Read The Three-Body Problem Online
Authors: Catherine Shaw
The Three-Body Problem (6 page)
We arrived at the house at length, and no sooner had we settled ourselves to our charming tea, than who should appear, but Mr Morrison, not alone, but
accompanied by Mr Weatherburn
! My heart pounded in my ears and the
blood rushed to my face, as it was borne in upon me with unmistakable clarity that the dreadful thought I had been avoiding with such concentration for the past three days was precisely this:
that he should be the murderer
. Oh, Dora – the paper, the fatal calculation … nobody knew about it but Mr Weatherburn!
Exactly as the thought rushed uncontrollably into my mind, I became calmer. Just as it was for you with Mr Edwards, thinking it was more healthy than ever pushing the thought back. I remembered that Mr Weatherburn himself had talked about the paper and Mr Akers’ discovery, in front of a whole gathering of guests. Whyever should he have done such a thing, if he had in fact stolen it? Surely he would have kept it buried in silence forever. I felt better, and was able to meet his eyes frankly, and took great relief in his kind and steady brown gaze. I felt rather foolish about my momentary confusion, which must have been visible to everybody, and which could easily be attributed to all kinds of ridiculous causes!
‘Your mother is having several ladies to tea, my dear,’ said Mr Morrison to his niece, ‘and I’m sure we should only get in their way, so if you don’t mind, Weatherburn and I would be delighted to join you here.’
‘Oh, Uncle Charles, Uncle Charles, oh yes, please do!’ cried Emily, jumping up and down with delight, and rushing to add cups and saucers to the tea table.
Never have I enjoyed tea more than I did yesterday. So friendly were the gentlemen, so gay was Emily, and so welcoming was Annabel, that I forgot I was a guest and began
to feel entirely one of the family. So much so, that I even dared to take Mr Morrison aside for a moment, while the others were engaged in some absurd game, and quietly ask him if there had been any progress at all on the case. Perhaps it was a mistake.
‘Good heavens,’ he said startled, ‘are you still thinking about that sad story, Miss Duncan?’
‘Oh, I am so very sorry,’ I began with dismay. ‘It was just because … oh, I don’t know how to say it – I thought that – oh dear, oh dear.’
‘Well, well, out with it!’
‘It’s that paper, Mr Morrison, the one he wrote something on and put in his pocket that evening. I feel quite sure it must be important whether it was found or not.’
‘Well,’ he said rather uncertainly, ‘we can hardly know about that now. All his personal effects were sent away to his only surviving relative, his sister, who has been living in Belgium these last ten years. Do you really believe there could have been a great discovery written down upon that paper, Miss Duncan? After all, he claimed there was a manuscript, and nothing of importance was found in his rooms.’
I perceived that he was still considering the paper as though its importance lay in its contents, whereas for myself, I desired to know whether it had been taken or not by the murderer, for to me, this would signify whether or not the murderer was actually a
mathematician
. As he did not catch my meaning, I tried to hint at it in a delicate manner.
‘Goodness gracious,’ he exclaimed in reply. ‘Heavens alive! Why, you don’t really think someone would have whacked poor old Akers on the head just to steal that little
bit of paper, do you? You really suppose he might have been killed by one of his colleagues, for his idea? How you do go! Why, you’ll be suspecting me next!’
‘Oh no, certainly not you, or Mr Weatherburn,’ I burst out, and although these last words were perfectly true, they had been false so very recently that I felt a deep blush creeping over every visible part of me.
‘Well, well,’ he said hastily, ‘do not worry – the police will surely solve the mystery. They are very good at these things, you know.’
‘How can they?’ I wondered. ‘They can’t have considered the breast-pocket paper important, as they sent it away, assuming it was there at all, and they haven’t any other clues, have they?’
