.”

“You were carrying one for him on the night Grove died.”

“I was not.”

“Where were you then? I have established you were not tending your mother as your duty required.”

“I will not tell you. But as God is my witness, I have done nothing ill.”

“God is not testifying at your trial,” I said, and sent her back to her cell. I was in a black humor. I knew at that moment that I would trade with Prestcott. May the Lord forgive me, I had given the girl every opportunity of saving herself, but she threw her own life away.

The next day I received an urgent letter from Mr. Thurloe. I quote it here as direct testimony to events I did not myself witness.

John Thurloe came to see me that same afternoon. “I do not know whether to offer congratulations or not, doctor. You have done a terrible right thing. More important than you know, even.”

“I think I know the significance of my deeds,” I said. “And their cost.”

“I think not.”

Then, with that implacable coolness I knew so well, Thur-loe told me the greatest secret of the realm, and for the first time I understood plainly how he and people like Samuel Morland had enjoyed such immunity from any sanction since His Majesty’s restoration. And I also learned the true nature of Sir James Prestcott’s treachery, a betrayal so dangerous it had to be disguised in a lesser treason that it might never be known.

“I had a man in my office, a soldier,” Thurloe said, “who served as a particularly reliable emissary on all sorts of matters. If I wanted a particularly dangerous letter delivered, or prisoner kept safe, then this man could always be relied upon. He was perfectly fanatical in his hatred of monarchy and held a republic to be an essential beginning for God’s kingdom on earth. He wanted a parliament elected by vote, including the vote of women and the propertyless, a distribution of land, and perfect toleration of all worship. He was, in addition, highly intelligent, quick-witted and able, if a little too thoughtful for perfection. But I considered him totally loyal to the Commonwealth because all possible alternatives he thought so very much worse.

“Unfortunately I was wrong in my assessment. He was a Lincolnshire man, and years before had formed an attachment to a local landowner who had defended the people of that place from the depredations of the drainers. At a moment of crisis, this loyalty came back to haunt him and overwhelmed all sense and reason. I must say we knew nothing of this until we found the letter Samuel asked you to decipher on his body.”

“What is this to do with anything, sir? Please do not tell me riddles, I have enough of my own.”

“That landowner, of course, was Sir James Prestcott, and the soldier was Ned Blundy, the husband of Anne, and the father of the woman who died two days ago.”

I stared at him in the greatest surprise.

“On my last visit, I told you of the way John Mordaunt informed me of the 1659 rising. Another, smaller plot which he also told me about was a local piece of troublemaking planned for Lincolnshire by Sir James Prestcott. It was not serious, but General Ludlow was going to send off a regiment to deal with the problem before it could cause any trouble. Ned Blundy knew of it, as he was asked to deliver dispatches on the matter, and out of this fenland loyalty of his, passed on a warning which saved Prestcott’s life, which would otherwise have most certainly been forfeit.

“The association, once renewed, led to the divulgence of more and more secrets, for both were fanatics and found common cause in hating those who wanted peace. Blundy applied himself to learning all the secrets of the talks about a restoration, which he could do more easily than was proper, for men are never as discreet or careful as they should be. Through him Prestcott learned of them as well. He knew which members of the king’s party had been deliberately handed over to the government, which plots had been betrayed in advance so they could do no harm.

“And he became a very angry man, intent on revenge. When he heard that the king himself was coming to England in secret for final talks with me, he could contain himself no longer. He went down to Deal that same February in 1660, when the king was due to arrive, and lay in wait. I do not know how long he was there, but one morning after the talks had been going on, the king went for a walk in the gardens of the house we were using; Sir James came out at him, and tried to kill him with his sword.”

I knew nothing of any of these talks, and certainly nothing of any assassination attempt, so well had the matter been hidden by all concerned, and I was astonished both to learn of it and that Thurloe was telling me now.

“Why did it not succeed?”

“It very nearly did. The king received a cut in the arm, which shocked him mightily, and would certainly have died had not another hurled himself in front of him and taken the final, fatal blow in his own heart.”

“A brave and good man,” I said.

“Perhaps. Certainly a most unusual one, for it was Ned Blundy who sacrificed himself in this fashion, and died for a man he detested, and permitted the restoration of that monarchy he had spent his life opposing.”

I stared at him blankly at this extraordinary tale. Thurloe smiled when he saw my incomprehension, and shrugged.

“An honorable man, who believed injustice and saw none in murder, perhaps. I am certain Sir James had not consulted him in any way over what he intended. I can give no greater explanation to you of his motives and think none is probably needed—Blundy was a good soldier and loyal comrade, but I never once heard of him killing unnecessarily or acting with any cruelty to his enemies. I am sure he was happy to save Prestcott’s life, but not to assist Prestcott in killing another, even if it was a king.”

“And Sir James? Why did you not kill him? It seems to be your preferred solution in such cases.”

“He was not an easy man to kill. The meeting took place with the very minimum of people, and almost no guards sc pursuit was impossible—we relied on secrecy rather than force for safety. So Sir James escaped with few difficulties after the attack and daily we expected to hear that he had put his knowledge into circulation. On both sides we hunted furiously but to no avail. We could not say what he had done, as that would have involved revealing the depths of our talks, and so our only hope was to discredit him in advance so that if he did speak out, no one would believe him. Samuel did his usual competent job forging letters, and there were enough people amongst the king’s men who could be bribed to accept the situation without too much enquiry. Prestcott fled abroad, and died. It is ironic; he was the worst of traitors to his king, but was entirely innocent of the crimes of which he was accused.”

