The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  Halley pushed past the young man. Just before stepping into the welcoming night air, he risked a glance over his shoulder.

  Speke was still watching.

  15

  Next morning, the sprawl of the tannery and the tight knot of dyers’ buildings told Halley that his carriage was nearing its destination. At the front gates of his father’s soapworks he took a deep breath against the cold and climbed out. On the horizon the Sun looked pale, frozen into the powder-blue sky. At least the frigid air disguised the reek of the surrounding factories. The gatekeeper greeted Halley and instructed him to head for the boiling-hall. Everyone wanted to keep warm in there today.

  Halley stretched his arms wide. ‘And who can blame them?’ He felt not a shred of the jocularity he mimed. He had paced all night wrestling with what to do. He felt that he was betraying Mary by not confiding in her about the encounter with Speke, but was convinced that it should remain a secret for now.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ called the gatekeeper. ‘Your father has some gentlemen with him.’

  Once inside the hall Halley spotted them immediately: two well-dressed gentleman strutting along behind his father on the gantry. One of the visitors was inspecting everything while holding a handkerchief to his nose; the other was bustling about with a book and quill, making notes and squeezing past the beet-faced workers who were stirring giant paddles through the stinking concoctions in the wooden vats below.

  Each vessel was positioned on a flat iron plate. A heavy-set man was orchestrating a team to keep the trench underneath the vats fuelled with logs and blazing. Halley indicated the visitors with a questioning look. The fire-master shrugged and carried on directing his men, shouting to be heard over the crackling flames.

  The trio made their way down the steps to floor level. Halley’s father did a double-take at the sight of his son and flicked his thumb towards the offices at the side of the factory, little more than a row of wooden cubicles lined against the interior wall. Crude rectangular openings led into each of the spaces. Halley entered his father’s office and leaned against the desk.

  ‘Production is up, and we have new products specially for washing hair, and for gentlemen to use, too,’ he heard his father saying as the three men passed by.

  ‘For gentlemen? Will that really catch on?’

  His wait stretched out and soon he found himself pacing. When his father appeared, he was alone and looked tired.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Son, what a pleasant surprise to see you. I was thinking about you yesterday. Do you know it’s been two years since your wedding? Is everything all right with Mary?’ He bustled around the office, looking busy but really just moving papers around.

  ‘Perfectly, why should she not be?’

  ‘You know . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t. Mary and I are as happy as we could be.’

  ‘Does the house not seem empty with just the two of you in all those rooms?’

  ‘We have the housekeeper and my boot-boy to keep us company . . . Why, Father, I do believe you’re hankering for grandchildren.’

  ‘When you’re away on your travels, they would give Mary something to do.’

  ‘I plan no further trips. My lunar observations will consume me for years.’

  ‘That’s your problem. You spend nights out at your telescope instead of with your wife.’

  ‘Only the clear nights.’

  The old man looked blank, his eyes unfocused. ‘Remember how you ran out into the garden with your mother’s jewels when the Great Fire began, so I could bury them?’

  It took Halley a moment to adjust to the new direction. ‘I’d never seen you engaged in manual labour before – or since. You insisted we bury a case of wine, too. I could barely lift it.’

  ‘It was expensive stuff. You cried when you found out that your school had been destroyed.’

  ‘I didn’t realise at the time that a better London would grow up as a result of the fire.’

  ‘A grander London, for certain, but I’m not so sure about better.’ His father sagged into the office chair. He spoke in a low whisper. ‘Two men came here a few days ago, asking questions.’

  ‘Speke? Blond whiskers? Blue eyes?’

  His father nodded. ‘And an older man named Braddon.’

  ‘Did you tell them anything?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. They knew it all, even the pocket-knife. All they wanted me to do was confirm it.’

  ‘I ran into Speke last night.’

  ‘It’s time for me to leave London. I’m too old for these intrigues.’

  ‘You cannot run. It’ll make you look guilty.’

  ‘What could be more natural than an old man retiring?’