‘The police showed me the list of what he had upon him at his death; they seemed quite annoyed to have to get it out again, saying that some other “amateur” had already been asking to see it. I wonder who that might have been. The list said he had keys, coins, handkerchief, his pocket diary, and all kinds of paper scraps,’ he answered with a shrug, running his hands through his own pockets; ‘exactly what I’ve got in mine. Well, almost,’ he added, pulling out two marbles, a whistle to make bird calls and a piece of pink quartz.
‘Mr Morrison, the murderer must be found,’ I said urgently. ‘Just think – the man who struck down poor Mr Akers is freely walking the streets and smiling, at this very moment!’
The words struck me powerfully even as I said them. I suddenly realised, really realised, that it was true. I had known it before, of course, but I saw that some part of my brain had
refused the knowledge – it had seemed to me that there was
someone
, but merely some unidentified and unidentifiable shadow,
not a real person
. It is a strangely reassuring state, if somewhat in the style of ostriches. It was clearly Mr Morrison’s.
‘Smiling?’ he said, half-jokingly. ‘More likely frowning away, if you really think he pinched that paper and is trying to understand poor old Akers’ scribbling. Why, if you’re right, we really only need wait and see who submits an entry to the Birthday Competition, eh, Miss Duncan? Oh, I’m sorry – it is stupid to joke about it. Please forgive me. Yes, you are right to be so serious, and I am a fool. Please ignore me, you can’t do anything better. Come along and let me pour you a cup of tea!’
It sounded kind and consoling, Dora dear, and I allowed myself to be led away, for what good can come of my brooding upon the murder? I do not want to develop a morbid streak. I tried to put it out of my mind, and the remainder of our teatime passed very joyfully indeed. We played various parlour games, especially charades. At first Mr Morrison told us a wonderful charade due to Mr Lewis Carroll, with whom he is personally acquainted, as I told you. He wrote this one for a family of three little girls.
They both make a roaring, a roaring all night:
They both are a fisherman-father’s delight:
They are both, when in fury, a terrible sight!
The First nurses tenderly three little hulls,
To the lullaby-music of shrill-screaming gulls,
And laughs when they dimple his face with their sculls.
The Second’s a tidyish sort of a lad,
Who behaves pretty well to a man he calls ‘Dad’,
And earns the remark, ‘Well, he isn’t so bad!’
Of the two put together, oh, what shall I say?
’Tis a time when ‘to live’ means the same as ‘to play’:
When the busiest person does nothing all day.
When the grave College Don, full of love
inexpressi-
Ble
,
puts it all by, and is forced to confess he
Can think but of Agnes and Evie and Jessie!
Naturally, we could not guess it at all at first, but upon Mr Morrison’s hinting and helping, we understood that the First is
Sea
and the Second
Son
, so that the whole turns out to be
Season
.
This inspired us to attempt our own creations. To make it simpler, we decided to use only the names of the people present. We wrote out our five names on pieces of paper, put them in a hat, mixed it, and each chose one; then we tried to compose charades about the names we had chosen. It was frightfully difficult, and the results are not so charming as Mr Carroll’s. We read them out nevertheless, and it was not always so easy to guess the answers! Here they are; see if you can discover the solutions.
This is Mr Morrison’s charade:
My first are birds on rooves which take not wing,
That we need not rely on serendipity
My next describes the majesty of a king,
In spite of its peculiar femininity!
My third a lovely colour, soft and buff
A perfect match for wraps of fur and sable,
The sweetest shade for collar, stole and muff.
My fourth is another word for to be able.
My whole before me sits, engaged in writing.
What poem is she weaving round a name?
Mayhap my own is just the one she’s citing!
Her light verse surely will put mine to shame.
My goodness – I’m quite sure I was the only person who knew what he was referring to, with his ‘king’s majesty’! Here is Emily’s charade:
My first is unpredictable and wilful
Because of it we put on hats and coats.
My second can be horribly painful,
It’s also what Ulysses did to the boats.
My whole is someone in this room,
I’m sure you will easily guess whom.
‘Who, dear, not whom,’ murmured Miss Forsyth.
Here is my own humble effort – it isn’t quite accurate, was the general opinion! But I really could not do better.
