by Mike Ripley
‘I am very grateful, Master, and you are as astute as ever. There is something else. I want to pick your brains.’
Dr Livingstone finished his last morsel of bread and reached into his jacket pocket for a pipe which looked like a carbonised tree stump and a brown leather tobacco pouch.
‘My dear fellow, if you can find ’em, you’re welcome to pick ’em.’
‘It’s a question of numbers,’ Campion began.
‘You do realise that I have not actually taught any mathematics for nearly twenty years,’ Livingstone admitted almost proudly. ‘That’s a young man’s game and I was fortunate to discover the fact early on in my career.’
‘Your career as Reader in Mathematics at St Ignatius …’ Campion prompted.
‘Yes, well, it was clear to me that the college needed sound administrators rather than mathematical geniuses. Let King’s and Trinity take all the glory; they will claim it anyway.’
‘My problem is not a mathematical one, more a question of numbers in folklore I suspect,’ said Campion as the Master began to fill his pipe, using a yellow-stained thumb to tamp down tobacco as firmly as wadding in a musket.
‘Folklore, eh?’ The Master was not taken aback at the suggestion; in fact, he became enthused. ‘You have remembered my private passion for the arcane, the mysterious, the coincidental, the pattern in the random, the cryptic repetition, the unexplained blip on the smooth surface. Oh, the big thinkers dress it up as “statistical self-similarity” or “ergodic theory” or “random transitional phenomena”. There’s even something called “Hadamard’s Billiards” theory, though I’ve quite forgotten who Hadamard was.’
‘I am sure I never knew,’ admitted Campion, ‘but I do remember you were rather good at codes once upon a time, Master, and my question is really quite simple: what does the number nine mean to you?’
‘The number nine?’
‘Yes, the one after eight but before ten.’
Dr Livingstone took his time finding a match, then striking it and finally, after close examination to make it was lit, applying it to the cauldron that was the bowl of his pipe.
‘Nine, eh? In what sense?’
‘Any and all. Think of it as one of those word-association tests the trick-cyclists do. I say ‘nine’ and you tell me whatever pops into your noggin.’
Dr Livingstone puffed on his pipe for almost a minute before answering. Campion suspected he did this whether he had been asked a question on theoretical mathematics, college politics or how many sugars he required in his tea.
‘Let’s start with the old parlour game,’ he said at last. ‘A real crowd-pleaser. Roll up, roll up and be amazed at the story of the Magic Nine!’
Mr Campion summoned up all the boyish enthusiasm he could muster.
‘The Magic Nine! That sounds just the ticket! Do tell all.’
‘Actually, it’s not all that exciting, but when multiplied by itself or any other number, the sum of the result is always 9 or divisible by 9. Let me give you an example: 9 multiplied by 9 equals 81. The result is 8 + 1, which is 9, do you see? You try one. How about 7 times 9?’
‘63,’ said Campion catching on, ‘which is a 6 plus a 3 which is 9.’
‘Correct. How about 127 multiplied by 9?’
‘1,143,’ Campion answered after a diplomatic piece of mugging, ‘and that’s 1+ 1 + 4 + 3 which adds up to 9 again.’
‘Good; now give me one.’
‘444.’
‘Easy enough,’ said the Master. ‘Multiplied by nine equals 3,996, which is 3 + 9 + 9 + 6 which adds up to 27, which can be divided by – you’ve guessed it – 9. Give the man a coconut. It works every time and breaks the ice at parties. Is that the sort of thing you’re after?’
‘Not really, but it’s a good trick. Think of more folkloric connotations of nine, the more ridiculous the better.’
‘You mean things like the Nine Worthies; the Neun Gute Helden of German myth? The Nine Good Heroes – three pagans, three Jews and three Christians. Or the Nine Muses, perhaps? You know there’s a don at Magdalene who has three daughters named Calliope, Thalia and Terpsichore, though I’m not sure his wife approved.
