Dearest Dora,
What a lovely long letter I received from you! For a few moments, while I read it, I was transported to home, and forgot everything about my current circumstances. So much so, that suddenly, after reading about Mr Edwards’ beautiful letter and his offer of marriage, I felt my heart rejoice, and wondered briefly why it seemed so very much heavier than usual. Memory had momentarily disappeared, but not pain.
Oh, Dora, how exciting, how beautiful! Dear Mr Edwards. I’ve always wondered, when sayings and aphorisms are so contradictory, how one can possibly use them to determine anything? When he left, who could ever have said whether it was going to be ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ or ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’. But oh, Dora, will you have the courage to wait so long – more than a year for him to return on leave, and then maybe several until he may return to England forever? Or would you have the courage to envision such a plunge into unknown regions as joining him in India would represent? But then, a voyage to India – a mere country – cannot be half so mysterious and so frightening as that other voyage, into the wilderness of marriage and husband, and that with a man whom you know so little as yet. Yet how should I talk, when one cannot control one’s dreams …
One’s dreams, so easily shattered, so far from reality! And (as far as I am concerned) what dreadful, what fearsome, what unthinkable reality! Day after day I struggle in vain to make sense of the confusion of events surrounding the dreadful murders, and succeed only in learning one piece of seemingly meaningless information after another. Earlier this evening, I betook myself to Emily’s house, in the hopes of meeting Mr Morrison, and obtaining his opinion on the papers discovered by the girls in Mr Beddoes’ garden. He was within, and we mounted to Emily’s nursery, where I speedily spread them out in front of him.
‘What do you think of them?’ I asked him.
He scanned the papers one by one, in order, stopping here and there, reading carefully, peering closely at the tiny marginal notes. He began to become quite excited.
‘You know, I am really no expert on the famous n-body problem,’ he told me, ‘but like everybody else, I am more or less familiar with the basics of the topic, from hearing people lecture on it. This paper is dealing with that problem. Look, here it says “let n=3”. Yes, indeed, I recognise these differential equations as those expressing the three-body problem. Whose manuscript is this, Miss Duncan? Where does it come from?’
‘It was written by Mr Beddoes,’ I told him, ‘and found by Rose and Emily, in a place where he had hidden it very secretly.’
‘Rose and Emily!’ he exclaimed, gazing more closely at the page in front of him, his face gleaming intensely. ‘My niece is beginning her mathematical career very young, then, if she has found the lost solution to such a famous problem. For look – this manuscript purports to contain a solution! See this heavily underlined formula here? It is the central point of the manuscript, I would say. And what follows looks like a sketchy proof that it is the sought-for solution to the mysterious differential equations. My word, this is exciting. So, of all people, Beddoes would be the one to have been in possession of a solution, all along, when people were all thinking that either Akers or Crawford must be looking for one!’
‘Might they not have been working together?’ I asked.
‘I really don’t know – I suppose they might have.’
‘What do these notes in the margin mean?’ I asked him.
He bent over the sheets and turned them over one by one, deciphering the tiny letters.
‘They are odd,’ he remarked. ‘They are very odd, really – what a strange mentality Beddoes had. He must have objected to crossing things out. Look at this one here! On the page it says (A) => (B), that is, A implies B, and in the margin is a question mark. He must have written down A implies B, and then come to question the implication while rereading it.’
‘Could it not be that he wrote down what another person explained to him?’ I asked. ‘Then perhaps he could not understand it later, when he looked it over.’
‘Yes, I guess that is not impossible,’ he said consideringly. ‘Except that the writing is so extraordinarily neat – it really doesn’t seem like someone taking notes, does it? It looks like a fair copy.’
‘Well, he could have copied out the rough notes, I suppose.’
‘Sounds strange, but maybe.’ He looked up at me, his eyes brilliant with interest. ‘Yes, I guess I can imagine that. The three of them closeted secretly together, working for the grand prize. One of them – Akers or Crawford – gets up to the blackboard and begins to explain his idea. Beddoes writes it all down. Then he goes home and, being a precise sort of fellow, goes over the notes again, copying them out neatly and trying to make sure that he understands the logical process behind each and every line. Whoever was explaining the idea must have been a little careless about going into the details, because Beddoes has marked a good three or four places he doesn’t understand.’
Something that Arthur had said during his testimony came back into my head.
‘Do you remember how Arthur said in court that at his dinner with Mr Beddoes, Mr Beddoes wrote down a question about some differential equations that he didn’t understand, and Arthur tried to help him with it?’
‘Yes!’ he answered excitedly. ‘You’re right! It must mean that Beddoes was working over this manuscript then, trying to understand every bit of it. No, but wait. Why wouldn’t he have just asked Crawford?’
‘Perhaps this manuscript holds notes of work by Mr Akers, and he was already dead!’ I cried. ‘But then, it would still have made more sense to discuss it with Mr Crawford, if they were working together. Oh, no! I remember now – they had quarrelled! It is true that Mr Crawford had said that he wanted to dine with Mr Beddoes, but perhaps Mr Beddoes was waiting for the invitation to speak with him about it. Yes, of course. He expected to have dinner with Crawford that very night, but since he did not come, he asked his questions to Arthur instead. He must have had the formulae in his head, for he certainly did not show this manuscript to Arthur. If he hid it so carefully, it must have been a great secret.’
‘Well, I should think it would be, if it is really a solution to the grand old problem,’ he said. ‘But it seems that they never had time to write it up and submit it for the prize, since they were both dead within a few days after Beddoes asked his question to Arthur.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, gazing into the fire. It dimmed into confusion before my eyes, and seemed filled with whirling images. Mr Akers, writing down a formula and thrusting it into his pocket. Mr Beddoes, holding a glass of wine, arguing with Mr Crawford, a manuscript on the table between them. A blow with a poker – a blow with a great rock. A gloved hand, carefully, silently pouring drops of digitalin, in a little stream, into a bottle of whisky, and Mr Crawford throwing glass after glass down his throat, exclaiming in triumph. A killer, seeking for a manuscript, perhaps even finding one – but who?
Fear invaded my limbs once again, as I visualised the gloved figure. Faces flitted in front of its formless visage – those of all my mathematical acquaintances – Mr Withers, Mr Wentworth, Mr Young, even Mr Morrison himself. I became faint with anxiety – I felt myself to be surrounded by murderers! Then the flames took shape, and became flames once again, as I heard Mr Morrison saying,
‘You don’t look too well, Miss Duncan. Are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said confusedly. ‘Thank you so much for your help. I should go home now.’
‘I will accompany you,’ he said with alacrity, rising.
‘No – no! Oh, no, thank you,’ I said in dismay, recalling my momentary, flickering vision.
He looked at me intently.
‘It may be a little dangerous for you, to wander about the streets alone, do you not think?’
‘I need to be alone!’ I cried, and hastily shaking his hand, I made my way down the stairs and out of the door.
Dora, no one can have made the road homewards longer than I did! For protection, I resolved never to be within less than a few yards from some other person, preferably of the male sex. But each time I fixed upon someone and carefully matched my pace to his, he persistently took a wrong turning, so that I arrived home only after making a remarkable number of squares and rectangles. And even at home, I hardly felt reassured. I barred the doors and windows, yet fear assailed me, and even trying to write to you did not bring me the usual feeling of calm. I got into my bed, and lay rigid, listening to every sound, but after ten minutes I could not bear it any more.
I got up, lit a candle, and holding the candlestick and my letter, very silently, in the silent house, I made my way to my front door, opened it, and slipped outside, closing it silently behind me. Noiselessly, I climbed the stairs to Arthur’s rooms – perhaps his door was not locked, for Mrs Fitzwilliam often went in and out, to dust, and also, at various times (somewhat grumblingly and against her will) to fetch articles of his that I then transported to him in prison. I tried the door quietly. It opened, and I slipped inside – and here I am.
I have never been in Arthur’s rooms before, or even seen them. By the light of my candle, I am looking around me. They are harmoniously bare and simple; a little monastery. An antique urn sits in a niche, mathematical papers are scattered on the desk, a worn volume of Shakespeare lies upon the table. If Mrs Fitzwilliam finds me here, she will be really very annoyed. I must rise very early, and slip down the stairs. But now … Arthur’s bed is calling me, and I shall finish this letter, which I am writing with his pen in my hand and his eiderdown pulled about me. In spite of everything, I feel swept up in an unreasonable wave of warmth and safety, and so I shall bid you goodnight.
Your loving
Vanessa
Dear Dora,
Last night, I slept deeply and beautifully, and woke up somewhat later than I had meant. I slipped downstairs with tremendous trepidation (really, I cannot understand exactly what Mrs Fitzwilliam does to provoke such fear!) and, seeing no one, reached my own door with a great sense of relief. There, I found that she had already pushed the daily post under the door, and your very own letter awaited me on the carpet. I tore it open eagerly.
I read it again and again, struck above all by this extraordinary sentence: There appears to me to be a strange parallel between the famous three-body problem, and that which you are so desperately trying to solve. I see two satellites, Mr Akers and Mr Beddoes, orbiting around the larger-than-life figure of Mr Crawford, struggling with the laws of gravity binding them to him inexorably, and wishing, as it were, to go ‘spiralling off’ to the ‘infinity’ of independent glory. Oh, Dora, what do you mean? Can you mean what I think you mean? Can the preposterous, unbelievable idea which flooded into my mind on reading and rereading that sentence possibly be true? Is that what you are trying to tell me? – you, my twin, who sometimes knows my mind better than I know it myself!
The more I think about it, the more I feel convinced. Yet can it be? The thoughts and images which whirled in my head yesterday seem to fall into place, and form a new picture, one I had never thought of before …
I have written down a list of the main events and details, as I recall hearing about them, in order to study whether what I now guess (what you guessed, Dora?) makes sense.
Mid-February: Three people met and drank whisky in Mr Crawford’s rooms (according to Mrs Wiggins).
February 14th: Mr Akers dined with Arthur and talked about the n-body problem, showed him a formula, mentioned a manuscript. Strange behaviour with his medicine: he began to pour it out, stopped after only a drop or two (the usual dose being ten drops) and stuffed the flask back into his pocket. He was killed upon returning home by someone waiting in his rooms. The bottle of digitalin was not found on him. His rooms may have been searched, the manuscript may have been taken; in any case it was never found. Mr Crawford spent this same evening in London.
Mid-April: Someone visited Mr Crawford in his rooms and had a glass of wine (according to Mrs Wiggins). Also at this time (so perhaps on this occasion?) Mr Crawford and Mr Beddoes quarrelled (according to Mrs Beddoes).
April 23rd: Mr Crawford addressed Mr Beddoes at the garden party, asking him to dine with him some day shortly. Mr Beddoes seemed surprised (as well he might) but not displeased at this gesture of reconciliation.
April 30th: Mr Crawford organised a dinner with Arthur and Mr Beddoes together, but excused himself at the last minute because of ill-health. So Mr Beddoes dined with Arthur. He showed him a formula and tried to ask him for help with understanding it. Arthur thought it had to do with the three-body problem though Mr Beddoes did not say so. Mr Beddoes was killed upon returning home, by someone waiting for him in the garden (so someone who knew, somehow, that he would be returning in the evening).
May 3rd: Mr Crawford dies after drinking whisky containing digitalin which may have been put there any time in the previous weeks.
May 19th: Emily and Rose find a strange manuscript in Mr Beddoes’ handwriting, with questions and annotations in the margins, purporting to solve the three-body problem. Relation with Mr Akers’ lost manuscript …
Dora – it all comes together! I am still not sure exactly what happened and how it happened, but in any case I am sure that what you are saying is right.
What shall I do? What shall I do?
Should I rush to the courtroom, that terrible courtroom, and pull Mr Haversham aside, or plead for an audience with the judge, and pour out to him all that has occurred to me? But I can imagine him only too well, wearing a patronising smile, and saying to me, ‘You have not the shadow of a proof, my dear young lady, whereas we are now all aware that you have every reason for inventing such a fairy tale.’ And then, how can I tell him what happened, when I am not completely sure yet myself?
Proof, proof! Is everything to collapse because of proof? I must have proof. What do I have? Nothing, nearly nothing – only the manuscript, and the meaning that it holds. A manuscript which I felt immediately to be the fundamental hinge on which the whole mystery turned, and yet whose sense I did not understand until this very moment.
No, I need more, I need evidence. Where can I find it? In Europe, on the mainland – in Belgium – in Stockholm!
It is the only answer. I must leave at once.
Vanessa
Dear Dora,
I am writing to you, not in a moment of leisure, but in a terrible moment of forced inactivity, late in the evening of a day so strange, that I never imagined I would live through one like it. To think that this very morning, I wrote you another letter, in another world – it seems so long ago! No sooner had I concluded my letter to you, than I leapt up, fired by the urgent desire to depart. But for someone whose greatest journey was from the countryside of Kent to the town of Cambridge, and from the town of Cambridge to the great city of London, the prospect of a European journey held something rather terrifying. I hardly knew how to begin. To calm my nerves, I bent my mind severely to a few simple thoughts.
All that is necessary is to purchase a ticket to London, thence take a boat to Europe … and then continue to purchase tickets and take trains until my destination is reached.
Surely many people in these foreign countries must speak English, and be kind and helpful. Miss Chisholm will fearlessly leave her country to study in an unknown land, for the love of mathematics.
Arthur risks his life if I do not act.
The last thought sent me scuttling out of the house to the small railway station where, quivering with dismay, I forced myself to ask for a ticket to London in a calm voice. It was not so difficult; I purchased a one-way ticket (to the great surprise of the gentleman behind the counter, and somewhat to my own surprise, but heaven alone knows where my adventure will end – I dared not make any assumptions about the date of my return).
Then I sped home to my rooms and taking out a small valise, rather than the great trunk I had when I first arrived here, I packed only my best grey dress and as many underthings as I could fit in with it. Then I put on the dark brown travelling dress. Shortly before the departure of the train, I grasped the valise firmly, put on my small brown hat, stepped out of doors, filled with resolution, and walked perhaps twenty paces. Suddenly, I remembered something. I stopped and turned around – I thought I saw a surreptitious figure dart behind a corner, and my heart contracted momentarily with fear. But I turned back firmly, re-entered my rooms, took up a large piece of paper and wrote upon it ‘Lessons are cancelled for some days’, pinned it to my door with a severe gesture, and departed once again.
Taking the train would not have been bad, Dora dear, if I had not been so fearful of all that was to follow. I sat down, and observed my fellow travellers, and waited, trying to control my racing thoughts and consider my next step, until the train drew up in the London station. Then I stepped forth and went to the nearest counter, to enquire as calmly as possible how I could get myself on a boat to Europe. I stood behind a British family who asked as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a boat-train to Calais, and I found myself asking for the same thing. Later, I discovered I could have travelled directly to Ostend in Belgium. But what happened was perhaps meant to be, as you will see.
I was sent to another counter, purchased a ticket, boarded a train to Dover, stood in various lines, always clutching my valise, and after what seemed like an endless time of trains, stations, lines and waiting, I found myself upon a boat, for the first time in my life.
The day was fine, the boat lifted and slopped gently in the water; a great many people got on it before and after me, some gabbling away in French, but many as British as you and I. I felt reassured by the presence of these friendly people, and resolved to converse with some of them, to ask if they could indicate a modest but agreeable hotel in Calais, for evening would be drawing in by the time I reached the shores of France, and I thought I should spend the night there, and begin my journey to Belgium as early as I could tomorrow morning.
I hung over the railings on the deck, looking out over the water, and as the boat slowly pulled away from the shore, and England began to recede, I understood for the first time what is meant by ‘the white cliffs of Dover’, and my heart was torn with emotion at leaving England and all that it held for me – leaving it in danger, as it seemed to me. I felt suffocated with fear that I was making a dreadful mistake, travelling away to no purpose, abandoning Arthur. And yet, as a mere observer, a daily witness to his passive misery, I was so useless – worse than useless! I was walking about the deck, miserable and quite hungry, tormented by the inactivity of travel, when all of a sudden I received a great shock – a shock so fearfully unexpected you can hardly imagine it. Two tender arms were flung about my neck, and Emily – my dear Emily – was in my arms, clinging to me, and talking at a great speed, as though afraid to let me say a word.
‘Oh, Miss Duncan, dear Miss Duncan,’ she cried, ‘please help me! Oh, you must help me – no one in the world can help me except you! I have followed you here all the way from Cambridge, but I dared not allow you to see me before, I was so very frightened you would take me back!’
‘Emily – Emily, what are you doing here?’ I gasped. ‘Your mother – she must be out of herself with distress. How could you, Emily – why, whatever are you thinking of? Oh, what can I do with you, oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?’
