“—and if I need confirmation, I shall surely ask them, sir. Right now, I wish to hear your account. Did you walk to the University or ride?"
“I took a cab."
“Directly to the lecture?"
“No, not directly. Cabs aren't permitted on the grounds. In any case, my rooms are in the square opposite the East Gates. I stopped by to fetch my gown and notebooks for the lecture."
“Anything else?"
“Some pens and a book I had promised to Susan."
“Did you meet anyone, talk to anyone, between your rooms and the lecture hall?"
Simon shook his head. “No. No one."
Dee studied him a moment. His eyes, which had appeared so warm that afternoon, now appeared hard and bright in his weathered face. It was, Simon thought, as though Dee had stripped away every superfluous quality, leaving behind only that relentless curiosity.
“Very well,” Dee said. “What next? You came to the lecture hall. Whom did you first see?"
They covered Simon's activities from when he and Dee parted by the Blackwater, to when the police arrived at the murder scene. Throughout, Dee's voice remained calm, his manner detached, but his attention to detail was meticulous. In the background, Simon could hear the scratch of pens moving over paper. Three officers were taking notes in parallel, as though Dee did not trust the account to a single chronicler.
Eventually they reached the point when Emmett Moore approached Simon in the library.
“What was the hour?” Dee asked.
“Near ten. I remember the hour bell ringing just as we left the building."
“And how would you say Mr. Moore appeared?"
Simon paused, sipped more of his water. “Upset, of course."
“At you?"
“No!” Simon slammed the glass onto the tabletop, sloshing water over the sides. Hands shaking, he mopped up the spill with his handkerchief. “I'm sorry for my outburst, Commander. It's been a long day."
“To be sure, Mr. Madoc. We are all a bit weary and shaken. Tell me, if you can, exactly how Mr. Moore appeared. Upset, you said. Did he seem angry? Grieving? Nervous?"
His mouth tasted like cotton, but Simon resisted the urge to request more water. “Do you suspect him? Surely not?"
Adrian Dee's expression remained bland. “I suspect everyone, Mr. Madoc. Did you know Colin Rees?"
The sudden shift in topic caught Simon off guard, and, for a moment, he couldn't collect his thoughts into an answer. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I knew him. Not as well as Emmett does—did. But Colin attended a number of mathematics lectures, so we talked from time to time."
“About electrical impulses in numbers?"
Simon thought he heard mockery in Dee's level voice, and his cheeks turned hot. “Yes."
“But you were not friends."
“No. Colleagues."
“Respected colleagues, you might say. I understand. Do you know if he formed any closer ties with the other mathematics students?"
So far he'd answered freely, but now Simon began to mistrust the shape of Dee's questioning, which seemed designed to draw out his opinions in dangerous ways. “Not that I know of."
Dee favored him with another thoughtful look, but apparently he had no further interest in Colin Rees, because he went back to the step-by-step questions, asking Simon about his departure with Emmett Moore from the library, what they saw from the portico and walk, who first noticed the body, and when Simon observed the unknown fugitive.
“Man or woman?” Dee asked.
“A man. At least, I believe so."
A pause. “Tell us exactly what you saw."
Simon considered how to phrase it. “First I only saw a movement. I thought it was the wind, moving the tree branches, but then I clearly saw a shadow amongst the trees. I said something to Emmett, and whoever it was started running."
“Yet you are certain it was a man."
“I am."
“So. A man, standing in the shadows. He ran, and you gave chase. Very foolhardy of you, Mr. Madoc."
“I know. I wasn't thinking very clearly. Emmett shouted for me to stop, but all I could think was that I had to catch the murderer before he escaped."
Dee nodded. “I see. Go on."
Simon licked his dry lips. Without a word, the same policeman refilled his glass. Simon drank the entire glass, trying to ignore how Dee watched him. “I chased him across the green,” he said, “and toward the first-year dormitories. Emmett caught up and tackled me to the ground. By that time, the stranger got away. But before he did, I had a clear look at him in the moonlight."
“You saw his face?"
