Flowers Stained With Moonlight (26 page)

‘What
are
you doing here?’ I cried, astounded to see him there, when we had left him happily installed in Paris.

‘I am here for consolation,’ he replied. ‘Ah, I have had bad luck, very bad luck and a sad, sad thing has happened
to me after you left Paris. I was most sorrowful and devastated, I can assure you, and I wished very much to travel to a place of happiness for repairing of my wounded heart. I thought at first I would return to Poznània to visit the horses, but then I had the idea of a visit to this beautiful house and wrote a letter to this dear lady, who answered me so very kindly. I arrived here only this morning.’

Charles entered the room at this moment, and stopped short, staring with eyes even rounder than mine.

‘Well, of all things!’ he exclaimed, shaking Mr Korneck’s hand vigorously. ‘You here – I wouldn’t have guessed it in a thousand years! You do get about, don’t you? We said goodbye to you on the other side of the Channel just a few days ago!’

‘Alas, alas, I had nothing more to do on the other side of the Channel, after my great discomfiture,’ said poor Mr Korneck, a wave of dismay flowing over his features.

‘What discomfiture? What happened to you? Is it your proof?’ said Charles quickly.

‘Alas, you have guessed it. It is the proof.’ Stooping, Mr Korneck opened the leather case in which he carried his documents and mathematical papers, and extracted something which he handed gloomily and a little reluctantly to Charles.

‘I had no thought, when I sent in my manuscript, that it would be discussed at the very next meeting,’ he said lugubriously. ‘I thought it must wait until the following one at least, for time would be needed to read through the many pages. Alas, it seems that Monsieur Henri Poincaré
does not need any time to read through such a manuscript. He put his finger immediately upon an error, a grievous error, contained deep in the heart of the method. I have thought long and hard about it, but what can I say? He is right, and I was wrong. I cannot see how to make it work.’

Poor Mr Korneck, his face was so very long. He lifted the glass of port to his lips and took a sip. Mrs Bryce-Fortescue quickly replenished it, and while Charles and I bent over the fascicle, she drew him into another part of the room and began, in a trusting tone, to ask him a great many questions upon what sounded like business matters.

We opened the paper he had handed us. It was the formal report of the last weekly meeting of the Academy of Sciences, which had taken place some days before. On the first page, where the order of the day was inscribed, we perceived the notice:

Charles turned over the pages to find where the subject of Mr Korneck’s unfortunate paper was discussed in the course of the meeting, and located it easily enough a few pages later on. Even I could see that it was, indeed, a disappointment.

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake,’ murmured Charles into my ear. ‘Do you see that, Vanessa? Look – they say old Korneck’s proof is impossible because he went and put this silly lemma into the
middle of it—’ He stopped and glanced around quickly, but Mrs Bryce-Fortescue was still talking to Mr Korneck. ‘Why on earth didn’t he show us his proof? We’d never have let a thing like this get past us; you don’t have to be Poincaré to see that this can’t work! Why, he went and said that if you’ve got numbers that make this formula
nx
²
+
ky
²
=
z
ⁿ
work, then
n
has to divide
x
– and they came up with all these examples where the formula works but
n
doesn’t divide
x
at all! Oh, my goodness gracious. Why
didn’t
he show us his proof?’

‘Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so easy to find the mistake,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t it a very long proof?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Korneck, overhearing my words, and coming over to where we stood. ‘It was nearly one hundred pages. A needle in a haystack, this little lemma lost inside it. And yet he is right, Poincaré. It was the heart of the proof, the absolute necessary little pin holding everything else together, without which nothing of the rest can work. And it was on page sixty-nine. Ah, he is a genius. Perhaps I wasted the time of a genius, but still, I have the honour of saying that I was read by him. Until page sixty-nine, at least.’

He took back the report and locked it up in his leather case.

‘Sophie Germain must be turning over in her grave,’ he said sadly. ‘I do not like to think about it. Ah, the great Sophie, she had to overcome so many obstacles, just to persuade anyone to read her wonderful discoveries, while I, who have had every advantage and have the honour to be read by the greatest genius of the day by simple virtue of submitting a manuscript, I make a fool of myself. I shall cease to pursue Fermat’s theorem this very day, and devote
myself to things I can do better: to questions of business and investment. Yes, I have taken this resolution. I no longer believe that Fermat had a proof of his own theorem – there is no use in searching for it!’

He smiled suddenly, and raised his glass in a toast.