My distress was as great as hers, for the idea of turning back from my mission, losing not only time, effort and money but also the courage and the impulse, was dreadful to me.
‘It is for Robert, Miss Duncan,’ she told me, her white little face looking into mine, all framed by her soft dark hair, her eyes like pools of sadness, ‘we must save him, you must, you must help me to save him!’
‘Robert? Your father’s little orphan? Why, what must we save him from, pray?’
‘From Mother!’ she cried dramatically. ‘Mother does not want him, Miss Duncan, she says she cannot bear to have him home, and she will send him to – oh, to boarding school, to boarding school – it is too horrible, and he is only six, only six years old!’
‘But my dear child, a great many little boys of six are sent to boarding school, and they are all the better for it,’ I began. ‘Just because your poor brother had such a very dreadful experience there does not mean …’
But she interrupted me imploringly. ‘Oh, Miss Duncan, it was not just my brother! Every boy in the school suffered so, only Edmund is more fragile and cannot bear it. Oh, you cannot imagine all that he has told me, and some of the things he cries out in his sleep! He cannot bear to go to sleep, it was so dreadful in school; he said he began to be frightened after dinner, and it went on growing all the evening until bedtime. Don’t you understand? You can’t do that to a little boy, especially one who only just became an orphan! Miss Duncan, shall I tell you a story Edmund told me once? It was about his best friend, a boy called Watkins. Watkins was given a message: he was called to see the Headmaster. That meant he was to be punished for something. He was so afraid he cried. Edmund thought it would be worse if he didn’t go, so he went down with him, and waited outside the door, listening. He said he was very surprised to hear nothing – no screams. Then Watkins came out, and he was smiling with relief. And he said to Edmund “Thank God – I’m not to be punished!” Edmund said “Why did he call you?” And Watkins said – “He told me my mother had died.” Oh, Miss Duncan, can you imagine it? Can you? It is worse than a prison! Edmund shan’t go back if I can help it, and neither shall Robert!’
In spite of my emotion, I compelled myself to express the voice of reason.
‘But Emily dear, if your mother has decided that Robert must be sent to a school, what exactly do you hope to obtain by following me to Europe?’
‘Oh, first I wanted to run away, and send a telegram to Mother saying that I should come back only if she promised to keep Robert. But now, I believe Heaven itself has sent you here, for we are on our way to Calais, and I believe that we must fetch Robert ourselves, and bring him home.’
‘My dear child, I haven’t the least notion where he is, and we could not possibly simply arrive and carry him off! And then, I cannot, I cannot go back – I must travel to Stockholm, Emily. It is more important than anything.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I know why you are going – you are going for Mr Weatherburn! Oh, Miss Duncan, of course whatever you can do for him is important – but not more important than anything. Please, please think for a moment if he were here, if he could be here for just one second, and you asked him what you should do now – what he would say? I know he would say that we must get Robert – he is so kind! We cannot leave Robert – you don’t know where he is, but I do! He is with that horrible Madame Bignon, whom I saw when Mother and I travelled here – that horrible woman who is keeping him for money, right in Calais, where we are going. He was the saddest little boy I ever saw, he clung to me so when Mother decided we had to leave. I only left because she said we might arrange for him to come home, although I had wanted him to join us there and then, but she said it was impossible! He loved me so, and cried terribly when I left … and oh, he looked so much like Father! Please, Miss Duncan – I won’t make you travel back to England with me – we will travel together to Stockholm, and bring Robert – I will take care of him all the time, just like a mother, and we will be as good as gold and help you in everything you do! We will help each other – you will see! I have travelled often, and can speak French, and some German, too, you know. And – Miss Duncan, look – I have brought ever so much money with me – all that I have ever received since I was small, and Edmund’s as well, and some more which I begged Uncle to lend me for an urgent secret reason. He did it, and didn’t ask me a single question!’
I hesitated, and was lost. Emily is so lovely, so firm in her gentle way, so tall and ladylike for her thirteen years, so decisive and able and just, that she brought me infinite consolation, and I felt that her presence would be precious to me. Already I knew that were I to send her back, I would desperately miss her loving company. I was so afraid of the long trip into unknown places, but Emily had already taken boats and trains and spoken foreign languages, and she was filled with courage and the desire to do right. I reflected as these thoughts went through my mind, and then turned to her.
‘We must send a telegram to your mother the moment we arrive in Calais,’ I said. ‘Then, we will find a small hotel. And if the little boy truly lives in the town, we can call on him. But I believe you may be too hopeful. Why should they allow him to leave with me?’
‘They will! I will say that you are my governess and we are calling to fetch him. They know me. And if they want money, we shall pay them,’ she said, and her very voice vibrated with the force that makes things happen. She turned to me, put her two hands on my shoulders, and looked up into my eyes.
‘We are really trying to do the same thing,’ she said seriously. ‘You are doing it for Mr Weatherburn, and I for Robert. You will see – together we will succeed.’
And Dora, it may well be that without her loving help and presence, I would have despaired. Calais was a scene of indescribable confusion; oh, the motley crowds that invaded the place! Sailors, Frenchmen and foreigners of all descriptions, dirty children and beggars swarmed all about the area of the port, which was loaded high with stacks of boxes and bags of goods of all sorts being delivered. I would not have had the slightest idea where to go, had I been alone. But Emily led me to a money-changing counter, then towed me through the streets to the very hotel where she had stayed with her mother, and expressing herself very prettily in French, enquired for a large room with two beds, and even asked if it would be possible to add a child’s cot. She bade me upstairs as though playing the hostess in her own home, and we washed and freshened up, ‘to give ourselves courage’, as she said.
Then we went to send a telegram to her mother. I wrote it out myself, my hand trembling with the unthinkableness of what I was doing. I was afraid of being accused of running off with the child, and sought the wording anxiously, as she bent over my shoulder.
EMILY SAFE. HAD TO TRAVEL TO CONTINENT URGENTLY FOUND EMILY FOLLOWED ME ONTO BOAT. CANNOT RETURN NOR SEND EMILY ALONE SO TAKING HER WITH ME. HOPE RETURN WITHIN WEEK. DUNCAN.
I left the telegraph office filled with the fear that I would be followed, arrested, and accused of terrible misdeeds, at this critical time. I felt as though I had stolen one child and was about to steal a second. Full of misgivings, and yet deeply convinced that my fears were only for myself, whereas Emily truly walked in the Biblical ways of righteousness, I followed her through winding streets which she remembered perfectly, with the natural talent of a geometer, until we came to a miserable tenement house with peeling walls and cracked panes. There, we climbed to the very top of a horrible and rickety staircase smelling of onions, and knocked at the door. It was soon opened by a thin and undeniably evil-looking woman with a kerchief tied around her lank hair. She recognised Emily at once.
‘Ah, vous êtes revenue?’ she snarled unpleasantly.
‘Oui,’ said Emily with charming politeness, ‘voici ma gouvernante. Nous sommes venues emmener Robert.’
‘En effet, votre mère m’a ecrit qu’elle enverrait bientôt quelqu’un,’ said the unpleasant personage. Emily turned to me eagerly.
‘You see, Mother wrote that someone would soon come to take him, and she believes it is us!’ she whispered. Meanwhile, the lady had retired into the depths of her dingy flat, and was calling ‘Robert! Robert! Allez, viens vite!’
The little boy who then appeared was like another copy of poor little Edmund. He was extremely thin and fragile, his eyes were enormous and frightened, and he looked so abandoned and miserable that I understood all of Emily’s panic on his behalf. He looked from the woman to us as though wondering what was to befall him now, but when his eyes lit on Emily, he sprang towards her passionately and clutched her dress.
‘Oh, have you come to take me?’ he cried out in English.
‘Yes, yes, we have, come Robert, come with us now, darling! Come away – we shall leave, and you shall never come back here again!’ she answered, clasping him in her arms. ‘Pouvons-nous avoir ses vêtements?’ she added in her prim, studious French, turning to the woman.
The woman turned away, and soon came back with a canvas sack into which she had stuffed various ill-assorted rags.
‘Votre mère me doit de l’argent, mademoiselle,’ she began aggressively.
Emily took out her little purse, extracted a wad of notes, and handed them to the woman with a coolness worthy of a princess, then turned away, taking Robert by the hand, without even waiting to see if she would count the money, or complain. We heard vociferations and imprecations behind us as we descended, but she must have been too pleased to get rid of the undesirable little boy to insist further. Ten minutes after having arrived, we were on our way, with one little blonde boy in tow and one canvas sack of useless items. Emily poked into it with distaste.
‘Tomorrow we shall shop for him first thing,’ she began. Then, seeing my face, she suddenly clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘No, we shall not – we shall do what you need to do, dear Miss Duncan. I promise total obedience. Please tell me whatever it is, and we shall do it.’
I could not help laughing. ‘I need to travel to Brussels tomorrow, and see a lady who lives in a village near the city,’ I told her. ‘You shall help me with the tickets and the rooms, and if we are lucky, we shall find time to shop for little Robert tomorrow. For tonight, let us be contented if he is washed and well fed.’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said joyfully. ‘We shall have dinner at the hotel, all three of us together. Come – let us go there now!’ And we did dine modestly on fish and green beans, served by a harassed waiter who expressed himself habitually in a peculiar mixture of French and English, which language he had personally developed to deal with the great numbers of English tourists who occupy the hotel daily. We then betook ourselves upstairs to our room, where we are at this very moment. Emily is washing Robert as best she can in front of the cracked washbasin behind the tattered screen, as I write to you.
Oh, Dora – I feel as though you are near me, as though if I looked up I could see your sweet face in the candlelight. Surrounded by the peaceful domestic atmosphere, the gentle sounds of splashing, the scratching pen, the extraordinarily still and timeless moment in this quiet room – I feel we are all three protected, for a moment, within a magic circle, as though we have been allowed a brief rest in our struggle against the whirlpool of dreadful events which threaten us.
I feared this moment of being able to do nothing but wait. But it is not so – writing to you, and feeling Emily’s great release from anguish and little Robert’s incredulous wonderment at finding himself surrounded by love and care again, after so much misery and abandonment, make me realise that this moment is as full as all the others. I feel renewed courage; the map of Europe lies open before me – tomorrow to Belgium!
I will post this letter tomorrow, and write again at the very next one of these secret moments which seem to lie at the heart of the storm.
Your fearful, weary but courageous
Vanessa
My dearest Dora,
Today was so endlessly long, so filled with travel, with valises and stations and trains, carriages, horses, seeking addresses and hotels, that I feel as though I have been travelling for weeks!
And yet, we have been only from Calais to Brussels, and from Brussels to Wavre, or rather, to a farm in the nearby countryside, inhabited by a certain Madame Walters, formerly Miss Akers, sister to Mr Akers and his next of kin.
We arose early this morning; how sweet it was to see Robert’s flushed face asleep upon his tumbled pillow, and to see him awaken giggling from Emily’s sly tickles. Emily loves him with a fierce passion which mingles protectiveness for the abandoned and threatened waif, and (perhaps unconsciously) all her adoration for the father she twice lost, and whom Robert and Edmund closely resemble.
The little boy is really adorable; sweet, desperately eager to please, full of goodwill. He is bright-eyed, and I would guess that he must be a very lively and active little boy; I would naturally expect him to make a rumpus as little Violet and Mary do in class, and would love to see his cheeks flushed with some of their rosy colour. But he does not behave so; he is subdued and quiet, and seems to repress his natural energy. It cannot be easy for him, to have been twice snatched from familiar surroundings and flung into the unknown; the first experience must have taught him an unchildlike fear, which the second shall try its best to undo.
His father always spoke to him in English, so that although he may have forgotten a little during the last month, spent in the dreadful household we briefly saw, he still speaks charmingly. He is too young to have yet learnt to distinguish between tender, childish language, and ordinary speech. Today, taking Emily’s hand lovingly, he called her ‘my little birdie in a nest’, and she looked at him with amazement, then realised that she must be hearing, as though from the grave, the echo of her own father’s tender words to his child. Tender and loving the little boy’s parents obviously were, however at fault they may have been to be parents at all.
After breakfast in the crowded hotel dining room – I could swallow only tea, such was my haste to depart – we paid our bill, and hastened on foot through the streets to the railway station, whence we were soon on our way to Brussels. I could not take my eyes from the scenery outside; countryside, just as in England and not so very far, yet so different! The distance was not too long, and after a reasonable time, we found ourselves descending in the Belgian metropolis, which turned out to be hardly more than a delightful village with a lovely central square, in comparison with the bustling capharnaum of London. I felt quite at home there, in spite of the fact that many less English people were to be heard than at Calais; the streets are small, charming and reassuring, and many useful words such as Hotel and Restaurant are identical to the English, so that one does not feel unlettered as one walks through them; then, also, I am presently accompanied by an accomplished little Frenchman, who in spite of his tender years, comes gravely to our aid whenever we are missing the necessary words to express ourselves.
My first care was to send a telegram to poor Mrs Burke-Jones. I felt that I must not only reassure as to Emily’s well-being, but immediately break the news that we had taken little Robert, so that she could reflect upon her future decision concerning him (and also, perhaps, to avoid the fearful scene of breaking the news to her directly!). I spent some precious time over the wording, trying to explain all without undue waste of words, and finally wrote: Emily insisted take Robert from Calais. Both children well travelling Germany tomorrow. Duncan. I then set about the task of feeding my little brood, in spite of my burning impatience to hire a cab and ride at a gallop towards Wavre, and my tormenting fear that Madame Walters may be out for the day, or even away altogether, and that I might be obliged to wait, or to continue my journey without the knowledge I felt so certain she detained.
Thank Heaven, my fears proved groundless. After a modest meal, we proceeded to hire a hansom – the man was peculiar and leered, and I felt nervous, and began to feel that the presence of Emily and little Robert protects me greatly from many vexations – and he drove us several leagues, to a tiny village on the outskirts of Wavre. There, we were compelled to ask him to wait, as Emily and Robert descended and asked an old farmer passing down the lane with a load of hay, if he knew where Madame Walters resided. The man knew, of course, as the village is entirely visible from one end to other when standing at a single spot, and he showed us her farmhouse, standing at the edge of the fields some way off. Our cab driver took us as near as he could, but the way became muddy, and he began to become angry, and demanded his fare. I dared not demur, and paid him the rather exorbitant sum he required – thank goodness dear Emily had once again reminded me of the necessity to obtain something of the local currency at the railway station – after which we descended and he went cantering off to Brussels, although we had asked him to await our return.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ cried Emily gamely, ‘we shall walk back, if need be; I do not think it was over a few miles! Or perhaps we shall find a farmer’s wagon to take us back.’
Lifting our skirts, we stepped along the muddy lane, seeking as best we could to place our feet upon the various rocks and stones, until we came to the path leading to the farmhouse. My hopes rose as I saw the thread of smoke rising from the chimney, and the light which glowed within the cheerful windows against the dark, grey day.
We knocked at the door, which was soon opened by a woman no older than Mrs Burke-Jones, with brown hair pulled away from her face tightly, and an enormous apron – her face was wary, but not unfriendly. The sound of our English voices appeared to hearten her.
‘We are so terribly sorry to disturb you,’ I said, ‘but we have come a long way to see Madame Walters on urgent business.’
‘I am she,’ she said, speaking her native tongue almost as though it were rusty with disuse. ‘You are lucky to find me in today; I should be working out in the fields, but I am unwell.’
She led us inside; the door gave directly onto a spacious farmhouse kitchen, with an enormous fireplace and a large wooden table, surrounded by benches. We sat down, and she set a kettle directly over the fire on a hook, set mugs of milk and biscuits in front of the children, and enquired of us whence we came, and for what purpose.
‘It is about the murder of your brother, Madame,’ I told her.
Her eyes flashed. ‘I was told that the murderer had been arrested, and will be condemned!’ she snapped.
Before I could reply, Emily leapt to her feet. ‘Oh no, dear Madame Walters,’ she cried urgently, leaning forward, clinging to the table in her urgency. ‘It is a mistake, a dreadful mistake! Mr Weatherburn never killed your brother. He could not possibly have done it! Please, please believe us!’
The face of the lady changed several times at Emily’s words – first she seemed affected by Emily’s desperate tones, but then it flashed across her mind that we must, then, be friends or family of he who she had been assured was the murderer. She stared at us with hostility.
‘I am sure I can do nothing for you,’ she said quite coldly.
I feared that we had begun badly, and became alarmed at the prospect of being summarily ejected. I decided to adopt a different tactic, and speak only of manuscripts, and not of murderers. I glanced at Emily, hoping she could read my thoughts.
‘I want to tell Madame Walters about her brother’s mathematical idea,’ I said.