“Your problem at least was at an end.”

“No. It was not. He would not have acted in such a desperate way on Ned Blundy’s word alone. He insisted on seeing evidence, and Ned provided it.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“Letters, memoranda, dockets, dates of meetings and the names of people at them. A great deal of material.”

“And he did not use it?”

Thurloe smiled sadly. “Indeed not. I was forced to conelude that he did not have it; that Ned Blundy had kept it together with the key to the ciphers which hid their meanings.”

“And this was the man Samuel mentioned?”

“Yes. Shortly before his death, Blundy visited his family for the last time. It was reasonable to conclude he must have left it with them; on such a matter he could rely on no one else, not even the oldest comrade in arms. I had their house searched on several occasions, but discovered nothing. But I am certain that either the girl or her mother knew where it was, and that they were the only ones to know. Blundy was too sensible to trust others with such a secret.”

“And they are dead. They can’t tell you where it is now.”

“Precisely. Nor can they tell Jack Prestcott.” Thurloe smiled. “Which is the greatest relief of all. Because if he had that material, then he could have asked for an earldom and half a county, and the king would have given it to him. And Clarendon would have fallen without a murmur.”

“And this is what you told Prestcott I would give him?”

“I said merely you would give him information. Which you can now do, since I have passed it on to you.”

“You know already what Prestcott’s information is?”

“No. But I must be strictly honest and say that I can guess what it is.”

“And you decided not to tell me, so I would have that girl killed.”

“That is correct. I would have preferred to have those documents of Blundy’s so I could destroy them. But as that seemed unlikely to come about, it was best no one else should have them either. They would damage the standing and safety of too many people, including myself.”

“You had me commit murder for your own ends,” I said flatly, appalled by the man’s ruthlessness.

“I told you power is not for the squeamish, doctor,” he said quietly. “And what have you lost? You want your revenge on Cola and his patrons, and Prestcott will let you have it.”

Then he signaled for Prestcott to be brought, and the youth came in, preening himself in satisfaction at his own skill. At least I was sure that would not last long. I had agreed to spare him from trial, but I knew the knowledge he would have from my lips would be a greater punishment. Nor was I in a mood to spare him anything.

He began with lengthy and hypocritical assertions of his great gratitude to me for my kindness and mercy; these I cut short brusquely. I knew what I had done, and I wanted no congratulations. It was necessary, but my hatred and contempt for the man who had forced me to it knew few bounds.

Thurloe, I believe, saw my impatience and anger, and intervened before I became too outraged.

“The question is, Mr. Prestcott, who has guided you to your conclusions? Who gave you the hints and suggestions which have led you to your conviction about Mordaunt’s guilt? You have told me much about your enquiries, but you have not told all, and I do not like to be deceived.”

He flushed at the accusation, and attempted to pretend he was not frightened of the threat implicit in Thurloe’s quiet, gentle voice. Thurloe, who could be more terrifying with less effort than any man I knew, sat out the bluster.

“I say again, you have not told something. By your own account, you had never heard of Sir Samuel Morland, yet found out much about him and his interests quite easily. You had no introduction to Lord Bedford’s steward, yet were received by him and found him free with all manner of information. How did you know to do this? Why would such a man have talked to you? This was the critical moment in your quest, was it not? Before that all was dark and obscure, after it everything was clear and lucid. Someone told you Mordaunt was a traitor, someone told you of his connection to Samuel Morland, and encouraged you in your quest. Before then, all was suspicion and half-formed idea.”

Prestcott still refused to answer, but hung his head like a schoolboy caught cheating in his work.

“I hope you are not going to tell us you made it all up. Dr. Wallis here has taken substantial risks on your behalf, and has entered into a bargain with you. That contract will be null and void unless you fulfill your side of it.”

Eventually he raised his head and stared at Thurloe, a strange and (I would have said) almost maniacal smile on his face. “I had it from a friend.”

“A friend. How kind of him. Would you care to share the name of this friend?”

I felt myself leaning forward in anticipation of his reply, for I was sure his next words would answer the question for which I had risked so much.

“Kitty,” he said, and I stared at him in total puzzlement. The name meant nothing to me at all.

“Kitty,” Thurloe repeated, as imperturbable as ever. “Kitty. And he is…?”

“She. She is, or was, a whore.”

“A very well-informed one, it seems.”

“She is now very well-placed in her trade. It is extraordinary, is it not, how fortune favors some people? When I first met her she was walking to Tunbridge to ply her trade. Six months later, she is comfortably installed as the mistress of one of the greatest men in the land.”

Thurloe smiled encouragingly in that bland way of his.

“She is a girl of great good sense,” Prestcott continued. “Before her rise, I was kind to her, and when I encountered her by chance in London she paid me back handsomely, by retelling gossip she had heard.”

“By chance?”

“Yes. I was walking around, and she saw me and approached me. She happened to be passing.”

“I’m sure she was. Now, this great man who keeps her. His name is… ?”

Prestcott drew himself more upright in the chair. “My Lord of Bristol,” he said. “But I beg you not to say I told you. I promised my discretion.”