‘In many cultures nine is seen as a number symbolising perfection and totality, which I suppose stems from the accepted number of months in a pregnancy. In Hebrew, nine represents intelligence; to the Hindu it’s the number of fire. According to a recent paper by a Professor Satterthwait of the University of New Mexico – yes, they have universities even there now – the Navajo Indians put great faith in healing ceremonies which last nine days. Is any of this useful to you, Albert?’
‘Indirectly. It all helps to get the juices flowing. Keep going, keep going.’
‘Well then, the number nine appears in scripture of course – notably in Romans Chapter 12, which reports the Nine Gifts of the Holy Spirit – and there are supposed to be nine cases of stoning in the Bible, which some would say is statistically significant. There’s also the Nine Card Spread, which is a method of reading Tarot cards, or so I’m told, and Chinese and Japanese myths of fox spirits or vampire cats, both distinguished by having nine tails.
‘The famous Cat O’ Nine Tails was that indispensable aid to discipline employed by the Royal Navy when Jack Tars were anything but Jolly and we all know from Shakespeare that cats have nine lives. Was it not Romeo who demanded nothing from that “good king of cats” Tybalt “but one of your nine lives”?’
‘I think it was Mercutio, not Romeo,’ said Campion discreetly.
Dr Livingstone puffed smoked to cover his error.
‘In common parlance, of course, examples abound. After all, what does a stitch in time save? And when one wants to impress in society, one always makes sure one is “dressed to the nines” which is thought to be a Victorian reference to the nine yards of cloth needed to make a good suit or the dress uniform of an officer in the 99th Lanarkshires, whichever you prefer. And when confronted by rogues, villains and cutpurses, one dials, of course, three nines.
‘There is also –’ Livingstone’s pipe bubbled noisily for dramatic effect ‘– quite a well-known detective novel called Nine Times Nine by an American chappie called H.H. Holmes; a pseudonym, obviously. Also, one of those long-haired “pop” groups so beloved by adolescent girls made a record last year and one of the songs was called Revolution 9. The Dean of Music referred to it as “eight minutes of hell” but I haven’t heard it myself.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Campion.
‘But hardly illuminating, I would have thought.’
‘You are being very patient with me, Master. As you will have surmised, I really have no idea what I am looking for; rather hoping for a spark which might lead to illumination. Please humour me.’
‘I am the Master of a Cambridge college,’ said Livingstone pushing out his chest proudly. ‘It is part of my calling to humour people.’
‘Then pray continue,’ said Mr Campion with due deference. ‘What does the phrase “Nine Days Wonder” bring to mind?’
‘Why, Charles of Valois of course.’
Mr Campion had the feeling that the Master had been guarding that particular nugget of information like a gambler with one ace in the hole and another up his sleeve. He waited in silence, pleading for enlightenment, until the Master deigned to continue.
‘It was Charles who wrote: A wonder last but dayes nyne, an oold proverb is said. That is probably the earliest reference in literature to a Nine Days Wonder or, to be literal, a wonder lasting only days nine, according to a proverb that was in common parlance at the time; and that would be the 15th century of course.’
Campion, suitably vacant, waited again for Dr Livingstone to enlighten him.
‘Charles of Valois, the Duc d’Orleans, a noble French knight who, at the age of about twenty-one, was wounded and captured at Agincourt in 1415 by our own, our very own, even more noble King Henry V. For some reason, Henry took against Charles and he was not put up for ransom as was the custom in those days among the
warring aristocracy. Instead, poor Charles spent twenty-four years in England as a prisoner-of-war, some of it in Oxford for pity’s sake! No wonder the poor man turned to writing poetry and it was remarkably good, if, that is, you appreciate a ballade or a rondeau. The debate as to whether he translated his own work into English still induces heart attacks in our medievalists I’m told, but when the poor man was eventually released and sent back to France, it was said he spoke English because he’d forgotten his French.’
‘Fascinating,’ breathed Campion.
‘But no sudden flash of light?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well then, how about a more modern reference – say, the sixteenth century?’
‘That sounds positively with it.’
Dr Livingstone eyed him suspiciously, but Campion remained the picture of an adoring audience prepared to hang on every word and that was irresistible.
