The Three-Body Problem-Cambridge, Friday, May 18th, 1888

Cambridge, Friday, May 18th, 1888

I am here in the courtroom, following what is now going to become installed as my daily routine: court in the morning, lessons in the afternoon. I can no longer visit Arthur or speak to him at all, as he must spend his entire day in court.

Today, however, I am no longer in the public gallery. Strange as it may seem, I have learnt that I am to be called as a witness for the prosecution! Mr Bexheath will certainly obtain no evidence for the prosecution from me, whatever he may think. But then, he knows nothing of my feelings, of course. The whole collection of witnesses for the prosecution must sit together along a special bench while we are in court. I am allowed to leave in the afternoons to teach my lessons, but I am under strict injunctions to discuss the case with nobody. On the bench with me are several mathematicians: Mr Morrison is sitting next to me, and although we may not communicate, his eyes twinkle at me occasionally (and he can even be heard emitting indignant remarks under his breath, in full defiance of orders!). Next to him are Mr Wentworth and Mr Withers. Professor Cayley will be called tomorrow. Mrs Beddoes and Mrs Wiggins, the charlady, are also present, as well as two or three other people with whom I am not acquainted; I cannot imagine who they might be. If all these people are going to be as ineffective, as witnesses for the prosecution, as I intend to be, their testimonies will not go far to help Mr Bexheath!

Mr Morrison says that he means to attend the trial for the whole of every day, and that he will keep me abreast of what goes on in the afternoons. He told me that yesterday, the entire afternoon was devoted to the examination and cross-examination of the medical examiner, but that apart from graphic descriptions of the explicit manner of death of the three victims, nothing was elicited which was in any way surprising or unexpected. Mr Morrison says that when his testimony was not gruesome, it was boring. He told me that Mr Akers’ personal doctor was also heard; his testimony concerned only the fact of Mr Akers’ heart disease, and its attendant medication. He testified that judging by the last time he had prescribed for Mr Akers, and given his regular dose of ten drops three times a day, Mr Akers’ medicine bottle must still have contained at least three weeks’ worth of medicine.

In contrast, I must admit that I found the court procedure of this morning to be – it sounds heartless, but at certain moments it was almost amusing! Mr Bexheath put Professor Cayley and Mr Morrison on the stand, in order to support his theory of Arthur’s motive. But I do not think he obtained from them exactly what he wanted.

Professor Cayley was called first. He stood at the witness stand, with his stern, thin-lipped face and indrawn cheeks showing much the same disapproving expression he had worn for his lecture on the teaching of mathematics, except that the disapproval now seemed to fix upon Mr Bexheath rather than upon the enemies of Euclid. His voice was nasal, his tone chilly, and his answers brief. Rather than describe the scene, I have written out my shorthand notes in full, and will continue to do so every day.

Cambridge, Saturday, May 19th, 1888

My dearest Dora,

Some days ago, I met poor Mrs Beddoes in a shop, and she stopped to speak to me. She seemed pleased to see me, if one can use the word pleased of someone who seems inexorably separated from the outer world by a barrier of inner mourning. We spoke for a moment, and she asked after Rose and Emily, and invited me to bring them to tea; she told me that the silence of her lonely house was full of sorrow, and I felt that she would like to chase it away, however briefly, with the voices of children.

Today, I had no lessons, and felt reluctant to remain alone, and I do not know exactly what faint feelings drew me towards her; I felt the need to talk to her, because she was placed so near the centre of my troubles. I went to see her, therefore, this morning, and she welcomed me with pleasure – no; again, the word is not applicable, but she said that it would give her great pleasure to have Emily and Rose for tea, and spend a moment in the company of their adorable pink cheeks and gaiety. I then called on the girls’ mothers and obtained their permission, and at four o’clock this afternoon, the three of us made our way together through the garden gate and up the pretty path, half-smothered in flowers, where poor Mr Beddoes met his death less than two weeks ago.

When Mrs Beddoes perceived our approach, her sad and rather tired face lit up with a kind smile. She (or her cook) had prepared sundry scones, sandwiches and cakes, of which we partook with a distressing lack of moderation. The little girls then went to romp outside in the garden back of the house, which runs long, rich and green down to the fence behind. They soon discovered the tiny wooden shed which Mr Beddoes had built at the end of it to lodge his cats, as Mrs Beddoes could not bear them in the house. She smiled as she saw the girls, through the glass door, chasing and playing with the animals, of which I made out at least six.

‘The little kittens have grown now, they dearly love a romp,’ she said. ‘We meant to give them away; my husband had already written out a list with their descriptions.’ She showed me the neatly printed little list, in which each kitten was identified by a fanciful name, together with its colour and description.

‘Now I feel that I should keep each and every one of them,’ she went on, ‘they may have been the last thing which gave my husband joy before his death. I cannot really abide them, but they do not need much care; I simply put food out for them. Mr Beddoes used to visit those kittens several times a day, when they were tiny things still in their basket.’

She wanted to talk a great deal about Mr Beddoes, and I wanted nothing else, hoping against hope to learn something, anything at all that could help some new understanding develop in my mind. The house was so fresh and pretty, the garden so blooming, and she herself so kind and welcoming – yet, behind the scene lay the pale echoes of other images; a dark night, a creeping, hiding person, a dead man lying across the path, a widow weeping alone.

‘Everyone perceived my husband as a gentle and accommodating man,’ she told me. ‘And indeed, he was; he did not like disputes of any kind. Yet his feelings and opinions were strong, although he was very private about them. I believe no one really knew how much he thought about most things, to hear how casually he mentioned them. And although he was friendly with everyone, he did not have many real friends.’

‘Who were his closest friends?’ I asked.

‘Oh, he talked most often about Mr Crawford,’ she smiled. ‘They were really a pair, those two – so very different from each other! You saw Mr Crawford – he was so very loud and strong-minded! Their friendship was all full of ups and downs on account of it. Philip always avoided quarrels – he used to say that they were no way to solve any problem of any kind. But as Mr Crawford did not avoid them, they did occasionally happen; Mr Crawford would shout, and Philip would come home most annoyed. It happened just a month or two ago. He visited Mr Crawford, and something must have come up between them, for he came home and told me they’d had a most disappointing discussion, and Crawford was furious on account of it. Philip was not pleased himself, by any means, but it was not his way to quarrel. He would ruminate alone, and see how to obtain what he wanted by his own means.’

‘Did they make up their quarrel afterwards?’

‘Oh yes, they did. We saw Mr Crawford at the garden party after Professor Cayley’s lecture, do you remember? And he behaved as though nothing was amiss. Philip was happy enough to let it go at that. They always did make up their quarrels sooner or later.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ I said. ‘Mr Crawford suddenly greeted Mr Beddoes, and even said that he wanted to dine with him soon, and Mr Beddoes seemed quite surprised.’

‘Yes, he was, for Mr Crawford had quite a temper. I never could take to him really. Yet he and Philip had something in common, I know, though we rarely spoke of it. Their profession is a difficult one, my dear. You cannot imagine what it is to live for so many years among mathematicians. It seems as though the striving and disappointment and frustration which must naturally accompany any kind of scientific research must constantly struggle within them, against the joy and elation of discovery. Mr Crawford was a bitter man, really. He was truly brilliant, I believe; at least Philip often said so, but because he made one or two serious errors in the last decades, publishing results which turned out to be flawed, he lost some of the consideration of his colleagues, and he felt that his true worth was unjustly unrecognised. It seemed to me sometimes that he blamed the whole world for it, he was so very aggressive. My husband was also bitter at moments, though not for the same reason. He admired the ideas of others, but his estimation of his own work was a permanent disappointment to him; he often felt that something great had come nearly within his grasp, and he had let it escape. I believe this perpetual resentment and bitterness is the curse of many mathematicians; certainly Philip worked and sought and studied as hard as any.’

Her eyes filled with tears as the memory of her loss arose in her, and she changed the subject suddenly. ‘Let us go out in the garden,’ she said. ‘My husband always used to walk about in it while he was working. And he had been working so very hard these last months, upstairs in his little office; there were days when he seemed absolutely delighted, and others which were rather terrible. All of the mathematical papers he left upstairs have been sorted and studied by his colleagues and students; several of them came here, and they looked at everything so carefully, and did a lovely job. It can’t have been very difficult; Philip’s handwriting was as clear as print.’

We went out, and joined the girls, who were playing with the kittens, and dancing about with twinkling eyes.

‘We cleaned out the kitties’ house!’ they told us proudly. I bent my head to peer inside the little wooden structure, which Mr Beddoes had built with his own hands for his beloved cats, and admired how the girls had swept it out with a branch and shaken out and plumped up the colourful quilted morsels which cosily lined each basket.

‘Thank you so much, my dears,’ Mrs Beddoes told them. ‘I should do it myself now and then, but the cats do so make my eyes water! Perhaps you will come again some day and do it for me.’

She bid us goodbye kindly, and we went on our way, the girls discussing cats and giggling violently over some shared secret, and I walking along absently, my mind on the quarrel between Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford, which had taken place ‘some days’ before the garden party of the 23rd of April. What could it have been about, I wonder? I am sure it is a clue.

I must ponder it all in solitude,

Your loving Vanessa

Cambridge, Monday, May 21st, 1888

Dear Dora,

The third day of the trial has begun. It appears less favourable than yesterday, and yet I still find that Mr Bexheath is not succeeding in providing anything like a proof of his case that eliminates the Mr Crawford theory, in spite of all his leading questions and the answers he elicits. On the other hand, although Mr Haversham makes some progress in spoiling the coherent impression that Mr Bexheath would like to give, he makes very little in eliciting any useful positive information in support of the alternative theory … and nothing at all which could help us to determine whether or not it is true. Yet it must be true. For what else, what else is possible?

The first witness called this morning by the prosecution was Mrs Wiggins.

Direct examination of Mrs Wiggins, by Mr Bexheath

The witness was sworn in by the court clerk.

Mr Bexheath: Please give your name, age and occupation.

Mrs Wiggins: Alice Wiggins, fifty-one, charlady of St John’s College.

Mr Bexheath: Were you responsible, until his death, for cleaning the rooms in college of Mr Geoffrey Akers?

Mrs Wiggins: Yes, I was, less luck to me.

Mr Bexheath: Can you describe the situation of Mr Akers’ rooms?

Mrs Wiggins: They was up one flight of stairs from the base of the north-east tower.

Mr Bexheath: Was anyone living below, or on the same level as Mr Akers?

Mrs Wiggins: No, the other rooms are above.

Mr Bexheath: Can you tell me if Mr Akers ever received visitors in his rooms?

Mrs Wiggins: I believe ’e never did. At least they left no trace. ’E was a very unsociable man.

Mr Bexheath: Did you never see the prisoner in or about Mr Akers’ rooms?

Mrs Wiggins: No, thank God, I never.

Mr Bexheath: Can you describe the general state of Mr Akers’ rooms?

