Dark Matter

by Philip Kerr

  “What about the book in the Tower library?” asked Newton. “Did Mister Scroope leave that there for me too?”

  “Yes sir, that he did.”

  “I should like to know more about Mrs. Berningham,” I asked Robles.

  “She and Scroope were lovers, sir,” said Robles. “She was a ruthless one, though. Poisoned her husband at Scroope’s prompting her to do it, without a second thought.”

  Robles paused for a moment as he coughed a great deal; and still thinking himself dying, he said, “And there’s a clean breast of it, sir. I ain’t sorry to have it off my conscience.”

  For myself, I was sorry the poor wretch did not die then and there, as three months later Robles was dragged to Tyburn on a hurdle, where he met his death on his way to becoming one of London’s grisly overseers, for his head was displayed in a place where he could see all of London.

  Robles’s death was cruel enough; but it did not compare to the fate that awaited Mrs. Berningham the following day.

  She was conducted from the door of Newgate and, after a cup of brandy from the bellman at St. Sepulchre’s, was led through an enormous crowd that had gathered, to a stake in the middle of the street. There she was made to stand upon a stool while a noose was placed about her neck and attached to an iron ring at the top of the stake. The stool was then kicked away, and while she was still alive, two cartloads of faggots were heaped around her and set alight. And after the fire had consumed her body, the mob amused itself with kicking through her ashes. Both Newton and I attended her execution, although I think there is something inhuman in burning to death a woman who, by being the weaker body, is more liable to error and therefore more entitled to leniency. A woman is still a woman however she may have debased herself.

  Chapter Five

  Michael Maier, Atalanta fugiens, 1618

  JESUS SAID TO THEM: “WHOEVER HAS EARS, LET HIM HEAR. THERE IS LIGHT WITHIN A MAN OF LIGHT, AND HE LIGHTS UP THE WHOLE WORLD. IF HE DOES NOT SHINE, HE IS DARKNESS.”

  (THE GOSPEL OF THOMAS, 24)

  ewton had solved the mystery of only two of the murders that were committed in the Tower by St. Léger Scroope and his accomplice and servant Robles; the unravelling of the mystery of the two other murders, and the great secret which they were intended to protect, still lay ahead of us. Now it must be explained what happened after Scroope’s house burned down, and how Newton faced the greatest hazard to his person and detriment to his reputation since ever he had been born, for this university of London called Life provides its students with a more termagant variety of education than anything that is to be found at the Cambridge schools.

  The day after Mrs. Berningham’s execution, I arrived at the office to discover Newton sitting in his chair by the hearth with the air of a man most discountenanced. That he ignored my greeting to him was hardly remarkable, and in truth I was used to his ponderous silences which were sometimes very weighty indeed; but that he should have ignored Melchior’s importunate suit for his attentions was strange indeed, so that gradually I saw how his black demeanour imitated Atlas with the vault of the sky upon his broad shoulders. Having questioned Newton several times, like Heracles, and even laid hold of his arm—for it was rare that I ever touched him, he being so shy of any physical contact—I saw how the matter seemed referable to a paper he held crushed within his fist.

  At first I thought the paper was something to do with the code he still laboured hard to decipher. Had not Doctor Wallis warned him about racking his brains too much in search of the solution? And it was only when a closer inspection of his person revealed the shard of an official seal upon his breeches that I understood how the paper was nothing to do with the cipher at all, but rather some kind of official letter. Having questioned my master about its contents and still received no reply, not even a movement of his usually keen eye to make me keep my distance, I took the liberty of removing the letter from his rigorous grasp and perusing the contents.

  What I read was most vexatious, and it was suddenly obvious to me why Newton gave the appearance of one who had received some kind of insult to his brain—even, perhaps, some kind of paralytic stroke. For the letter was from the Lords Justices inviting Newton to appear before them next morning in an informal and unrecorded private session, in order that he should answer affidavits viva voce that he was not a fit and proper person to hold government office, being of an anti-Trinitarian, Socinian, or Unitarian and therefore heretic disposition of mind most offensive to the King and the Church of England.

