An Instance of the Fingerpost

The year is 1663, and the setting is Oxford, England, during the height of Restoration political intrigue. When Dr Robert Grove is found dead in his Oxford room, hands clenched and face frozen in a rictus of pain, all the signs point to poison. Rashomon- like, the narrative circles around Grove's murder as four different characters give their version of events: Marco da Cola, a visiting Italian physician--or so he would like the reader to believe; Jack Prestcott, the son of a traitor who fled the country to avoid execution; Dr. John Wallis, a mathematician and cryptographer with a predilection for conspiracy theories; and Anthony Wood, a mild- mannered Oxford antiquarian whose tale proves to be the book's "instance of the fingerpost" show more (the quote comes from the philosopher Bacon, who, while asserting that all evidence is ultimately fallible, allows for "one instance of a fingerpost that points in one direction only, and allows of no other possibility").

Like The Name of the Rose, this is one whodunit in which the principal mystery is the nature of truth itself. Along the way, Pears displays a keen eye for period details as diverse as the early days of medicine, the convoluted politics of the English Civil War, and the newfangled fashion for wigs. Yet Pears never loses sight of his characters, who manage to be both utterly authentic denizens of the 17th century and utterly authentic human beings. As a mystery, An Instance of the Fingerpost is entertainment of the most intelligent sort; as a novel of ideas, it proves equally satisfying. show less

When Iain Pears writes a novel, he always tries to do something new and audacious. Some projects work out better than others, but this one left me in awe. I wish I could read it for the first time again.

I've never read a better mystery. It conceals mysteries within mysteries, revealing the shape of the deepest mystery by degrees, until you realize that all the dramas you've read were only pieces adding up to a far grander puzzle.

The plot structure has a higher degree of complexity than anything I've seen, as it would have to in order to make the above paragraph true.

It's the best historical novel I've ever read, with a level of authenticity that I've never seen the equal of. The Italian traveler giving a lengthy dissertation on the show more obnoxious incompetence of a Shakespeare play is one of the great unsung moments in modern literature.

Everything about this is clever. Everything he tries in it works. I've truly never read anything like it. Estimating on the low side, I'd guess I've read it about 5 times. You should read it too. show less

As this captivating novel begins, Marco da Cola, a self-described “gentleman of Venice,” offers his account of his visit to England in 1663. Sent by his merchant father to see to business affairs that have gone wrong, da Cola also carries a letter of introduction to notable English scientists, for our Venetian gentleman has interests there too.

Accordingly, he travels to Oxford, where he meets Robert Boyle, the famed physicist, among others, and discusses the proper approach to observation and reasoning concerning both accuracy and conformity to God’s laws. Right away, these principles are tested, through an unheard-of medical treatment, a murder, an investigation, and a punishment, in all of which da Cola plays an important show more role.

What sounds simple is anything but. These are religious times, dangerous to those who pray or think in unapproved ways; and with Cromwell’s protectorate recently ended, and the Stuarts restored to the throne, suspicion and conspiracy abound. Heed ye these controversies well, gentle reader, for they shape not only what Signor da Cola witnesses, but how others view him, his manuscript, and the events he describes.

An Instance of the Fingerpost is a strongly feminist novel, but by demonstration, not by soapbox. The woman most central to the story possesses a breadth of mind and character surpassing those of anyone else, to which Pears never calls undue attention. Yet how she behaves arouses suspicion, which raises a crucial theme, how men perceive women through the lens of their own weaknesses.

During his sojourn in England, da Cola shows his kind heart, good-natured disposition, ready laugh, and — within the bounds of seventeenth-century attitudes — tolerant outlook. All that makes him a perfect foil for the disagreeable, smug, hidebound, and cruel Englishmen he meets (many of whom are historical figures). His narrative provides an often cheeky commentary.
However, when da Cola’s narrative breaks off, other witnesses to the same events narrate their view and take great exception to his manuscript. I don’t mean their counterattacks on his character, which confirm their hatred of foreigners, their gloominess, and much else he remarked on. Rather, the Venetian gentleman seems not to have told the truth. The question is why.

The other voices respond to that and much else, recasting the murder by their own lights, as they justify themselves, often with a semblance of truth, but perhaps not. You don’t know whom to believe, or about what. Not only does the narrative framework recall the great Kurosawa film Rashomon, in which a presumably clear-cut criminal act becomes murky when viewed from different perspectives, Pears raises the reversal to its most psychologically penetrating form. Just when you think you might grasp how the murder and investigation unfolded, you don’t — though maybe there’s a piece of evidence, viewed differently, that makes sense. And that one piece won’t go away.