Mrs Wiggins: ’E was a dirty man, sir. I cleaned good and regular, but he dirtied it all up just as fast. Papers everywhere, all mixed up, and he angry if I so much as touched any. Cigar ash, ’e was a one for smoking, and dropped the ash down just anywhere. Food and drink left about. ’E was a man of irregular ’abits. But visits and friends ’e did not ’ave.

Mr Bexheath: Now, Mrs Wiggins, one of the main questions I have for you is this. Can you describe any changes that you noticed in Mr Akers’ rooms, between the time that you last cleared up there, on the 14th of last February, and the following day, when you were called into his rooms by the police?

Mrs Wiggins: Well, as I’ve already told you, sir, there was a mess that was not there when I left the previous day. The papers was all messed about, and the drawers in the study open.

Mr Bexheath: The room appeared to have been searched?

Mrs Wiggins: Well, it might have been Mr Akers messing about, looking for something ’isself. If ’e did that, ’e would leave the drawers open as well. That’d be typical. ’E would never think of closing a drawer to save an elderly woman’s back.

Mr Bexheath: Yes, of course. But somebody searched the room, whether Mr Akers himself, or the person who lay in wait for him in his rooms.

Mrs Wiggins: Or somebody else.

Mr Bexheath: Quite. Did Mr Akers frequently dine out?

Mrs Wiggins: ’E may have dined in college, or out, but certainly not in ’is rooms. Didn’t fancy ’isself as a cook, I’d say; I wouldn’t ’ave either.

Mr Bexheath: Did he ever spend a night away from home?

Mrs Wiggins: Not that I know. ’Is bed was always undone and a right mess every morning. Sundays I wouldn’t know.

Mr Bexheath: Thank you. Now let us pass to another subject, namely the rooms of Mr Crawford, in the same college. Can you describe them?

Mrs Wiggins: They weren’t nigh so bad as Mr Akers’. Mr Crawford was a big, rough man but ’e ’ad a good ’eart. ’E’d pass the time o’ day with me, like as not, when ’e was in. Mr Akers never.

Mr Bexheath: Did Mr Crawford occasionally receive visitors?

Mrs Wiggins: Yes, sometimes.

Mr Bexheath: Frequently? For meals?

Mrs Wiggins: No, not for meals, but for drinks now and then. Not too often, I’d say. Maybe every couple o’ months or so ’e’d have some friends by.

Mr Bexheath: Did you see them?

Mrs Wiggins: No, they’d come after I was done. I did ’is rooms in the morning. But they’d leave glasses and things about for me to wash up the next day.

Mr Bexheath: So you have no idea who Mr Crawford’s occasional visitors might have been.

Mrs Wiggins: No, I don’t.

Mr Bexheath: How many came at one time?

Mrs Wiggins: Oh, just a couple, one or two. Mr Crawford didn’t ’ave no grand parties in ’is rooms!

Mr Bexheath: Can you remember any time when Mr Crawford received visitors who drank whisky?

Mrs Wiggins: It’s been some time, but there was some, because the bottle was out and the glasses and all, and it smelt whisky that strong I had to air out the rooms.

Mr Bexheath: When was that?

Mrs Wiggins: That was months ago.

Mr Bexheath: How many months?

Mrs Wiggins: Oh, three or four. Yes, that’d have been back in February, that would have been. Round about the murder of Mr Akers, it was.

Mr Bexheath: Before or after his murder?

Mrs Wiggins: I don’t rightly remember, but I think it must have been just before, because I was cleaning up and I hadn’t got any thoughts about Mr Akers in my head right then, as seems natural I would have had, if I’d heard about him already.

Mr Bexheath: What did you do with the whisky bottle that day?

Mrs Wiggins: I put it back on the shelf; it was still near half-full. Then I washed out the glasses.

Mr Bexheath: Did Mr Crawford generally have a bottle of whisky about his rooms?

Mrs Wiggins: There was always a bottle o’ whisky on Mr Crawford’s shelf, along with other bottles. ’E was a one for a drink.

Mr Bexheath: Did you ever notice if the bottle of whisky on the shelf was full or empty?

Mrs Wiggins: No, I never paid attention, just flicked my duster and went on. It might ’ave been the same bottle or changed twenty times as he drank it down, I never noticed.

Mr Bexheath: All right. Now, Mrs Wiggins, can you remember any other specific times that Mr Crawford received visitors?

Mrs Wiggins: Not specific. O’ course, there may have been visitors any time who didn’t drink. Last month some time, there was someone for certain.

Mr Bexheath: Someone? One person visited Mr Crawford?

Mrs Wiggins: Yes, I remember that.

Mr Bexheath: You cannot recall when?

Mrs Wiggins: No; it was more than a month ago, though.

Mr Bexheath: But less than two months ago?

Mrs Wiggins: Oh yes, it’d have been right around the middle of April.

Mr Bexheath: And how do you know there was a single visitor?

Mrs Wiggins: Well, I remember washing up two glasses, and putting away the bottle.

Mr Bexheath: Oh, so they drank whisky?

Mrs Wiggins: No, it was red wine.

Mr Bexheath: I see. Red wine, indeed. You remember that.

Mrs Wiggins: Oh yes, I aired, because it smelt. Mr Crawford don’t – didn’t, poor gentleman – open his windows much. It was always easy to say what ’e’d been a-drinking of.

Mr Bexheath: Thank you, Mrs Wiggins.

Cross-examination of Mrs Wiggins, by Mr Haversham

Mr Haversham: When you said there was a single visitor to Mr Crawford’s rooms some time in the last month or two, do you have any idea whom it might have been?

Mrs Wiggins: No sir, except it was someone who drank red wine.

Mr Haversham: Do you know what time of day that person visited Mr Crawford?

Mrs Wiggins: No sir, except it was not in the morning when I was there.

Mr Haversham: I see. So someone who can be identified exactly by the two facts of his being acquainted with Mr Crawford, and his accepting a glass of red wine, visited Mr Crawford sometime, on an unknown day, at an unknown hour. Do you think we can draw any conclusion from this?

Mrs Wiggins: No sir.

Mr Haversham: The mysterious visitor could have been Mr Beddoes as easily as it could have been Mr Weatherburn, or some other person.

Mrs Wiggins: For aught I know, sir.

Mr Haversham: Thank you. You may stand down.

Mr Justice Penrose: Have the police made an effort to trace this person?

Mr Haversham: Yes, my Lord, without success. His visit was not witnessed by anyone on Mr Crawford’s stair.

The second witness called was Mrs Beddoes. I felt sorry for the poor lady, as I saw her take the stand, and my heart was wrung with fear that her statements, probably filled with resigned conviction of Arthur’s guilt, would have great weight with the jury on account of her mourning, and her gentle, sorrowful face.

Direct examination of Mrs Beddoes, by Mr Bexheath

Mr Bexheath: Mrs Beddoes, I am very sorry to call you here. I deeply sympathise with your mourning, and I shall try to trouble you as little as possible.

Mrs Beddoes: (with a wavering voice) Thank you, sir.

Mr Bexheath: I would just like to ask you a few questions about the relations between Mr Akers, your husband, Mr Crawford and the prisoner.

Mrs Beddoes: Yes?

Mr Bexheath: Was your husband the friend of each of the other three men?

Mrs Beddoes: Yes, sir, he was a good friend to all three of them.

Mr Bexheath: Can you describe the nature of his friendship with Mr Akers?

Mrs Beddoes: My husband was not as close to Mr Akers as he was to the other two. They talked mathematics sometimes, however, and my husband admired Mr Akers. He often said that Mr Akers had a wonderful talent for calculating things by wise methods, which no one else would have been able to calculate ever.

Mr Bexheath: Can you tell me where they discussed mathematics? The testimony of Mrs Wiggins appears to indicate that they did not discuss it in Mr Akers’ rooms.

Mrs Beddoes: Nor did they discuss it in our house. I do not know, sir. It must have been in their offices at the university, or in the library, or in other rooms, or at dinner.

Mr Bexheath: Did they actually collaborate? Work on mathematics together? Or did they just talk about it?

Mrs Beddoes: I don’t know, sir. But I believe they never went so far as regularly working together.

Mr Bexheath: Now, can you describe your husband’s relations with Mr Crawford?

Mrs Beddoes: They were close friends. Mr Crawford had a strong personality, and my husband was sometimes put off by his ways, but their friendship was a deep one. They had a difference back in April, but Mr Crawford forgot it and my husband kept no rancour, so they became friends again.

Mr Bexheath: Was your husband in the habit of visiting Mr Crawford’s rooms?

Mrs Beddoes: I really don’t know, but I do not remember his ever mentioning it.

Mr Bexheath: Did they dine together?

Mrs Beddoes: Yes, occasionally they did.

Mr Bexheath: Can you remember if they were to dine together on the night of your husband’s death?

Mrs Beddoes: No. I’ve been asked that many times already. I am very sorry, but my husband did not tell me whom he was dining with that night, or anything at all about Mr Crawford. He only – he only left me a message to say he would not be dining at home.

Mr Bexheath: I see. Now, let us proceed to the relations between your husband and the prisoner.

Mrs Beddoes: My husband was very fond of Mr Weatherburn. He spoke very highly of him and said he would go far. They met regularly to talk. Mr Weatherburn was very friendly with me also. I thought he was a nice young man. I had no idea …

The witness burst into tears.

Mr Bexheath: Now, now, Mrs Beddoes. Please calm yourself. I will not ask you any more questions.

Mr Haversham: I have no questions for this witness.

The witness was led away sobbing into her handkerchief, to the accompanying sympathetic murmur of the public gallery.

Mr Haversham: I would like to point out to the members of the jury that the evidence of this witness as to the existence of a quarrel between Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford is of fundamental importance. It ties in with the mysterious, red-wine drinking visitor to Mr Crawford’s rooms; this could have been Mr Beddoes, and it might have been the occasion of the quarrel. Or else the quarrel took place on another occasion, but in any case, it undoubtedly took place. Please do not omit to note this important fact.

Oh, Dora – poor Mrs Beddoes. I wonder if she really does think Arthur is guilty. She said … but no. If I were she, I would hardly care what happened in the world around me, after the bitter loss. I shall go and visit her. I continue to listen carefully to everything that the witnesses say, for somewhere within it the truth must be hidden. I read my notes over and over. But I cannot see anything. Can you? We must find something!

Your very own

Vanessa

Cambridge, Tuesday, May 22nd, 1888

My dearest Dora,

As the witnesses arrived and took their places this morning, I asked Mr Morrison in a whisper what had transpired yesterday afternoon. He told me that every one of Mr Crawford’s neighbours had been interrogated, and no less than two of them had testified to being acquainted with Arthur, and having seen him enter Mr Crawford’s rooms on at least one occasion, though no dates were made explicit.