  This was a grave matter indeed, for while I did not think that Their Lordships would have ordered Newton put to death, they might easily have sent him to the pillory, which would have amounted to the same thing, for, as I have explained, Newton was not loved by London’s population, because of his diligent pursuit of coiners; and there were many pilloried who, pelted by the mob with brickbats and stones, did not survive the experience. Indeed, there were not a few prisoners who feared the pillory more than fines and imprisonment.

  My first inclination was to fetch a physician straightaway so that some kind of cure might urgently be effected, enabling him to appear before Their Lordships and give a good account of himself. But gradually I saw how summoning a physician would only have served to create abroad some gossip about the state of Newton’s mind. If he had suffered a stroke, then Newton was beyond any physician, to say nothing of Their Lordships. But if, as I hoped, the condition was merely temporary then he would not have thanked me for bringing a physician into his affairs. Newton disliked physicians at the best of times, preferring to treat himself on the very few occasions when he was ever ill. Besides, I knew he had suffered some previous breakdown, and from which he had, by his own account, recovered; and therefore I was encouraged to believe that my course of action was the correct one. So I fetched pillows and blankets from the Warden’s house and, having made him as comfortable as I could, went to see if Newton’s coachman still attended his master.

  Finding Mister Woston beyond the Lion Tower, I spoke to him.

  “Mister Woston? How was Doctor Newton when you brought him here this morning?”

  “He was himself, Mister Ellis, as always.”

  “The Doctor has suffered an attack of illness,” I said. “Some kind of fit or stroke, perhaps. I know not how best to describe it except to say that he is no longer quite himself, as you say. And that perhaps it would be best if you were to fetch Miss Barton. But try not to alarm her unduly. It would spare her much worry while she travelled here. Perhaps you might just inform her that her uncle urgently requires her presence in his office at the Tower, and she shall understand everything for herself when she gets here.”

  “Shall I fetch a physician, too, Mister Ellis?”

  “Not yet, Mister Woston. I should like Miss Barton to see him first.”

  Upon her arrival in the Mint office, about an hour afterward, Miss Barton greeted me with a cool civility but then, seeing the attitude of her uncle, demanded to know why I had not brought a physician to him immediately.

  “Miss Barton,” I said. “If you will permit me to explain, summoning a physician may create some gossip about the state of Newton’s mind. If he has suffered a stroke, then he is beyond any physician, to say nothing of Their Lordships. But if the condition is merely temporary, then he will not thank us for bringing a physician into his affairs.”

  She nodded. “That is true enough. But why do you mention Their Lordships so? Has my uncle some business with them?”

  I showed her the letter I had found in Newton’s hand, which seemed to occasion within her breast some kind of hysterical reaction against myself.

  “You vile and despicable dog,” she said bitterly. “I see your atheistic hand in this, Mister Ellis. Doubtless you have brought my uncle’s reputation into Their Lordships’ disrepute by your saying about him in public what you have said to me in private.”

  “I can assure you, Miss Barton, that nothing could be further from the truth. Despite what you may t
hink of me, I owe a great deal to the Doctor, and would not injure his reputation for all the world. But even if what you say were true, none of this is helping him now.”

  “What do you propose, sir?” she said stiffly.

  “Your uncle has referred to an occasion upon which he suffered some sort of mental breakdown once before,” said I.

  “Indeed it is so. It has always vexed him most considerably that Mister Huygens spread a rumour that my uncle’s mind was lost to science. For he is a proud man and a most private person.”

  “Indeed he is, Miss Barton. The most private person I ever knew.” Somewhat pointedly, I added, “There is so much about him that a person is never made privilege to, that I wonder how anyone can say he knows Doctor Newton at all.”

  “I know my own uncle, sir.”

  “Good. Then perhaps you will recall what happened before. Was anything done to promote his recovery?”

