by R. N. Morris
Quinn let the book fall open where the page was turned over. He began to read aloud, in a low, hoarse, even tone. Only occasionally did his voice crack, for no reason that he could understand.
Peter Pilling placed both hands on the glowing orb. It felt as solid as any table: it was impossible for him to push his hands into it, although he knew that its solidity was temporary, if not illusory. The orb was a mass of floating electrical particles generated by the Elektronikon. As soon as he switched the giant humming machine off, the orb would disappear.
Contrary to Professor Kureshi’s warnings, he received no electrical shock from the orb. This was as he had calculated. The Elektronikon converted electrical current into a field of energy that simulated matter. Indeed, Pilling had dubbed the machine’s product ‘Simu-matter’.
He removed one hand from the orb and gestured to Professor Kureshi. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ he assured him.
Kureshi put down his pipe and approached the orb; his face lit up eerily from below as he peered at it. He spread out one hand and held it about three inches above the orb.
Pilling placed his own hand on top of his old mentor’s hand and gently guided it down until the palm made contact with the incandescent surface. Kureshi winced, in expectation of pain. When he felt none, he opened his eyes wide in wonder.
‘Allah be praised, Peter! You have done it! You have created solid matter from electricity!’
‘Not quite, Professor. The object has no independent existence as yet.’
‘There is no electrical sensation whatsoever. Only the impression of touching a solid object.’
Pilling removed his hands from the orb. ‘Impression? It’s more than an impression.’ He crossed to a workbench on the other side of his laboratory, from where he took a claw hammer.
‘Stand back, Prof!’
Kureshi did as he was directed. Peter Pilling brought the hammer down on the orb from high above his head, holding nothing back from the force with which he wielded it. The hammer head struck the orb with a heavy clank and was thrown violently back up into the air.
‘Impression, you say?’ Pilling’s laughter was charged with a manic, almost hysterical animation. At the same time, he seemed to be on the verge of collapse. He was simultaneously exhausted and energized.
‘Let’s switch it off, shall we?’ advised Professor Kureshi, noticing his friend’s peculiar excitement. ‘Then we can talk.’
Since the death of Peter’s parents in the explosion, Professor Ali Kureshi had been like a father to the young scientist. It was a relationship that they had both fallen into naturally, without questioning. Kureshi had no family of his own. He had devoted his life to science. And Peter, orphaned through his own actions … More than orphaned, the explosion in his laboratory had killed his brother too …
Quinn looked across at Malcolm. His eyes were closed, but he was far from tranquil. Every breath was a struggle. His hair was drenched in sweat. His face glistened and rippled with agonies that Quinn could only guess at.
Quinn had seen men die before. He knew that sometimes, even when the injuries were as catastrophic as Malcolm’s, it could take a long time for the end to come. A space would open up into which hope could be poured. Surely, if they could survive this long, they would make it through?
But Malcolm seemed to be physically shrinking before Quinn’s eyes. At the same time, the strange animation of his face suggested that there was something trying to burst out from within. Intolerable pressures were at work on his organism from all directions.
Darkness.
A glimmering speck forms, barely visible, sensed rather than seen.
The speck settles and grows.
It is revealed to be a distant light, a beacon perhaps, or light at the end of a tunnel.
Is he in a tunnel then?
The light’s apparent growth is the effect of his approaching it. Or is the light coming towards him?
It makes no difference. Wherever he is, that distinction does not exist.
A voice is speaking, though he cannot make out what is being said. It is a constant low murmur, like a prayer. A prayer that’s being said for him.
He feels the indistinct words of the prayer floating beneath him, bearing him up, bearing him along. A river of goodwill.
A river flowing through a tunnel? But there is no river and there is no tunnel.
The black bees are gone now. Their buzzing ceased as soon as the words began. If the words stop, will the bees return? He feels this is so, and fearing the bees’ return, he hopes that the prayer will last forever.
Whether the light is moving towards him or he towards it, the progress is infinitely slow. As if there is all the time in the world for this to happen.
The movement is so slow that he has no sense of it. Except that the light continues to grow, in infinitesimally small increments.
It is now a circle of light. Or rather a sphere. He can detect its three-dimensionality.
Not the light at the end of a tunnel then.
A ball of light rolling towards him.
As it approaches the words of the prayer become more distinct.
… floating … disappear … received … assured … approached … above … gently … guided … wonder … be praised … from high … laughter … energized … father … brother …
All the time, the extent of the sphere continues to grow until its light is all there is. It has edged the darkness out.
He is at the surface of the light now. He sees that it is formed from an infinite number of particles. From a distance, the light appeared white. Now he can see that it pulsates with swimming colours, some of breathtaking delicacy, others unbelievably vibrant. They shift and merge so quickly that it is almost as if they are creating new colours, ones that he has never seen or even imagined before.
And then it happens. He passes through the colours and the colours pass through him. And as they pass through him, they dissolve him. It is a soft and infinitely slow explosion.
The particles of his being swim and shimmer with the shifting colours.
Until there is nothing.
