The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  “I should not have come. We were too optimistic.”

  “Hardly too optimistic. Hopeful. Yes, we had a setback today, but I would urge you to continue your visits. Minz and Gerhardt speak of the soothing effect of familiar faces, and their latest research shows great promise.”

  “Of course,” Síomón said, but his thoughts were still on Gwen. Had she sounded more desperate today? And, yet, she had remembered his name. That had to be a positive sign.

  Still distracted by that possibility, Síomón only half listened as Loisg escorted him through the sanitarium’s broad and well-lit halls, speaking in general terms about Gwen’s condition. It was a familiar topic, this discourse on madness and obsession, and how a brilliant mind often shattered under unbearable pressure, only to seek refuge in that which had driven it mad.

  For Gwen was mad, mad from too many numbers, and the damage appeared irreversible. However, they were trying kindness, as far as that went, and with Síomón’s permission, they employed some of the more exotic cures—combinations of music and drugs, the newest electrical therapy, and other techniques Síomón didn’t want to examine too closely. Loisg spoke of finding the root cause, as though Gwen were a complex number whose illness they could calculate.

  They came at last to the staircase that wound down to the sanitarium’s foyer, a grand airy room decorated with opulent couches and rugs, and hung about with enormous paintings from masters in the previous century. Bowls of fresh-cut roses were placed about on marble stands, giving off a sweet scent. Several visitors clustered about the windows, waiting their own turn to speak with the doctors. Síomón recognized their look of painful expectation as he and Loisg came down the stairs. A lone man occupied a couch by the empty fireplace, apparently absorbed in a book. As Doctor Loisg took his leave from Síomón, the man stood and approached.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m told you might be Mr. Síomón Madóc.”

  He was a tall man, with a lean tanned face that certain women might call handsome. His eyes were warm and brown, his gaze direct. He wore a well-cut black frock coat and silk vest. Obviously an educated man, though his accent was hard to place. There were traces of shadows underneath his eyes, as though he had slept badly, and an air of tension beneath that polite expression.

  “I am Síomón Madóc,” Síomón said slowly. “But you have the advantage of me, sir.”

  The man smiled, one that vanished as soon as it arrived. “Perhaps I should start over. My name is Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. I’d like a few words with you, if I might.”

  He spoke politely enough, but there was something in his manner that told Síomón the question was a perfunctory one. “Concerning what?”

  Another of those ghostlike smiles made its appearance. “Let us talk outside, Mr. Madóc. There’s a park nearby, and a pathway along the Blackwater, if you would be so kind as to indulge me.”

  At once the clues shifted—Ó Deághaidh’s manner, the way his gaze absorbed every detail—and though the man had not mentioned any official title, Síomón knew why Ó Deághaidh had sought him out. He’s come about the murders.

  He studied Ó Deághaidh with greater wariness. “I’m happy to assist you in whatever way possible, but if you’ve come with questions about the cases from last spring, I’ve remembered nothing new.”

  “I didn’t say you had, Mr. Madóc. Please. Come with me.”

  Síomón consulted his watch. An hour until his next lecture remained. Unless this man Ó Deághaidh wanted more than a few answers—and Síomón had none to give—he could easily make the university grounds with time to spare. He nodded his agreement.

  They exited the foyer and set off along the sanitarium’s pathways, winding down the sloping lawn toward the gates below. Síomón had expected Ó Deághaidh to begin his questions at once, but Ó Deághaidh remained silent, glancing from side to side as they passed the masses of late-blooming lilies, their rich scent hanging heavy in the warm air. Though it was still early afternoon, the grounds were nearly empty, the lawns rolling in smooth emerald waves, with stands of ancient oaks here and there, and a thicker wall of shrubbery and trees that concealed the iron gates. From certain angles, Síomón could almost imagine himself at home at Gleanntara, up north in County Laingford. It was for that reason, as well as its reputable doctors, that he had chosen Aonach Sanitarium for Gwen’s confinement.