I sighed heavily, not only because my case was advanced immeasurably, but also because Prestcott’s answer was so obviously true. Just as it was not in Mr. Bennet’s character to risk all on a throw, so it was very much in that of Bristol to chance all he had so recklessly. He thought of himself as the king’s greatest adviser, although in truth he had no office and little authority. His open Catholicism had debarred him from position, and in all matters he was bested by Clarendon on policy. It rankled, for he was undoubtedly a man of great courage and loyalty, who had been by the king’s side as long as any, and shared exile and poverty with him. He was a man of extraordinary qualities, and had as good an education as any man of that age, a graceful and beautiful person, with great eloquence in discourse. He was equal to a good part in any affair, but was the unfittest man alive to conduct it, for, great though his qualities were, his vanity and ambition far exceeded them, and he had a confidence in his capacities which often intoxicated, transported and exposed him. He espoused policies of the smallest prudence and the greatest hazard, but did so with such sweet reason that they seemed the only course to take. It would not be difficult to persuade others that he had attempted Clarendon’s murder, for he was perfectly capable of inventing such a foolishness.

“You may rest assured that we will not betray your trust,” Thurloe said. “I must thank you, young man. You have been very helpful.”

Prestcott looked puzzled. “And that is it? You want no more of me?”

“Later maybe. But not at the moment.”

“In that case,” he said, turning to me, “you will favor me with one further piece of information as well. The evidence of Mordaunt’s guilt which Mr. Thurloe tells me undoubtedly exists. Where is it to be found? Who has it?”

Even in my mood of blackness, I felt the ability to pity him then. He was stupid and deluded, cruel and credulous by turns, violent in deed and soul, full of bile and superstition, a monster of perversion. But his one genuine feeling was the reverential love he had for his father, and his faith in his honesty was so direct it had carried him through all his journeys and troubles. That goodness had been so corrupted by rancor it was hard to see the virtuous kernel within, and yet it was there. I took no pleasure in extinguishing it, nor in telling him that his cruelty made him the author of his own, ultimate misfortune.

“There was only one person who knew where it was.”

“And the name, sir? I will go there directly.” He leaned forward eagerly, a look of unsuspecting anticipation on his youthful countenance.

“Her name is Sarah Blundy. The person you insisted must die. You have stopped her mouth for good, and that proof will now remain hidden forever, for she must have hidden it well. You will now never prove your father’s innocence, nor get your estates back. You name will be forever tarnished with the title of traitor. It is a just punishment for your sins. You must live knowing you are the author of your own misfortunes.”

He sat back again with a knowing smile, “You are making fun of me, sir. It is your way, perhaps, but I must ask you to be more direct with me. Tell me the truth, please.”

I told him again. Adding more details, then still more details until the smirk faded from his face, and his hands began to tremble. I say again, I took no pleasure in it, and though it was just, I took no satisfaction either in the hideous additional punishment that was then meted out to him. For as I told him precisely how his father had betrayed the king, and come close even to murdering him, his voice fell into a growl, and the hideous demonic look that came over his twisted and contorted features frightened even Thurloe, I believe.

It was well that he had not lost his old habits of caution, and had a servant in the background, ready for all eventualities. As I finished, Prestcott launched himself at my throat, and would surely have torn the very life from me had he been granted just a few more seconds before being manhandled to the ground.

As a priest, I necessarily believe in the possession of men by demons, but I think that I had always used the notion in careless, thoughtless ways. I could not have been more wrong, and those skeptics who disbelieve in such things are deluded by their own vanity. There are indeed demons, and they can take over the bodies and souls of men and drive them to frenzies of malice and destruction. Prestcott was all the proof I could ever need to persuade me to put aside skepticism forever, for no human form would be capable of the violent bestiality I saw in that room. The monstrous devil in Prestcott, I believe, had controlled his thoughts and deeds for many months, but in such careful, subtle ways that its presence was unsuspected.

Now it was finally frustrated, its fury and violent activity burst out in hideous extremity, making him roll on the floor, scratching the boards with his fingernails until the blood spurted from them and was dragged in thin red lines down the grain of the wood. It took a great effort to restrain him, and even we were unable to stop him crashing his head, time and again against the furniture, and trying to bite us whenever we incautiously put a hand near him. And he screamed hideous obscenities all the while, although fortunately most of the words could not be made out, and continued thrashing around until he was bound and gagged and taken to the university prison, there to wait the arrival of some member of his family to take him in charge.

12

I would have left for London immediately even had I not been told, by Mr. Wood of all people, that Cola had fled Oxford after hearing of Sarah Blundy’s death. Both she and the mother were now dead, and I felt that, at the very least, some of his plans were frustrated; his ability to communicate with those supposedly assisting him was greatly diminished, enough to make any further sojourn in Oxford useless to him. More importantly, I considered he must have heard of Prestcott’s descent into frenzy—if Thurloe was right, and the first attempt on Clarendon was to be through the young lunatic, then he would have realized that the move had failed, and it was now time for him to act. This thought, more than any other, prompted me to leave as speedily as possible.

The journey was as tedious as ever, and I lurched along, conscious that my quarry was but a few hours ahead of me. But no one at Charing Cross recalled someone answering his description when I arrived and asked questions. So I went directly to Whitehall, where Mr. Bennet was most likely to be found, and sent in a message begging the favor of an interview with the utmost urgency.

He saw me within an hour; I resented the delay, but had prepared myself for an even greater one.

“I hope this is indeed important, doctor,” he said as I entered his chamber which, I was relieved to see, was empty save for himself. “It is unlike you to cause such a commotion.”

“I believe it is, sir.”

“So tell me what is on your mind now? Still concerned with plots?”

