The Reichenbach Problem, Page 25

  I must have looked blank. She pitied me. I was an intellectual disappointment. Imagine anyone not knowing about homoclinic points, chaotic motion, and invariant integrals!

  “It is not important.”

  Though clearly it was.

  “What is important is that it has meant that nothing could therefore be as constant as we once thought.” She explained in as simple terms as she could. She had been a librarian at the university. She was intelligent and she was interested in this work, I could see. There were plans for women to claim a hall of learning of their own at Oxford. She would be an ideal candidate.

  “What was the more sensational matter was to begin to show how, therefore, mathematics was not a perfect science after all. For hundreds of years, since the Enlightenment, people had held that scientific truth was beyond the possibility of doubt. That the logic of science was infallible. If scientists were sometimes mistaken, this was assumed to be only from their mistaking the rules. Because of the proposition that mathematics is, in fact, imperfect, the cornerstone of scientific certainty was now uncertain. Where could we turn if a perfect science like mathematics had logical, demonstrable contradictions?”

  “And this Frenchman has built upon all of this and begun to reach the conclusions your husband was racing towards?”

  “Yes, coming to the conclusion that those things once held scientifically true and unalterable are only choices among many choices. Geometry, for example, is therefore not true, merely advantageous. One applies certain principles, depending on one’s perspective and how convenient it is to one’s particular scientific pursuits. So, too, the conventional understanding of space and time. They will have many ways of being measured and none is necessarily more true than another. This… man… is proving, step by inexorable step, that there can be any number of facts, each of which, within reason, may account equally well for observations in experiments. The more general a fact is, the theory goes, the more useful it is. Those which can be applied many times are more useful than those which have little chance of being used again.”

  I confess, I was a little confused by this explanation. I determined to sit myself down at some time, set out for myself what the arguments were, and study them. Nevertheless, what she seemed to be describing was a mortar shell among the massed ranks of scientific thought. All science depended on there being certain constants. If we could not depend on them, then everything we had based scientific thought upon to date had to be utterly rethought. Astounding.

  “And your husband was as close to this explosion in ideas as this Frenchman was?”

  “And others. Either in his camp or in other camps. To cap it all, the memoir with which that man won the prize had an error in it. But that error only served to help him advance his other theories further. My husband did not make such an error. Because of that, he did not reach the other conclusions as quickly.” All at once, she flushed. “And I should not be discussing this with you.”

  I waved her concerns away. “I will not tell anyone. But surely, there is some use to which he could put all that he has done?”

  “As I said, we looked at that and discovered only a few scraps were fit for the purpose. You will understand that to reach this conclusion meant going over exactly the same ground. Once that work is published, what use is it for another to have identical material?”

  “Then he must advance from this point. You say what has been unleashed is a whole new way of thinking. He has a head start in this?”

  “You do not understand, doctor. His morale is non-existent. He does not care. He cannot be bothered to even consider the prospect. We heard of some work going on here and there: looking into the nature of time and space, celestial mechanics and further work into chaotic motion – wonderful, fascinating, pioneering work – but my husband discounted it immediately. He did not wish to get his hopes up, he said; to dedicate himself to some future ‘pie in the sky’, as you might call it, only to have it all crushed again at some later date.” She became urgent. “I am afraid, doctor. For him, for me, for us. A Dutch friend working in England told us of this place; you English hold Switzerland close to your hearts as a retreat, a place to come for one’s health. We liked the idea – far away from anywhere. We could forget everything and try to mend our wounds. Try to put some distance between us and all of the past. But I believe, when we get back, the university will no longer require his services. Oh yes, he could carry on teaching. But research was his life. He has barely put pen to paper since that awful day last year when we discovered that we had lost the race.”

  “And he has grown increasingly angry and bitter since then?”

  “It has taken root and proliferated like some form of ground elder.”

  “What about his literary ambitions?” I scraped around to expose at least some chink of light in this woeful tale.

