The Three-Body Problem (11 page)

‘He was found dead this very morning, of heart failure, and no one knows yet whether he died naturally or not, or whether it was a murder at all,’ I explained.

His attitude changed somewhat; he drooped, and considered this news without speaking.

‘Arthur,’ I said, ‘do you not think Mr Crawford might himself be the murderer, and have died of a heart attack over the excitement of it all, or perhaps have killed himself from remorse?’

‘I can’t believe it,’ he answered slowly. ‘And yet, someone must be the murderer. I don’t know what to think.’

‘Perhaps there is some way of finding out, of proving that it was Mr Crawford,’ I said. ‘Do you not think we could find out exactly what he was doing on the night Mr Akers was killed?’

‘Ten to one he was alone in his rooms, with no witnesses,’ he sighed.

‘Or he might have been the mysterious searcher in Mr Akers’ rooms,’ I said. ‘Do you remember how the newspaper article said it looked as though his papers had been disarranged by a search? Can you imagine anything that he might have been looking for?’

‘Well, it seems awfully silly, but I suppose he could have been looking for some mathematics, you know. Something about the n-body problem that rumour held they were both working on,’ he answered. ‘I mean, pretty much everybody was aware of some slight current of rivalry between the two of them.’

‘That is very important!’ I was beginning, when most suddenly and annoyingly, the warder stepped towards me, and said, ‘Time’s up, madam.’

‘Oh, excuse me – I mean, I’m sorry – I mean thank you!’ I said confusedly, gathering my things together. But I could not tear myself away. Arthur stood motionless, as though deprived of the energy to return to another day of prison life.

‘I will come back tomorrow morning,’ I told him, ‘and bring you something to read and write.’

‘Madam!’ said the warder in a peremptory tone.

‘Yes, yes, I am so sorry! Goodbye, Arthur, goodbye.’

That foolish word did not express one hundredth of what I should have liked to tell him. But no better one came to me.

It is evening now, and I have finished my teaching; from lack of ideas, and secret obsession with the indictment, I spent a large part of the afternoon reading aloud from Oscar Wilde’s
Happy Prince
. I must say that I have rarely read anything less ‘happy’; it did nothing to improve my mood. I cannot help jumping at every noise I hear, thinking that it must be Arthur returning home, released by decision of the magistrate. I can do nothing at all. I must remain patient – it is difficult – and pass the time by writing to you, which soothes me wonderfully and clears my brain.

Oh, if only, only Mr Crawford had been hit upon the head! Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful thing to say! But he is dead anyway, and perhaps being hit over the head is faster and more painless than cardiac arrest. Well, if I cannot
quite
bring myself to wish that he had been hit over the head, I wish at least that he had killed himself from remorse, and left a note explaining it all. It may yet be so.

Well, I will put a little piece of bread on my plate; I have no appetite at all, but I will
not
give way to weakness. Tea and toast for supper, and audacious investigation tomorrow! I shall model myself on that very famous London detective – what is his name? – who lives in Baker Street.

Please pray for me, and write to me when you can, and all of your own news, and all you think of mine.

Your anxious sister

Vanessa

Dear Dora,

I discovered on Saturday that the prosecutor asked the magistrate quite simply for a postponement of Arthur’s hearing on Friday, considering that Mr Crawford’s death was relevant. The magistrate granted a minimal postponement, only until the first thing this morning. It is not a public affair, so I could not enter, and was obliged to wait outside the courthouse. Do you know – I truly believed that I expected to see Arthur emerge, a free man. And yet, it did not end that way, and now I feel as though deep within some secret part of me, I feared and expected this all along.

By eleven o’clock, the proceedings were over. I had not seen Arthur either entering or leaving, and in a great fever of doubt and dismay, I ended up returning to Castle Hill and enquiring as to his whereabouts. As it turned out, he had been quite simply remanded to his cell in the prison. Upon pleading to be allowed to see him in a near panic, I received the placid answer ‘Why not?’ and within a short time we were facing each other as usual through the door with the grille. He appeared pale and dismayed as he recounted the morning’s events; oh, Dora, after the presentation of the public prosecutor, it was found that there was sufficient evidence against him to warrant a trial! Upon hearing this, I suffocated with all the indignation that Arthur did not seem to feel on his own account.