“No.” Simon closed his eyes, trying to recall exactly what he had seen. Mist and shadows. The knife-cold wind blurring his vision. The hiss of leaves sliding over leaves. A dark figure outlined against the stone wall of the dormitory.
“He wore a strange squashed hat—nothing like the usual tall hat—and a loose coat. What with his hat pushed low and the moonlight, I could not make out his face. But it was a man."
“Are you certain of what you saw? Mr. Moore says you took ill by the body."
“I am quite certain,” Simon said evenly. “I knew by his height and his clothes and the way he stood."
“Just so.” Dee exchanged a glance with one of his colleagues. “Mr. Madoc, I should tell you that we've spoken with Mr. Moore. He does not recall any stranger, man or woman."
“Impossible. Emmett ran after me. He threw me to the ground and said I was a fool to chase the man."
“Mr. Madoc, your friend was quite clear about that point. I saw no one, he told us, but with trees and darkness and clouds over the moon, I'm not surprised."
Simon shook his head. “I cannot believe he said that. Sure there were clouds, but the moon was bright enough to see by."
Dee's expression did not change, but there was a flicker in his eyes, as his gaze shifted from Simon to the other policeman. “Tell me about your meeting yesterday with Seán Blake,” he said.
“I had no meeting with Seán Blake."
“Do not lie to me, Mr. Madoc, else things will go badly."
Simon reached for his water glass, then remembered it was empty. In a level voice he said, “There was no meeting, Commander. Not yesterday. Not ever. No matter what he said—"
“Seán Blake said nothing, Mr. Madoc. My sources are other witnesses. Three students have commented on seeing two men outside the dining halls near dusk. One was Seán Blake. The other was a tall fair-haired man, well-dressed. Normally they would have thought nothing, except that the fair-haired man seemed quite agitated."
“Any number of men could fit that description."
“No, sir. No, they could not. We have a list of those who resemble this description, who are also commonly seen on the University grounds. You are on that list. So are three others, including your friend Emmett Moore. Do you deny meeting with Seán Blake?"
“I do.” His voice came out as a whisper. Louder, he repeated, “I do deny it. I cannot explain it, however. You shall have to take my word."
“That we shall, Mr. Madoc. That we shall."
Simon thought the interview done, but Dee launched into another series of questions about Simon's activities for the previous week—every lecture, every session in the library, every person who spoke to him, or who could confirm his whereabouts. “We are not singling you out, Mr. Madoc,” Dee said, during a pause. “We are asking everyone the same questions. Mr. Moore sits in another room at headquarters, and Mr. Blake in another yet. Tomorrow we shall interview Miss Liddell. I cannot expect you to like our methods, but I do expect your cooperation."
“I am cooperating,” Simon said wearily.
“Yes, you are.” But to Simon's ear, Dee's tone sounded ambiguous. “Tell me,” he went on, “about the arrangements you have with your uncle. He manages your estates, does he not?"
“He manages our estates,” Simon said, with a slight emphasis. “My sister and I own the lands jointly. Why do
you need to know this?"
“To complete my understanding of your circumstances, Mr. Madoc. Your parents left everything—land and money—to you without division, is that not so?"
“Yes. We had talked earlier about dividing the property—the will allowed us to alter the original arrangement once we came of age—but then my sister took ill."
“And so you kept things as they were."
Simon nodded, but his mind had wandered. He was seeing Gwyn's face, chapped by hours in the cold, and hearing her sing-song voice as she talked about following a number. When Dee ended the interview, he stood and shook hands mechanically.
“I'll have them call you a cab,” Dee said. “Remember that we might need to speak with you tomorrow."
A uniformed policeman escorted Simon from the building and hailed him a cab. Simon climbed inside and collapsed. His entire body ached, as though he had worked every muscle from his scalp to his toes. When the cab stopped before his boarding house, he climbed down stiffly and was grateful when his valet met him at the door. Garret removed Simon's grubby coat without comment and handed him a hot drink.
Simon drank down the tea in one long swallow. “Thank you, Tom. No need for you to stay up. I'll take myself to bed."
“As you wish, sir."