‘Oh – look at the lovely cat!’ suddenly interjected Robert, as a very large grey animal entered the kitchen with a distinguished step, its extremely furry tail erect, and stopped enquiringly in front of him. He immediately slipped off the settle, and began to play with the creature under the table. Madame Walters smiled, looking slightly mollified.
‘Her name is Reine,’ she told him, leaning down to watch for a moment, and reaching under the table to pass her hand through the cat’s thick, soft fur.
‘We only ask you for one small thing,’ I said to her, taking advantage of this momentary softening; ‘only a few moments. Please do let me explain.’ I placed my valise upon the floor, opened it and extracted Mr Beddoes’ manuscript, which I had flattened out neatly at the very bottom, together with Mr Morrison’s translation of the announcement of King Oscar’s Birthday Competition.
‘I believe that the gentleman who wrote this manuscript of mathematics stole something from your brother,’ I began carefully.
‘Who is he? What did he steal? And how can I know anything of it?’ she answered suspiciously.
‘He stole an idea,’ I began, ‘a mathematical formula.’
‘I know nothing of such things,’ she said again, and I saw that she clung to the idea that her brother’s murderer had been discovered, and that we were his friends, and therefore she must regard us as enemies, with mistrust.
‘Oh, please – do let me tell you,’ cried Emily eagerly. ‘There was a great mathematical competition – why, it’s still going on, and your brother had a wonderful idea to solve the problem that was set! Perhaps he would have won the prize. But he died, and nobody found anything he wrote down, except that he wrote down one formula for Mr – for – for a friend of his, but then he put it back in his pocket, and then he was killed, so he could never send in his manuscript to the King of Sweden. And we don’t want his solution to be lost forever! He put it in his pocket, so my uncle said it must have been sent to you when he died. Oh, that is what you are looking for – that is why you are here, isn’t it, Miss Duncan? My uncle says it is ever so important!’
I thought that Madame Walters would be entirely taken aback and confused by this whirlwind of competitions, uncles, kings and formulae. Instead, unexpectedly, she became very pale, and sank onto the bench across, leaning heavily upon the table.
‘You are right, you are right,’ she gasped. ‘The competition, the King of Sweden – Geoffrey wrote to me about it! He wrote that he believed he had a chance to win the grand prize, the golden medal, and he was keeping it all the deepest secret. How could you possibly know about it?’
‘We found it out little by little,’ I told her. ‘And now we have found something which may allow us to rediscover your brother’s lost idea. I have here a manuscript which may possibly hold the key to it.’
I held Mr Beddoes’ manuscript out to her, and she looked at the strange sentences and formulae in confusion.
‘How can we know if you are right?’ she said.
‘As Emily said, on the evening of his death, Mr Akers told a – another friend about his idea,’ I told her. ‘Your brother was a suspicious man, but like all men, he needed friends, he needed to talk. He was wonderfully proud of his formula, and could not resist the desire to show it to his friend, but then he quickly folded up the scrap of paper and thrust it into his breast pocket. We need to know if it is still there, Madame Walters. If the formula it contains is the same as this one—’ and I showed her the central formula of Beddoes’ manuscript, heavily underlined, ‘then we shall be practically certain that this manuscript here contains the essence of your brother’s work! And it may yet be saved, for the greater honour of his memory.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she told us, her face grey with distress. ‘That manuscript you are holding is not in my brother’s handwriting. Yet you say it may contain his ideas. What does it mean? Did the author of this one steal my brother’s manuscript and copy it?’
Emily looked at me in surprise. ‘That’s a funny idea,’ she said, ‘my uncle told me that the manuscript is odd, as though Mr Beddoes wrote down things and then questioned them afterwards. Perhaps Madame Walters is right. He might have just copied Mr Akers’ manuscript directly! Maybe he thought Mr Akers’ handwriting was too messy, or else he wanted to take it home and study it there, and Mr Akers didn’t want to let his own manuscript out of his sight. It would make sense, look! When Mr Beddoes tried to read through what he had copied, he found he didn’t understand some of it, and that’s why he wrote the questions in the margin!’
‘I should tell you that a man already came here from England, weeks ago, near Easter. He told me much the same story as you have, about my brother’s secret work, and like you, he said that he was trying to discover it and save it from oblivion. He said he knew the police had sent me all of my brother’s personal affairs, and he needed them in order to solve the mystery. I brought them out to show him, and stood at this very table with my husband and he looked eagerly at everything, above all at the many different scraps of paper my brother had in his pockets, all full of writing such as this,’ and she indicated Mr Beddoes’ manuscript.
‘There was one paper which excited him particularly, as well as my brother’s pocket diary,’ she went on. ‘He tried hard to convince me to let him take them away with him, telling me they were essential for his research. My husband would have let him, but I could not do it. Oh, miss, these are my only, last memories of poor Geoffrey. I told the man to copy the papers down for himself if he wanted them; what difference could it have made to him? But he did not care to, and went away, quite angrily, I thought.’
Emily and I glanced at each other.
‘That is very interesting. What was his name? What did he look like?’ I asked quickly.
‘He said his name was Mr Davis,’ she replied. ‘As to his looks, it is difficult to say, really; he was very ordinary. He seemed distinguished and quiet, not young, but he wore a dark overcoat and hat, so it is difficult to describe him better.’
‘Would you know him again?’ asked Emily breathlessly.
‘I believe I would.’
‘Who could it have been?’ Emily wondered aloud. ‘It’s funny that he should have been angry about not being allowed to take the paper. Why should he have cared? It’s just a formula! He could have copied it out.’
‘I didn’t like that man,’ said Madame Walters, her brow furrowed. ‘Something seemed wrong with him – I felt very suspicious. Oh God, oh God – what does it all mean? Let me show you everything.’ And she arose, and went into the inner rooms. After a moment she returned, carrying a soft cloth bag, whose contents she poured out upon the table. It contained the entire contents of Mr Akers’ pockets at his death. Just as Mr Morrison had told us, we saw keys and coins, a handkerchief, the pocket diary and quite a large number of bits and pieces of paper scribbled over with notes and computations.
I opened Mr Beddoes’ manuscript to the page containing the central formula, and then began to take up the papers one by one, and compare their contents to that of the page before me, to see if the formulae were identical. Several were unfamiliar and unintelligible to me, but at length I came upon one which immediately appeared to me to be the right one. One side was covered with Mr Akers’ usual illegible scribbling, that he used in writing for himself, but on the other side, which had been blank, he had written out the entire central formula in a clear, bold hand, and underneath, ‘the series converges!’
I felt absolutely certain that I was holding in my hand the very paper that Mr Akers had written in the Irish pub for Arthur, on the last evening of his life. Madame Walters and Emily compared the two formulae, laboriously, Greek symbol for mathematical symbol, and agreed with me that they were identical.
I then took up Mr Akers’ pocket diary, and began turning the pages. I started by looking at the very date of his death, the 14th of February, and saw two brief entries: first ‘ABC 2 p.m.’, then ‘dinner W.’
‘This is the day on which your brother died,’ I said, showing the page to Madame Walters.
‘That must be Mr Weatherburn, then!’ cried Emily, and Madame Walters flinched, for she identified this name with the hated murderer of her only brother.
‘I know!’ I answered, as this piece of information worked its way perfectly into the puzzle I had been fitting together. ‘I believe that it is the name used for a little secret society, which met to work together on the n-body problem! A must be for Mr Akers, B for Mr Beddoes and C for Mr Crawford. Let us see if they met at other times.’
I turned backwards through the pages, looking curiously through the brief, austere record of the poor man’s life. Certain events could be identified – ‘Morrison lecture’ I saw on October 11th – but for the most part, it was difficult to guess much from the single initials Mr Akers habitually employed. On December 13th, I located another entry ‘ABC 2 p.m.’, and again on October 18th.
‘They always met on a Tuesday,’ remarked Emily.
‘You are right! October, December, February – they met every two months, on the same day of the week, at the same time. It was probably convenient for their teaching hours. I wonder where they met?’
‘I wonder if they meant to meet again in April,’ mused Emily.
‘That is a good question. Let us look. Why, yes, they did! April 17th – ‘ABC 2 p.m.’. There is no entry for June, though.’
‘Perhaps, at each meeting, they fixed the date of the next one,’ said Madame Walters.
‘Oh, no! Surely it was because they were working for the competition. They would have to be finished by June 1st!’ cried Emily.
‘You may be right,’ I answered, my mind churning and full of thoughts. ‘Madame Walters, I must tell you the truth. I have come, not only to save your brother’s lost work, but also because as Emily told you before, I am convinced that the man who has been arrested for his murder is not the true murderer. Mr Akers was killed for his idea, and I believe I know who killed him, and I need this evidence to prove it. I beg you to lend me this pocket diary and this paper written by your brother. I swear on my honour, on the Bible if you prefer, that I will keep them absolutely safe and return them to you as soon as everything has been made clear.’
‘Is it the man who came here?’ she asked, gathering up the paper and diary with trembling hands.
‘I believe it is,’ I told her.
‘I believe it too,’ she said suddenly, and thrust the bundle into my hands. ‘I knew it, I knew it! I felt it – there was something wrong with him. He was afraid – I could feel it, and his eyes were shifty, and he wanted the papers too much. Not just to see them, but to have them. It was for that that I did not give them to him. I felt that he wanted to destroy them!’
‘I am sure that that is what he wanted,’ I answered.
‘Do you not think, if you know who he is, that I should travel to England and identify him?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I still do not have enough proof; his visit here alone would do nothing to prove his guilt. I myself am not returning to England immediately, for I believe that evidence of major importance, concerning your brother in the deepest possible way, lies in Stockholm, and I am travelling there with the children before returning home. Still, it may be necessary for you to come to England later, if I succeed in gathering enough evidence that the judge wishes to confirm it all.’
‘I do not know why, but I believe you; I believe you are honest and sincere,’ she said. ‘I thank you for what you are doing, and wish you luck and Godspeed. How are you returning to Brussels? Did you come by cab? Has he waited for you?’
I had completely forgotten about the impetuous departure of our sour-faced cab driver. Seeing our discomfited faces, Madame Walters went outside, and in stentorian tones, called a young man who was working in a field some distance away.
‘He will drive you to the city in the wagon,’ she told us. ‘I pray that what you are doing is right, and that if truly the man accused of my brother’s murder is innocent, God save him.’
And we took our leave, and trotted back to Brussels in a farm wagon drawn by an old and very solid cart horse, Robert chattering gaily with the farmer youth the entire way. What a happy little boy he seemed to be, his own miseries briefly forgotten, unaware of the clouds of fear and danger which hovered vaguely about us. He was delighted with his ride in the fresh countryside, and more delighted still, when, in order to cheat the remaining hours of the day of their frightening emptiness, I took the children shopping, and we purchased a sturdy little sailor suit for him and various other necessaries to replace the contents of his dingy canvas bag. Emily insisted we also visit a toy store.
‘Oh, Emily,’ I remonstrated, thinking of murderers and lawyers and ruthless, hard-faced juries. ‘It seems so frivolous in the midst of questions of life or death!’
‘A child’s happiness is also a question of life or death,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s like your charade, Miss Duncan – do you remember it?
My second with ‘you’ forms a phrase of great joy
To a child who’s offered a gaily wrapped toy.
It was “for you” – and you called it great joy! It isn’t at all frivolous. If you don’t believe me, just imagine what Mr Weatherburn would say.’
The little imp! In immediate reaction to her words, my imagination produced an image of Arthur, standing next to me, considering little Robert with a grave twinkle, quietly approving of the deep and simple bond of love which so instantly unites a child and a toy. Little Robert’s cheeks were all flushed with delight, as he clutched to his chest the locomotive that he and Emily picked out together. Emily insisted on paying for it with her very own money, and we left the shop a happier trio than we had entered. Now we have settled for the night in a small pension whose address was given to us by Madame Walters, and tomorrow at dawn, we arise and depart for Stockholm.
I retire in the comforting knowledge that your loving thoughts are with me, as mine are with you,
Vanessa
My dearest Dora,
Two strange days have passed since last I wrote to you – two days of travel, nothing but travel, trains, cabs, walking, dingy hotels and dingier railway stations. Wiring to Mrs Burke-Jones from Calais and Brussels was easy enough, but from Germany difficult and from Denmark and Sweden a task rendered alarming by our ignorance of the language and customs. Yesterday, early in the morning, we left Brussels by train for Germany, and by nightfall, weary, dirty and underfed, we found ourselves in the northern city of Hamburg. How grey and sordid it seemed, with its tall, dirty chimneys against the dusky sky. How difficult it was to seek for an hotel, and how depressing when the first three we tried had no rooms available. Emily’s German is far more limited than her French, since she does not converse with Annabel in that language, but merely studies the rules of grammar; she soon taught me ‘Wir möchten ein Zimmer für drei, bitte’, and in the end we found refuge in a small dark room at the very top of a twisting staircase, and were all three too afraid of the maze of streets to descend and seek for dinner. We had bought bread and fruit at the railway station, and made do with them for the evening, promising ourselves to make up for it at breakfast the next morning, when the sunlight would surely cheer us.
It was a relief just to be in a room with a bed, and to be able to wash, and stretch, and even to laugh, for children will always laugh, and Emily caused such startling adventures to befall the little locomotive that both children’s ringing voices soon filled the room and spilt down the stairs, lightening my dark mood. Emily has sworn to help me in every way, and indeed, even if she did nothing else, her constant proximity, her steadfast strength, and her youthful light-heartedness are already better than a tonic for me. What a treasure! I hardly dare imagine the sufferings and anxiety of her poor mother, in spite of my reassuring telegram Emily and Robert well and happy, travelling northwards together. I cannot deny that I am fearful of the days ahead, and venturing as far afield as Denmark and Sweden appears to me rather like wandering in the wilderness.
So far, thank goodness, my fears have not really been justified. Today’s trip through Denmark was long and weary, but the country is charming, the people kind, and many of them speak some words of English, so that to our surprise, our Danish day turned out oddly pleasant in spite of the fact that the greatest part of it was spent seated in various vehicles, and all the food came from baskets. I have now discovered that, assuming Robert to be a typical specimen, little boys adore trains big and small, and that tumbling them about in a swaying, rattling conveyance, with the ever-changing landscape sailing continually past, is apparently a sufficiently delightful activity to occupy all their natural energy and playfulness for hours on end.
With the instinct of a budding physicist, Emily set about to study the effects of the big train on the tiny one, and set it upon the floor to see how its movement would be affected. Quite naturally, it took to rolling along in the opposite direction to ours, towards the back of the carriage, and (it must be admitted) rather frequently into the feet of the people sharing our compartment. They did not really mind, as the inhabitants of third-class carriages are used to such behaviour; children and food were everywhere, and the atmosphere was one of general rumpus. In any case, I found myself quite unable to remonstrate with any real intensity, as the sound of their joyful laughter was so sweet, and I was so relieved that they were not quite simply rendered bored and peevish (as I was, rather) by the endless riding.
We reached Copenhagen in the late afternoon, and it was not too late to sail across to the port of Malmö. Ah, these northern countries are orderly and beautiful. I felt a wave of triumph as I set foot on the ground (in spite of the peculiar manner in which it tilted beneath my feet). Sweden at last! Tomorrow – on to Stockholm, and to the final proof!
Ever your own
Vanessa
My dearest Dora,
We have spent the whole of this endless day journeying northwards, ever northwards to Stockholm. We arrived here late, worn out and (for myself) weary with the ever renewed fear of failure. The moment we reached the city, I gave way to my increasing sense of urgency, and bundled the children into a cab without giving them a moment, poor dears, to rest or look about them. Only one thought was in my mind: today is the very day of the opening of the submissions to the King’s Birthday Competition. They will be opened – perhaps have already been opened – by the director of the competition, Professor Gösta Mittag-Leffler.
Mr Mittag-Leffler is very famous here, and I soon was able to discover that he resides in a villa in Djursholm, a pretty town on the outskirts of Stockholm. Although a professor at the University of Stockholm, his offices lie and his main work is done in his lovely home where he has already collected one of the greatest mathematical libraries in the world. All his work as an editor of the journal Acta Mathematica is done from his home where the manuscripts were to be sent. I wrote down the address carefully: Auravägen 17, Djursholm, and I showed the paper to the driver, who set out on a brisk trot through the gracious streets of the city.
A city? It is an archipelago, truly; they call it the city of twenty-four thousand islands. It seemed that we constantly crossed water, and the sun was on the horizon by the time we drew up in front of Mr Mittag-Leffler’s imposing villa. The large building is dominated by a round tower in one corner, stretching nobly upwards, which very nearly gives it the aspect of a small castle.
