The Three-Body Problem (20 page)

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 room, 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

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 after 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.

‘I really don’t know – I suppose they might have.’

‘What do these notes in the margin mean?’ I asked him.

He bent over the sheets and turned them over one by one, deciphering the tiny letters.

‘They are odd,’ he remarked. ‘They are very odd, really – what a strange mentality Beddoes had. He must have objected to crossing things out. Look at this one here! On the page it says (A) => (B), that is, A implies B, and in the margin is a question mark. He must have written down A implies B, and then come to question the implication while rereading it.’

‘Could it not be that he wrote down what another person explained to him?’ I asked. ‘Then perhaps he could not understand it later, when he looked it over.’

‘Yes, I guess that is not impossible,’ he said consideringly. ‘Except that the writing is so extraordinarily neat – it really doesn’t seem like someone taking notes, does it? It looks like a fair copy.’

‘Well, he could have copied out the rough notes, I suppose.’

‘Sounds strange, but maybe.’ He looked up at me, his eyes brilliant with interest. ‘Yes, I guess I can imagine
that. The three of them closeted secretly together, working for the grand prize. One of them – Akers or Crawford – gets up to the blackboard and begins to explain his idea. Beddoes writes it all down. Then he goes home and, being a precise sort of fellow, goes over the notes again, copying them out neatly and trying to make sure that he understands the logical process behind each and every line. Whoever was explaining the idea must have been a little careless about going into the details, because Beddoes has marked a good three or four places he doesn’t understand.’

Something that Arthur had said during his testimony came back into my head.

‘Do you remember how Arthur said in court that at his dinner with Mr Beddoes, Mr Beddoes wrote down a question about some differential equations that he didn’t understand, and Arthur tried to help him with it?’

‘Yes!’ he answered excitedly. ‘You’re right! It must mean that Beddoes was working over this manuscript then, trying to understand every bit of it. No, but wait. Why wouldn’t he have just asked Crawford?’

‘Perhaps this manuscript holds notes of work by Mr Akers, and he was already dead!’ I cried. ‘But then, it would still have made more sense to discuss it with Mr Crawford, if they were working together. Oh, no! I remember now – they had quarrelled! It is true that Mr Crawford had said that he wanted to dine with Mr Beddoes, but perhaps Mr Beddoes was waiting for the invitation to speak with him about it. Yes, of course. He expected to have dinner with
Crawford that very night, but since he did not come, he asked his questions to Arthur instead. He must have had the formulae in his head, for he certainly did not show this manuscript to Arthur. If he hid it so carefully, it must have been a great secret.’

‘Well, I should think it would be, if it is really a solution to the grand old problem,’ he said. ‘But it seems that they never had time to write it up and submit it for the prize, since they were both dead within a few days after Beddoes asked his question to Arthur.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, gazing into the fire. It dimmed into confusion before my eyes, and seemed filled with whirling images. Mr Akers, writing down a formula and thrusting it into his pocket. Mr Beddoes, holding a glass of wine, arguing with Mr Crawford, a manuscript on the table between them. A blow with a poker – a blow with a great rock. A gloved hand, carefully, silently pouring drops of digitalin, in a little stream, into a bottle of whisky, and Mr Crawford throwing glass after glass down his throat, exclaiming in triumph. A killer, seeking for a manuscript, perhaps even finding one – but
who
?

Fear invaded my limbs once again, as I visualised the gloved figure. Faces flitted in front of its formless visage – those of all my mathematical acquaintances – Mr Withers, Mr Wentworth, Mr Young, even Mr Morrison himself. I became faint with anxiety – I felt myself to be surrounded by murderers! Then the flames took shape, and became flames once again, as I heard Mr Morrison saying,

‘You don’t look too well, Miss Duncan. Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said confusedly. ‘Thank you so much for your help. I should go home now.’

‘I will accompany you,’ he said with alacrity, rising.