  “You are a man of impressive wealth,” Ó Deághaidh said.

  Recalled abruptly from his reverie, Síomón nearly stumbled. “And you are a man of abrupt turns, Mr. Ó Deághaidh. Or do you have a title I should use?”

  Ó Deághaidh shrugged. “My title is Commander Ó Deághaidh, if you prefer a more formal address,” he said. “And I apologize for trespassing into your private concerns.”

  “Of course,” Síomón said automatically. He felt an immediate spark of irritation, then, at himself and Ó Deághaidh both, and added, “But then, trespassing on private concerns is your trade, is it not?”

  It was a direct jab. Rude, even, but Ó Deághaidh seemed unperturbed by the comment. “It is, sadly. We come to our jobs with a natural curiosity about the world, and our work encourages it. You might say the same for you and your fellow students, no?”

  So the commander came well armed and ready to use his weapons. Síomón covered his reaction with a shrug of his own. “So they tell me. As the poet once said, ‘The tools of mathematics are a curious set—the eye, the hand, the pen, the brain. It is with these instruments, we cast our net. And bring to earth a flight of numbers fantastique strange.’”

  Ó Deághaidh nodded in recognition. “Henry Donne. The famously obscure Anglian poet of the late sixteenth century.”

  “An obscurity he earned,” Síomón replied. “And yet, worth studying. His meter falters, but I find his sentiments ring true.”

  They had come to the outer gates, which opened onto Tulach Mhór Street, a broad avenue filled with carriages and the occasional motorcar. With Ó Deághaidh leading, they crossed between the horses and cars to the farther side, then into the park, where a series of well-tended footpaths soon brought them to the Blackwater, a dark and sluggish river that wound through Awveline City’s heart. The sun shone like a diamond in the September sky, bright against a lacework of silvery clouds, and other pedestrians strolled the walkways—women in silk-lined pelisses, their faces hidden beneath sweeping hats; men in high-collared shirts and bowlers. The air was summer-warm, but then a gust of wind rattled the trees, sending down a shower of brown and crimson leaves.

  “As you’ve guessed, I’ve come about the murders last spring.”

  Ó Deághaidh’s voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Síomón’s skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the Garda gave up its investigation for lack of evidence.”

  “The department merely suspended their inquiries. They did not close the case.”

  “And now?”

  “And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has.”

  Síomón stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve had another death, Mr. Madóc. A young woman named Maeve Ní Cadhla.”

  The news struck Síomón like a physical blow. He’d talked to Maeve just yesterday afternoon. She had answered the last arguments from her adviser, and meant to start writing her thesis the following semester. It was to be a paper concerning a simpler proof for the prime number theorem.…

  “When?” he whispered. “How?”

  “Last night,” Ó Deághaidh said. “A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons.”

  Síomón stared at Ó Deághaidh, still unable to comprehend the news. All around them, the autumn day continued, serene and lovely. A half-dozen balloons drifted across the skies, their motors silent at this distance. Blue messenger craft and grand air-yachts, heading across the Éireann Sea to the island of Albion—some to the kingdom of Alba in the north, or beyond to Denmark’s territories, others for the various districts of the Anglian Dependencies—Manx
or Wight or Cymru or to Anglia itself, who gave the region its name. Above them all, a single red balloon floated between the pale gray clouds.

  “We’ve notified Lord Ó Cadhla about his daughter,” Ó Deághaidh continued in that soft strange tone. “And we are talking to certain people who might have useful information. However, I would appreciate your silence until we make our formal announcement of the crime.”

  With an effort, Síomón recovered himself. “How do you know it’s the same murderer?”

  “The evidence so far supports our theory.”

  He could be speaking of mathematical theorems and their proofs, not of a young woman slaughtered by a madman. Dislike sparked inside Síomón, and he had to struggle to keep that reaction from his voice. “And you want it kept a secret. Why?”