I paid the man and alighted from the cab, and taking the children by the hand, I began to walk up the wide path leading to the stately entrance. My knees trembled beneath me, and Emily and Robert were silent with wonderment, knowing or feeling that I was reaching my heart’s destination. We stood long in front of the heavy main door, as I tried to control the dreadful knocking in my chest. The sun had now sunk altogether below the horizon, and the entire sky was drowned in deepest blue, though no stars were yet visible. I raised my hand to the large bell, and rang.
After a short wait, the door was opened by a kindly lady. Her surprise was extreme upon perceiving us; truly we must have had the aspect of three waifs, having travelled so long, eaten so little, and – worst of all – having had so very little time to make ourselves presentable. This morning, I had put on my nice grey dress for the first time, having desired all these last days to keep it fresh and clean for this very moment, but the endless day of travel had somewhat removed its bloom; as for Emily, her lovely white dress with its many flounces was desperately crumpled and wilted, as she had not thought to bring another on her impetuous departure. Poor little Robert looked weary and disordered. We all three straightened up, however, in front of the plump servant, and put on our very best airs of distinction and pride. I addressed her in English.
‘We come from England, and must see Professor Gösta Mittag-Leffler,’ I began.
I do not believe she spoke a single word of English, for only the last words produced some reaction in her rounded features. She looked extremely doubtful, but clearly she was not in the habit of turning away any visitors of the illustrious professor, no matter how unimpressive. She ushered us into a small waiting room near the door, beckoned a maid who stood in the hallway to keep an eye upon us, and bustled away, arousing in my breast the fierce hope that I may, after all, find the professor at home and disposed at least to speak with me.
It was not long, indeed, before Professor Mittag-Leffler himself descended, and entered the modest waiting room to greet us. He was a hale, energetic gentleman in his forties, imposing and yet extremely kind. I saw immediately that he would be forthright and courageous in his views, and that in spite of his strict and ceremonious appearance, he was quite prepared to listen to whatever I chose to tell him. Perhaps there was even a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, at the sight of the motley crew we represented, with Robert as inseparable as ever from his cherished locomotive.
He addressed me in nearly impeccable English. ‘Please tell me in what way I may be of use to you?’
I was moved by his kind reception, but too overwhelmed by a sense of desperate urgency to answer with the ceremony he clearly deserved and expected. I had risen upon his entrance, and now, as he advanced towards me, extending his hand politely, I seized it impulsively in mine.
‘I am here to beg you for an immense, an unheard-of favour,’ I began immediately. ‘It is a question of life, death and murder!’
His face blanched somewhat, and I perceived he thought me mad. I continued as hastily as I could.
‘I come from Cambridge, England, sir,’ I told him. ‘Three mathematicians have been murdered there within the last months.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured, his brow clearing. ‘I have heard of the dreadful spate of deaths at the University of Cambridge. It is truly terrible, and I regret that a young lady like yourself should be in any way concerned with such events. Yet I fail to see how I can possibly be of service to you.’
‘I have come to you directly from England,’ I told him, ‘because a man has been accused, wrongly accused of the murders, and I believe you and you alone hold the key to the truth.’
‘I?’ He was utterly taken aback, most completely amazed by my words. ‘But I cannot possibly have the slightest idea, Miss …’
‘Duncan …’
‘Miss Duncan, about the identity of the author of the terrible Cambridge murders!’
‘Professor Mittag-Leffler,’ I said to him, with all the earnestness I could muster, ‘you do not know, you cannot possibly know, how great a role was played by the n-body problem, and King Oscar’s Birthday Competition, in motivating the murders.’
I saw that he became more and more amazed; he remained silent for a long time, and when he spoke, he seemed genuinely shocked and saddened by my words.
‘Who could have believed such a thing?’ he said softly. ‘If your words are true, I will regret having participated in organising the competition for the remainder of my life.’
‘No, please do not say that!’ I said. ‘No evil can be attributed to the existence of the competition. I have come to you, because as I said, I believe you may well have something which will provide the final proof against the murderer.’
I saw that now, he began to understand.
‘Are you referring to the manuscripts submitted to the competition?’ he enquired directly. ‘Are you suggesting that one of them may contain the clue to which you refer?’
‘Precisely,’ I told him.
He reflected for a moment. ‘The manuscripts are secret and anonymous,’ he observed.
‘Anonymous!’ This came as a startling surprise to me. ‘Anonymous! You mean you do not know the authors?’
‘No, I do not know the authors,’ he replied. ‘The rules stated that each manuscript should be accompanied only by an epigraph.’
‘Of course. I saw that in the announcement of the competition. But there were also the names in sealed envelopes marked with the epigraphs. I thought you would open them! Otherwise, how can you attribute a prize?’
‘The manuscripts will be read anonymously and judged on their merits,’ he said. ‘When the winning manuscript is selected, the envelope with the corresponding epigraph, and only that one, is to be opened by King Oscar himself, and the name of the author published.’
‘And the other names will never be revealed or known?’
‘Never. That would be against the rules decided on and approved by His Majesty.’
My mind leapt and twisted, seeking some opening, some way of avoiding the obstacle which thus arose before me. I decided that he could come to no decision about the extent to which he must transgress the rules in the cause of justice, unless he knew something more of the situation.
‘It is my belief that a mathematician from Cambridge submitted a memoir to the competition, containing a complete solution to the n-body problem,’ I told him. His eyes flashed with a purely mathematical interest.
‘Really!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a marvellous and unexpected development!’ But his face then darkened somewhat. ‘Yet something is wrong. I opened each and every one of the submitted memoirs today, in the presence of my colleague Edvard Phragmén, who is staying here, and I did not perceive any manuscript at all coming from England.’
It was my turn to be taken aback. ‘But you must have!’ I said pleadingly. ‘I do not know where it was actually posted from, but I cannot believe it doesn’t exist. Are you sure it cannot have escaped your notice, buried within the large pile of manuscripts you examined today?’
‘I have not examined such a very large pile,’ he replied, ‘there were but twelve in all. And not a single one in English.’
‘What languages are they written in?’ I enquired faintly, engulfed by a wave of dismay.
‘French, or German, or both,’ he answered.
‘Both?’
‘Yes, a couple of manuscripts arrived in a double version, in the two languages, written out in different hands.’
A light began to shine within me.
‘Could not an English mathematician have had his manuscript translated into French and German and copied out by others, so as to hide his identity forever in the event of not winning the prize?’ I said.
‘Well, it is not impossible, of course,’ he answered thoughtfully.
‘I believe we may be able to tell, only from looking at the manuscripts, if they correspond to the memoir I mean,’ I told him. Feverishly, I set my valise flat upon the floor, unbuckled it and extracted the now much-fingered manuscript of Mr Beddoes, and from within its pages, the famous paper written by Mr Akers.
‘Please look at these,’ I told him. ‘They are rough forms of the complete solution of the n-body problem which I believe must be given in one of the memoirs you opened today. Surely, by examining each of the twelve submissions, you will be able to tell whether one of them contains the mathematics corresponding to what is written here.’
He grasped the papers I held out to him, sat down abruptly in a comfortable armchair, and bent over them, concentrating intently, pushing up his small round spectacles, turning the pages, murmuring to himself. Mr Akers had been a disorderly man, but Mr Beddoes’ neat, regular handwriting was easy to follow, and I saw that the professor was fascinated by what he read, and that the ideas expressed there rang a bell within him, like the echoes of thoughts which he might have had but never did.
We waited for some time in complete silence. Even Robert hardly moved, simply rolling his little train back and forth silently over the cloth-covered table, and lifting his large eyes occasionally to the illustrious Professor’s face. After ten or fifteen minutes, Professor Mittag-Leffler looked up from his reading, a surprised and confused expression on his face.
‘What I read here is truly remarkable,’ he said. ‘The manuscript contains the germs of at least two excellent ideas. I do not perceive any actual error in the reasoning lightly sketched here. And yet, my intuition tells me that such methods cannot, should not be able to provide the result. It seems incredible to me. But a mathematician’s intuition, while a splendid guide, should not be trusted absolutely; I have been surprised before. If this is a new example of such a surprise, it is a truly marvellous one, and will almost unquestionably win the competition.’
‘But, Professor, what I have shown you here is not a memoir submitted to the competition,’ I reminded him gently. ‘It is merely a brief sketch. It remains to see if the work was completed and submitted with full details.’
‘You are right,’ he said, ‘and we can examine the manuscripts and determine if that is the case quite quickly. Please allow me to invite you and your children to accompany me to my study.’ He looked at me briefly, and added ‘Although these cannot possibly be your children, my dear young lady. But I do not presume to ask why they have accompanied you here. Let us go.’
We moved down a long and admirably decorated hallway, and encountering a maidservant, he spoke to her in Swedish.
‘I have asked her to call for Phragmén to come and join us,’ he told me. ‘I strongly wish to have his opinion on the manuscript which interests you.’ We arrived at the room which the professor called his office, although many more, if not most, of the rooms in this splendid villa were obviously devoted to the pursuit of mathematics. There, on his desk, neatly piled, lay the twelve memoirs he had opened on that day. Next to them lay a sheet on which he had carefully inscribed the title of each manuscript and the epigraph with which it was signed in lieu of a name.
‘I will tell you, in secret,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘that one of our candidates has, probably unwittingly, broken the rule, and sent a signed letter together with his epigraphed manuscript. However, had he not done so, I would have known him by his handwriting. It is number nine, the extraordinary Henri Poincaré,’ and he slipped one of the manuscripts out of the pile with a tender, caressing movement. ‘I do not need to have read it to know that it is bursting with the ideas of a genius,’ he said, his voice soft and vibrant with respect. He replaced the manuscript in its place, and extracted another from some way above it. ‘I believe there is some chance that the bilingual manuscript numbered seven may have a relation to the papers you have just shown me.’
He took both the French and the German versions of the manuscript from the pile, and laid them before me. The titles were as follows:
Über die Integration der Differentialgleichungen, welche die Bewegungen eines Systems von Punkten bestimmen,
Sur I’intégration des équations différentielles qui déterminent les mouvements d’un système de points matériels,
and the epigraphs read
Nur schrittweise gelangt man zum Ziel.
Pour parvenir au sommet, il faut marcher pas à pas.
The professor took them up in his hands. ‘On the integration of the differential equations which determine the movements of a system of material points,’ he translated; ‘to rise to the top, one must advance step by step.’ He set Mr Beddoes’ notes upon the desk, open to the page which appeared to contain the central result, and laying the French manuscript upon the table next to it, he began to turn the pages slowly, looking over the statements and formulae and comparing the two manuscripts.
‘This is the one,’ he said, his voice vibrating somewhat with excitement and tension. ‘If you look here, you will see the key formula, and around it, the rest of the argument contained here. It is unmistakable.’
I looked where he pointed, and immediately recognised the very formula, now so familiar, which appeared on the paper scribbled by Mr Akers at his very last dinner. The Professor continued to compare the two manuscripts, nodding his head and indicating to me the similarities.
‘The French manuscript is much longer, and contains many details and computations,’ he said. ‘Indeed, it hardly corresponds to the opinion expressed in the original announcement of the competition, that Mr Lejeune-Dirichlet’s proof, at least, was not based on long and complex calculations. Yet at the root of these calculations, there lies a stroke of genius, if the result is true.’
Something in his tone caught my attention. ‘Do you doubt its validity?’ I asked him.
‘I … don’t … know,’ he answered, slowly. ‘I myself have thought long and hard about this very problem. As I told you before, I was absolutely convinced that such methods as those used here could have no chance of solving it. And yet, I desire only to be pleasantly surprised. The manuscript must be read and checked carefully in every detail. I myself will work on it, and my associates also.’
In his deep passion and interest for the work at hand, Professor Mittag-Leffler had entirely forgotten that I myself was driven onwards by a very different question. I hardly dared to ask him something he had already told me was expressly forbidden, but one thought of Arthur, and the extreme danger he was running at that very moment, persuaded me.
‘Professor Mittag-Leffler,’ I began humbly, ‘I must ask you, I must beg you to open the sealed envelope which accompanied this manuscript. It is imperative to discover the author.’
‘It is impossible,’ he answered. ‘The King’s wishes cannot be lightly disdained. The sealed envelopes are to be handed to him personally for safe-keeping until his birthday, next January.’
‘January!’ I cried horrified. ‘It is far too late! A man’s life is at stake, Professor. He who has been accused of the Cambridge murders stands to lose his life – and he is innocent!’
‘And you believe that you know the author of this manuscript?’
‘I believe it is one of two people,’ I told him. ‘I must know if I am right, and if so, which of them it is. The guilt or innocence of not one, but two people depend upon it.’
‘Can you not tell it by the handwriting, then?’ he asked.
‘I wish I could. But if he had his manuscript translated, and posted from Europe, then they would not be in his handwriting, would they?’
‘If he had them translated professionally,’ replied the professor, ‘then, although the languages themselves would be written correctly, the mathematics would probably be expressed in a somewhat peculiar manner, as the typical idiom is foreign to any but a mathematician.’
He took up the two manuscripts, and began perusing them more closely.
‘It is hard to tell,’ he said, ‘for these two languages are not my own. But I do seem to detect some peculiar expressions in both languages. It is not absolutely impossible that they were translated from the English by someone with a perfect knowledge of the languages, but an imperfect one of the mathematical discourse. I cannot be absolutely sure.’
At that moment, there came a discreet knock on the door, and a young man entered, wearing the selfsame earnest but ardent expression on his face that I was becoming used to seeing on those of my various mathematical acquaintances. The professor welcomed him, and introduced us to each other briefly. But the young Dr Phragmén had eyes only for the mathematics.
‘Are you looking at the manuscripts, Professor?’ he asked, his voice quite vibrating with eagerness. ‘Have you come across something particular?’
‘Indeed yes,’ cried the professor, thrusting the anonymous manuscript number seven in front of the face of his surprised associate. ‘Miss Duncan has called the central result of this paper to my attention, and I must say that at first sight it appears so astonishing as to be nearly unbelievable! Have a look at the main theorem. Why, this author claims to show a closed formula for the series in the case of the perturbative three-body problem, and deduces that the series describing the movements of the bodies must then converge!’
‘What?’ responded the clearly astounded Doctor. ‘A complete solution to the perturbative three-body problem? But this is more than we dared hope for in the best of cases!’
His amazement and rejoicing were such that I could not remain quiet, although it would certainly have been more seemly to do so.
‘Is it so very important, then? What has he proven?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, it is of capital importance!’ cried the enthusiastic young doctor, stabbing at the famous formula with his finger. ‘He has given a formula for the mysterious series in terms of known analytic functions, and deduced from this that the classical series describing the motion of the bodies converges, that is, has a real value at any given time, rather than a meaningless, infinite value. That means that in this case, what we call the perturbative three-body problem, that is where one of the bodies is very large compared to the other two, like a star and two planets – our own Earth and Jupiter, as it may be – one is able to predict the orbits of the planets, instead of having no idea whether they will not end up by drifting away through space.’
‘Good heavens,’ I exclaimed. ‘I thought it was well known that the Earth orbits regularly about the sun. You don’t mean that without the solution given here, we might have to fear its departing at any moment?’
‘Well, no, the nature of the series does tell us that the Earth will certainly continue its orbit for many years yet – but not so very many! We have no guarantee that in a million years it will still be doing the same!’
‘Oh,’ I said with a tinge of disappointment. It is perhaps natural for citizens of a country as stable and peaceful as Sweden to feel threatened by the prospect of turmoil a million years from now, but I myself was concerned with far more immediate circumstances. I still wished nothing but to know the name of the author of the fated manuscript. Yet I feared to insist upon seeing it, for I was afraid to hear a reiteration of the professor’s previous refusal. My mind was seared by the image of Arthur, waiting in the dock, silent and withdrawn, scarcely interested in the battle over his destiny waged around him by lawyers, judge and jury – the outcome of which could – would, probably, send him to his death – and the professor was thinking about planets! I tried to speak, to tell him what was in my mind, but tears collected in my eyes, and spilt over. Perceiving them, Professor Mittag-Leffler immediately became distressed. He took several rapid steps about the room, thinking intensely.
‘I know what worries you, Miss Duncan,’ he said. ‘And yet – I cannot do what you wish. But wait! Do not give way to despair. There may be a solution.’
‘Please tell me what it is,’ I begged him, trying in vain to control my voice which wavered desperately, while Emily and Robert approached me and wrapped their arms around me tightly, looking at the professor with their large eyes full of severity and distrust, like little wild cubs in a lair, suspecting the creature creeping about outside of being a threatening predator.
‘I see only one thing to do,’ he said in measured tones. ‘We cannot open the envelopes because the King has forbidden it. The only one who can go against these orders is the King himself. We must petition him with our request.’