‘What evidence can they possibly have?’ I cried.

‘I am not sure,’ he answered wearily. ‘They must have
something special, because I have been formally accused of all three murders, in front of nothing less than a grand jury, given the heinous nature of the crime, according to the public prosecutor. What really happened today is that the public prosecutor convinced the jury that there is enough evidence to warrant a deep and complete investigation into the situation. Because this is all that he is trying to accomplish, only the prosecutor need speak and introduce witnesses; there is no defence, as I am not considered to be on trial, although I can tell you that it feels very like it in the most unpleasant way. This prosecutor called the medical examiner as witness and had him tell the grand jury how Akers and Beddoes were killed and the usual nonsense about the restaurant. But then he began on Crawford, and explained that
he
was killed by downing a good half-bottle of his own whisky which contained some kind of poison! Then came the strange part: he claimed he could justify that it would have been perfectly possible for me to have murdered Crawford, since the poison could have been introduced into the bottle at any time in the last weeks or months. He said that he would present solid evidence showing that I could have done it – it’s a total mystery to me! And then he went on to say that the motive for all these killings was mathematical. He explained at length that although a murder for a mathematical result might be a difficult thing for the layman to understand, the jury should realise that the desire for glory reigned as strong in the breasts of mathematicians as in anyone else’s. The jury then unanimously declared that there was sufficient evidence against me to warrant a trial for murder. It’s fixed to begin
on the 16th of May, and until then I’m condemned to remain here without bail.’

In spite of his forced calm, I saw that Arthur’s confidence had been shaken, and that he was not at all serene about the upcoming trial. Worse, I did not know how to offer him any comfort, for my own inside seemed wracked with fear at this horrible, unexpected turn of events. When the warder ordered me to leave, I found it difficult to tear myself away, and yet remaining was unbearable also, as it was almost impossible for me to conceal my feelings of fear and distress.

The only drop of comfort in my misery came in the form of a visit from Mr Morrison, who arrived this afternoon instead of Miss Forsyth, to collect Emily from lessons. He hung about, making conversation, until the usual little melee of pupils, governesses and mothers had departed. I was moving silently about the schoolroom, putting it in order, unwilling to speak to him, but he approached me with a firm step.

‘I wish to say something, Miss Duncan,’ he said.

‘I am not sure I wish to hear it,’ I answered icily.

‘Oh, yes, you are, I am sure that you are,’ he replied undaunted. ‘I want to thank you, really. You convinced me the other day that you were right; I was being a fool. So I went to visit Weatherburn.’

I turned to him in surprise. ‘You went to the prison?’

‘Why not? You have been there, have you not?’

‘Yes, I have,’ I replied, ‘but I did not think that you …’

‘I wouldn’t, normally,’ he interposed. ‘Dashed embarrassing, really, doing this kind of thing. You women don’t understand what it’s like for men; you have all kinds of
private conversations all the time, in your homes and over tea and everywhere; you’re used to it! But we don’t do that kind of thing much between ourselves; we’re simply no good at it. We
do
sometimes talk about feelings, you know – but there’s a special language to do it with; it’s all sort of abstract, or has to seem to be. I’m expressing myself dashed badly. I’m very sorry!’

‘No, you aren’t. I do understand,’ I told him.

‘And then, behind prison bars, it’s worse than ever. There you are, separated by that beastly grille, hearing all kind of people groaning and moaning, children crying, like you’ve fallen into some Hieronymus Bosch version of hell. And I’m supposed to look him in the eyes in the middle of all this and ask him directly if he has or hasn’t actually bopped people over the head.’

‘But you did it?’