“Indeed. Before I explain, I must ask a question of the greatest importance. When I informed you of my suspicions a few weeks ago, did you communicate this to anyone? Anyone at all?”

He shrugged, and frowned at the implied criticism. “I may have done.”

“It is important. I would not ask otherwise. Less than two days after I spoke to you, Cola murdered my most trusted servant, whose name I gave you. He then came to Oxford and attempted to kill me also. He knew I had a copy of a letter of his, and he stole it, along with another I have kept by me for years. I have since become convinced that the man who has organized his presence here is Lord Bristol. What I must know is whether you informed his lordship of my suspicions.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing for a long while, and I could see that his acute and rapid mind was assessing every aspect of what I said, and every implication of my words as well.

“I hope you do not suggest…”

“Had I done so, I would hardly have raised the subject with you. But your loyalty to your friends is well known, and you would not expect any man so indebted to the king to act against his interest. And I believe Cola’s target is not the king, but the Lord Chancellor.”

This surprised him, and I could see that all now began to make sense to his mind in a way it had not before. “The answer to your question is that I believe I did mention it to Lord Bristol, or at least to one of his entourage.”

“And his relations with Lord Clarendon are as bad as ever?”

“They are. But not so bad that I can easily consider he would act in such a way. He is given to mad schemes, but I have always considered him too weak to achieve much. Perhaps I underestimated him. You had best tell me exactly why you conclude this.”

I did so, and Mr. Bennet listened with the greatest gravity throughout, not even interrupting when I confessed to having been in consultation with John Thurloe. When I finished he again said nothing for a long while.

“Well, well,” he said at last. “A string to hang an earl. It is difficult to credit, and yet I must do so. The question is, how to deal with the situation.”

“Cola must be stopped, and Bristol punished.”

Mr. Bennet looked at me with contempt. “Yes, of course. It is easier said than done, however. Do you know what Cola’s plans are?”

“Not in detail.”

“How he communicates with Lord Bristol?”

“No.”

“Whether there be any letters or hard evidence that he has ever done so?”

“No.”

“And you expect me to do what? Charge his Lordship with high treason, perhaps? You forget, perhaps, that just as I am your patron, so he is mine. If I am to break with him then I must justify myself absolutely, or be accused of perfidy. If Lord Bristol falls, half the court falls with him, and there will be few restraints on Clarendon, and even fewer on the king. The economy of the entire government will be disrupted and crippled. I tell you, Dr. Wallis, I find it hard to credit that the man can risk so much.”

“He does. He must be stopped and you must take his place.”

Bennet looked at me.

“I do not flatter you, or tell you anything you do not feel in your own heart. Your value to His Majesty is well known. Your usefulness in balancing the interests of Lord Clarendon would be equally clear. Lord Bristol’s lack of moderation has prevented him from doing that. You can, and can do so the better if you are free of his foolishness. You have to break with him and pull him down yourself. If you do not, you can be certain that he will fall anyway, and you will go down with him.”

Still he stared at me, but I was emboldened to continue, for I knew that I was speaking to his soul. “You are bound to him as a man who has brought you up, and advanced you, and I know you have repaid that debt loyally and well. But you are not obliged to aid him in evil, and his attempt at such a thing dissolves all ties.”

Finally he reacted to my words, and rested his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk, the most informal posture I had ever seen him adopt. “Throw the dice, you think, doctor? And if Clarendon is killed anyway, and Bristol actually succeeds? What mercy for me and mine, then? Have you thought how long you would retain your position?”

“Not many weeks. But I doubt I would live long in any case, so the loss of office would be a minor problem for me.”

“I have long considered what my true degree should be at court. You no doubt think me ambitious, and so I am. But I am also a good servant to His Majesty, and whatever my own beliefs, I have always advised him for the best. I deserve the highest places in the land. Clarendon has always blocked me, as he blocks all who are younger and more agile than he. And you tell me that I have to abandon a man who has always been kind to me, and keep in power one who detests the very air I breathe?”

“I am not saying you should keep him in power. I am merely pointing out that you must not in any way associate yourself with his murder, and to stay silent is such an association.”

Mr. Bennet considered, then gave way, as I knew he would in due course.

“Do you plan to confront Lord Bristol, or inform Lord Clarendon?” I asked.

“The latter. I have no desire to level accusations. Others can do that. Come, Dr. Wallis. You must come as well.”

I had never before met the Lord Chancellor of England in person although I had, naturally, seen him on numerous occasions. His grotesque corpulence did not surprise me, although the ease with which we gained access to him did. He maintained little formality about his person; no doubt his years in exile, when he lived a hand-to-mouth existence and often even had to do without so much as a servant, had taught him the virtues of simplicity—although I noted that similar deprivation had imparted no such lesson to Mr. Bennet.

As Mr. Thurloe had said, he was a man of the utmost loyalty to his master the king, who had on numerous occasions treated his servant shabbily, and was, in future years, to treat him more shabbily still. Nonetheless, Clarendon stood resolutely by him, steering him away from such follies as he could. He worked tirelessly while in exile for His Majesty’s return, and strove mightily to keep him there once this great goal was accomplished. His great weakness was that which attends many older men, for he placed too great store on the wisdom of age. No doubt, deference is a virtue, but to expect it without question is great foolishness, and stirs up only resentment. Mr. Bennet was one whom he had needlessly antagonized, for in their common good sense they were natural allies. But Clarendon blocked Bennet’s friends on all occasions, and would rarely allow the spoils of office to go to anyone outside his own circle.