‘Shall we see the King?’ asked Emily with breathless respect. For myself, I felt as though my very heart was pressed in from all directions with fear. I imagined that the King would certainly refuse a request so puny, as compared with his royal concerns. Even more, I feared that we would have to endure a great delay, while our petition was made with all the proper ceremony.
‘The matter is desperately urgent,’ I told the professor. ‘The trial has been going on for two weeks already, and the judgement may be pronounced at any moment, any moment at all. It may even have happened today, for aught I know. There is no time to lose.’
‘My relations with the King are close,’ he said. ‘I will send a messenger to the Palace now, with a message to be delivered as soon as he rises tomorrow. I will express the urgency of the situation, and we will go to the Palace immediately tomorrow morning, so as to be already present, should he send for us. If all goes as you wish it, and as I wish it also, I do not hesitate to say, I myself will provide you with conveyance to the station, and with the tickets you need to travel home again. This seems but a minor service which I can render to justice, in the name of mathematics. Let me now have you shown to bedrooms for the night. I beg you will repose yourself as much as possible; I will have you called at six o’clock, that we may be ready for every eventuality.’
I saw that he understood my feelings, and that there was no need for me to attempt to express them; I saw, also, that he was doing everything that he possibly could to aid me, and that going against the express wishes of the King, in however trivial a matter, appeared absolutely impossible to him – even now, even when it concerned a question of life or death! I pressed my teeth together, not to allow my anguished impatience to burst out (oh, the idea that the very envelope I so desired to open lay within the very house, and we could have seen inside it in a moment! How I longed, but did not dare, to suggest steaming it secretly open over the kettle and then sealing it up again … ) and thanked him with as much calmness as I could muster. He led us ceremoniously and kindly to the hall, and summoned the buxom lady who had bade us enter earlier on, and spoke to her in Swedish; she showed us to the beautifully furnished adjacent guest rooms where we are now. Taking charge of the children, she swept them away, pausing only to say ‘bad, bad’ to me with a motherly smile, from which I concluded, not that the children were misbehaving, but that they were to be washed. She took charge of my valise, also, and I undressed and fell into bed. But thoughts whirled too strongly in my brain, and I finally admitted to myself, Dora dear, that I should not find sleep before I had committed everything to paper, for it has become such a habit with me, during these long, dreadful weeks, that I can no longer do without it, and it somehow relieves my anguish and momentarily restores hope to me. Now that I have given you a complete account of the events of this crucial day, I shall return to bed, and try to sleep, and not to think too much about the fact that perhaps, tomorrow morning, I shall find myself pleading for Arthur, no longer with charwomen, children, policemen, lawyers and mathematicians, but with a king!
Please pray for me, as always
Vanessa
Oh, my dear Dora,
What a day this has been! I have learnt much, and reality has superseded my foolish imaginings about royalty.
As Professor Mittag-Leffler had promised, we were called at six o’clock. I was brought tea in bed, and then shown to a large bathroom wherein a steaming bath had been placed, together with large towels and every luxury. I made a detailed toilette, for I detected more than mere politeness in such gracious treatment; I understood that it also contained a component of careful planning in view of our royal reception, in which I admit I could still hardly believe.
When I took up my grey dress, I saw that it had been steamed and pressed during the night. Once I had put it on, however, I still hesitated to descend, for my hair was wet and I could not do it up. But the kind housekeeper soon reappeared, and towelled my hair kindly, and fluffed it with her fingers, and brushed it with a brush, and bade me with gestures come down to breakfast, and that she would take care of my hair later. It was already beginning to dry and wave thickly over my shoulders, and I felt a little ashamed, as though I were descending in negligee, but I must needs go, so I went.
I was delighted to see Emily and Robert already installed at the well-laden table before me, happily eating toast with jam, large aprons wrapped around them, laughing together, although their eyes were still small and their cheeks rosy with sleep. The Professor was conversing with them most cheerfully, and he bade me join the meal, and in his kindness and understanding, which I shall never forget, immediately addressed my deepest concerns.
‘It is now seven o’clock,’ he told me, looking at a beautiful silver watch he extracted from his pocket, ‘the King will receive the message in one hour. By then, we shall already be in the Palace, and his response will be conveyed to us immediately.’
He paused to pass me the various crystal pots and covered dishes and to see that I took a sufficient quantity of each, and then continued.
‘I have made the acquaintance of these two delightful children, and am now much more familiar with the full circumstances of your journey and your double quest. I am filled with admiration, and wish to support you in every possible way, for I perceive that you are moved to very daring acts by the simple perception of injustice.’
I remembered something.
‘We are twin souls, then, sir, for I have heard that you insisted on naming, here in Stockholm, the only woman university professor in the whole of Europe, when no other country would have countenanced such a thing, not even Germany, where at least women are allowed to study.’
He smiled. ‘So you have heard of the famous Sonya Kovalevskaya,’ he said. ‘She is one of the greatest mathematicians alive today, and what may have seemed like a disgrace to others appears a great honour and good fortune to me. I wish you could meet her. I do not ask you anything about the details of your quest, for I perceive that you must keep your suspicions secret until you are certain of their truth, and in any case I know almost nothing of the protagonists, dead or alive. But should all pass as you hope and believe that justice would require, I pray that there may be some future day, when your life is full of peace and pleasantness, and you have sufficient strength and time to undertake the long journey hither once again. I would welcome you here with the greatest pleasure, and introduce you to my dear Sonya who would appreciate you very much, I think. Now, we must prepare our departure.’
We arose, and the maid removed the large aprons which protected the children’s clothing from the various drops of jam and honey which naturally fell about them. I was amazed and delighted to see that not only had they been bathed and scrubbed to perfection, but somehow, their clothes had been washed and – more surprisingly – dried during the night. They must have kept a great fire burning to accomplish it so quickly, for clothing is generally most reluctant to dry in the darkness. Emily’s dress had been ironed and starched, and her soft, dark hair drawn back with a band, and her shoes polished; the gracious princess I was used to seeing at lessons had returned to replace the laughing gypsy of the past week. Robert also had been washed and brushed and pressed and polished, and looked for all the world like a much-beloved little boy of good family; I perceived more strongly than ever his delicate charm and strong resemblance to Edmund.
I was led upstairs, where the personal maid of the professor’s wife – who was still asleep – took charge of my hair and wound it with easy precision into an elegant chignon. She perched my hat on top of it, pinned it carefully, and guided me downstairs to where the professor and the children were waiting in the hall, already wrapped up in their outdoor things. The professor’s handsome carriage was at the door, and we mounted and set off through the wide, lovely streets to the capital, the professor bearing a leather case containing the full set of manuscripts and sealed envelopes submitted to the King’s Competition.
The distance to the centre of Stockholm was not far, and before eight o’clock had struck, we drew up before the Royal Palace. The palace is an extremely regular building, absolutely square and similar on all sides, four stories high, with a grand courtyard in the centre, and four symmetric wings extending from the corners, two from the front and two from the back, enclosing grand esplanades between them. The facades are sculpted in niches in which stand statues. The Swedes call their king’s palace Kungliga Slottet, which sounds quite strange to our British ears, except for the echo it contains of something ‘kingly’.
We drew up at the front esplanade and descended, whereupon we were immediately surrounded by uniformed guards, who questioned us closely and kept us waiting while they sent for information, before finally ushering us within the precincts of the Palace itself. There, we were shown up and down long and noble halls, to a large antechamber where quite a large number of people were already waiting.
‘This is the antechamber to the King’s offices,’ the professor told us. ‘He works here, and receives visits and petitions. We must now wait for an answer to our message, which should have already been delivered. The King has no time to waste, so the message was a brief one; I represented the extreme urgency of the situation and begged him to spare us only a very few minutes. My relationship with the King is a close and trusting one, and I hope that he will be able to send us at least a brief message in answer at any moment.’
Indeed, we had not waited for longer than half an hour (during which time I was on tenterhooks, not only for fear of a negative answer, but lest Emily or Robert behave in some way incompatible with our royal surroundings) before a uniformed guard entered the room and called for Professor Mittag-Leffler. They spoke for a moment, and the professor turned to us.
‘The King will make a short space of a few minutes in his schedule, to receive us, at ten o’clock, upon the departure of the Danish Ambassador,’ he said. ‘I would have preferred to prepare the King by speaking to him myself, but as we have so short a time, we shall enter all together. I shall speak to him first, and you, Miss Duncan, will answer any questions he may put to you. Please remember to conclude each sentence with the words “Your Majesty”.’
‘Of course!’ I assured him, rather taken aback at the idea that my lack of experience in dealing with kings might somehow jeopardise the outcome of my quest. I tried to imagine myself speaking to the King, and it was not easy – I felt I must look like nothing so much as Alice respectfully addressing the Cheshire cat! The wait was long; I dearly wished that I had something to read. These many long moments of enforced inactivity, when all inside me is burning to act, have truly proved the most tormenting aspect of my entire journey. However, the time passed; the many waiters and petitioners in the room talked in low voices, so that Emily and Robert felt it was not forbidden to do as much themselves, and I began to catch occasional snatches of the tale of Sleeping Beauty, recounted with great attention to detail. Finally, ten o’clock struck; I wondered greatly what form our summons would take. The large double doors at one end of the antechamber – not that from which we had entered – opened, and one of the uniformed guards appeared in the opening, and called out in stentorian tones:
‘The King will receive Professor Mittag-Leffler and his suite!’
We arose, much to the annoyance of all those in the room who had arrived long before us, and would probably have to wait much longer, and were ushered through the small room beyond, whose main purpose appeared to be to house the guard and separate the King from the noise of the antechamber, into his very Office, where I had my first glimpse of the Royal Personage.
The King is near on sixty years old. His bearing is noble and haughty, his hair white and scant, his beard grizzled and firm, and his moustache so very long that its two ends extend down into the beard and then outwards in two well-waxed points as long as fingers. He was seated behind a large desk. We remained standing. Although I could not understand a word that passed between them, it was clear that the King was inviting the professor to state his business as rapidly as possible, for he spoke only very briefly. The Professor began by showing him the pile of papers and sealed envelopes which he had collected. The King nodded briefly and said something, and the piles were handed over to him. The Professor then spoke some more, and I heard the urgency in his tones, and knew that he was coming to the heart of the matter. The King said a few words to the professor, and rang a small bell. My heart nearly stopped, as I saw the door opened from the outside by the guard, for I thought we were being summarily dismissed. But the professor shook the hand of the King – one short, sharp shake, as though no time could be lost even for such a brief ceremony, and then saying to me ‘The King will see you alone,’ he allowed himself to be ushered out by the guard. The door closed firmly, and the king addressed himself to me in English.
‘Professor Mittag-Leffler has told me that you are Miss Duncan, that you come from Cambridge, that you have interested yourself in the murder of three mathematicians there, that you believe the person now on trial, himself a mathematician, is innocent and yet runs a great risk of condemnation, that you believe you know the true course of events, and that one of these envelopes here contains an important proof of your theory.’
I saw how such a man could be a King. If the country was run as efficiently as this, then it was well run indeed.
‘Miss Duncan, I am willing to open and look at the name contained in the envelope whose number you indicate to me, for I know nothing of the contents of the associated manuscript. But I am reluctant to communicate the name which I will see there to you, for I would not somehow suggest the name of the murderer to you by this procedure. However, if it is true that you believe yourself to be informed of his identity, then you need only write down the name on this piece of paper, and the number of the envelope you wish me to open, and I will let you know whether you are right or wrong.’
I was in a quandary. I was not absolutely sure of the author of the critical memoir – it could be one of two people. I thought of Mr Akers and his medicine. I closed my eyes briefly, sent up a prayer, wrote a name upon the paper, and then the number seven.
He took the paper, read it, slipped out the envelope numbered seven, slit it open with a silver paper-knife, extracted the paper within, and looked at it. Each of his gestures was as sharp and precise as his speech. He looked directly into my eyes with a nod, and spoke.
‘Yes, Miss Duncan. You are correct. I congratulate you on your insight and wish you success in your endeavour.’
My heart leapt with triumph and relief. Now I knew! I truly knew! I had only to rush back to England, as though on wings, and confront the judge with my discoveries!
The King reached towards his little bell. I felt Emily tug at my dress, and turned to her. She wished urgently to speak, but felt too nervous.
‘What do you wish, my child?’ said the King, addressing an unexpected smile at the children, of whom he had not taken any notice hitherto.
‘Your Majesty, Miss Duncan will need proof to bring back to England and show the judge, in order to save Mr Weatherburn, please, Your Majesty!’ she burst out, all pink.
He reflected for an instant.
‘You are right, child,’ he said. ‘Yet I am reluctant to render this thing public. Hold – I will write and seal a letter, to be opened and read uniquely by the judge, which you will transmit to him for me. What is his name?’
‘Mr Justice Penrose, my Lord – no, Your Majesty!’ I stammered.
The King dipped his pen in the ink, took a beautifully embossed sheet of paper, and wrote a few sentences on it, while Emily, Robert and I tried to look elsewhere, and prevent our eyes from straying irresistibly towards the page. When he had finished, he said, ‘I have written that you came to see me with the belief that the person you named was the author of the manuscript received by Professor Mittag-Leffler, and that I personally confirm the correctness of your guess.’
He folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope also embossed with his crest, and sealed it with a large and impressive seal in red wax. He addressed the envelope in his large, noble handwriting to ‘Mr Justice Penrose, Cambridge, England’ and handed it to me. He then shook each of our hands, saying to Emily, ‘You have been very helpful, my child.’
‘Oh, thank you, Your Majesty, thank you for everything!’ she gasped.
The King took up his silver paper-knife, and held it out to her, smiling.
‘You may have this,’ he said, ‘and keep it as a gift. So, you will always remember your friend, the King of Sweden. I wish you “Bon voyage”.’
He pressed his bell, while we still sought to express our stammering thanks!
The guard appeared, and we passed out, myself feeling weak in the knees and clutching the envelope tightly, Emily clinging to her paper-knife. We were taken to yet another antechamber, where the professor was waiting for us.
‘Your interview went well?’ he asked immediately.
‘Yes!’ I told him. ‘The King opened the envelope; he would not tell me what was in it, but bade me tell him, and then confirmed my guess. He wrote a letter to the judge,’ and I showed him the envelope.
‘You are very lucky,’ he told me. ‘Keep it carefully. I will now accompany you to send you on your return to England. I would like to purchase a small strongbox for you to carry this important letter back with you, for the risk of your losing it or having it stolen from you is too great.’
I tried to remonstrate, but the professor had the situation well in hand. His carriage was brought, and we mounted; he told one of the footmen to descend, purchase the strongbox, and to meet us at the railway station. Thither we then drove, and the professor himself accompanied us to the counter, and oh, Dora – he bought and paid for our first-class tickets all the way to London, and wrote down on a piece of paper for me the name of the small ‘pension’ in Malmö where we are at this very moment! The footman arrived with the small, flat strongbox meant for holding papers, and the professor enclosed the King’s letter within it almost religiously, as well as Emily’s paper-knife, locked it up and gave me the key, enjoining me to hide it as well as humanly possible.
‘If only I had Rose’s petticoats!’ exclaimed Emily, as I tried to find a place to conceal the strongbox as well as the key.
‘Is there any other service I can render you before your departure?’ asked the professor.
‘Oh – we should send a telegram to my mother!’ said Emily. ‘We really ought to do it every day, poor Mother.’
‘I shall send it the moment you depart,’ he assured her with a smile. ‘Let us write the text of it out now, shall we?’ And taking out a bit of paper from his pocket – mathematicians seem never to be without these infinitely useful scraps – he penned a few words.
‘How does this sound? June 2nd, 1888: Emily and Robert met the King of Sweden this morning, they leave Stockholm for Malmö today, on their way to London.’
‘Noooo,’ said Emily, ‘why, she’ll never believe it – she’ll think we’ve gone mad on the way!’
‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘It is the simple truth! Oh, do let us rush. We must go as fast as we can; I think we can be there in three days.’
‘In three days – you will kill yourselves travelling so fast! It is hardly possible!’
‘We must do it – every day is fundamental! The jury may be deliberating at any moment. We must pray that Mr Haversham has enough witnesses, whoever they may be. We cannot delay at all!’
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Your courage is admirable. I wish you the very best of luck and success. Depart at once; I will telegraph immediately.’
‘Please – telegraph also the judge – Mr Justice Penrose, Courts of Justice, Cambridge! Tell him that I am coming with new evidence,’ I cried as we climbed on the train.
How admirable are the Swedish people. One feels, in their calm and beautiful country, that miscarriages of justice could hardly exist, and that each and every person has the leisure and the wherewithal to smooth away every difficulty. But it cannot really be so. It must seem so only because I hobnob with a social class which includes kings, and travel in luxurious first-class carriages which look more like small sitting rooms than trains.
