The main course of an unidentifiable meat has been served and a student carrying a bottle of wine circles the table. Dr. Smythe nods at his glass, which is perilously close to empty. “Even when users were told how it worked, some insisted that Eliza had ‘understood’ them.” Glass refilled, he takes a long sip. “In the 1990s a prize was established to encourage more serious attempts at the Turing Test, but one of the first winners tricked people in part because the computer was programmed to make spelling mistakes.
“These days we have more advanced computers that can process vast amounts of information but are still, essentially, dumb. Computers can beat humans at calculations, in games like chess and go, but they do so through brute force. Some people think that this is as close as we will ever get: that artificial intelligence just means doing an expanding number of things the way humans do them—or better.”
Dr. Bell has refilled his own glass. “But Lucian here doesn’t agree, do you?”
“No, I do not.” Another swig. Alcohol appears to play a very important part in academic debates at Oxford. “I think we are posing the wrong test completely. True intelligence must be linked to consciousness. To know something is not merely to manipulate symbols in the way that a calculator adds. It must also include the ability to see the truth in something that you cannot prove. Kurt Gödel showed in the 1930s that no formal system is complete—that in any logical system there are things that are true but unprovable. That’s true in mathematics, but it is also true in life. One cannot ‘prove’ the beauty of a work of art, the love of one’s mother.”
He is nearing some kind of conclusion, rewarding himself with a further gulp of wine. “And so, the test should not be whether a computer can fool a person into thinking that the computer is human. True intelligence, true consciousness requires more—that the whole be greater than the sum of its parts. For a machine to truly embody what we mean by human intelligence, the test should be whether the computer itself believes that it is human.”
Dr. Bell is watching her carefully. “So what do you think, Miss Arcadia?”
An odd sensation, being sober and alert in the company of these highly intelligent but now highly inebriated men. At school she is used to being on the outside, a fraction of her brain engaged with those around her as the rest observes and records. Tonight there are moments when she must concentrate fully, feeling completely alive just as when—as when she is grappling with a problem and the consequences of failure are devastating. Yet she is more than that also. More than just algorithms. More than just a set of responses to external stimuli. Music, for example—she loves music. If only she thought to bring her violin she might lose herself in it once more.
“Fascinating,” she says. “But how would one construct such a machine?”
“Therein lies the magic of Lucian’s vision,” says Dr. Bell. “He is a theoretician, not an engineer.” Face now reddened, alcohol causing the blood vessels to dilate, the younger don nods sagely as the older continues: “Lucian merely posits the existence of such a machine. The only constraint is that the machine cannot know how or by whom it was constructed. It must think, it must believe that it is truly human.”
A rap on the table and the President stands once more.
“Time for another Latin lesson,” whispers her host.
Another cough, another bowing of heads.
“Benedicto benedicatur.”
Two hundred shuffling students leave Hall through the main doors, as she and the fellows retreat through the passageway to the Senior Common Room. She declines the invitation to stay for further after-dinner drinks and says her farewells.
A porter shows her to her room for the night. It is simply furnished with a basin for ablutions. She brushes her teeth with the provided toothbrush.
Next to a small bottle of shampoo is a sewing kit with a needle and three colours of thread.
She is not mechanical. Methodical, organised, hyper-rational, perhaps.
But she loves and is loved—was loved. Unbidden, images of Father and Mother come to her. She has loved and was loved in return. Her eyes moisten and she reaches for a tissue, but closes them instead.
Opening her eyes, she stares at herself in the mirror. “So who are you, Arcadia?”
From the sewing kit she takes the needle and washes it under the hot tap. The thin metal conducts heat and soon becomes difficult to hold. She wraps it in the tissue and holds the tip against her left index finger. As she increases the pressure, the nickel pierces the epidermis and ruptures a capillary or two. She withdraws the needle, washes it once more, and places it back in the sewing kit.
The hole in her skin is too small to see, but the red dot has swelled to become a single drop of blood. She looks at it for a moment, then flushes it under cold water. Blood vessels constrict as coagulants begin to plug the tiny breach in her circulatory system. Bleeding stopped, she puts the finger in her mouth and sucks on it for a moment, tissue factor in the saliva also helping the clotting process.
It has been a long day. She is tired. Lying on the bed, she takes out her phone, which she turned to silent before dinner. Only one missed call from Henry. She turns it off, closes her eyes once more, and sleeps.
8
RECORDS
A glorious blue sky greets her the next morning. In the distance, the thwack of a cricket bat striking a ball can be heard. Odd that England should be the origin of a game that requires five days without rain to complete. It is out of season, but someone has decided to take advantage of the weather to practise.
She has agreed to meet Dr. Bell at the Porter’s Lodge at nine o’clock. Breakfasting in Hall with the students—food does not appear to be the primary draw of an Oxford education—she sends a quick note to Henry:
Sorry about yesterday. Will explain later. Hope all is ok. A
The coffee is tolerable, the requisite caffeine intake suppressing adenosine levels to stave off any lingering drowsiness. She is considering a second cup when Henry’s reply arrives.
