The Three-Body Problem

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘No, I – but Arthur is not – but can you really believe – you think, then, that he is guilty?’ I stammered, feeling my initial hot protestation ebb and die on my lips.

  ‘I suppose I believe that the police know what they are doing,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And you do not? Are you not letting yourself be blinded by your feelings?’

  I found no answer, words failed me. Mumbling a negative, I left him, barely answering his goodbye, and turned towards my own home with feet like lead. I felt desperately tired, and the prospect of the afternoon’s teaching weighed upon me. I made my best efforts, but my mind was occupied, and I must have appeared something of an automaton; I can scarcely remember what I did. The evening passed in tormented reflections, and as soon as it was dark, I fell into bed, hoping that sleep would bring me renewed hope. I was unaware of going to sleep, but found myself in the midst of a strange dream. I was walking in delightful gardens, and all around me were people whom I thought to be friends. I did not know them, but I loved them, and my heart was warm and trusting. Then, one by one, they began to turn their eyes upon me, and fix me with strange stares, until the whole crowd held me in its inimical gaze. My joy changed to abject fear and I began to back away from them slowly. But they advanced upon me step by step, until I found myself pressed back against a tree, whose large branches spread above me. Then he who stood in front took out a noose, and cast the rope over a branch. The noose hung down and swayed gently back and forth. He began to speak, and all the others took up the chant, repeating ‘Hang her by the neck, hang her by the neck, hang her by the neck.’ He approached me, threw out his hand, grasped my throat. I wanted to scream, but could not – he was strangling me! I awoke then, in a state of terror such that my eyes were starting from their sockets. I lay trembling in bed for many minutes, my forehead damp with fear. A small noise from somewhere within the room caused me to leap upright in shock. It was borne in upon me suddenly, more strongly than before, that somewhere was a murderer, who had struck the fatal blows; I verily believed he was there in my room, come to put an end to me. I sat rigid, but everything was silent. After an endless time, I dared to move my hand slowly outwards, felt on my night table, seized my box of matches, and struck one. The tiny light flickered and gave me courage. I struck another, and lit my candles; then on shaking legs, I forced myself to search through all of my three rooms. There was no one. I shot the bolt on my door and closed all of the windows, which were open to admit the fresh soft air, then flooded my face with cold water. Too afraid to return to sleep, I lit the lamp and sat at my table with pen and paper to write this letter. The morning light is just appearing now, and I feel better; perhaps I have been quite foolish. I shall return to bed.

  I send you several tender kisses; if only you were here!

  Your Vanessa

  Cambridge, Friday, May 4th, 1888

  Oh, my dearest sister,

  The most frightful, frightful thing has happened – I must tell you everything, or I shall burst! Indeed, it is becoming such a help to me to write to you, that I don’t know how I could do without it. Even as I sit down to write, I feel my tangled thoughts loosening and taking shape, and it seems easier for me to decide whether I should take any action, and what it should be.

  The day before yesterday, after lessons, I had given Emily a short note for her uncle, in which I asked him if he could kindly provide me with Mr Crawford’s address, as I needed to speak with him. She had brought an answer yesterday, a sober little note (exactly as though yesterday’s scene had not taken place, or perhaps in response to it), containing the directions to Mr Crawford’s rooms in St John’s College: go to the front gate of the college in St John’s Street, enter the first court, he lodges in the tower just to the right. The very first thing this morning, I put on my hat and determined to betake myself there.

  I walked along, and the familiar sights along the Chesterton road passed almost in a blur; the purling river caught up to me as I neared the town, and followed me with its song, as though mocking me gently for striding purposefully along a road, while it wended its heedless way through the green. I know, of course, that the town was built around the river, but it strikes my fancy to imagine the opposite; it so often seems to me that the river crosses the town where it will, disrespectful of stone walls and arched gates, be they of colleges or prisons.

