I did my best to persuade her she was wrong, that not only could the town think it, it was already convinced. But she would have none of it, and eventually told me either to talk of something else, or to leave her in peace, an imperious command, which was strange in her circumstances, but quite like her.
“You will say nothing of this to anyone,” she said. “It is my wish and my command. You will say what I permit you to say, and no more. You will not interfere in this matter. Do you understand me?”
I looked at her strangely, for serving girl though she was, she looked and spoke like one born to command—no sovereign could have given orders with as much resolution, or with as much confidence of being obeyed.
“Very well, then,” I said, reluctantly after a long pause in which she waited for the assent she knew I must give. “Tell me about this Cola.”
“What is there to say you have not seen with your own eyes?”
“It may be important,” I replied. “And what I saw confuses me slightly. I saw him approach you, then recoil. It was not your doing that made him pull back; it was more as though he had horrified himself. Is that true?” She admitted it. “And you would have let him have his way, had he not removed himself?”
“You had already told me I had nothing to lose, and I suppose that is the case. If he insisted on payment, there was little I could do to prevent him taking it. Nor would any protests before or after have helped me. I have learned this with others.’’ She touched my arm as she saw my face fall. “I do not mean you.”
“And yet he pulled away. Why?”
“I suppose he found me disgusting.”
“No,” I said. “That is not possible.”
She smiled. “Thank you for that.”
“I mean, it does not fit with what I saw.”
“Maybe he had a conscience. In which case he joins you as the only two men in my acquaintance so equipped.”
I bowed my head at those words. Conscience I had indeed; scarcely a minute went by that I was not aware of it these days. Listening to its warnings, and acting upon them, however, were different. Here I was, the author of this girl’s misfortunes, able with one word to bring them to an end, and what was I doing? I was giving her comfort, and acting the part of the sympathetic helper. I was so generous, and so helpful that it entirely covered my turpitude, so no one suspected the depths of a guilt which daily grew ever deeper and more monstrous. And still I lacked the courage to do as I should. It was not for lack of desire—many times, I imagined myself going to the magistrate and telling him what had happened, and exchanging my life for hers. Many times I saw myself standing as the stoic, making my sacrifice with unflinching honesty and bravado.
“I have recovered the object he stole,” I said, “and I am mightily puzzled by it. It is a book by Livy. Where did it come from?”
“I believe it was with the bundle my father left, just before he died.”
“In that case, I would like to open that package. I have never touched it, because you asked me not to, but now I think we must; it may contain the answer.”
She gave her permission with some initial reluctance, then I made to leave; but before I did I once again implored her to let me speak, hoping that there might be a way for her to escape without my having to confess. But she would not allow it, and I was bound to her wishes; in the circumstances I could hardly hope to escape by inflicting more hardship on her.
9
I must talk about this book, I think, for I have forgotten to mention my examination of it. To look at there was nothing especially worthy of note; it was an octavo, bound in only inferior calfskin, with tooling done by a man of skill, but who was no master in his trade. There were no markings to give its ownership, and I was sure it had not come from a scholar’s library, for I knew of none who did not mark meticulously his ownership, and the place on the shelves where it might be found. Nor were there any of the marginalia I might expect to have found in a book that had been well-read and studied. It was battered and bashed, but my practiced eye told me that this was more due to the ill-treatment of movement and abuse, rather than excessive reading; the spine was in perfect condition, and was the most undamaged part of the whole.
Inside, the text was untouched, except for some small ink markings, which underlay certain letters. On the first page a “b” was so marked on the first line; an “f” on the second, and so on. Each line had one letter marked and, knowing that Wallis was interested in puzzles, I thought perhaps they made up some acrostic. So I wrote them all down, and came up with the merest jumble, which had no sense in it at all.
I spent a good half-day on these fruitless pursuits before admitting defeat, placing the volume on my shelves behind some other books so that it would not be noticed should anyone come alooking. Then I turned my attention to the packet, still secured with unbroken seals. Even now, it is strange to consider that such a small object could unleash such fury in the world, that so many people could contemplate such cruelty to gain possession of it, that I could have had about me such a powerful weapon all unknowing for so long a time. Nor did I even realize this until I opened it.
Half a day’s careful consideration opened up all the secret history of this realm to my eyes, but it was not until I read Wallis’s account that I understood fully how these matters fully affected the tragedy unfolding before me, and grasped the extent to which the mathematician was deceived by John Thurloe, still perhaps the most powerful person in the kingdom despite his lack of position. What he told Wallis was, to some extent, true—his account of how Sir James Prestcott and Ned Blundy, both fanatics though for different causes, formed an alliance was confirmed in every particular, for half of the documents or more consisted of letters between Thurloe and Clarendon, Cromwell and the king, in which their mutual courtesy was as striking as their knowledge of each other’s characters and aspirations. One letter in particular would have caused uproar had it been publicly known, for it expressly said that the king had instructed Mordaunt to pass on details of the rising of 1659; and an accompanying piece of paper listed some three dozen names, many locations of arms and details of gathering places. Even I knew that many of those named were subsequently killed. Another was an outline of an agreement between Charles and Thurloe sketching out conditions for a restoration of the monarchy, saying who was to be favored, what limits were to be placed on royal power, and outlining details of laws to control Catholics.
It is clear that had Sir James Prestcott recovered these and made them known at the time, the royal cause would have been utterly blasted, and the career of John Thurloe as well, for both sides would have rejected absolutely those people willing to abandon principles established at the cost of so much blood. This was, however, the lesser part of the bundle and, although it would have been of considerable danger in 1660, I doubt it would have shaken the throne in 1663. No; the more dangerous documents came in a separate package, and those were undoubtedly provided by Sir James Prestcott himself. For just as saltpeter and niter can cause little harm when separate, but can bring down the strongest castle when conjoined to make gunpowder, so these two groups of papers drew extra power from their association.
For Sir James Prestcott was a Catholic, and a member of that papist conspiracy to bring England back into the thrall of Rome. Of course he was; why else would his son attract the support of the papist Earl of Bristol? What else explains the horrified silence of his family, the refusal to talk of the unspecified injuries he had done them, which Jack Prestcott notes but treats as another example of their callousness. His wife’s family was most fervently of the Protestant persuasion, and to have one of their number embrace Rome was to them quite unforgivable. Why else would they refuse to help Sir James in his trouble against all instincts of obligation? Why else pack young Jack off to the Compton family where he could be placed under the tutelage of the resolutely Anglican Robert Grove? It is in the nature of papists to entrap their own family, to wheedle their way into their minds and corrupt them. Could there be any hope that a youth as easily led as Jack Prestcott would withstand his adored father’s blandishments? No; whatever else happened, it was essential for his safety and the family’s standing that he be kept safe and that, having given up his estates, Sir James should not recover them. In my opinion, the family stands acquitted of greed and mendacity, although I leave it to others to disagree with my verdict.