All gd. C U shortly. H
Strange. She is relieved that he is not worried by her absence. But not to be concerned at all? Perhaps he assumed that when Mr. Ormiston met them at the bus it was to tell her something about her family and that she spent the night at Mother’s hospital.
Another text message arrives, this time from Constable Lestrange:
Found a delivery truck with dashboard-mounted camera that happened to be outside Pratt’s residence. Should have video later today.
She returns a “thank you”, clears her dishes, and heads to the Porter’s Lodge as the college clock strikes nine.
Dr. Joseph Bell is waiting for her. “A very good morning to you, Miss Arcadia. I do hope you slept well?”
“I did, thank you.”
“I really must apologise for my colleague Lucian Smythe,” he continues. “He can get a bit carried away with himself sometimes. I trust you weren’t troubled by his behaviour.”
“Not at all,” she demurs.
“Good, good.” He looks up at the sky, flecked now with a few clouds. Cirrocumulus, by the look of them. “It’s not far to the County Council—shall we walk?”
They step out of the college gate and onto the High Street. The transition from behind walls to outside them is jarring—buses, taxis, and cars plying the streets in what suddenly seems a cacophony of noise.
“So what is old Lysander doing teaching at a secondary school?”
“It’s a part-time appointment to teach biology A-levels,” she replies, raising her voice slightly over the traffic. She weighs up sharing more. “I did wonder if Dr. Starr might have another agenda in taking on the position. Do you know if he ever did any work on the interaction between genes, education, and intelligence?”
Dr. Bell frowns. “Not that I can recall. Most of his published work focuses on niche areas of biological anthropology—trust and the like.” They pause as a bicycle mounts the pavement, a student apparently privileging punctuality over safety. “No
w that you mention it, however, he did contact me a few years back to ask if I would send him some papers that I had done in the 1980s on genetic determinants of intellect in rhesus monkeys. What makes you think that he’s working on intelligence?”
She has only met Dr. Bell a day earlier and yet feels an odd familiarity with him. Perhaps it is the bedside manner that many physicians cultivate, encouraging patients to share more than they otherwise might. She decides to take a risk. “I think the Priory School has been used as a kind of laboratory. Under the previous Headmaster, some students were subjected to experiments to test their abilities and their resilience—tests that went well beyond a normal education.”
“Goodness,” he replies. “What happened to this ‘previous Headmaster’?”
“He,” she hesitates. “He killed himself.”
“Oh dear.” They walk together in silence, before Dr. Bell asks: “But you said something about genes as well. What makes you think that this experiment has a genetic aspect to it?”
“That’s a theory I’m hoping to test today. Somehow my own birth is tied up in this. I was lied to my entire life about who my parents were—and now I’ve discovered that the records of my adoption are also a fiction. When I know who my true parents are, perhaps I will learn what’s really going on here.”
“I can’t believe that Lysander would be involved in something like this—falsifying records, lying to children, to parents. It seems unthinkable.” Dr. Bell shakes his head as they cross another street. “And yet I do remember Lysander once saying—years ago, mind you—that the Holy Grail of biology would be a kind of genetic switch for intelligence and other qualities. He thought that it might be possible one day to produce children who inherited only the best characteristics of their parents, and then further enhance their abilities with the right environmental constraints.”
He continues shaking his head but then stops in his tracks, looking at her in shock. “My dear girl, you think you yourself are caught up in one of these experiments?”
They have arrived at the Oxfordshire County Council. “That’s what we’re here to find out,” she says, holding the door open for him.
Administering some of England’s most iconic buildings, Oxfordshire’s County Hall itself is the epitome of drabness: concrete adorned with brown-tinted windows and piled into a misshapen hexagon. Half a century earlier, it must have been regarded as modern; today it is just unfortunate.
A clerk greets Dr. Bell and ushers them up a flight of stairs to a small office. The hunched bureaucrat behind the desk gestures for them to enter, the clerk to leave, and the door to be shut.
“How nice to see you, Joseph. It’s been too long.” The woman’s voice is thin and nasal. She and Dr. Bell regard each other for a moment. Far from suggesting a long time apart, the shared moment indicates they know each other quite well. An affair, perhaps?
“It’s nice to see you also, Beatrix.” Dr. Bell now appears embarrassed. Probably an affair.
“I managed to retrieve the records you requested. Is this the, uh, young lady?”
“It is,” Dr. Bell says. “As I mentioned to you on the telephone, she quite literally saved my life. I’m most grateful for your assistance.”
“Of course.” Beatrix gives him a knowing look. “But let’s just ensure that my assistance stays between the three of us? Technically, an adopted child must be eighteen before she can access her own birth papers.”
The woman waits until her visitors have both nodded their assent. “All right then. So, here are the two entries in the register of births for Oxfordshire.” Two plastic folders are produced, each holding a page on which a birth was recorded.
Magnus Hebron, and Arcadia Hebron. In both cases the parents are listed as John and Euphemia Hebron.
“But that’s not possible,” she says. “The Hebrons had no children.”
