Emmett stared past him into the room. His expression softened to concern, looking more like his usual self. “What's wrong, Simon? Can you tell me? Is it because of the murders?"
“Nothing.” Simon swallowed against the dryness clogging his throat and tried again. “Nothing that sleep and right food won't cure."
An awkward pause. Emmett shifted on his feet and glanced away. “I see. Well. The other reason I came was that we're holding a wake ourselves, a private one, for Maeve and Colin together. It's tonight, at Bantry's Pub. You should come."
“Bantry's,” Simon repeated. Then a shadow crossed his vision, and he distinctly heard Emmett say, “I'm sorry you're too ill to come. Shall I stop by tomorrow?” and his own answer, “Yes. Please do."
When Emmett had gone, Simon closed the door and leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut. “It's nothing,” he whispered. “I'm unsettled. My nerves strained. Nothing more."
He stumbled into his bedroom and lay down. Hours later, he woke with a start, sweating, his heart beating against his ribs. His rooms were dark, the air stale and cold. A rapping sounded at his door—a steady rhythm as though someone had been at it a while.
Emmett.
Simon rolled from the bed, calling out, “Just a moment."
He scrubbed his face with cold water and pulled on a fresh shirt and trousers. The cocaine had not mysteriously reappeared. Calmer now, he opened the door, ready to face Emmett.
But it was Susan who stood outside. Susan with her plain black skirt and white pleated blouse, her dark face serious. “Simon,” she said. “You must not do it."
He blinked, confused. “Do what?"
She gestured sharply, taking in his appearance and the cluttered room behind him. “Make yourself a recluse. I haven't seen you in three days. Emmett tried calling on you yesterday, but you wouldn't answer the door. He said you were ill. Bollocks."
“Susan..."
“Don't.” Her voice scaled up, and she made an obvious effort to regain her control. “Don't lie to me, Simon. I know you're grieving for Maeve and Colin. We all are. I just came to ask—to say that you should not hide from your friends."
With that, she turned and fled down the stairs. Moments later, the outside door banged open and shut.
Simon closed the door and turned back to his rooms. Only a day had passed since Emmett's morning visit, but a veneer of dust coated the floors, and his rooms had an odd neglected look. Where had Garret disappeared to?
Emmett tried calling, but you wouldn't answer.
Simon's gaze veered to his desk. The cocaine had returned.
He had trouble remembering much after that. Morning. Night. Afternoon. The hours flickered past his eyes like pages of a book. Once he found himself crouched over his wastebasket, retching. Another time, he massaged his cramped hands, studying a list of numbers. Moments later, he stood in his bedroom, drinking coffee, bemused to find himself dressed and shaved.
He was still gazing at his carpet when someone tapped at his door. Emmett or Susan, he thought. Or possibly the long-absent Garret.
But his visitor was Adrian Dee, looking grim and weary. “You must come with me, sir."
“Why? More questions?"
“More questions than I like, sir. I cannot tell you more until we reach the precinct office."
Dee helped him into his overcoat and led him outside, where a cab with a uniformed policeman waited.
“Am I under arrest?” Simon demanded.
“No, Mr. Madoc. Not unless you give us reason."
Dee remained silent throughout the long uncomfortable drive to the precinct house. Fatigue lined his face, making him look much older than he had that first day, when they walked along the Blackwater. Simon noted a scar below Dee's left temple and faint hatchmarks beside his eyes. How many years had he served in the Queen's Constabulary? And why had his superiors assigned him to this obscure murder case?
They arrived just as the sun was sliding behind the precinct house, which stood on a prominence overlooking the Blackwater. Dee dismounted first and scanned the walkway. When Simon climbed down, the detective took him by the elbow and hurried him inside.
Policemen and their charges filled the precinct lobby—tramps and beggars, a woman with gaudy makeup, a nervous man in evening dress explaining his possession of a gun. Dee guided Simon up the nearest stairwell, along a deserted corridor, and into a waiting room. He closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit."
