Dark Matter

by Philip Kerr

  The next morning, I took a wherry boat from London Bridge to York Building stairs. Upon alighting, I and others found the mud on the jetty quite frozen over, which was so hazardous to our company that I thought fit to complain to the watermen that the steps should have been salted and kept free of ice so that passengers might step off a boat without threat to life or limb. At this the watermen, who were weatherbeaten, strong-looking men, merely laughed, and, sore from the previous evening—for I still had the apprehension that I had been the butt of the Ordnance’s joke—I started to draw my sword; but then I saw my master standing by the water tower and thought better of pricking their arses.

  “You were right to contain your anger,” he said, when at last I was safely on the embankment beside him, “for there’s not a more independent lot of men in London. They are generally temperate, for a drunken waterman would hardly be trusted, and yet they can be most violent. If you had drawn your sword you would very likely have found yourself in the river. A seven-year apprenticeship makes a poor man most obdurate in defence of his rights and knowledgeable of his proper duties, which, alas, do not include the cleaning of the jetties. For the Thames, being a tidal river, would make a mockery of anyone that swept these walkways free of mud. High tide was but one hour before you landed.”

  Bridling under my master’s lecture, I said that I had no idea he knew so much about London watermen and the tides that affected their trade.

  At this he smiled thinly. “About watermen I know only what most people know about all London workmen: that they are a blight. But about tides I know a great deal,” he said. “You see, it was I who first explained them.”

  And as we took a short coach ride up to the Maypole in the Strand, Newton proceeded to tell me how by propositions mathematically demonstrated he had deduced the motions of planets, the comets, the Moon, and the sea.

  “So it is the gravitational effect of the Moon that makes the tides?” I said, summing up his own much longer account of this celestial phenomenon. Newton nodded. “And you received all this from the fall of an apple?”

  “In truth, it was a fig,” he said. “But I cannot abide the taste of figs, whereas I am most fond of apples. I have never been able to tolerate the idea that it was the fruit I despise most in the world that gave me my idea of how the world moves. And it was only the germ of my idea. I remember thinking that if the power of gravity could extend to the top of a tree, how much farther might it extend? And indeed, I perceived that the only limit to its power was the size of the bodies themselves.”

  It was clear that Newton saw the world in a different way from everyone else; which made me feel mightily privileged that I enjoyed such a great man’s confidence. Perhaps I was beginning to understand a little of the excellence of his mind; but this was enough to appreciate that it was only my failure to grasp a little more of the actual theories themselves that stopped him and me from becoming friends. In truth, we were always separated by such a wide river of knowledge and ability that he was to me like a man must seem to an ape. In all respects he was a paragon, a human touchstone that might try gold, or good from bad.

  The question of why the name of St. Leger Scroope had seemed familiar to my master was answered almost as soon as we arrived at his place of business, in a house at The Bell, near the Maypole. A servant answered the door to us by whose manner of dress—for he wore a small cap upon his head—I took to be a Jew; and having enquired our business, he nodded gravely, and then went to fetch his master.

  Scroope himself was a tall man, at least six fingers higher than me, with a black periwig, a beard turned up in the Spanish manner, and fine clothes which were as rich as gold and silver could make them. I thought Scroope recognised my master immediately, although he waited until the Doctor had explained the purpose of his visit before giving expression to this knowledge.

  “But do you not know me, Doctor Newton?” he asked, smiling strangely; and seeing Newton’s eyes narrow as he struggled to find Scroope in his remembrances, the goldsmith’s face took on a disappointed aspect.

  “I confess, Mister Scroope, that you have the advantage of me, sir,” stammered Newton.

  “Why then, that it is a first for me, sir, for I never yet knew any man who could best you.” Scroope bowed handsomely. “Pray, let me remind you, sir. I was your fellow commoner at Trinity College, Doctor Newton, assigned to your tuition, although I neither matriculated in the university, nor graduated from it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Newton, smiling uncertainly. “I remember you now. But then you had not the beard, nor the wealth, I’ll hazard.”

  “A man alters much in twenty-five years.”

  “Twenty-six, as I recall,” said Newton. “Also that you were much neglected by me, although you were not unusual in that respect.”

  “Science will thank you for that neglect, sir. I was not a very diligent student, and events have proved that you were better employed with your opticks and your telescope. Not to mention your other chemical studies.” At this Scroope smiled knowingly, as if my master’s devotion to alchemy had not been such a great secret afterall.

  “You are very gracious, Mister Scroope.”

  “It is easy to be gracious to one whom all of England honours.” Mister Scroope bowed once more, which made me think him a most obsequious fellow, better suited to fawning on a king than smithing gold. “But my conscience has its own particular mortification,” added Scroope, whose civilities began to grow tiresome to me. “For I left no plate to the college, as was expected from a fellow commoner. Therefore, to assuage my embarrassment, sir, I should be grateful if you would accept some baubles on behalf of the college.”

  “Now?” asked Newton. Scroope nodded. “I should be honoured.”

  Scroope left us alone for a moment while he went to fetch his gift.

  “This is most unexpected,” said Newton, handling Scroope’s walking stick with some interest.