This morning, Mr Bexheath called Mr Withers as a witness. I had already observed him to be sharp and unkind, but in his testimony he showed himself to be a vile man. That weasel-faced betrayer – his heart must resemble a shrivelled walnut! I would not exchange mine for his for the universe and my happiness besides.

Direct examination of Mr Withers, by Mr Bexheath

Mr Bexheath: Please give your name, age and profession.

Mr Withers: Edward Withers, thirty-two years old, Lecturer in Pure Mathematics at Cambridge University.

Mr Bexheath: You were acquainted with the three murder victims, Mr Akers, Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford, as well as with the prisoner?

Mr Withers: Well, hardly. I saw them occasionally, of course, but couldn’t say I knew them very closely. I would like to say that I really have no connection with this whole story.

Mr Bexheath: Mr Withers, were you at all familiar with Mr Crawford’s drinking habits?

Mr Withers: I was not familiar enough with him to describe his regular habits. But I must say I have seen him, on occasions at which he was extremely excited, down a great quantity of whisky, without apparently losing his faculties by doing so.

Mr Bexheath: How often have you seen him doing so?

Mr Withers: Not more than once or twice. I do not believe he did it frequently; only on particular occasions of excitement or rejoicing, when he seemed to lose count of the quantity consumed.

Mr Bexheath: Thank you. Now, the second point I would like to raise is that of the relations between the prisoner and each of the three murder victims. Did you have occasion to observe them?

Mr Withers: Yes, I observed them at various public occasions, and at some common meals.

Mr Bexheath: How would you describe them?

Mr Withers: Well, Weatherburn always acted very friendly with all three of them.

Mr Bexheath: Would you say that he sought their friendship?

Mr Withers: Yes, absolutely. He went out of his way to obtain their attention.

Mr Bexheath: For what purpose?

Mr Withers: I imagine he had purposes of his own in behaving thus.

Mr Bexheath: Yes indeed, I imagine so too. Would you say that the prisoner went out of his way to cultivate their friendship and arrange to meet with them regularly?

Mr Withers: Yes, he did.

Mr Bexheath: Were you aware of the habit attributed very frequently to Mr Akers, and in a lesser measure to Mr Crawford, of directing quite insulting, sarcastic and offensive remarks to his colleagues in public?

Mr Withers: Certainly.

Mr Bexheath: Can you describe such an episode?

Mr Withers: Well, I remember once Wentworth talking to a bunch of fellows, and Akers came along and stopped by to listen, and then he turned to Wentworth and said ‘Pretty presumptuous for a fellow who’s never proved a theorem worth a grain of salt in his life. I’d aim lower if I were you.’

Mr Bexheath: Can you describe Mr Wentworth’s reaction?

Mr Withers: He told Akers to go boil his head.

Mr Bexheath: And was he subsequently again on friendly terms with Mr Akers?

Mr Withers: Certainly not.

Mr Bexheath: Would you say that was a normal reaction?

Mr Withers: Absolutely. A man has to have some pride.

Mr Bexheath: Was the prisoner ever the butt of such remarks in your hearing?

Mr Withers: Oh, yes.

Mr Bexheath: Can you describe his reaction?

Mr Withers: He only smiled.

Mr Bexheath: In other words, he endured the insults without taking offence. Would you describe his attitude of deliberately not taking offence as sycophantic?

Mr Withers: It struck me as obsequious.

Mr Bexheath: Quite so. Now, Mr Withers, I would like to turn to the mathematical aspects of the case. Do you know what mathematical topics the deceased gentlemen worked on?

Mr Withers: Rumour had it they were interested in the n-body problem. I myself heard Crawford mention it elusively when somewhat tipsy.

Mr Bexheath: Do you know if the prisoner worked on that topic?

Mr Withers: I don’t know it, no. But I certainly heard him discussing the problem at table.

Mr Bexheath: With just the ordinary interest that any mathematician might evince in a difficult open problem, or with personal interest?

Mr Withers: He was fairly enthusiastic. I would say personal interest.

Mr Haversham: My Lord, I strongly object to this question and its answer, to say nothing of the previous ones, and request that they be struck from the record. The witness’s opinion is of no value.

Mr Justice Penrose: Members of the jury, be aware that the last response given by the witness expresses his personal opinion, and should not be treated as an established fact.

Mr Haversham: Why, you might as well ask him if he believes the prisoner to be guilty!

Mr Justice Penrose: Let us remain reasonable. That is not at all the same.

Mr Bexheath: Well, Mr Withers, can you perhaps tell us exactly what, in Mr Weatherburn’s manner of talking about the n-body problem, might have led you to form your opinion? Then we shall be on a basis of fact.

Mr Withers: Let me see. I remember one day back in the first part of April, just a while after Easter, at high table, a number of people were discussing the n-body problem, and Weatherburn was among them. I was just listening, myself. I know nothing about the n-body problem, and really have no idea what Akers and Crawford might have been doing with it. I certainly never asked them. I would again like to stress that I really have no connections with all of this. However, a day or two later, I came across Weatherburn in town, and he was very excited about some wonderful result he claimed he had just proved. He was extremely pleased with himself. I didn’t ask for details, but given the previous day’s discussion, I naturally must have assumed it had to do with the n-body problem. This must be at the basis of the impression I mentioned before.

Mr Bexheath: Thank you very much, Mr Withers. This is highly interesting. Can you possibly remember the precise day on which the prisoner talked about having made a mathematical discovery?

Mr Withers: Let me think. I left Cambridge for some days after Easter. I came back on a Thursday. High table would have been on the Friday. So I met Weatherburn … yes, it was on a Sunday. So it must have been Sunday, April 8th.

Mr Bexheath: This is very useful. Thank you very much for your helpful testimony, Mr Withers.

Mr Withers: You are quite welcome.

Cross-examination of Mr Withers, by Mr Haversham

Mr Haversham: Mr Withers, you say that you were not particularly acquainted with Mr Akers, Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford.

Mr Withers: Yes, not particularly.

Mr Haversham: Did you attend Mr Beddoes’ funeral?

Mr Withers: Yes, naturally.

Mr Haversham: Did you take it upon yourself to accompany Mrs Beddoes to her carriage afterwards?

Mr Withers: I did.

Mr Haversham: Have you ever been invited to their house?

Mr Withers: Yes.

Mr Haversham: How many times?

Mr Withers: I really didn’t count them.

Mr Haversham: So it was sufficiently often for you to lose count. Not in the nature of two or three times only, then.

Mr Withers: Well, a little more than that.

Mr Haversham: Your acquaintance with Mrs Beddoes and her husband does not appear to have been so very slight.

Mr Withers: Well, I knew Beddoes a little better than the other two.

Mr Haversham: And yet you would use the words ‘slight acquaintance’ to denote your relations with a man who had invited you to his house numerous times?

Mr Withers: It was a little more than slight.

Mr Haversham: Oh, thank you for the rectification. Now, Mr Withers, I would like to return to the subject so interestingly raised by my learned friend: that of the insulting attitude frequently adopted by Mr Akers, and also occasionally, although in a lesser measure, by Mr Crawford, in public.

Mr Withers: Yes, what about it?

Mr Haversham: Were you yourself ever the butt of such remarks?

Mr Withers: I don’t remember.

Mr Haversham: But there are witnesses who remember such an occasion perfectly well. The event occurred at the garden party following a lecture delivered by Professor Arthur Cayley on the subject of the teaching of mathematics. The witnesses claim that you made a remark about joining an anti-Euclid society, and that Mr Crawford said to you, ‘Before you criticise the teaching methods of better men than yourself, you’d do well to master the mathematics they aim to communicate!’

Mr Withers: I have no recollection of the event.

Mr Haversham: You have no recollection of your reaction?

Mr Withers: None at all.

Mr Haversham: One witness claims that you laughed weakly.

Mr Withers: Well, it must have been a joke, not an insult, and the witness did not understand it.

Mr Haversham: The witness claims that those around did not take it as a joke, and that Mr Wentworth rose to your defence, demanding of Mr Crawford to explain exactly what he meant, upon which he continued to insult you, and you departed.

Mr Withers: I don’t recall any of this. And at any rate, I did not butter up Mr Crawford.

Mr Haversham: Quite so. Nor did you tell him to go boil his head, although you described it as the only natural reaction of a man with pride.

Mr Withers: Humph.

Mr Haversham: My cross-examination is finished, my Lord.

Mr Justice Penrose: You may stand down.

Throughout this testimony, Arthur showed no sign of the sorrow or disgust that this man’s ignoble description of his actions must have engendered within him. Yet his whole aspect appeared desperately tired and hopeless, as though at this point, he wished only for an end to the weary proceedings, whatever it might be. Merely from his demeanour, I perceive that he feels none of the surging hope of being acquitted that I feel for him, none of the indignation, not even the waves of terrible fear that sweep through me whenever I recall that Mr Bexheath’s tendentious questions are not just misleading, infuriating and untruthful, but death-dealing. Arthur’s very lifeblood seems to flow otherwise than mine; mine rushes in tumults, driving me to action, while his is a dreamy little brook, in which he floats absently, like Ophelia ‘incapable of his own distress’.

Oh, how I seethe within at Mr Withers’ nastiness. No matter what the outcome of this trial, I shall certainly never address a single word to Mr Withers again. By now I am used to the fact that Mr Bexheath is able to elicit exactly the information he wants from the various witnesses, but Mr Withers appears to positively burn with the desire to aid and abet him in his nefarious, mistaken goals. Perhaps he has his own purposes. Ha.

Yours ever

Vanessa

Cambridge, Wednesday, May 23rd, 1888

Dear Dora,

That horrid Mr Bexheath would tear the waters of untruth from the driest stone! I was this morning’s first witness, and was so upset after his horrid examination that I had to leave the court in order to hide my tears of rage.

Before being called, during the few minutes that it takes us to arrive and settle on our witnesses’ bench, Mr Morrison kept me up to date, by informing me in a whisper that yesterday afternoon, Mr Bexheath interrogated the waiters at the Irish pub, who recalled serving dinner to Arthur and Mr Akers on the first occasion, and Arthur and Mr Beddoes on the second. One of them recalled the whisky, wine and water ordered by Mr Akers at the first meal, and Mr Bexheath picked up his testimony and addressed himself to the jury, stressing the fact that the prisoner is fond of red wine, like Mr Crawford’s mysterious visitor, who would have had such a perfect opportunity to pour the poison into the whisky bottle on the day of his friendly visit, and that the victim had ordered water, in order to take his medicine, which proved that Arthur was familiar with the bottle of digitalin he kept in his pocket. The waiter testified that Arthur and Mr Akers were always together throughout the entire meal, except for one brief journey of Mr Akers’ to wash his hands, and they left together. Oh, how can they think that these stupid remarks prove anything!

I was then informed that I was to be the first witness called today, and prepared myself stubbornly inside to resist the tooth-baring, fire-breathing dragon that I perceived behind Mr Bexheath’s bland features. Alas, more like a serpent than a dragon, he twisted the things I said into their very opposite meanings, and spoilt my reputation in doing it.

