An Instance Of The Fingerpost by Iain PearsAn Instance Of The Fingerpost by Iain Pears

An Instance Of The Fingerpost

byIain Pears

Paperback | October 1, 1998

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We are in Oxford in the 1660s - a time, and place, of great intellectual, scientific, religious and political ferment. Robert Grove, a fellow of New College is found dead in suspicious circumstances. A young woman is accused of his murder. We hear about the events surrounding his death from four witnesses: Marco da Cola, a Venetian Catholic intent on claiming credit for the invention of blood transfusion; Jack Prescott, the son of a supposed traitor to the Royalist cause determined to vindicate his father; John Wallis, chief cryptographer to both Cromwell and Charles II, a mathematician, theologican and inveterate plotter; and Anthony Wood, the famous Oxford antiquary. Each witness tells their version of what happened. Only one reveals the extraordinary truth.

An Instance of the Fingerpost is a magnificent tour de force: an utterly compelling historical mystery story with a plot that twists and turns and keeps the reader guessing until the very last page.
Iain Pears was born in 1955. Educated at Wadham College, Oxford, he has worked as a journalist, an art historian and television consultant. He is the author of six highly praised detective novels, which include The Raphael Affair, The Bernini Bust and An Instance of the Fingerpost. He has also written a book of art history and countles...
Title:An Instance Of The FingerpostFormat:PaperbackDimensions:704 pages, 7.76 × 5.07 × 1.47 inPublished:October 1, 1998Publisher:Random House UKLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:009975181X

ISBN - 13:9780099751816


Rated 5 out of 5 by from Restoration Mystery Iain Pears: An Instance of the Fingerpost. I have read this book before, soon after it was first published, but I knew that I would have to get back to it one day, in order to absorb all the richness and information of this historical detective story. It takes place in Oxford and London at the time of the Restoration in the second half of the 17th century. The book consists of four parts, narrated by four different people, regarding the same event when an unknown Italian student came to Oxford, an academician was murdered, and an innocent young woman was hanged for the deed. Almost all the characters are historical, and those few who are not have been re-created on the basis of other historical persons, or events. As we read the narratives on and on, we can see that all is different than what it seemed. This is almost a perfect book. Exciting, educated, informative. Only towards the end did there seem to be less attention to the language, probably because of the excitement of the final revelations. I liked it even better than the first time, all those (almost 700) pages of it.
Date published: 2015-11-22
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A Novel To Read and Reread!! Set in 1663, An Instance of the Fingerpost is a murder mystery of an Oxford fellow who was poisoned. It is written from the point of view of four different characters. The first two characters are fictional, Marco da Cola and Jack Prescott, but the last two are actual historical figures, John Wallis, an English mathematician and Anthony Wood, an English antiquary. Each narrator tells his own version of what happened and each of them comments on and corrects the stories of the other narrators. There is no police to solve the mystery. Instead, we, the readers must act as detective, to find out who is lying and who is telling the truth.
Date published: 2009-09-08
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A Must Read. This book is often compared to The Name of the Rose . Having read both,I highly recommend An Instance of the Fingerpost ! I think it just may be the best book I have ever read. I am not one for brain candy. I enjoy a good story that keeps you coming back for more, if indeed you can put it down at all. I also enjoy a book that has something of interest to teach/inform the reader. This novel has both. First there's the fictional story which changes with every telling, to keep you guessing until the end as to exactly what did happen.As well the author, takes us back to the 1660's & really shows us what the world was like then (better than any history book). It also emphasizes again & again, how many truly different versions of an event there can be & how important it is to not only hear all the versions but also to know the background & agenda of each witness . This book is both enjoyable & stimulating. If your interests are like mine, you certainly won't be disappointed.
Date published: 2003-08-01
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Is the mystery really the one on the page? A librarian friend recommended this book and I was skeptical because he reads "thinking man's novels" and people compared it to "The Name of the Rose" (a book that was too gory & confusing) I borrowed the cassette version. After listening to a tape a day, eventually the pieces fit and I bought the book. The plot claims to be the recollections by four men of the death of a fellow of Oxford University, Dr. Grove, in 1663. I think the author's true mystery is not about the murder but why does each man believe he alone knows the truth and the others are misguided, dangerous or insignificant. Is Signor Cola the person he says he is, and if not, is his story false? Does Mr. Prescott's story of possession and persecution true or false? Has Dr. Wallis uncovered anothers sinister doings or covered up his own? Is Mr. Wood telling the truth at last or protecting someone's reputation. Is the truth of each man based on fact or his own beliefs? And should we believe the true version is the fourth account, since traditionally it's at the end of a book the secrets are revealed?
Date published: 2000-03-30
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Points of View This book creatively explores several intertwined mysteries set in post-Cromwellian England. It is packed with ideas and strange twists and I recommend it highly.
Date published: 1998-12-14

