The Three-Body Problem

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘What evidence can they possibly have?’ I cried.

  ‘I am not sure,’ he answered wearily. ‘They must have something special, because I have been formally accused of all three murders, in front of nothing less than a grand jury, given the heinous nature of the crime, according to the public prosecutor. What really happened today is that the public prosecutor convinced the jury that there is enough evidence to warrant a deep and complete investigation into the situation. Because this is all that he is trying to accomplish, only the prosecutor need speak and introduce witnesses; there is no defence, as I am not considered to be on trial, although I can tell you that it feels very like it in the most unpleasant way. This prosecutor called the medical examiner as witness and had him tell the grand jury how Akers and Beddoes were killed and the usual nonsense about the restaurant. But then he began on Crawford, and explained that he was killed by downing a good half-bottle of his own whisky which contained some kind of poison! Then came the strange part: he claimed he could justify that it would have been perfectly possible for me to have murdered Crawford, since the poison could have been introduced into the bottle at any time in the last weeks or months. He said that he would present solid evidence showing that I could have done it – it’s a total mystery to me! And then he went on to say that the motive for all these killings was mathematical. He explained at length that although a murder for a mathematical result might be a difficult thing for the layman to understand, the jury should realise that the desire for glory reigned as strong in the breasts of mathematicians as in anyone else’s. The jury then unanimously declared that there was sufficient evidence against me to warrant a trial for murder. It’s fixed to begin on the 16th of May, and until then I’m condemned to remain here without bail.’

  In spite of his forced calm, I saw that Arthur’s confidence had been shaken, and that he was not at all serene about the upcoming trial. Worse, I did not know how to offer him any comfort, for my own inside seemed wracked with fear at this horrible, unexpected turn of events. When the warder ordered me to leave, I found it difficult to tear myself away, and yet remaining was unbearable also, as it was almost impossible for me to conceal my feelings of fear and distress.

  The only drop of comfort in my misery came in the form of a visit from Mr Morrison, who arrived this afternoon instead of Miss Forsyth, to collect Emily from lessons. He hung about, making conversation, until the usual little melee of pupils, governesses and mothers had departed. I was moving silently about the schoolroom, putting it in order, unwilling to speak to him, but he approached me with a firm step.

  ‘I wish to say something, Miss Duncan,’ he said.

  ‘I am not sure I wish to hear it,’ I answered icily.

  ‘Oh, yes, you are, I am sure that you are,’ he replied undaunted. ‘I want to thank you, really. You convinced me the other day that you were right; I was being a fool. So I went to visit Weatherburn.’

  I turned to him in surprise. ‘You went to the prison?’

  ‘Why not? You have been there, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I replied, ‘but I did not think that you …’

  ‘I wouldn’t, normally,’ he interposed. ‘Dashed embarrassing, really, doing this kind of thing. You women don’t understand what it’s like for men; you have all kinds of private conversations all the time, in your homes and over tea and everywhere; you’re used to it! But we don’t do that kind of thing much between ourselves; we’re simply no good at it. We do sometimes talk about feelings, you know – but there’s a special language to do it with; it’s all sort of abstract, or has to seem to be. I’m expressing myself dashed badly. I’m very sorry!’

  ‘No, you aren’t. I do understand,’ I told him.

  ‘And then, behind prison bars, it’s worse than ever. There you are, separated by that beastly grille, hearing all kind of people groaning and moaning, children crying, like you’ve fallen into some Hieronymus Bosch version of hell. And I’m supposed to look him in the eyes in the middle of all this and ask him directly if he has or hasn’t actually bopped people over the head.’

  ‘But you did it?’

  ‘Well, hang it, yes, I did, actually.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He was most awfully surprised that I asked him. It was difficult for him to bring himself to come right out and tell me directly that he’d done nothing of the kind. It had nothing to do with the truth of the matter; I saw just how he felt. I’d have felt exactly the same; like the whole idea’s so silly one doesn’t even like to deny it – it lends it too much seriousness. I did feel like an idiot – it was as though I’d asked the same question to myself! I was wrong, Miss Duncan, and you were right. It’s all an enormous mistake.’

