So I sat awhile and feasted my eyes on this little book of Cola’s, and traced my finger over the complexities of the binding. A room—no, merely a shelf—of books like these would give me the greatest possible joy, although I knew I might as well aim to become Chancellor of England as hope to possess such a wonder. It was a Psalter, and a fine example, and I flipped open the little clasp and opened it up to see whether the printing matched the binding, for I knew well that Venetian work was the finest to be had.

And received a tremendous shock; for inside, the book had been hollowed out into two carefully cut cavities. Initially, my distress was for the book, as to butcher such a wonderful object was the nearest thing to sacrilege I could imagine. Then I concentrated on the three little bottles that nestled so carefully in the hollows, each sealed by wax at the top. One contained a dark, thick liquid like oil, one a clear fluid which might as well have been water. The third, however, was the most interesting, for it was the most elaborate bottle of all, covered in gold and jewels and worth, in my inexperienced estimation, many dozens of pounds. This contained nothing except a thick, ill-shaped lump of old wood. What it meant was obvious, even to a dolt like myself.

So I placed the book aside and, consumed by curiosity for the first, examined the others with only a casual eye until I realized what they were. It was several minutes, as I flicked through and considered, before it dawned on me that here was something of great and strange significance. For both volumes were the same, one from Sarah’s house and the other, I assumed, Cola had already. Each was a volume from Livy’s history, in the same edition as the one which Dr. Wal-lis had so urgently entreated me to find for him many months previously.

Sarah Blundy was arrested the next day, I now know at the instigation of John Wallis, and the news rippled through town and university like a tidal wave running up a creek in high wind. Everybody knew that she was guilty, and applauded the magistrate for his decisiveness as much as they criticized him for the delay in reaching a conclusion that had, in retrospect, been obvious to every single citizen since the moment they heard of Dr. Grove’s death.

Only two people, I think, dissented from this opinion—myself, who knew the truth, and my mother, whose belief was the more virtuous for being founded on nothing at all. But, as she said, she knew the girl. And she would not accept that anyone in her household could act in such a fashion. Had she known the truth, I say, it would have killed her.

She was a strange woman, that blessed mother of mine, as good a mother as any man had. For she was strict and punctilious in all matters, jealous of her rights and watchful of the obligations of others. No woman or man was swifter to condemn sin, or pass comment on a moral failing. No woman was so careful in her devotions, praying not less than ten minutes in the morning when she rose, and more than fifteen every night before she retired. She attended the best church and listened with care to sermons which she often did not understand, but which she found uplifting nonetheless. And she was charitable with the greatest caution, so that neither too much, nor too little, was given from her pocket to the deserving. Careful with money she undoubtedly was, and jealous of her reputation, but not so much that either substituted for her duty to God.

And so confident was she of her knowledge of God’s mind that, when public opinion and her own differed in point of detail, she had no doubts whatsoever that she knew best. When she heard of Sarah’s arrest, she waited not a moment before announcing to all in our great kitchen that a serious injustice had been committed. Sarah (for whom she now had a proprietorial affection) was without blame in the matter, she said. She had not laid a finger on that fat prelate, and if she had it was undoubtedly well deserved. Not content with mere words either, she straightaway packed a hamper with food and her own homemade ale, walked boldly off to Mrs. Blundy’s cottage to fetch warm clothes, took my best blanket (in fact, my only blanket) from my bed and marched in full public gaze to the prison, where she did her best to give comfort to the poor girl, and ensure that she was as guarded as clothes and provisions and stern words to the jailer could make her against jail fever.

“She has asked to see you,” she said to me gravely on her return. She was in no good humor, as she had been jeered at by several low folk who habitually hang around outside the jail in the run-up to the assizes, taking perverted pleasure at seeing the prisoners arriving in chains. Why such people have nothing better to do I do not know, but I am sure that any well-run town would send them away, or punish them harshly for their idleness. “And you must go directly.”

My heart sank at this, and I felt like a bull on a rope, being dragged into the butcher’s yard for slaughter with all its efforts to escape the inevitable coming to naught. Before I heard of the arrest, I had convinced myself that the worst danger was over; if no one was ever blamed for the death of Grove, then it would be foolish to volunteer my own neck. The moment I heard about Sarah, I heard also the rustle of the rope and my bowels tightened as I saw the inevitable looming up in front of me.

Of course I had to go to the girl. I even managed to make myself angry at her, as though it was her fault she had fallen quite unfairly into suspicion. But as I walked up the stone steps to the jail, I knew as well that this was merely distress at my situation, and the trap I was now firmly in. Sooner or later, I would have to own my deeds, for if I had committed a crime in killing Grove, I would not have any other souls weighed in the balance against me as well.

Sarah was surprisingly cheerful when I saw her; the women’s cell had not yet filled with the congregation of crones who would soon be brought in from all over the county to await the judge’s pleasure, and she had only been there a few hours. The dark and the damp had not yet begun their deadly work on her spirits.

“Stop looking like that,” she said, when she saw my sorrowful countenance looming up at her out of the dark. “I’m the one in jail, not you. If I can be cheerful you can manage to look a little more lighthearted.”

“How can you be so, in such a place?”

“Because my conscience is clear, and I believe the Lord will look after me,” she said. “I have done my best for Him in my life, and refuse to accept He will forsake me now.”

“And if He does?”

“Then it will be for a good reason.”

Sometimes, I confess, such humility tired me excessively. But I had come to give courage, and finding it already present, I could hardly settle down to convince her that her optimism was misplaced.

“You think me foolish,” she said. “You are wrong. For I know that I had nothing to do with this business.”

“Indeed, and God knows it too. As I do. Whether the courts will be in His confidence is another matter.”

“What can they say? Courts have to produce evidence, do they not? And you know as well as I where I was that night.”

“And, if necessary, you must say so,” I told her.

But she shook her head. “No. That would replace one scandal with another, and I will not. Believe me, Anthony, it will not be necessary.”

“Then I will.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I suppose you think you are being kind, but you will not be the one to suffer. The law on this would hardly touch you, but I would have to leave, and I cannot with my mother in such a condition. Nor could I expose those people in Abingdon and elsewhere to sanction. Believe me, Anthony, there is no danger. No one could possibly think I would, or could, behave in such a way.”