  “Several reasons, but the chief among them is that your provost pleaded strongly for discretion. He plans on making a general announcement tomorrow. You knew the young woman, did you not?”

  “Of course I knew her!”

  The words burst out of him, loud enough to startle a passerby. Síomón wiped his forehead and tried to calm himself. “Of course I knew her,” he repeated quietly.

  A gifted young woman, who had discarded all the trappings of wealth and privilege when she entered the university, much to her family’s dismay. The family had become reconciled, then proud of her achievements. Síomón recalled how Maeve’s cheeks flushed with the passion of numbers when she argued a theory. It was hard to accept that she was dead.

  A breeze ruffled the Blackwater’s surface, drawing silvery lines over the dark waters—waters that had cradled the murderer’s first victim. The season had been early spring, the soft twilight air filled with newly blooming flowers.

  “Did you like her?” Ó Deághaidh asked.

  Síomón thrust his hands into his pockets to still their trembling. “I—I respected her greatly, Commander Ó Deághaidh.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Are you asking if I liked them, or respected them?”

  “Both. I’m sorry to disturb you with these questions, when you’ve surely answered them before.”

  You know I have not, Síomón thought. When they interviewed him five months ago, the gardaí had merely requested an accounting of his activities for every night the murderer struck. No one had asked Síomón about personal matters, nor had they requested his opinion of his fellow students’ abilities. He suspected the provost had used his political influence to shield the students, and thus protected the university against further scandal.

  But Ó Deághaidh was evidently waiting for some kind of response. “I knew them all,” Síomón said. “In some cases, I knew more than I liked. It’s a large university, but a small department—the graduate department, that is.”

  Ó Deághaidh nodded. “The Queen’s Constabulary is much like that.”

  Síomón’s pulse gave a sudden painful leap. The Queen’s Constabulary of Éire normally concerned itself with only royal affairs. But then he remembered Maeve’s family. Lord Ó Cadhla was a high-ranking minister in Éire’s government and adviser to the queen. It was his influence, no doubt, that had brought Commander Ó Deághaidh to Awveline City.

  “You look unsettled, Mr. Madóc.”

  Síomón ran his hand over his face. “I am more than unsettled. I am distressed. It’s a hard thing, to hear that a friend has died.”

  And you gave me that news without warning. Then watched to see how I acted.

  But he knew better than to say so to a stranger, much less a member of the Queen’s Constabulary.

  Ó Deághaidh himself appeared unmoved by Síomón’s outburst. He motioned toward the path. “I understand your distress,” he said. “But come, let us keep walking.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Síomón continued down the path. Ó Deághaidh kept pace with him with long, easy strides. They had come to a section where young ash trees bent over the path, making a leafy tunnel of green and gold. Close by, the Blackwater murmured and a dank, muddy scent filled the air. Most of the pedestrians had turned aside to the upper walkways, and they were truly alone.

  Síomón waited for the questions to continue, but once more Ó Deághaidh surprised him. “I’ve read the latest mathematical papers,” he said. “Some of the theories from Mexica are intriguing, if somewhat whimsical. Those from the West African scholars, from the Nri Republic in particular, appear more practical.”

  This time it was obvious the abrupt shifts in subject were deliberate. “You mean the theory of numbers in relationship to the production of energy?” Síomón asked.

  “Yes, those. But also the ones concerning electrical properties of certain equations.”

  He went on to explain which properties he meant, and in far greater detail than Síomón would have expected from any garda or even an officer of the Queen’s Constabulary. Indeed, Ó Deághaidh seemed unusually well informed about recent controversies and debates in the field, even about the exotic corner of number theory Síomón had chosen for his doctoral thesis.

  “How numbers affect dreams,” Ó Deághaidh said. “Is that a fair description?”

  His musing tone lulled Síomón into speaking as he would with a fellow student. “Not quite,” he said. “My theory depends upon the concept that numbers have both abstract and tangible qualities. That is, we use numbers to measure and quantify, but we also use them to express theories completely divorced from the physical realm. I believe we might take that concept one more step—that they have a spiritual quality as well.”

