Free An Instance of the Fingerpost by Iain Pears Page A

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 whenwe 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