  She shook her head.

  “No? Then it is my own opinion that we should let this take its course. And that his great mind will heal itself of this malady. Until that happens, I believe we should keep him as warm and comfortable as possible.”

  Gradually she seemed to apprehend the wisdom of what I had proposed, and contented herself with arranging anew the blankets and pillows with which I had surrounded her uncle’s person.

  Miss Barton had visited the Tower before—to visit the Mint, the Armouries and the Royal Menagerie—but this was the first time in my presence; and saying very little to each other, for we were neither of us sure how much Newton could hear, we sat as stiff as any two statues, observing him and awaiting some change in his person. It was a most unnerving situation: Newton almost like a dead man, and yet not dead, perhaps seeing and hearing everything but unable to move or speak. And the two of us with full hearts and bittersweet memories.

  “What could happen to him,” she asked, “if Their Lordships believe him to be a heretic?”

  “I fear he would lose all of his preferments,” said I. “He might even be charged with blasphemy, pilloried, and then imprisoned.”

  “He would not survive being pilloried,” whispered Miss Barton.

  “No,” I said. “That is also my opinion. If he is to answer these charges effectively, he must have all his wits, I think.”

  “We must pray for his recovery,” she said, finally, and with emphasis.

  “I am sure your own prayers would help, Miss Barton,” I offered lamely.

  Upon which she got off her chair and knelt down upon the floor.

  “Will you not pray with me?” she asked. “For his sake?”

  “Yes,” I said, although I had little or no appetite for prayer. And kneeling down beside her, I clasped my hands and closed my eyes while, for more than an hour’s quarter, she muttered away like someone most devout. For myself, I remained silent and hoped that she would assume that the hopes of my own heart were echoed in her prayers.

  Toward the middle of the morning, she and I started to relax a little so that we began not to notice him. By dinnertime it was as though he were not there at all; and when Miss Barton’s stomach rumbled loudly, I smiled and offered to fetch us both something to eat from The Stone Kitchen. When she agreed with some alacrity, so that I saw how hungry and thirsty she really was, I went to the tavern, returning quickly with our food. Alas, it was too quickly, however, so that I discovered Miss Barton doing something upon the pot, for which I felt some shame and pity to her poor blushes, not to mention some anger with myself. And when I returned to the office again after a decent interval, our conversation was stiff again because of our embarrassment.

  But at last she permitted that I might have done the right thing by her uncle.

  “I think you have done right, Mister Ellis,” she said, “not to have brought a physician here.”

  “I am very glad to hear you say so, Miss Barton, for it has worried me this whole morning.”

  “I spoke unjustly to you earlier this morning.”

  “Pray do not mention it, Miss Barton. It is quite forgotten.”

  Day gave way to evening, with our vigil continuing, as if watching Newton were an act of religious observance. I lit a fire which warmed the room, and offered to fetch Miss Barton a shawl, which she declined; and as darkness finally chased off the last glimmers of daylight, I lit some candles and placed one close to Newton’s face so that we might apprehend any palpable change in his physiognomy; and holding the candle up to Newton’s eye, I saw the dark matter at the centre of his iris shift most perceptibly, so that I began to suspect that my master was not so very disturbed in his mind as to be reduced to the level of some living corpse. It was an experiment which I encouraged Miss Barton to repeat, to the satisfaction of her own mind that all might yet be well.

  Sleep gradually o’ertook us both, and it was dawn when Melchior, leaping into my lap, awakened me. For a moment a rigidity of neck and limb kept away thoughts of any other than myself, and I forgot why it was that I had slept in the office at all; but when, a moment later, I looked for Newton in his chair by the hearth, I saw that he was gone from there, and, jumping up, I called out to Miss Barton most anxiously.

  “It’s all right,” said Newton, who was standing by the window now. “Calm yourselves. I believe that I am quite recovered. I have been watching the sun come up. I recommend it to you both. It is a most enlightening spectacle.”