My dear, I am so filled with renewed hope, which bubbles up inside me like rising yeast, that I sometimes nearly forget that Arthur is still in grave danger, and that I may even now be too late. I pray constantly, and feel that your prayers are joined to mine.
Goodnight,
Your loving Vanessa
Oh, Dora, help!
I am writing to you from Brussels – we arrived here last night. If only we could have travelled faster! I would have willingly travelled all night, but the trains do not run in the night time. Still, I believed that all was not lost, that we were arriving as hastily as humanly possible, and that at this very moment – it is early in the morning yet – we would be on a boat sailing to Dover, and thence to London, and to Cambridge before the afternoon! All my plans are dashed, and we are prisoners here in the port of Ostend, for a great storm lashed up in the Channel overnight, and the boats cannot sail. Oh, what does it all mean? Can it be a judgement upon us? No, I must not give way to despair. The boats are ready, and we must only wait for the storm to subside.
It stormed wildly all night, with rolling thunder and cracking lightning, so that Robert could not sleep, and huddled shivering in my arms. I held his fragile little body close, and we comforted each other. The morning seemed endless in coming, although we did eventually sleep a little. I wish I had awoken to a fresh, rain-washed sky, but such was not the case, for it is still raining extremely violently, although the thunder has stopped, but the waves are crashing onto the shore, and I can imagine that crossing would be desperately dangerous and frightening. There is nothing to do but wait, and pray. I have taken the children to a café, where we are trying to beguile the dreadful hours with coffee and chocolate, cream and croissants. The children are as impatient as I am; Robert is very tired, and Emily very anxious to return to her mother and, above all, afraid of her mother’s reaction to the newcomer.
‘I shall tell her that if she tries to send him away, even to boarding school, I shall run away again,’ she began firmly.
‘No, Emily, do not say that,’ I quickly interposed. ‘You must use your close and tender relations with your mother to persuade her, not threats.’
‘Maybe you are right,’ she mused. ‘Mother often listens to me. But not always. She refused to send for Robert for nearly two whole months. Oh, what shall I do if she refuses now! I can’t understand why she should. How, how can anyone want to send away a darling little orphan boy?’
I tried to imagine how Mrs Burke-Jones might feel about the little boy who was the fruit of her husband’s disastrous and forbidden relations with the mistress whom he loved more tenderly than his wife, and to concoct some explanation of these things which could touch Emily without blackening her bright vision of the world. She listened carefully, but still insisted that the little boy was not to blame, and should not be punished.
‘Feelings are very strong, and not always just,’ I told her. But as her eyes began to fill with tears, I hastened to add, ‘I do not want to make you believe that your mother will do what you most fear. Please be patient until you see her, and even when you are talking it over with her, remain patient, not passionate.’
‘Then you must remain patient as well,’ she smiled. ‘And perhaps you will not have to for too long, as I believe that the rain is lightening up somewhat.’
It is lightening a little, though still coming down hard, so I shall seal up this short letter, and we shall all hasten back to the port to see when the boats may leave. The day at court begins at nine o’clock and closes at five; if the boat does not leave until midday, then I may arrive too late!
God help me,
Vanessa
My dear, dear Dora,
For the first time in weeks, I write to you with peaceful feelings – even though I do feel somewhat numbed and scarred by all that has happened!
Yesterday, the weather finally becalmed itself, and the boats were able to leave towards midday. How long the journey to Cambridge appeared, how dreadfully, painfully endless, as the excruciatingly slow boat trip was followed by the wait for a train to London and then another to Cambridge. I would have sent a telegram saying that I was on my way, but I did not know whom to send it to, for I doubted that anyone would be at home.
One point of light – who should be waiting for us when we descended from the boat, but Mrs Burke-Jones! She swarmed towards us with uncontrolled emotion and gathered us all three in her arms; tears rolled down her face as she kissed her daughter and told her in confused snatches how desperately worried she had been. She had been waiting for the boats from the mainland since early this morning, and had spent hours of agony as the storm continued, and then of worry as several boats arrived at nearly the same time and she feared to miss us. The dear lady – I saw that she had gone through her inward struggle during our absence, and that she had determined to behave to little Robert quite exactly as though his arrival was an arranged and expected event; she hugged and kissed him, and swung him up into the railway carriage with the practised gesture of long years of motherhood. She was remarkable – she treated him quite exactly as though he were her own little boy, not a precious, newly found one, but one whom she saw every day and whose presence was a simple, natural, necessary, tender fact. She did not go out of her way to make his acquaintance by asking questions, but got to the point immediately, admired his locomotive, produced a basket of delicious things to eat, and – oh joy in the midst of my fears – produced first-class tickets to Cambridge for us all!
Thus, though the trip seemed long and weary, it at least passed in comfort and the joy of reunion. Although I was not sure if Mrs Burke-Jones had been following Arthur’s trial, I hastened to ask her if she had any news of it, and if Mr Morrison had received my telegram and been able to act on it.
‘For you know that I have been to Belgium and Stockholm to collect evidence to defend him, and I must rush to the court immediately, to present it to the judge,’ I explained.
She stared at me, and then looked at her watch. ‘My dear child,’ she said in dismay, ‘in my fear for the children, I had completely forgotten. Look at the time – I am afraid you are in danger of finding the trial over and the prisoner condemned!’
‘Wha-at?’ I cried, my worst fears realised.
‘Charles has told me that the last witnesses were questioned yesterday, and that when the judge received your telegram, he read it, and then announced to the court that the closing statements of the counsels should begin this morning, and that if no further evidence had come to light by five o’clock in the afternoon, the jury would be sent to deliberate. I do not know how long their statements will be, but if they conclude and the jury is sent out, everybody believes that they will not remain over a few minutes. Mr Haversham has tried hard, but his line of defence collapsed completely with the evidence of the two ladies from London, and since then, he has not really rallied, although he has produced a great many witnesses to all kinds of complicated details which do not prove anything. I believe he is simply trying to gain time in the hopes of your return. At any rate, you can count on him to spin out his closing speech as long as is humanly possible!’
I felt faint with dismay, and leaning back in my seat, I closed my eyes, trying to recapture my spirits. Emily, meantime, longed to talk to her mother, but hesitated, for lack of privacy and for fear perhaps of what she might hear. As I fell silent, she began to chat of this and that, as though seeking for a port of entry. Finally, she asked, ‘How is Edmund, Mother? Is he better?’
‘He is better now, dear,’ her mother replied softly. ‘But when you were away, he was terribly ill. He was feverish and delirious. Even the doctor was afraid. He could not give Edmund anything that would soothe him, and finally, he came to me, and told me that Edmund’s illness was a nervous one, and that it stemmed from fear. He asked me what it was that Edmund feared so strongly that in order to avoid it, he would make himself ill for weeks on end.’
‘Oh, Mother – you know what it is,’ began Emily.
‘Yes, I know now. I knew it before, dear, because you told me time and again. But you never told me all that Edmund told you. And perhaps if you had, I should have been unable to believe it. I remained in his room for days, Emily, and I know now that he cries in his sleep, and talks of his school in his delirium.’
‘So you will not send him back? Have you told him?’
‘Naturally, as soon as the doctor asked me the question, I realised what he meant, and told him that I believed Edmund feared being sent back to school. He told me that if I wished him to become well again, I should begin, at that very instant, to assure him again and again that he would never be sent to another boarding school. “And mind that it is true, madam,” he told me, “for another relapse of this kind, which may be due to the absence of the sister on whose protection he relied, may well be fatal.”’
‘So you told him, and he is better?’
‘Yes, he is better, though still pale and weak, and eagerly waiting for your return, Emily, and for the arrival of Robert. And in fact, I thought … I had an idea, Miss Duncan, about these two little boys, which I hardly dare submit to you.’
‘Whatever can it be?’ I enquired, surprised to be addressed in the midst of this private family discussion.
‘You are a daring and audacious young woman, Miss Duncan, and thanks to people like you, times will change, and received ideas will be modified,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if you have ever asked yourself why little girls and boys must be educated separately and differently?’
‘No, I have not asked myself the question exactly,’ I admitted, ‘I simply contented myself with finding the idea foolish and rather a pity.’
‘Do you?’ she asked eagerly. ‘And what would you think of completing your class with the addition of two small boys?’
I laughed.
‘For myself, I would be simply delighted,’ I told her. ‘I am quite ready to undertake it. I only hope I will not lose all my other students because of it.’
‘I will talk with the other mothers myself,’ she said. ‘If I find any that are set against the idea, we will see what course to follow. But I am quite ready to believe that a certain number of them will be eager to follow my example, and enrol the brothers of their daughters in the school, at least those below a certain age.’
I must admit, Dora, that the prospect enchanted me. A whole class of little boys and girls together – it appeared to me so natural, yet so modern, as to suit my tastes entirely. I teased little Robert.
‘You shall come to me for lessons in the afternoon, then, Robert, perhaps, shall you? You know, I do not teach French in my class, because I do not speak it. But now you can replace me, and teach the other children, and I can offer French lessons. I shall become rich!’
‘Before you become too enthusiastic,’ Mrs Burke-Jones told me, ‘I would like to make you aware that even if some of the mothers of your present pupils agree to the arrangement, there is still a risk that you find yourself considered as engaged in a scandalous project by the community at large. You must reflect carefully what your position in such a situation would be. It might even be – I am envisaging the worst possible situation – that your landlady would refuse to keep such a school within her rooms. In that case, I would gladly offer you to open it in my house.’
‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, that would be wonderful!’ shouted Emily.
‘Now, Emily,’ said her mother, ‘it is not for us to decide. We must see how things turn out.’
I felt more and more inclined to follow my heart, and be daring, and risk scandal.
‘I can hardly provoke more scandal than by what I am about to do at this very moment,’ I mused, trying to envision my arrival at court.
It was not far short of five o’clock already. But we were in the train to Cambridge, and it was rolling along swiftly through the green countryside. I looked at my watch for the thousandth time.
‘It may not be too late,’ I said.
‘It depends on the closing statements,’ she said. ‘If, as I imagine, Mr Haversham draws out his closing statement until the utmost limit of five o’clock, then that is when the jury will be sent to deliberate. It is very close to five o’clock now. There is nothing to do but be patient; we shall get a cab to take you to the court the very moment we set foot in Cambridge.’
By this time, the train was drawing into Cambridge, and I put all exciting thoughts of becoming the new scandal of the town by introducing unheard-of modern schooling methods out of my thoughts, and concentrated myself on what I should say as I arrived in the court, and how I could impress upon the judge that he must listen to me, no matter what point the trial had reached, and even if Arthur had already been condemned, or for that matter, already hanged.
I opened my valise and extracted the whole bundle of papers comprising the evidence I had put together.
‘Good,’ said Mrs Burke-Jones, ‘now, I shall take your valise home with me – and here, you shall take this leather bag for your papers …’ She tipped her own things out of it, and placed them in the picnic basket, with gestures that for all their haste never ceased to be charmingly precise and ladylike, ‘… and my dear, let me look at you. Here, perhaps this comb – no, let me do it, you have no mirror.’
She unpinned and removed my hat, and combed my hair carefully, replacing a pin or two. Then she sat back and looked at me critically.
‘Here, my dear,’ she said, ‘you shall wear my hat.’ And before I could say a word, she had removed it from her hair and balanced it carefully on mine.
It was truly a lovely hat, the kind which is very expensive and very simple, and belong only to ladies who can afford a great many hats. It was in black velvet. I felt it was really too beautiful for my dress.
‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘quite the contrary. Your lovely figure and your way of walking, together with the hat, lend a great deal of elegant simplicity to the dress. I cannot help you much, in this difficult and crucial moment, but I can do this small thing: make sure that your appearance will help you impress the judge properly. Now, we have arrived. I will get you a hansom.’
Out we rushed, and although everyone in the train wanted to flag a hansom, Mrs Burke-Jones’s simple, distinguished gesture was the first to succeed. The top-hatted driver stopped in front of her with eager respect, tipped his hat and opened his door. She ushered me in, and gave him a bill and the address of the courthouse.
‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ I called as he whipped up his horses.
‘I wish you courage,’ she called back.
‘Mother, please can we not go to the courthouse too?’ cried Emily as I drove away.
‘Certainly not! It is not a place for children!’ replied her mother, and swept her little brood down the street, as my coachman and I turned the corner.
‘You in a hurry, ma’am?’ he called smartly down to me.
‘Oh, yes, the biggest possible one!’ I told him.
Suddenly, all my fear and apprehension seemed to melt away. I felt as though time had stopped, and could not resume its steady march until I reached the courthouse and released it. We trotted along sharply enough, my driver taking care to pass others along the streets, abusing them vigorously the while, until finally, he drew up in front of the imposing entrance, hopped down and opened the door for me. It was just after six o’clock.
‘Here you are, miss,’ he said, ‘it’s all paid for, hurry along now.’
I added his gentlemanliness, and his kind eagerness to help me, to all the other generous and beautiful gestures I had encountered in my long quest, to be remembered and treasured later. Storing it in my heart, I jumped out and ran up the steps to the stately entrance, calling back, ‘I hope I meet you again someday!’
I pushed the doors, and entering the hall, addressed myself hastily to the clerk at the desk.
‘Can you tell me, please, about the trial of R. vs Weatherburn? Is it over yet?’
‘No, miss, the jury’s out, been out this quarter of an hour. A painful long speech counsel for the defence give. Most people was sleeping. The jury’s not expected to take long. The judge held the trial up a bit today over midday – some say he was waiting for another witness – but finally he called for the closing statements.’
‘I am the witness he was waiting for, and I have only just arrived,’ I told him. ‘Can you take an urgent message to the judge, immediately, and show me the way to the public gallery?’
‘Oh, miss – it may be too late now,’ he said, looking very doubtful. But he pushed paper and pen toward me, and indicated a door behind him with his thumb. As fast as I was able, I penned a few words to the judge, blotted them, handed them to the clerk and dashed into the public gallery.
I waited there for a few dreadful minutes. The jury was still out, and the members of the public were murmuring to each other. They appeared to think that the outcome of the trial was a foregone conclusion, and that the jury would be returning at any moment. I looked over at Arthur, and felt my heart gripped with agonising tenderness. He looked like a man who has quietly abandoned the turmoil of living; he did not see me, did not lift his eyes even a single time, nor feel my burning gaze, but remained as still as a man who has already quietly accepted death and defeat. It was easy to see that, like the smirking public in the gallery, he was in no doubt at all of his conviction, and that he had not conserved even the slightest vestige of hope; his was not a fighting nature, and his reaction to the blows of Fate was one of withdrawal and silent despair. My heart seemed to stop, watching him.
Quite suddenly, at the very back of the courtroom, two doors opened simultaneously. From the left-hand one issued a bailiff, who proceeded to hold the door and usher in the twelve members of the jury. One by one, they took their seats in the jury box. From the other issued a very young, smartly dressed messenger boy, carrying my message. He brought it respectfully to the judge and handed it to him with a bow and some murmured words.
I held my breath. The judge read my message. He looked up. He looked over at the jury. He looked at the public. He appeared to reflect. The foreman of the jury watched him patiently, waiting to be called upon to give the verdict. The judge finally turned to him.
‘Members of the jury,’ he said, ‘have you reached a verdict?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ replied the foreman.
Every person in the courtroom knew what the judge’s next sentence should be, and the foreman’s answer. I found I could not breathe. I restrained the impulse to leap to my feet, to call out, and concentrated myself upon the judge, willing him to say something different. He opened his mouth.
‘Members of the jury,’ he said, ‘you have worked hard and long on this case. Now you have finally finished that work, and I am going to make a very unusual request. I am going to ask that you hold back the decision you have reached, and that we listen to the statement of one final witness. This witness has only just arrived from abroad. I would like to tell you that I had decided to exclude the testimony of this witness if she did not arrive by five o’clock today, as every other witness had been heard, and the closure of the trial could not be indefinitely postponed. However, she is now here, and it appears that she carries such evidence as may help to avert a very grave miscarriage of justice. I therefore propose to counsel for the prosecution and the defence, and to you, members of the jury, to hear this witness. She is a witness who has already been called to testify during this trial. After hearing her complete testimony, we may either adjourn the trial until tomorrow, if the prosecution would like to seek answers to the newly arisen testimony, or else, prosecution and defence may briefly renew their closing statements, and you, members of the jury, may deliberate once again. I would like to know if MISS VANESSA DUNCAN is presently in the court?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said ringingly, standing up in the middle of the public gallery.
‘Then, in spite of your extremely unorthodox proceedings, Miss Duncan, I would like to invite you to step into the witness box,’ said Mr Justice Penrose, quite benevolently.