  As I advanced, I planned and resolved in my head what words I should use, and how I should approach the coming discussion. For I must admit, Dora, that as a form of reaction no doubt, my mind had become completely obsessed and overtaken by the single, dominating idea which had arisen in it during my talk with Arthur: namely, that Mr Crawford had deliberately arranged the dinner with Mr Weatherburn and Mr Beddoes, and then excused himself at the last minute, with the express purpose of making Mr Weatherburn appear guilty, or at least placing him in a position so compromising that it would certainly take some time before his innocence could be determined. And what could this mean, unless Mr Crawford had a particular reason to behave so, a very precise reason. And the nature of that reason – I could hardly bring myself to look it in the face! What might Mr Crawford have done?

  My steps faltered; I felt a cold wave of fear. Was I about to pay a visit to the very one who … My mind shied away from the thought like a nervous pony, and I began to feel guilty and foolish. Although there is no reason to think that the charm of the garden party where I met him should have the slightest bearing upon the nature of the man (indeed, he had struck me as rather an overbearing character), still, the very fact of having been together with him on that sunny day, and of his being a friend and colleague of Arthur, seemed to raise an almost insuperable barrier between myself and the dangerous supposition which hovered on the fringe of my mind. After a moment, I could not give it any real credence. It seemed to me that could I only see and talk to Mr Crawford, and question him about the dinner in simple, ordinary terms, everything would be straightened out at once. And I continued on in haste to the college.

  I was not entirely sure whether such a stranger as myself, a female to boot, actually possessed any right to enter the sacred quadrangles. I turned into St John’s Street and stopped for a moment in front of the ancient front gate of the college, which rose above me, glorious as a cathedral, solid as a brick fortress, mysterious as a medieval castle. I looked up at the strange gilded and painted carvings, and from his niche, St John gazed down benevolently and encouragingly upon me.

  Inside the great gate was a porter’s lodge, and I went to address myself there for permission to enter. However, the porter was not within. I stood for a moment, hesitating, looking through into the first court, where a perfectly square green sward met my enchanted eyes. There seemed to be some little commotion going on, and I even saw people crossing the sacred grass, only to be swiftly accosted by an officious beadle. I daringly advanced, stepped out of the gate into the court, and turned to the right to locate Mr Crawford’s tower.

  There, right there, immediately, at the base of his very tower, I saw something which afforded me the most fearsome shock – you cannot imagine how my heart leapt and then contracted within my breast! The base of the tower was occupied by a tight knot of policemen and spectators, buzzing like a hive of bees. My stomach sank within me, and I felt a horrible foreboding. I approached the group, and with trepidation, steeled myself to ask what was amiss.

  ‘Someone’s dead,’ I was told.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked, my heart pounding as if to break through the bars of its natural cage.

  ‘Don’t know, some mathematician who lives here, they say.’

  A tremor ran through the tiny crowd, and it parted in front of the door to let out several people who now emerged. These appeared to be policemen, including the high-up kind who wear no uniforms; they carried various kinds of equipment for photography and other measurements. They exchanged words with each other and shook hands, and then moved out, letting two white-clad figures carrying a stretcher pass through. The figure on the s
tretcher was completely covered over, and the white-clad gentlemen were absolutely expressionless. They were accompanied by a last gentleman, who seemed to be of a medical disposition.

  The members of this important-looking group began to take leave of each other and move off. Impelled by an uncontrollable sense of urgency, I rushed up to them and said, thinking that a simple statement of my case would serve better than questions which could be interpreted as idle curiosity, ‘Excuse me, but I have come here to see a Mr Crawford on urgent business.’

  ‘Mr Crawford will not be seeing anyone on urgent business any more, miss, I’m afraid,’ the medical gentleman told me.

  ‘Oh, please don’t say it was he who was just carried away on a stretcher!’ I cried pleadingly.

  ‘I am afraid that it was, indeed, miss. I am very sorry.’