  ‘Even so, it could be misconstrued,’ Halley reasoned.

  ‘It’s too late. Those gentlemen in the boiling-hall are buying the factory, and there’s a perfect property in Kent. I have a meeting set tomorrow afternoon with a broker. I haven’t spoken to your mother . . .’

  Stepmother, thought Halley.

  ‘I know she’ll be reluctant to leave London, but I plan to tell her this afternoon.’

  ‘Rather you than me.’

  Halley’s father frowned. ‘I know you haven’t been comfortable with her, son. And I’m sorry about that, but . . .’

  ‘Please reconsider. There are other ways . . .’ Halley stopped at the sight of his father’s upraised palm. It was trembling more than usual.

  ‘Son, I’ve never understood what you see in the stars. I look up and see nothing but a pointless scattering of lights. You see reason, order, even meaning – enough meaning that I suspect you need nothing else to guide you. Now the tables are reversed. What appears chaotic to you is clear to me. Accept my actions.’

  The fatigue from his sleepless night chose that moment to engulf Halley. He looked into his father’s pleading eyes and nodded. ‘Very well, Father, how can I help?’

  Hooke struggled under the weight of an iron frame, wishing that the dawn were more advanced so that at least he could see where he was going. He squeezed himself and his burden through the doorway and with a grunt hefted the heavy cradle on to the dining-table. Pausing to regain his breath, he returned to the cellar with a candle and heaved out the wooden cone, setting off a small avalanche of boxes that he would have to clear up later.

  The shallow cone was as big as his arms’ span and he half-pushed, half-carried it up the stairs. With more heavy breaths he lodged it, point downwards, into the circular iron framework.

  Already on the table was the trio of iron balls, his scattered diaries and a sheaf of old letters tied in a dusty ribbon. He thumbed through one of the diaries in search of the relevant passages from when he had used this apparatus before, growing more impatient with each page he turned. Finally he saw it, scrawled in the margin next to his description of the self-same experiment: A perfect system of the heavens.

  His scribbled phrase brought it all flooding back: the growl of the iron balls rolling around the wooden cone, their beautiful elliptical trajectories and his lightning-bolt of recognition that their looping paths mirrored the way the planets moved.

  That same evening, nearly four years ago now, he remembered hauling the apparatus down to Garraway’s and repeating the demonstration to the delight of the patrons. No one there had disputed his conclusions; they just followed his reasoning and accepted his arguments. Then, later, he had seen the apprentice whirling the bucket and he had been as sure as he could be that it all fitted.

  How could he transform such incandescent inspiration into sterile numbers? He threw the diary to the floor. It snagged the letters in its fall and burst them from their ribbon. Landing on its spine, the diary tumbled under the table and the letters fluttered down after it.

  ‘What’s wrong, Uncle?’ Grace was peering at him with those enormous brown eyes.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he grumbled to cover his awkwardness.

  ‘Let me help you.’ She scooped up the scattered
papers. ‘Shall I put these back on the table?’

  ‘They would be better on the fire to save their author from further embarrassment. Look at that.’ He pointed to the topmost sheet. In the midst of the hurried, sloping handwriting was a hand-drawn circle. From this was drawn a simple tower, with a downward stroke of ink from its top that met the surface just in front of the tower, then passed through the surface to spiral into the central point.

  ‘Wrong,’ announced Hooke.

  ‘Who drew it?’

  ‘Isaac Newton – why they want him back I’ll never know.’

  ‘I don’t even know what it’s supposed to be.’

  ‘The path of an object falling through space.’ He scooped up one of the iron balls from the table and set it rolling around the upturned cone. ‘That’s the shape it should be.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘The perfect system of the heavens.’ He pointed at the cone, ‘Without the friction of the surface, these balls would loop back up to the rim in perfect ellipses – just as the planets do in their orbits. But Newton couldn’t see that until I pointed it out to him.’

  She smoothed the hair away from his face. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to work. Some algebra – not my strongest suit, I admit, but unavoidable it seems in this brave new age.’