Readers of Umberto Eco’s Name of the Rose will recognize similarities here (as reviewers noted when Fingerpost came out). Crime and its repercussions become inseparable from the way people perceive good and evil, or what it means to think and observe, not to mention how ready they are to detest each other for petty differences in religious doctrine. Like Eco too, Pears renders political, social, and intellectual attitudes with such sureness that you don’t doubt him for a second.

An Instance of the Fingerpost is an enthralling mystery and a chilling exploration of the vicious potential of the human mind. show less

“It is cruel that we are granted the desire to know, but denied the time to do it properly. We all die frustrated; it is the greatest lesson we have to learn.”

The year is 1663 Oliver Cromwell is dead and the king has newly been restored to an uncertain throne. It is a time of witch hunts and conspiracies but it is also the dawn of the scientific Enlightenment.

A pretty obnoxious Oxford don has been murdered and an innocent young woman is arrested for his killing. Four very different voices tell the story from their own standpoint in separate testimonies. Each are in some way culpable in the events that follow. First is Marco da Cola, who portrays himself as a mere gentleman of Venice visiting England for the first time on family show more business. Next is Jack Prescott, a student at the university obsessed with clearing his father's name from a charge of treason. Third is Dr. Wallis, mathematician and code-breaker, a man for whom the whole world throbs with conspiracy and intrigue. Last is the historian Anthony Wood, a mousy and passionate man whose story provides the key with which the book's mysteries, so carefully established, are finally solved. Many of the more peripheral characters within are lifted from history and as such whose names will be familiar to the reader.

Pears has obviously steeped himself in the period, so that his characters, in their lives and confessions, embody its rich contradictions, its entwining of superstition with the spirit of new learning, of religion with politics, of politics with violence as such it all feels very authentic.

At this point I should confess that I am not a great reader of detective fiction but I am a fan of history in particular social history. However, the don's murder is largely peripheral to the over-riding theme of this novel. In fact the don was generally unliked and as such will not be missed. Rather it is a catalyst to a greater crime.

There are few women in this novel. One of them,Sarah Blundy, and her treatment by men, is the real centre of this tale. She is feisty and the book's most notable victim. Yet it is her humanity that provides the book's warmth.

My copy of this novel is just shy of 700 pages long and the plot is more tortoise than hare. The painstaking attention to detail sometimes stifles rather than aids the flow of it. On top of which at least two of the four narrators are men hard to like or care about. In fact it was not the final narrator began to tell his side of the story that I felt that it had really grabbed me and probably not until about the final 160 pages that I found myself being moved. In fact the mousiest narrator is in many respects the boldest. Don't get me wrong I found this a worthwhile read not least because even at the very end of it the reader is left unsure who committed the original murder. show less

This book took me 13 years to finish.

Well, sort of. Back in 1998 when I bought it, I got about 2/3 of the way through before giving up. I don’t remember what the reason was exactly. It might have been my expectations – I framed this story as a mystery in my head (I think this is how it was marketed) and wasn’t prepared for the amount of atmospheric (non-mystery-solving) detail it has. Yes the reason that each person writes his part of the narrative is because someone is killed, but none of them is directly involved in trying to find out who and why. That’s probably what did it. That and the amount of political intrigue concerning the toppling of Cromwell’s Republic and the Restoration of the Monarchy. I didn’t know much show more about that and so trying to piece it all together was too much and a lot of the implications whizzed right by me.

This time around I had access to a robust internet and so could do some reading beforehand. It certainly helped. Also I readjusted my expectations of this book and read it more as a historical fiction piece rather than as a mystery. Having the murder take a back seat to each narrator’s own doings certainly made things easier. Now I’ve read it I’m glad I hung onto it even though I couldn’t get through it the first time. I do that with books that seem to have potential.

I certainly can see why I stopped where I did; Wallis is a repugnant person with a vicious little mind and a judgmental attitude. Bigoted Asshole about sums him up. I don’t know if that’s what he was actually like, but he made my flesh crawl and I had to force myself read his piece of the story. There is so much interconnected detail that I didn’t allow myself to skim for fear of missing something important and becoming lost later on. Of all four narrators, Wallis is the least sympathetic with Prescott coming in a close second. Cola was smarmy and always seemed to be trying to ingratiate himself into something and wasn’t so attractive either, but neither was he repulsive. Through the accounts from the others we learn that he is not what he seems, nor is he exactly what others think either. I love that kind of thing. Unreliable narrators don’t scare me off; I rather enjoy their twisted views. Our final narrator was a bit deluded, but likeable enough. Wood had to balance a precarious social position with his conscience and in any age, that’s difficult to do.