Simon stumbled into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands were shaking again, and he nearly called Garret back to help him unbutton his shirt. It was then he noticed the stain on his sleeve. Blood, he realized, suddenly queasy. Colin's blood, warm to the touch.
* * * *
Their uncle invited Professor Glasfryn to visit the spring after they turned thirteen. Glasfryn was a retired professor, Uncle Niall told them, and had taught mathematics at Éireann's largest university, in Awveline City. A man of considerable reputation, their Aunt Sophie added.
Glasfryn arrived at the house in mid-afternoon. Simon watched the liveried footman help the old man disembark from the carriage. He looked nothing like Simon had imagined. Old, yes. But with a face so brown and seamed, it was as though he'd spent his years laboring in the sun, not confined to offices and lectures halls. Gwyn stood silently beside Simon, but he could tell she was studying Glasfryn as intently as he did.
They took an early tea in the parlor while Aunt Sophie fussed over their guest, and Uncle Niall explained at tedious length about the twins’ schooling. Glasfryn stirred his tea and nibbled at the scones, but it was clear to Simon that he was ignoring their uncle.
“Let me talk to them,” he said, interrupting Aunt Sophie's third inquiry about his health.
Aunt Sophie bit her lips, clearly irritated. Uncle Niall started to make excuses why he ought to remain present, but when Professor Glasfryn waved them away absently, their uncle rose and motioned for Aunt Sophie to come with him.
The old man began with straightforward questions about their lessons. They answered dutifully, just as they did with their tutors. Without their uncle to explain and repeat himself, the interview lasted only a quarter hour.
Glasfryn fell silent and studied them a few moments through rheumy brown eyes. “What do you think about numbers?” he asked suddenly.
Simon and Gwyn blinked. “What do you mean?” Simon asked.
“The ancient Greeks thought numbers were dead. Myself, I wonder if they were right. Maybe mathematics is like so much lumber. Take the sticks and build a house."
Gwyn's cheeks flushed pink. “What about Pythagoras?"
“Answer my question first."
His tone was blunt, but Gwyn smiled, unflustered. “If you view numbers as dead, then you imply a dead house, and one that invites termites. Besides, the premise is wrong."
Simon caught his breath at her words, but Glasfryn's mouth widened into a slow pleased smile. “How so, young miss?"
“You assume a universal quality of men, just as your statement assumes a universal quality of mathematics, or even of numbers themselves."
“Does it follow, then, that you believe numbers exist apart from mathematics?"
A slight hesitation. “I do."
Another pause, while Glasfryn drank down his cold tea. When he spoke again, it was to ask Gwyn more questions. She answered—tersely at first, then with growing volubility. Glasfryn eventually turned his attention to Simon and, in the same way, drew out more and more of what the twins had worked at in mathematics, their private research as well as what they studied under their tutors.
Questions soon gave way to discussion. With the professor leading, they spoke of topics ranging from the mundane to the bizarre—of the origins of mathematics, of whether numbers had undiscovered properties invisible to the ordinary mind, and the newest theories from Brittany, Gaul, and the Dietsch Empire. Twice their aunt pleaded they stop for dinner. Both times, the professor waved her away. After another interval, a troop of servants brought in trays of covered plates and pots of tea, leaving them on the sideboard. Simon didn't remember eating, but he assumed they did, because later the servants retrieved the piles of dirty dishes.
The bells were ringing midnight when the professor rose and held out his hands to them both. “We must have you at Awveline, and soon,” he said. “I shall speak with your uncle tomorrow."
The old professor slept late and departed for Awveline shortly after luncheon. Simon and Gwyn watched his departure from the sitting room window. Once the carriage disappeared through the gates, Gwyn took Simon's hand. “Come with me,” she said, leading him outside.
Simon retained only vague impressions from that walk. The sunlight upon Gwyn's hair. The crunch of autumn leaves. The woodland scents of pines and damp earth and the warm pressure from his sister's hand as she led him deeper into the wilderness.
* * * *
The next morning, it took three cups of strong coffee before Simon could call himself awake. With Garrett's help, he dressed in his best black suit, then walked the short distance to Emmett's rooms, where Susan had already arrived. Susan's eyes had a dull bruised look, as though she had been weeping for hours.
