The Three-Body Problem Read online

  My heart leapt with triumph and relief. Now I knew! I truly knew! I had only to rush back to England, as though on wings, and confront the judge with my discoveries!

  The King reached towards his little bell. I felt Emily tug at my dress, and turned to her. She wished urgently to speak, but felt too nervous.

  ‘What do you wish, my child?’ said the King, addressing an unexpected smile at the children, of whom he had not taken any notice hitherto.

  ‘Your Majesty, Miss Duncan will need proof to bring back to England and show the judge, in order to save Mr Weatherburn, please, Your Majesty!’ she burst out, all pink.

  He reflected for an instant.

  ‘You are right, child,’ he said. ‘Yet I am reluctant to render this thing public. Hold – I will write and seal a letter, to be opened and read uniquely by the judge, which you will transmit to him for me. What is his name?’

  ‘Mr Justice Penrose, my Lord – no, Your Majesty!’ I stammered.

  The King dipped his pen in the ink, took a beautifully embossed sheet of paper, and wrote a few sentences on it, while Emily, Robert and I tried to look elsewhere, and prevent our eyes from straying irresistibly towards the page. When he had finished, he said, ‘I have written that you came to see me with the belief that the person you named was the author of the manuscript received by Professor Mittag-Leffler, and that I personally confirm the correctness of your guess.’

  He folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope also embossed with his crest, and sealed it with a large and impressive seal in red wax. He addressed the envelope in his large, noble handwriting to ‘Mr Justice Penrose, Cambridge, England’ and handed it to me. He then shook each of our hands, saying to Emily, ‘You have been very helpful, my child.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Your Majesty, thank you for everything!’ she gasped.

  The King took up his silver paper-knife, and held it out to her, smiling.

  ‘You may have this,’ he said, ‘and keep it as a gift. So, you will always remember your friend, the King of Sweden. I wish you “Bon voyage”.’

  He pressed his bell, while we still sought to express our stammering thanks!

  The guard appeared, and we passed out, myself feeling weak in the knees and clutching the envelope tightly, Emily clinging to her paper-knife. We were taken to yet another antechamber, where the professor was waiting for us.

  ‘Your interview went well?’ he asked immediately.

  ‘Yes!’ I told him. ‘The King opened the envelope; he would not tell me what was in it, but bade me tell him, and then confirmed my guess. He wrote a letter to the judge,’ and I showed him the envelope.

  ‘You are very lucky,’ he told me. ‘Keep it carefully. I will now accompany you to send you on your return to England. I would like to purchase a small strongbox for you to carry this important letter back with you, for the risk of your losing it or having it stolen from you is too great.’

  I tried to remonstrate, but the professor had the situation well in hand. His carriage was brought, and we mounted; he told one of the footmen to descend, purchase the strongbox, and to meet us at the railway station. Thither we then drove, and the professor himself accompanied us to the counter, and oh, Dora – he bought and paid for our first-class tickets all the way to London, and wrote down on a piece of paper for me the name of the small ‘pension’ in Malmö where we are at this very moment! The footman arrived with the small, flat strongbox meant for holding papers, and the professor enclosed the King’s letter within it almost religiously, as well as Emily’s paper-knife, locked it up and gave me the key, enjoining me to hide it as well as humanly possible.

  ‘If only I had Rose’s petticoats!’ exclaimed Emily, as I tried to find a place to conceal the strongbox as well as the key.

  ‘Is there any other service I can render you before your departure?’ asked the professor.

  ‘Oh – we should send a telegram to my mother!’ said Emily. ‘We really ought to do it every day, poor Mother.’

  ‘I shall send it the moment you depart,’ he assured her with a smile. ‘Let us write the text of it out now, shall we?’ And taking out a bit of paper from his pocket – mathematicians seem never to be without these infinitely useful scraps – he penned a few words.

  ‘How does this sound? June 2nd, 1888: Emily and Robert met the King of Sweden this morning, they leave Stockholm for Malmö today, on their way to London.’

