‘P’raps you’d better come in here and talk private for a moment,’ she said. I got up and followed her into the fuming kitchen, and from there, into a small, cluttered back room.
‘Miss Pease,’ I said, ‘I’m a friend of Arthur Weatherburn, the man accused of murdering Mr Crawford and the others.’
I meant to go on, but suddenly and quite unexpectedly, I burst into tears. In a moment I found myself pillowed on Miss Pease’s ample breast. She put her arms around me, and said,
‘Dear, dear, it must be very hard for you.’
‘Yes,’ I sobbed. ‘Oh, Miss Pease, he didn’t do it!’
‘Well, poor Mr Crawford ain’t done it either, seems now, so then I don’t know who it might have been,’ she said.
‘I came to ask you about that,’ I told her, suddenly feeling that perfect directness was possible with this kindly soul. ‘I wanted to know if it was true, what you said. I mean, really true – do you really remember all that? Or was it just the police or somebody else wanting you to say it, so as to incriminate Arthur?’ And the tears began again, harder than ever.
‘La, la,’ she said, patting me on the back. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. I do wish I could help you. It’s a nasty situation you’re in, isn’t it? I truly wish I could tell you that I don’t remember really about that poor dead Mr Crawford, and that mayhap he was the murderer after all, and not your young man. But it can’t be done. They was really here that night, the two of them. I know it well as can be, what with the mutton chops that was his favourite dish, and the Saint Valentine jokes about sweethearts and all. There ain’t no doubt about it, dear. It came back to me when Pam reminded me, and that’s how it happened, that’s all. Now, now, don’t take on so, dear. If your young man’s innocent, why they’ll acquit him, won’t they? Now, you take this handkerchief, and sit down, and have your bit of fish.’ And I did, and then a comforting cup of tea, before which I sit as I write to you.
Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I can no more bring myself to believe that this kind and sincere woman is lying than that Arthur is the murderer. What shall I do?
Your miserable
Vanessa
Cambridge, Saturday, May 26th, 1888
My dearest Dora,
Last night, upon returning from my sad little dinner at Jenny’s Corner, I had a terrifying experience.
I was walking back to the station, to return home. My mind was filled with the disaster which has befallen Arthur, and the devastating kindliness of Miss Pease. I could not conclude anything other than that she and her friend Miss Simpson had told the truth, the simple truth, and this means the murderer is still at large. Who can it be, Dora?? More strongly than ever, the thought was borne in upon me that the murderer exists in flesh and blood. I had felt that same feeling in the first days when I went to visit Arthur in prison, but afterwards, I believe I had convinced myself so completely that Mr Crawford must be the murderer, that I quite forgot my original fears. They began to return in force, as I ran over the familiar faces of Arthur’s many colleagues whom I had met over the last months. One of them must be secretly mad. Who was it? Where was he now? What was he planning, presently, at this very minute? Who would be the next victim? Was he trying to systematically eliminate the entire group of mathematicians associated to Mr Akers and Mr Crawford? Arthur was undoubtedly one of them. I could not help feeling that even if a condemnation awaited Arthur, at least while the trial lasted, he was safely in prison, where the murderer could not get at him.
But is not the murderer afraid, Dora? Does he not feel his entrails burn with fear and guilt as the trial takes its daily course? Does he follow it? Is he sitting in the courtroom, day after day? I felt my hair rise upon the back of my head, and at the same moment, I became aware that I was being quietly followed, down a dark and empty street.
My heart pounded wildly, as I forced myself to continue on steadily towards the corner, where a dim glow showed me that the perpendicular street was gaslit. I dared not turn and look at my pursuer, nor quicken my pace to alarm or attract him. I tried to tell myself that it was simply another quiet foot passenger, like myself, walking along innocently on business of his own. Or even an ordinary footpad, pickpocket, thief, attacker of any kind – anyone at all – but not the Cambridge murderer! Of course, that could not be. Why should he have followed me here?