‘No – no! Oh, no, thank you,’ I said in dismay, recalling my momentary, flickering vision.

He looked at me intently.

‘It may be a little dangerous for you, to wander about the streets alone, do you not think?’

‘I need to be alone!’ I cried, and hastily shaking his hand, I made my way down the stairs and out of the door.

Dora, no one can have made the road homewards longer than I did! For protection, I resolved never to be within less than a few yards from some other person, preferably of the male sex. But each time I fixed upon someone and carefully matched my pace to his, he persistently took a wrong turning, so that I arrived home only after making a remarkable number of squares and rectangles. And even at home, I hardly felt reassured. I barred the doors and windows, yet fear assailed me, and even trying to write to you did not bring me the usual feeling of calm. I got into my bed, and lay rigid, listening to every sound, but after ten minutes I could not bear it any more.

I got up, lit a candle, and holding the candlestick and my letter, very silently, in the silent house, I made my way to my front door, opened it, and slipped outside, closing it silently behind me. Noiselessly, I climbed the stairs to Arthur’s rooms – perhaps his door was not locked, for Mrs Fitzwilliam often went in and out, to dust, and also, at various times (somewhat grumblingly and against her
will) to fetch articles of his that I then transported to him in prison. I tried the door quietly. It opened, and I slipped inside – and here I am.

I have never been in Arthur’s rooms before, or even seen them. By the light of my candle, I am looking around me. They are harmoniously bare and simple; a little monastery. An antique urn sits in a niche, mathematical papers are scattered on the desk, a worn volume of Shakespeare lies upon the table. If Mrs Fitzwilliam finds me here, she will be really very annoyed. I must rise very early, and slip down the stairs. But now … Arthur’s bed is calling me, and I shall finish this letter, which I am writing with his pen in my hand and his eiderdown pulled about me. In spite of everything, I feel swept up in an unreasonable wave of warmth and safety, and so I shall bid you goodnight.

Your loving

Vanessa

Dear Dora,

Last night, I slept deeply and beautifully, and woke up somewhat later than I had meant. I slipped downstairs with tremendous trepidation (really, I cannot understand exactly what Mrs Fitzwilliam does to provoke such fear!) and, seeing no one, reached my own door with a great sense of relief. There, I found that she had already pushed the daily post under the door, and your very own letter awaited me on the carpet. I tore it open eagerly.

I read it again and again, struck above all by this extraordinary sentence:
There appears to me to be a strange parallel between the famous three-body problem, and that which you are so desperately trying to solve. I see two satellites, Mr Akers and Mr Beddoes, orbiting around the larger-than-life figure of Mr Crawford, struggling with the laws of gravity binding them to him inexorably, and wishing, as it were, to go ‘spiralling off’ to the ‘infinity’ of independent glory
. Oh, Dora, what do you mean? Can you mean what I think you mean? Can the preposterous, unbelievable idea which flooded into my mind on reading and rereading that sentence possibly be true? Is that what you are trying to tell me? – you, my twin, who sometimes knows my mind better than I know it myself!

The more I think about it, the more I feel convinced. Yet can it be? The thoughts and images which whirled in my head yesterday seem to fall into place, and form a new picture, one I had never thought of before …

I have written down a list of the main events and details, as I recall hearing about them, in order to study whether what I now guess (what
you
guessed, Dora?) makes sense.

Dora – it all comes together! I am still not sure exactly what happened and how it happened, but in any case I am sure that
what you are saying is right
.

What shall I do? What
shall
I do?

Should I rush to the courtroom, that terrible courtroom, and pull Mr Haversham aside, or plead for an audience with the judge, and pour out to him all that has occurred to me? But I can imagine him only too well, wearing a patronising smile, and saying to me, ‘You have not the shadow of a proof, my dear young lady, whereas we are now all aware that you have every reason for inventing such a fairy tale.’ And then, how can I tell him what happened, when I am not completely sure yet myself?