  ‘Noooo,’ said Emily, ‘why, she’ll never believe it – she’ll think we’ve gone mad on the way!’

  ‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘It is the simple truth! Oh, do let us rush. We must go as fast as we can; I think we can be there in three days.’

  ‘In three days – you will kill yourselves travelling so fast! It is hardly possible!’

  ‘We must do it – every day is fundamental! The jury may be deliberating at any moment. We must pray that Mr Haversham has enough witnesses, whoever they may be. We cannot delay at all!’

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Your courage is admirable. I wish you the very best of luck and success. Depart at once; I will telegraph immediately.’

  ‘Please – telegraph also the judge – Mr Justice Penrose, Courts of Justice, Cambridge! Tell him that I am coming with new evidence,’ I cried as we climbed on the train.

  How admirable are the Swedish people. One feels, in their calm and beautiful country, that miscarriages of justice could hardly exist, and that each and every person has the leisure and the wherewithal to smooth away every difficulty. But it cannot really be so. It must seem so only because I hobnob with a social class which includes kings, and travel in luxurious first-class carriages which look more like small sitting rooms than trains.

  My dear, I am so filled with renewed hope, which bubbles up inside me like rising yeast, that I sometimes nearly forget that Arthur is still in grave danger, and that I may even now be too late. I pray constantly, and feel that your prayers are joined to mine.

  Goodnight,

  Your loving Vanessa

  Ostend, Tuesday, June 5th, 1888

  Oh, Dora, help!

  I am writing to you from Brussels – we arrived here last night. If only we could have travelled faster! I would have willingly travelled all night, but the trains do not run in the night time. Still, I believed that all was not lost, that we were arriving as hastily as humanly possible, and that at this very moment – it is early in the morning yet – we would be on a boat sailing to Dover, and thence to London, and to Cambridge before the afternoon! All my plans are dashed, and we are prisoners here in the port of Ostend, for a great storm lashed up in the Channel overnight, and the boats cannot sail. Oh, what does it all mean? Can it be a judgement upon us? No, I must not give way to despair. The boats are ready, and we must only wait for the storm to subside.

  It stormed wildly all night, with rolling thunder and cracking lightning, so that Robert could not sleep, and huddled shivering in my arms. I held his fragile little body close, and we comforted each other. The morning seemed endless in coming, although we did eventually sleep a little. I wish I had awoken to a fresh, rain-washed sky, but such was not the case, for it is still raining extremely violently, although the thunder has stopped, but the waves are crashing onto the shore, and I can imagine that crossing would be desperately dangerous and frightening. There is nothing to do but wait, and pray. I have taken the children to a café, where we are trying to beguile the dreadful hours with coffee and chocolate, cream and croissants. The children are as impatient as I am; Robert is very tired, and Emily very anxious to return to her mother and, above all, afraid of her mother’s reaction to the newcomer.

  ‘I shall tell her that if she tries to send him away, even to boarding school, I shall run away again,’ she began firmly.

  ‘No, Emily, do not say that,’ I quickly interposed. ‘You must use your close and tender relations with your mother to persuade her, not threats.’

  ‘Maybe you are right,’ she mused. ‘Mother often listens to me. But not always. Sh
e refused to send for Robert for nearly two whole months. Oh, what shall I do if she refuses now! I can’t understand why she should. How, how can anyone want to send away a darling little orphan boy?’

  I tried to imagine how Mrs Burke-Jones might feel about the little boy who was the fruit of her husband’s disastrous and forbidden relations with the mistress whom he loved more tenderly than his wife, and to concoct some explanation of these things which could touch Emily without blackening her bright vision of the world. She listened carefully, but still insisted that the little boy was not to blame, and should not be punished.

  ‘Feelings are very strong, and not always just,’ I told her. But as her eyes began to fill with tears, I hastened to add, ‘I do not want to make you believe that your mother will do what you most fear. Please be patient until you see her, and even when you are talking it over with her, remain patient, not passionate.’

