The Three-Body Problem (9 page)

He told us that an anti-Euclid association was being founded, and mentioned the many objections that it had brought up against the use of Euclid for students, sternly refuting each one. The texts were archaic in appearance? –
they could and should be edited in a modern edition. Their dry reasoning was too difficult for students to master other than by parrot-learning? – good! By memorisation they trained their minds to be familiar with the strategies of geometric proof. They ill prepared the students for the study of Modern Geometry? – false! No student who had not completely mastered the
Elements
should even be allowed to approach the temple of modern mathematics. And on it went, at great length.

After the lecture, we issued outdoors, where long tables had been set up. From the conversations I heard all about me, I realised that Professor Cayley appeared to be rather isolated in his views. Everywhere, I heard Euclid decried and modern texts praised. I ended by feeling quite sorry for poor Euclid, and determining to obtain one of his tomes at all costs and attempt the study of it.

At first, looking about the gardens, I did not espy a single familiar face. However, after some time, I saw someone signalling to me kindly, and recognised Mrs Beddoes, who had also been a guest at Mrs Burke-Jones’s dinner party. I joined her, and she led me to a shady spot underneath a spreading, low-branched tree, where her circle of friends had gathered. All those whom I remembered from the party were there, and several whom I did not know. Mrs Beddoes introduced me to some of them.

‘You remember Mr Young, Mr Wentworth, Miss Chisholm, and my husband, of course,’ she said. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs MacFarlane, Mr Withers and Professor Crawford. This is Miss Duncan. She teaches Mr Morrison’s little niece.’

Mr MacFarlane and Mr Withers, the latter an amusing, undersized but aggressive little figure, were bent over a piece of paper, writing something, and hardly nodded to me.

Mr Crawford was a robust, tall and heavy gentleman with a loud, ringing voice. ‘So you teach,’ he said to me, ‘and have you a particular interest in the teaching of mathematics?’

‘I do teach mathematics, or at least arithmetic, to the children in my class,’ I told him, ‘but as far as Professor Cayley’s lecture is concerned, it is for my own instruction and improvement only. I was not thinking of introducing Euclid to my students.’

‘I should hope not, indeed,’ he bellowed, ‘nor to any students! Faugh! Cayley’s ideas are ridiculously backwards. He should leave all notions of teaching to others.’

‘There is truth to that,’ intervened Miss Chisholm. ‘There is something stifling about Professor Cayley’s teaching – he sits like a figure of Buddha upon a pedestal, and one feels that a breath of fresh air would be desperately welcome.’

At that moment Mr Beddoes appeared, carrying a cup and saucer, and joined the group.

‘Ah, here’s Beddoes!’ cried Mr Crawford, in such stentorian tones that all heads nearby turned in his direction, and a few more people approached to join the group. ‘Well, Beddoes, how have you been? I haven’t seen you for a week.’

‘Quite well, quite well,’ said Mr Beddoes, seeming rather surprised, almost taken aback, no doubt at being thus accosted with almost violent friendliness.

‘Now, Beddoes, we’re having a debate on Euclid, here –
you’re a member of the old-fashioned school, of course!’ interjected Mr Withers, a little snappishly.

‘Well, I do support the teaching of Euclid, yes,’ began Mr Beddoes.

‘I don’t see how any progress is to be made, as long as such people continue to hold teaching responsibilities in our Universities,’ exclaimed Mr Withers, turning to Mr Crawford. ‘I’d like to know more about that anti-Euclid society which irked Cayley so much. I’d join it!’

Although his views appeared to correspond with Mr Crawford’s, the latter did not welcome these remarks with any particular ardour. He considered Mr Withers with some disdain, and said rather loudly, ‘Before you criticise the teaching methods of better men than yourself, you’d do well to master the mathematics they aim to communicate!’

Mr Withers responded to this provoking remark with a faint ‘Ha, ha.’

But the words attracted the attention of Mr Wentworth, who had been listening silently. ‘Now just a moment,’ he cried energetically. ‘Just what are you implying?’

‘I’m implying no more than this: those who take decisions and argue the value of teaching methods of mathematics had better be those who master the subject – otherwise the whole university structure may just as well collapse!’ answered Mr Crawford belligerently.