  “Is this one of the three students you ever had?” I asked, remembering what he had told me upon our first acquaintance.

  “I am embarrassed to say that he is.”

  “Oh fie. I think Mister Scroope has more than enough embarrassment to cover both your consciences.”

  “I was a very dull fellow at Cambridge,” admitted Newton. “Dull and most inhumane. But I am a better man since I came to London. This work in the Mint has broadened my horizon. And yet it is not as broad a horizon as perhaps that of Mister Scroope. I fancy he sometimes visits places where a man must be doubly vigilant.”

  “How do you mean, sir?” I asked.

  “He wears a sword, like most gentlemen. And yet he has also been at some pains to conceal a sword inside this stick. Do you see?”

  Newton showed me how the body of the stick ingeniously concealed a blade, two or three feet long, so that the handle of the stick was also the handle of a short but useful-looking rapier. I tried the blade against my thumb.

  “He keeps it sharp enough,” I said.

  “You would not need to take such precautions unless you had some tangible danger to fear,” he argued.

  “Are not all goldsmiths subject to such dangers?” I suggested. “They have more to lose than just their lives. I wonder that you do not carry a sword yourself.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” allowed Newton. “Perhaps I might carry a sword. But I do not think I shall ever need to carry two swords.”

  Mister Scroope returned to the room bearing four silver cups with a repoussé decoration which, with some pomp, he presented to Trinity College in the person of my master, who, despite his duties at the Mint, was still the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge University.

  “These are very fine,” said Newton, examining the cups with increasing pleasure. “Very fine indeed.”

  “I’ve had them down in my cellars for a number of years, and I think it’s time they were properly appreciated. They are ancient Greek, recovered from a Spanish treasure ship. As well as a goldsmith, I have also been a projector
of schemes with your own Mister Neale.”

  “Mister Neale who is the Master of the Mint?” asked Newton.

  “The same. Several years ago we did recover a wreck, the Nuestra Señora de la Concepción, which carried much gold and silver. Those cups were but a small part of my share.”

  Newton continued to examine the cups with much interest.

  “The cups purport to tell the story of Nectanebus, the last native King of Egypt, who was also a great magician. You may read of him in the history of Callisthenes.”

  “I shall do so at my earliest opportunity,” said Newton, and then bowed gravely. “On behalf of Trinity College, you have my thanks.”

  Scroope nodded back, allowing himself a smile of some satisfaction, and then poured us some burnt wine from an equally fine silver jug that a servant fetched into the room where, the civilities completed, at last we sat down. The wine greatly warmed me for, despite the huge log that was burning on two brass firedogs that were as big as wolfhounds, I was still cold to the marrow from my river journey.

  “And now, sir, pray tell me, what it is that brings you here?”

  “It is my information that you had the acquaintance of Mister George Macey.”

  “Yes, of course. George. Has he returned?”

  “Regrettably he is still not accounted for,” said Newton, who neatly sidestepped the lie by this equivocating answer. “But, if I may ask, how was it that you and he were acquainted at all?”

  “The wreck of which I spoke, that Mister Neale and I invested in, was brought to Deptford, where I and Mister Neale went to see the treasure brought ashore, and to take our shares. But this was not before Mister Neale, in his capacity as the Mint’s Masterworker, had first removed the King’s Share.Mister Macey accompanied Mister Neale and assisted him in these official duties. This was several years ago, you understand.

  “Not long afterward, a second expedition was promoted to search for the rest of the treasure that the first had been obliged to leave behind. Mister Neale invested, I did not, preferring to use the great sum I had made to establish myself in business as a gold and silver smith. I have no skills in working metals. I am no Benvenuto Cellini. I prefer to have others do that work for me. But there are significant profits to be made. And I have been very successful doing it.”

  “That much is evident,” said Newton.

  “That being said, the second expedition was not successful, and Mister Neale lost some money, for which he blamed me, in part. However Mister Macey and I remained friends.”

  At this point Mister Scroope glanced awkwardly at me, as if there was something else he should like to have said, which Newton’s keen eyes quickly detected.

  “You may speak freely in front of Mister Ellis,” he said. “He has my total confidence and, as an officer of the Mint, has taken an oath of secrecy. My word upon it.”

  Scroope nodded. “Why then,” he said, “to tell it plainly, upon occasion I was in the habit of passing certain information to Mister Macey. Doubtless you will appreciate how, in my business, one hears things about coiners and clippers and other dishonest fellows who undermine the Great Recoinage and, by extension, the prosperity of the realm.”

  “That is my greatest concern also,” declared Newton. “Their Lordships at the Treasury have made it very plain to me that we may lose this war against France if we do not put a stop to this heinous practice of coining. That is why I am so diligent in these matters. It is given out by the general population that I do what I do to further my own preferment. But I tell you plain, Mister Scroope, it is because I would not have this country defeated by France and ruled by a Roman Catholic.”

  Scroope nodded. “Well, sir, I should be glad to perform the same service for you, Doctor, as I did for Mister Macey, should you so desire. Indeed I should be honoured, for poor Macey and I became quite close confidants as a result.”

