Read The Three-Body Problem Online
Authors: Catherine Shaw
The Three-Body Problem (14 page)
Oh, Dora – even the jury smiled sometimes during this deposition! When Mr Morrison came back to the witnesses’ bench, I could have kissed him! I found it inside me, for the first time, to forgive him for having been convinced of Arthur’s guilt in the first days. If only things continue this way, then Mr Bexheath’s horrible arguments will all fall apart. Oh, if only it could happen so!
Your very own, somewhat more optimistic
Vanessa
My dearest Dora,
Some days ago, I met poor Mrs Beddoes in a shop, and
she stopped to speak to me. She seemed pleased to see me, if one can use the word pleased of someone who seems inexorably separated from the outer world by a barrier of inner mourning. We spoke for a moment, and she asked after Rose and Emily, and invited me to bring them to tea; she told me that the silence of her lonely house was full of sorrow, and I felt that she would like to chase it away, however briefly, with the voices of children.
Today, I had no lessons, and felt reluctant to remain alone, and I do not know exactly what faint feelings drew me towards her; I felt the need to talk to her, because she was placed so near the centre of my troubles. I went to see her, therefore, this morning, and she welcomed me with pleasure – no; again, the word is not applicable, but she said that it would
give
her great pleasure to have Emily and Rose for tea, and spend a moment in the company of their adorable pink cheeks and gaiety. I then called on the girls’ mothers and obtained their permission, and at four o’clock this afternoon, the three of us made our way together through the garden gate and up the pretty path, half-smothered in flowers, where poor Mr Beddoes met his death less than two weeks ago.
When Mrs Beddoes perceived our approach, her sad and rather tired face lit up with a kind smile. She (or her cook) had prepared sundry scones, sandwiches and cakes, of which we partook with a distressing lack of moderation. The little girls then went to romp outside in the garden back of the house, which runs long, rich and green down to the fence behind. They soon discovered the tiny wooden shed which
Mr Beddoes had built at the end of it to lodge his cats, as Mrs Beddoes could not bear them in the house. She smiled as she saw the girls, through the glass door, chasing and playing with the animals, of which I made out at least six.
‘The little kittens have grown now, they dearly love a romp,’ she said. ‘We meant to give them away; my husband had already written out a list with their descriptions.’ She showed me the neatly printed little list, in which each kitten was identified by a fanciful name, together with its colour and description.
‘Now I feel that I should keep each and every one of them,’ she went on, ‘they may have been the last thing which gave my husband joy before his death. I cannot really abide them, but they do not need much care; I simply put food out for them. Mr Beddoes used to visit those kittens several times a day, when they were tiny things still in their basket.’
She wanted to talk a great deal about Mr Beddoes, and I wanted nothing else, hoping against hope to learn something, anything at all that could help some new understanding develop in my mind. The house was so fresh and pretty, the garden so blooming, and she herself so kind and welcoming – yet, behind the scene lay the pale echoes of other images; a dark night, a creeping, hiding person, a dead man lying across the path, a widow weeping alone.
‘Everyone perceived my husband as a gentle and accommodating man,’ she told me. ‘And indeed, he was; he did not like disputes of any kind. Yet his feelings and opinions were strong, although he was very private about them. I believe no one really knew how much he thought
about most things, to hear how casually he mentioned them. And although he was friendly with everyone, he did not have many real friends.’
‘Who were his closest friends?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he talked most often about Mr Crawford,’ she smiled. ‘They were really a pair, those two – so very different from each other! You saw Mr Crawford – he was so very loud and strong-minded! Their friendship was all full of ups and downs on account of it. Philip always avoided quarrels – he used to say that they were no way to solve any problem of any kind. But as Mr Crawford did not avoid them, they did occasionally happen; Mr Crawford would shout, and Philip would come home most annoyed. It happened just a month or two ago. He visited Mr Crawford, and something must have come up between them, for he came home and told me they’d had a most disappointing discussion, and Crawford was furious on account of it. Philip was not pleased himself, by any means, but it was not his way to quarrel. He would ruminate alone, and see how to obtain what he wanted by his own means.’
‘Did they make up their quarrel afterwards?’
‘Oh yes, they did. We saw Mr Crawford at the garden party after Professor Cayley’s lecture, do you remember? And he behaved as though nothing was amiss. Philip was happy enough to let it go at that. They always did make up their quarrels sooner or later.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ I said. ‘Mr Crawford suddenly greeted Mr Beddoes, and even said that he wanted to dine with him soon, and Mr Beddoes seemed quite surprised.’
‘Yes, he was, for Mr Crawford had quite a temper. I never could take to him really. Yet he and Philip had something in common, I know, though we rarely spoke of it. Their profession is a difficult one, my dear. You cannot imagine what it is to live for so many years among mathematicians. It seems as though the striving and disappointment and frustration which must naturally accompany any kind of scientific research must constantly struggle within them, against the joy and elation of discovery. Mr Crawford was a bitter man, really. He was truly brilliant, I believe; at least Philip often said so, but because he made one or two serious errors in the last decades, publishing results which turned out to be flawed, he lost some of the consideration of his colleagues, and he felt that his true worth was unjustly unrecognised. It seemed to me sometimes that he blamed the whole world for it, he was so very aggressive. My husband was also bitter at moments, though not for the same reason. He admired the ideas of others, but his estimation of his own work was a permanent disappointment to him; he often felt that something great had come nearly within his grasp, and he had let it escape. I believe this perpetual resentment and bitterness is the curse of many mathematicians; certainly Philip worked and sought and studied as hard as any.’