The antagonism between the two men was scarcely discernible, however. Mr. Bennet’s punctiliousness and Clarendon’s natural gravity meant that anyone less observant or less knowing than myself would have assumed that relations between the two were entirely cordial. But they were far from that, and I also knew that underneath the coolness of his manner, Mr. Bennet was certainly highly anxious of the outcome of this meeting.

When dealing with matters of true importance, Mr. Bennet was not a man to disguise his meaning with elaborate phrases or half-spoken implications. He introduced me as his servant and I bowed, then he announced curtly that I had a matter of the utmost importance to communicate. Clarendon’s eyes narrowed as he recalled who I was.

“I am surprised to see you in such company, doctor. You seem able to serve many masters.”

“I serve God and the government, sir,” I replied, “the former because it is my duty, the latter because 1 am asked to do so. Were my services not required and requested, I would happily live in pleasant obscurity.”

He ignored this reply, and walked heavily about the room in which we had found him. Mr. Bennet stood silently, a look of barely concealed disquiet on his face. He knew that his future rested entirely on how I conducted myself in the encounter.

“D’ye find me fat, sir?”

The question was obviously addressed to me. The Lord Chancellor of England came to rest in front of me, wheezing with the effort of taking a few steps, his hands resting on his hips as he spoke.

I looked him steadily in the eye. “Of course I do,” I said.

He grunted with satisfaction, then hobbled over to his seat and sat down, gesturing to us that we might do the same.

“Many men have looked me straight in the eye as you did, and sworn blind that the resemblance to Adonis was extraordinary,” he observed. “Such is the power of high office, it can even distort men’s sight, it seems. I throw such men out. Now, Mr. Bennet, tell me what it is that makes you overcome your detestation for me. And why you bring this gentleman with you.”

“I will allow Dr. Wallis to speak, if that is agreeable to you. He has all the information at his fingertips, and it will sound better from him.”

The chancellor turned to me and I, once more, recited my tale as briefly as possible. Again I must confess all my weaknesses, for this narration is of no use if I behave in an Italian manner and leave out what is not in my interest. I did not tell Lord Clarendon about Sarah Blundy.

I had lived with the facts for so long now that none of it even surprised me anymore; it was instructive to see how more ordinary men (if I may for a moment call the Lord Chancellor such) reacted to accusations I now took for granted. Clarendon’s face grew stony and pale as I laid out my investigations and conclusions, his jaw clenched hard in anger, and eventually he was unable even to look at the bearer of such news.

There was a long, a very long, silence when I finished. Mr. Bennet would not speak; the chancellor, it seemed, could not. For my part I considered my role over; I had done my task and reported my findings to those with the power to act. I was aware of the momentous thing I had done, and realized anew the tremendous power of words, which can tumble men from on high in an instant, and accomplish more in a few sentences than entire armies in a year’s campaign. For men are held above their fellows by the gossamer of reputation, which is so soft and fragile a breath can blow it away.

Eventually Clarendon spoke, and subjected me to the closest interrogation I have ever endured in my life; he was a lawyer, and like all lawyers loved nothing more than the chance to show off his skills in questioning. My interrogation went on for the better part of an hour, and I answered as best I could, calmly and without resentment. Again I will be open about the matter; for the most part my answers satisfied him; but his skill probed my case mercilessly and whatever weaknesses existed were soon laid out for him to inspect.

“So, Dr. Wallis, your belief in Mr. Cola’s military skills…”

“Comes from a trader who conveyed him to Venice from Italy,” I replied. “He had no reason to lie to me as he did not know of my interest in the man. He was not of any breeding, but I consider him a reliable witness nonetheless. He reported what he saw and heard, my conclusions are in no part based on his opinions.”

“And Cola’s links with radicals?”

“Well attested by my informants in the Low Countries, and by my own servant. He also formed a strong connection with a notorious family in Oxford.”

“With Sir William Compton?”

“He was seen by a reliable witness at Sir William’s house, and stayed there for many days. They discussed you on several occasions, the route you planned to take in a few weeks time, and expressed the hope you might be ambushed on the road.”

“With my Lord Bristol?”

“Sir William is of Lord Bristol’s interest, as I am sure you know…”

“So is Mr. Bennet here.”

“I told Mr. Bennet of my suspicions before I had any inkling of who Cola’s master was. He told Lord Bristol, and within twenty-four hours my servant was murdered by Cola. I was myself the target of an attack a few days later.”

“That is insufficient.”

“It is, but it is not all. Lord Bristol is known to favor a Spanish alliance, and Cola also has strong connections with the governor of the Netherlands; he is a known Catholic, and hence does not acknowledge the authority of the king, Parliament or the laws of this country. And it is not the first time he has attempted a foolish scheme. Moreover, his hand has guided a young man for many months in an attempt to attack you by destroying the reputation of Lord Mordaunt.”

Eventually I had no more. Clarendon would be convinced or not. It is a strange business, trying to persuade a man he is to be killed; and it says much for Lord Clarendon that he wanted good reason before he would own himself satisfied. Many men less than he would have happily leaped at the suspicion, and invented any extra evidence in order to destroy a rival.

“But they have never met? No man has seen them together? There are no letters, no one has overheard any conversation between them?”

I shook my head. “No; but I would doubt if it is likely. Common sense dictates that all contact be through a third party.”