  Later, when the mathematics had defeated Hooke for the day, a notion struck him. He gathered together some apparatus and hurried out of the college, leaving a bewildered Grace in his wake.

  Heading for the tall white column of the Great Fire Monument, with its flaming gilt urn shining in the feeble winter sunlight, he wondered why he had not thought of this before.

  He pushed at the oak door in its base and stepped inside. A spiral staircase snaked around the interior to a spot of light three hundred and eleven steps above. He inhaled deeply and began to climb, hugging the boxes ever more tightly. By the time he reached the cramped eyrie his knees were aching.

  He placed his burdens on the floor, two wooden boxes and a length of string, and peered down the bore of the staircase. Two hundred feet below, in the darkness, was the ground; he was now at the highest point any man could be over London, double the height of the rafters in old Saint Paul’s.

  He secured a brass hook into a wooden beam over the drop, then bent to the larger wooden box. Nestled in the baize was an apothecary’s scale balance. Hooke reverently lifted the instrument and hung it from the ceiling hook.

  In the other box were the weights. He loaded a sixteen-ounce weight into each pan and balanced the string across the right-hand pan as well, smiling as the instrument tilted under the weight. He added more weights to the left-hand pan until they were level again.

  He unhooked the right-hand pan, tied the string between it and the balance, and let it down the shaft, almost to the ground. The contents of the right-hand pan must now weigh more because they were closer to the ground, where the pull of gravity must be stronger.

  He waited for the balance to settle, so he could measure the difference. It would take some minutes, he knew. He waited, not daring to look. Finally, he turned to the balance, blinking in disbelief.

  It was perfectly level.

  He touched it to make sure it had not stuck and waited again for the oscillations to die away. As before, it returned to perfectly level. The conclusion was inescapable: even two hundred feet above the Earth’s surface, the decrease in the strength of gravity was imperceptible. He could gain no clue to help him this way.

  He released the string and let the pan clang to the floor. He packed away the rest of the apparatus and began the downward journey. Somehow the spiral descent felt more wearisome than the climb.

  Halley slithered along the watery street to his father’s house just as the crescent Moon was beginning to set in the darkening sky. Around him, the dripping ice and snow seemed to hold on to the pallid glow of the moonbeams. He pushed open the front door and stepped inside. Not two steps in, people began rushing into the hallway – the servants from the kitchen, the tiny form of Joane, and her entourage from the parlour.

  ‘It’s you,’ said his stepmother, her disappointment palpable.

  ‘Where’s Father?’ asked Halley.

  Joane frowned, then turned her back and walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Where is my father?’ Halley demanded.

  A bumptious-looking man with greying temples squared his stance as if to prevent Halley’s encroachment. It was Robert Cleeter. Halley recognised his pompous behaviour at once.

  ‘Your father didn’t come home last night,’ said Cleeter, crossing his arms.

  Behind him, wearing his usual apologetic expression, was young Joseph Chomat, Joane’s nephew.

  ‘Have you both moved in? I always seem to find you here nowadays.’ Halley sidestepped Cleeter, taking satisfaction in the bump of their shoulders, and followed Joane into the kitchen. She was pacing around the table, biting her nails.

  ‘Did Father go to Kent as he planned?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I’m his son.’

  They stared at each other suspiciously as the others filed in around them.

  ‘Yes, he went to Kent. Why would he not come home? We must send people to find him. Where would he go? Let’s offer a reward.’ Joane’s voice became shrill.

  Everybody started talking at once.

  ‘Joane!’ Halley’s sharp cry silenced the room and turned their heads in his direction.

  ‘He is not yet a day late. He may be trapped in the weather.’

  ‘Look around you,’ said Cleeter. ‘The thaw has started.’

  ‘Then he may have decided to stay in Kent to see another property.’

  ‘When did your father ever do anything on a whim?’ said Joane. ‘Everything has to be planned out in advance and stuck to. Now, in the space of a week, he’s selling the business, moving to Kent, not coming home. Nothing discussed, nothing planned . . .’