  ‘But then, you do see that we have to do something!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I do see it, and jolly well wish I could think of something to do,’ he answered, anxiously touching the small moustache which ornaments his upper lip. ‘But apart from standing by, I don’t see much. I just wanted to say this: if you undertake anything at all, do please let me know, and count on me. Don’t go investigating or anything by yourself. It might be dangerous!’

  It was nice of him, I’m sure, but if I only had something to investigate, I would certainly rush out and do it at once. There must be something. How can I just wait for the trial – and then, even worse, sit through it day after day and watch?

  I must think. Oh, Dora dear, do help me!

  Your most worried

  Vanessa

  Wednesday, May 9th, 1888

  Dearest Dora,

  The whole of Cambridge is deeply shocked by the death of Mr Crawford, forming, as it does, the latest in what is now appearing like a series of mysterious deaths of mathematicians. Although no official information about the means of his death has been forthcoming, so that most people really do not know whether the poor man was murdered or not, popular opinion definitely holds it that he was, and that the series of three murders are closely related and were all committed by the same hand. Visions of a secretly insane mathematician, the crazy look in his wild eyes hidden by his heavy eyelids and typically absent-minded demeanour, are rampant in the conversations I have heard in the shops and on the streets. The question of whether the arrested man can now be considered as the obvious murderer is discussed openly.

  I cannot seem to think about anything else, and after tormenting myself this morning for some time, I resolved that I must take some action at any cost – anything rather than sit passively by in worry and anguish! But what? My very first decision is that from now on, I will write down every single thing that happens in my letters to you; no detail shall be left out, and I shall put down every idea, every notion that passes through my mind, every word I hear. From this point on, these letters shall be more than letters: they shall be documents to be studied, and you shall read them and reread them, Dora, dear, and tell me what you think. Somewhere within all this mass of information the truth must be hidden, and we must be able to find it!

  Having taken this decision, I felt too impatient to sit still, and noting that it does not exclude direct action, I made up my mind to locate the doctor who attended Mr Crawford at his death, and discover from him if Mr Crawford’s death must necessarily be considered to be a murder or if, after all, there cannot be some other explanation …

  I put this plan into action immediately, by betaking myself to the St Andrew’s police station, and enquiring quite directly of the officer behind the counter, what was the name of the doctor who had attended Mr Crawford’s corpse. He was at first reluctant to discuss the grisly event, but I exercised a little charm and persuasion, until he consented to take out and open a heavy file containing the previous day’s log, and produced the name of a certain Dr Jackson. I then had to discover the address of this doctor at the post office. There were two Doctor Jacksons, but one of them lived extremely near the college where poor Mr Crawford met his end, and would naturally have been called for. So off I went as fast
as I could to his office.

  Dr Jackson must be quite popular, for his waiting room was already full, and I felt that addressing myself to the Doctor out of my proper turn would probably engender some ill feelings towards me in the breasts of my fellow waiters. In spite of this, as soon as the door to the Doctor’s private office opened, releasing a patient, I jumped to my feet and hastened forwards.

  The Doctor put out his head at the same moment that I put mine inside, so that they met with a bump! We looked at each other for a moment in silent amazement – mine, perhaps, even greater than his, for I saw that he was not at all the gentleman that I expected, the one I had briefly conversed with in the courtyard of the college yesterday. Nevertheless, I seized the moment, and said hastily, ‘Doctor, I am not at all ill, but I should only like to have a very brief but very urgent word with you.’