Her eyes filled with tears as the memory of her loss arose in her, and she changed the subject suddenly. ‘Let us go out in the garden,’ she said. ‘My husband always used to walk about in it while he was working. And he had been working so very hard these last months, upstairs in his little office;
there were days when he seemed absolutely delighted, and others which were rather terrible. All of the mathematical papers he left upstairs have been sorted and studied by his colleagues and students; several of them came here, and they looked at everything so carefully, and did a lovely job. It can’t have been very difficult; Philip’s handwriting was as clear as print.’
We went out, and joined the girls, who were playing with the kittens, and dancing about with twinkling eyes.
‘We cleaned out the kitties’ house!’ they told us proudly. I bent my head to peer inside the little wooden structure, which Mr Beddoes had built with his own hands for his beloved cats, and admired how the girls had swept it out with a branch and shaken out and plumped up the colourful quilted morsels which cosily lined each basket.
‘Thank you so much, my dears,’ Mrs Beddoes told them. ‘I should do it myself now and then, but the cats do so make my eyes water! Perhaps you will come again some day and do it for me.’
She bid us goodbye kindly, and we went on our way, the girls discussing cats and giggling violently over some shared secret, and I walking along absently, my mind on the quarrel between Mr Beddoes and Mr Crawford, which had taken place ‘some days’ before the garden party of the 23rd of April. What could it have been about, I wonder? I am sure it is a clue.
I must ponder it all in solitude,
Your loving Vanessa
Dear Dora,
The third day of the trial has begun. It appears less favourable than yesterday, and yet I still find that Mr Bexheath is not succeeding in providing anything like a proof of his case that eliminates the Mr Crawford theory, in spite of all his leading questions and the answers he elicits. On the other hand, although Mr Haversham makes some progress in spoiling the coherent impression that Mr Bexheath would like to give, he makes very little in eliciting any useful positive information in support of the alternative theory … and nothing at all
which could help us to determine whether or not it is true
. Yet it must be true. For what else, what else is possible?
The first witness called this morning by the prosecution was Mrs Wiggins.
The witness was sworn in by the court clerk.
Mr Bexheath:
Please give your name, age and occupation.
Mrs Wiggins:
Alice Wiggins, fifty-one, charlady of St John’s College.
Mr Bexheath:
Were you responsible, until his death, for cleaning the rooms in college of Mr Geoffrey Akers?
Mrs Wiggins:
Yes, I was, less luck to me.
Mr Bexheath:
Can you describe the situation of Mr Akers’ rooms?
Mrs Wiggins:
They was up one flight of stairs from the base of the north-east tower.
Mr Bexheath:
Was anyone living below, or on the same level as Mr Akers?
Mrs Wiggins:
No, the other rooms are above.
Mr Bexheath:
Can you tell me if Mr Akers ever received visitors in his rooms?
Mrs Wiggins:
I believe ’e never did. At least they left no trace. ’E was a very unsociable man.
Mr Bexheath:
Did you never see the prisoner in or about Mr Akers’ rooms?
Mrs Wiggins:
No, thank God, I never.
Mr Bexheath:
Can you describe the general state of Mr Akers’ rooms?
Mrs Wiggins:
’E was a dirty man, sir. I cleaned good and regular, but he dirtied it all up just as fast. Papers everywhere, all mixed up, and he angry if I so much as touched any. Cigar ash, ’e was a one for smoking, and dropped the ash down just anywhere. Food and drink left about. ’E was a man of irregular ’abits. But visits and friends ’e did not ’ave.
Mr Bexheath:
Now, Mrs Wiggins, one of the main questions I have for you is this. Can you describe any changes that you noticed in Mr Akers’ rooms, between the time that you last cleared up there, on the 14th of last February, and the following day, when you were called into his rooms by the police?
Mrs Wiggins:
Well, as I’ve already told you, sir, there was a mess that was not there when I left the previous day. The papers was all messed about, and the drawers in the study open.
Mr Bexheath:
The room appeared to have been searched?
Mrs Wiggins:
Well, it might have been Mr Akers messing about, looking for something ’isself. If ’e did that, ’e would leave the drawers open as well. That’d be typical. ’E would never think of closing a drawer to save an elderly woman’s back.
Mr Bexheath:
Yes, of course. But somebody searched the room, whether Mr Akers himself, or the person who lay in wait for him in his rooms.
Mrs Wiggins:
Or somebody else.
Mr Bexheath:
Quite. Did Mr Akers frequently dine out?
Mrs Wiggins:
’E may have dined in college, or out, but certainly not in ’is rooms. Didn’t fancy ’isself as a cook, I’d say; I wouldn’t ’ave either.