The more I walked, the more I felt that if I should suddenly turn around, I would see a familiar face, and if so, I would know. Yet I was too afraid. I decided to do it exactly when I had very nearly reached the street corner. I fixed my eyes upon the point I meant to arrive at when I should suddenly whip around, and advanced steadily towards it.
But before I reached it, my unknown follower suddenly broke into a run. His footsteps pounded behind me. My heart leapt, my eyes started out of their sockets, I turned around and saw him bearing down on me, his collar up and his face muffled by a dark scarf, and involuntarily I also began to run wildly towards the corner, screaming. I was hindered by my skirts, and he reached me before I could come to the lighted section, and seizing me violently from behind, pulled me into a doorway. I wrenched loose and struggled and screamed. Then came running footsteps, and a man and a woman together came hurrying round the corner from the lighted street. The man shouted out, ‘What’s happening?’ My assailant dropped me and raced away like lightning, down the street the other way, and I fell into the arms of the lady, my heart knocking as though to burst. They scolded me a great deal for walking alone in such a dangerous neighbourhood, and hailed a hansom to take me to the station. I cried in the hansom, partly from relief, partly from distress, and also because I had not been able to identify my attacker in any way, not even to guess his age; simply that he was not an elderly man because he seemed so strong and fast. It could have been him, or it could have been a perfect stranger, a criminal lurking in the dark London streets, waiting to rob or kill any vulnerable victim who should walk by. Perhaps I will never know. But fear has invaded me now.
When I arose this morning, I found that last night’s experience had left me weak and shaking, and I had no desire to be alone. I decided to visit Emily and offer her to accompany me on a walk. But the maid informed me that she had gone to visit Rose, so I went hither.
The girls were delighted to see me. Emily at once began to wrap her arms around her friend, and ask her if she would not invite me in for a moment, and play something for me.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Rose capriciously, dancing about. ‘Have you already played for Miss Duncan?’
‘No,’ said Emily.
‘Well, then I don’t have to,’ began Rose, but Emily interrupted her.
‘Oh, I only learn piano with Miss Forsyth,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Everybody plays piano. Anyway, I don’t like it nearly as much as other things. It’s not like you, Rose. You get to play what you want.’
As we entered Rose’s house, I was immediately struck by its loveliness and taste. Her mother greeted me warmly and asked if I would like a cup of tea. As soon as I was provided with it, Emily began to cajole again.
‘Could we please, please just take Miss Duncan to see Rose’s room? It is so pretty, and she has never seen it.’
‘Why, of course,’ she said, and I was towed upstairs by two eager hands and made to admire Rose’s bed, her curtains, and her toys, all of which appeared to have been lovingly fabricated by her mother and herself, in the fluffiest and tenderest possible manner.
‘Rose made ever so many of these,’ Emily said, showing them to me. ‘But this one is the biggest toy of all,’ and she reached underneath the high bed, extracted a very large box, and opened its clasps.
Out came a great musical instrument made of dark, burnished wood – a violoncello. From watching Rose, Emily had understood a little bit of how to play it, and she took up the bow, rubbed something on it and sitting on a chair, took the ’cello in front of her and began to make sounds with it, using her left hand to change the notes, while Rose danced about the ro
om, dimpling, and pretending that there was no relation at all between herself and the enormous instrument. Emily continued on, purposely teasing her friend by making uglier and uglier noises, until Rose could finally stand it no longer and snatched the bow from her.
‘No, let me show you!’ she began, meaning only to guide Emily’s hands, but Emily jumped up with alacrity, pushed her into the chair and planted the instrument firmly in front of her. Only her head and shoulders appeared behind it from above, while her ample skirts enveloped the sides of it below. She began to play a little bit, slowly, as if testing the strings, and turning the keys. Then the music grew and soared in a great wave of rich, vibrating sounds. It was slow, deep and heart-rending, seemingly with a great many voices, as the strings sounded simultaneously, bringing to mind a noble forest, where the very trees join above to form a natural cathedral, arching in worship to the sky. Then, after a little pause, the instrument, as though singing of itself, launched into something gay and humorous – a jig. A final chord, a pause, and it slipped to a dramatic, desperate plea which reached out wrenchingly, tormentingly. The succession of moods was so extreme, the voice of the music so absorbing, the changes so sudden, so unexpected that my heart seemed pulled this way and that and I quite forgot about Rose herself; it was a great shock to me when the plaint came to an end and the violoncello’s wild voice was replaced by her own little chirp, as she flung the ’cello on her bed, saying, ‘There, the end!’