  He hesitated, perhaps somewhat annoyed to be interrupted in his routine, or fearful that his waiting patients would be displeased, as indeed they were, witness the murmurs and grumbling directed at my back. However, he only said, ‘Let it not be long then, as you can see that I am extremely busy,’ and beckoning me into his private office, he shut the door.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘I have learnt from the police that you were the doctor who was called yesterday to see the mathematician who died yesterday at St John’s College, Mr Crawford.’

  He acquiesced with a short nod. ‘Yes. When he was found they sent out immediately to fetch a doctor. People always do it, even though obviously there was nothing I could do.’

  ‘I knew Mr Crawford very well,’ I began, quite untruthfully, ‘and was arriving at his rooms to visit him when I learnt that he was dead. The police were still present in his rooms. I simply wish to ask you how he died, and above all – was he murdered? It is of fundamental importance!’

  ‘Ah, now that, I cannot tell you,’ he replied simply.

  ‘Why not?’ I began, preparing to plead, persuade and cajole.

  ‘Quite simply because I have no idea. He died of heart failure, that is all I know. It may have simply been a heart attack, which itself may have been caused by a shock of some kind, or simply by a weakness of the heart.’

  ‘But could it possibly have been a murder? Could such an attack be caused by some poison?’ I insisted, wishing to hear the possibilities from his own lips rather than tell him what I knew.

  ‘It could, certainly, although I cannot make any statement to the effect that such was the case.’

  ‘What kind of poison could cause such an effect?’

  ‘It could be a derivative of belladonna, or a product of the foxglove, such as the typical heart medicine digitalin, taken in an excessive dose; those would be the most likely candidates, if any poison was used at all.’

  ‘Ah!’ I cried. ‘But tell me now; cannot the doctor tell which of these, if any, is the cause of a death by heart failure?’

  ‘It is sometimes possible, for instance if the medicine was taken pure, some smell may remain on the patient’s lips. But Mr Crawford’s whole room smelt overwhelmingly of whisky, and there was an open, empty bottle upon the table.’

  ‘Could the poison have been in the bottle?’

  ‘It is not impossible.’

  ‘But can it be determined?’

  ‘Yes, certainly, and it will no doubt be determined or already has been, by chemical analysis of the remaining drops in the bottle, as well as by a post-mortem of the dead man’s body. The case is completely independent of me now; as soon as I saw that the death did not have an obvious, natural explanation, I called in the police, and they of course brought their own doctor, who will perform all further medical examinations.’

  I understood that the medical man who accompanied the police must have been this doctor. I hopefully asked the Doctor if he knew him personally, but he did not. I was about to take my leave, when suddenly I turned back.

  ‘Doctor, if you could not smell or otherwise detect any trace of poison, what exactly made you think that Mr Crawford’s death was not a natural one?’ I asked. ‘After all, many people die from heart attacks, do they not?’

  ‘Now, that is a tricky question, my dear,’ he said, and his severe, narrow face actually creased into a somewhat embarrassed smile. ‘You are certainly of a very enquiring cast of mind. I must admit that under normal circumstances, it is more than likely that I would have simply diagnosed heart failure, made out a certificate for the poor gentleman, and that would have been the end of the story.’

  ‘And what exactly about Mr Crawford’s death constituted abnormal circumstances?’ I insisted.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he hemmed and hawed. ‘Nothing medical, at all, really. It was just … well, really, it was the fact of this death of a mathematician following so shortly after the previous ones. Why, nobody seems to be dying at all in Cambridge, lately, except for mathematicians, it seems!’

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘I see. But then why should you feel uneasy about your own suspicions? Your reason seems valid enough.’

  ‘Oh, well, it makes you wonder, really, how many of the deaths you pass along as normal are really murders, don’t you know – only the possibility simply never occurred to you. Now get along, get along, my dear. You are an alarming one for getting things out of people. I really must get back to my patients!’

  ‘Thank you so very much, Doctor,’ I said warmly. ‘You have helped me enormously. Good day,’ and I backed out of the door into the matron whose turn it had been to see the Doctor, and who was on the point of opening it in order to complain about the unjustified delay.