Direct examination of Miss Duncan, by Mr Bexheath

Mr Bexheath: Please give your name, age and occupation.

Vanessa: Vanessa Duncan, twenty, schoolteacher.

Mr Bexheath: Miss Duncan, I have spoken to your landlady, and she has told me that you have rooms on the ground floor of her house, and the prisoner’s rooms were just above yours. Is this true?

Vanessa: (through clenched teeth, and determined to be as monosyllabic as possible) Yes.

Mr Bexheath: She tells me that you spoke to her of your upstairs neighbour’s habit of continually pacing back and forth at night. Is this true?

Vanessa: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: The prisoner paced a great deal, alone in his rooms at night?

Vanessa: Well, he paced sometimes.

Mr Bexheath: It is well-known, of course, that sleeplessness and nocturnal pacing are signs of a troubled conscience.

Vanessa: (forgetting to speak in monosyllables) What nonsense! He paced because he was thinking about mathematics.

Mr Bexheath: Quite. So, Miss Duncan, eventually you became acquainted with the prisoner socially?

Vanessa: Yes. We met at a dinner party given by the mother of one of my pupils.

Mr Bexheath: Did you once have tea in Grantchester with the prisoner?

Vanessa: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: You went alone together to Grantchester?

Vanessa: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: You are aware that this constitutes very suggestive behaviour?

Vanessa: No.

Mr Bexheath: Oh, you are not aware. Then perhaps you should become aware, for your good name is threatened by such behaviour. Did you ever visit the prisoner in his rooms?

Vanessa: Never.

Mr Bexheath: Did the prisoner ever visit you in your rooms?

Vanessa: Yes. Once he came down to my rooms to give me a magazine edited by Mr Oscar Wilde and to invite me to the theatre in London with a party of friends.

Mr Bexheath: Did he enter your rooms?

Vanessa: No, he stood at the door.

Mr Bexheath: Very correct, I am sure. And that is the only time he ever visited you in your rooms?

Vanessa: No.

Mr Bexheath: There were other times?

Vanessa: One other time. He briefly took tea in my rooms after returning from the theatre where we had been, as I said, with a party of friends.

Mr Bexheath: Your friends of course joined you for this tea?

Vanessa: No.

Mr Bexheath: Only the prisoner came into your rooms?

Vanessa: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: What time of day was it?

Vanessa: It was near midnight.

Mr Bexheath: You and the prisoner were alone in your rooms together at midnight?

Vanessa: Yes, for a short time. We only—

Mr Bexheath: I AM LEARNING most interesting facts about the prisoner’s attitudes in his personal life. Nocturnal pacing is now followed by nocturnal visits to the rooms of young ladies living alone. You, Miss Duncan, hail from the countryside, and may be unaware of the social consequences of such actions as you have been engaging in, but Mr Weatherburn is most certainly aware of them. If you did not previously, do you at least now realise how he has compromised you?

Vanessa: No.

Mr Bexheath: You would do better to realise it, and modify your future behaviour accordingly, if it is not already too late. However, Miss Duncan, you are not on trial here. You are young and inexperienced, and I give you this advice in a fatherly and not in a judgemental spirit. The case of the prisoner is an entirely different one. Your testimony paints a most relevant picture of the prisoner’s very personal manner of flouting noble feelings in the pursuit of his own pleasure and advantage.

Vanessa: No, it does not!

Mr Bexheath: Miss Duncan, I counsel you to abandon your stubborn attitude, and to reflect carefully and deeply on what I have told you. I have no more questions for you. This was my last witness, my Lord. It is unfortunate that there are no witnesses to the actual deeds of which the prisoner is accused, but that is only to be expected. One tends to avoid committing murder in front of people. The witnesses I have questioned here have attested, as you have heard, my Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, to a mass of details which build up to form a coherent picture which I will summarise fully and completely in my closing speech.

Mr Justice Penrose: Thank you. Would counsel for the defence like to cross-examine?

Mr Haversham: Most certainly, my Lord.

Cross-examination of Miss Duncan, by Mr Haversham

Mr Haversham: Miss Duncan, what day was the fatal midnight visit to your rooms upon which my learned colleague has made so many insinuations?

Vanessa: It was on the 7th of April.

Mr Haversham: And how long did Mr Weatherburn remain in your rooms at that time?

Vanessa: About fifteen minutes.

Mr Haversham: How did he come to enter your rooms?

Vanessa: We came in from outside, where we had stopped in a hansom. It was raining extremely hard. We were wet. I invited him in for a cup of tea.

Mr Haversham: What did you do during his visit?

Vanessa: We sat in front of the fire and had tea and talked a little about the play we had just seen and the friends we had just left.

Mr Haversham: How did Mr Weatherburn come to take his leave?

Vanessa: He jumped up quite suddenly and said that some mathematical proof had suddenly struck him, and dashed off upstairs, almost forgetting his overcoat.

Mr Haversham: It does not strike me that such a brief neighbourly call can be considered to destroy anybody’s reputation, nor to constitute a flouting of noble feelings nor a defiance of social conventions, I am glad to say. Furthermore, I take it that the mathematical discovery which caused the prisoner to precipitately leave Miss Duncan’s room is one and the same as that which he mentioned to Mr Withers on the following day. There are no grounds to conclude that it had any relation whatsoever to the famous n-body problem; it is more likely to be related to his own personal research. We will return to this question later. In the meantime, Miss Duncan, I would like, if I may, to ask you some questions about serious matters. Do you recall the garden party following Professor Cayley’s lecture on the teaching of mathematics, which took place on the 23rd of April?

Vanessa: Yes, very well.

Mr Haversham: Did you hear some words exchanged between Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford?

Vanessa: Yes.

Mr Haversham: Can you recall them?

Vanessa: There weren’t many. First, Mr Crawford was standing with the group of people around Mrs Beddoes, and when Mr Beddoes came up, Mr Crawford simply said something like ‘Here’s Beddoes, I haven’t seen you for a week, how have you been?’

Mr Haversham: That seems normal enough. How did Mr Beddoes respond?

Vanessa: He seemed extremely surprised. I did not know then that they had quarrelled, but that would explain his surprise. He only said ‘Quite well’. Then the mathematicians standing about went on arguing, and then Mr Crawford left, but just as he was leaving, he turned to Mr Beddoes and said that he needed to see him soon, and that they should dine together, and that he would let him know. Mr Beddoes seemed surprised and rather pleased at this invitation.

Mr Haversham: So Mr Beddoes had quarrelled with Mr Crawford and they had not spoken until the garden party at which Mr Crawford appeared to wish for a reconciliation, and spoke of a dinner invitation. Might he not have been actually preparing the dinner invitation which he did extend to Mr Beddoes a week later, as part of a plan to murder him?

Mr Bexheath: I object to all this, my Lord! A flighty young lady’s interpretations of the moods of those around her cannot be introduced as evidence, and neither can my learned colleague’s unsubstantiated hypotheses!

Mr Haversham: Everything the witness has described was observed by several people, some of whom will be called as witnesses for the defence. For that matter, it can be confirmed by Mrs Beddoes, my Lord, who was also present. But I do not wish to trouble her unnecessarily in her distress.

Mr Justice Penrose: Quite so. We accept the witness’s statements subject to corroboration by subsequent witnesses for the defence.

Mr Haversham: In that case, I have no further questions.

Oh, Dora, wasn’t Mr Bexheath awful? I do feel afraid that if word of this gets out of this courtroom, some of the mothers of my pupils may not appreciate it at all. What if my school fails because of it? Oh dear, am I ruined? It does seem so very stupid, for a lovely cup of tea! How can society be so absurd, so suspicious? It’s odd – people are all trying (or at least, they seem to be trying) as hard as they can to be decent and moral, but seems leads to all kinds of extra, unnecessary suspiciousness and nastiness. Oh well. If Arthur is hanged I hardly care whether I am ruined or not. I might as well be. I shall return home, and we shall be two old maids and live by netting.

Your loving although ruined twin

Vanessa

Cambridge, Thursday, May 24th, 1888

Oh, Dora –

This morning I woke up, and the memory of yesterday’s disaster swept over my consciousness, and I wanted to hide under the covers and remain there forever. How difficult it was to oblige myself to rise and dress, and bend my steps towards the courthouse. I loathed to go, yet I had to go, and could not have stayed away, though I felt that I must have earned the general contempt of everyone in the room (or perhaps only my own, which is heavy enough).

I hardly dared look at Mr Morrison, but he sat down next to me immediately, exactly as though nothing untoward had happened, and gave me his usual news bulletin: I had been the last witness for the prosecution, and in the afternoon, the judge invited Mr Haversham to begin calling the witnesses for the defence. Mr Haversham called Arthur, and led him with careful questions through his contacts with all the mathematicians of his acquaintance, and the murdered men in particular, and then elicited full details of the evenings spent with Mr Akers and Mr Beddoes, and everything possible concerning the quarrel between Mr Crawford and Mr Beddoes. Mr Morrison said that the story which emerged was simple and coherent, and appeared to ring true. But as it was drawing late, his cross-examination had been put off until this morning. I braced myself to silently endure the unavoidable wave of horridness.

Cross-examination of Mr Weatherburn, by Mr Bexheath

Mr Bexheath: (addressing himself to the members of the jury) Let me make my intentions clear. In interrogating the prisoner, my goal is to clarify details of how the murders actually took place.

Mr Haversham: My Lord, I object to my learned colleague’s statement! It implies a presumption of guilt.

Mr Justice Penrose: No, it does not. Counsel’s sentence is perfectly clear: he wishes to clarify details of how the murders took place.

Mr Bexheath: Thank you, my Lord. Now, sir, let us begin with the first murder, that of Mr Geoffrey Akers. You dined with Mr Akers on the evening of February 14th?

Arthur: Yes, I d-did.

Mr Bexheath: Before discussing the actual events of that dinner, I would like to deal with two points: your relations with Mr Akers, and the question of how you came to be dining with him at all. How would you describe your relations with Mr Akers?

Arthur: I would describe us as being friends.

Mr Bexheath: You are twenty-six years old, and Mr Akers was thirty-seven. The difference in age, and consequently in outlook upon life, is considerable. What interests did you share with Mr Akers which would make such a friendship possible?

Arthur: I enjoyed his sarcastic humour. As for him, I suppose that like every human being, he needed to talk, to express himself, at least sometimes, and had very few opportunities of doing so.

Mr Bexheath: Why so?

Arthur: Because his sarcastic and contemptuous nature drove many people away from him.

Mr Bexheath: Why should that be? All of us enjoy a little witty sarcasm.

Arthur: Yes, b-but Mr Akers often aimed his barbed shafts at those around him.

Mr Bexheath: Quite so. And people might feel diminished, humiliated or insulted by such remarks being aimed at them.