Her mother was standing in the doorway, listening. I turned to her as the two girls chatted together, and said, ‘How beautifully, how unexpectedly she plays.’
‘Unexpected, indeed!’ she concurred, laughing. ‘My husband and I hardly know what to do about it. It began when she was barely five years old; I began to teach her the piano, and to take her to concerts, and within a month she had refused to touch so much as a black or white key, and was demanding only to play a ’cello like those she had seen in great orchestras. And she has never stopped since. It is really awkward for a girl to play such an instrument – she has to have all her dresses made specially. We are quite taken aback by it all; I don’t know what will come of it. She is often quite reluctant to practise, or to play for friends, and behaves in every way like a perfectly normal little girl, so that we feel reassured, and then she picks up the instrument, and it seems as though an entirely different person is playing; someone strangely old, and deeply versed in every human emotion. Her father did not mind satisfying her when he thought it was the caprice of a tiny child, but now he is especially worried that it might eventually occur to her to wish to appear on a concert stage – I’m afraid he would find that truly unacceptable!’
I felt a little sorry for Rose, if her hopes were destined to be blighted. I glanced over to her, but it seemed that no one could have been less interested in the question of a possible future career on or off the stage. She was extremely busy with her family of dolls.
‘There is plenty of time!’ I said. ‘She is enjoying herself greatly for now.’
‘Oh yes, she dearly loves her friends, and her school, and her dolls. What a delightful mother she will be some day. She is an odd little being, however. She can be extraordinarily bold and stubborn at times! I do hope she is not so in class.’
‘Oh, no indeed,’ I laughed. ‘She is charming, and I could not do without her.’
Rose’s mother descended, and I turned to Rose.
‘How beautifully you played,’ I told her. ‘The very wood of the instrument seems to call out of itself!’
‘Oh yes, it talks – it’s my big baby,’ she said happily, taking it in her arms. ‘Let me put it back in its bed. It has a lovely bed, look – all with velvet inside.’
I looked.
‘Oh!’ said Rose, her cheeks becoming a little pink. ‘What are these? I forgot!’ She extracted a slightly crumpled bundle of papers from the luxurious, dark rose-coloured interior of the large box.
‘Rose – what are those papers?’ I asked her in amazement. ‘Look – they have mathematics written on them. Wherever did you get them?’
‘It was a secret,’ she said a little guiltily. ‘We found them, Emily and I, and we thought it was a clue. But then we forgot all about it.’
‘Found them? Where?’
‘They were in Mr Beddoes’ cat house, in one of the baskets, under the mattress. We found them when we shook them all out and fluffed them up. We thought they must be an important clue to the mystery, and we took them, and I hid them in my petticoats and brought them here. We meant to give them to you, really, Miss Duncan. We just forgot!’
I took the papers, and scanned them eagerly. They were neatly written, line after line of mathematics in Mr Beddoes’ small, regular handwriting, which I recognised from the list of kittens Mrs Beddoes had shown me. The margins were carefully annotated with question marks and even tiny questions. They were well-thumbed, as though they had been often turned over and read and worked on, as well as being a little crumpled, perhaps from their journey in Rose’s petticoats.
‘Whatever can they be?’ I said. ‘What a strange place to keep them! Shall we go to your house, Emily, and ask your uncle what they might mean?’
I drew Emily away by the arm, and we took our leave of Rose and her mother. Emily did not want to leave, but she was also greatly interested by the idea of finding out about the suddenly rediscovered clue.
