The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  40

  London

  Newton found what he needed in a squalid tavern on the outskirts of Seven Dials. Inside the pitted walls women went from table to table, pressing their breasts into the faces of the drunken patrons, snagging one after another to take upstairs.

  Newton looked at the young man in front of him. One of his teeth was chipped, and the rest were stained and twisted. Occasionally the mouth shuddered into a cough, and Newton averted his gaze as the man spat on the tavern’s earthen floor, peppering it with globules of sooty spittle. After each convulsion he dragged the back of his hand across his crooked nose and leaned back in his chair. His fingers were so dirty with coal dust they left black imprints on his tankard. ‘I think we need to talk somewhere a little more private,’ he croaked, ‘but it sounds like thirsty work to me.’

  Newton purchased a large jug of ale from the bar and followed the man to the rear of the tavern, where he pulled aside a ragged curtain and shooed away the occupants of the hidden booth. Newton filled his companion’s tankard, then poured a splash of ale into his own so that he could pretend to drink.

  ‘I’m told that you know what to do with heretics.’

  The man displayed his teeth again. ‘I keep the capital warm and cosy, and I don’t mean just with coal.’

  Newton grimaced at the juvenile patter. ‘Have you heard of the Camisards?’

  ‘Catholics?’

  Newton shook his head. ‘Prophets.’

  ‘Prophets?’ The man took a hefty swig of the reeking beer. ‘You see, if they were Catholics, we could get a reward. You get the most for Jesuits, but hidden priests are pretty lucrative, too. Others though, well, no one’s that interested in them. We just rough them up for sport, if we can be bothered.’

  Newton hid his impatience. ‘They’re French prophets, plotting against the Crown.’

  ‘Plotting?’

  ‘They’re spreading the belief that the monarchy is soon to fall and the Judgement will be upon us.’

  ‘The Judgement.’ The man whistled. ‘I’m not interested in any biblical nonsense, but plotters . . . that’s a different matter, especially with the changes to the Crown and all. Maybe a big reward.’

  ‘They’re certainly a danger to the new King,’ coaxed Newton.

  The man swilled beer around his mouth before swallowing with an extravagant smack of satisfaction. ‘Right, when and where are they meeting?’

  Newton stood up. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

  The location had been written on Fatio’s last, anonymous note.

  ‘Hold on, will you? I’ve to gather the rest of the lads first.’

  An hour later, Newton pressed himself into the shadows. He tried to keep his shoes clear of the gutter and ignore the overwhelming stench of filth that pervaded this part of the city.

  He could see the coalman’s strapping team charging into the Red Lion. Shadows played across the interior of the windows. Newton watched for any hint of what was going on, half wishing he were in there to see the events unfold.

  Through the door, hidden at the far end of the bar, Fatio’s note had read.

  Newton tried to imagine the surprise on the landlord’s face as the squad barged past and into the secret place.

  A sharp yell split the air and then there was uproar. Individuals dressed in dirty workers’ clothes came streaming into the streets, shouting and grabbing at each other. Drinks were spilled and people cursed. There were a few skirmishes, but mostly they were running, plunging down the dark side streets, stumbling and falling in their panic to escape.

  The pandemonium continued, with the tavern disgorging more people than it looked capable of holding. It was impossible to tell whether these were innocent drinkers – although they could hardly be classed as innocent, thought Newton – or the Camisards.

  He took a step forwards when he saw the gang leader reappear. In his great arms Fatio was struggling like a slippery fish, cursing in French. He was followed by others from the gang, each with a captive. One, apparently unconscious, was being carried over a man’s shoulder. As they drew closer Newton saw that all the victims were bloodied, with bruised eyes or swollen lips. He felt nothing.

  The coalman noticed him watching and gave a curt nod. Fatio’s damaged face caught the lamplight and Newton stepped forward involuntarily, into the captive’s view. Fatio ceased his struggle, a silent question resting on his lips.

  Newton watched.

  The look of incomprehension dissolved and Fatio resumed kicking and screaming, not to escape but to claw his way to Newton.

