The Mermaid in the Basement (23 page)

“Oh yes, plenty of witnesses.”

Grant studied the young man, thinking of his connection with Viscountess Trent. “What’s your relationship with Viscountess Trent?”

“We are acquainted,” Dylan said cheerfully. “I was a friend of her brother’s, and I’ve offered to help her in any way I can.”

“How could you possibly help?”

“Well, I could offer moral support and prayers.”

Grant smiled for the first time. “I’m sure that’s a comfort to her.”

“Doesn’t seem to be working too well.”

“All right. That’s all for now. You can go.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Call on me anytime.”

As Tremayne left, Grant stood there for a moment and thought about what he had. He knew that he had nothing that he could report to Superintendent Winters, but something about the nature of the woman who was murdered had emerged, and he thought it might be useful.

He left the theatre and walked back toward Scotland Yard wondering what he could do next, and then he wondered why he was doing anything.
We’ve got a suspect all sewed up, but somehow it doesn’t seem right.
The thought disturbed him, and he could not shake it out of his head as he moved along the street.

TWELVE

T
he sun, beaming with a sidereal brilliance, was almost directly overhead as Dylan turned and walked toward the Trent mansion. He had gone through rehearsal and had been somewhat shocked to find that he saw almost everyone in the cast as a possible murderer. He knew Grant had seen the same thing, and it was obvious that the inspector was like a snapping turtle, hanging on to whatever he put his mind to until it thundered.

He gave three raps with the heavy brass knocker, then stepped back. It seemed only a few seconds until the door opened, and an attractive maid gave him a quick look, then smiled. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“I’d like to see the Viscountess, please.”

“She’s occupied right now, sir.Would you care to wait?” The maid had dark red hair and unusual green eyes. Right now those eyes were fixed on Dylan in a way that he had seen before. He was used to women being attracted to him, for an actor who was not completely hideous seemed to draw them like flies. “Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Newton?”

“If you’ll step in, sir, I’ll see.”

Dylan stepped inside, removed his hat, and watched the woman as she moved away. There was a seductive movement in her walk that he had seen before. Women could speak with their lips, but oftentimes they spoke with motion. He pulled his glance away to look at the pictures and the statues that lined the spacious foyer, and the scene gave him an odd feeling. Here were people who had money such as he had never dreamt of.
I wonder what it’s like to have money enough to buy anything you want.
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders slightly, knowing that he would never find out—and didn’t care in the least.

The redheaded maid came back to say, “If you’ll come this way, sir, I’ll take you up to see Mr. Newton. He’s in his laboratory.” She smiled enticingly as if she were inviting him to an intimate meeting somewhere.

“Thank you,” Dylan said. He followed the maid, keeping his eyes away from her rounded figure. He had been struck long ago by a verse in the Bible that said, “I will set no wicked thing before my eyes.” Not that women themselves were necessarily wicked, but something wicked could happen if he allowed his gaze to linger on the maid. He had often wondered how biblical history might have been different if King David had turned away after his
first
look at Bathsheba in her bath. No man, he well knew, could help that first look, but the test of will came when he had to decide whether to take a
second
look.

They climbed two flights of stairs, and the maid said, “This is Mr. Newton’s study. If you need anything, just let me know.”

The innocent words included an invitation that Dylan read as plainly as if it were printed in large black letters on a white background. He had often thought that women spoke two languages—one of mere words that conveyed information, and a subtler one that a man could not easily resist. He said quickly, “Thank you, miss.” She caught his glance, and her soft lips curved into a smile that would have stirred a mummy.

“My name is Louisa, sir.”

“Thank you very much, Louisa.”

He turned quickly and entered the laboratory.When he was inside, he stopped dead still, for it was an enormous room filled with benches, tables, filing cabinets, and all sorts of scientific equipment, including glass flagons and burners that were heating chemicals on a table. All was a mass of confusion to him.

“How are you today, Mr. Tremayne?”