Mr Bexheath:
Did he ever spend a night away from home?
Mrs Wiggins:
Not that I know. ’Is bed was always undone and a right mess every morning. Sundays I wouldn’t know.
Mr Bexheath:
Thank you. Now let us pass to another subject, namely the rooms of Mr Crawford, in the same college. Can you describe them?
Mrs Wiggins:
They weren’t nigh so bad as Mr Akers’. Mr Crawford was a big, rough man but ’e ’ad a good ’eart. ’E’d pass the time o’ day with me, like as not, when ’e was in. Mr Akers never.
Mr Bexheath:
Did Mr Crawford occasionally receive visitors?
Mrs Wiggins:
Yes, sometimes.
Mr Bexheath:
Frequently? For meals?
Mrs Wiggins:
No, not for meals, but for drinks now and then. Not too often, I’d say. Maybe every couple o’ months or so ’e’d have some friends by.
Mr Bexheath:
Did you see them?
Mrs Wiggins:
No, they’d come after I was done. I did ’is rooms in the morning. But they’d leave glasses and things about for me to wash up the next day.
Mr Bexheath:
So you have no idea who Mr Crawford’s occasional visitors might have been.
Mrs Wiggins:
No, I don’t.
Mr Bexheath:
How many came at one time?
Mrs Wiggins:
Oh, just a couple, one or two. Mr Crawford didn’t ’ave no grand parties in ’is rooms!
Mr Bexheath:
Can you remember any time when Mr Crawford received visitors who drank whisky?
Mrs Wiggins:
It’s been some time, but there was some, because the bottle was out and the glasses and all, and it smelt whisky that strong I had to air out the rooms.
Mr Bexheath:
When was that?
Mrs Wiggins:
That was months ago.
Mr Bexheath:
How many months?
Mrs Wiggins:
Oh, three or four. Yes, that’d have been back in February, that would have been. Round about the murder of Mr Akers, it was.
Mr Bexheath:
Before or after his murder?
Mrs Wiggins:
I don’t rightly remember, but I think it must have been just before, because I was cleaning up and I hadn’t got any thoughts about Mr Akers in my head right then, as seems natural I would have had, if I’d heard about him already.
Mr Bexheath:
What did you do with the whisky bottle that day?
Mrs Wiggins:
I put it back on the shelf; it was still
near half-full. Then I washed out the glasses.
Mr Bexheath:
Did Mr Crawford generally have a bottle of whisky about his rooms?
Mrs Wiggins:
There was always a bottle o’ whisky on Mr Crawford’s shelf, along with other bottles. ’E was a one for a drink.
Mr Bexheath:
Did you ever notice if the bottle of whisky on the shelf was full or empty?
Mrs Wiggins:
No, I never paid attention, just flicked my duster and went on. It might ’ave been the same bottle or changed twenty times as he drank it down, I never noticed.
Mr Bexheath:
All right. Now, Mrs Wiggins, can you remember any other specific times that Mr Crawford received visitors?
Mrs Wiggins:
Not specific. O’ course, there may have been visitors any time who didn’t drink. Last month some time, there was someone for certain.
Mr Bexheath:
Someone? One person visited Mr Crawford?
Mrs Wiggins:
Yes, I remember that.
Mr Bexheath:
You cannot recall when?
Mrs Wiggins:
No; it was more than a month ago, though.
Mr Bexheath:
But less than two months ago?
Mrs Wiggins:
Oh yes, it’d have been right around the middle of April.
Mr Bexheath:
And how do you know there was a single visitor?
Mrs Wiggins:
Well, I remember washing up two glasses, and putting away the bottle.
Mr Bexheath:
Oh, so they drank whisky?
Mrs Wiggins:
No, it was red wine.
Mr Bexheath:
I see. Red wine, indeed. You remember that.
Mrs Wiggins:
Oh yes, I aired, because it smelt. Mr Crawford don’t – didn’t, poor gentleman – open his windows much. It was always easy to say what ’e’d been a-drinking of.
Mr Bexheath:
Thank you, Mrs Wiggins.
Mr Haversham:
When you said there was a single visitor to Mr Crawford’s rooms some time in the last month or two, do you have any idea whom it might have been?
Mrs Wiggins:
No sir, except it was someone who drank red wine.
Mr Haversham:
Do you know what time of day that person visited Mr Crawford?
Mrs Wiggins:
No sir, except it was not in the morning when I was there.
Mr Haversham:
I see. So someone who can be identified exactly by the two facts of his being acquainted with Mr Crawford, and his accepting a glass of red wine, visited Mr Crawford sometime, on an unknown day, at an unknown hour. Do you think we can draw any conclusion from this?
Mrs Wiggins:
No sir.
Mr Haversham:
The mysterious visitor could have been Mr Beddoes as easily as it could have been Mr Weatherburn, or some other person.
Mrs Wiggins:
For aught I know, sir.
Mr Haversham:
Thank you. You may stand down.
Mr Justice Penrose:
Have the police made an effort to trace this person?
Mr Haversham:
Yes, my Lord, without success. His visit was not witnessed by anyone on Mr Crawford’s stair.