Clarendon leaned back in his chair, and I heard the joints creaking from the strain. Mr. Bennet had sat quite impassively throughout, showing no sign of emotion on his face, neither helping me nor hindering me. He was entirely quiet until Clarendon turned to him.

“You are convinced of this, sir?”

“I am convinced you may well be in danger, and that all possible means should be taken to prevent any harm coming to you.”

“That is generous from a man who loves me so little.”

“No. You are His Majesty’s closest minister, and it is the duty of all to protect you as the king himself. If the king chose to dismiss you, I would not exert myself to prevent your fall; you know that, I am sure. But it is as treasonable for anyone else to force His Majesty as it is criminal to kill a man outside the law. If Bristol wishes this, I will have none of him.”

“Do you think he does? That is the question, is it not? I do not intend to sit here and see whether a knife in my back proves Dr. Wallis correct. I cannot charge Lord Bristol with treason, for the case is not strong enough and the king would see any attempt to prosecute as a misuse of my office. And I will not adopt such methods myself.”

“You have in the past,” Mr. Bennet said.

“Rarely; and I will not in this case. Lord Bristol has been at the king’s side, and his father’s side before that, for more than twenty years, and I have been with him. We shared exile, despair and deprivation together. I loved him as a brother, and do still. I cannot harm him.”

The discourse which passed between the two men continued in such a way; moderation, subtlety and regret being the only emotions and feelings they expressed. This is the way of the courtier, who talks in a code more deep and impenetrable than any of the petty conspirators who were my daily antagonists. I do not even doubt that they meant everything that they said; but left unsaid, and understood by each other beneath the words, a more pitiless conversation was taking place, with each man bargaining and plotting how to turn the situation I had created to their own advantage.

I do not despise them for this; each man believed, I am sure, that the triumph of him and his was for the general good. Nor do I think such flexibility an error; in the past few years England had suffered greatly at the hands of rigid men of principle, who would not bend and could not change. That Clarendon and Mr. Bennet competed for the king’s favor added luster to His Majesty’s glory. Forcing that favor, taking away his right to choose, was the sin of Parliament in the past and Lord Bristol in the present. That was why both had to be opposed.

Nor was I surprised that both men wished to comprehend fully the potential damage to themselves of Bristol’s fall. For the consequences would be great, as they are whenever a mighty interest collapses. The Digby family, which he headed, had a strong following in the House of Commons and in the West Country; many of his friends and family had been placed at court and in offices of state. Removing Lord Bristol was one thing; rooting out his family was another.

“I hope we may take it that this Italian must be stopped,” the Chancellor said, with the first glimmerings of a smile I had seen since I had told him my information. “That is the beginning. The more serious problem, if I may put it so, is Lord Bristol. I do not wish to accuse him, let alone bring articles of impeachment against him myself. Will you do so, Mr. Bennet?”

He shook his head. “I cannot. Too many of his people are my people as well. It would tear us apart, and I would not be trusted again. I will not support him, but cannot plunge a knife into his back.”

They both fell silent, willing the end, yet shrinking from the deed. Eventually I ventured to speak, somewhat abashed at offering counsel to such people without being asked, but confident that my skills matched theirs.

“Perhaps he can bring about his own fall,” I said.

Both men looked at me gravely, wondering whether to upbraid me for having spoken, or encourage me to continue. Eventually Clarendon nodded that I had his permission to speak.

“Lord Bristol is foolhardy, easily wounded in vanity and honor and excessively fond of grand gestures. This he has demonstrated. He must be forced to act in a way which is so intemperate and foolish that even the king becomes exasperated with him.”

“And how do you suggest we accomplish this?”

“He has made an attempt, I think, through this young man called Prestcott, which has now failed. Then Cola must also be stopped. Afterward he must be goaded and provoked until he loses all reason. It would take some considerable time to hire another killer, many months, at least. You must whittle away at his position quickly before he can try again.”

“For example?”

“There are many things you might do. He is steward of my university; you might suggest he be relieved of the post on the grounds of his Catholicism. Eject some of his supporters from their positions.”

“That will not provoke; merely irritate.”

“My Lord, may I speak plainly?”

Clarendon nodded.

“Your daughter married the Duke of York against your will and without your knowledge.”

Clarendon nodded slowly, ready to anger. Mr. Bennet sat absolutely still, watching me as I spoke the most dangerous words I had ever uttered. Even to mention the notorious match to the chancellor could end a man’s career, for it had nearly ended his when it became known. It was rash even to allude to it and even rasher to bring it up as I was about to do. As best I could, I ignored the cold and stony look from the chancellor, and pretended not to notice that Mr. Bennet’s support was manifestly absent.

“I hesitate to recommend such a course, but my Lord Bristol must be made to think that Her Majesty the Queen is barren, and that you were well aware of this when you advocated the match.”

There was dead, total silence after I uttered the words, and I feared that I would bring his wrath upon me. Again he surprised me; rather than erupting in fury, he merely asked in a cold, frigid voice—“And how would that serve?”

“Lord Bristol is jealous of your ascendancy; if he believes for certain that you connived to place your own daughter on the throne by exploiting the queen’s incapacity, he will be consumed with jealousy at your prospects, and could be persuaded to try and impeach you in the House of Commons. If Mr. Bennet refuses to support such a move at the crucial moment, it will fail, and the king will have to deal with a man who has tried publicly to usurp his authority by forcing his chief minister out. He would have to act to preserve the crown’s reputation.”

“How would this tale be put into circulation?”

