The Three-Body Problem Page 8

  In a word – another mathematician has been murdered. It happened yesterday, and the victim is poor Mr Beddoes, whom I have mentioned to you quite frequently. He was killed exactly like Mr Akers; by a violent blow to the head, only this time, it happened in the garden just in front of his house. He was discovered by his poor wife; as she found him late returning home, she opened the front door and leant out to look down the street, and in the darkness saw his huddled form lying near the garden gate.

  But that is not the worst. The worst is so very dreadful that I must force myself to remember it, and prevent myself from rushing to bury my head underneath my pillow, hoping that it is all a bad dream.

  It is that when poor Mr Beddoes was struck down, he was returning from having dined out with no other than – once again – my very own poor friend Mr Weatherburn.

  Oh, Dora, it is not possible! He cannot, cannot be secretly mad, and in the habit of murdering his dinner companions. No, that sounds funny, and I feel anything but humorous. But then, how can he have such horrid luck? As soon as Mrs Beddoes had called the police, they came to our house, and although it was very late and everybody had already retired, they knocked loudly upon the door, and Mrs Fitzwilliam was obliged to rise and unbar it for them. I opened my door a crack, and peered out. Mrs Fitzwilliam was very angry, but the police paid no attention, and ordered her to go up and fetch down Mr Weatherburn immediately. He was still up, and came down at once, upon which they squarely told him, ‘You are under arrest for the murder of Philip Beddoes, Don at Cambridge University.’

  I never saw a man so amazed. It must have been extremely startling, if he had only just left Mr Beddoes, fully alive and probably cheerful and well-fed. He turned pale and stepped back, stammering incoherently – ‘B-b-b-but that’s im-im-impossible. I only just left him – why, he was in the p-p-pink of health!’

  ‘Health has nothing to do with it, sir,’ said the officer. ‘The man was murdered. We will trouble you to come along with us, please.’

  I rushed out into the hallway, although I was rather indecently clad in my nightdress, with my hair all down my back. The police ignored me, and Mrs Fitzwilliam hustled me back into my room. Still, as the police marched him firmly away, Arthur looked back at me, and our eyes met for one blessed moment. He knows I do not believe a word of it.

  I returned to my bed, but could not sleep a wink. I feel as though all happiness and tranquillity have fled forever. All of today I have tormented myself, seeking some issue, some possible action, anything at all to keep from sinking into a state of passive despair. If only, only there were some positive action I could take. Dare I try to visit Arthur in prison? How does one visit a prisoner? Tomorrow morning, I shall waste no time in finding out. Arthur may not be at all pleased – I can well imagine it, but I cannot live in such painful and immobile suspense!

  Your loving but desperate sister

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Wednesday, May 2nd, 1888

  Dearest Dora,

  I have done it. It was very strange – I never thought to find myself in such an odd position – visiting a prisoner!

  But I cannot yet realise that Arthur is really a prisoner, and neither can he. He thinks it is a foolish mistake that will not fail to be put right in the coming day or two. Nevertheless, this morning’s experience falls so far outside of the range of anything I have lived through hitherto, that it will certainly remain etched on my mind for the rest of my life.

  Let me recount it to you from the beginning. I arose early, made tea (but could eat nothing), put on my best hat and betook myself to St Andrew’s Street; I knew, from having shopped there often enough, that a large police station was located at number 44. Before reaching it, I passed the very store where I had purchased the hat, in a happier moment. I have often stopped to contemplate the pleasing display at Robert Sayle’s, and I could not resist a glance at it now. Famous for his travels to the Orient, his shop window contains Chinese silks worthy of the most romantic dreams. For a few moments, I allowed my mind to be invaded by a vision of beauty mingling sunsets, gardens and many-hued raw silk. Then a horrible image of bars and chains obtruded itself upon my brain. I hurried on, and turned into the police station, an enormous square building, impressive but excessively heavy in its conception. I felt a little foolish and inconsequent in such a place, but I addressed the officer on duty firmly, quite as if this were not the case.