Mild spoilers -

No, none of the narrators had much sympathy from me. All of that was reserved for Sarah Blundy. Every time I read a novel set in a time where individuals could be trampled on, violated and taken advantage of with impunity I am even more thankful I’m a child of the later 20th century. In the end, I didn’t like what she became though; I could have done without the Christ-figure, thanks. Wasn’t her fate awful enough without that? But I guess once Pears got going with the religious aspect of the story he couldn’t resist going a few steps beyond. Maybe it’s the atheist in me, but I found the whole thing ridiculous. As Wood got through his tale and it started meshing with Prescott and Wallis’s I knew the ultimate solution would be something religious. It didn’t matter much to me though. I can’t work up a froth about the distinctions that made everyone so rabid back then. Catholic, Protestant, whatever, it’s all basically the same superstitious wankery to me and so even in the end, when intellectually I knew why everyone was freaking out, emotionally it had little effect. (And before anyone gets on me about it, yes I know the basic differences between C & P dogma – the Pope as God’s rep on earth, the transubstantiation etc, but I don’t care about them…they are stupid to me, but then again, all religion is). Ok, I’m letting it go.

As an inside look at the life and times though, I think it’s excellent. I loved how a man who insisted on quarterly baths is called fastidious. Descriptions of food, living conditions, clothing and most of all the “medical advances” of the day all made me cringe. Although in 400 years people of the future will probably cringe at our primitive surgical remedies and clumsy drug regimens that do not cure, but only mask symptoms. Still, to die like Anne Blundy did is intensely horrific. And I know that knowledge and enquiry had to start somewhere, but to not know what blood is and what it’s for is inconceivable. Ditto for needles, injections and transfusions. It’s hard to put oneself back into that darkly ignorant time. Same with political equality and jurisprudence. It all has to start somewhere, but it’s difficult to read about it with any serenity.

So approach this book as one about memory and the presentation of events; how they differ and how through omission and misdirection a narrator can manipulate the reader. Approach it with the understanding that there is no sleuth, no who-dunnit, no detection, but that the mystery will be revealed in pieces by each narrator and it will be up to you to frame the solution. Read it with curiosity about how English people struggled with being subjects and being citizens and the differences between the two. And of course, read it with the idea that religion ruled all and is the most powerful control mechanism ever devised. show less

* Note: Lots of spoilers in this review, so tread with caution.

Iain Pears digs deep into religion and science in this compelling period mystery set in Oxford, England in 1663. An Instance of the Fingerpost is the kind of lengthy, slow burn of a book that reveals itself only to the most observant and committed of readers, but with an explosive payoff that's well worth the wait. The book is lengthy, and the time period obscure for most contemporary readers, so be ready to jump in with a strong stomach and a clear mind.

The driving force of every mystery is to figure out what really happened. In An Instance of the Fingerpost that discovery is no easy feat. A murder has been committed, and someone, Sarah Blundy, is eventually accused, show more convicted, and executed. Pears gives us four different narrators, each with their own account of what took place, and it's up to us to weed out the delicate thread of truth from the mishmash of half-truths, contradictions, and misdirection.

Each chapter starts off with epigraphs taken from Francis Bacon's opus, Novum Organum Scientarum. The epigraphs serve as thematic signposts to hammer home the flawed thinking at work in each account:
- Idols of the Market (Marco da Cola - His account shows how language and description can color the facts; outright deception)
- Idols of the Cavern (Jack Prescott - His story shows how personal obsession, personal demons, and self-delusion can distort the truth; complete unreliability)
- Idols of the Theater (John Wallis - His version shows how the most precise, logical and science-based reasoning can still lead to the wrong conclusion; fallacies)
- Idols of the Tribe (Anthony Wood - His testimony reveals the supposedly inviolable explanation of what really happened, but it is also a greater meditation on the shaky foundations of truth in general).

The big reveals depend critically on the sequence of those accounts, as each narrator reveals new information that purposefully illuminates or obfuscates what has been said before. In other words, the four narrators each have had access to the testimony told before them: Prescott has read Cola's account when he gives his; Wallis has read Prescott's and Cola's; and Wood has read all three. This makes it easy to compare events and catch similarities and differences, though you may have to flip back and forth between chapters to compare versions.

