“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.