Malcolm’s eyes opened. His eyeballs swivelled in their sockets before staring straight ahead in an expression that may have been amazement or terror, softening into something more resigned. His breathing quickened into sharp, desperate drags and then stopped.
He fell back and seemed to shrink one last time as if something had collapsed inside him.
TWENTY-ONE
Quinn hesitated at the door to the department, watching his sergeants in silence. They were engrossed in their work and unaware of his presence as yet. It seemed that it would be an easy thing to turn round, walk away and never come back. They gave the impression that they did not need him.
At last, Macadam looked up and saw him. ‘There you are, sir.’
Quinn placed the copy of A Furious Energy on Macadam’s desk without a word. Then turned to hang up his ulster and hat. He could sense them watching him closely.
‘So,’ he said, facing them again. ‘Malcolm Grant-Sissons is dead. He died last night. I was with him.’
There were noises of condolence from Macadam and Inchball.
Quinn batted them away. ‘I hardly knew him.’
Macadam touched the book with his fingertips. It was almost a caress. ‘It didn’t work then, sir?’
‘You can’t save a man’s life by reading to him, Macadam. So, Inchball, how did you get on at the asylum?’
‘Your brother …’
‘Grant-Sissons. Call him Grant-Sissons. That is more professional, I think.’
‘Grant-Sissons was indeed an inmate there. According to the superintendent there, Dr Pottinger, he underwent some kind of miracle cure, by the sounds of it. Came in a blithering wreck, and left after a couple of weeks sane as you or me. Well … I mean … you know … completely sane.’
Quinn nodded. ‘Remarkable.’
‘Mind you, I have to say, there’s something fishy about tha
t Pottinger fella. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, first off, he’s never heard of Grant-Sissons. Couldn’t possibly know the names of every loony who gets admitted there. That sort of thing. Then it suddenly comes back to him. How Grant-Sissons is some kind of marvellous success story.’
‘I see. And what about any other patients who may have left there recently?’
‘Nothing came to him, off the top of his head. He said he’d look into it and get back to me. Stalling for time, if you ask me.’
‘Very likely. Keep on him. If we don’t get those details soon, we’ll go back and take them.’ The terms under which the Special Crimes Department was established allowed wide-ranging powers of search and seizure, without the necessity of specific judicial warrants.
Inchball nodded approvingly. ‘One thing he did confirm. It is their practice now to remove the tonsils and teeth from some patients. Summink to do with the germs what cause madness. Didn’t make no sense to me. They ain’t got round to doing everyone yet. But didn’t them first two geezers have their teeth and tonsils removed?’
‘So, further proof they were at Colney Hatch.’
‘As if we were in any doubt. And here’s another thing. As I was leaving, you’ll never guess who I bumped into.’
Quinn shook his head.
‘Only Timon fucking Medway.’
‘Timon Medway?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, of course. We know he was allowed to stay there after … well, after the jury accepted his barrister’s plea of insanity.’
‘He’s no more mad than—’ Inchball broke off, no doubt remembering his earlier embarrassment around the same question. ‘It’s all an act.’
Quinn thought back to the Medway investigation. It must have been ten years ago, or possibly more. Four children were murdered and mutilated, their body parts left at various locations around London. In fact, Timon Medway was admitted to Colney Hatch on the very day that Quinn had gone to arrest him. If his insanity was a pretence, as Inchball claimed, he had played it very cleverly indeed, establishing the evidence of his madness before his identity as the murderer had come out.
And perhaps Medway actually was mad. The fact that he had killed those children ought to be enough to establish that. His claims to be God – or the Son of God – and a whole gamut of other people was merely window dressing.
‘Do you think that Timon Medway has something to do with the deaths of these young men?’ wondered Quinn.
‘It did seem like he was expecting me.’
‘How do you mean?’
Inchball’s expression clouded. Quinn had the impression that there was something he wasn’t saying. ‘Very well. Dig out the Medway file, will you?’
‘I’ll sort it,’ said Inchball, rising from his seat.
On his way out, Inchball crossed paths with one of the boys from the post room, a podgy youth of about sixteen years. Out of breath after his climb to the Special Crimes Department, his face was red and resentful, with sweat trickling from his temples.
‘Which one of you is Macadam?’
Macadam identified himself and the boy threw a large manilla envelope across the room to him.
‘Have a care!’ objected Macadam, but the youth was already gone.
Macadam opened the envelope carefully with a paperknife. He took out several sheets of foolscap folio, stapled together. ‘Well I never!’ he exclaimed, after briefly examining the first page. He turned the pages excitedly.
‘What is it?’ asked Quinn, approaching Macadam’s desk. Macadam handed the document up to him.
The pages bore the letterhead of THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE GRACCHI. On the first page, there was the heading CURRENT MEMBERSHIP. Beneath was a list of names and addresses, which continued on the next pages.
‘Who is it from?’ Quinn asked.
Macadam tipped the envelope up. Nothing came out.
Macadam smiled to himself. ‘The old girl came through for me. I’ll give her that.’
The names were organized alphabetically according to surname. Quinn turned to the second page and found the Gs. ‘He’s not here. Grant-Sissons wasn’t a member of the Gracchi.’
‘So, Manley Adams wasn’t lying about that.’