Simon hesitated. He had expected the same scene as last time—the several uniformed policemen standing along the walls, the assistants writing notes, another of Dee's colleagues listening in. Instead, they were alone, and Dee himself remained silent, his narrowed gaze upon Simon.
“The newest victim is Susan Liddell,” Dee said abruptly.
For a moment, Simon's mind went blank. Then the blood drained from his face and he sank into the chair. “Susan? When? How?"
Dee studied him a moment before answering. “Last night. Very late, if our witnesses are telling the truth. The coroner is confirming their testimony."
Susan. Dead.
Simon leaned his head against his hands. “That's not possible,” he whispered. “She visited me this afternoon. No, wait. She came by yesterday."
Dee gave no reaction, except that his features turned a shade more rigid. “Tell me everything you did this past week. Leave nothing out."
“I ... I spent them in my rooms."
“The entire five days? Doing what?"
Another wave of vertigo passed over Simon. He steadied himself against the tabletop and managed to meet Dee's eyes. “Research. Studying."
“For your thesis?"
“Yes. That and ... something that concerns my sister."
Dee regarded him steadily. “Susan Liddell was last seen in the mathematics library. She bid the librarian good-night just as the clock struck ten. The librarian looked out the window and saw a man waiting outside by the lamppost. Miss Liddell and he spoke, then walked off together. The librarian said he had only a glimpse of the man's face, but he swears it was you."
“Impossible,” Simon whispered. “I never went there. My manservant can testify—"
Dee stopped him with a gesture. “We spoke with Thomas Garret. You dismissed him two days ago, he claims. We also spoke with your landlady. Mrs. Dugan and the chambermaid both agree that you remained in your rooms throughout the day, but they cannot guarantee your whereabouts after sunset."
Simon felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. “I did not leave my rooms, Commander. I—besides, my studies, I was quite ill, Commander. Ask Emmett Moore. He came to my rooms."
Dee nodded. “We know. As did Miss Liddell. She spoke with Mr. Moore yesterday morning. She was concerned, as was he, about your health. He did not say it outright, but Mr. Moore thought you had had dealings with Mr. Blake."
“That's a lie,” Simon burst out. He stood up hastily, knocking over the chair. Simon righted the chair, breathing heavily. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I can only say I'm upset. Any man would be with his friends dying and his sister—” But he would not speak of Gwyn to this man. “Never mind about my sister. I've enough to upset me these past three days."
“Five,” Dee said softly.
“Three or five or twenty-five. Does it matter? My friends are dead, and you accuse me of being their murderer."
“But I don't."
Simon stopped. He had been circling the table, unaware that he did so. Now he faced Dee across the table. One of the windows had been opened a crack. He heard carriage wheels clattering over the paving stones. A thin breeze filtered into the stuffy room. “You don't?"
“No.” Dee watched him closely. His gaze was bright, disquieting in its intensity. “We have contradictory testimony, Mr. Madoc. We have other evidence I cannot share with you. Suffice to say that we do not have adequate proof to arrest you."
“Then why bring me here?"
“To question you. Someone murdered Susan Liddell. Someone who kne
w her quite well, and that is telling you more than I should."
Simon rubbed his hand over his numb face. “I wish I could help you."
“So do I, Mr. Madoc. So do I. Now, please, sit. I have a few more questions."
A few questions turned into several dozen. Once more, Dee led Simon through the past week. When had he entered his rooms? Who brought him meals? On which day did Emmett Moore visit him? Had Mr. Moore appeared distressed? What about Miss Liddell?
“Did you know that Mr. Moore and Miss Liddell had been lovers?"
Simon gripped the table's edge to steady himself. “Lovers? No. I had no idea. I thought—” He eyed Dee, suddenly suspicious. “Are you certain?"
“We are certain, Mr. Madoc. We have that information directly from Mr. Moore."
Simon opened and closed his mouth, unable to respond to that information. Dee watched him in silence. When he resumed his questions, they seemed to come at random, skipping over the past week, then suddenly leaping to years before, including his first meeting with Emmett Moore. Gradually, as he answered questions about Emmett's recent behavior, Simon's panic receded, replaced by a realization that brought him no comfort.
They think Emmett murdered Susan.
