An Instance of the Fingerpost (8 page)

I was beginning to see Boyle’s point of view, but Lower, quite impervious to disapproval when fixed on his work, explained how very difficult it was to get hold of a fresh corpse these days. That had been the one good effect, he said nostalgically, of the civil war. Especially when the king’s army had been quartered in Oxford, there were corpses, two a penny. Never had anatomists had such a plentiful supply. I forbore to point out that he was much too young to know.

The trouble is, you see, that most people who die are sick in some way.’

‘Not if they have the right doctor,’ I said, desiring to show myself as witty as he.

‘Quite. But it’s very inconvenient. The only time we can see what a properly healthy person looks like is if they are killed in some relatively clean fashion. And the best supply of those comes from the gallows. But that is another one of the university’s monopolies.’

‘Pardon?’ I said in some surprise.

‘Law of the land,’ he went on. ‘The university has a right to the bodies of everyone hanged within twenty miles. The courts are so very lax on crime these days, as well. Many an interesting specimen gets off with a flogging, and there’s only about half a dozen hangings a year. And I’m afraid they don’t always make the best use of the corpses they do have. Our Regius professor is scarcely qualified to be a carpenter. Last time . . . well, let’s not go into that,’ he said with a shudder.

We had arrived at the castle, a great gloomy edifice which scarcely seemed capable of defending the town from assault or of providing a refuge for the townspeople. In fact, it had not been used for such a purpose for as long as anyone could remember, and was now the county prison, in which those due to appear at the assizes were held pending their trial – and pending their punishment afterwards. It was a dirty, shabby place, and I looked around with distaste as Lower knocked on the door of a little cottage down by the stream, in the shadow of the tower.

Getting in to see his body was surprisingly easy; all he had to do was tip the guardian a penny, and this old, hobbling man – a Royalist soldier who had been given the position for his services – led the way, his keys jangling by his side.

If it was gloomy outside, it was even darker inside, although far from grim for the more fortunate of the inmates. The poorer ones, naturally, had the worst of the cells and were forced to eat food which was barely adequate for keeping body and soul together. But, Lower pointed out, as several were to have body and soul forcibly separated in due course anyway, there was little point in spoiling them.

However, the better sort of prisoner could rent a more salubrious cell, send out to a tavern for food and in addition have laundry done when required. He could also receive visitors if, as was the case with Lower, they were prepared to tip heavily for the privilege.

‘There you are, then, sirs,’ said the warder as he swung open a heavy door leading into what I gathered was a cell for a middle-ranking sort of prisoner.

The man whom Lower hoped to cut into small bits was sitting on a little bed. He looked up in a rather sulky fashion as we entered, then peered curiously, a glimmer of half recognition passing across his face as my friend passed into the thin stream of light that came through the open, barred window.

‘Dr Lower, isn’t it?’ he said in a melodious voice.

Lower told me later that he was a lad from a good, but impoverished family; his fall from grace had been something of a shock and his position was not sufficiently elevated to spare him from the gallows. And now the time appointed was drawing near. The English rush from trial to sentence with considerable speed, so that a man condemned on Monday can often be hanged the following morning unless he is lucky; Jack Prestcott could count himself fortunate that he had been arrested a few weeks before the assizes arrived to hear his case; it gave him time to prepare his soul, for Lower told me there was not the slightest chance of an acquittal or a pardon.

‘Mr Prestcott,’ Lower said cheerfully. ‘I hope I find you well?’

Prestcott nodded and said he was as well as could be expected.

‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ Lower said. ‘I have come to ask something of you.’

Prestcott looked surprised that he should be asked a service in his current condition, but nodded to indicate that Lower should ask away. He put down his book and paid attention.

‘You are a young man of considerable learning, and I’m told your
tutor spoke very highly of you,’ Lower continued. ‘And you have committed a most heinous crime.’

‘If you have found a way of saving me from the noose, then I agree with you,’ Prestcott said calmly. ‘But I fear you have something else in mind. But please continue, Doctor. I am interrupting your speech.’

‘I trust you have meditated on your sinful conduct, and have seen the justice of the fate which awaits you in due course,’ Lower continued in what struck me as being a remarkably pompous fashion. I suppose the effort to hit the right tone made him sound a little discordant.