‘To the future!’ he cried with so admirable an effort at good humour that all three of us echoed him with the greatest goodwill you can imagine!

We had supper, and no further mention was made of the sad tale of Mr Korneck’s proof. Instead, we talked about the successes of his horse farm in Prussia (without ostentation, without boasting and without apparent effort, he caused us to become aware that the farm was a highly profitable venture) and how happy it would make him to keep up two beautiful establishments, one in Prussia and one in England, one for horses and one for the pleasures of domesticity.

‘For the English understand the pleasures of domestic life better than any nation on Earth,’ he exclaimed, poking his fork into the excellent roast of lamb provided by Mrs Firmin, as if to prove his point. ‘Perhaps the cooking is not the most sophisticated in Europe, but it is so healthy, so ample – and then, only in England does one have teatime, and they put cream on the scones instead of butter!’

We dined so long and so late that Charles had to rush for his horses afterwards, and make a hasty departure; not, however, before taking me briefly aside and putting on a scolding expression.

‘What have you been doing to the groom, Vanessa,’ he
whispered. ‘He watched us drive up together, and his face looked pretty stormy – and he asked me if I was your fiancé! Of course I said no, your fiancé had remained in Cambridge, and he said “Is that so?” and I said “Yes, but what business is it of yours, my man?” and he looked annoyed, I mean to say extremely annoyed, and mumbled something to the effect that women were all the same everywhere and who could be surprised?’

‘Oh dear,’ I moaned, feeling most embarrassed.

‘So you have been up to something,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Well, get out of it. You’d better clear things up pretty sharply and pretty soon, that’s what I say.’

He left, frowning, and Mrs Bryce-Fortescue accompanied me up to my room. I followed her quietly. I mean to rise early and make my way to Severingham as quickly as I can tomorrow morning, arriving if possible without warning, but thought it better not to mention these plans, nor, for the moment, Pat’s telegram. I have decided to take no step, no step at all, until I have talked to Sylvia.

In the meantime, I am writing this letter before going to bed. As late as it is, I can still make out the murmur of voices downstairs. I do hope that everything will turn out all right after all, so that poor Mr Korneck can find a little happiness, without the very thing he has turned to for consolation collapsing immediately!

Oh, if only Sylvia were here. If only I could make out, once and for all, the exact degree of her involvement! I came here to talk to her, to question her, to confront the problem as directly as possible, and I am unable to do it;
I feel extremely frustrated. I am compelled to inactivity, at least for the moment. I can do nothing but think.

Dora, I know so many facts – I hold so many clues to this mystery! Surely I no longer need to rush about trying to find out more. If I could just understand all that I have learnt, resolve the seeming contradictions, and see how everything fits together into a whole, then, I believe, the answer would stand out clear and obvious.

Oh, well. I shall sleep on it, and tomorrow concentrate on nothing else.

Goodnight, my dearest twin

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

It is very late at night, but I cannot sleep.

I wrote you yesterday night, thinking that today I would leave this place in the early morning, to try to find Sylvia and talk to her. But as it happens, I did not leave. Indeed, after having finished breakfast, I informed Mrs Bryce-Fortescue of my intentions, and asked if Peter could bring me to the train station. But instead of acquiescing, she leant towards me, staring at me intently with her eagliest expression, and said penetratingly,

‘Have you come to some conclusion about my son-in-law’s murder?’

‘I certainly have some important information,’ I answered
carefully, ‘but before I speak of it at all, I really must talk to Sylvia.’

‘But I am your client,’ she said, ‘and as such, I think you should inform me of exactly what is going on.’

I felt trapped; she was not wrong, yet instinct told me not to reveal anything yet.

‘I believe that Sylvia holds an important piece of information which may identify the murderer,’ I said finally, ‘but it seems possible that she does not realise it herself. That is why I absolutely must talk to her. And in fact, it is extremely urgent,’ and pulling Pat’s telegram from my pocket, I spread it out in front of her. She read it and blanched.

‘I will wire for her to return immediately,’ she said. ‘Whatever is to happen, I would much prefer that it happen here and not at some distant place where I can be of no help to her. I beg of you to remain until she arrives. The trip is a rather complicated one as Severingham is very out of the way, but she will surely arrive by this evening at the latest.’