  ‘Then you must remain patient as well,’ she smiled. ‘And perhaps you will not have to for too long, as I believe that the rain is lightening up somewhat.’

  It is lightening a little, though still coming down hard, so I shall seal up this short letter, and we shall all hasten back to the port to see when the boats may leave. The day at court begins at nine o’clock and closes at five; if the boat does not leave until midday, then I may arrive too late!

  God help me,

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Wednesday, June 6th, 1888

  My dear, dear Dora,

  For the first time in weeks, I write to you with peaceful feelings – even though I do feel somewhat numbed and scarred by all that has happened!

  Yesterday, the weather finally becalmed itself, and the boats were able to leave towards midday. How long the journey to Cambridge appeared, how dreadfully, painfully endless, as the excruciatingly slow boat trip was followed by the wait for a train to London and then another to Cambridge. I would have sent a telegram saying that I was on my way, but I did not know whom to send it to, for I doubted that anyone would be at home.

  One point of light – who should be waiting for us when we descended from the boat, but Mrs Burke-Jones! She swarmed towards us with uncontrolled emotion and gathered us all three in her arms; tears rolled down her face as she kissed her daughter and told her in confused snatches how desperately worried she had been. She had been waiting for the boats from the mainland since early this morning, and had spent hours of agony as the storm continued, and then of worry as several boats arrived at nearly the same time and she feared to miss us. The dear lady – I saw that she had gone through her inward struggle during our absence, and that she had determined to behave to little Robert quite exactly as though his arrival was an arranged and expected event; she hugged and kissed him, and swung him up into the railway carriage with the practised gesture of long years of motherhood. She was remarkable – she treated him quite exactly as though he were her own little boy, not a precious, newly found one, but one whom she saw every day and whose presence was a simple, natural, necessary, tender fact. She did not go out of her way to make his acquaintance by asking questions, but got to the point immediately, admired his locomotive, produced a basket of delicious things to eat, and – oh joy in the midst of my fears – produced first-class tickets to Cambridge for us all!

  Thus, though the trip seemed long and weary, it at least passed in comfort and the joy of reunion. Although I was not sure if Mrs Burke-Jones had been following Arthur’s trial, I hastened to ask her if she had any news of it, and if Mr Morrison had received my telegram and been able to act on it.

  ‘For you know that I have been to Belgium and Stockholm to collect evidence to defend him, and I must rush to the court immediately, to present it to the judge,’ I explained.

  She stared at me, and then looked at her watch. ‘My dear child,’ she said in dismay, ‘in my fear for the children, I had completely forgotten. Look at the time – I am afraid you are in danger of finding the trial over and the prisoner condemned!’

  ‘Wha-at?’ I cried, my worst fears realised.

  ‘Charles has told me that the last witnesses were questioned yesterday, and that when the judge received your telegram, he read it, and then announced to the court that the closing statements of the counsels should begin this morning, and that if no further evidence had come to light by five o’clock in the afternoon, the jury would be sent to deliberate. I do not know how long their statements will be, but if they conclude and the jury is sent out, everybody believes that they will not remain over a few minutes. Mr Haversham has tried hard, but his line of defence collapsed completely with the evidence of the two ladies from London, and since then, he has not really rallied, although he has produced a great many witnesses to all kinds of complicated details which do not prove anything. I believe he is simply trying to gain time in the hopes of your return. At any rate, you can count on him to spin out his closing speech as long as is humanly possible!’

  I felt faint with dismay, and leaning back in my seat, I closed my eyes, trying to recapture my spirits. Emily, meantime, longed to talk to her mother, but hesitated, for lack of privacy and for fear perhaps of what she might hear. As I fell silent, she began to chat of this and that, as though seeking for a port of entry. Finally, she asked, ‘How is Edmund, Mother? Is he better?’

