16

The following morning lower was, of course, all contrition and apology, but this time it was of no use. Our friendship was breached beyond repair—Fides unde abut, eo nunquam redit, as Publius Syrus put it. Now that I had determined to leave, I was less inclined to make the accommodations that such a reconciliation required and, though I accepted his apologies in form, I could not do so in my heart.

I believe he realized this, and our journey back to Oxford was full of silence and uncomfortable conversation. I missed our ease greatly, but could do nothing to retrieve our comradeship; Lower, I think, felt ashamed of himself, for he knew that he had acted unpardonably. As a result, he showed me constant little kindnesses to win his way back into my favor and fell into melancholy when his efforts went unrewarded.

One thing, though, I was obliged in honor to do, for even though I had given my word to Prestcott, I considered my obligation to Lower the greater. I knew little of the law, but I knew that I had to inform him of what had transpired at Mr. Thurloe’s house, as it would have been improper for him to hear it from the magistrate or tavern gossip. He listened gravely as I recounted the tale.

“And you didn’t tell me? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“What?”

“You have made yourself as guilty as them. You may hang now, if Prestcott is ever caught. Did that never occur to you?”

“No. But what was I to do?”

He thought. “I don’t know. But if the magistrate decides he wants Prestcott, and he has fled, then you will be in trouble. Do you believe him?”

“I can’t imagine why not. He had nothing to gain. It is not as if I would have discovered him had he not summoned me. Besides, there is Dr. Grove’s ring. Sarah Blundy will have to explain how she came by that.”

“You are sure it is his?”

“No. But if it is, someone will be able to identify it. What do you think?”

Lower considered. “I think,” he said after a while, “that if the ring is his, and if some way can be found for Prestcott to say his testimony, then it will hang the girl.”

“Do you believe she is guilty?”

“I would be happier to have seen her in his room, pouring arsenic into the bottle. Or to hear it from her own lips. As Mr. Stahl tells us, there is no such thing as certainty, but I am coining to think it probable she was responsible.”

Both of us hesitated then, as we realized at the same moment that we were slipping back into intimacy, and instantly an awkwardness intervened. At that moment, my mind was made up, for I realized I could never talk to him with ease, lest he explode once more. Lower knew well what was going through my mind, and fell glumly silent as the horse clopped along the muddy road. I am sure he felt he could do no more—he had apologized for his past words, and could see no need to excuse those he had not yet spoken.

I have already mentioned that my opinion of the theater in England was not high, the tale tedious, the acting dreadful, the declamation poor. Not so with the courts, which supplied all the pomp and drama that the theater lacked, being also better produced and more convincingly expressed. The spectacle of an assize is not to be matched anywhere on the continent; not even the French, who love the grandiose, have such an awful display in their justice. The essence of the grandeur lies in the fact that justice is mobile; while small crimes are dealt with by magistrates, more important cases are dealt with by the king’s representatives sent out from London at regular intervals. These patrol the country in circuit, and their arrival is attended by much circumstance. The mayor awaits the procession at the borders of the town, the local landowners send carriages to drive behind, and the people line the streets as the carriages wend their way to the courthouse, where convoluted proclamations are read out which give the judges authority to hang as many lawbreakers as they please.

Perhaps I ought to explain here the way the English deal with such matters, their method being as singular as many other proceedings in that country. One would have thought that a learned judge would have been sufficient as it is everywhere else, but this is not the case. For, having appointed such a person, they give all his power to a group of twelve men, chosen at random and utterly ignorant of all law. What is more, they are inordinately proud of this most bizarre system and hold this jury in awe as the bedrock of their liberties. These men listen to the arguments in court and vote about the verdict. The case is normally presented by the person who brings the prosecution or, in the case of murder, by family or by a magistrate who acts on behalf of the king. In this case, Grove having no family, the magistrate was bound to prepare the suit at the public expense.

The preparations for the assizes are many and the cost considerable, which is why the High Street was all but clogged with people when we returned. I was fascinated by the spectacle, but it merely put Lower into an ill humor. It was late in the day, neither of us had eaten and we were in two minds whether to stop for nourishment or to proceed straight to Sir John Fulgrove’s house in Holywell. We decided on the latter, not least because I was also anxious about Mrs. Blundy—whatever her daughter had done, she was still my patient and my hope of fame. And I was anxious to be free of Lower’s company.

Sir John saw me promptly—an aspect of the English law I greatly admire. I have had little to do with our Venetian magistrates, but I know that they believe the grandeur of the law is served by making everything as inconvenient as possible. He also listened to my story with interest, though little gratitude. His demeanor, indeed, had changed greatly in the period I had been away, and he demonstrated none of that agreeable condescension which I had received before.

“It was your duty to report this matter immediately to those in authority,” he said. “Thurloe is a traitor and should have been hanged years ago. And you now tell me he is harboring fugitives? Why, the man thinks he is above the law entirely.”

“From what I hear,” I said quietly, “he is.”

Sir John scowled. “It is intolerable that this should continue. He is in open rebellion against the king’s government, and yet it does nothing.”

“I do not wish to defend him,” I said, “as if half of what I have heard is true then he should be hanged forthwith. But in this case, I do not think he believes Mr. Prestcott truly guilty of the crimes of which he is accused. And by keeping him close by, he has surely done a service, if the man has important testimony about Dr. Grove.”

The magistrate grunted.

“Do you think this tale unimportant?” I asked.

“No, of course not.”

“The girl is going to stand trial?”

“She is. She will answer the case on the last day of the assizes.”

“On what charge?”

“Petty treason.”

“What is that?”

“Grove was her master; it matters not that she was discharged, because it was as her master that he was killed. That is treason, because a master is as a father to his children, or the king to his people. It is the worst of all crimes; far more serious than murder. And carries a far harsher punishment. When she is found guilty, she will burn.”

“You are in no doubt about her guilt?”

“None. My investigations have uncovered a character so foul, so sordid, that it is a wonder she was not unmasked before.”

“Has she confessed?”

“Not she. She denies it all.”

“And what will you do with my information?”

“I intend,” he said, “to take some soldiers and ride straight out to Milton. Where I will clap both Mr. Prestcott and his protector in irons and drag them both back to jail. We will see if Mr. Thurloe can evade the law this time. You must excuse me. I am in a hurry.”