  ‘I should like to ask you how I may go about visiting a prisoner who was arrested last night,’ I said.

  He did not appear to perceive anything amiss with my request, and simply and stolidly enquired the name of the said prisoner, after which he informed me that he had been detained in police cells for the night, located in the very building where I found myself, and that he was still there, awaiting the van which would transport him to the Castle Hill Gaol.

  What could they possibly have against Arthur? He is innocent, and dining with murder victims, even unluckily twice in a row, cannot possibly constitute a real basis for accusation. Well – I suppose they must needs do it, and that I should feel reassured that British justice follows a carefully weighed and balanced process intended to avoid haste and foolish error.

  The officer showed me to a room behind the one over which he presided to receive members of the public, and I sat down and waited. Eventually Arthur was shown in by another officer. He did not seem overly pleased to see me.

  ‘You should not c-come here,’ he began, ‘it is no place for—’

  I cut him short rather firmly. I admit that I had expected such comments and previously rehearsed my reply – it came out rather stiffly as a consequence.

  ‘Arthur,’ I said (it was the first time, I believe, that I used his Christian name aloud), ‘please, please do understand that no displeasure occasioned by outer circumstances, however dreadful, can compare remotely with the suffering of being forced to stand by, passively and in ignorance, when another person is in danger. If you want to protect me from anything at all, then let it at least be from that which is causing me unbearable torment, and not from mere outward circumstances which cannot possibly touch me!’

  He understood what I meant perfectly. His attitude changed, and he took a chair, and leant towards me, looking into my eyes seriously, unfettered by the discreet but stolid presence of the officer near the doorway.

  ‘Do not t-torment yourself,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure there is no need. It is all a great mistake, and will surely be put right very soon. I can hardly blame the police for making this error; after all, I was rather unluckily placed! But they will not pursue it, I suppose. The true murderer can hardly hope to hide for long.’

  ‘Have the police already questioned you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, for hours!’

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  ‘A hundred times the same questions – what were my relations with Akers and Beddoes, why did I dine with them, and so on and so forth. And whether I had hit them over the head with heavy instruments. I grew quite t-tired of replying, always in the same manner, to the fifty different versions of that last question they continued to fling at me. I kept telling them that I dined with Mr Akers, accompanied him back to his rooms at St John’s, bid him goodnight below, saw him begin to mount the stairs, and departed. I dined with Mr Beddoes, walked back to his house with him, bid him goodnight at the gate of his garden, and departed. I realise that it may appear amazing to the point of being positively suspicious, but the fact remains that I heard nothing of any murder in either case!’

  ‘Did they ask you what you had talked about over the two dinners?’

  ‘They pressed me only to admit that there had been quarrels.’

  ‘Were there quarrels?’

  ‘Of c-course not! Akers told me that he had had a brilliant idea about a solution to the n-body problem; he almost could not contain himself for pleasure at its elegance and beauty. But after barely mentioning it, and scribbling a formula onto a scrap of paper, he thrust it away
in his pocket, and abruptly changed the subject. For the rest, we talked of other things.’

  ‘I remember you said that he seemed concerned with Mr Crawford’s reaction,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, that is true,’ he answered, ‘now that I cast my mind back to that evening. He did speak of Crawford – said that his new discovery would be a shocking revelation to him. But he also enjoined me not to mention anything of it to him directly. I believe he wished to complete his work before springing it onto the only other local expert in the field.’

  ‘Mr Crawford is an expert on the same problem – the n-body problem?’

  ‘I suppose so, at least as far as Cantabrigians are concerned,’ he amended. ‘England holds no experts like the French and Germans, on these subjects. Anyway, the police then expressed suspicion about why I should walk home with him, as it is not on my way. I told them that I found the colleges extraordinarily beautiful, and it was a crisp, moonlit night, and it is not so very far out of my way, and that I greatly felt the need of a walk after our copious dinner; I always do.’