  She regarded me in the way someone who conceals a guilty secret might look. “He is very angry with you.”

  “Me?”

  “Because he gave you his work and you have not read it.”

  “Not read it? I have not had the time!”

  “I should think it a courtesy when someone gives you something they value highly to show them at least a little respect and respond as quickly as you can.”

  “Madam, I have had other matters with which to contend; not all of them frivolous. In fact, I might even venture to say that none of them are frivolous.”

  She stood up, informed me that I had made her feel as though she were entirely incorrect to hold her husband’s interests so close to her heart, and bade me good morning. I saw her to the door and closed it behind her. It was madness, of course, that she should so readily leap to her husband’s defence after having spent the greater part of our interview explaining how insecure he was. Yet that insecurity was the reason why she was also so protective of her mate. It was, from her perspective, yet another assault on the sensitivities of an already fragile human being. How was she to know what it was that might simply tip the poor, beleaguered fellow over the edge and down into the abyss of self-destruction? Alcoholism, vagrancy, insanity or suicide lay just at the bottom of that particular descent.

  In my experience, such foul and ravenous beasts are stalking just the other side of any door seeking to devour whomever they may.

  Despite my indignation at being expected to jump the very moment anyone chooses to snap their fingers, I could not in all conscience blame her. She was terrified for her husband whom she loved, despite his ill-use of her. Probably beyond all words and all reason. Who could have borne such a burden as she had otherwise?

  My breakfast arrived, courtesy of Anton. I offered him a “Good morning”. He endeavoured half-heartedly to return it before exiting. Or perhaps, more accurately, quarter-heartedly, or even eighth-heartedly.

  For my part, I fell to my wicker table with its lusty rustic contents with a relish. As I commenced my breakfast, I believe I may even have hummed.

  Having eaten well and savoured the view, I tripped lightly down to the breakfast room. My intention was to establish who was present and enjoy a cup of coffee with them. As I made my way, my subconscious lobbed a further question into my head. Having cleared it of unhelpful thoughts, my mind was now a vessel brimming with new, challenging and vigorous ideas.

  I reached the breakfast room door. I could hear voices. They were speaking in that low, melancholy tone one encounters when breakfasting at a hotel. All of a sudden, I realized that I simply could not face my fellow-guests after all. I was far too chipper and eager to press on with my affairs for all of that nonsense. So, veering away at the last moment, I set my course towards the hotel lobby and the main street beyond.

  At the telegraph office, I composed my telegram. I told Flemyng that I was interested in knowing the current cricket score and then I asked (a) is Richard Holloway an Old Alleynian; that is to say, an old boy of Dulwich College? And (b) is Richard Holloway a member of Blackheath Rugby Club? I then made my way back to the hotel.

>   As I returned along the main street, I happened to glance up. I glimpsed Frau von Denecker. She was standing stiff and still upon her balcony, leaning upon her cane. The breeze caught the folds in her black silk gown and ruffled them like wavelets on a lake. It was as though she had been waiting for me; as if I had been meant to be drawn to her. She turned her head slowly and, from her elevated position, looked down at me. She lifted her thin white hand and, in a simple, efficient gesture, beckoned me to her. I nodded and entered the hotel while she stepped back inside her room.

  “The door is open.”

  I was received with her customary exemplary courtesy, although this time there was no tea party.

  “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, doctor,” she betrayed in her eyes a glint of the mischievous but spirited young woman she would once have been, “you have become the talk of the village.”

  “So I understand. It is all false, of course.”

  “What is?” She cocked her head like a hawk surveying a coney.

  I considered for a moment and decided that in the present urgent circumstances the bold approach would bring the swiftest results. “I realize, Frau von Denecker, that you may know more than I, or that I may know more than you. I am happy to tell you much, but probably not everything. I am aware, in a situation where I am at liberty to trust no one implicitly, that discretion must perforce prevail.”