‘And how many people, according to you, might belong to this select group?’

‘Precious few!’

Although answering Mr Wentworth, Mr Crawford
continued to address himself directly to Mr Withers, who became somewhat yellow with annoyance, and hastened off in the direction of the refreshments table.

‘Well,’ intervened Mr MacFarlane hastily, in a soothing tone, ‘few there may be, but I suppose you do at least agree that our most illustrious professors belong to the group?’

‘Stagnation, stagnation, that’s the whole problem of it!’ answered Mr Crawford resentfully. ‘Yes, of course I don’t deny the fantastic talent of a man like Cayley. But it’s not enough! You’ve got to have the mastery and the originality and then something else, perhaps even more important than those – you’ve got to have an open mind and welcome new ideas and progress! That’s what’s missing here in our university. Original minds are held back, unrecognised, stifled by the powers that be!’

These words were greeted by shouts of opposition from those standing about, which soon led to a full-fledged and very lively debate. So much noise was made that I began to wonder what line exactly divides a debate from a quarrel, and whether ‘your imbecilic preferences’ and ‘that sort of incompetent opinion’ could not constitute serious causes of umbrage.

Mrs Beddoes noted my surprise, and murmured to me in an undertone, ‘They’re always like that, dear, pay no attention. Mathematicians are always so terribly excited about whatever they are doing! Especially Mr Crawford – he’s begun on his favourite theme now. I suppose one has to be a woman, observing it all from the outside, to see how obvious it is that he is really only ever speaking, in veiled terms, of himself and his own resentment at not being
sufficiently adulated and rewarded within his community.’

And she distanced herself a little from the group and began to talk with Emily and Rose, and ask them questions about themselves, until soon they were engaged in telling her all the details of their lives.

‘What lovely children,’ she said a little sadly, turning to me. ‘I used to long to have little girls like these, when I was younger, but the time is long past now. Do you think your mothers would allow me to ask you to tea in my house, dears? It would be a great pleasure for me, and perhaps also for you, as my husband has three cats, and one of them has just had kittens. I do not think so very highly of cats myself, and really cannot have them in the house, as they make my eyes water; I find it difficult to go near them. But they are the apple of my husband’s eye!’

‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, please!’ they chorused. ‘We will ask our mothers, and promise to come very soon!’

‘It’s time to proceed to a new era,’ Mr Crawford was meanwhile still shouting. ‘No more geometry, no more algebra – mathematical physics is the new force in Cambridge! Why, we’ve had Maxwell, we’ve had Airy, we have Stokes – what’s all this geometry and algebra! Quaternions – imaginary numbers – hah! Give me truth, give me reality, give me the solar system!’

‘Now, now, Crawford,’ intervened Mr Beddoes quickly, ‘there’s no need to bring in the solar system, we’re talking about Euclid.’

‘Hah! I suppose you’re right. Well, I’ll be off then,’ said Mr Crawford, changing his tone suddenly, and turning on
his heel, as though to dismiss the whole foolish topic. He turned away, and then abruptly turned back. ‘I need to see you, actually, Beddoes,’ he said. ‘What say we dine together one of these days? I’ll let you know shortly.’

‘Why – yes, certainly,’ said Mr Beddoes, somewhat taken aback by this welcoming invitation proffered in a tone of barking severity.

Mr Crawford departed, and I followed his cue, bid goodbye to the company, and went to capture my two protégées, who were gambolling on the lawn, and making occasional forays to the tea table.

‘I do believe it is time to walk you home,’ I told them. They ran about and refused to join me for some little time, enjoying themselves tremendously, but as they saw the company straggling away and the tea-things being collected, they came up to me all twinkling and rosy.

‘Well, let us go home, then,’ said Emily. ‘Can we walk Rose home first, Miss Duncan? You have never seen her house, it is really very pretty. Rose has a room of her own, and she has ever so many funny things in it. Perhaps she’ll play something for you, Miss Duncan, won’t you, Rose? Please?’