  ‘How did you come to dine with him at all, Arthur? Everybody seems to have considered him a highly unpleasant sort of fellow.’

  ‘Yes, Akers was not well-liked, he was very concerned with himself and his reputation, and his tongue was acid enough. But he never angered me; I thought it was rather amusing, even, at times. He seemed to get along well enough with me; it was he who invited me to dine, on the very same day. I came across him in the mathematics library, actually, and he seemed all pleased and hugging himself, and he said something like “Ah, Weatherburn, Weatherburn, lovely day isn’t it, heh, heh.” And I said “You seem in a very good mood,” and he said “I certainly am, got reason to be, heh, heh, heh. Let’s dine tonight, what do you say? Meet at eight for dinner at the Irish pub?” And I said “Why not?” and that was it. It’s a nice place; leather booths where one can discuss mathematics and even get out paper and write things down if one wants to, without the people at the neighbouring tables thinking one is quite mad. The police even wanted to know what we ate! I had to tell them that we started with whisky, and then we ordered wine. Akers asked for water as well, as he had to take some medicine or other. Then we had Irish stew. It was quite succulent. I can’t think what they were after, though; perhaps proving I was drunk?’

  ‘Dear me,’ I said. ‘It all sounds so pleasant and ordinary. One simply cannot realise that poor Mr Akers died just immediately after it.’

  ‘No, I know! I c-c-cannot grasp it myself! And why should I be dining with them always just before? What does it all mean?’

  ‘Well, how did you come to be dining with Mr Beddoes, then?’ I wondered.

  ‘Oh, the police went into that endlessly. Why, it wasn’t even Beddoes who asked me at all. It was Crawford. He said why not make up a threesome to dine the following night.’

  ‘Really?!’ I exclaimed, struck by this piece of information. ‘But did he not come, then?’

  ‘No, in the late afternoon, he left me a message to say he felt unwell, and shouldn’t be able to make it in the evening, and that we two should go anyway and enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘So that is how you came to dine with Mr Beddoes, and find yourself in such a dreadfully compromising position,’ I said, my mind racing. ‘I remember now that at the garden party following Professor Cayley’s lecture, Mr Crawford said to Mr Beddoes that he wanted to dine with him soon.’

  ‘Yes, the police got quite excited about this idea of Crawford being involved, I don’t know why. They asked me where we were when Crawford spoke, who might have heard us, and so on and so forth. I suppose it might just possibly be an indication of my innocence, although really, I can hardly follow the reasoning; it all seems so absurd. After all, I suppose I might just as well have suddenly decided to murder my dinner partner, no matter who actually proposed having dinner together.’

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed suddenly. ‘Perhaps I see what it means – maybe they are not so much thinking about you, but about Mr Crawford! Is that conceivable? Could Mr Crawford have done it on purpose?’

  ‘Poor C-Crawford – I suppose he could replace me as a suspect,’ he smiled, ‘but it seems just as ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it does to you. But that must be what the police are thinking. I expect they will go to see him – and if they don’t, I shall! I should like to know what he meant by it, sending you into such a disaster of trouble!’

  ‘Oh, come, he didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said.

  ‘Visiting time is up,’ intervened the officer in the doorway abruptly. ‘The van is here! Come along, sir!’

  ‘They don’t have the right to hold me for more than two days without sending me in front of a magistrate,’ Arthur told me. ‘That’s to happen the day after tomorrow, and the prosecutor shall present his evidence then. I can’t think he’ll have much to present, so I am not too worried; one can only be sent to trial if there is some presumption of guilt.’

  ‘Come along!’ reiterated the officer.

  There was a sharp, rather military echo to his behaviour; I suppose it must be a little awkward to give nasty orders to prisoners who may all the time be perfectly innocent. We are, after all, supposed to presume people innocent until proven guilty (and even that word ‘proven’ is a doubtful one; no mathematician could ever be satisfied with ‘proof beyond a reasonable doubt’!)