Thus, Dora, I found myself once again unexpectedly unoccupied for the space of an entire day. Time dragged endlessly, and it was still too early to think of expecting Sylvia; I worried and fidgeted and was unable to reflect tranquilly. It was your letter, which was laid at my place at luncheon (together with one from Arthur exhorting me to put a speedy end to my stay), which finally released me from the terrible tension in which I was trapped. It spurred me to a depth of concentration during which I forgot everything else. And I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering alone
through fields and groves, forcing my mind to think over the facts again and again, but alas, feeling it constantly twisting aside as though to avoid the course of reasoning I wished to impose upon it.

In the end, exhausted, I retired to my room not long after dinner. There was still no sign of Sylvia, and Mrs Bryce-Fortescue was visibly unnerved. I myself felt unreasoningly afraid that she had perhaps been arrested during the course of the day, yet it seemed that this could not possibly have happened without our somehow being apprised of the fact. I closed my door and sat down on my bed, then lay down and fell into a strange doze from sheer mental exhaustion, although it was not late. The thoughts that had been writhing unformed in my mind all day turned themselves into strange dreams, shaping into vague images and dissolving away again until I woke up from sheer torment, my forehead damp. I seemed to feel a sense of impending doom, and my body was cramped with tension, so I arose and looked at the time. My dear, I had slept for hours, it was – is – two o’clock in the morning! I lit my candle and sat down at the desk to write this letter; surely, surely, this gentle activity will, as always, soothe my feverish brain and clarify my racing thoughts.

I seem to feel exactly what the mathematicians describe, when they have puzzled for weeks and months over some difficult theory, and suddenly they realise that they are on the very brink of the solution, and that the fog is lifting, and the whole landscape is forming clear and sunlit in front of their wondering eyes.

And my mind has been shying away from what it is beginning to perceive, just as they have often told me happens at the moment of discovery. That precise moment – when one becomes aware that the course of thought will lead inexorably and very soon to total certainty – that is the moment when the mathematician drops his pen and rushes out to take a long walk in the city, or drink a cup of tea which lasts for hours. And so I have done today. Things are coming to a head, and discovery can no longer be avoided; I must do what I can to ensure that the innocent are spared. This means that now, I must apply myself to my task with no more detours. Yes, I shall follow the advice contained in your extraordinary letter, and try to set down on paper, in orderly form, the list of those facts and contradictions that must be resolved. So many things that don’t fit – they must be examined, one by one, and
made
to fit!

1. It seems certain that Sylvia had a lover while in Paris. Yet, this contradicts all of Ellen’s instincts, though she will not say why. It also contradicts Sylvia’s own inclinations, which she expressed to me in what I believed to be complete spontaneity. Of course, Ellen could be mistaken as she has not seen Sylvia for so many years, and Sylvia could be lying. Yet it does not seem so to me … it
must
mean something.

2. The following three people are, it appears to me, unquestionably to be identified as a single person: Sylvia’s friend mentioned above, seen with her in Paris and Deauville, then the young man observed on the boat and in the train to
Haverhill, and finally Mr Granger’s murderer. What do we know about him? After various mistaken assumptions, the information most likely to be correct is that he is English, although he was certainly in France last winter, and he certainly took the boat over from there on the day of the murder. Yet it is not necessarily in France that he must be sought.

3. No one appears to be able to discover where he came from just before taking the boat. It seems that the only way in which he could have done what he did is by wearing a disguise, a disguise both very effective, consisting of very few and small elements (as nothing seemed to have been left behind) and incredibly quick to put on or off – off probably being much faster as the French inspector pointed out.

4. I heard something this evening – I feel certain that it was something Mr Korneck mentioned – which rang a bell inside me. At the moment he said it, it was as though a little voice said
Note that – that reminds me of something important!
But I paid no attention, I was so concerned by the sad fate of his proof. And now I cannot figure out what it was – yet it seems as though it were on the very tip of my tongue!

I have just glanced over your letter again, and my eye fell upon your remarkable observations about mathematics. Are you clairvoyant, Dora? Does it really all mean something?

Dora –
OF COURSE!
I remember now what it is that Mr Korneck talked about! Your words have just reminded me; but how, how could you possibly have guessed it? He said –

Wait!

It is very strange – I seem to hear some faint sounds coming from next door, from the large vacant room onto which mine gives. Someone is moving around in there, lightly, softly. Oh! what can it be? I feel unreasonably afraid – terrified! What shall I do? I must stop writing – I will take my candle, unshoot the bolt and fling the door open to face whatever is there.

In haste –

V.