I left the public gallery through the same door by which I had entered it, and asked the clerk to guide me into the courtroom proper, as a witness. He did so, and I walked down the alley and stepped into the box, encouraged by the consciousness of the documents I held in their leather bag, and of the quiet elegance of Mrs Burke-Jones’s hat.
‘Miss Duncan,’ said the judge, ‘you have already been questioned and cross-questioned in this court. However, you say here that the information you bring is entirely new. The situation we find ourselves in at this moment is an extremely unusual one, and therefore I am willing to follow an unusual proceeding. I invite you to simply tell your tale in your own words, subject to the objections of counsel if you rely too heavily on suppositions or hearsay in any part of your testimony.’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ I said, trying to control my voice, which wavered somewhat with sudden nervousness. And I began to speak.
‘I would like to tell the members of the jury, and everyone else in this courtroom, a great many facts about the murders of the three professors of mathematics, Mr Akers, Mr Beddoes, and Mr Crawford. I believe that I have been able to retrace the full sequence of events leading to their deaths, and I have done my very best to substantiate each of my statements with concrete evidence. I would like, if I may, to recount all the events leading up to the murders, although this may take some extra time.’
‘Please do,’ nodded the judge.
‘I will begin, then, with King Oscar II of Sweden, and the announcement of his Birthday Competition. This announcement appeared in volume 7 of the mathematical journal Acta Mathematica, published in 1885–1886. I have an English translation of it here.’
I opened Mrs Burke-Jones’s leather bag and extracted the translation of the announcement that Mr Morrison had made for me at a gay tea party which seemed long ago. I handed it to the judge, who looked it over, and handed it down to the lawyers, who then handed it to the jury.
‘As you may see, the closing date for submission of entries to the competition was June 1st, 1888; just four days ago,’ I said, ‘and the prize, an award of money and a golden medal, to say nothing of the great honour involved, is considerable. The main subject of the competition is known as the n-body problem, where n is any number of bodies or particles subject to the laws of physics known as Newton’s laws. Newton himself solved the problem of the behaviour of such bodies when there are only two of them, but the problem of three or more bodies has not, until now, been completely solved.
‘Now, the world’s foremost experts on this problem, and on the other problems posed in the announcement of the competition, are not British, but French and German mathematicians. I have often heard the name of a certain Henri Poincaré as being one of the candidates in the competition most expected to obtain astonishing new results. However, the competition was, as you may see from the announcement, open to every mathematician, everywhere. And here in Cambridge, a group of three mathematicians, all more or less specialists in subjects related to these, decided to join forces and work together, in complete secrecy, to see if they could not pool their different capacities to produce a solution. These three mathematicians were Mr Akers, Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford.
‘At this point, I would like to produce a second piece of evidence: Mr Akers’ personal agenda. I collected this agenda from Mr Akers’ sister, presently living in Belgium, to whom the police had transmitted her brother’s personal effects. In this agenda, on the dates of October 18th, December 13th and February 14th, we find the following notation: ABC 2 p.m. Similar notation appears for a date occurring after Mr Akers’ death, the 17th of April. Note that the group called ABC met regularly every two months, on a Tuesday afternoon.
‘Clearly ABC stands for Akers, Beddoes and Crawford, and the purpose of these regular meetings was to collaborate and combine efforts in the direction of solving at least part of the n-body problem in time for King Oscar’s Birthday Competition. Recall that Mrs Wiggins testified that a few people occasionally met in Mr Crawford’s rooms; she specifically remembered clearing away traces of a whisky-drinking party of three in Mr Crawford’s rooms around mid-February. These were certainly the traces of the ABC meeting of February 14th. As for the choice of Tuesday afternoon, it can easily be checked that this must have been the best choice of day and hour in the week, in order for their separate teaching and tutoring schedules to combine to allow each of them a free portion of the afternoon.
‘Having established the link between these three mathematicians, I would like to add that they decided to keep their efforts a secret, perhaps in order to avoid any public disappointment should the outcome appear unsatisfactory. However, they were but human, and it was difficult for them to keep their activities entirely secret. It is natural for a mathematician to wish to share his triumph when he produces a particularly good idea, and at least some mathematicians of my acquaintance were vaguely aware that both Mr Akers and Mr Crawford were working on the n-body problem. Mr Beddoes, however, was extremely discreet. In my presence, having been told that Mr Akers had talked about the n-body problem to Mr Weatherburn, and that Mr Crawford appeared to be secretly working on the question, he reacted with shocked annoyance, which he then hastily explained away by making the ridiculous observation that those two mathematicians were quite incompetent to deal with such a problem. I remember the scene very clearly, although at the time, I was not aware that his annoyance was a natural reaction to the realisation that his two colleagues were each, separately, throwing out vague hints which contradicted the promise of secrecy they had made to each other. I do not know of anyone who was actually explicitly told about the joint effort, or the regular collaboration meetings, but it seems clear that they occurred.
‘Let me now address the events of February 14th, and the murder of Mr Akers. An ABC meeting took place on that day at 2 p.m., and according to Mrs Wiggins’ testimony, it took place in Mr Crawford’s rooms.
‘We shall never know exactly what happened during the meeting, as the only three witnesses are now dead. However, judging by subsequent events, the meeting must have run more or less as follows. At some preceding meeting, Mr Crawford, who had the reputation of being a brilliant and inventive mathematician, although lacking in rigour, must have put forth the germ of an excellent idea towards the solution of the n-body problem. All three mathematicians would have spent the next two months working on this idea or ideas of their own, hoping to find some new element to be submitted to the subsequent meeting. What actually happened is that some time before the February 14th meeting, a most extraordinary idea occurred to Mr Akers; an idea of an essentially computational nature, with explicit formulae, which could complete Mr Crawford’s idea and bring it to fruition. Explicitly, he believed that he could adapt Mr Crawford’s idea to obtain a complete solution of the three-body problem, the first fundamentally unknown case of the general problem with n bodies for any number n. Before the meeting, Mr Akers had verified and developed his idea to a certain extent, and sketched it in a carelessly written manuscript of several pages. Then, fired by the enthusiasm of his own discovery, he came to underestimate the importance of Mr Crawford’s contribution, and to consider that he had solved the problem by himself. I believe that he attended the ABC meeting with the intention of announcing to his colleagues that he had solved the three-body problem, and that he intended to pursue his own researches to their conclusion and submit a manuscript independently to the competition.
‘Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford must have been very angry, and argued with him. Mathematicians tend to be extremely prickly about the possession of ideas, and it is quite probable that if Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford had been entirely convinced that Mr Akers’ idea was absolutely independent and original, they would have been ready to congratulate him. However, from whatever he let fall, they must have perceived that his idea was not so much a new direction, as a brilliant way of making Mr Crawford’s idea work. Then I believe a serious quarrel occurred, during which Mr Crawford downed an entire half-bottle of whisky, as he tended to do in moments of extreme stress or excitement, observed by both Mr Akers and Mr Beddoes.
‘Mr Akers left Mr Crawford’s rooms, and went to the library, his mind filled with his discovery to the exclusion of moral considerations. Mr Crawford remained in his rooms and began to reflect hard on his own idea, no doubt feeling that if Mr Akers had been able to make it work, he might have a chance at arriving at the same result, although his talents lay in a different direction. For his part, Mr Beddoes must have considered Mr Akers’ behaviour quite simply unacceptable, and he must have determined within himself to prevent him from continuing his work alone, and to compel him to share it. At any rate, he betook himself to the mathematics library of the university, and there, he saw his colleague Mr Akers, talking quietly among the bookshelves to Mr Weatherburn. Mr Beddoes heard how he was unable to keep the triumph of his discovery to himself, and he heard him invite Mr Weatherburn to dinner at the Irish pub, no doubt, as Mr Beddoes thought, to gloat. He determined to slip into Mr Akers’ rooms in college during the dinner, and search them to find any trace of written work expressing the idea which he felt that Mr Akers had no right to keep to himself.
‘It must have been rather difficult for him to locate the manuscript, of whose existence he may not even have been completely certain; Mr Akers’ papers were always in a great state of disarray, and his handwriting was difficult. Mr Beddoes must have searched among them at some length, finding it necessary to decipher several papers before reaching the conclusion that they concerned mathematics irrelevant to the n-body problem.
‘While Mr Beddoes was searching Mr Akers’ rooms, the latter was having dinner with Mr Weatherburn. During dinner, unable to contain his pride and delight in his original and brilliant discovery, he began once again to refer to it to his dinner companion, even going so far as to pull a scrap of paper from his pocket, and write down the most important formula upon it. He then, however, thought better of revealing so much to a third party, and pressed the paper back into his waistcoat pocket. I have it here, and submit it to you as my third piece of evidence. I obtained it from Mr Akers’ next of kin, his sister living in Belgium, to whom it was sent together with the rest of his personal effects.
‘Let me remind you of one other point raised in Mr Weatherburn’s testimony: that of Mr Akers’ medicine. Mr Akers’ doctor testified that Mr Akers suffered from arhythmia of the heart, and took steady doses of digitalin to control it, at a rate of ten drops, three times a day. During the dinner with Mr Weatherburn, Mr Akers asked for a pitcher of water, poured some into a glass, and took a medicine bottle from his pocket. Mr Weatherburn testified that he poured a drop or two into the glass and then said ‘What am I doing’ or words to that effect, stopped up the bottle, and thrust it back into his pocket. No explanation has been offered for this peculiar behaviour, although it does not seem that Mr Weatherburn would have any motivation whatsoever to have invented it. The bottle of digitalin was not found on Mr Akers’ dead body. I propose to explain these facts shortly.
‘It took Mr Beddoes quite some time before finally, in some dusty corner, he lit upon the manuscript he was looking for, and recognised it for what it was. He took it up, perhaps with some idea of looking through it sufficiently to grasp its import, or perhaps carrying it off altogether. At that precise moment, the entrance door to Mr Akers’ rooms opened, and the resident entered, the dinner at the Irish pub not having been unduly prolonged. If he had merely seen Mr Beddoes waiting for him in his rooms, he would perhaps not have been particularly surprised, but seeing him standing in the doorway of the study with the fatal manuscript in his hands, he became enraged and quite probably launched an accusation if not a threat, or possibly even a threatening gesture. Mr Beddoes reacted by seizing the poker and striking out with it at the man who was ready to attack him professionally and perhaps even physically. Mr Akers fell to the ground, and Mr Beddoes dropped the poker, slipped out of the tower and returned quietly home, clutching the manuscript. He may have verified immediately that Mr Akers was dead, or else he must have spent a very dreadful night, wondering about the effects of his desperate blow. But the following day brought him the official news of Mr Akers’ death. He came under no suspicion whatsoever, and as days followed days, he perhaps came to feel that Mr Akers had deserved what came to him, and that no untoward effects would follow from his act.
‘Now, Mr Beddoes was a passionate mathematician, if less creative than his colleagues. He was afraid to keep the stolen manuscript, so he copied the entire thing out in his own neat handwriting, got rid of the original, and hid his copy in a special place known only to himself. He studied the manuscript with great care and attention, as witnessed by the many questions and annotations he added in the margins. I submit this copy to you as my fourth piece of evidence. It was found quite by accident after Mr Beddoes’ death, in the secret hiding place where Mr Beddoes kept it, namely under the mattress of one of the cat baskets in the cat house at the bottom of his garden. One might be tempted to ask at first what makes me believe that this paper is not a mathematical manuscript due to Mr Beddoes himself, but closer examination shows that the formulae and results are often annotated with question marks and even explicit questions, and it would certainly be strange if Mr Beddoes did not understand his own theorems!
‘Mr Beddoes probably conceived of the possibility of understanding Mr Akers’ idea completely by himself. Whether he then would have made himself the master of these ideas, and submitted an independent manuscript to the competition, will never be known, but it is very likely that such thoughts were in his mind; at any rate, it is clear that he hesitated to mention his find to Mr Crawford, not wishing to awaken any suspicion.
‘I was present at a certain dinner party, a few days after Mr Akers’ murder, and heard several people asking Mr Weatherburn to describe his last dinner with Mr Akers. Mr Beddoes was also present, and it was there that he first became aware that Mr Akers had told Mr Weatherburn something about his discovery, and worse still, that he had written down the main formula on a paper which he had then thrust into his pocket. This paper, and Mr Weatherburn’s knowledge of it, became a threat to Mr Beddoes’ desire to claim the result for himself, and he determined to get hold of it. He attempted to have it shown to him at the police station, but was told that it had already been sent away to Mr Akers’ next of kin, his sister living in Belgium. Mr Beddoes then discovered the name and address of the sister, and near Easter, he travelled to visit her, and representing himself as a mathematician who wished to save the lost but brilliant ideas of her murdered brother from oblivion, he tried to obtain from her not only the fatal paper but also Mr Akers’ pocket diary, containing the dates of the ABC meetings. She suspected him, however, and refused to deliver them, offering him to copy them down instead. He refused, and left quite angry, foiled in his intentions. If necessary, this lady, Madame Walters, has accepted to travel to England and identify her visitor, at least from a photograph.
‘Mr Beddoes must soon have found that alone, he was not able to come to a satisfactory understanding of Mr Akers’ computations, and finally resolved to obtain Mr Crawford’s help by hook or by crook. An ABC meeting had already been planned for April 17th, and even though Mr Akers was dead, Mr Beddoes went to Mr Crawford’s rooms on that day, at two o’clock. Recall from Mrs Wiggins’ testimony that in mid-April, Mr Crawford had an afternoon visitor, and both took a glass of red wine. There, showing him only his own handwritten version of the manuscript, he attempted to obtain explanations of the difficult points from Mr Crawford, while simultaneously attempting to claim the ideas for himself. It was an awkward procedure, and such an experienced mathematician as Mr Crawford is unlikely to have been taken in by it. He must have understood that Mr Beddoes had obtained access to Mr Akers’ idea by some method or another. By this time, Mr Crawford had worked steadily and ceaselessly on his own idea without a break for two entire months, wearing himself out with trying every possibility that occurred to him, but all in vain. He must have been extremely frustrated, and all of a sudden, in the most unexpected manner, the key to solving all his difficulties appeared in Mr Beddoes’ hands – and Mr Beddoes himself did not really understand it! During their discussion of Mr Beddoes’ questions, Mr Crawford must have obtained at least a certain amount of information as to what lay in the manuscript. Still, I can well imagine that Mr Crawford wanted to look over the whole manuscript carefully himself, and was highly suspicious of Mr Beddoes’ refusal to allow him to do so; this is probably what engendered the quarrel between the two of them described by Mrs Beddoes in her testimony.
‘However, as Mr Crawford had thought long and hard about every aspect of the problem, he was able to seize the key idea hidden in the central formula even from the small amount of information that he could glean from Mr Beddoes’ questions, and then his only desire was to lock himself up alone once again in his ivory tower and work it out until he reached a final, complete version of what he considered to be a blossoming out of his own original idea. The moment the door closed behind Mr Beddoes, Mr Crawford went back to work, and after a lapse of a week or so spent in working out details, he believed himself to be in possession of a full and complete solution of the so-called perturbative three-body problem.
‘Now, his fevered brain began to envision himself as the winner of the King’s Birthday Competition, internationally famous, honoured and considered on a par with the famous Henri Poincaré. This vision soon became an obsession, and day after day, he convinced himself that only Beddoes, with all his knowledge of the true provenance of the ideas contained in the manuscript, stood between himself and glory. Moreover, the ideas which Beddoes claimed as his own were very unlikely to really be his own, and indeed, the fact that he had them in his possession at all was extremely suspicious; Mr Crawford probably, at least half-consciously, identified Mr Beddoes as the murderer of Mr Akers.
‘For a week or so, Mr Crawford was so busy writing and thinking that he kept these ideas at bay, but then came the day on which the manuscript was complete, and only the danger due to Mr Beddoes’ knowledge of the true situation prevented him from sending it off. This brings us to around the day of the garden party, the 23rd of April. Mr Crawford decided to lay his plans very carefully. To begin with, he knew that a manuscript submitted in English to the competition would attract attention, as no English specialists in the subject were expected to submit. Naturally, he wished his manuscript to attract attention if it were to win the prize, but if that were not the case, then he surely felt that it would be a very dangerous thing that anyone should make even a superficial connection between a manuscript from England and murder in Cambridge. Therefore, he sent his manuscript to be translated into both French and German, so as to make it virtually impossible to guess where it came from. The rules of the competition stipulated that the manuscripts were to be submitted anonymously, with only an epigraph in lieu of signature, and that the true names of the authors were to be supplied in sealed envelopes marked with the epigraphs. Only the envelopes corresponding to the winning entries were to be opened. Therefore, by submitting French and German versions of his manuscript, Mr Crawford thought to protect himself from identification forever, in the case of his manuscript not being considered a winning entry (for example, if M. Poincaré of France had provided an even more astonishing solution). In case his manuscript would be the winner of the competition, Mr Crawford’s desire for the fame and honour which would ensue was so great that he was ready to take any risk.