My first is an appellation of style,
Which often, they say, is as good as a mile.
My second with ‘you’ forms a phrase of great joy
To a child who’s offered a gaily wrapped toy.
My third is a tool used for cutting the hay,
My whole is a person sweet, youthful and gay.
Miss Forsyth claimed that she could absolutely not divide the name she dealt with into syllables that made any sense in English, and had to resort to French, upon which everyone looked at each other with a shadow of dismay, even the two much-educated gentlemen.
Here is Miss Forsyth’s charade, which I copied from her paper.
Ici présent s’avance un gentilhomme
Tiré par sa passion des lointains altiers.
Tel Phoebus, juché sur mon premier,
Il trébuche sur la comique grammaire,
Qui lui conte aussitôt avec son charme austère,
Que mon innocent second bel et bien s’appelle
Dans son bizarre jargon: article défini pluriel!
Ses coursiers trop fougueux jetés dans la carrier
De mon troisième avalent la dernière lettre.
Auraient-ils donc henni, ou bien serait-ce leur maître,
Oublieux de ses profondes rêveries
Qui de mon quatrième goûte la douce folie?
La journée terminée, le cavalier descend
Et s’attable devant un copieux dîner.
Ses chevaux se mettent à table également,
Des sacs de mon cinquième à leurs museaux accrochés.
Alas for the loveliness of her poetry, and her beautiful accent – not one of us was able to understand it, and instead of guessing, we began by compelling her to translate.
‘What jolly French you speak and write,’ said Mr Morrison, ‘how lucky for you.’
‘I spent six years of my youth in a convent in France,’ she explained, blushing slightly.
‘I am sorry the charade is so difficult. I will do my best to explain it. Here is a gentleman drawn forth by his passion for the distant heights – that is a mathematician. Like Phoebus, he rides upon my first – it is a Roman chariot,
char
.’
‘It’s Charles Morrison,’ shouted everybody.
‘Of course,’ said Annabel with a smile. ‘He stumbles over the comical grammar, which immediately tells him, with its austere charm, that my second is known, in its bizarre jargon, as the plural definite article,
les
.
‘His too eager stallions gallop forth and swallow the last letter of my third; it is
mors
, the bit; we say that horses galloping very fast “swallow the bit”.
‘Did they neigh, or was it their master, who, forgetting his deep reveries, tastes the sweet madness of my fourth; it is “laughed”,
ri
.
‘At the end of the day, the horseman descends, and seats himself in front of a copious dinner. His horses also set to eating, each with a bag of my fifth on its muzzle. It is bran,
son
.’
We all felt that our efforts paled in comparison with the sophistication of hers!
Mr Weatherburn’s effort came last. He said he found it too difficult to write a charade, and offered us the following
double acrostic instead, in which not only the first letter of each line must be read vertically, but also the first letter of the last word of each line.
Ode to a perfect moment
Each precious moment of gravity or Jest,
Mingles the twinkling lights in Opalescence
In her dark eyes. Too soon, this charming Nest,
Like everything, will fade in Evanescence.
Yes, precious moments never Stay.
Brief is the moment – soon, with measured Tread,
Unconscious future will the present O’ertake.
Reality will realise hope or Dread,
Keen is the pain of the dreamer who must Awake.
Each time, today is Yesterday.
He wrote it for Emily, yet he looked much at me as he read it.
I feel more than unusually tired after such an eventful evening and such a long letter, and shall put out my candles and retire for the night.
Goodnight, my dearest twin
Your loving Vanessa
My dearest sister,
How I wish I could have spent Easter Sunday with you,
at home! I did not teach for two days after it, and spent the short holiday delightfully, rambling about in the fields and along the rivers. The great banks of daffodils have been in bloom for some time now, and the primroses and wild flowers of all kinds are making their appearance. The fields are emerald, and the hedgerows covered with a faint fuzz which will soon be a mass of tiny blooms. The weather is cool and damp, yet carries such freshness within it that the call of springtime is irresistible.