“A young colleague of mine at Oxford, Dr. Lower, is greatly desirous of making his way in London. Were you to favor him, I am sure he would allow it to be said that he had been called in secret to examine the queen and found clear evidence of her barrenness. Naturally, if put on oath, Mr. Lower would tell the truth, and deny he had performed any such examination.”

“Of course,” Mr. Bennet intervened, “you have no choice, if you accept this proposition, but to trust that I will come out in your support at that crucial moment. I am happy to give you my word, but on such a matter as this, do not expect it will be enough.”

“I think, sir, that ways can be found to make it in your interest to keep your word.”

Bennet nodded. “That is all I ask.”

“You agree to this idea?” I said in astonishment that it should meet with so little resistance or objection.

“I believe so. I will endeavor to use the fall of Lord Bristol to bolster my position as the king’s chief minister; Mr. Ben-net will use it to strengthen his so that he might pull me down in due course. That comes afterward, however; for the time being we must consider ourselves allies in a common, and necessary, purpose.”

“And the Italian must not cause any troubles,” Bennet said. “He cannot be arrested, nor brought to any account where he can speak. The government cannot afford to be shaken by tales of treason so close in amongst the king’s friends.”

“He must be killed,” I said. “Lend me some soldiers, and I will ensure it is done.”

And this too was agreed. I left the meeting some time later, confident that my duty was complete, and that now I could concentrate on my personal vengeance.

13

After this encounter, Clarendon kept to his house surrounded by guards, and put it out that his gout (a real complaint, for he was tormented by the disease mercilessly, and had been for many years past) was upon him again. His visit to Cornbury was canceled and he cowered at home, leaving only to make the short journey from Piccadilly to Whitehall to wait on the king.

And I hunted for Cola, using all the powers I had been given to search out his whereabouts. I had fifty soldiers ready for use, and every informer was pressed into service. All of the radicals I could lay my hands on were arrested, in case the Italian had taken refuge with them; the Spanish ambassador’s house was discreetly watched, back and front, and I had people going around nearly every tavern, inn and hostel asking for information. The docks were watched as well, and I asked my merchant friend Mr. Williams to put it abroad that any foreigner asking for a passage was to be reported to me immediately.

The French, I believe, do these things more effectively, as they can call on what they term a police to ensure order in their towns. After the experience of searching for Cola, I came to think that such a body might be of some use in London as well, although there seems no chance of it ever being established. Perhaps with such a force, Cola might have been found more quickly; perhaps he might not have come so close to accomplishing his aim. All I knew was that, for three days of disappointment, I searched in vain. There was not even a whisper of the man, which I considered incredible for one normally so noticeable. That he was in London was certain, there was nowhere else for him to go. But it was as if he had dissolved into the air like a spirit.

I had, of course, to make regular reports to Lord Clarendon and Mr. Bennet about my progress, and I could sense their ebbing confidence as, day after day, I told them of my failure. Mr. Bennet said nothing directly, but I knew him well enough to see that my own position was now at stake as well, and that I had to find the Italian speedily if I was not to lose his support. The visit on the fourth day of my search was the worst, for I had to stand throughout the interview once more and suffer his ever-growing coldness, which bore heavily on me as I walked afterward across the courtyards of the palace to the river.

Then I stopped, for I knew that I had detected something of the utmost importance, but could not instantly place in my mind what it could be. But I had a presentiment of the greatest danger which would not leave me, however much I thought and tried to discover what idea had been raised in my mind. It was a beautiful morning, I remember, and I had decided to revive my spirits by walking from Mr. Bennet’s quarters across Cotton Garden, then through a small passageway into St. Stephen’s Court to get to Westminster Stairs. It was in this little passageway, enclosed by heavy oak doors at either end, that the worry came upon me first, but I shrugged it off and continued to walk. Only as I stood on the quayside and was about to get into my boat did the understanding come to me, and I immediately made my way as swiftly as possible back to the nearest guards.

“Sound the alarm,” I said, once I had established with him my authority. “There is an assassin in the building.”

I gave him a swift description of the Italian, then returned to Mr. Bennet, and burst in on him without, this time, waiting for any formalities. “He is here,” I said. “He is in the palace.”

Mr. Bennet looked skeptical. “You have seen him?”

“No. I smelled him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I smelled him. In the corridor. He wears a particular perfume, which is quite unmistakable, and which no Englishman would ever use. I smelled it. Believe me, sir, he is here.”

Bennet grunted. “And what have you done about it?”

“I have alerted the guards, and they are beginning to search. Where is the king? And the chancellor?”

“The king is at his prayers, and the chancellor is not here.”

“You must place extra guards.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, and straightaway summoned some officials and began giving orders. For the first time, I think, I understood why His Majesty held him in such high regard, for he acted calmly and without any show of disturbance, but moved with the greatest dispatch. Within minutes, guards were surrounding the king, the prayers were brought to an early conclusion—although not so hastily that any alarm was given to the attending courtiers—and small parties of soldiers fanned out across the palace, with its hundreds of rooms and courtyards and corridors, searching for the intruder.

“I hope you are right, sir,” Mr. Bennet said, as we watched a small party of officials being stopped and scrutinized. “If you are not, then you will not have to answer to me.”