‘He also took advantage of naturally running into Mr Beddoes at the garden party to show him that he held no grudge over their quarrel, and let him know that he wished to dine with him. I saw this myself; Mr Beddoes appeared very surprised when Mr Crawford spoke to him. At the time, I merely thought that he was taken aback by Mr Crawford’s brusque manner, but now I realise that his surprise was due to the fact that the last time the two men had met, a week earlier, they had quarrelled bitterly.
‘He then proceeded to an extraordinarily evil action. On April 30th, he invited Mr Beddoes and Mr Weatherburn to dine together with him at the Irish pub, and at the last minute, he excused himself, alleging ill-health. The inclusion of Mr Weatherburn in this invitation was obviously intended to throw suspicion on him, as he had already dined with the victim of the previous murder, and the manoeuvre succeeded only too well.’
I paused here in my speech, and looked directly at Arthur, as did everyone else in the courtroom. For the very first time since the beginning of this painful trial, I saw his eyes fixed, burningly, upon me. It strengthened me.
‘Mr Crawford then installed himself just within the front gate of Mr Beddoes’ garden, in the shadow of some large lilac bushes, and waited in the darkness with a large rock gathered from the garden in his hand. Eventually, he heard Mr Weatherburn and Mr Beddoes return from their dinner, and bid each other goodnight at the gate. Mr Weatherburn turned away, and Mr Beddoes closed the gate and turned towards the house. He received the blow suddenly, silently and powerfully on the back of his head. Mr Crawford was a very large, strong man. The blow fell instantaneously, Mr Beddoes uttered no cry, and no one was aware of anything. Mr Crawford let fall the rock and returned home; Mrs Beddoes discovered her husband’s body only later in the evening, as she was leaning out of the front door in the hopes of spotting his arrival.
‘Mr Crawford must have obtained his translations very soon after this. The main judge of the competition, Professor Mittag-Leffler of Sweden, looked at them, and told me that they appear to have been translated by native speakers, but not by mathematicians. I guess, therefore, that he sent them to an ordinary translating agency; if proof is needed, I have no doubt that this agency can be located and identified.
‘Hearing of the arrest of Mr Weatherburn, Mr Crawford soon was assured that he was under no suspicion, and on the 4th of May, he took his two manuscripts, sealed them into an envelope, addressed it, and went to post it, probably to someone on the mainland who forwarded it to Stockholm. I visited Stockholm, met with the organiser of the competition, Professor Gösta Mittag-Leffler, and saw the envelope and manuscripts there with my own eyes. However, as the manuscripts were anonymous, and the handwriting, language and envelope did not indicate Mr Crawford explicitly, I was forced to make a special request to open the sealed envelope mailed together with the suspicious manuscript, marked with the epigraph of the author, and containing his name. Professor Mittag-Leffler had not the authority to open the envelope himself, and insisted that such authority could come only from the King of Sweden, patron of the competition. Thus I had to meet and present my petition to the King himself. He opened the envelope, and confirmed that the author of the manuscript was Mr Crawford. He has written this letter to you, my Lord, to inform you of it.’
An agreeable gasp went round the courtroom, as I extracted the King’s gloriously embossed and sealed letter from my leather bag, and handed it to the judge. There was a breathless silence as he broke the seal and read the brief message aloud.
‘I pray you continue, Miss Duncan,’ he said, turning to me. ‘I remain with bated breath waiting to understand how Mr Crawford met his death.’
‘That was mysterious to me, too, at first,’ I told him. ‘Recall that on the occasion of the quarrel within the ABC group on the 14th of February, Mr Crawford had drunk a full half-a-bottle of whisky in his excitement. Such an act was most infrequent with him, as a matter of fact, and accompanied only moments of tremendous stress and excitement. The mailing of his manuscript to Sweden was such a moment, especially as he could not share it with a single person. He returned home, alight with secret triumph, took down his whisky bottle, still half-full as he had not touched it since the day of the ABC meeting on February 14th, and drank it down in two large tumblerfuls. As it contained a large dose of digitalin, he fell dead of cardiac arrest within a few minutes.
‘But who had placed the digitalin in the whisky? At first, I believed that it was Mr Beddoes, who had extracted the flask from Mr Akers’ pocket after murdering him. But this explanation did not satisfy me completely. For one thing, I could not see why Mr Beddoes should have taken the flask, for surely he could not have conceived of killing Mr Crawford already at that moment – they had not yet quarrelled and were still the best of friends. I thought he might have somehow predicted their future disagreement, but that seemed unlikely and really too diabolical. Furthermore, it gave no explanation of Mr Akers’ peculiar behaviour with his medicine in the Irish pub during the last dinner of his life. It took me some little time to realise that I had been led astray by the prosecution’s insistence that Mr Akers’ bottle of digitalin was stolen from his pocket by his murderer.
‘In fact, what happened was much simpler. During the fatal ABC meeting of February 14th, Mr Akers must have understood perfectly that Mr Crawford had no intention of allowing him to proceed with his intentions, submit his paper, and savour his triumph alone. A bitter, impulsive and asocial man, he suddenly decided to eliminate Mr Crawford, probably having almost no thoughts for the consequences. Seeing Mr Crawford, not for the first time, down a full half-bottle of whisky at a single sitting, he must have imagined, not incorrectly, that this was a habitual practice with him, and in a quiet moment, he contrived to empty his bottle of digitalin into the half-bottle of whisky which still remained. He could easily have arranged to visit a doctor in London within the next days to obtain a renewal of his medicine without arousing the suspicions of his regular doctor. If he had done so, he might well have never come under suspicion for the crime, for no one but his doctor knew of his reliance on digitalin, and no one but Mr Beddoes knew of his special and secret association with Mr Crawford. However, he made a serious slip at his dinner with Mr Weatherburn. Automatically following his usual habit, without thinking, he ordered water, poured out a glass and attempted to put his usual ten drops of digitalin into it. However, no more than a drop or two remained in the bottle, as he had emptied it within the afternoon. He must have immediately realised the foolishness of his gesture, as he had now a witness both to the fact that he was in possession of some medication, which might be associated with the death of Mr Crawford, and that the flask was empty. However, there was nothing to do about it. On an impulse, he threw the telltale bottle of digitalin away, probably in the restaurant when he went to wash his hands. He was quite agitated during the dinner, and indeed, so he should have been, as he must have felt that it was yet time for him to prevent the grisly murder he had undertaken. I hope, I wish to believe, that he would surely have done so that same evening, had his own death not so unexpectedly overtaken him. I hope so, but we will never know.
‘My Lord, gentlemen of the jury, that is all that I have to say. I sincerely hope I have been able to explain all of these events to your satisfaction.’
I stopped speaking, and remained standing shakily in the witness box. A strange noise, like a wave, began at the back of the public gallery and swelled about the courtroom, and I realised after what seemed a long time that it was applause. The judge banged his gavel upon his desk and said ‘Silence in the courtroom!’
He then turned to the barristers. ‘Would the prosecution like to adjourn until tomorrow to prepare its response to Miss Duncan’s evidence?’ he said politely.
The prosecutor stood up.
‘I will make my closing statement now, my Lord, if you please,’ he replied firmly.
He turned to the jury and spoke very briefly.
‘Members of the jury, you have now heard two very different explanations of how three mathematicians were murdered, and two very different explanations of the same body of evidence, that concerning the disappearance of the bottle of digitalin, the presence of the accused with each of the first two victims just before their deaths, and so on. The witness we have just heard has added new evidence. It is up to you, now, to compare the two possible explanations of the evidence, and to determine, beyond a reasonable doubt, which is the true one. I rest my case.’
Automatically, counsel for the defence arose, and his speech was even shorter than the prosecutor’s.
‘Members of the jury, I explained to you before how the accused could be perfectly innocent of the horrendous crimes imputed to him, and guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time on two separate occasions. The additional information brought to you by this new witness completes my presentation of the case. I have nothing more to add.’
Mr Justice Penrose bowed his head apologetically towards the jury. ‘Members of the jury, please deliberate once again, and return when your verdict is ready.’
No trial can ever have closed more speedily. The jury returned in less than two minutes. They sat down, and the judge asked them: ‘Members of the jury, have you reached a conclusion?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘What is your verdict?’
‘We have changed from our previous conclusion, my Lord. We now unanimously believe that the prisoner is not guilty. We wish to say that we feel we have very narrowly escaped being led into grave injustice.’
The courtroom erupted in cries of all kinds and the judge banged his gavel again.
‘The prisoner is hereby acquitted and released without a stain on his character!’ he shouted over the noise in stentorian tones.
All of a sudden I could not bear the noise and the crowd and the hundreds of eyes for a single second longer. I rushed from the courtroom and stepped into the quiet darkness of the streets, where I wandered about for a long time before returning home. It has been too much and too long and too hard, and I feel too numb to triumph tonight.
Tomorrow, however, I shall begin a new adventure!
Vanessa
My dearest sister,
The whole of this past week has been full of sunshine and roses, outdoors, indoors, and within my very heart. Each morning, I awake, and recall afresh that Arthur’s trial is over, and with it the very trial of my soul; my entire life feels renewed and joyful. And each day has brought its own unexpected, delightful surprise.
The first one came the very day after the end of the trial. Naturally, the unexpected and dramatic ending was reported in our local newspaper. I was so tired after my performance in the witness box, that I tumbled into bed and slept like the dead until astonishingly late the next morning, and was awoken by Mrs Fitzwilliam entering with a tea tray in her hands, upon which lay a newspaper.
‘Well, my dear,’ she said to me, as she drew the curtains kindly and let in a wave of brilliant sunshine, ‘you must be tired enough to sleep so long! I know you’ve had a hard time of it all, and I thought I’d bring your breakfast in this morning, so you may have some much-deserved relaxation. And do have a look at this, dear – you’re on the very front page of the newspaper! Just think!’
Oh dear, it was perfectly true. There was a picture of me, taken as I left the courthouse, framed within the doorway, almost a silhouette against the lighted background. It was followed by a very foolish article. I did not like to read it at all; it presented things in a very silly way, not at all properly. No one, reading it, would imagine that I was simply driven to search for the truth and avert a dreadful injustice – they all seemed to foolishly impute some deeper reason for it all! Such motivations as mine must lie below the visual field of ordinary journalists.
The very next afternoon, I received visits from the mothers of nearly all the little girls in my class. With amazing speed and efficiency, Mrs Burke-Jones had been to call on each and every one of them, and had presented her proposition of widening the class to contain boys as well as girls, and welcoming it, if necessary, in her home.
My class contains several pairs of sisters (and even one collection of three), so that in fact, my twelve little students possess only seven mothers between them; Mrs Burke-Jones aside, I was called upon by the other six. Rose’s mother was the first to call. She praised me with enthusiasm for my role at the trial, and told me that she would have been delighted to send any brothers of Rose to join my class, if only she had had any, but alas, Rose was an only child. To cut a long story of discussions and negotiations short, three mothers, one of whom has two daughters, said that they could not agree to continue to send their daughters to a class as daring and scandalous as what I, or rather, Mrs Burke-Jones, was proposing. I had been afraid of this reaction, and had half made up my mind to say that I had not taken any decision on the subject yet. But that is not how it went, for I found myself stubbornly upholding the project, and in the end found my little class to be reduced from twelve to eight.
And yet, it is at the same time most interestingly increased, for not only are Emily’s two brothers to attend, but – good heavens – I had no idea, but the mother of the three little girls followed them up directly by a series of three little boys, none of whom have begun lessons yet. I am to take the oldest one immediately, and the following two in subsequent years. And two other little brothers are to join us, making a total of five boys in all, beginning immediately. They are all very little boys, with the exception of Edmund, as all the older ones are in school already. It will be most awfully sweet!
The calls and visits were followed by a lengthy discussion with Emily, her mother, and Miss Forsyth. I am to continue residing in Mrs Fitzwilliam’s rooms, but the schoolroom will now be located in Mrs Burke-Jones’s large nursery, and Miss Forsyth will be my assistant for part of the afternoon; she will teach French, and help me with the smallest children if they become overexcited, as seems more than likely. There is to be a break in the middle of the afternoon, during which the children may run about in Mrs Burke-Jones’s lovely garden. She is overjoyed at the whole idea, and appears to have recovered a purpose for her life in it; I quite believe that she sees herself as a kind of honorary headmistress, and who knows, perhaps she will end up as the headmistress of an excellent and reputable and very modern school!
The next morning, I received your letter. Oh, Dora, how exciting! All the changes in my life, which seemed so great to me, and the varied experiences I have had during these last weeks, pale before those which await you now that you have accepted Mr Edwards’ proposal. How beautifully he expresses the feeling that at such a distance, one’s true needs and desires become clear and sharply outlined, whereas in the confusion of daily presence, they become blurred and confused. Poor Mr Edwards – so many people would burn to confront the long and mysterious journey to vast, hot and unfamiliar regions, filled with natives and strange illnesses, which awaits him, and he yearns only to return home to the English countryside and live amongst the fresh green fields. Still, Dora, in your quiet way, you have always been more stubborn than I; simply reserving yourself for the great moment. I know you; now that you know what you are waiting for, you will be able to reserve yourself as long as necessary, with an infinity of obstinate patience, while Mr Edwards works until the government permits him to return. Surely it cannot be more than a small number of years! And after all, we are only twenty, you and I.
By the same post, I also received a letter from Professor Mittag-Leffler. He had heard all about the final results of my efforts, and wrote to congratulate me and once again encourage me to return to visit him in Stockholm. One paragraph of his letter has left a profound and striking impression upon me.
Because of the amazing nature of its contents, the manuscript number seven was immediately and intensively studied by myself and my associate Dr Phragmén. I regret to say that quite soon, we came to realise that the computations, although brilliantly virtuoso in style, contain a deep flaw in one particular place. It seems to me that I remember, in the partial manuscript you showed me written in very legible handwriting, that the author had written a question in the margin next to this very point. He may have believed himself simply unable to understand it, but he was more perspicacious than he thought, and the author of the manuscript submitted to the competition desired success too keenly to exercise his critical judgement. I am sorry to say that the entire conclusion of the manuscript is invalidated by this error. In any case, the paper submitted by M. Henri Poincaré has shown that such a classical solution to the three-body problem (and in fact to the n-body problem in general) is in fact an impossibility, and that the problem must be approached in an entirely different way. He begins this radically new study in his article, which is a work of genius that will unquestionably mark the whole of the century to come.
So it turns out that all three of them murdered and were murdered for nothing. This fact leaves me with a most remarkable impression of the inanity of the things of this world.
I longed to share this letter, and all of my experiences, with Arthur, but I had not seen him since the end of the trial; nobody appeared to know where he had gone. I tried to occupy myself with a thousand things, but my thoughts were always upon him, and I jumped at every sound, every knock on the door. He appeared, finally, towards the end of the afternoon.
I heard his step in the hallway, and his gentle knock, and opened the door at once. We stood in the doorway for a moment; he took my two hands in his, looking down at me. I looked up at him, and we remained there in silence – silence will ever be our most intense mode of communication, I think. I felt his touch, and found no words. He seemed to wish to speak and change his mind a dozen times. Time stopped; I would have waited forever. Finally, he said, ‘Will you marry me?’
I said yes. There was another silence.
‘I’m afraid it won’t be easy for you,’ he said slowly. ‘You know, I have never been very strong on the business of living, and though I have tried in these last days to forget and recover, something, somewhere inside me, feels broken forever. I could not find any interest in anything at all – except the thought of you.’
‘I’ll mend it – I can mend anything!’ I said stoutly.
He took me in his arms.
Fellows of the university are not allowed to marry, and a fellowship lasts for several years. But what of it! We are young, and the future is long, and my class needs me, and the days stretch before me filled with loveliness, and poetry and wild flowers growing in the hedgerows. Beyond that, it grows misty, and I prefer it that way.
How wonderful to think that I will be home so soon. I can hardly wait to see our darling old house. I have been away for so long – I have become used to town houses, all square and stone and straight. How I miss the crooked rafters and low ceilings, and tiny diamond-paned windows half-covered with leafy vines. To think I will see it all again in just a few days, and the cats, and our solid little ponies – and you! I long to ramble in the fields for hours with you, Dora, as only twins can. Just walking, and talking – about all the things which cannot be fitted into, or even between, the lines of letters.
Your loving sister
Vanessa