At last, Dee let out a sigh. “Enough. We've had a long day, you and I, Mr. Madoc."
“Am I free to go, then?"
“Yes. But remember, the investigation continues. I would prefer that you not leave Awveline City."
“Of course, Commander. I only meant that I was tired and would be grateful for some sleep."
“That you may have, Mr. Madoc."
A policeman called a cab for Simon and escorted him home. The ride back to his boarding house remained a blurred series of images. Moonlight alternating with clouds. Dusky purple skies. Faint stars pricking the darkness. Long shadows stretching over the roadway. He was vaguely aware of the policeman helping him inside. Even with the man's assistance, it took Simon three tries to unlock his door, but at last he was inside. Safe and alone.
He scanned his rooms quickly. Nothing extraordinary met his sight. Books, papers, and furniture all looked the same. Aside from Tom Garret's strange absence, his rooms looked as though the past few days had not occurred.
Save that Susan is dead, and the police suspect Emmett.
He dropped into the chair by his desk. After a moment's hesitation, he yanked open the drawer and searched through its contents. Keys. Slips of paper with numbers scribbled upon them. An inkpot. A pair of dice he and Emmett used to play statistics games. But no white packet of strange powder.
Simon shoved the drawer closed and rested his head upon his hands. I was upset. Confused. Nothing more.
Work. He needed to work. To distract himself from the news about Susan and Gwyn. He reached blindly for the nearest book: Numerical Theories of the Syrians.
For an hour, he was able to lose himself in reading and making notes. As one reference led him to another, he pulled out other books, until he had an untidy heap upon his desk. Metaphysical properties. Particles of thought. Time streams. The various theories hung in his mind, vivid and clear. It seemed that he had finally found the necessary strands to pull his theories together....
The vision wavered. The brightly colored strands of his reasoning unraveled into a handful of nothing.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn. Damn. Damn to all eternity."
He pushed back his chair and stood. He'd go mad if he stayed alone much longer. He pulled on a hat, gloves, and overcoat as he walked out the door. There was no question of visiting Emmett, not with Dee's questions fresh in his thoughts. But Oswalt—Oswalt had told Simon to visit if he had questions.
Those aren't the questions you have.
Those are the ones I can bear to ask.
The cab dropped him off within a few streets of Oswalt's house, and Simon continued the last distance on foot. Oswalt lived in a genteel neighborhood of aging gabled houses. Most of the windows were brightly lit, but the streets themselves were quiet and the sidewalks empty. A line of yellow haloes marked the procession of streetlamps.
Oswalt's house stood on a corner, somewhat apart from its neighbors and shielded by a high wall of bushes. Simon paused on the sidewalk, where a brick walkway led up to the front porch. Lamplight glowed in one of the upper windows, but downstairs all was dark. He puffed out his breath in frustration and stamped his feet, suddenly aware how quickly they'd grown numb.
A fool's errand, he thought. Oswalt might be awake, but he certainly wasn't receiving visitors at this hour.
He turned away, ready to go directly home, but stopped when a light flared in the downstairs parlor window. A silhouette appeared before the curtains. Simon recognized Oswalt by the silvery halo of hair around his head. Moments later, the glow brightened as Oswalt lit the parlor's lamps.
Now a second, taller figure appeared by the window. Curious, and somewhat apprehensive, Simon took a few steps along the front walkway. Who else had chosen to visit and rouse Oswalt from his early evening? Another student? Adrian Dee?
He left the walkway and ventured closer to the parlor window. If anyone looked out from that brightly lit room, they would not see him in the darkness.
Luck was with him. Oswalt had left the window open a crack, and he heard their voices clearly.
“Not possible.” That was Oswalt.
“But sir, surely you've read the theories—"
“And just as surely I've read their refutations, Mr. Moore."
Emmett. Why had Emmett come here? Oswalt was not his advisor. And surely he would have remained at home, mourning Susan's loss.
Simon crouched down, his head spinning from the onslaught of suspicion. Above him, the voices continued their conversation, but he could barely attend. They were arguing—something about formulae and the properties of numbers.