  Halley knew she was right. His insides were churning. ‘Let me make some discreet inquiries.’

  ‘Discreet inquiries?’ she mocked. ‘I want everyone to know my husband is missing.’

  ‘Respect your stepmother’s wishes,’ said Cleeter.

  Halley locked his gaze on Cleeter. ‘This is a family matter.’

  Joane studied him with narrow eyes. ‘You know more than you’re saying, don’t you? You were in on this whole thing, weren’t you?’

  Not even her extravagant silk dress could bolster her tiny frame. She was almost childlike, and not that much older than he was.

  ‘I just want to find my father.’

  ‘He’s in trouble, isn’t he?’

  ‘You must stay calm. I will make inquiries,’ he said as evenly as he could.

  ‘Look . . . Edmond’ – how awkward his name sounded on her lips – ‘I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m asking you, pleading with you, share what you know. Let us find him. We both love him.’

  Halley looked into her eyes. Again the explanation sprang to his lips but he dared not voice the words. He could not confide in a woman he loathed when he had not yet told his own wife.

  He looked away. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘You coward!’ She squeezed her eyes shut, but not before a tear escaped.

  ‘Leave well alone, Joane.’ He made for the door. ‘I will handle this.’

  Her voice halted him. ‘I won’t forget this, you know.’

  Halley slammed the door, more angry with himself than with Joane.

  16

  Hooke cast his eyes over the half-finished church. It was tall, squeezed between two dwellings with narrow walkways on either side. As usual a number of passers-by had stopped to watch the work, commenting variously about how quickly or slowly they judged the construction to be proceeding. Today the workers were slotting in the window frames so that the stonemasons could continue building around them tomorrow.

  Hooke allowed himself a small glow of pride. It was going to look mag
nificent. It was a church such as this that, as a boy nurturing an ambition to become a vicar, he had imagined would be his. Cromwell’s years of Puritanism had put paid to that plan, yet Hooke still wondered what his life would have been like had he been ordained.

  The noise of a carriage coming to rest drew his attention. The lofty figure of Wren, all cuffs and buttons, uncurled from the door.

  ‘I hadn’t expected to see you today, Kit.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  The emetic Hooke had taken that morning had prepared him for work but left him hollow. Once at the trestle tables of the dining-house, noisy with the chatter of other patrons, he forced himself to eat sparingly. He was well aware of the consequences of overloading his stomach, particularly of late since the strange episode outside the theatre, but the smell of the roasting pig over the fire did not make his restraint easy.

  ‘Are you aware of the date?’ There was an apprehensive tone in Wren’s question.

  ‘Of course,’ said Hooke.

  ‘So you remember my offer of two months ago?’

  ‘You’re talking about gravity.’ Hooke dropped a greasy morsel on to his plate and wiped his fingers down his jacket.

  ‘If you have the proof, show us all,’ said Wren. ‘Let us enter it into the register at the next meeting and the discovery will be yours. All too often in the past you have taken steps along a path but failed to complete the journey. Then, when you’re beaten to the conclusion, you have called for attention.’

  ‘I don’t recognise myself in that description.’

  ‘What about when that Dutch chap – oh, what was his name? Christiaan . . . Huygens, yes Huygens – when he visited and brought the watch he had invented? You claimed to have already built one, but were unable to produce the working model to show us. Then you claimed to have invented the reflecting telescope when Newton presented his. Don’t make the same mistake with gravity. I hear things, Robert. Some of the Fellows consider you too full of bluster.’

  ‘They treat me as a common workman, dropping their requests for experiments on me at the last moment and complaining if I don’t have the perfect apparatus at the very next meeting. Sometimes they only give me twenty-four hours to prepare. Yet I’m never congratulated on my successes, only chastised for my failures. I should be recognised for my contributions.’ Hooke’s stomach began to churn. He looked around the room at the other diners, resenting their easy conversation and laughter.