  Miss Barton smiled delightedly at me, and for a brief instant everything that was precious to me seemed to have been restored, although in truth Newton still seemed distant to us both. I think she even kissed him and then me, on the cheek; and it was as if Miss Barton had drunk from that river in Hades which induces forgetfulness of the past; so that the two of us stood beside Newton, marvelling at his recovery and all the while grinning like horses and finding pleasure in each other’s company.

  “Why, sir,” she exclaimed to him, beginning to sound an aggrieved note, “whatever was the matter? You have given us such a fright. We were sure your mind was gone.”

  “I apologise for having alarmed you both,” he whispered. “There are times when my thinking so occupies me that it produces certain outward effects upon my person that give the appearance of my having suffered a stroke of God’s almighty hand. The cause is quite a mystery even to me, and therefore I don’t apologise for saying I have no other explanation for you, except to say that a great clarity of thought is usually brought about by this strange excursion from my own physical body, which, rest assured, is something I have encountered before.”

  But examining his face I saw that he looked pale and drawn, as if a great weight still lay upon his soul.

  “But are you quite sure you are recovered, sir?” enquired Miss Barton. “Should a physician not be called to ascertain that you are indeed as well as you say?”

  “’Tis true, sir,” I said. “You look pale.”

  “Perhaps you should eat something,” suggested Miss Barton. “Drink some coffee, perhaps.”

  “My dear, I am quite recovered,” insisted Newton. “You did well to listen to Mister Ellis.”

  “You were able to hear our discourse?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, I have seen and heard everything that has gone on in this room.”

  “Everything?” demanded Miss Barton. I could see by her blushing that she referred to that business with the chamber pot.

  “Everything,” confirmed Newton, whose confession had chased away every remnant of her smile.

  “But, sir,” I said, changing the subject for pity of her, “perhaps you are not as recovered as you think you are. For it was not earlier today that Miss Barton spoke of physicians, but yesterday. It is almost twenty-four hours since I found you seated in that chair.”

  “So long as that?” breathed Newton, and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Aye sir.”

  “I was thinking about the cipher,” he said absently.

  “This morrow you must appear before the Lords Justices,” said I.

 
; Newton shook his head. “Say no more on that for now,” he said.

  “Then what would you have me do, sir?”

  “There’s nothing to be done.”

  “I agree with Miss Barton,” said I. “We should all eat some breakfast. And speaking for myself, I am uncommonly hungry.”

  I never ate so much as I ate that morning. But Newton sipped some coffee and ate only a little dried bread, as if he had little appetite for food. No doubt he was much preoccupied with his meeting with Their Lordships, which was now imminent. And, after breakfast, we took Miss Barton back to Jermyn Street, at which point Newton declared, most strangely, “It is my considered opinion, that girl is in love.”

  “What makes you think so, sir?” I asked coolly, although I felt myself blushing.

  “I live with her, Ellis. Do you think my own niece is invisible to me? I may not read sonnets all night, but I think I can recognise love’s peculiar manifestations. What’s more, I’ll warrant I know the lucky fellow.” And with that he smiled at me, a most knowing smile, so that I found myself smiling back at him like an idiot, and thinking that perhaps there was still some hope for me.

  From Jermyn Street, Mister Woston conveyed us both to Whitehall, and Their Lordships. Newton seemed more perturbed by the ordeal that lay before him than I had ever seen him; even when he had faced Scroope’s pistol, he had not seemed so much affected as he was now.

  “It is only an informal audience,” he said, as if trying to reassure himself about what was to happen. “Their Lordships’ letter was most specific about that. And I have every hope that this matter will be quickly resolved. But, if you will be so kind, I should like you to record my words, in case I have need of a formal transcript of these proceedings.”

  And so it was that I was permitted to enter the chamber where the Lords Justices who governed the country were assembled. Their faces did not encourage optimism, viewing Newton as if they wished to be elsewhere, and as if they had conceived some disdain for him, and would not suffer his renowned intelligence to make fools of them.