“Prime numbers,” Emmett said, his voice taking on that eager tone when he'd lighted upon a new and exciting idea. “You yourself wrote a paper on the subject."
“Years ago,” Oswalt said. “Others have since disproved the theory."
“True. But remember the new research from Lîvod and Dietsch—"
“Incomplete—"
“Not incomplete."
There was a heavy pause, and Simon could picture the glower on Oswalt's face. It was a look that intimidated less confident students. Emmett himself apparently required a few moments before he could continue.
“Begging your pardon and your indulgence, sir, but the evidence is not incomplete. Here are the newest papers, delivered just this week from a community of Iranian scholars. Have you read them, sir?"
“Not yet, Mr. Moore. I was engaged in my own research."
“As was I, sir. One very similar to your own, I would imagine."
Oswalt snorted. “Indeed.” A pause followed. “Mr. Madoc is your intimate friend, I believe."
“Mr. Madoc is my dear friend and a respected colleague, sir."
A long unbroken silence followed. Then Oswalt cleared his throat. “I'm glad you came to me, Mr. Moore. Come with me, we shall go to my offices tonight. I have some papers to share with you—"
Oswalt broke off with an exclamation. Simon heard Emmett's shout, several thuds, then another broken-off cry. Without thinking, he raced to the front porch and flung the door open. A silent dark foyer met his eye. Cautiously he stepped inside, his heart beating hard against his chest. He heard a rustling sound from within the parlor and laid a hand on the latch.
The door swung open to reveal a brightly lit parlor. Two dark shapes lay motionless upon the carpet, one with thin white hair, one with blond hair, bleached to silver in the brilliant lamplight.
Emmett. Oswalt. But that means—
A table crashed to the ground. A man burst from behind the couch and ran full tilt into Simon. They both tumbled to the floor, arms and legs flailing as they wrestled. Then Simon broke free and rolled to his feet. The next moment the stranger had done the same.
He was a tall man, with pale
blond hair escaping from underneath a thick scarf, which enveloped his throat and face. His light blue eyes glittered in the moonlight. He could almost be Emmett's brother.
With a muffled cry, the stranger dropped the knife and ran.
Simon darted after him. “Stop!"
“Stop!” cried another voice.
Dee. In relief, Simon swung around. “Commander. Thank the Lord—"
Dee stepped over the threshold, his gun aimed at Simon's chest. “Simon Madoc, I order you to yield. Give me the knife, sir. I promise that it will go better if you cooperate. Come, lay the knife down. You know you have not a chance."
Simon edged away. “What are you talking about? Didn't you see the man? He's the one who killed—"
With a shock, he realized he gripped a knife in his hands.
Simon twitched his hand open. The knife spun toward Dee, who dropped to one knee and fired. Simon twisted away, but not in time. Bright pain blossomed in his shoulder. In panic, he stumbled down the hall and made it through the back door a few steps ahead of Dee.
A policeman loomed to his right. Simon swung a punch and connected. The pain in his shoulder nearly brought him to his knees. Ahead, he saw another figure darting through the gate and into the alley. Simon drew a sobbing breath and ran.
* * * *
Dawn came as a dark red haze.
Simon pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to contain the pressure inside. He'd spent half the night chasing and chased. Twice he had spotted the murderer, and twice Dee's men had nearly captured Simon. Finally he'd taken refuge in a derelict stable, deep in Awveline's slum district.
He tilted his head back and breathed in the dusty air. His shoulder ached fiercely where Dee had shot him, and dried blood pulled at his skin. It would be only a matter of hours before Dee and his patrols located Simon. They would charge him with murder, try him, and execute him. He no longer tried to deny the charge. The knife lay at his feet, though he remembered clearly dropping it in Oswalt's house. He also remembered a stranger fleeing with the same knife in his hand. Three memories, all vivid. Which one was true?
“Seven,” he whispered. “Thirteen. Seventeen.” He paused and listened a moment. A pattering against the doors and broken shutters told him that rain was falling. A faint silver light seeped around the shutters. Day had arrived.
Asimov's SF, June 2006 Page 19