‘Ho,’ said Rose with her tiny nose in the air, ‘I don’t feel like it today! I ate too much. Maybe another time, I’ll play something … some Bach, some Haydn, maybe something by Mr Johannes Brahms – we’ve just received his new sonata. Do-faaaa-la-sooool-re-doooo-si-sooool …’

And the little elf insisted on being left at her own front door.

‘She plays the
violoncello
, Miss Duncan,’ Emily told me as we continued on towards her own house. ‘Isn’t it strange?
I don’t know any girls who play anything except piano. It’s ever such a big instrument – that’s why she always has such wonderful big skirts, to go round it!’

‘Oh, that explains the style,’ I smiled. ‘I remember how my sister and I used to beg our mother to make ours that way, too. It wasn’t for music, though – it was because we used to run about outside, and jump on the ponies and ride them about the fields!’

‘Ride them? But didn’t you ride side-saddle?’ exclaimed the well-brought up child.

‘My dear, we had no saddles at all,’ I laughingly undeceived her. ‘I used to be able to ride nearly anything, but I have very little experience of side-saddles – perhaps I should fall off!’

‘Oh,
do
let us go riding together someday, Miss Duncan, when it’s warmer,’ she invited me eagerly as I deposited her upon her doorstep.

It is a tempting idea; I should love to canter along between the hedgerows and pluck the blossoms from the trees in passing, as we used to. But dear me – I do hope I shan’t make a spectacle of myself among the other ladies, who unlike me, are probably all experts in the art of moving forwards with the whole lower half of their body perched sideways! The civilised have strange habits, do they not?

Your Vanessa

Oh, Dora, the most dreadful thing has happened – I hardly know how to write about it! Yet I can think of nothing else,
and although it is painful and repugnant to me to write to you about such horrors, even less could I ramble on about ordinary things as though nothing was amiss.

In a word – another mathematician has been murdered. It happened yesterday, and the victim is poor Mr Beddoes, whom I have mentioned to you quite frequently. He was killed exactly like Mr Akers; by a violent blow to the head, only this time, it happened in the garden just in front of his house. He was discovered by his poor wife; as she found him late returning home, she opened the front door and leant out to look down the street, and in the darkness saw his huddled form lying near the garden gate.

But that is not the worst. The worst is so very dreadful that I must force myself to remember it, and prevent myself from rushing to bury my head underneath my pillow, hoping that it is all a bad dream.

It is that when poor Mr Beddoes was struck down, he was returning from having dined out with no other than – once again – my very own poor friend Mr Weatherburn.

Oh, Dora, it is not possible! He cannot,
cannot
be secretly mad, and in the habit of murdering his dinner companions. No, that sounds funny, and I feel anything but humorous. But then, how can he have such horrid luck? As soon as Mrs Beddoes had called the police, they came to our house, and although it was very late and everybody had already retired, they knocked loudly upon the door, and Mrs Fitzwilliam was obliged to rise and unbar it for them. I opened my door a crack, and peered out. Mrs Fitzwilliam was very angry, but the police paid no attention, and ordered
her to go up and fetch down Mr Weatherburn immediately. He was still up, and came down at once, upon which they squarely told him, ‘You are under arrest for the murder of Philip Beddoes, Don at Cambridge University.’

I never saw a man so amazed. It must have been extremely startling, if he had only just left Mr Beddoes, fully alive and probably cheerful and well-fed. He turned pale and stepped back, stammering incoherently – ‘B-b-b-but that’s im-im-impossible. I only just left him – why, he was in the p-p-pink of health!’

‘Health has nothing to do with it, sir,’ said the officer. ‘The man was murdered. We will trouble you to come along with us, please.’

I rushed out into the hallway, although I was rather indecently clad in my nightdress, with my hair all down my back. The police ignored me, and Mrs Fitzwilliam hustled me back into my room. Still, as the police marched him firmly away, Arthur looked back at me, and our eyes met for one blessed moment. He knows I do not believe a word of it.

I returned to my bed, but could not sleep a wink. I feel as though all happiness and tranquillity have fled forever. All of today I have tormented myself, seeking some issue, some possible action, anything at all to keep from sinking into a state of passive despair. If only, only there were some positive action I could take. Dare I try to visit Arthur in prison? How does one visit a prisoner? Tomorrow morning, I shall waste no time in finding out. Arthur may not be at all pleased – I can well imagine it, but I cannot live in such painful and immobile suspense!