  Arthur arose and bid me goodbye with a little twinkle in his brown eyes.

  ‘I really cannot take this seriously,’ he said. ‘It shall all be chalked up to experience; nights on prison beds for me, visits to prison cells for you. Let’s just hope it does not go on until the charm of originality is entirely lost!’

  ‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began, but did not continue. His words had suddenly awakened a little pang of fear inside me. Surely it would soon be over – yet the very word ‘surely’ meant there was some doubt. And what if the magistrate should send him to trial? And then?

  No – it can’t happen!

  Still, I feel I simply must speak with Mr Crawford. I shall ask him what he meant by it; he ought to know all the trouble he has caused. And for that matter, he may well be the next person upon whom that very same trouble descends!

  Well, I do hope I can send you better news in my next letter!

  Till then, your loving

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Thursday, May 3rd, 1888

  My dear Dora,

  This morning was the funeral of poor Mr Beddoes; I saw it in yesterday’s evening paper, and decided to attend. I arrived at the cemetery carrying a modest bunch of flowers whose very colours, all to be devoted to the ceremonious celebration of death, seemed sorrowful.

  Mr Beddoes was certainly a man of many friends, for the knot of people who stood around his freshly dug grave as the coffin was lowered was dense and compact. I recognised most of the members of his circle that have become familiar to me over the past month, closely surrounding Mrs Beddoes, who kept her gentle face hidden under a black veil.

  The service ended, and slowly, respectfully, the people began to drift away. I walked near Mrs Beddoes; a sob escaped her as she turned away.

  ‘My dear Mrs Beddoes,’ said the man nearest her, whom I identified as the snappish Mr Withers of the garden party, ‘the loss of your husband is a terrible blow for all of us; how much greater must it be for yourself. I wish I could find words to comfort you.’

  His words were kind, but something about the way he said them was not: he was unctuous, and seemed to be striving to make an impression. He handed Mrs Beddoes into her carriage as though he took it upon himself to show that he, at least, was filled with noble feelings. Perhaps Mrs Beddoes felt something of the kind, for she answered him with no more than an indistinct murmur. Mr Withers turned away and moved off with Mr Wentworth.

  ‘What a horrible story this is,’ he said, with the same peculiar emphasis.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ said Mr Wentworth, in an uninviting tone of voice. But Mr Withers was not
to be stopped so easily.

  ‘A good thing the murderer was discovered so quickly,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, well …’ mumbled Mr Wentworth. ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘I’ve heard new evidence has turned up,’ continued Mr Withers. ‘I wonder what it is. Well – it’ll all come out at the trial.’

  I speeded my steps to escape from this horrible conversation, in which I detected an edge of distorted pleasure. Espying Mr Morrison some way ahead, I hastened to his side. He greeted me warmly, and took my arm as we left the cemetery and began to wend our way back to the town.

  ‘So, you too have come?’ he asked me. ‘Beddoes was a mentor to me, but I did not realise that you were amongst his friends, Miss Duncan.’

  ‘I met him twice,’ I replied. ‘He seemed a kind gentleman, and his wife was very welcoming.’

  The small crowd was dispersing along the way; some walked faster, some slower, while yet others had taken carriages back. I quickened my steps somewhat, so as to isolate us a little.

  ‘Mr Morrison,’ I said urgently, in a low voice, ‘I just heard Mr Withers saying that there is some new evidence against Arthur. What can it be?’

  He looked at me with some surprise, and then said, a little coldly, ‘I really have no idea. But whatever it may be, I fully expect that the police will deal with it adequately.’

  This response was a blow so unexpected that I could do no more than stare at him in shock. The colour rose in my cheeks. He became extremely embarrassed. There was a horribly awkward silence. I stared at him, and for a while he seemed to struggle to express himself.

  ‘I perceive what you are thinking, Miss Duncan,’ he finally began. ‘But do you think my position is an easy one? Here I am, suddenly informed that my closest friend is a murderer. What do you expect me to do? Condone it?’