‘Well, hang it, yes, I did, actually.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He was most awfully surprised that I asked him. It was difficult for him to bring himself to come right out and tell me directly that he’d done nothing of the kind. It had nothing to do with the truth of the matter; I saw just how he felt. I’d have felt exactly the same; like the whole idea’s so silly one doesn’t even like to deny it – it lends it too much seriousness. I did feel like an idiot – it was as though I’d asked the same question to myself! I was wrong, Miss Duncan, and you were right. It’s all an enormous mistake.’

‘But then, you
do
see that we have to do something!’ I exclaimed.

‘I do see it, and jolly well wish I could think of something to do,’ he answered, anxiously touching the small moustache which ornaments his upper lip. ‘But apart from standing by, I don’t see much. I just wanted to say this: if you undertake anything at all, do
please
let me know, and count on me.
Don’t
go investigating or anything by yourself. It might be dangerous!’

It was nice of him, I’m sure, but if I only had something to investigate, I would certainly rush out and do it at once. There
must
be something. How can I just wait for the trial – and then, even worse, sit through it day after day and
watch
?

I must think. Oh, Dora dear,
do
help me!

Your most worried

Vanessa

Dearest Dora,

The whole of Cambridge is deeply shocked by the death of Mr Crawford, forming, as it does, the latest in what is now appearing like a series of mysterious deaths of mathematicians. Although no official information about the means of his death has been forthcoming, so that most people really do not know whether the poor man was murdered or not, popular opinion definitely holds it that he was, and that the series of three murders are closely related and were all committed by the same hand. Visions of a secretly insane mathematician, the crazy look in his wild eyes hidden by his heavy eyelids and typically absent-minded demeanour, are rampant in the
conversations I have heard in the shops and on the streets. The question of whether the arrested man can now be considered as the obvious murderer is discussed openly.

I cannot seem to think about anything else, and after tormenting myself this morning for some time, I resolved that I must take some action at any cost – anything rather than sit passively by in worry and anguish! But what? My very first decision is that from now on, I will write down every single thing that happens in my letters to you; no detail shall be left out, and I shall put down every idea, every notion that passes through my mind, every word I hear. From this point on, these letters shall be more than letters: they shall be documents to be studied, and you shall read them and reread them, Dora, dear, and tell me what you think. Somewhere within all this mass of information the truth
must
be hidden, and we must be able to find it!

Having taken this decision, I felt too impatient to sit still, and noting that it does not exclude direct action, I made up my mind to locate the doctor who attended Mr Crawford at his death, and discover from him if Mr Crawford’s death must necessarily be considered to be a murder or if, after all, there cannot be some other explanation …

I put this plan into action immediately, by betaking myself to the St Andrew’s police station, and enquiring quite directly of the officer behind the counter, what was the name of the doctor who had attended Mr Crawford’s corpse. He was at first reluctant to discuss the grisly event, but I exercised a little charm and persuasion, until he consented to take out and open a heavy file containing the previous
day’s log, and produced the name of a certain Dr Jackson. I then had to discover the address of this doctor at the post office. There were two Doctor Jacksons, but one of them lived extremely near the college where poor Mr Crawford met his end, and would naturally have been called for. So off I went as fast as I could to his office.

Dr Jackson must be quite popular, for his waiting room was already full, and I felt that addressing myself to the Doctor out of my proper turn would probably engender some ill feelings towards me in the breasts of my fellow waiters. In spite of this, as soon as the door to the Doctor’s private office opened, releasing a patient, I jumped to my feet and hastened forwards.

The Doctor put out his head at the same moment that I put mine inside, so that they met with a bump! We looked at each other for a moment in silent amazement – mine, perhaps, even greater than his, for I saw that he was not at all the gentleman that I expected, the one I had briefly conversed with in the courtyard of the college yesterday. Nevertheless, I seized the moment, and said hastily, ‘Doctor, I am not at all ill, but I should only like to have a very brief but very urgent word with you.’

He hesitated, perhaps somewhat annoyed to be interrupted in his routine, or fearful that his waiting patients would be displeased, as indeed they were, witness the murmurs and grumbling directed at my back. However, he only said, ‘Let it not be long then, as you can see that I am extremely busy,’ and beckoning me into his private office, he shut the door.