Arthur: People felt that in order to protect themselves from having to undergo such unpleasant feelings, they would act safely in keeping their distance from Mr Akers.

Mr Bexheath: Please explain, sir, how it comes about, that in your particular case, you were exempt either from such treatment, or from such feelings?

Arthur: I never felt Mr Akers’ remarks about myself to be in the least bit offensive; I found them amusing.

Mr Bexheath: Ah, so his habit of making snide remarks was not suspended for your sole benefit?

Arthur: Oh, no.

Mr Bexheath: And you remained almost the only one among all of his colleagues whose pride was not affected by this.

Arthur: My pride was not affected.

Mr Bexheath: Perhaps that is because you have very little.

Arthur: (silence)

Mr Bexheath: Or perhaps you smothered the natural reaction of pride, in order to cultivate his acquaintance to your own advantage.

Arthur: (silence)

Mr Bexheath: You do not appear to disagree.

Arthur: ‘The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails.’

Mr Bexheath: My dear man, if you have nothing to say, do not fill the gap with Shakespeare.

Arthur: (shrugging) As you say.

Mr Bexheath: Let us now turn to your dinner with Mr Akers. Can you recount how you came to be dining together?

Arthur: I met him in the mathematics library in the afternoon, and he seemed very p-p-p – very pleased about some mathematical result, and wanted an opportunity to talk about it, so he suggested we dine.

Mr Bexheath: The suggestion came entirely from him, you say.

Arthur: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: Were there any witnesses to your conversation?

Arthur: I suppose not. P-people whisper in libraries.

Mr Bexheath: So that there is no one who can actually testify that the idea really originated with Mr Akers and not with yourself.

Arthur: Except for myself.

Mr Bexheath: Quite so. And so you met at the Irish pub.

Arthur: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: Now let us consider the question of Mr Akers’ medicine bottle. How did you become aware of its existence? Please describe very exactly every single thing that Mr Akers did with his medicine.

Arthur: We had whiskies to start with, and then ordered a bottle of red wine and Irish stew. The wine was brought at once, and Mr Akers turned to the waiter and asked for a p-p-pitcher of water as well. The waiter brought it, and he poured out a glass and said, ‘Have to take my medicine.’ He then took out a little square flask made of thick glass, and removed the stopper. The opening was in dropper form. He turned the flask upside down and measured out a drop or so into his water, and shook the flask a little. Then he said something like ‘Dash it, what am I doing?’ and stopped it up and put it away into his pocket. I never laid eyes on that medicine bottle at any time after that.

Mr Bexheath: Did he drink the water?

Arthur: Yes, complaining. He did not like water.

Mr Bexheath: You say that he put only one drop into the water?

Arthur: One or two.

Mr Bexheath: You are aware that his regular dose was of ten drops?

Arthur: No, I was not aware of that.

Mr Bexheath: Can you explain why he would have taken less?

Arthur: Perhaps he remembered that he had already taken his dose earlier.

Mr Bexheath: Then why would he have drunk the water?

Arthur: I really d-don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t want to waste the drop.

Mr Bexheath: And were you not surprised to see a medicine given in a standard dose of one drop?

Arthur: I d-didn’t think about it at all.

Mr Bexheath: You did not ask him about it?

Arthur: No.

Mr Bexheath: You felt no interest?

Arthur: No.

Mr Bexheath: A man is struggling with his dropper bottle in front of you, and complaining about having to drink water, and you do not even ask him about it?

Arthur: No, I did not. I hardly noticed. We were talking of other things.

Mr Bexheath: What things?

Arthur: Mathematics.

Mr Bexheath: Ah, mathematics. What about them?

Arthur: About the n-body problem. Suddenly, Akers began to tell me about his new idea for a complete solution. He seemed agitated and excited, as though he could not restrain his desire to talk about it.

Mr Bexheath: Restrain his desire? Why should he restrain his desire?

Arthur: At the same time, he wanted to keep his solution secret.

Mr Bexheath: Why so?

Arthur: I g-guessed that perhaps it was not completely written yet, and he wanted to keep it a secret until he should have a manuscript submitted.

Mr Bexheath: Why was such secrecy necessary?

Arthur: Akers felt that he had rivals in the subject.

Mr Bexheath: Are you implying that he feared his interesting result risked being stolen by someone else, and made use of for their own advantage?

Arthur: It is p-possible.

Mr Bexheath: But surely then he would keep the secret only from those rivals. Why should he keep it from a trusted friend?

Arthur: He probably thought that word would get around if he talked about it at all.

Mr Bexheath: There you were, across from each other, in a leather booth in a noisy restaurant, in complete privacy, where no one could possibly overhear you, and he desired to talk about it. Could he not simply have bound you to silence?

Arthur: He could have asked me to keep quiet, of course.

Mr Bexheath: But he did not do so. Perhaps he did not trust you.

Arthur: He did not trust anybody, I think.

Mr Bexheath: I submit that he must have trusted you to start with, since he began to communicate his results with you. What transpired to make him suddenly change his mind?

Arthur: Nothing transpired at all. He suddenly felt he was saying too much.

Mr Bexheath: Suddenly, for no reason at all?

Arthur: Because of his natural discretion.

Mr Bexheath: Or because you, sir, showed him by some sign that your interest in his work was more than purely friendly – in other words, that the thief he feared was no other than yourself. What did you say to him, sir, which caused him to suddenly change his mind and cut short his explanations? Did you show excessive interest? Did he see by your expression that his discovery had awakened your covetousness?

Arthur: I can’t – no. Surely not.

Mr Bexheath: Well, well. Now, did you and Mr Akers remain together all the time after that?

Arthur: Yes, we finished dinner together and walked back to his rooms.

Mr Bexheath: You never separated for a moment?

Arthur: I d-don’t remember that we did.

Mr Bexheath: This proves that the digitalin bottle was still in his pocket at the time of his death, does it not?

Arthur: I suppose so.

Mr Bexheath: You suppose so. Do you not know so?

Arthur: Not of my own knowledge.

Mr Bexheath: Logical reasoning is not sufficient to convince you, a mathematician?

Arthur: Hum.

Mr Bexheath: Well, well, now, perhaps mathematicians are not so rigorous as we might have supposed, when it is a matter of personal advantage!

Tittering in the public gallery.

Arthur: What advantage? That of being hanged for something I didn’t do?

Mr Bexheath: That is a matter for the jury to decide.

Arthur: That may be difficult for them, given the complete lack of evidence.

Mr Bexheath: Oh, I think there is plenty of evidence.

Arthur: I fail to perceive it. It is like using a conjecture to prove another conjecture.

Mr Justice Penrose: Your perceptions are not the issue here, sir. Please confine yourself to answering counsel’s questions.

Mr Bexheath: You are aware that the medicine bottle was not found in his pocket by the doctor who examined the corpse?

Arthur: Yes, I have heard that.

Mr Bexheath: So the bottle must have been taken by the murderer.

Arthur: It seems likely.

Mr Bexheath: Now, sir, you are on oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. DID YOU TAKE THE FLASK OF DIGITALIN FROM MR AKERS?

Arthur: N-N-No. N-No. No. I did not.

Mr Bexheath: Are you certain?

Arthur: Yes!

Mr Bexheath: DID YOU KILL MR. AKERS?

Arthur: No!

Mr Bexheath: Hmph. Very well. Now, sir, I would like to recall and interrogate you about a point raised in previous testimonies. We have heard that you allowed yourself to visit Miss Duncan alone in her rooms, late at night. I suppose you consider destroying the reputation of a young and defenceless girl as natural as smiling when you are insulted in public?

Arthur: (silence)

Mr Bexheath: Well? May I take it that this behaviour is perfectly acceptable to you?

Arthur: I c-c-cannot think that my v-visit could have any effect on Miss Duncan’s reputation. What c-could have an effect is your way of insinuating things which d-d-did not occur.

Mr Bexheath: I take your statement to mean that as long as no one knows about such nocturnal visits, no one’s reputation is destroyed.

Arthur: N-no, that is not what I mean. I mean that on a rainy night, I took a cup of t-tea in Miss Duncan’s rooms which she very k-k-kindly offered me, and then returned to my rooms upstairs. You p-pretend to be concerned about her reputation, and instead you insinuate falsehoods with ‘the shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands that calumny doth use’.

Mr Bexheath: I see. So according to Shakespeare, I myself am responsible for the harm done to Miss Duncan’s reputation.

Tittering in the public.

Mr Bexheath: I imagine that point of view is extremely serviceable, when applied to one’s own conduct.

Further tittering in the public. The judge tapped his gavel lightly upon his desk.

Mr Bexheath: Now, sir, is it true that you told both Miss Duncan upon that evening, and Mr Withers on the following day, that you had come upon a new and exciting proof of some mathematical result?

Arthur: Yes, it is true. How long ago it seems!

Mr Bexheath: I submit that you proved a result connected with the n-body problem, and that your proof was based on information obtained from Mr Akers.

Arthur: No, absolutely not.

Mr Bexheath: Then what was the result which you proved?

Arthur: It was about normal forms of matrices, whatever that may signify to you.

Mr Bexheath: Have you any proof of that? Have you written something?

Arthur: Not yet.

Mr Bexheath: Ah, not yet. Quite. So you cannot prove your assertion. As far as proof is concerned, you may well have proved something concerning the n-body problem, in which case you would have every reason to keep it secret.

Arthur: That could be true, but it happens to be false.

Mr Bexheath: Let us now turn to the murder of Mr Beddoes. Recall your dinner in the Irish pub. What did you eat?

Arthur: We had the same thing as the other time. It is the speciality of the house.

Mr Bexheath: Upon what subject did your conversation with Mr Beddoes turn, during your dinner together?

Arthur: Upon mathematics and other mathematicians.

Mr Bexheath: Did you discuss the famous n-body problem?

Arthur: Not directly. Beddoes asked me a rather technical question, how one formula should imply another, and we tried to work it out together, but we did not succeed. He wrote down the formulae; they looked to me as though they had some relations with the partial differential equations involved in the n-body problem, but he did not actually say anything about it.

Mr Bexheath: Did you ask him about the source of the formulae he was trying to understand?

Arthur: I did, but he did not really answer. He said they had come up in discussions with others. He mentioned Mr Crawford, with whom we should have been dining in any case.

Mr Bexheath: Ah yes, that famous story. You claim that the original dinner invitation of that evening, the 30th of April, actually originated with Mr Crawford, who then in the early evening claimed an indisposition and sent a note to Mr Beddoes and to yourself inviting you to go without him.

Arthur: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: Do you have the note?

Arthur: No, I d-did not keep it.

Mr Bexheath: Quite so. So that your statement cannot be independently established.

Arthur: It seems not.

Mr Bexheath: After dinner, you then accompanied Mr Beddoes to his garden gate.

Arthur: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: But you did not enter the garden?