  ‘Is he dead? Whatever happened to him?’ I cried, my mind grappling with this new development. Had Mr Crawford been killed? Then his murderer was still at large, and Arthur was proven innocent! Had he died naturally? Then whatever information he held was lost forever, and Arthur was in danger. Had he committed suicide? Then perhaps the suppositions which had been flirting in my mind were true, and there was some chance of proving them.

  ‘It looks like cardiac arrest,’ said the medical man. ‘But we will not know for sure until the post-mortem.’

  ‘Cardiac arrest?’

  ‘The heart stops.’

  ‘Whyever would it do that?’

  ‘Oh, there are many possible reasons, miss. The man may have a weak heart, or have had a great shock, or have drunk too much. He certainly seems to have been drinking whisky when it happened. The exact circumstances will become clearer when I do the post-mortem. I’ll cut him open, you know, and examine the stomach and bladder contents and things.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, dear,’ I said, momentarily rendered speechless by the graphic image thus depicted. ‘Oh. I see. Oh. But please … can I just ask you … was it a natural death?’

  ‘A natural death? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, he was not murdered?!’ I burst out of a sudden, amazed and rather ashamed of my own boldness.

  ‘Murdered? How can you murder a man by cardiac arrest? By frightening him to death? Are you thinking of poison? My dear young lady, you have been reading too much Gothic literature. I strongly advise you to return home and repose yourself, and then calmly set about thinking how you can manage your urgent business without consulting Mr Crawford.’

  He turned away and joined the others, who were leaving. The policemen at the tower door were now preventing anyone from entering, and I wended my way slowly towards the exit, left the college and wandered slowly, almost aimlessly, towards the town centre. The blow appeared truly dreadful. My mind spun with possibilities. Could Mr Crawford possibly have committed suicide, weighed down by a double guilt? Perhaps, if so, he had left a note, which would exculpate Arthur! Could he have been poisoned? What would that mean? If he could not be proved to have been murdered, then what could be done?

  I looked around me, and spying a passing hansom, I flagged it suddenly and directed the man to Castle Hill. Entering the gaol, I requested to visit Mr Weatherburn.

  I was led to the door of the visiting room, and caused to stand outside it, looking in through a mesh, while a prison warder stood nearby watching and listening. Arthur entered the room, and faced me through the mesh. He looked a little pale and drawn, but his eyes still twinkled as he looked through at me. I felt a rush of warmth; time and place were momentarily forgotten.

  ‘I shall not tell you that you shouldn’t come here,’ he said smiling. ‘In fact, I am delighted to see you. I do not want to complain about my lodgings, but I must admit that I am suffering rather excruciatingly from boredom. Surely I must be allowed to have something to read, or at the very least paper and pencil! Do you think you could bring me something?’

  ‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘I feel that I will quite soon become an expert on prison regulations. I shall find out everything that can be known about visiting hours and visiting rights. Unfortunately, I cannot come in the afternoons, because of lessons.’

  ‘Well, I am delighted to see you this morning,’ he assured me warmly. ‘But do you know, I c-cannot think that this unfortunate situation will be unduly prolonged. The hearing is to be this afternoon. I can’t think what evidence they mean to present.’

  ‘This afternoon! Evidence! Oh, Arthur – but there has been a new development – seeing you made me forget it for an instant. Mr Crawford is dead!’

  He started back in amazement, and the warder gazed at us suspiciously, with the heavy stare of a cow watching the plough pass back and forth. Arthur returned to me.

  ‘Crawford dead – good heavens! But there is a rampant murderer out there somewhere. What a horrible thing. Yet as far as I am concerned, I wonder why they do not simply release me at once!’

  I saw that he imagined (as I had) that Mr Crawford had been murdered in the same way as the other two, and that he himself was in consequence quite probably exculpated. I felt annoyed with myself for giving the information in such a misleading manner, and hastened to disabuse him, hating it.

  ‘He was found dead this very morning, of heart failure, and no one knows yet whether he died naturally or not, or whether it was a murder at all,’ I explained.

  His attitude changed somewhat; he drooped, and considered this news without speaking.

