The Three-Body Problem (19 page)
Read The Three-Body Problem Online
Authors: Catherine Shaw
Then Mr Bexheath called Miss Jenny Pease to the stand. She was a buxom lady, quite a bit older than Miss Simpson, and not so garish, but equally sure of herself. She was sworn in by the Clerk, and her direct examination began.
Mr Bexheath:
What is your name?
Miss Pease:
Jenny Pease, sir.
Mr Bexheath:
Please state your profession.
Miss Pease:
I have a little restaurant nearby King’s Cross, sir, down in London.
Mr Bexheath:
You are acquainted with Miss Pamela Simpson?
Miss Pease:
Oh yes.
Mr Bexheath:
For how long have you known her?
Miss Pease:
Oh, she comes to the restaurant regular, sir, been coming for the last couple of years, or thereabouts.
Mr Bexheath:
Does she come alone?
Miss Pease:
Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends.
Mr Bexheath:
Do you clearly remember whether Miss Simpson came to eat in your restaurant on the 14th of February last?
Miss Pease:
Yes, sir.
Mr Bexheath:
She did come?
Miss Pease:
Yes, sir.
Mr Bexheath:
Did she come alone?
Miss Pease:
No, sir. She came accompanied by a gentleman friend, Mr Crawford.
Mr Bexheath:
You were previously acquainted with Mr Crawford?
Miss Pease:
Oh, yes, sir. He and Pam had come to the restaurant any number of times already, before then.
Mr Bexheath:
Now, Miss Pease, can you tell me how you can be absolutely certain that the day Miss Simpson and Mr Crawford had dinner in your restaurant was precisely the 14th of February, and no other day?
Miss Pease:
Oh, I remember well enough. We joked back and forth about its being Saint Valentine’s
day, like, and so Mr Crawford must be Pam’s real sweetheart. Also, it was a Tuesday, that’s my mutton chop day, and they had it.
Mr Bexheath:
Your mutton chop day?
Miss Pease:
The dish of the day, sir. There’s one for every day of the week: Monday liver, Tuesday mutton chop, Wednesday T-bone, Thursday fowl, Friday fish …
Mr Bexheath:
Yes, yes, Miss Pease, we understand. And the order of the dish of the day never varies? It is the same from week to week?
Miss Pease:
Has been for years. The regulars likes things regular, if you know what I mean, sir. They likes to know what to expect.
Mr Bexheath:
Of course. Well, this concludes my examination.
Mr Haversham:
Now, Miss Pease, I have heard your testimony, and there is really only one thing in it I would like to ask you about.
Miss Pease:
What’s that, then?
Mr Haversham:
Your memory. You claim that you remember the exact day upon which Miss Simpson and Mr Crawford came to your restaurant, three and a half months ago.
Miss Pease:
Well, I do, then.
Mr Haversham:
May I conclude that you remember every day that every single one of your clients came to the restaurant?
Miss Pease:
No. But I’m specially friends with Pam.
Mr Haversham:
Oh, I see. So then, you are simply able to remember each and every day upon which Miss Simpson came to dine in the restaurant, and whom she was with each time. Could you please give me a complete list of those dates, going back over the last four months?
Miss Pease:
No, you know right well I can’t do anything of the kind!
Mr Haversham:
Oh, really? No, I am quite surprised. So, after all, your memory of Miss Simpson’s various visits is not so perfectly clear.
Miss Pease:
Not every one of her visits, but the one on the February 14th is pretty clear.
Mr Haversham:
Pretty clear? But not completely clear?
Miss Pease:
Well, it’s completely clear that she was there, and that she was with Mr Crawford, that I already was acquainted with, and that they ate mutton chops and we chaffed about Saint Valentine’s day. Those things are clear.
Mr Haversham:
Miss Pease, may I ask you who first questioned you about this important date of February 14th, and then brought you to this court?