‘Indeed I have,’ the youth replied with gravity. ‘Every day I pray to the Almighty for forgiveness, mindful that I scarcely deserve such a boon.’

‘Splendid,’ continued Lower, ‘so if I were to tell you of a way in which you could contribute inestimably to the betterment of all mankind, and do something to cancel out the horrible acts with which your name will be for ever associated, you might be interested? Hmm?’

The young man nodded cautiously, and asked what this contribution might be.

Lower explained about the law on the corpses of criminals.

‘Now, you see,’ he went on, scarcely noticing that Prestcott had turned a little pale, ‘the Regius professor and his assistant are the most appalling butchers. They will hack and saw and chop, and reduce you to a mangled ruin, and no one will be any the wiser. All that will happen is that you will furnish a rarity show for any spotty undergraduate who cares to come along and watch. Not that many do. Now I – and my friend here, Signor da Cola, of Venice – are dedicated to research of the most delicate kind. By the time we are finished, we will know immeasurably more about the functions of the human body. And there will be no waste, I promise you,’ he went on, waving his finger in the air as he got into his stride.

‘You see, the trouble with the professor is that, once he stops for lunch, he tends to lose interest. He drinks a good deal, you know,’ he confided. ‘What’s left over gets thrown away or gnawed by rats in the basement. Whereas I will pickle you . . .’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Prestcott said weakly.

‘Pickle you,’ Lower replied enthusiastically. ‘It is the very latest technique. If we joint you and pop you into a vat of spirits, you will keep for very much longer. So much better than brandy. Then when we have the leisure to dissect a bit, we just fish you out and get to work. Splendid, eh? Nothing will be wasted, I assure you. All that is required is that you give me a letter specifying as your last request that I be allowed to dissect you once you have met your punishment.’

Convinced that this was a request no reasonable man might refuse, Lower leant back against the wall and beamed with anticipation.

‘No,’ Prestcott said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said no. Certainly not.’

‘But I told you; you will be dissected anyway. Wouldn’t you at least want it to be done properly?’

‘I don’t want it done at all, thank you. What’s more, I’m convinced it will not be.’

‘A pardon, you think?’ Lower said with interest. ‘Oh, I think not. No, I fear you will swing, sir. After all, you nearly killed a man of some importance. Tell me, why did you attack him?’

‘I must hasten to remind you I have not yet been found guilty of any crime, let alone condemned, and I am convinced I will shortly regain my freedom. Should I be wrong then I might entertain your proposal, but even then I doubt whether I will be able to oblige you. My mother would have the gravest objections.’

This, I suppose, was the time for Lower to return to his theme, but his enthusiasm seemed to have waned. Perhaps he thought the young man’s mother would regard being jointed and pickled as bringing still further shame on his name. He nodded regretfully and stood up, thanking the youth for having listened to his request.

Prestcott told him to think nothing of it and, when asked if he needed anything to improve his condition, asked if Lower could deliver a message to a Dr Grove, one of his former tutors, requesting him to be good enough to visit. He had need of spiritual comfort, he said. Another gallon of wine would be well received also. Lower promised and I offered to deliver the wine, as I felt sorry for the fellow; and this I did as my friend went off to an appointment with a new patient.

‘Well, it was worth trying,’ he said in a disappointed tone when
we met later on, and I noticed that the rebuff had quite dissolved his cheerful mood of earlier in the day.

‘What did he mean about his family having shame enough?’

Lower was lost in contemplation, however, and ignored my remark while he dwelt on his failure. ‘What was that?’ he said abruptly when his attention returned. I repeated myself.

‘Oh. No more than the truth. His father was a traitor, who fled abroad before he could be held. He would have been executed as well, had the chance arisen.’

‘Quite a family.’

‘Indeed. It seems that the son takes after the father in more than looks, alas. It is a damnable shame, Cola. I need a brain. Several brains, and I am hindered and obstructed at every turn.’ Then, after a long silence, he asked what I thought the chances were of Sarah Blundy’s mother pulling through.