Quinn turned over several pages. ‘But look at this. Portman, W.G. And according to his listing, he is the secretary.’
‘There is a connection then?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Do you think Portman had some contact with your brother … with Grant-Sissons?’
‘I don’t know. Not everyone who reads a book has had dealings with the author. Perhaps we are in danger of finding connections that are not there, simply because we go looking for them.’
‘Like seeing pictures in the clouds?’
Quinn frowned at Macadam’s fanciful analogy.
‘Perhaps Grant-Sissons did not join under his own name,’ wondered Macadam.
‘Why should he not?’
Macadam shrugged. ‘Manley Adams was certainly cagey about handing the names over. Some of the members might not want it to get out.’
Quinn shook his head dubiously. ‘I don’t see why Grant-Sissons would want to keep his membership secret if he was a member. His father, I mean Hugh Grant-Sissons, was well known as a troublemaker.’
‘Even so, you might look for his address, sir. I mean to say, I am the member of a number of societies. They all send out newsletters and communications of various kinds. One may use a false name, but the address has to be genuine, otherwise there is little point in being a member.’
‘Good thinking, Macadam.’
‘And might I suggest you look first at the Qs?’
‘The Qs?’
Macadam hesitated tactfully before explaining: ‘If he joined recently, he might have chosen your father’s name, sir. That is to say, his father’s.’
Quinn flicked to the last page. ‘No. There is no Quinn listed.’ He handed the sheets to Macadam. ‘You’ll have to go through them all.’
‘That’s quite all right, sir. It won’t take long. St John’s Passage, wasn’t it?’
Quinn nodded and crossed to his own desk.
A moment later, Inchball returned with the Medway file. Quinn took it off him without a word. As he opened the file, he noticed that his hands were shaking once again.
Quinn turned over the crime-scene photographs quickly. He did not need to be reminded of the viciousness of Medway’s crimes.
Timon Medway was a gifted mathematician. He had been the Senior Wrangler of his year at Cambridge, graduating with the highest-scoring first-class degree, a full twelve per cent above the Second Wrangler. In fact, his marks were near perfect. It was typical of him that he saw the few points that he did drop as indicating the stupidity of his examiners, rather than his own failings.
He had surprised many by turning his back on an academic career, instead entering the insurance profession as an actuary. It seems he found the work lucrative but undemanding, leaving him free to pursue other interests.
Among these other interests was murder.
For Medway, murder was never a distinct pursuit from mathematics. In his own twisted mind, nothing he did was distinct from mathematics. For him, mathematics was the glue that held the universe together. As the foremost mathematician since Sir Isaac Newton (by his own assessment), he saw himself as being in a unique position not only to understand the universe, but to control it. Which he did through mathematics. And murder. The mathematics of murder, you might say.
He came to believe that he was a reincarnation of Isaac Newton, who in turn had toyed with the idea that he was a reincarnation of Jesus Christ. And so, Timon Medway was able to combine in his own person arguably the greatest human intellect there had ever been with the human incarnation of divinity. He was encouraged in this belief by the fact that he shared a birthday with both his avatars. Medway was born on 25 December, 1878.
/> Mathematicians look for patterns. In that sense, Quinn mused, they are like detectives. Both are at risk of mistaking random coincidence for significance, noise for meaning.
All this would have been enough to have him certified insane. Even before he started murdering and dismembering children.
His justifications for his crimes were incomprehensible to a lay person. And when Quinn had shown them to various professors of mathematics, they proved to be equally incomprehensible to the experts. He reduced child murder to a set of formulae, in which the age of the child, and various other factors and functions, were used to calculate the time, place and means of that child’s death, as well as the number of pieces into which their corpses should be cut.
Medway acknowledged no peers. And in fact he believed that the field of mathematics as traditionally understood and studied was now defunct. It was time for a ‘New Mathematics’.
The principles of his New Mathematics, together with his justifications for murder, were contained in a treatise extending over a thousand densely handwritten pages of calculations and exegesis. According to the professionals Quinn consulted, there was nothing very new contained in it at all. Medway showed a sound understanding of some of the more outlandish theories currently in fashion, although his claims to be their discoverer – and to have had his ideas stolen by his enemies – were generally thought to be without foundation.
In fact, Medway’s Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica Nova turned out to be an incoherent mishmash of second-hand ideas, mediaeval numerology and nonsense. There could, in all honesty, be little doubt that its author was mad.
The four children Medway had murdered had all been aged seven. He had located them through his access to insurance files. The first was Gladys Bailey, the daughter of a solicitor and his wife. The second, Emmanuel Peters, a vicar’s son. Next came Dorothea Chapman, whose father was a colonel in the Coldstream Guards.
So far, Quinn remembered, there seemed to be a pattern in the choice of victims. The families were all stolidly respectable and middle class. They represented three pillars of the establishment: the Law, the Church, the Armed Forces. But then the fourth victim, Wilfred Thomas, was the son of an unmarried mother of decidedly bohemian habits. Elena Thomas was an actress, Quinn remembered, a star of the West End stage. It seemed her immorality had not hindered her in her chosen career.