  ‘Traitor!’ he screamed again and again, struggling so violently that the leader almost lost his grip. Newton stumbled backwards, suddenly fearful, before Fatio was restrained. The coalman barked to one of his accomplices, who stepped briskly forward. The crack of knuckles against Fatio’s jaw filled the street.

  The mathematician was silenced.

  As the gang marched off to hand in their catch, a breathless Newton turned for home. The agitation in him softened with every step and by the time he reached the more familiar streets of the city he felt as though gravity was pulling on him less strongly than before.

  Safe, at last.

  Winslow marched down the stone corridor, holding a lighted torch. This deep in the Tower, the corridors were seldom lit. He ignored the black scurry of rats desperate to return to the cover of darkness and reached with his free hand to his aching jaw. It had been almost a week now since Halley had landed the blow, but the wretched thing refused to stop hurting. It ached most in the mornings, and made his nights restless.

  He had wrought his vengeance, of course, as the astronomer would discover when next he visited home, but it brought little comfort. He hawked the last of the phlegm from the back of his throat and spat it on the wall. He was getting too old for this kind of life.

  A slumbering guard came into view. Winslow paused a moment before kicking the man’s foot.

  ‘I’m told you’ve got new plotters. I want the one who claims to know Newton.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the embarrassed guard, hurrying to unlock a cell door.

  Inside the cold space Winslow could hear the whisper of the Thames, disconcertingly close, and the steady drip of condensation. The prisoner shot to his feet so quickly that Winslow stepped back, fearing attack. He brandished the torch and the man stopped moving. In the orange light Winslow could make out lank hair tangled with straw and a face covered with bruises and dried blood. The jaw was grossly deformed.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Nicolas Fatio de Duillier.’

  ‘You claim to know Newton.’

  ‘It’s him you want, not me,’ Fatio slurred.

  ‘Why?’

  Fatio drew his arms around himself.

  ‘Come now,’ said Winslow, ‘this is no time to be coy, even if it does hurt to speak, especially after what you are charged with: plotting against the royal family.’

  ‘But he’s the one plotting – against the Church.’

  Winslow nodded appreciatively, then called over his shoulder. ‘Guard, fetch this man some washing water, and a drink.’

  A bucket of water and a mug of thin beer appeared.

  Fatio downed the beer, then washed his face, wincing at every touch of the rag. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you know, I think that jaw may be broken. The beer will numb it, but I could fetch a surgeon to look at it. Of course, we’d need something to talk about to pass the time before he arrives.’

  Fatio nodded mutely.

  ‘Good. I know it will hurt, but, be a good chap and start from the beginning. Tell me the whole story. Where did you and Newton first meet?’

  Fatio began his tale, pausing often to swallow and wince.

  Winslow called for a stool to sit on. This was going to take all night.

  Hours later, the guard came back into the cell with two thick-set colleagues. ‘It’s time, sir. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It cannot possibly be morning alr
eady,’ said Winslow, more for show than anything else. He already had enough ammunition to take to Lady Caroline.

  ‘The light doesn’t tend to reach down here, sir, but it is time.’

  ‘Where’s the surgeon?’ asked Fatio, looking past the men into the corridor.

  Winslow gave a small shrug. ‘Too late for that, I’m afraid.’

  Fatio’s face filled with horror. He pressed himself into the corner of the cell and sank to his knees.

  The guards drew nearer.

  ‘Wait!’ screamed Fatio, waving his arms above his head. ‘Wait!’ His eyes were crazed and his temples throbbed. The stench of urine filled the air.

  Hauling him to his feet, then pinning his arms behind his back, the guards forced the screaming man from the cell.

  ‘Don’t I even get a holy man?’ pleaded Fatio. ‘I must be allowed to pray. I cannot meet my Maker like this.’

  Winslow laughed. ‘You don’t need a holy man where you’re going.’

