“Kitty,” he said, and I stared at him in total puzzlement. The name meant nothing to me at all.
“Kitty,” Thurloe repeated, as imperturbable as ever. “Kitty. And he is…?”
“She. She is, or was, a whore.”
“A very well-informed one, it seems.”
“She is now very well-placed in her trade. It is extraordinary, is it not, how fortune favors some people? When I first met her she was walking to Tunbridge to ply her trade. Six months later, she is comfortably installed as the mistress of one of the greatest men in the land.”
Thurloe smiled encouragingly in that bland way of his.
“She is a girl of great good sense,” Prestcott continued. “Before her rise, I was kind to her, and when I encountered her by chance in London she paid me back handsomely, by retelling gossip she had heard.”
“By chance?”
“Yes. I was walking around, and she saw me and approached me. She happened to be passing.”
“I’m sure she was. Now, this great man who keeps her. His name is… ?”
Prestcott drew himself more upright in the chair. “My Lord of Bristol,” he said. “But I beg you not to say I told you. I promised my discretion.”
I sighed heavily, not only because my case was advanced immeasurably, but also because Prestcott’s answer was so obviously true. Just as it was not in Mr. Bennet’s character to risk all on a throw, so it was very much in that of Bristol to chance all he had so recklessly. He thought of himself as the king’s greatest adviser, although in truth he had no office and little authority. His open Catholicism had debarred him from position, and in all matters he was bested by Clarendon on policy. It rankled, for he was undoubtedly a man of great courage and loyalty, who had been by the king’s side as long as any, and shared exile and poverty with him. He was a man of extraordinary qualities, and had as good an education as any man of that age, a graceful and beautiful person, with great eloquence in discourse. He was equal to a good part in any affair, but was the unfittest man alive to conduct it, for, great though his qualities were, his vanity and ambition far exceeded them, and he had a confidence in his capacities which often intoxicated, transported and exposed him. He espoused policies of the smallest prudence and the greatest hazard, but did so with such sweet reason that they seemed the only course to take. It would not be difficult to persuade others that he had attempted Clarendon’s murder, for he was perfectly capable of inventing such a foolishness.
“You may rest assured that we will not betray your trust,” Thurloe said. “I must thank you, young man. You have been very helpful.”
Prestcott looked puzzled. “And that is it? You want no more of me?”
“Later maybe. But not at the moment.”
“In that case,” he said, turning to me, “you will favor me with one further piece of information as well. The evidence of Mordaunt’s guilt which Mr. Thurloe tells me undoubtedly exists. Where is it to be found? Who has it?”
Even in my mood of blackness, I felt the ability to pity him then. He was stupid and deluded, cruel and credulous by turns, violent in deed and soul, full of bile and superstition, a monster of perversion. But his one genuine feeling was the reverential love he had for his father, and his faith in his honesty was so direct it had carried him through all his journeys and troubles. That goodness had been so corrupted by rancor it was hard to see the virtuous kernel within, and yet it was there. I took no pleasure in extinguishing it, nor in telling him that his cruelty made him the author of his own, ultimate misfortune.
“There was only one person who knew where it was.”
“And the name, sir? I will go there directly.” He leaned forward eagerly, a look of unsuspecting anticipation on his youthful countenance.
“Her name is Sarah Blundy. The person you insisted must die. You have stopped her mouth for good, and that proof will now remain hidden forever, for she must have hidden it well. You will now never prove your father’s innocence, nor get your estates back. You name will be forever tarnished with the title of traitor. It is a just punishment for your sins. You must live knowing you are the author of your own misfortunes.”
He sat back again with a knowing smile, “You are making fun of me, sir. It is your way, perhaps, but I must ask you to be more direct with me. Tell me the truth, please.”
I told him again. Adding more details, then still more details until the smirk faded from his face, and his hands began to tremble. I say again, I took no pleasure in it, and though it was just, I took no satisfaction either in the hideous additional punishment that was then meted out to him. For as I told him precisely how his father had betrayed the king, and come close even to murdering him, his voice fell into a growl, and the hideous demonic look that came over his twisted and contorted features frightened even Thurloe, I believe.
It was well that he had not lost his old habits of caution, and had a servant in the background, ready for all eventualities. As I finished, Prestcott launched himself at my throat, and would surely have torn the very life from me had he been granted just a few more seconds before being manhandled to the ground.
As a priest, I necessarily believe in the possession of men by demons, but I think that I had always used the notion in careless, thoughtless ways. I could not have been more wrong, and those skeptics who disbelieve in such things are deluded by their own vanity. There are indeed demons, and they can take over the bodies and souls of men and drive them to frenzies of malice and destruction. Prestcott was all the proof I could ever need to persuade me to put aside skepticism forever, for no human form would be capable of the violent bestiality I saw in that room. The monstrous devil in Prestcott, I believe, had controlled his thoughts and deeds for many months, but in such careful, subtle ways that its presence was unsuspected.
Now it was finally frustrated, its fury and violent activity burst out in hideous extremity, making him roll on the floor, scratching the boards with his fingernails until the blood spurted from them and was dragged in thin red lines down the grain of the wood. It took a great effort to restrain him, and even we were unable to stop him crashing his head, time and again against the furniture, and trying to bite us whenever we incautiously put a hand near him. And he screamed hideous obscenities all the while, although fortunately most of the words could not be made out, and continued thrashing around until he was bound and gagged and taken to the university prison, there to wait the arrival of some member of his family to take him in charge.
12
I would have left for London immediately even had I not been told, by Mr. Wood of all people, that Cola had fled Oxford after hearing of Sarah Blundy’s death. Both she and the mother were now dead, and I felt that, at the very least, some of his plans were frustrated; his ability to communicate with those supposedly assisting him was greatly diminished, enough to make any further sojourn in Oxford useless to him. More importantly, I considered he must have heard of Prestcott’s descent into frenzy—if Thurloe was right, and the first attempt on Clarendon was to be through the young lunatic, then he would have realized that the move had failed, and it was now time for him to act. This thought, more than any other, prompted me to leave as speedily as possible.
The journey was as tedious as ever, and I lurched along, conscious that my quarry was but a few hours ahead of me. But no one at Charing Cross recalled someone answering his description when I arrived and asked questions. So I went directly to Whitehall, where Mr. Bennet was most likely to be found, and sent in a message begging the favor of an interview with the utmost urgency.
He saw me within an hour; I resented the delay, but had prepared myself for an even greater one.