Arthur: He opened the gate, and we stood in the gateway, shaking hands.

Mr Bexheath: You are aware that the traces of earth on your shoes prove that YOU WERE IN THE GARDEN?

Arthur: I must have picked them up standing just inside the gateway.

Mr Bexheath: But the gateway opens onto a path leading to the house, and the path is paved.

Arthur: In a garden, I suppose earth frequently lies over the flagstones.

Mr Bexheath: Mrs Beddoes keeps a well-swept path.

Arthur: There is no real answer to that.

Mr Bexheath: So, were you actually within Mr Beddoes’ garden?

Arthur: Just inside the gateway.

Mr Bexheath: DID YOU, SIR, TAKE UP A HEAVY ROCK EMBEDDED IN THE EARTH NEAR THE PATH, AND STRIKE MR BEDDOES WITH IT?

Arthur: N-N-No! No. No. No.

Mr Bexheath: Very well. Very well, then. Very well. In that case, let us turn to the death of Mr Crawford. Is it true that you visited him on occasion in his rooms?

Arthur: I have entered his rooms on two occasions within the last few months.

Mr Bexheath: Did you have anything to drink there?

Arthur: No.

Mr Bexheath: No red wine?

Arthur: No.

Mr Bexheath: Can you recall the dates of your visits?

Arthur: I went once in March, after a lecture of Mr Crawford, to bring him a book which he had accidentally left in the lecture room. I do not remember the exact date. I went another time in April, to collect Mr Crawford on the way to high table.

Mr Bexheath: On both occasions, Mr Crawford was in his rooms?

Arthur: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: Did he keep his door locked?

Arthur: No.

Mr Bexheath: Did you knock, or simply enter?

Arthur: I knocked, and he opened.

Mr Bexheath: DID YOU POUR THE DIGITALIN INTO HIS BOTTLE OF WHISKY UPON ONE OF THESE OCCASIONS?

Arthur: No!

Mr Bexheath: You are on oath, sir.

Arthur: I know it.

Mr Bexheath: In that case I have nothing more to say.

Arthur sat down in the dock and my heart went out to him, in a great turmoil and commotion of distress and tenderness. That monstrous Mr Bexheath tried every underhanded way, even making use of Arthur’s unfortunate (although endearing) stammer, to influence the jury’s thinking. I stared miserably into their dull faces, but could read nothing of their reactions. The things that are happening in this court do not represent anything like law and justice! I am so worried. Can they possibly find something incriminating in Arthur’s statements?

Your fearful

Vanessa

Cambridge, Friday, May 25th, 1888

Oh, dear Dora –

The trial has taken a disastrous turn! I have a horrible feeling, which is positively physical: watery bones.

All began much as usual. Judge and jury filed to their places, the barristers sat at their tables, the witnesses along their benches, the public in their gallery, and last but not least, Arthur appeared between two policemen and was escorted, like a dangerous criminal, into the dock. Our eyes met briefly, but he looked down directly; sometimes I suspect that my presence here, observing the unendurable, must make it even worse for him, but I could not bear not to be here, and such is the nature of things.

The judge began by turning to Mr Haversham, and asking him if he wished to continue presenting the witnesses for the defence, when Mr Bexheath arose from his place, and intervened, addressing the judge respectfully.

‘I have a request to make, my Lord, which I hope the court will look upon favourably.’

‘Yes, what is it?’ enquired Mr Justice Penrose.

‘My Lord, in principle, I have finished presenting the witnesses assembled in support of the Crown. However, my personal researches upon the important questions of facts raised here have led to the discovery of two new witnesses, who are able to provide a capital piece of evidence in favour of the Crown.’

A great murmur and commotion ran all around the courtroom, as everybody wondered what this new, revealing piece of evidence could be. I felt my breast contract and tighten with strain, and looked anxiously at Mr Morrison. Instead of smiling encouragingly at me, he stared back at me with dismay.

‘Counsel for the defence, do you accept the interrogation of these new witnesses for the prosecution, before continuing with the regular series of your own witnesses?’ the judge asked Mr Haversham politely.

I dearly hoped he would refuse, but of course, the question was a mere formality, and he had no real possibility of doing so. He acquiesced as graciously as possible, and Mr Bexheath said, ‘Then I would like to request Miss Pamela Simpson to take the stand!’

A door opened, and the bailiff ushered a young lady into the courtroom, and guided her to the witness stand, where she stood, her head thrown back, an air of frank curiosity and amusement upon her face.

Dora, dear, I really do not know how to describe such a person! If I dared, I would imagine that she is the exact type of what certain ladies of our acquaintance would have termed ‘a creature’. Bold, brazen, laughing, daring, hard, devil-may-care, every word and every movement betraying a conscious desire to produce a specific effect – she seemed as out of place in the solemn courtroom as a brilliant bird of paradise. She stood, half-smiling, in a position of insolent ease, in her bright clothes, and waited. The court clerk appeared with his Bible and swore her in. Her hand upon the Bible, she took the oath with clear, ringing tones, so that it did not seem that the suspicion of incorrectness naturally aroused by her appearance need necessarily apply to her veracity.

Direct examination of Miss Pamela Simpson,
by Mr Bexheath

Mr Bexheath: Tell us your name, please.

Miss Simpson: Pamela Simpson.

Mr Bexheath: Your age?

Miss Simpson: Twenty-two last January.

Mr Bexheath: Where do you reside, Miss Simpson?

Miss Simpson: In London, just behind King’s Cross.

Mr Bexheath: Miss Simpson, were you acquainted with the late Mr Jeremy Crawford, Lecturer in Mathematics at the University of Cambridge?

Miss Simpson: Yes, I was acquainted with him. He was a nice man. I’m very sorry he’s dead.

Mr Bexheath: Can you tell us if you saw Mr Crawford on February 14th last?

Miss Simpson: Yes, I did.

Mr Bexheath: Are you aware that that was the day of the murder of the mathematician Mr Geoffrey Akers?

Miss Simpson: Well, I wasn’t then, but I know it now.

Commotion and murmuring in the court. The judge banged his gavel until silence was restored.

Mr Bexheath: Can you tell us what part of the day of February the 14th you spent with Mr Crawford?

Miss Simpson: The whole evening, from eight o’clock, and the whole night, until the next morning.

Commotion and murmuring in the court. The judge banged his gavel and said ‘If silence is not kept I will clear the court!’

Mr Bexheath: Where did you spend those hours with Mr Crawford, Miss Simpson?

Miss Simpson: Well, in my rooms, except when we dined.

Mr Bexheath: You are referring to your rooms in London, behind King’s Cross Station?

Miss Simpson: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: And where did you dine?

Miss Simpson: We dined at Jenny’s Corner, a small restaurant situated near to my rooms.

Mr Bexheath: Jenny’s Corner is run by a Miss Jenny Pease?

Miss Simpson: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: She is a friend of yours?

Miss Simpson: Yes.

Mr Bexheath: You are aware that Miss Pease is present today, and will be examined with a view to confirming, for the benefit of the jury, the veracity of your statements?

Miss Simpson: What, sir? Excuse me?

Mr Bexheath: You know that Miss Pease is here, and that she will be questioned as to your dinner of February 14th?

Miss Simpson: Oh! Yes, I know that, of course. We came up here together.

Mr Bexheath: Now, Miss Simpson, do you know how Mr Crawford came from Cambridge to London?

Miss Simpson: Yes, I know that. He came down by the train, for I fetched him myself at the station at about seven-thirty, and we came home together.

Mr Bexheath: And did you and Mr Crawford separate for any length of time during the evening of February 14th?

Miss Simpson: No, sir, absolutely not. We were stuck together like two peas in a pod the whole livelong evening, and the night, too.

Mr Bexheath: So there is no possibility whatsoever that Mr Crawford could have been assassinating a man, in Cambridge, on the evening of February the 14th.

Miss Simpson: Absolutely not!

Mr Bexheath: Remember now, Miss Simpson, that your testimony is of vital importance, and you are on oath. You are absolutely certain of what you are saying?

Miss Simpson: Oh, yes. I realise that what I’m saying shows that Mr Crawford did not kill that Mr Akers, and that makes it seem like it must be the poor young man in the dock over there that did it. I feel very sorry for him and hope it wasn’t him, but I can’t help what I’m saying, as it is true.

Mr Bexheath: Thank you very much, Miss Simpson.

Mr Justice Penrose: Mr Haversham, would you like to cross-examine this witness?

Mr Haversham: Most certainly, my Lord.

Cross-examination of Miss Pamela Simpson,
by Mr Haversham

Mr Haversham: Miss Simpson, may I enquire what your profession is?

Miss Simpson: (absolutely composed) I’m afraid I’ve got none, Mr Barrister.

Mr Haversham: But you must have money to live on, don’t you? How do you pay for your rent, and your meals?

Miss Simpson: Oh, I get money where I can, as gifts, often enough.

Mr Haversham: And who gives you such kind gifts?

Miss Simpson: Friends.

Mr Haversham: And what service do you render these friends, that they are so kindly disposed towards you?

Miss Simpson: Mr Barrister, if you’re trying to shame me, it won’t work. For I’m ready to say right out that I take good care of my gentlemen friends, and they takes good care of me.

Mr Haversham: Oh! I see. So you have come to a satisfactory arrangement with your gentlemen friends?

Miss Simpson: You’re right I have.

Mr Haversham: And how many of these friends do you have?

Miss Simpson: I’ve never counted them!

Mr Haversham: So there are too many to estimate, say, on the fingers of one hand.

Miss Simpson: Oh Lord, yes.

Mr Haversham: Quite. Now, let us discuss your acquaintance with Mr Crawford.

Miss Simpson: I’m ready to when you are.

Mr Haversham: Can you tell us when and how you first met Mr Crawford?

Miss Simpson: I met him in London, some years ago. It’s hard for me to remember exactly when – probably three or four years ago.

Mr Haversham: And where did you meet him?

Miss Simpson: In the train station.

Mr Haversham: Would you like to tell us the circumstances of that meeting?

Miss Simpson: Well – he come out of the train, with his bags, and I see he looks like a nice kind of man, so I goes up to him and says ‘Hello, sir, looking for a nice place to stay while you visit London?’ and he smiles at me and says ‘Well, that might be, my dear, it might be.’ So he did.

Mr Haversham: So he did what?

Miss Simpson: Stay at my place. It’s a nice place, isn’t it?

Mr Haversham: And at that time, you already had a number of friends, as you call them?

Miss Simpson: Not as many as now.

Mr Haversham: Yes. And was that your regular method for making new friends?

Miss Simpson: Well, I’ve never been shy about speaking to people I see that look nice.

Mr Haversham: And how often did you see Mr Jeremy Crawford?

Miss Simpson: Oh, he’d come down to London and see me fairly regularly.

Mr Haversham: How regularly?

Miss Simpson: Maybe every month or so. Pretty much every month. It’s hard for a man to be alone all the time, they risks turning into dry sticks. You ought to know that, by the look of you.