  ‘Arthur,’ I said, ‘do you not think Mr Crawford might himself be the murderer, and have died of a heart attack over the excitement of it all, or perhaps have killed himself from remorse?’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he answered slowly. ‘And yet, someone must be the murderer. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Perhaps there is some way of finding out, of proving that it was Mr Crawford,’ I said. ‘Do you not think we could find out exactly what he was doing on the night Mr Akers was killed?’

  ‘Ten to one he was alone in his rooms, with no witnesses,’ he sighed.

  ‘Or he might have been the mysterious searcher in Mr Akers’ rooms,’ I said. ‘Do you remember how the newspaper article said it looked as though his papers had been disarranged by a search? Can you imagine anything that he might have been looking for?’

  ‘Well, it seems awfully silly, but I suppose he could have been looking for some mathematics, you know. Something about the n-body problem that rumour held they were both working on,’ he answered. ‘I mean, pretty much everybody was aware of some slight current of rivalry between the two of them.’

  ‘That is very important!’ I was beginning, when most suddenly and annoyingly, the warder stepped towards me, and said, ‘Time’s up, madam.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me – I mean, I’m sorry – I mean thank you!’ I said confusedly, gathering my things together. But I could not tear myself away. Arthur stood motionless, as though deprived of the energy to return to another day of prison life.

  ‘I will come back tomorrow morning,’ I told him, ‘and bring you something to read and write.’

  ‘Madam!’ said the warder in a peremptory tone.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am so sorry! Goodbye, Arthur, goodbye.’

  That foolish word did not express one hundredth of what I should have liked to tell him. But no better one came to me.

  It is evening now, and I have finished my teaching; from lack of ideas, and secret obsession with the indictment, I spent a large part of the afternoon reading aloud from Oscar Wilde’s Happy Prince. I must say that I have rarely read anything less ‘happy’; it did nothing to improve my mood. I cannot help jumping at every noise I hear, thinking that it must be Arthur returning home, released by decision of the magistrate. I can do nothing at all. I must remain patient – it is difficult – and pass the time by writing to you, which soothes me wonderfully and clears my brain.

  Oh, if only, only Mr Crawford had been hit upon the head! Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful thing to say! But he is dead anyway, and perhaps being hit over the head is
faster and more painless than cardiac arrest. Well, if I cannot quite bring myself to wish that he had been hit over the head, I wish at least that he had killed himself from remorse, and left a note explaining it all. It may yet be so.

  Well, I will put a little piece of bread on my plate; I have no appetite at all, but I will not give way to weakness. Tea and toast for supper, and audacious investigation tomorrow! I shall model myself on that very famous London detective – what is his name? – who lives in Baker Street.

  Please pray for me, and write to me when you can, and all of your own news, and all you think of mine.

  Your anxious sister

  Vanessa

  Monday, May 7th, 1888

  Dear Dora,

  I discovered on Saturday that the prosecutor asked the magistrate quite simply for a postponement of Arthur’s hearing on Friday, considering that Mr Crawford’s death was relevant. The magistrate granted a minimal postponement, only until the first thing this morning. It is not a public affair, so I could not enter, and was obliged to wait outside the courthouse. Do you know – I truly believed that I expected to see Arthur emerge, a free man. And yet, it did not end that way, and now I feel as though deep within some secret part of me, I feared and expected this all along.

  By eleven o’clock, the proceedings were over. I had not seen Arthur either entering or leaving, and in a great fever of doubt and dismay, I ended up returning to Castle Hill and enquiring as to his whereabouts. As it turned out, he had been quite simply remanded to his cell in the prison. Upon pleading to be allowed to see him in a near panic, I received the placid answer ‘Why not?’ and within a short time we were facing each other as usual through the door with the grille. He appeared pale and dismayed as he recounted the morning’s events; oh, Dora, after the presentation of the public prosecutor, it was found that there was sufficient evidence against him to warrant a trial! Upon hearing this, I suffocated with all the indignation that Arthur did not seem to feel on his own account.