Rather foolishly, I imagined that he wanted a detailed account of the case and the treatment I had provided, so I told him about the nature of the wound, the way I had set the bone and cleaned the flesh, and of the salve I had used.

‘Waste of time,’ he said loftily. ‘Tincture of Mercury is what you need.’

‘You think? Perhaps. But I decided that in this case, considering the aspect of Venus, she stood a much better chance with a more orthodox remedy . . .’

And then came the first serious indication of the darkness in my friend I have mentioned, for I could not even finish my reply before he exploded with rage, in full public, swinging round to face me, his face darkening.

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid,’ he shouted. ‘The aspect of Venus! What magical nonsense is that? Dear God, are we still Egyptians that we should pay attention to such rubbish?’

‘But Galen . . .’

‘I don’t give a hoot for Galen. Or Paracelsus. Or any foreign magus with his slobberings and mumblings. These people are the merest frauds. As are you, sir, if you drivel on in such a way. You should not be let loose among the sick.’

‘But, Lower . . .’

‘More orthodox remedy,’ he said, mimicking my accent cruelly. ‘I suppose some gibbering priest told you that, and you do as you’re told? Eh? Physick is too important to be left to the dabblings of a rich man’s son like you, who could no more cure a cold than you could a broken leg. Stick to counting your money and your acres, and leave serious matters to people who care for them.’

I was so shocked by this outburst, so unforeseen and so very violent, that I said nothing at all in reply, except that I was doing my best and that no one better qualified had offered their services.

‘Oh, get out of my sight,’ he said with the most terrible contempt. ‘I will have none of you. I have no time for quacks and charlatans.’

And he abruptly turned on his heel and marched away, leaving me standing in the street in shock, my face burning red with anger and embarrassment, conscious above all that I had provided cheap entertainment for the mob of shopkeepers all around me.

I RETURNED TO
my room in deep distress to consider what I should do next, and try to understand how I had caused such offence, for I am one of those who naturally assumes the fault lies in himself first of all, and my lack of understanding of English ways had greatly heightened my uncertainty. Even so, I was convinced that Lower’s shocking outburst was excessive, but the temper of the country then cast all opinions in extremes.

So I sat by the little fireplace in my cold room, with the feelings of desperation and loneliness, so recently banished, coming back to plague me once again. Was my acquaintanceship at an end so soon? Certainly in Italy no relation could survive such behaviour, and under ordinary circumstances we would now be preparing to duel. I intended to do no such thing, of course, but did briefly consider whether it would be better to leave Oxford, for my association with Boyle might well become intolerable, and then I would be friendless once again. But where could I go? There seemed little point in returning to London, and less in staying where I was. I was fixed in my irresolution when feet on the stairs, and a heavy pounding on the door roused me from my dreary thoughts.

It was Lower. With a grave look on his face, he marched determinedly in, and placed two bottles on the table. I regarded him coldly and cautiously, expecting another round of abuse, and determined that he should speak first.

Instead, he ostentatiously sank to his knees, and clasped his hands together.

‘Sir,’ he said with a gravity which had more than a touch of the theatrical in it, ‘how can I ask you to forgive me? I have behaved with the manners of a tradesman, or worse. I have been inhospitable, unkind, unjust and grossly ill-mannered. I offer you my humblest
apologies on my knees, as you see, and beg for a forgiveness which I do not deserve.’

I was as astonished by his behaviour now as I was before, and could find no suitable reply for this contrition, which was every bit as excessive as his violence an hour or so previously.

‘You cannot forgive,’ he continued with an ostentatious sigh as I remained silent. ‘I cannot blame you. Then there is no choice. I must kill myself. Please tell my family that my gravestone should read, “Richard Lower, physician, and wretch”.’

Here I burst out laughing, so absurd was his behaviour and, seeing that he had cracked my resolve, he grinned back.

‘Truly, I am most gigantically sorry,’ he said in a more moderate tone. ‘I don’t know why, but sometimes I become so angry that I cannot stop myself. And my frustrations over these corpses is so very great. If you knew the torments I go through . . . Do you accept my apology? Will you drink from the same bottle as me? I will not sleep or shave until you accept, and you don’t want to be responsible for me having a beard down to my ankles, do you?’