‘Kemp’s Jig,’ prompted the Master.
Campion furrowed his brow.
‘Will Kemp? Shakespeare’s clown?’
‘Almost probably,’ said Dr Livingstone enigmatically. ‘He was certainly one of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and a noted comic actor in what we would call the slapstick tradition, but current thinking is that he had a bit of a bust-up with Shakespeare. He was a big draw for his time and its must have gone to his head. Well, he was an actor so one really should not expect anything else. He must have wanted to include a Morris dancing scene in Richard III as comic relief during the battle of Bosworth, or have a walk-on part with his wooden dog-on-wheels just as Juliet was dying for the second time; something like that. I think the modern term is “artistic differences”. Kemp and Shakespeare certainly had them and Kemp was either fired or quit in a huff.
‘Determined to show he was still a big star, Kemp embarked on his famous Jig in the year 1600. He told anyone who would listen that he could dance from London to Norwich in nine days, though why anyone should want to go to Norwich at all is a mystery lost in the mists of time. His dance, his jig, complete with bells and no doubt whistles, caught the imagination and he became a bit of a national hero. I think I remember reading something about him not going down too well in Bury St Edmunds, but then, little does. Yet, with rests along the way, Kemp did indeed reach Norwich after nine days of dancing and the city council were more or less forced to stump up some prize money for him, though what he did with it I have no idea and I do not think his career was revived by what was clearly a publicity stunt. It did, however, refresh the popular concept of a “Nine Days Wonder” and the phrase became synonymous with Kemp’s nine-day jig to Norwich. Of course, nobody remembers Will Kemp nowadays; or even what his name signified.’
‘His name?’
‘Well it has always been a pet theory of mine that Kemp’s Jig to Norwich was a publicity stunt.’
‘To revive his career as a thespian, you said.’
‘Oh, that was his personal motive, I’m sure. It would have been one in the eye for Shakespeare certainly, but I think the whole stunt was a put-up job by the wool merchants and I bet that was where the prize money came from.’
‘I’m not exactly lost, Master, but I have wandered off your track slightly,’ Campion admitted.
‘Oh do wake up, Albert. What was East Anglia famous for before the industrial revolution? Wool! Wool was the source of wealth and power round here; the life blood of the economy and vitally important. Having Will Kemp, the most famous clown on the London stage, Morris-dance his way through all those wool towns and markets would have been the equivalent of having one of today’s film stars saying he drank your particular brew of ale, or smoked your brand of cigarettes. There’s a name for it: celebrity something-or-other.’
‘Endorsement, I think,’ supplied Campion.
‘That’s it; and my theory is that Kemp could be persuaded to do such a stunt because he clearly had family ties to the industry.’
‘I’m afraid my compass is wavering and I’m wandering again, Master.’
‘His name gives it away. Kemp is the term for the short hairs on a sheep’s fleece; the hairs between the skin and the good wool. To have a name like that back in those days meant that his family would have been in the wool trade at some point, I’m sure of it. Have I lost you completely Albert? If you’ll forgive me, you are looking even vaguer than usual.’
Campion smiled broadly.
‘Not lost at all, Master. In fact I think you’ve helped me see the light.’
Twelve
Digging Dirt
Mr Campion dined well in St Ignatius hall and slept soundly in a St Ignatius guest bed, to be woken at the traditional and very civilised St Ignatius breakfast hour of nine o’clock (ironically a nine the Master had forgotten to mention) by a gentle tapping on the door of his rooms. Wearing surgical-green thin cotton pyjamas, which he could only suppose that Amanda had bought for him as some form of punishment, Campion answered the knocking summons to find the Head Porter, resplendent in frock coat and top hat, standing almost to attention holding a silver tray containing a teapot, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes complete with tongs, one cup, one saucer and one teaspoon, college guests for the use of.
‘My goodness, I am honoured,’ gushed Campion. ‘So honoured I might even swoon. Breakfast in bed – or as good as – courtesy of Mr Gildart, a courtesy never offered by your father in the three years I was here legitimately.’