Miss Pease:
It was police, sir. What with Pam seeing that her friend Mr Crawford had died, she was talking to her friends and all about how she knew him, and it got to police, and they came and questioned her about these two dates: February 14th and April 30th. Pam didn’t know anything about April 30th; she hadn’t seen anything of Mr Crawford on that day. But she remembered about being with him on February 14th, and remembered about coming to the restaurant that day. So then they came to ask me about it.
Mr Haversham:
And how did they ask you about it? Was the date of February 14th suggested to you? Or were you asked to recall it yourself?
Miss Pease:
They reminded me back in February, and said had I seen Miss Simpson and her Mr Crawford, and I really couldn’t bring it to mind at first, as I sees her so often. Then they had us together, and she reminded me about Saint Valentine’s day, and I remembered.
Mr Haversham:
I see. That is very helpful. They reminded you about what to remember, and then you remembered it.
Miss Pease:
I see what you’re saying, sir, but it isn’t
that way. I really remembered it, they just jogged my memory, like.
Mr Haversham:
Very well, they jogged your memory, and then you remembered the date of February 14th which previously you had not remembered. You may stand down.
Mr Haversham certainly tried everything he could to shed doubt upon the testimony of these two ladies, but I am afraid he did not succeed in convincing the jury. I must admit frankly that he did not even succeed in convincing me; the ladies’ statements really did ring simple and true. They may have been bribed or threatened or simply cajoled into inventing the story, but the police themselves would have no reason to do it … it would have to be the true murderer himself.
But why should he care
whether Arthur or Mr Crawford was convicted for his own crimes –
OH
– unless … oh! What if Arthur himself was the intended next victim, and this is the murderer’s cunning way of disposing of him? What a horrible idea! But … it means that if Miss Simpson and Miss Pease are not telling the truth, then they must know who the murderer is. I
must
try to meet them. Perhaps, after lessons, I could catch a train to London and eat at Jenny’s Corner.
I have done it. The two ladies were sent back to London by train, as Miss Pease was very anxious about her restaurant being locked up unexpectedly even for a single evening. I
myself hastened home to teach my little class – how difficult it is becoming, now that my mind is so dreadfully elsewhere! The moment the last little pupil had disappeared around the corner, I put on my hat, snatched up a bag, put all my available money into it, and rushed to the railway station, where I purchased a ticket to London and found myself quite soon swept off by a rattling locomotive. It was not so difficult, really; I just did the same as the day we all went to the theatre. When the train pulled into London, I got out, and addressing the driver of a hansom waiting in the road, I asked him if he knew of a restaurant called Jenny’s Corner in the neighbourhood. He did not, but by dint of wandering about the streets and asking continually, I eventually discovered it. It was dinner time, and the restaurant was already quite full. It is a small, dingy hole, rather dirty, with little tables set close together, but it was warmly lit nonetheless, and the buxom Miss Pease with her apron, emerging frequently from her kitchen to banter with the customers, and aided by a scrap of a girl taken in off the streets, by the look of her, lent a welcoming atmosphere to the whole.
I was quite out of place in the restaurant, my dear; I was most unlike anybody else there, and felt that they looked at me with some hostility. However, I entered, and the scrap of a girl showed me to a tiny corner table. There was no menu; she simply stopped in front of me and breathlessly recited a list of dishes, ending with ‘dish-of-the-day’s-fish-mum, if you please, a nice baked haddock it is’. I said I would have baked haddock please, and could I speak with Miss Pease.
The girl went into the kitchen through the swinging
baize door, and came out carrying plates and mugs. She was followed by Miss Pease, who looked suspiciously over at me. She stared for a moment, and then her face broke into a smile.
‘Oh, I recognise you,’ she said. ‘You was at the trial this morning, up on the witness bench, along of us.’
‘Yes, I was,’ I told her. ‘I have come to see you because of the trial.’ My voice became unsteady, and Miss Pease waxed motherly.
‘P’raps you’d better come in here and talk private for a moment,’ she said. I got up and followed her into the fuming kitchen, and from there, into a small, cluttered back room.
‘Miss Pease,’ I said, ‘I’m a friend of Arthur Weatherburn, the man accused of murdering Mr Crawford and the others.’