Your loving but desperate sister

Vanessa

Dearest Dora,

I have done it. It was very strange – I never thought to find myself in such an odd position – visiting a prisoner!

But I cannot yet realise that Arthur is really a prisoner, and neither can he. He thinks it is a foolish mistake that will not fail to be put right in the coming day or two. Nevertheless, this morning’s experience falls so far outside of the range of anything I have lived through hitherto, that it will certainly remain etched on my mind for the rest of my life.

Let me recount it to you from the beginning. I arose early, made tea (but could eat nothing), put on my best hat and betook myself to St Andrew’s Street; I knew, from having shopped there often enough, that a large police station was located at number 44. Before reaching it, I passed the very store where I had purchased the hat, in a happier moment. I have often stopped to contemplate the pleasing display at Robert Sayle’s, and I could not resist a glance at it now. Famous for his travels to the Orient, his shop window contains Chinese silks worthy of the most romantic dreams. For a few moments, I allowed my mind to be invaded by a vision of beauty mingling sunsets, gardens and many-hued raw silk. Then a horrible image of bars and chains obtruded itself upon my brain. I hurried on, and turned into the police station, an enormous square building, impressive but excessively heavy in its conception. I felt a little foolish and inconsequent in such a place, but I addressed the officer on duty firmly, quite as if this were not the case. 

‘I should like to ask you how I may go about visiting a prisoner who was arrested last night,’ I said.

He did not appear to perceive anything amiss with my request, and simply and stolidly enquired the name of the said prisoner, after which he informed me that he had been detained in police cells for the night, located in the very building where I found myself, and that he was still there, awaiting the van which would transport him to the Castle Hill Gaol.

What could they possibly have against Arthur? He is innocent, and dining with murder victims, even unluckily twice in a row, cannot possibly constitute a real basis for accusation. Well – I suppose they must needs do it, and that I should feel reassured that British justice follows a carefully weighed and balanced process intended to avoid haste and foolish error.

The officer showed me to a room behind the one over which he presided to receive members of the public, and I sat down and waited. Eventually Arthur was shown in by another officer. He did not seem overly pleased to see me.

‘You should not c-come here,’ he began, ‘it is no place for—’

I cut him short rather firmly. I admit that I had expected such comments and previously rehearsed my reply – it came out rather stiffly as a consequence.

‘Arthur,’ I said (it was the first time, I believe, that I used his Christian name aloud), ‘please, please do understand that no displeasure occasioned by outer circumstances, however dreadful, can compare remotely with the suffering of being forced to stand by, passively and in ignorance, when another person is in danger. If you want to protect me
from anything at all, then let it at least be from that which is causing me unbearable torment, and not from mere outward circumstances which cannot possibly touch me!’

He understood what I meant perfectly. His attitude changed, and he took a chair, and leant towards me, looking into my eyes seriously, unfettered by the discreet but stolid presence of the officer near the doorway.

‘Do not t-torment yourself,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure there is no need. It is all a great mistake, and will surely be put right very soon. I can hardly blame the police for making this error; after all, I was rather unluckily placed! But they will not pursue it, I suppose. The true murderer can hardly hope to hide for long.’

‘Have the police already questioned you?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes, for hours!’

‘What did they ask you?’

‘A hundred times the same questions – what were my relations with Akers and Beddoes, why did I dine with them, and so on and so forth. And whether I had hit them over the head with heavy instruments. I grew quite t-tired of replying, always in the same manner, to the fifty different versions of that last question they continued to fling at me. I kept telling them that I dined with Mr Akers, accompanied him back to his rooms at St John’s, bid him goodnight below, saw him begin to mount the stairs, and departed. I dined with Mr Beddoes, walked back to his house with him, bid him goodnight at the gate of his garden, and departed. I realise that it may appear amazing to the point of being positively suspicious, but the fact remains that I heard nothing of any murder in either case!’

‘Did they ask you what you had talked about over the two dinners?’

‘They pressed me only to admit that there had been quarrels.’

‘Were there quarrels?’