“You heard about Colin,” Simon said.
She jerked her chin in an abbreviated nod. “Emmett came by my rooms last night. Come. We should hurry."
They took a cab to the University's front gates and set a brisk pace across the University grounds to the assembly hall. Even so, they found nearly every seat claimed. At first, Simon took strange comfort in the huge audience, but as he listened to the Provost's long unctuous speech, his mood soured. Colin and Maeve deserved better.
Throughout the assembly, Emmett wept in silence. Susan stared at O'Neill, her dark face grim. Her expression changed only once, when the Provost announced he would suspend classes for a week, in honor of the dead. “In honor of the police and their investigation,” she murmured with a bitter smile.
The moment the Provost dismissed them, Susan led them out of the building and onto the green, where crowds of students lingered. “We'll go have a cup of tea,” she said. “The three of us. We'll talk or not, but if we do, we'll make more sense than that idiot."
“I'd like that,” Emmett said. “Simon, what about you?"
Through the mobs, Simon caught sight of Seán Blake. He immediately looked in the opposite direction, only to see Professor Oswalt emerge from the crowds. Oswalt immediately made for Simon. “Mr. Madoc. I'm glad to find you here. Would you have time for a short talk?"
Simon glanced at Susan and Emmett. “Certainly, sir."
“We'll come by later,” Susan told him.
The faculty quadrant proved to be nearly empty. Simon followed Oswalt into the building occupied by the mathematics professors and up the stairs to Oswalt's second-story office. Oswalt ushered Simon inside, then shut the door and turned the lock.
A general disorder met Simon's eye. Stacks of books covered the long side-table, mixed in with loose papers, covered in calculations. Used cups and saucers were shoved up against the coffee pot and tins of spices, which bore Arabic lettering. More papers covered Oswalt's desk as well.
“I
heard what happened with you and Moore,” Oswalt said. “Terrible shock. Terrible. Come, sit.” He indicated a chair, which Simon took. “You went to assembly, yes?"
“Yes, sir."
“Then you know about classes being suspended. Good idea. I'm glad O'Neill decided for it. Last night he wanted to keep up the pretense, but after Rees died.... “Oswalt sighed. “I'm babbling. The prerogative of old men, just as it is the prerogative of young men to despise that same babbling. So then, let us be forthright. You should know that I'm taking a short sabbatical."
Simon started. “Why, sir?"
“Let us call it a break in habit—one to clear the mind and eye alike.” He shot Simon a sharp glance. “Are you worried about your studies?"
“I hardly know, sir."
“So I gather. Well, let us discuss your studies, since those are my chief responsibility. Would you like a cup of tea? No, it seems I have none. Will coffee be acceptable? I brewed a pot not long ago."
Simon accepted a cup of hot, bitter coffee, seasoned with cardamom and lightened by thick cream.
Oswalt filled his own cup and busied himself with the spice tins a moment. “As I said, I'm taking a sabbatical, but I shan't disappear from the University. Unlike my coffee, any worries you have are groundless."
He moved a heap of papers to one side of his desk. Rows and rows of calculations, Simon noticed, as he glanced over them. Then his skin went cold as he recognized the complicated formulae. He had presented these same formulae to Oswalt the previous semester.
And he'd rejected them.
He glanced to see Oswalt studying him with an unsmiling face.
“How goes your research?” Oswalt said.
“It goes ... with difficulty, sir."
“I warned you about that."
“You did, sir."
Simon took another sip of coffee. He wondered if Oswalt would admit to reviewing Simon's work, but the professor's next comment was about a new monograph from a Frankish mathematician that had caused a stir. They discussed the theory a while. When Simon finished his coffee, Oswalt offered him more, but Simon politely declined.
“Then I must beg your indulgence and bid you good-day,” Oswalt said. “I've stumbled upon an interesting line of thinking and would like to mark good progress by the afternoon. But do come again, especially if you have questions concerning your research. I would not like it said that I abandoned my students. And speaking of that, I meant to ask before—how goes it with your sister?"
Asimov's SF, June 2006 Page 17