  ‘He is better now, dear,’ her mother replied softly. ‘But when you were away, he was terribly ill. He was feverish and delirious. Even the doctor was afraid. He could not give Edmund anything that would soothe him, and finally, he came to me, and told me that Edmund’s illness was a nervous one, and that it stemmed from fear. He asked me what it was that Edmund feared so strongly that in order to avoid it, he would make himself ill for weeks on end.’

  ‘Oh, Mother – you know what it is,’ began Emily.

  ‘Yes, I know now. I knew it before, dear, because you told me time and again. But you never told me all that Edmund told you. And perhaps if you had, I should have been unable to believe it. I remained in his room for days, Emily, and I know now that he cries in his sleep, and talks of his school in his delirium.’

  ‘So you will not send him back? Have you told him?’

  ‘Naturally, as soon as the doctor asked me the question, I realised what he meant, and told him that I believed Edmund feared being sent back to school. He told me that if I wished him to become well again, I should begin, at that very instant, to assure him again and again that he would never be sent to another boarding school. “And mind that it is true, madam,” he told me, “for another relapse of this kind, which may be due to the absence of the sister on whose protection he relied, may well be fatal.”’

  ‘So you told him, and he is better?’

  ‘Yes, he is better, though still pale and weak, and eagerly waiting for your return, Emily, and for the arrival of Robert. And in fact, I thought … I had an idea, Miss Duncan, about these two little boys, which I hardly dare submit to you.’

  ‘Whatever can it be?’ I enquired, surprised to be addressed in the midst of this private family discussion.

  ‘You are a daring and audacious young woman, Miss Duncan, and thanks to people like you, times will change, and received ideas will be modified,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if you have ever asked yourself why little girls and boys must be educated separately and differently?’

  ‘No, I have not asked myself the question exactly,’ I admitted, ‘I simply contented myself with finding the idea foolish and rather a pity.’

  ‘Do you?’ she asked eagerly. ‘And what would you think of completing your class with the addition of two small boys?’

  I laughed.

  ‘For myself, I would be simply delighted,’ I told her. ‘I am quite ready to undertake it. I only hope I will not lose all my other students because of it.’

  ‘I will talk with the other mothers myself,’ she said. ‘If I find any that are set against the idea, we will see what course to follow. But I am quite ready to believe that a certain number of them will be eager to follow m
y example, and enrol the brothers of their daughters in the school, at least those below a certain age.’

  I must admit, Dora, that the prospect enchanted me. A whole class of little boys and girls together – it appeared to me so natural, yet so modern, as to suit my tastes entirely. I teased little Robert.

  ‘You shall come to me for lessons in the afternoon, then, Robert, perhaps, shall you? You know, I do not teach French in my class, because I do not speak it. But now you can replace me, and teach the other children, and I can offer French lessons. I shall become rich!’

  ‘Before you become too enthusiastic,’ Mrs Burke-Jones told me, ‘I would like to make you aware that even if some of the mothers of your present pupils agree to the arrangement, there is still a risk that you find yourself considered as engaged in a scandalous project by the community at large. You must reflect carefully what your position in such a situation would be. It might even be – I am envisaging the worst possible situation – that your landlady would refuse to keep such a school within her rooms. In that case, I would gladly offer you to open it in my house.’

  ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, that would be wonderful!’ shouted Emily.

  ‘Now, Emily,’ said her mother, ‘it is not for us to decide. We must see how things turn out.’

  I felt more and more inclined to follow my heart, and be daring, and risk scandal.

  ‘I can hardly provoke more scandal than by what I am about to do at this very moment,’ I mused, trying to envision my arrival at court.

  It was not far short of five o’clock already. But we were in the train to Cambridge, and it was rolling along swiftly through the green countryside. I looked at my watch for the thousandth time.

  ‘It may not be too late,’ I said.

  ‘It depends on the closing statements,’ she said. ‘If, as I imagine, Mr Haversham draws out his closing statement until the utmost limit of five o’clock, then that is when the jury will be sent to deliberate. It is very close to five o’clock now. There is nothing to do but be patient; we shall get a cab to take you to the court the very moment we set foot in Cambridge.’