  41

  Halley’s fatigue from his early start vanished the moment the pamphlet hit the wall. As it smacked against the pale wash, the glue gave way and pages rained down on to the floor. A moment before, it had been in Newton’s hands. Next to him was a young man with auburn hair and freckles, looking stunned. He had appeared thoroughly pleased with himself when bounding down the staircase from the Society’s library, waving the document in his hand before handing it to Newton. Halley wondered whether this was the first time John Keill had witnessed the President’s temper.

  Around them sweaty workmen carried in crate after crate and stacked them in the Royal Society’s airy lobby. Each wooden case contained fifty copies of the Greenwich star catalogue, Historia Coelestis Britannica: four hundred printed in total, seventy already reserved for purchase. The delivery was the reason Halley had dashed from Oxford. Keill rushed to gather up the fallen pages. ‘But it’s an anonymous review,’ he said in a squeak of a voice.

  ‘It’s the work of Leibniz! Trust me, he’s one of the journal’s editors. Even in the unlikely event that it was written by somebody else, he sanctioned it. The traitor!’

  Halley knew better than to ask, but it did not stop him. ‘What has he said?’

  Newton waved his hand at Keill, who passed over the loose pages. Halley read the Latin with disbelief. The review implied that Leibniz was the first inventor of the calculus, and that Newton had stolen the method for his own fluxions.

  Halley looked up at Newton’s thunderous face. ‘This is ludicrous – erroneous in every regard. Leibniz knows the truth, because he saw your papers on power series when he visited the Society in the 1670s.’

  Newton’s face darkened further. ‘Leibniz saw my papers? How do you know this?’

  ‘He told me when I was in Hanover.’

  Halley thought Newton was going to explode. The President screwed his eyes shut. ‘So, Leibniz saw my papers, but chooses not to acknowledge seeing them in his own. Who is the plagiarist now? The Society must convene a committee to report the facts of this matter and publish the precise chronology of the inventions. And it must do so quickly. Second inventors count for nothing, as Mr Leibniz will very soon discover.’

  Halley’s thoughts filled with images of the isolated man in the library at Hanover. He looked back at the paper. Gottfried Leibniz, what have you brought down upon yourself?

  Halley sensed an atmosphere the moment he arrived home. William was hovering in the hall and the house was unusually still.

  ‘Mrs Halley is in the drawing-room, sir. She would like to see you in private.’

  Halley paused long enough to realise William was not about to give him a clue as to the trouble before hastening to his wife.

  Mary did not acknowledge him but maintained a steady gaze on the window to the street.

  One of the children?

  ‘What’s wrong, my love?’ Halley rushed to her side.

  ‘My love? You have the nerve to call me my love.’

  He knelt beside her, looking at her profile. There was a film of moisture in her eyes that caught the daylight. ‘Is everything all right? Are the children all right?’

  ‘I think it better if, from now on, you live permanently in Oxford.’

  Halley shook his head. ‘Please, Mary, what is the matter?’

  She was dressed in dusky blue, a colour that Halley loved. He wanted so much for her to turn round and look at him. ‘Who is Lady Hevelius?’

  Halley went hot and cold. ‘Who has been here, Mary?’ he demanded.

  His anger forced her to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and ruinously bloodshot, but her flinty gaze drove fear deep down into him. Never before had he been so frightened, not even when the bow of his ship had crested storm waves and dipped so low that he had looked down into the black, swirling ocean.

  ‘I begged you, the morning after that awful party: anything but other women. I implored you not to turn me into a laughing-stock.’

  ‘Mary, I haven’t. As God is my witness, I haven’t.’ He wanted to seize her hands, but he dared not.

  ‘God? We both know that’s an empty promise from you.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I’ve taken the family to church every Sunday since my return. I am trying to believe.’

  ‘Now I think back,’ she continued, her voice starting to crack, ‘I can see what a fool I’ve been. The sudden visits, supposedly to your father; the coffee-shop meetings and the conversations; the voyages; the trips to Cambridge. I trusted you. You convinced me you were not like other men. Oh, how foolish I’ve been! You and your women – it seems all London knows of it, except me.’