Laughter in the court. The judge banged his gavel.

Mr Haversham: Miss Simpson, did Mr Crawford have a regular date or day of the week on which he would come down to see you?

Miss Simpson: No.

Mr Haversham: So how can you be so sure that the day he came to see you last February was exactly the 14th?

Miss Simpson: Oh, that’s easy. For one thing, it was Saint Valentine’s day. That’s a romantic day, you know. We joked about it. But anyway, I have his letter.

Mr Haversham: What letter is that?

Miss Simpson: Well, when he thought he had a free day to come down, you know, he’d simply write me, and I’d write back, if it was all right.

Mr Haversham: You mean, if you were not busy with another friend on that day?

Miss Simpson: You’ve hit it on the nose, Mr Barrister. So he wrote me about the 14th of February, and I wrote back it was all right, and here is the letter.

Mr Haversham: This is the letter he wrote to you?

Miss Simpson: Yes.

Mr Haversham: But we do not appear to be in possession of your affirmative answer, so this does not really constitute a proof that he came on that day.

Miss Simpson: No, I doubt he kept my notes, but there’s this letter, and there’s what I remember and have sworn to, and Jenny remembers too.

Mr Haversham: So our establishment of the date depends essentially on your memory and your ability to distinguish between your different friends, and the different days upon which you received them.

Miss Simpson: Oh, no, Mr Barrister. Don’t try to make out that I’m all confused. I remember rightly about the 14th, and this letter says so too, and Jenny will as well.

Mr Haversham: Very well. You may stand down.

Then Mr Bexheath called Miss Jenny Pease to the stand. She was a buxom lady, quite a bit older than Miss Simpson, and not so garish, but equally sure of herself. She was sworn in by the Clerk, and her direct examination began.

Direct examination of Miss Jenny Pease, by Mr Bexheath

Mr Bexheath: What is your name?

Miss Pease: Jenny Pease, sir.

Mr Bexheath: Please state your profession.

Miss Pease: I have a little restaurant nearby King’s Cross, sir, down in London.

Mr Bexheath: You are acquainted with Miss Pamela Simpson?

Miss Pease: Oh yes.

Mr Bexheath: For how long have you known her?

Miss Pease: Oh, she comes to the restaurant regular, sir, been coming for the last couple of years, or thereabouts.

Mr Bexheath: Does she come alone?

Miss Pease: Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends.

Mr Bexheath: Do you clearly remember whether Miss Simpson came to eat in your restaurant on the 14th of February last?

Miss Pease: Yes, sir.

Mr Bexheath: She did come?

Miss Pease: Yes, sir.

Mr Bexheath: Did she come alone?

Miss Pease: No, sir. She came accompanied by a gentleman friend, Mr Crawford.

Mr Bexheath: You were previously acquainted with Mr Crawford?

Miss Pease: Oh, yes, sir. He and Pam had come to the restaurant any number of times already, before then.

Mr Bexheath: Now, Miss Pease, can you tell me how you can be absolutely certain that the day Miss Simpson and Mr Crawford had dinner in your restaurant was precisely the 14th of February, and no other day?

Miss Pease: Oh, I remember well enough. We joked back and forth about its being Saint Valentine’s day, like, and so Mr Crawford must be Pam’s real sweetheart. Also, it was a Tuesday, that’s my mutton chop day, and they had it.

Mr Bexheath: Your mutton chop day?

Miss Pease: The dish of the day, sir. There’s one for every day of the week: Monday liver, Tuesday mutton chop, Wednesday T-bone, Thursday fowl, Friday fish …

Mr Bexheath: Yes, yes, Miss Pease, we understand. And the order of the dish of the day never varies? It is the same from week to week?

Miss Pease: Has been for years. The regulars likes things regular, if you know what I mean, sir. They likes to know what to expect.

Mr Bexheath: Of course. Well, this concludes my examination.

Cross-examination of Miss Jenny Pease, by Mr Haversham

Mr Haversham: Now, Miss Pease, I have heard your testimony, and there is really only one thing in it I would like to ask you about.

Miss Pease: What’s that, then?

Mr Haversham: Your memory. You claim that you remember the exact day upon which Miss Simpson and Mr Crawford came to your restaurant, three and a half months ago.

Miss Pease: Well, I do, then.

Mr Haversham: May I conclude that you remember every day that every single one of your clients came to the restaurant?

Miss Pease: No. But I’m specially friends with Pam.

Mr Haversham: Oh, I see. So then, you are simply able to remember each and every day upon which Miss Simpson came to dine in the restaurant, and whom she was with each time. Could you please give me a complete list of those dates, going back over the last four months?

Miss Pease: No, you know right well I can’t do anything of the kind!

Mr Haversham: Oh, really? No, I am quite surprised. So, after all, your memory of Miss Simpson’s various visits is not so perfectly clear.

Miss Pease: Not every one of her visits, but the one on the February 14th is pretty clear.

Mr Haversham: Pretty clear? But not completely clear?

Miss Pease: Well, it’s completely clear that she was there, and that she was with Mr Crawford, that I already was acquainted with, and that they ate mutton chops and we chaffed about Saint Valentine’s day. Those things are clear.

Mr Haversham: Miss Pease, may I ask you who first questioned you about this important date of February 14th, and then brought you to this court?

Miss Pease: It was police, sir. What with Pam seeing that her friend Mr Crawford had died, she was talking to her friends and all about how she knew him, and it got to police, and they came and questioned her about these two dates: February 14th and April 30th. Pam didn’t know anything about April 30th; she hadn’t seen anything of Mr Crawford on that day. But she remembered about being with him on February 14th, and remembered about coming to the restaurant that day. So then they came to ask me about it.

Mr Haversham: And how did they ask you about it? Was the date of February 14th suggested to you? Or were you asked to recall it yourself?

Miss Pease: They reminded me back in February, and said had I seen Miss Simpson and her Mr Crawford, and I really couldn’t bring it to mind at first, as I sees her so often. Then they had us together, and she reminded me about Saint Valentine’s day, and I remembered.

Mr Haversham: I see. That is very helpful. They reminded you about what to remember, and then you remembered it.

Miss Pease: I see what you’re saying, sir, but it isn’t that way. I really remembered it, they just jogged my memory, like.

Mr Haversham: Very well, they jogged your memory, and then you remembered the date of February 14th which previously you had not remembered. You may stand down.

Mr Haversham certainly tried everything he could to shed doubt upon the testimony of these two ladies, but I am afraid he did not succeed in convincing the jury. I must admit frankly that he did not even succeed in convincing me; the ladies’ statements really did ring simple and true. They may have been bribed or threatened or simply cajoled into inventing the story, but the police themselves would have no reason to do it … it would have to be the true murderer himself. But why should he care whether Arthur or Mr Crawford was convicted for his own crimes – OH – unless … oh! What if Arthur himself was the intended next victim, and this is the murderer’s cunning way of disposing of him? What a horrible idea! But … it means that if Miss Simpson and Miss Pease are not telling the truth, then they must know who the murderer is. I must try to meet them. Perhaps, after lessons, I could catch a train to London and eat at Jenny’s Corner.

Late at night

I have done it. The two ladies were sent back to London by train, as Miss Pease was very anxious about her restaurant being locked up unexpectedly even for a single evening. I myself hastened home to teach my little class – how difficult it is becoming, now that my mind is so dreadfully elsewhere! The moment the last little pupil had disappeared around the corner, I put on my hat, snatched up a bag, put all my available money into it, and rushed to the railway station, where I purchased a ticket to London and found myself quite soon swept off by a rattling locomotive. It was not so difficult, really; I just did the same as the day we all went to the theatre. When the train pulled into London, I got out, and addressing the driver of a hansom waiting in the road, I asked him if he knew of a restaurant called Jenny’s Corner in the neighbourhood. He did not, but by dint of wandering about the streets and asking continually, I eventually discovered it. It was dinner time, and the restaurant was already quite full. It is a small, dingy hole, rather dirty, with little tables set close together, but it was warmly lit nonetheless, and the buxom Miss Pease with her apron, emerging frequently from her kitchen to banter with the customers, and aided by a scrap of a girl taken in off the streets, by the look of her, lent a welcoming atmosphere to the whole.

I was quite out of place in the restaurant, my dear; I was most unlike anybody else there, and felt that they looked at me with some hostility. However, I entered, and the scrap of a girl showed me to a tiny corner table. There was no menu; she simply stopped in front of me and breathlessly recited a list of dishes, ending with ‘dish-of-the-day’s-fish-mum, if you please, a nice baked haddock it is’. I said I would have baked haddock please, and could I speak with Miss Pease.

The girl went into the kitchen through the swinging baize door, and came out carrying plates and mugs. She was followed by Miss Pease, who looked suspiciously over at me. She stared for a moment, and then her face broke into a smile.

‘Oh, I recognise you,’ she said. ‘You was at the trial this morning, up on the witness bench, along of us.’

‘Yes, I was,’ I told her. ‘I have come to see you because of the trial.’ My voice became unsteady, and Miss Pease waxed motherly.

‘P’raps you’d better come in here and talk private for a moment,’ she said. I got up and followed her into the fuming kitchen, and from there, into a small, cluttered back room.

‘Miss Pease,’ I said, ‘I’m a friend of Arthur Weatherburn, the man accused of murdering Mr Crawford and the others.’

I meant to go on, but suddenly and quite unexpectedly, I burst into tears. In a moment I found myself pillowed on Miss Pease’s ample breast. She put her arms around me, and said,

‘Dear, dear, it must be very hard for you.’

‘Yes,’ I sobbed. ‘Oh, Miss Pease, he didn’t do it!’

‘Well, poor Mr Crawford ain’t done it either, seems now, so then I don’t know who it might have been,’ she said.

‘I came to ask you about that,’ I told her, suddenly feeling that perfect directness was possible with this kindly soul. ‘I wanted to know if it was true, what you said. I mean, really true – do you really remember all that? Or was it just the police or somebody else wanting you to say it, so as to incriminate Arthur?’ And the tears began again, harder than ever.

‘La, la,’ she said, patting me on the back. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. I do wish I could help you. It’s a nasty situation you’re in, isn’t it? I truly wish I could tell you that I don’t remember really about that poor dead Mr Crawford, and that mayhap he was the murderer after all, and not your young man. But it can’t be done. They was really here that night, the two of them. I know it well as can be, what with the mutton chops that was his favourite dish, and the Saint Valentine jokes about sweethearts and all. There ain’t no doubt about it, dear. It came back to me when Pam reminded me, and that’s how it happened, that’s all. Now, now, don’t take on so, dear. If your young man’s innocent, why they’ll acquit him, won’t they? Now, you take this handkerchief, and sit down, and have your bit of fish.’ And I did, and then a comforting cup of tea, before which I sit as I write to you.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I can no more bring myself to believe that this kind and sincere woman is lying than that Arthur is the murderer. What shall I do?