I meant to go on, but suddenly and quite unexpectedly, I burst into tears. In a moment I found myself pillowed on Miss Pease’s ample breast. She put her arms around me, and said,
‘Dear, dear, it must be very hard for you.’
‘Yes,’ I sobbed. ‘Oh, Miss Pease, he didn’t do it!’
‘Well, poor Mr Crawford ain’t done it either, seems now, so then I don’t know who it might have been,’ she said.
‘I came to ask you about that,’ I told her, suddenly feeling that perfect directness was possible with this kindly soul. ‘I wanted to know if it was true, what you said. I mean, really true – do you really remember all that? Or was it just the police or somebody else wanting you to say it, so as to incriminate Arthur?’ And the tears began again, harder than ever.
‘La, la,’ she said, patting me on the back. ‘I’m so sorry,
dear. I do wish I could help you. It’s a nasty situation you’re in, isn’t it? I truly wish I could tell you that I don’t remember really about that poor dead Mr Crawford, and that mayhap he was the murderer after all, and not your young man. But it can’t be done. They was really here that night, the two of them. I know it well as can be, what with the mutton chops that was his favourite dish, and the Saint Valentine jokes about sweethearts and all. There ain’t no doubt about it, dear. It came back to me when Pam reminded me, and that’s how it happened, that’s all. Now, now, don’t take on so, dear. If your young man’s innocent, why they’ll acquit him, won’t they? Now, you take this handkerchief, and sit down, and have your bit of fish.’ And I did, and then a comforting cup of tea, before which I sit as I write to you.
Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I can no more bring myself to believe that this kind and sincere woman is lying than that Arthur is the murderer. What
shall
I do?
Your miserable
Vanessa
My dearest Dora,
Last night, upon returning from my sad little dinner at Jenny’s Corner, I had a terrifying experience.
I was walking back to the station, to return home. My mind was filled with the disaster which has befallen Arthur, and the devastating kindliness of Miss Pease. I could not conclude anything other than that she and her friend Miss
Simpson had told the truth, the simple truth,
and this means the murderer is still at large.
Who can it be, Dora?? More strongly than ever, the thought was borne in upon me
that the murderer exists in flesh and blood.
I had felt that same feeling in the first days when I went to visit Arthur in prison, but afterwards, I believe I had convinced myself so completely that Mr Crawford must be the murderer, that I quite forgot my original fears. They began to return in force, as I ran over the familiar faces of Arthur’s many colleagues whom I had met over the last months. One of them must be secretly mad. Who was it? Where was he now? What was he planning, presently, at this very minute? Who would be the next victim? Was he trying to systematically eliminate the entire group of mathematicians associated to Mr Akers and Mr Crawford? Arthur was undoubtedly one of them. I could not help feeling that even if a condemnation awaited Arthur, at least while the trial lasted, he was safely in prison, where the murderer could not get at him.
But is not the murderer afraid, Dora? Does he not feel his entrails burn with fear and guilt as the trial takes its daily course? Does he follow it?
Is he sitting in the courtroom, day after day?
I felt my hair rise upon the back of my head, and at the same moment, I became aware that I was being quietly followed, down a dark and empty street.
My heart pounded wildly, as I forced myself to continue on steadily towards the corner, where a dim glow showed me that the perpendicular street was gaslit. I dared not turn and look at my pursuer, nor quicken my pace to alarm or attract him. I tried to tell myself that it was simply another
quiet foot passenger, like myself, walking along innocently on business of his own. Or even an ordinary footpad, pickpocket, thief, attacker of any kind – anyone at all –
but not the Cambridge murderer
! Of course, that could not be. Why should he have followed me here?
The more I walked, the more I felt that if I should suddenly turn around, I would see a familiar face, and if so, I would
know
. Yet I was too afraid. I decided to do it exactly when I had very nearly reached the street corner. I fixed my eyes upon the point I meant to arrive at when I should suddenly whip around, and advanced steadily towards it.