Structurally the book's framework seems straightforward enough. The Rashomon-style whodunit is a common enough trope in literature, especially in mysteries, as is the use of unreliable narrators. But what makes the book so much more entertaining to read is that it's set solidly in England's Restoration period, one of the more interesting period settings I've encountered. Forget Game of Thrones, people! This is the real deal when it comes to vicious power struggles, political intrigue, and social unrest. I had to brush up on my English history as I was reading this. Not a necessary thing to do but it makes for a richer reading experience to have some basic knowledge of the historical figures who show up, and the context of the times to get a sense of what's at stake (clue: a sh*t-load). As I understand it, a Civil War has just come to a close. Oliver Cromwell, the rebel and "Lord Protector" is dead, his cronies vanquished. Charles II is back on the throne and the monarchy returned to power. But Restoration England is still a dangerously divided place with bitter hatreds and prejudices everywhere. There are the Royalists and Protestants on one side, pitted against everyone from radicals and Quakers, to Anabaptists and Catholics.

It is in this political moshpit that Pears sets up the murder, and so you can expect that the cast of characters to be embroiled in the various plots, schemes, and rivalries that reflect the precariousness of those post-Restoration years. Pears uses this real-life tumult to corrosive effect, not only to set the stage and tone but also to drive the plot. By the end of the last account, we see just how far up the chain a simple case of murder in the small town of Oxford goes, the ramifications of which reach as far up as the king himself.

This book reminded me so much of Eleanor Catton's Booker Prize-winning The Luminaries, and I wouldn't be surprised if Catton got a lot of her inspiration from Pears's book. On the surface, both novels explore a specific event through the viewpoints of various witnesses. But the deeper commonality is the exploration of the mystical; Catton takes her structure from the position of the stars, and hence that book's abstract, astrological framework; Pears draws more directly from the philosophy of logic, specifically Francis Bacon, though he also touches on mysticism and religion.

In fact, there is a strong religious/spiritual fixation in Pears's book. Key characters seem to be Christian figures or symbols:
- Sarah Blundy is obviously the Messiah figure. The various conspiracies and special interests that lead to her conviction makes her the 'sacrificial lamb' and the botched execution is her 'resurrection'; she is also depicted as a healer and visionary with special powers. Even her birth is similar to the Christ birth as her relation to Ned Blundy, her father, is called into question in the Wood account.
- Wallis is the Pontius Pilate figure; he knows that Sarah is innocent and still allows her to be taken to the gallows anyway because her death ensures a sense of order and justice in his mind.
- Prescott is probably the Judas figure as he betrays both Sarah and Grove and sets up a kind of murder-execution with the lies he tells and spreads.
- Wood is … well, I'm not sure who Wood would be. Keeping with the Christian framework, Wood is probably Peter, the rock of the church, or another apostle. Wood is the only one who truly loves and venerates Sarah in the book.

What does that say about Pears's stance on religion to include these Christian tropes in a book that examines the nature of truth? I wonder...

Overall, An Instance of the Fingerpost is a richly satisfying book. It's a heavy book—and I don't mean just physically. The historical realism of the setting—the oppressive attitudes of the time (especially toward women), the squalor, disease, early experiments in medicine are rendered in visceral, gross-out detail—is placed jarringly alongside weighty explorations of the Truth. You get the full spectrum in this book, from the gutter to the celestial. When I finished it, I literally sat back and stared at the wall for a few seconds. It's a book told in layers upon layers of deception, with Pears ever so slowly peeling back those layers, until we're finally left with the truth at the end…or are we? Well, I'd like to think so. show less

Absolutely amazing. On one level, this is a murder mystery. On another, it is a historical novel centered around Restoration England. On yet another level it is a postmodern exercise in memory. But on every level, it works and works well.

The story is told in 4 parts by 4 different narrators. The first, a Venetian gentleman and medical student, the next, a young man who wants to clear his father's name of treason, the next a cryptographer and professor, and the last narrator, the one who ties the whole story together, an archivist and quiet little Oxford researcher. And all while weaving the events of 17th century politics, medicine, religion, class structure, and gender roles into the story.

It sounds like this would be a heavy read, but show more it wasn't. I was mesmerized by the story and found myself thinking about it after I put the book down. I found myself doubting that the final narrator would be able to tie up all these loose ends. But at every stage, I loved how the next narrator would call into doubt the previous one(s) and how he would add his own interpretation. I admit that I was completely surprised by some of the revelations, and even after I learned the next 'truth', I went back over the rest of the story, looking for any clues that I might have missed. I loved the way each of the narrators had his own distinct voice, his own history.

I am really glad I picked this one up. Its size is pretty intimidating, but I went through it quickly. Highly recommended.

And now, I'm wondering if I want to start or look for another mini-challenge - books through time. I learned so much about 17th century England - the quick little reference to the fastidiousness of the character who insists on quarterly baths, the nonchalance with which lice on the sheets are regarded, the horrible justice system and jail conditions, the low status of any woman, regardless of her intelligence or family status. Just great. show less