Read from the Book

Marco da Cola, gentleman of Venice, respectfully presents his greetings. I wish to recount the journey which I made to England in the year 1663, the events which I witnessed and the people I met, these being, I hope, of some interest to those concerned with curiosity. Equally, I intend my account to expose the lies told by those whom I once numbered, wrongly, amongst my friends. I do not intend to pen a lengthy self-justification, or tell in detail how I was deceived and cheated out of renown which should rightfully be mine. My recital, I believe, will speak for itself.I will leave out much, but nothing of significance. A large part of my tour around that country was of interest only to myself, and finds no mention here. Many of those I met, similarly, were of little consequence. Those who in later years did me harm I describe as I knew them then, and I beg any reader to remember that, although I was hardly callow, I was not yet wise in the ways of the world. If my narrative appears simple and foolish, then you must conclude that the young man of so many years past was similarly so. I do not go back to my portrait to add extra layers of tint and varnish to cover my errors or the weakness of my draughtsmanship. I will make no accusations, and indulge in no polemic against others; rather, I will say what happened, confident that I need do no more.My father, Giovanni da Cola, was a merchant, and for the last years of his life was occupied in the importation of luxury goods into England which, though an unsophisticated country, was none the less beginning to rouse itself from the effects of revolution. He had shrewdly recognised from afar that the return of King Charles II meant that vast profits would once again be there for the taking and, stealing a march on more timid traders, he established himself in London to provide the wealthier English with those luxuries which the Puritan zealots had discouraged for so many years. His business prospered: he had a good man in London in Giovanni di Pietro, and also entered into a partnership with an English trader, with whom he split his profit. As he once told me, it was a fair bargain: this John Manston was sly and dishonest, but possessed unrivalled knowledge of English tastes. More importantly, the English had passed a law to stop goods coming into their ports in foreign boats, and Manston was a way through this difficulty. As long as my father had di Pietro in place to keep an eye firmly on the accounts, he believed there was little chance of being cheated.He was long past the time when he took a direct interest in his business, having already converted a portion of his capital into land on terra firma to prepare for admission to the Golden Book. Although a merchant himself, he intended his children to be gentlemen, and discouraged me from active participation in his business. I mention this as an indication of his goodness: he had noticed early on that I had little mind for trade, and encouraged me to turn my face against the life he led. He also knew that my sister's new husband was more fitted for ventures than I.So, while my father secured the family name and fortune, I - my mother being dead and one sister usefully married - was in Padua to acquire the smatterings of polite knowledge; he was content to have his son a member of our nobility but did not wish to have me as ignorant as they. At this point and of mature years - I was now rising thirty - I was suddenly struck by a burning enthusiasm to become a citizen of the Republic of Learning, as it is called. This sudden passion I can no longer recall, so completely has it left me, but then the fascination of the new experimental philosophy held me under its spell. It was, of course, a matter of the spirit rather than of practical application. I say with Beroaldus, non sum medicus, nec medicinae prorsus expers: in the theory of physic I have taken some pains, not with an intent to practise, but to satisfy myself. I had neither desire nor need to gain a living in such a fashion, although occasionally, I confess with shame, I taunted my poor, good father by saying that unless he was kind to me, I would take my revenge by becoming a physician.I imagine that he knew all along I would do no such thing, and that in reality I was merely captivated by ideas and people as exciting as they were dangerous. As a result, he raised no objections when I wrote to him about the reports of one professor who, though nominally charged with lecturing in rhetoric, spent much of his time enlarging upon the latest developments in natural philosophy. This man had travelled widely and maintained that, for all serious students of natural phenomena, the Low Countries and England were no longer to be disdained. After many months in his care, I caught his enthusiasm and, having little to detain me in Padua, requested permission to tour that part of the world. Kind man that he was, my father immediately gave his assent, procured permission for me to leave Venetian territory, and sent a bill of credit to his bankers in Flanders for my use.I had thought of taking advantage of my position to go by sea, but decided that, if I was to acquire knowledge, then it would be best to see as much as possible and this was better done in a coach than by spending three weeks in a ship drinking with the crew. I must add that I also suffer abominably from sea-sickness - which weakness I have always been loath to admit, for although Gomesius says it cures sadness of spirit, I have never found it to be the case. Even so, my courage weakened, then evaporated almost entirely, as the journey progressed. The journey to Leiden took only nine weeks, but the sufferings I endured quite took my mind off the sights I was viewing. Once, stuck in the mud half-way through an Alpine pass, the rain coming down in torrents, one horse sick, myself with a fever and a violent-looking soldier as my only companion, I thought that I would rather suffer the worst gale in the Atlantic than such misery.But it would have been as long to go back as to continue, and I was mindful of the scorn in which I would be held if I returned, shamefaced and weak, to my native town. Shame, I do believe, is the most powerful emotion known to man; most discoveries and journeys of importance have been accomplished because of the ignominy that would be the result if the attempt was abandoned. So, sick for the warmth and comfort of my native land - the English have the word nostalgia for this illness, which they believe is due to the imbalance caused by an unfamiliar environment - I continued on my way, ill tempered and miserable, until I reached Leiden, where I attended the school of medicine as a gentleman.So much has been written about this seat of learning, and it has so little to do with my recital, that it suffices to say that I found and profited greatly from two