  The urge overwhelmed Halley and he grasped her hands. He drew them tightly together. She struggled to free herself, but he moulded them into a single fist and gripped them in his own, as if they were praying together. ‘Mary, my love, I have had secrets from you but not about other women. I promise you, I have been in trouble but not with other women. My secrets were to protect you. I think you have been visited by someone. Someone short, with little eyes, who speaks in a nasal voice.’

  A sidelong glance told him that he was correct.

  ‘He’s called Winslow, and he’s out for vengeance because I will no longer help him.’ He spoke in a rush, the force behind his words having built up over decades. He told her about his father and the Earl of Essex, and watched some of the anger drain from her face. ‘I couldn’t tell you any of this at the time. The knowledge was too dangerous.’

  ‘I thought your father was murdered by thieves.’

  Halley shook his head.

  ‘But how can we be sure that this man won’t try something similar to you?’

  He took her hand and kissed it gently. ‘He would have done so already. I’m no threat to the monarchy, just a thorn in his side. That’s why he’s planting this mischief. He’s losing power and wants to drag others down too. He’s obsessed, Mary – he thinks philosophy is a danger to religion and government.’

  ‘Stop right there.’ She pulled her hands away from his. ‘I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re diverting me from your adultery. I’m an object of ridicule, Edmond.’

  ‘What adultery?’

  ‘With Lady Hevelius. It’s a mortal sin, Edmond; it’s in the Ten Commandments. How can you come to church with this in your past? How can you be so bold?’

  ‘But nothing has passed between Lady Hevelius and me.’

  ‘Half of London is apparently talking about it.’

  Halley inched nearer. ‘Let me tell you the truth about Winslow, my service to the Crown, my trip to Danzig . . . everything.’

  Shadows had replaced sunlight by the time Halley’s story drew to a close. As the light had dropped so had his voice, and the two of them had been drawn inexorably closer. They were leaning towards each other now as he all but whispered his final confession.

  ‘It is true that Lady Hevelius came to my bedchamber. She asked me about London fashions and wanted to have a dress made out of the latest materials.
I agreed to buy the fabric for her. I don’t know how the story became so exaggerated. I hope that it did not begin with a mistaken belief on Jan Hevelius’s part. I promise you faithfully that I have not made a fool of you, or myself, with other women. You’re the only woman I want in my life. You’re the reason I gave up sailing. I’ve been away from you for too long. I’ve missed you too much, and . . . and I want to make the most of you while we both still live.’

  ‘I want to believe you, Edmond, truly I do. But I’ve heard that Mr Flamsteed believes this story. Why would he spread such hateful rumours?’

  A fatigue settled on Halley. ‘I’ve hurt him grievously by publishing his star catalogue. Perhaps I’ve taken on too many of Isaac’s fights as my own, I don’t know. I regret what I have done to John; he was such an early inspiration to me. Now he’s old and sick. I fear he will go to his grave hating me.’

  ‘Then do something about it. The man I married solved problems, he didn’t wallow in them. Let me see that he still lives.’

  Halley looked up, jolted by the challenge in her voice. ‘I will, Mary,’ he said. ‘I swear I will.’

  The following morning, Halley lined up his family in the sunshine, inspecting them as he used to inspect sailors on deck. They were standing along the red-brick perimeter wall of the observatory at Greenwich, all wearing their Sunday best. Edmond junior was standing to attention.

  ‘No need to go that far,’ said Halley mildly, and his son relaxed. ‘But there are to be no jokes today,’ he said, catching Katherine’s eye.

  Her older sister nodded in agreement.

  Halley turned to the person on the end of the line, dressed in black jacket, breeches and a clerical collar. ‘Thank you again for coming with us today, Reverend Hargreaves, especially at such short notice.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do for you and your family.’

  Halley had caught the new vicar gazing at Katherine on the carriage ride. His interest had not gone unnoticed by her, either.

  ‘Tell me, Reverend Hargreaves,’ she had said, ‘do you notice the way the young men and women of the parish catch each other’s eyes in church?’