  “I am grateful to you, sir,” said Newton. “But pray tell me, did Macey ever bring you a letter, written in a foreign language perhaps, that he asked you to translate for him? It is likely he would have been much exercised about its contents.”

  “Yes, I think there was such a letter,” admitted Scroope. “And although this was six months ago, I have come to believe that both the time of this visit—which was to be the last time I saw him—and the content of the letter—which, although it was very short, I do remember but inexactly—were connected with his vanishing.”

  Scroope appeared to rack his brains for a moment, which made my master leave off prompting him for a closer account of the letter.

  “The letter was not addressed to him. That much he told me. And it was written in French. I think it said something like ‘Come at once or my life is forfeit’ Which seemed to interest him a great deal, for I have not yet told you that the letter was discovered by him in the Mint, and I believe George suspected that there was some great plot a foot there to disrupt the Great Recoinage. More than that he did not say. And I did not ask.”

  “But did you not think to come forward with this information?” asked Newton.

  “For a long while after he disappeared, it was given out that Macey had stolen some guinea dies,” said Scroope. “Therefore I had no wish to draw attention to myself by saying that George had been my friend. Nor could I say very much without revealing myself to have been an informer. My relationship with George Macey was based on many years of trust. But these two men I knew not at all.”

  “But you knew Mister Neale,” said Newton. “Could you not have told the Master Worker himself?”

  “Doctor Newton, if I may speak frankly with you, Mister Neale and myself are no longer friends. And in truth,I trust Mister Neale not at all. He has too many projections and schemes for one who occupies such a public office. He may have lost his enthusiasm for wrecks and colonies, but he has other, no less hazardous, schemes which may leave him compromised. It is my own information that he is much concerned with arrangements for another lottery using the duties on malt as collateral.”

  “That, sir, is my own information, also.” Newton nodded wearily. “But I thank you for your candour.”

  “To be candid with one such as yourself, sir, is an honour. And affords me the expectation that we shall meet again, when, if I can, I shall be delighted to be of service.”

  Upon our leaving, Newton said something to Scroope’s servant, in a language I did not understand, and for a moment the two men conversed in what I took to be Hebrew; and after this we took our leave of Mister Scroope, for which I was much relieved, thinking him a very pompous fellow.

  “An interesting man, this St. Leger Scroope,” said Newton when we were in the coach once more. “Very obviously a rich and successful man, and yet also a secretive one.”

  “Secretive? I don’t know how you deduce that,” I said. “He seemed a very preening sort of fellow to me.”

  “When we left, his velvet shoes were quite ruined with mud,” said Newton. “Yet when we arrived they were noticeably clean, with new soles. Since the road in front of his premises is cobbled over, with no mud on it at all, I should suppose that he has a back yard, and that there was something out there that he was most concerned we should not see. Sufficiently concerned to ruin a pair of new velvet shoes.”

  “He might easily have got them muddy while fetching these silver tankards,” I said, objecting to Newton’s deduction.

  “Really, Ellis, it’s time you paid more attention to your own eyes and ears. He himself said that he fetched the tankards from his cellar. Even the cellars in the Tower are not as muddy as that.”

  “But I don’t see what it proves.”

  “It proves nothing at all,” said Newton. “Merely what I said: that for all his generosity and apparent outwardness to us, Mister Scroope is a man who carries two swords and has something to hide.”

  “Was that the Hebrew language you spoke?” I asked.

  “It was Ladino,” said Newton. “The man is a Spanish Marrano. The Marranos were Jews who managed to enter E
ngland under the guise of Protestants fleeing from persecution in Spain.”

  After which he told me, with much apparent satisfaction, of how well the Jews had done in England.

  “Egad, sir,” I said with some exasperation, for then I believed the Jews to have been Christ’s murderers. “You speak of them in such terms that one might think you approved of them.”

  “The God we honour and worship is a Hebrew God,” said Newton. “And the Jews are the fathers of our Church. We may learn much from a study of the Jewish religion. Therefore I say to you that not only do I approve of the Jews, I also admire and do honour unto them.

  “When you entered my service, my dear Ellis, you asked that I should always correct your ignorance of something and to show you something of the world as I understand it. This hatred people have for the Jews is based on a lie. For it is my opinion that much of modern Christian doctrine is a lie; and that scriptures were corrupted by the opponents of Arius in the Council of Nicea, during the fourth century. It was they who advanced the false doctrine of Athanasius, that the Son is of the same body as the Father, even though that idea is not in scripture. Once this misconception has been disposed of, it may be seen how the Jews are no more to be despised.”

  “But, sir,” I breathed, for fear that the coachman might overhear us, “you speak against the Holy Trinity and the divinity of Our Lord Jesus Christ. All this is heresy to our Church.”

  “To my mind it is the worship of Christ that is heretical. Jesus was merely the divine mediator between God and man, and to worship him is mere idolatry. Jesus became God’s heir not because of his congenital divinity but because of his death, which earned him the right to be honoured. Just as we honour Moses, Elijah, Solomon, Daniel, and all the other Jewish prophets. Honoured, but nothing more than that.”