Mr Gildart (Junior) cleared his throat.
‘My father always said that ‘legitimately’ was not a word used by gentlemen, sir, because a gentleman never had to.’
‘And I am sure he was quite right in all particulars. He certainly taught me never to argue with a Head Porter, nor look a tea-tray in the mouth as one might a gift horse,’ Campion jabbered, relieving Gildart Junior of the tray. ‘Unless this is a wooden horse, as in Troy, and has been built by Greeks. Is there, perchance, an ulterior motive to your most excellent room service?’
‘Yes there is, sir, very well deduced if I may say so. You’re not half as vacant as they say you are. There’s a policeman waiting to see you. I’ve put him in the Library.’
‘The college has a Library?’ Campion feigned horror because he simply could not resist. ‘If only I had known that in my student days, it would probably have been jolly useful.’
Detective Chief Inspector Bill Bailey had, in what he regarded as his modest career, investigated crimes in churches, castles and (once) in a nunnery; had, unarmed, arrested suspects wielding knives, axes and (once) a scythe; and had interviewed knights of the realm, the occasional duke and (more than once) a marquis. Yet never could he remember feeling more socially uncomfortable than he was at that moment, having been confined in the St Ignatius Library by the head porter who acted every inch the gaoler to his prisoner.
Had he but taken a moment to run a finger over the leather-bound spines of the volumes which lined the walls of the rather small and rather gloomy windowless room, he might have felt less intimidated. His sharp policeman’s eye would surely have recognised, even though the gold lettering was small and often faded, some of the works of Mr Hank Janson, Mr Harold Robbins and Miss Pauline Réage, albeit in unfamiliar rich red-leather bindings, nestling quietly between Suetonius, Herodotus, Gibbon, Thackeray and several complete sets of Dickens.
But Bill Bailey was not a book man; he heard quite enough fiction from suspects, victims, known villains and sometimes even policemen, without having to peruse dusty volumes. He settled himself in a creaking leather wing-back, stretched his legs and splayed his feet out taking comfort in the old adage that a policeman’s feet should never miss an opportunity to have the weight lifted from them. He was in that contemplative position when Campion limped in.
‘Chief Inspector, how delightful to see you unless, that is, my many and varied undergraduate misdemeanours have been resurrected and the Master – or more likely the head porter – has called in the long arm of the Law.’
‘I can’t speak for the Master of the college,’
said Bailey, ‘but I have met the Head Porter and he doesn’t look the sort of bloke who would need any help from the Law when it comes to dealing with student misdemeanours.’
‘It runs in the family,’ said Campion in agreement, ‘or perhaps they simply breed head porters that way, but if I’m in the clear, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
‘Mostly for my peace of mind, Mr Campion, because if I didn’t come and make sure you were hale and hearty, then a certain Charles Luke of the Metropolitan Police is unlikely to give me any peace and, in any case, something has popped into my mind.’
‘I am flattered by the first and intrigued by the second,’ said Campion settling himself carefully into the twin of Bailey’s chair. ‘Please convey my best to Superintendent Luke and assure him that, as you can see, I am intact if not quite as sprightly as usual. However, I am told that after a reasonable period of rest and recuperation I will resume my punishing training schedule with a view to securing my place in the next Olympics. Munich is such a charming city.’
‘Might I enquire as to which sport you would participate in?’ asked the policeman drily.
‘Why hopscotch of course and I think we have a real chance of a medal this time. But enough of my prattle, Chief Inspector, you said something had sprung to mind.’
‘Yes, sir, it did, thanks to your niece Miss Fitton.’
‘Eliza Jane is making herself useful? I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘It was while she was giving us a statement about your little … accident … out at Long Tye Farm, or rather the Saxon Mills quarry you slipped into.’
‘Slipped? I would have said “plunged” or “plummeted” was more accurate. I suspect it was quite a spectacular dying swan dive. I almost wish I could have seen it myself.’
‘Well, Miss Fitton remarked that the place must be cursed.’
‘Cursed? That’s a bit dramatic even for a highly-strung temperamental artist.’