  “You may rest assured, doctor, that everything you choose to tell me will remain in the strictest confidence. I should warn you, however, that I may or may not elect to use any information you do choose to present to me, at least the material substance of it, as I see fit.”

  “How you may use what I tell you, why you may feel constrained so to do, and why even you may feel you have an opportunity to use it, I could not begin to guess. However, I will entrust the information I shall impart to you within those clear terms.”

  If we were on opposing sides, which in the grand scheme of things we probably were, I believed that these particular circumstances put us on the same side. I took her, therefore, at her word – and she at mine.

  I proceeded to tell her much of what had occurred over the past few extraordinary days. Brown, the séance, Holloway, my investigation, our falling out. I did not tell her about our raid on the church, the wires, my encounters with Francesca and Hugo. I did not even tell her about whom I or Holloway suspected and the clues that we had found. Nor did I expound upon my theories – for fear of ridicule, mostly.

  I concluded by saying that Father Vernon was supposed to be attempting to re-establish my good name. That he had advised me to continue about my business as if nothing were amiss. However, there was no doubt that the village had nonetheless implicated me in the whole Brown affair. I was concerned that matters had gone too far to warrant such an approach any longer, not least because the police could make their appearance any time now. Consequently, I ran the risk, no matter how slight, of arrest by that very same implication.

  She had studied me carefully throughout my deposition.

  “Hmm,” she said. “It is unfortunate, doctor, that you did not feel comfortable enough with me to tell the whole story, but… no, doctor, there is no need to protest, nor is there any need to explain… it is quite understandable. You have been subsumed by the most trying of circumstances. It must be hard for you to know how far you may reveal anything without prejudicing your own well-being. There are times, doctor…” she continued playfully, and tapped me upon the knee, “… when circumstances outstrip one’s ability to prove one’s integrity. At which point it is more important to not react than to react. Father Vernon is correct. You should do nothing. That is…” she looked at me with sudden seriousness, “… nothing except retreat.”

  “Retreat? Do you mean leave? Return to England?”

  “Doctor, I have no doubt whatsoever that you are completely innocent in all of this. I trust you as, indeed, I hope you trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “And thank you for that. However, I can tell you that all the great disasters of history have been brought about by pride and stubbornness. That you have no intention of ‘running away’ as you probably would describe it, is an entirely laudable, even gallant, outlook. However, what is speaking to you, and in you, is pride. Pride that you refuse to be defeated. Pride that you believe yourself capable of resolving these complex matters. Pride that you are a well-known novelist and, assuredly, will become even more well known in time. If you are innocent – and I say again that you are – then to leave and return to your country, your home, your family may leave a whiff of scandal in Switzerland, but it will remain in Switzerland. Get clear of all this nonsense. Put your life back to its rightful degree of normality. End fitful and futile speculation and make a stand.”

  “A stand? I thought that you were advocating retreat?”

  “A stand in the sense that you are saying to everyone here: I do not care for your petty intrigues and your small-town preoccupations and misconceptions. I am free and I assert my right to continue so to be.”

  I had to admit, put like that, it seemed to be quite an easy and comprehensive solution. Just walk away, wash my hands of the village. To make the bold statement that I am not interested in what people think. I know who I am and that person is taking control of his own destiny.

  “But is that not pride also? Or, at the very least, arrogance and effrontery towards this gentle people? To say to them, ‘I do not care for you – I am above all of this’?”

  She considered this. “You are quite right. Yet it is not to be executed as a demonstration of pride. It is to be undertaken with humility. You are asserting your right to be free and reject any constraints forced upon you by society’s arcane practices and mores.”

  “Yet you do…”

  “When it suits me, it is true. And when it does not, I do not.” She unleashed a dazzling smile that spoke of years of apparent conformity hiding a lifetime of rebellion. Perfect behaviour offset by flashes of contrariness. “Believe me, stubbornness is when one refuses to assess the reality of the moment and thus choose the appropriate times at which to exercise one’s unorthodoxy.”