Dylan turned quickly and returned the greeting. “Good afternoon, Dr. Newton. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. I’m just doing an experiment that takes a great deal of time. Oh, by the way, I’m not really a physician any longer—so no title is necessary.” There was an awkwardness about the man, and his white hair seemed to be standing almost on end.His large head and very broad forehead created an intelligent appearance, and he had neglected to shave for at least one, perhaps two days.

“I’ve been at the prison this morning to visit my son.”

“How is he, Mr. Newton?”

“Very low indeed—and no wonder. He’s never had anything like this happen, and it’s getting the best of him. I did all I could to cheer him up, but that’s very difficult.” Newton attempted a smile, but failed and shook his head. “It’s hard to comfort someone when you’re miserable yourself.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Excuse me. I have to make a change, if you don’t mind. Can we talk as I work?”

“Of course.”

Newton turned and went to a line of small cages. Inside each one of them was a white mouse. The professor picked up a tablet, pulled a mouse out, studied it under a large magnifying glass, then put the small creature back in the cage. He made a notation in a small book, then said, “I’m studying the effect of the lack of certain vitamins on mice.”

“I wonder what the mice think about that,” Dylan said.

The professor smiled. “It doesn’t take much to make a mouse happy, Mr. Tremayne.”

Tremayne had to smile. “I suppose not. Just a bit to eat and a warm spot out of the cold, is it?”

“Yes, human beings are a little bit more difficult.”Newton went down the cages, looked at each mouse, and made notations in his notebook.

Dylan knew little of science, but he had heard Newton spoken of as one of the most brilliant minds of the Royal Academy. “Do you give the mice names, sir?”

Newton was surprised. He said at once, “Oh no, just numbers. If I gave them names, it would become a personal matter, you see.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

“It would be awkward. A man doesn’t get sentimental over Mouse Number Six, but if he were named Joey, it would be difficult to be impersonal.”

“I’m afraid I could never be a scientist, Mr. Newton.”

“No, you’re not the type, Mr. Tremayne. David has told me about the stories you tell him—romance and wonders of all kinds.”

“Your daughter doesn’t like such stories,”Dylan remarked. “She asked me not to tell them—but David loves them.”

The remark seemed to trouble Newton.He gave Dylan a rueful look. “Yes, I know. She mentioned it to me.”

“A little difficult, it is. David loves my kind of fooling, and I have to tell him no.”

Septimus looked down at the floor for a long moment, then said in a tone that was somehow sad, “I sometimes regret the way that I educated Serafina. She was quite imaginative when she was young. I thought that was a rather bad thing, so I spent years drilling into her that the only proper way to go at things was the rational, scientific method.”

“A good job you made of it,” Dylan said wryly. “She’s not got much patience with anything like fancy or imagination now.”

“I know that. I’ve thought many times that I took something from her that she needed.” He turned his head to one side and looked like a curious bird as he studied Dylan. “I’ve seen some change in her since she went to your play. It’s like a light went on in her. I think she doesn’t want to see David grow up to be a man without that side to his nature.”

Dylan saw something like longing and regret intermingled in the older man’s face. He felt unqualified to tell a man like Newton how to raise his grandson, but he did say, “A man can have both imagination and a critical mind, sir. Your namesake, Sir Isaac Newton, had both sides to his character.”

“How do you know that?”

“I had a friend who was fascinated with Sir Isaac.He said that he was the greatest scientific mind in all history.”

“I believe your friend was right.”

“He also said that toward his more mature years, after making some of the greatest discoveries about the way our world works, he turned to the Bible.He said that Professor Newton devoted many years to the study of the last book in the Scriptures—the book of Revelation.”

Septimus was staring at Dylan with consternation. “Your friend was exactly right. I’ve been trying for years to understand how a man with Newton’s gifts could turn to a book filled with exotic and violent images.”

“I expect he found that science, for all that it’s done for mankind, isn’t the final answer.We need more than a chemical formula to give us hope about ourselves.”

The two men talked for some time,much to Dylan’s amazement. He became convinced that deep down, Septimus Newton had the same kind of hunger to know the deep things of God that Sir Isaac Newton had manifested.