‘Of c-course not! Akers told me that he had had a brilliant idea about a solution to the n-body problem; he almost could not contain himself for pleasure at its elegance and beauty. But after barely mentioning it, and scribbling a formula onto a scrap of paper, he thrust it away in his pocket, and abruptly changed the subject. For the rest, we talked of other things.’

‘I remember you said that he seemed concerned with Mr Crawford’s reaction,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes, that is true,’ he answered, ‘now that I cast my mind back to that evening. He did speak of Crawford – said that his new discovery would be a shocking revelation to him. But he also enjoined me not to mention anything of it to him directly. I believe he wished to complete his work before springing it onto the only other local expert in the field.’

‘Mr Crawford is an expert on the same problem – the n-body problem?’

‘I suppose so, at least as far as Cantabrigians are concerned,’ he amended. ‘England holds no experts like the French and Germans, on these subjects. Anyway, the police then expressed suspicion about why I should walk home with him, as it is not on my way. I told them that I found the colleges extraordinarily beautiful, and it was a crisp, moonlit night, and it is not so very far out of my way, and that I greatly
felt the need of a walk after our copious dinner; I always do.’

‘How did you come to dine with him at all, Arthur? Everybody seems to have considered him a highly unpleasant sort of fellow.’

‘Yes, Akers was not well-liked, he was very concerned with himself and his reputation, and his tongue was acid enough. But he never angered me; I thought it was rather amusing, even, at times. He seemed to get along well enough with me; it was he who invited me to dine, on the very same day. I came across him in the mathematics library, actually, and he seemed all pleased and hugging himself, and he said something like “Ah, Weatherburn, Weatherburn, lovely day isn’t it, heh, heh.” And I said “You seem in a very good mood,” and he said “I certainly am, got reason to be, heh, heh, heh. Let’s dine tonight, what do you say? Meet at eight for dinner at the Irish pub?” And I said “Why not?” and that was it. It’s a nice place; leather booths where one can discuss mathematics and even get out paper and write things down if one wants to, without the people at the neighbouring tables thinking one is quite mad. The police even wanted to know what we ate! I had to tell them that we started with whisky, and then we ordered wine. Akers asked for water as well, as he had to take some medicine or other. Then we had Irish stew. It was quite succulent. I can’t think what they were after, though; perhaps proving I was drunk?’

‘Dear me,’ I said. ‘It all sounds so pleasant and ordinary. One simply
cannot
realise that poor Mr Akers died just immediately after it.’

‘No, I know! I c-c-cannot grasp it myself! And why
should I be dining with them always just before? What does it all mean?’

‘Well, how did you come to be dining with Mr Beddoes, then?’ I wondered.

‘Oh, the police went into that endlessly. Why, it wasn’t even Beddoes who asked me at all. It was Crawford. He said why not make up a threesome to dine the following night.’

‘Really?!’ I exclaimed, struck by this piece of information. ‘But did he not come, then?’

‘No, in the late afternoon, he left me a message to say he felt unwell, and shouldn’t be able to make it in the evening, and that we two should go anyway and enjoy ourselves.’

‘So that is how you came to dine with Mr Beddoes, and find yourself in such a dreadfully compromising position,’ I said, my mind racing. ‘I remember now that at the garden party following Professor Cayley’s lecture, Mr Crawford said to Mr Beddoes that he wanted to dine with him soon.’

‘Yes, the police got quite excited about this idea of Crawford being involved, I don’t know why. They asked me where we were when Crawford spoke, who might have heard us, and so on and so forth. I suppose it might just possibly be an indication of my innocence, although really, I can hardly follow the reasoning; it all seems so absurd. After all, I suppose I might just as well have suddenly decided to murder my dinner partner, no matter who actually proposed having dinner together.’

‘No!’ I exclaimed suddenly. ‘Perhaps I see what it means – maybe they are not so much thinking about you, but about Mr Crawford! Is that conceivable? Could Mr Crawford have done it on purpose?’

‘Poor C-Crawford – I suppose he could replace me as a suspect,’ he smiled, ‘but it seems just as ridiculous.’

‘Well, perhaps it does to you. But that must be what the police are thinking. I expect they will go to see him – and if they don’t, I shall! I should like to know what he meant by it, sending you into such a disaster of trouble!’