professors of singular ability who lectured on anatomy and bodily economy. I also travelled throughout the Low Countries and fell into good company, much of which was English and from whom I learnt something of the language. I left for the simple reason that my kind father ordered me so to do and for no other reason. There was some disarray in the London office, a letter told me, and he needed family to intervene: no one else could be trusted. Although I had little practical knowledge of trade, I was glad to be the obedient son, so discharged my servant, organised my affairs, and shipped from Antwerp to investigate. I arrived in London on March 22nd, 1663 with only a few pounds left, the sum I paid to one professor for his teaching having all but exhausted my funds. But I was not concerned, for I thought that all I needed to do was make the short journey from the river to the office maintained by my father's agent, and all would be well. Fool that I was. I could not find di Pietro, and that wretched man John Manston would not even receive me. He is now long since dead; I pray for his soul, and hope the good Lord disregards my entreaties on his behalf, knowing as I do that the longer he suffers fiery torment, the more just his punishment will be.I had to beg a mere servant for information, and this lad told me that my father's agent had died suddenly some weeks previously. Even worse, Manston had moved swiftly to take all the fortune and business for his own, and refused to admit that any had belonged to my father. Before lawyers he had produced documents (forged, naturally) to prove this assertion. He had, in other words, entirely defrauded my family of our money - that part of it which was in England, at least.This boy was, unfortunately, at a loss about how I should proceed. I could lay a complaint before a magistrate, but with no evidence except my own convictions this seemed fruitless. I could also consult a lawyer but, if England and Venice differ in many ways, they are alike in one, which is that lawyers have an insatiable love of money, and that was a commodity I did not possess in sufficient quantity.It also rapidly became clear that London was not a healthy place. I do not mean the famous plague, which had not yet afflicted the city; I mean that Manston, that very evening, sent round hired hands to demonstrate that my life would be more secure elsewhere. Fortunately, they did not kill me; indeed, I acquitted myself well in the brawl thanks to the fees my father had paid to my fencing master, and I believe at least one bravo left the field in a worse state than I. But I took the warning none the less and decided to stay out of the way until my course was clearer. I will mention little more of this matter except to say that eventually I abandoned the quest for recompense, and my father decided that the costs involved were not worth the money lost. The matter was reluctantly forgotten for two years, when we heard that one of Manston's boats had put into Trieste to sit out a storm. My family moved to have it seized - Venetian justice being as favourable to Venetians as English law is to Englishmen - and the hull and cargo provided some compensation for our losses.To have had my father's permission to leave instantly would have raised my spirits immeasurably, for the weather in London was enough to reduce the strongest man to the most wretched despair. The fog, the incessant, debilitating drizzle, and the dull bitter cold as the wind swept through my thin cloak reduced me to the lowest state of despondency. Only duty to my family forced me to continue rather than going to the docks and begging for a passage back home. Instead of taking this sensible course, however, I wrote to my father informing him of developments and promising to do what I could, but pointed out that until I was re-armed from his coffers there was little I might practically accomplish. I had, I realised, many weeks to fill in before he could respond. And about five pounds to survive on.The professor under whom I had studied in Leiden had most kindly given me letters to two gentlemen with whom he had corresponded, and, these being my only contacts with Englishmen, I decided that my best course would be to throw myself on their mercy. An additional attraction was that neither was in London, so I picked the man who lived in Oxford, that being the closest, and decided to leave as swiftly as possible.The English seem to have strong suspicion of people moving around, and go out of their way to make travel as difficult as possible. According to the piece of paper pasted up where I waited for the coach, the sixty-mile trip to Oxford would take eighteen hours - God Willing, as it added piously. The Almighty, alas, was not willing that day; rain had made much of the road disappear, so the coachman had to navigate his way through what seemed very like a ploughed field. A wheel came off a few hours later, tipping my chest on the ground and damaging the lid and, just outside a mean little town called Thame, one of the horses broke a leg and had to be dispatched. Add to that the frequent stops at almost every inn in southern England (the innkeepers bribe the drivers to halt) and the journey took a total of twenty-five hours, with myself ejected into the courtyard of an inn in the main street of the city of Oxford at seven o'clock in the morning.

Bookclub Guide

1. The death of Dr. Robert Grove is the focal point for each of the four witness's narrative. Grove is not a likeable character and no one seems to grieve for him after his death. Why does Iain Pears choose such a man's death to be investigated so thoroughly?2. The structure of the novel, where the author recounts events through the eyes of four witnesses, who all differ in character, perception, backgrounds and opinion, is interesting in many ways. What do you consider to be the author's purpose in presenting the book in this way, and what extra element does each witness bring to the novel as a whole?3. A large part of the novel is developed from the author's use of historical events. Consider the historical events and the fictional plot both as separate entities and then as a whole. Does the historical intrigue add to the strength of the novel?4. The description and discussions of medical matters in the book hold much fascination for the reader. The debate about blood circulation and the description of the procedure of transfusion is exciting if unnerving. Think about the other experiments in the novel, the autopsies, the vivisection and other scientific activities that take place. What do they contribute to the novel?5. Sarah Blundy is the only fully drawn female character in a novel crowded with men. However, we only ever hear about her through the description of male protagonists. Is Sarah Blundy a strongly drawn character in her own right or merely a clever plot device?