“Do you ever talk with Lady Trent about things like this, sir?”

“No, I do not.” Septimus seemed confused.“How could I? I’ve led her to become what she is. Can I go to her now and change all that I’ve taught her?”He seemed to slump, and with a strange look in his eyes, he said, “I must admit that all the scientific knowledge in the world doesn’t do anything to help when your world falls apart.” He suddenly cried out, “I’m not equipped to handle this business, Tremayne. To have your son accused of murder, it’s getting to all of us, I’m afraid!”

“I know it’s hard.”

Newton threw his hands open in a helpless gesture. “Life is strange.”

“Yes, it is, and not very pleasant. The Bible says man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.”

“The Bible says that?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Well, I’ve read the Bible very little, but
that
is certainly true. Come over and sit down. We can be more comfortable.” He moved across the room toward a big bay window with a table in front of it. There was tea brewing, and he poured them both a cup without asking and pushed one toward Dylan. “It’s an odd thing,” he said. “One moment you’re a child out laughing and chasing butterflies, and the next minute you’re an old man unable to handle the things that come up in life.”

“Life is that way, isn’t it? Man’s like the grass in the field. He flourishes, and then the wind passes over him and he dies. Sometimes,”Dylan added gently, “a man bends over to pick up something, and when he straightens up the whole world has changed.”

The eyes of Septimus widened, and he said, “You’re a very perceptive young man. Unusually so.” He whispered in a tone of agony, “I feel so—so frustrated! There’s so little I can do to help my son, and I appreciate your friendship for him.”

“We haven’t known each other long, but he has great potential. He just hasn’t found his way yet, but I believe that God is going to step into his life.”

Septimus sipped his tea, then said in a voice tinged with longing, “I wish I had faith.”

“It’s a thing that we all need, Mr. Newton.Have you ever called upon God?”

The question seemed to embarrass Septimus.He looked out the window and seemed to avoid answering. “Look at that chipmunk,” he said. “He comes every day about this time.” He moved over, opened the window, and put one of the cakes that was on the table outside. He stepped back and said, “I give him his dinner.”

Dylan watched as the chipmunk streaked across the ground and scampered up a tree just outside the window. He made a rather daring leap, and when he landed, he looked up and saw the two men watching him. He tucked his front legs tightly against his chest so that only his paws were visible.

“He looks like a supplicant modestly holding his hat, doesn’t he, Mr.

Tremayne?”

“Yes, he does. He doesn’t have many worries either, rather like the mice you have. Oh, I suppose all of God’s creatures have problems, though.” Dylan paused for a moment, then said, “Mr. Newton, have you ever read any of Mr. Burns’s poetry—Robert Burns, the Scotsman?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t read poetry.What’s the poem about?”

“It’s about a female mouse who’s made a burrow for her young. She gathered food for the winter. She’s all set. Everything is prepared and she has no worries. Then suddenly a man with a plow comes along. The plow tears into the nest, scatters the food that the mouse has gathered, and I suppose it scatters the young ones out into the cold.”

“Why would a man write a poem like that?”

“He was interested in the human condition, as all poets are. One line I’ve always remembered says, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.’”

A light suddenly flickered in Septimus’s eyes. “That’s very true. He was a very wise man to see that. Our plans don’t take into account the calamities that are going to strike us.” He gave Dylan a sharp glance, much like he had given to one of the mice in his experiment. “Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Tremayne.”

Dylan gave a brief sketch of his life, of how he had come up the hard way, and he told him in great detail how he had found God. He finally ended by saying, “So now I have a master, the Lord God Jehovah, and His Son, the Lord Jesus. I try to be a good soldier for them, better than I was for the queen even, and I was a good soldier.”

Septimus was watching Dylan as he spoke. He seemed to be drinking the words in as a thirsty man drinks cool water. He cleared his throat and said, “I admire your strength, and I honour you for it, sir.”

“Oh, it’s frail enough, I am, sir. But God wants us all. He made us all, and He wants us all to be His good soldiers. Even you, Mr. Newton. I encourage you to seek the Lord, and I’ll pray for you.”