Then I saw the man I had sought for so many days. Mr. Bennet occupied a set of rooms on the corner, with one pair of windows giving out onto the Thames, the other onto the alleyway leading to Parliament Stairs. And down this, walking calmly from Old Palace Yard past the Prince’s Lodgings, I saw a familiar figure. Without any shadow of a doubt, it was Cola, as cool as ever, though dressed less conspicuously, looking for all the world as though he had a perfect right to be there.

“There,” I shouted, grabbing Mr. Bennet by the shoulder. It took him a long time to forgive the action. “There he is. Quickly now!”

Without waiting, I ran from the room, down the stairs, shouting for guards to follow me as swiftly as possible. And I stood, like Horatius Codes himself, barring the way to Parliament Stairs, the waiting boats and Cola’s only chance of escape.

I had no notion of what to do next. I was quite unarmed, perfectly alone and without any means of defending myself against a man whose murderous skills were well attested. But my desire and my duty impelled me forward, for I was determined he should not escape me, and the revenge I was bound to seek.

Had Cola pulled his weapon and lunged at me the moment he saw me standing in front of him, his escape would have been certain and my death equally assured. I had only surprise in my armory, and I was quite aware that it was but a feeble weapon.

It worked, nonetheless, for when Cola did see me, he was so astonished that he did not know how to react.

“Dr. Wallis!” he said, and even managed a smile of what could almost have passed as pleasure. “You were the last person I expected to see here.”

“I am aware of that. Might I enquire what you are doing?”

“I am seeing the sights, sir,” he replied. “Before beginning my journey home, which I plan to do tomorrow.”

“I think not,” I said with relief, for I could see soldiers approaching over the courtyard. “I think your journey is already at an end.”

He turned round to see what I was looking at, then his face frowned with puzzlement and dismay.

“I am betrayed, I see,” he said, and I breathed a great sigh of relief.

He was taken, with no fuss or disturbance, to a room off Fish Yard, and I went with him. Mr. Bennet went to find His Majesty that he might be informed of events and also, I believe, to inform Lord Clarendon that the danger was at an end. For my part, I felt dizzy with my success and gave thanks that I had discovered the man before, rather than after, he had caused any damage. I saw him locked in, then began to question him closely, although for all the information I collected, I might as well have saved my breath.

Cola’s bravado amazed me, for he affected to be delighted at the sight of me, despite the circumstances. He was pleased, he said, to see an old face.

“I have felt myself very solitary since I left your fine town, Dr. Walk’s,” he said. “I do not find the people of London greatly welcoming.”

“I cannot imagine why. But you were hardly a popular figure in Oxford when you left, either.”

He looked distressed at the comment. “It seems not. Although I am quite unaware of what I did to deserve such churlishness. You have heard of my dispute with Mr. Lower, I imagine? He mistreated me very badly, I do not mind telling you, and I am at a loss to explain why. I shared all my ideas with him, and was sorely treated in return.”

“Maybe he learned more about you than your ideas, and was not pleased to be harboring such a person. No man likes to be deceived, and if he was too gentlemanly to challenge you openly, it is not discourteous to indicate annoyance.”

A crafty look of caution came over his bland, wide face as he sat down opposite and studied me with what seemed to be vague amusement.

“I suppose I have to thank you for that, do I? Mr. Lower told me you were forever burrowing your nose in other people’s business, and occupying yourself with matters that were none of your affair.”

“I may claim that honor,” I said, determined not to be drawn by his offensive tone. “I act for the good of the country and its legitimate government.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So should all men do so. I like to think of myself as equally loyal.”

“I believe you are. You proved that in Candia, did you not?”

His eyes narrowed at my demonstration of knowledge. “I was not aware that my fame had spread so far.”

“And you knew Sir James Prestcott as well?”

“Oh, I see,” he replied, a false understanding dawning. “You had it from that strange son of his. You must not believe everything you hear from that young man. He has the most bizarre of delusions about anything and anyone connected to his honored father. He is quite capable of inventing any tale about me in order to reflect glory on that poor man.” “I can hardly think of Sir James as a poor man.” “Can you not? I met him under different circumstances, when he was reduced to selling his sword for hire, and with scarcely a penny to his name. A sad fall, that, when no one of his fellows would reach out a hand to help him. Can you really condemn him so much? What loyalty did he owe anyone by then? He was the bravest of men, the most courageous of comrades, and I honor his memory as much as I lament his end.”

“And so you come to England yourself, and tell no one of your own bravery?”

“A period of my life which is entirely at an end. I do not wish to recall it.”

“You associate with the king’s enemies wherever you go.”

“They are not my enemies. I associate with whomever pleases me, and whom I find good company.”

“I want my letters back. The ones you stole from my room.”

He paused, then smiled. “I know of no letters, sir. Search me and my belongings if you wish, but I may say I resent the imputation that I am a thief. Such things should not be said lightly by one gentleman to another.”

“Tell me about my Lord Bristol.”

“I must say I am not acquainted with the gentleman.”

His face was entirely passive, and he looked me evenly and unflinchingly in the eye as he came out with this denial.

“Of course not,” I said. “Nor have you heard of Lord Clarendon.”

“He? Oh indeed. Who could not have heard of the Lord Chancellor? Naturally I have heard of him. Although I do not know what the question signifies.”

“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 demeanor as I made this statement was remarkable. From an easygoing 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. Walk’s, 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 offense 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 air 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 cutpurse 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 assailant, and his condition when we parted company, I cannot vouch for although I did not think him 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 recognize 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 nighttime 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.”

14

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 onto 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 defense against his desires. In the months in 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 rumor 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 criticize 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.