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.