  “Some might call that numerology.”

  Ó Deághaidh spoke softly, almost indifferently, but Síomón’s face flushed. “You are hardly a mathematician, Commander Ó Deághaidh. How would you know?”

  “Because I studied the subject myself. I never completed my degree, which I sometimes regret. However, I read the journals still.”

  Síomón exhaled softly. So and so. The commander was a failed mathematician. That would explain much. “My apologies,” he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I’ve had many arguments about my thesis. I’ve become somewhat sensitive on the topic.”

  “Sure and we all have our prickly moments, Mr. Madóc. No need to apologize. But speaking of mathematics, I understand your sister also intended to study at Awveline University. I spoke with your adviser, Professor Ó Dónaill, this morning, and he mentioned her name. He said she had begun work on prime numbers before.”

  Síomón stopped and wheeled about. “What does that have to do with your investigation, Commander? Or do you like to distress everyone you question, the guilty and innocent alike?”

  He had spoken out loud, hardly caring who overheard them. Ó Deághaidh regarded him without any expression on that lean brown face.

  “Once more I apologize,” he said. “I was merely expressing my sympathy, however clumsily.”

  They had exited the tunnel of trees. Here a set of granite steps led up the bank to Mac Iomaire Avenue, which now crossed the river into the city’s financial district. Síomón was vaguely aware of foot traffic on the pavement above, but no one paid any attention to them. It was just as Ó Deághaidh had suggested back in Aonach Sanitarium, though now Síomón suspected the privacy was for Ó Deághaidh’s benefit, not his.

  “Have you any more questions, Commander?” he asked.

  Ó Deághaidh tilted his head and studied Síomón a moment before answering. “None for today, Mr. Madóc. The official investigation begins tomorrow after Doctor Ó Néill makes his announcement. I’ll send someone by your quarters to take your formal statement.” He smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I thank you, Mr. Madóc, for your company and your patience.”

  He held out his hand. Síomón shook it, noting the strength in his grip. “Good day then, Commander.”

  “Good day to you, Mr. Madóc.”

  Ó Deághaidh climbed the stairs and turned onto the bridge, where he soon blended into the crowd of clerks and messengers. Síom
ón lingered a moment longer by the riverbanks, taking in for the first time the fragile sunlight upon the autumn leaves, shimmering like so many raindrops. His gaze returned to the river and he shuddered. Paul Keller’s body had been discovered not far from this bridge, his throat slashed and his face hacked into a purpled bloody mass.

  Before the university had recovered, other murders had followed. Li Cheng. Úna Toíbín. Nicolás Ó Cionnaith. All of them graduate students—three in the mathematics department. The newspapers had focused immediately on that fact. They dwelt in loving detail upon university politics, the youth of the victims, and any irregularities in their pasts. That the murderer had mutilated his victims with a knife only heightened the titillation.

  A madman, said the newspapers.

  Surely not one of us, said the provost, thinking first of his reputation, so entwined with the university’s.

  The Garda had made no public statements, preferring to ask their questions in private. In the end they had run out of questions, and the cases remained on hold.

  Until now.

  Síomón glanced up. Above the city, the skies arced, empty of balloons for the moment. Then he glimpsed a swiftly moving speck—the red balloon from earlier, rising higher and higher toward the sky’s limit.

  * * *

  In spite of his best efforts, Síomón could not find a cab until he had jogged halfway back to the center of Awveline’s Old City. He arrived at the mathematics quadrant just moments before the clock tower struck three o’clock. Síomón galloped up the steps and into the building for mathematical studies, then around the stairs to the back of the lecture hall. A quick survey of the room showed him that Professor Ó Dónaill had not yet made his appearance. Even better, Evan and Susanna had saved him a seat a few rows down from where he stood. He sidled along the row and sank into the chair between them.

  “Late,” Evan whispered.

  “Within reasonable deviation,” Síomón replied.