‘Oh, come, he didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said.

‘Visiting time is up,’ intervened the officer in the doorway abruptly. ‘The van is here! Come along, sir!’

‘They don’t have the right to hold me for more than two days without sending me in front of a magistrate,’ Arthur told me. ‘That’s to happen the day after tomorrow, and the prosecutor shall present his evidence then. I can’t think he’ll have much to present, so I am not too worried; one can only be sent to trial if there is some presumption of guilt.’

‘Come along!’ reiterated the officer.

There was a sharp, rather military echo to his behaviour; I suppose it must be a little awkward to give nasty orders to prisoners who may all the time be perfectly innocent. We are, after all, supposed to presume people innocent until proven guilty (and even that word ‘proven’ is a doubtful one; no mathematician could ever be satisfied with ‘proof beyond a reasonable doubt’!)

Arthur arose and bid me goodbye with a little twinkle in his brown eyes.

‘I really cannot take this seriously,’ he said. ‘It shall all be chalked up to experience; nights on prison beds for me, visits to prison cells for you. Let’s just hope it does not go on until the charm of originality is entirely lost!’

‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began, but did not continue. His words had suddenly awakened a little pang of fear inside me. Surely it would soon be over – yet the very word ‘surely’ meant there was some doubt. And what if the magistrate should send him to trial? And then?

No – it can’t happen!

Still, I feel I simply
must
speak with Mr Crawford. I shall ask him what he meant by it; he ought to know all the trouble he has caused. And for that matter, he may well be the next person upon whom that very same trouble descends!

Well, I do hope I can send you better news in my next letter!

Till then, your loving

Vanessa

My dear Dora,

This morning was the funeral of poor Mr Beddoes; I saw it in yesterday’s evening paper, and decided to attend. I arrived at the cemetery carrying a modest bunch of flowers whose very colours, all to be devoted to the ceremonious celebration of death, seemed sorrowful.

Mr Beddoes was certainly a man of many friends, for the knot of people who stood around his freshly dug grave as the coffin was lowered was dense and compact. I recognised most of the members of his circle that have become familiar to me over the past month, closely surrounding Mrs Beddoes, who kept her gentle face hidden under a black veil.

The service ended, and slowly, respectfully, the people
began to drift away. I walked near Mrs Beddoes; a sob escaped her as she turned away.

‘My dear Mrs Beddoes,’ said the man nearest her, whom I identified as the snappish Mr Withers of the garden party, ‘the loss of your husband is a terrible blow for all of us; how much greater must it be for yourself. I wish I could find words to comfort you.’

His words were kind, but something about the way he said them was not: he was unctuous, and seemed to be striving to make an impression. He handed Mrs Beddoes into her carriage as though he took it upon himself to show that he, at least, was filled with noble feelings. Perhaps Mrs Beddoes felt something of the kind, for she answered him with no more than an indistinct murmur. Mr Withers turned away and moved off with Mr Wentworth.

‘What a horrible story this is,’ he said, with the same peculiar emphasis.

‘Yes, isn’t it,’ said Mr Wentworth, in an uninviting tone of voice. But Mr Withers was not to be stopped so easily.

‘A good thing the murderer was discovered so quickly,’ he said.

‘Oh, well …’ mumbled Mr Wentworth. ‘I don’t know …’

‘I’ve heard new evidence has turned up,’ continued Mr Withers. ‘I wonder what it is. Well – it’ll all come out at the trial.’

I speeded my steps to escape from this horrible conversation, in which I detected an edge of distorted pleasure. Espying Mr Morrison some way ahead, I hastened to his side. He greeted me warmly, and took my arm as we
left the cemetery and began to wend our way back to the town.

‘So, you too have come?’ he asked me. ‘Beddoes was a mentor to me, but I did not realise that you were amongst his friends, Miss Duncan.’

‘I met him twice,’ I replied. ‘He seemed a kind gentleman, and his wife was very welcoming.’

The small crowd was dispersing along the way; some walked faster, some slower, while yet others had taken carriages back. I quickened my steps somewhat, so as to isolate us a little.