  “I must admit it has all become rather tiresome.”

  “I am sure that it has. My sympathies.”

  I stood up, took her hand and kissed it, as warmly as anyone would kiss such a hand in such circumstances. “I am grateful to you for your counsel, Frau von Denecker. If I may, I shall spend the rest of the day considering my position.” I turned to leave.

  “Doctor.”

  I turned back; she was sitting there, elegant, correct, unfathomable.

  “I am glad to have met you.”

  “And I you,” I responded, gratified. “Whatever I decide, I trust that it shall not circumscribe our relationship.”

  “Whatever you decide – it shall not.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I made for my hotel and my quarters. I had a great deal to think about, and yet I was unable to apply myself to those pressing thoughts. I had barely entered my third-floor sanctuary when there came a meaty thudding upon my door. I opened it and there, framed as if he were a full-length portrait of The Master of the Hunt, was Werner. He had come complete with shotgun, broken and pivoted upon his right arm. He had what appeared to be a ream of paper clutched in his left hand.

  “Herr Doctor,” he squeezed himself into my flimsy wicker balcony chair, “I have come so that you will read my play. I was just about to go out hunting, when I thought I would see if you were in. I will go hunting after you have read this.”

  “I am awfully sorry, Günther, my dear fellow…” As I ventured to complete my refusal, he slapped the manuscript upon the table. He then jabbed a thick finger down onto it, as if intent upon driving the sheaf of paper right through the surface and onto the balcony floor.

  “Nein. I have heard how you refused to read the professor’s work. This you will not do with me, please. Y
ou will read it now. I will watch.”

  I sank slowly into the opposite chair, only too aware of the sulky gleam of devoutly polished gunmetal nestling still in the crook of the Bavarian’s right arm. It was eyeing me slyly from its break, like a wolf. It was waiting, no doubt, for any excuse to snap together and explode in my face.

  I took up the manuscript and began to read, turning the pages and soaking up the dialogue. It was, as he had intimated earlier that week, written in German. Although I was not fluent in the language, I was thankfully reasonably proficient.

  It was not as ham-fisted as I had imagined. Surprisingly, it was a tale of great charm and sensitivity. By turns thoughtful and inventive, it spoke lyrically of a young hunter (naturally), a serving girl, a remote hunting lodge and unrequited love. The piece was written in the flowing poetic style currently out of fashion, but was all the more engaging for all that. The piece ended in tragedy, with the servant girl being accidentally shot by the young hunter who, subsequently, overcome with grief and remorse, terminates his own existence.

  I did not read every last word and stopped often either to compliment the author upon a well-constructed scene, or to offer advice as to how best to approach a technically difficult structural point. We sat there for over an hour and a half – I engrossed in my reading, he solemn, earnest and visibly encouraged when I occasioned to commend him upon his craft.

  At the end of it all, I felt that I had begun to understand Werner better. I always find this when I read another’s work. Often I can evaluate a writer’s personality, proclivities and preconceptions through the words they write. I can tell whether I would like them if I met them. Werner was complex. There were dark recesses in his life, as with us all. But he was also, at times, sensitive and very humane. Most of all, I could see he cared about people passionately. His boorish predilection for violence against woodland fauna did not override all other considerations. Whether he could haul anyone up a brae and cast them callously into an abyss, on the evidence of his manuscript, was another question. It was seemingly beyond him. Having said that, what we all may do in momentary fury is something else entirely. Murder trials throughout the world turn on fixing the precise moment that the act of murder occurred. Counsel argue this question among themselves, and before judge and jury. Is the act of murder, no matter by whom it is perpetrated, an instance of a moment’s insanity? No matter how cold-bloodedly one plots, the actual event of terminating a human life means that the perpetrator must, necessarily, have taken leave of their senses. So the argument runs.