‘Rose is such fun,’ she told me. ‘She has a hundred ideas, she makes things all by herself, all the time. Sometimes I’d like to go and live in her house! I wish Edmund was more like that, but he isn’t. He needs me to tell him stories and cheer him up. It’s a secret,’ she whispered in my ear as we arrived at her door, ‘but he’s very sad. He won’t really tell me why, though. It is a secret – please don’t mention it to Mother.’
At the door of her house, she eagerly enquired if her uncle was within, but we were informed that he had gone out for the evening. Emily kissed me affectionately.
‘Do, do come back tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Uncle Charles will be back then, and we will show him the papers!’ And she entered, hopefully to shed a ray of sunshine into the gloomy atmosphere of care which seems to reign in her house ever since the tragic moment in the theatre.
I felt afraid when I found myself once again alone in the streets. I slipped along warily, and each footstep made me start. I was relieved when I entered my own rooms and barred the door behind me. I hid the papers carefully.
I do hope that tomorrow will reveal something of importance!
Your loving
Vanessa
Cambridge, Sunday, May 27th, 1888
Dearest Dora,
What a lovely long letter I received from you! For a few moments, while I read it, I was transported to home, and forgot everything about my current circumstances. So much so, that suddenly, after reading about Mr Edwards’ beautiful letter and his offer of marriage, I felt my heart rejoice, and wondered briefly why it seemed so very much heavier than usual. Memory had momentarily disappeared, but not pain.
Oh, Dora, how exciting, how beautiful! Dear Mr Edwards. I’ve always wondered, when sayings and aphorisms are so contradictory, how one can possibly use them to determine anything? When he left, who could ever have said whether it was going to be ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ or ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’. But oh, Dora, will you have the courage to wait so long – more than a year for him to return on leave, and then maybe several until he may return to England forever? Or would you have the courage to envision such a plunge into unknown regions as joining him in India would represent? But then, a voyage to India – a mere country – cannot be half so mysterious and so frightening as that other voyage, into the wilderness of marriage and husband, and that with a man whom you know so little as yet. Yet how should I talk, when one cannot control one’s dreams …
One’s dreams, so easily shattered, so far from reality! And (as far as I am concerned) what dreadful, what fearsome, what unthinkable reality! Day af
ter day I struggle in vain to make sense of the confusion of events surrounding the dreadful murders, and succeed only in learning one piece of seemingly meaningless information after another. Earlier this evening, I betook myself to Emily’s house, in the hopes of meeting Mr Morrison, and obtaining his opinion on the papers discovered by the girls in Mr Beddoes’ garden. He was within, and we mounted to Emily’s nursery, where I speedily spread them out in front of him.
‘What do you think of them?’ I asked him.
He scanned the papers one by one, in order, stopping here and there, reading carefully, peering closely at the tiny marginal notes. He began to become quite excited.
‘You know, I am really no expert on the famous n-body problem,’ he told me, ‘but like everybody else, I am more or less familiar with the basics of the topic, from hearing people lecture on it. This paper is dealing with that problem. Look, here it says “let n=3”. Yes, indeed, I recognise these differential equations as those expressing the three-body problem. Whose manuscript is this, Miss Duncan? Where does it come from?’
‘It was written by Mr Beddoes,’ I told him, ‘and found by Rose and Emily, in a place where he had hidden it very secretly.’
‘Rose and Emily!’ he exclaimed, gazing more closely at the page in front of him, his face gleaming intensely. ‘My niece is beginning her mathematical career very young, then, if she has found the lost solution to such a famous problem. For look – this manuscript purports to contain a solution! See this heavily underlined formula here? It is the central point of the manuscript, I would say. And what follows looks like a sketchy proof that it is the sought-for solution to the mysterious differential equations. My word, this is exciting. So, of all people, Beddoes would be the one to have been in possession of a solution, all along, when people were all thinking that either Akers or Crawford must be looking for one!’
‘Might they not have been working together?’ I asked.
The Three-Body Problem Page 18