Your miserable

Vanessa

Cambridge, Saturday, May 26th, 1888

My dearest Dora,

Last night, upon returning from my sad little dinner at Jenny’s Corner, I had a terrifying experience.

I was walking back to the station, to return home. My mind was filled with the disaster which has befallen Arthur, and the devastating kindliness of Miss Pease. I could not conclude anything other than that she and her friend Miss Simpson had told the truth, the simple truth, and this means the murderer is still at large. Who can it be, Dora?? More strongly than ever, the thought was borne in upon me that the murderer exists in flesh and blood. I had felt that same feeling in the first days when I went to visit Arthur in prison, but afterwards, I believe I had convinced myself so completely that Mr Crawford must be the murderer, that I quite forgot my original fears. They began to return in force, as I ran over the familiar faces of Arthur’s many colleagues whom I had met over the last months. One of them must be secretly mad. Who was it? Where was he now? What was he planning, presently, at this very minute? Who would be the next victim? Was he trying to systematically eliminate the entire group of mathematicians associated to Mr Akers and Mr Crawford? Arthur was undoubtedly one of them. I could not help feeling that even if a condemnation awaited Arthur, at least while the trial lasted, he was safely in prison, where the murderer could not get at him.

But is not the murderer afraid, Dora? Does he not feel his entrails burn with fear and guilt as the trial takes its daily course? Does he follow it? Is he sitting in the courtroom, day after day? I felt my hair rise upon the back of my head, and at the same moment, I became aware that I was being quietly followed, down a dark and empty street.

My heart pounded wildly, as I forced myself to continue on steadily towards the corner, where a dim glow showed me that the perpendicular street was gaslit. I dared not turn and look at my pursuer, nor quicken my pace to alarm or attract him. I tried to tell myself that it was simply another quiet foot passenger, like myself, walking along innocently on business of his own. Or even an ordinary footpad, pickpocket, thief, attacker of any kind – anyone at all – but not the Cambridge murderer! Of course, that could not be. Why should he have followed me here?

The more I walked, the more I felt that if I should suddenly turn around, I would see a familiar face, and if so, I would know. Yet I was too afraid. I decided to do it exactly when I had very nearly reached the street corner. I fixed my eyes upon the point I meant to arrive at when I should suddenly whip around, and advanced steadily towards it.

But before I reached it, my unknown follower suddenly broke into a run. His footsteps pounded behind me. My heart leapt, my eyes started out of their sockets, I turned around and saw him bearing down on me, his collar up and his face muffled by a dark scarf, and involuntarily I also began to run wildly towards the corner, screaming. I was hindered by my skirts, and he reached me before I could come to the lighted section, and seizing me violently from behind, pulled me into a doorway. I wrenched loose and struggled and screamed. Then came running footsteps, and a man and a woman together came hurrying round the corner from the lighted street. The man shouted out, ‘What’s happening?’ My assailant dropped me and raced away like lightning, down the street the other way, and I fell into the arms of the lady, my heart knocking as though to burst. They scolded me a great deal for walking alone in such a dangerous neighbourhood, and hailed a hansom to take me to the station. I cried in the hansom, partly from relief, partly from distress, and also because I had not been able to identify my attacker in any way, not even to guess his age; simply that he was not an elderly man because he seemed so strong and fast. It could have been him, or it could have been a perfect stranger, a criminal lurking in the dark London streets, waiting to rob or kill any vulnerable victim who should walk by. Perhaps I will never know. But fear has invaded me now.

When I arose this morning, I found that last night’s experience had left me weak and shaking, and I had no desire to be alone. I decided to visit Emily and offer her to accompany me on a walk. But the maid informed me that she had gone to visit Rose, so I went hither.

The girls were delighted to see me. Emily at once began to wrap her arms around her friend, and ask her if she would not invite me in for a moment, and play something for me.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Rose capriciously, dancing about. ‘Have you already played for Miss Duncan?’

‘No,’ said Emily.

‘Well, then I don’t have to,’ began Rose, but Emily interrupted her.

‘Oh, I only learn piano with Miss Forsyth,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Everybody plays piano. Anyway, I don’t like it nearly as much as other things. It’s not like you, Rose. You get to play what you want.’

As we entered Rose’s house, I was immediately struck by its loveliness and taste. Her mother greeted me warmly and asked if I would like a cup of tea. As soon as I was provided with it, Emily began to cajole again.

‘Could we please, please just take Miss Duncan to see Rose’s room? It is so pretty, and she has never seen it.’

‘Why, of course,’ she said, and I was towed upstairs by two eager hands and made to admire Rose’s bed, her curtains, and her toys, all of which appeared to have been lovingly fabricated by her mother and herself, in the fluffiest and tenderest possible manner.

‘Rose made ever so many of these,’ Emily said, showing them to me. ‘But this one is the biggest toy of all,’ and she reached underneath the high bed, extracted a very large box, and opened its clasps.

Out came a great musical instrument made of dark, burnished wood – a violoncello. From watching Rose, Emily had understood a little bit of how to play it, and she took up the bow, rubbed something on it and sitting on a chair, took the ’cello in front of her and began to make sounds with it, using her left hand to change the notes, while Rose danced about the room, dimpling, and pretending that there was no relation at all between herself and the enormous instrument. Emily continued on, purposely teasing her friend by making uglier and uglier noises, until Rose could finally stand it no longer and snatched the bow from her.

‘No, let me show you!’ she began, meaning only to guide Emily’s hands, but Emily jumped up with alacrity, pushed her into the chair and planted the instrument firmly in front of her. Only her head and shoulders appeared behind it from above, while her ample skirts enveloped the sides of it below. She began to play a little bit, slowly, as if testing the strings, and turning the keys. Then the music grew and soared in a great wave of rich, vibrating sounds. It was slow, deep and heart-rending, seemingly with a great many voices, as the strings sounded simultaneously, bringing to mind a noble forest, where the very trees join above to form a natural cathedral, arching in worship to the sky. Then, after a little pause, the instrument, as though singing of itself, launched into something gay and humorous – a jig. A final chord, a pause, and it slipped to a dramatic, desperate plea which reached out wrenchingly, tormentingly. The succession of moods was so extreme, the voice of the music so absorbing, the changes so sudden, so unexpected that my heart seemed pulled this way and that and I quite forgot about Rose herself; it was a great shock to me when the plaint came to an end and the violoncello’s wild voice was replaced by her own little chirp, as she flung the ’cello on her bed, saying, ‘There, the end!’

Her mother was standing in the doorway, listening. I turned to her as the two girls chatted together, and said, ‘How beautifully, how unexpectedly she plays.’

‘Unexpected, indeed!’ she concurred, laughing. ‘My husband and I hardly know what to do about it. It began when she was barely five years old; I began to teach her the piano, and to take her to concerts, and within a month she had refused to touch so much as a black or white key, and was demanding only to play a ’cello like those she had seen in great orchestras. And she has never stopped since. It is really awkward for a girl to play such an instrument – she has to have all her dresses made specially. We are quite taken aback by it all; I don’t know what will come of it. She is often quite reluctant to practise, or to play for friends, and behaves in every way like a perfectly normal little girl, so that we feel reassured, and then she picks up the instrument, and it seems as though an entirely different person is playing; someone strangely old, and deeply versed in every human emotion. Her father did not mind satisfying her when he thought it was the caprice of a tiny child, but now he is especially worried that it might eventually occur to her to wish to appear on a concert stage – I’m afraid he would find that truly unacceptable!’

I felt a little sorry for Rose, if her hopes were destined to be blighted. I glanced over to her, but it seemed that no one could have been less interested in the question of a possible future career on or off the stage. She was extremely busy with her family of dolls.

‘There is plenty of time!’ I said. ‘She is enjoying herself greatly for now.’

‘Oh yes, she dearly loves her friends, and her school, and her dolls. What a delightful mother she will be some day. She is an odd little being, however. She can be extraordinarily bold and stubborn at times! I do hope she is not so in class.’

‘Oh, no indeed,’ I laughed. ‘She is charming, and I could not do without her.’

Rose’s mother descended, and I turned to Rose.

‘How beautifully you played,’ I told her. ‘The very wood of the instrument seems to call out of itself!’

‘Oh yes, it talks – it’s my big baby,’ she said happily, taking it in her arms. ‘Let me put it back in its bed. It has a lovely bed, look – all with velvet inside.’

I looked.

‘Oh!’ said Rose, her cheeks becoming a little pink. ‘What are these? I forgot!’ She extracted a slightly crumpled bundle of papers from the luxurious, dark rose-coloured interior of the large box.

‘Rose – what are those papers?’ I asked her in amazement. ‘Look – they have mathematics written on them. Wherever did you get them?’

‘It was a secret,’ she said a little guiltily. ‘We found them, Emily and I, and we thought it was a clue. But then we forgot all about it.’

‘Found them? Where?’

‘They were in Mr Beddoes’ cat house, in one of the baskets, under the mattress. We found them when we shook them all out and fluffed them up. We thought they must be an important clue to the mystery, and we took them, and I hid them in my petticoats and brought them here. We meant to give them to you, really, Miss Duncan. We just forgot!’

I took the papers, and scanned them eagerly. They were neatly written, line after line of mathematics in Mr Beddoes’ small, regular handwriting, which I recognised from the list of kittens Mrs Beddoes had shown me. The margins were carefully annotated with question marks and even tiny questions. They were well-thumbed, as though they had been often turned over and read and worked on, as well as being a little crumpled, perhaps from their journey in Rose’s petticoats.

‘Whatever can they be?’ I said. ‘What a strange place to keep them! Shall we go to your house, Emily, and ask your uncle what they might mean?’

I drew Emily away by the arm, and we took our leave of Rose and her mother. Emily did not want to leave, but she was also greatly interested by the idea of finding out about the suddenly rediscovered clue.

‘Rose is such fun,’ she told me. ‘She has a hundred ideas, she makes things all by herself, all the time. Sometimes I’d like to go and live in her house! I wish Edmund was more like that, but he isn’t. He needs me to tell him stories and cheer him up. It’s a secret,’ she whispered in my ear as we arrived at her door, ‘but he’s very sad. He won’t really tell me why, though. It is a secret – please don’t mention it to Mother.’

At the door of her house, she eagerly enquired if her uncle was within, but we were informed that he had gone out for the evening. Emily kissed me affectionately.

‘Do, do come back tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Uncle Charles will be back then, and we will show him the papers!’ And she entered, hopefully to shed a ray of sunshine into the gloomy atmosphere of care which seems to reign in her house ever since the tragic moment in the theatre.

I felt afraid when I found myself once again alone in the streets. I slipped along warily, and each footstep made me start. I was relieved when I entered my own rooms and barred the door behind me. I hid the papers carefully.

I do hope that tomorrow will reveal something of importance!

Your loving

Vanessa