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ I said.

  ‘I should hope so, indeed,’ she answered in high dudgeon.

  I took my leave speedily to avoid more scolding, and walked back towards St Andrew’s, this time in the hope of finding out the identity of the other doctor, and anything that was to be found out about the post-mortem. It was not yet ten o’clock, and I felt that the officer at the police station might not appreciate my returning with further questions so soon after he had already helped me. So I compelled myself to stop rushing about, and turning into Petty Cury, I directed myself to my favourite tea room in Peas Hill, where I am presently sitting, writing to you and hoping that if I delay somewhat, another officer will in the meantime have come to relieve him. My cup of tea sits in front of me, round, kind and comforting, and I stir it slowly, while lending an ear to the conversations going on around me.

  Oh, Dora, everywhere I go, street, waiting room, tea shop, I hear people discussing and gossiping about the murders. And half the time, oh dear, they seem to be saying that fortunately the murderer appears to have been apprehended by the police with lightning speed, and is already under lock and key. I have been straining my ears in vain; not once have I heard a single person respond that the unlucky being under the aforementioned lock and key might be no more than an innocent victim of error. I still cling to the hope that Mr Crawford’s death has some other, more natural explanation. Oh, surely the police will understand this! Yet I feel worried; if only I could find out if what I suspect is right or wrong.

  Later

  I have just come out of the police station, where I drew a terrible blank. They claim that I have no right at all to know anything about the results of the post-mortem, which are communicated only to the lawyers involved in prosecuting and defending the prisoner. There was really nothing to do; the policeman behind the counter was not the same one as this morning, but he was a stolid creature resembling nothing so much as a wall, and there was clearly nothing to be extracted from him. I was compelled to leave gloomily, and now it is midday, and I must post this letter and begin the work by which I earn my daily bread. It is beginning to seem rather irksome to me …

  Write to me soon, dear

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Monday, May 14th, 1888

  My dearest Dora,

  I have spent the whole of this week in a state of intolerable nerves. I cannot sleep, and my teaching suffers, although I try as
hard as I can to use it to distract myself from the coming trial.

  The court has appointed counsel to defend Arthur. He is a rather cold-natured, dry, elderly gentleman named Mr Haversham. He has questioned Arthur at length, of course, and has told him that he must base the defence either on lack of evidence, or on an alternative theory. I asked to speak to Mr Haversham, and he questioned me about Arthur and about the dinner at Mrs Burke-Jones’s home, and about Mr Crawford, especially his conversation with Mr Beddoes on the day of the garden party, and how he had expressed the intention of dining with him soon. Rather timidly, I presented him with my theory of Mr Crawford’s guilt and suicide, and asked him if he thought it could not possibly obtain. Not that I want to destroy the poor man’s memory, God forbid! But it could hardly hurt him now, whether true or false, and could still serve as an alternative theory. Mr Haversham said that this theory may provide a valid line of defence, and that he would make use of it. It was odd, however – he did not seem to consider, even for a moment, whether one might care to determine what really happened. It seemed as though all that mattered to him was the possibility that each theory might or might not convince a jury. Such is the nature of lawyers, I suppose. About Mr Crawford, he said there was really no need to prove anything, but simply to show that it was a possibility just as valid as that presented by the opposition. He says that my memories of the conversation between Mr Crawford and Mr Beddoes on the day of the garden party might serve at least as a faint corroboration of Arthur’s assertion that his dinner with Mr Beddoes was planned by Mr Crawford; he would like to call me as a witness, but he thinks that Mr Bexheath may do so first. Mr Haversham says that opposing counsel, Mr Bexheath, representing the Crown, is known for his cruel accuracy, and that nothing vague must be put up to him, or he will tear it apart. The judge, he told us, is Sir William Penrose, who is known, though not for leniency, at least for fairness, open-minded willingness to listen, and lack of prejudice.