“You must be mistaken,” Beatrix replies. “These are original birth registrations. I even checked the form of the document, which changed in 1999. They’ve never been out of this office and are copied directly into the General Register Office.”
“May I?” She reaches for the documents to examine them more closely. They have been completed on a typewriter, so no handwriting analysis is possible. The typeface itself is unremarkable—if they had access to the right forms, they probably had access to the correct kind of typewriter used at the time. Each is authenticated by a registrar.
The same registrar. “Who is ‘Ronald A. Shampie’?”
Beatrix creases her brow. “I’m not sure, let me check.” A computer screen stirs into life.
The signature is wrong. The spaces enclosed by each letter too full, the hooks too gentle. One can never be certain, but she would bet that it was a woman’s signature. Something about the name, too: Ronald A. Shampie.
“Ah, here we are.” Beatrix opens a file on the computer and then scowls at the screen. “Now that’s odd.”
“What is?” Dr. Bell leans forward.
“In our records there is an Acting Registrar by the name of Ronald A. Shampie. But he was only employed here for a month in 1993 and another month in 2000—just when these records were entered. There’s no other trace of him in our system.”
Her. No other trace of her.
“Do you also keep records of adoption here?”
“Those are kept at the General Register Office itself, but I should be able to access it here.” Beatrix hunches further over the computer as she laboriously types a password into it. A few more clicks and—“Well, I’ll be!”
“The same person?” she asks.
Beatrix nods slowly. “In a completely different office, the same person—Ronald A. Shampie—certified the entry in the Adopted Children Register. But the chances of that… it’s impossible!”
Improbable, not impossible.
After a few more minutes searching for alternative sources of information the bureaucrat concedes defeat. The General Register Office itself would have additional documentation on the case—material Magnus once told her he has read—but it is unlikely to provide any details that would help identify the true birth parents.
“What will you do now?” Dr. Bell asks as they are leaving the building.
“I should be getting back to school.” She lifts her small bag onto her shoulder. “I may have a chat with my brother. It’s also almost a week since I visited Mother.”
Dr. Bell walks with her to the train station, a few hundred yards that they pass in silence.
“Thank you,” she says as they reach the platform.
“For what?” he inquires. “All I think I did was confirm what you don’t know. Hardly a proper repayment for saving one’s life.”
“You’ve done more than that.”
Her train is arriving.
“Do be careful,” he says. “It sounds like Lysander has involved himself in something that could be dangerous. And your teenage friend is definitely dangerous.”
“I will be.”
Outside the station café, a stand of newspapers includes national dailies as well as copies of the Oxford Times and the Cherwell. Published weekly, they have yet to report on the John Radcliffe incident. Online, however, the story is that a gas leak caused the evacuation. The train is boarding but there is time for one more question.
“I forgot to ask,” she says. “What did the police say when you presented them with the bomb? It’s strange that they are reporting it as a gas leak.”
He shrugs. “They said they’ll investigate, come back for more questions, do some more tests. To be honest, they seemed more worried about the panic if people thought there had been a terrorist attack.”
On the platform, the final warnings to mind-the-gap, mind-the-gap are sounding. “Good-bye, Dr. Bell.”
“Good-bye, Miss Arcadia.”
On board the train once more, yesterday’s journey reverses itself. Slough comes and goes, the villages and hills race past her window. A journey not completely wasted, but the one thing she
now knows is what Magnus could have told her months ago. She texts him without bothering to encode the message:
Who is Ronald A. Shampie?
Almost immediately, she gets a terse reply:
I see you ignored my advice.
Another village recedes in the distance before a second message arrives.
Glad you are OK. I’ll come to you tomorrow. We have much to discuss. M
The prospect of her brother returning to the Priory School gives her a strange warmth. Though never especially close, he is now her only blood relative. Surely that has to mean something? Aunt Jean and Uncle Arthur are well-meaning, but they are guardians rather than parents. The role they play in her life is ultimately a legal and administrative one. She knows this is unfair to them, but she also knows how she feels.
She feels. So much of her energy is taken up keeping the world at bay. Mr. Roundhay wanted her to talk so she talked, enabling him to tick the boxes of her progression to health. But she talked without feeling. It made it easier for both of them.
She arrives back at school before lunch and presents herself to Mr. McMurdo at the lodge, straightening up her uniform as best she can. Being absent from school overnight is a serious offence and so she prepares her explanation. Mr. Ormiston will need to punish her, though it is unlikely that she will be expelled. Searching for one’s birth parents is a better excuse than most truants can offer.
But Mr. McMurdo merely looks up and says: “Sorry, Miss Greentree, no mail today.” He carries on sorting mail into piles: bills, junk, students, teachers.
Odd.
She continues into school and is walking across the quadrangle when she hears her name.
“I say, Arcadia!”
It is Mr. Aveling, her mathematics teacher. One of the younger members of the teaching staff, she has heard some of the other female students describe him as “dishy”, presumably on account of his low body mass index and symmetrical aquiline features. Wavy auburn locks also feature in their comments.
Finding Arcadia Page 12