Authors: Beth Bernobich
“Near ten. I remember the hour bell ringing just as we left the library.”
“And how would you say Mr. De Mora appeared?”
Síomón paused, the tin cup in hand. “Upset, of course.”
“At you?”
“No!” Síomón slammed the cup onto the tabletop, sloshing water over the sides. Hands shaking, he mopped up the spill with his handkerchief. “I apologize for my outburst, Commander. It’s been a long day.”
“To be sure, Mr. Madóc. We are all a bit weary and shaken. Tell me, if you can, exactly how Mr. De Mora appeared. Upset, you said. Did he seem angry? Grieving? Nervous?”
His mouth tasted like cotton, but Síomón resisted the urge to request more water. “Do you suspect him? Surely not?”
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s expression remained bland. “I suspect everyone, Mr. Madóc. Did you know David Levi?”
The sudden shift in topic caught Síomón off guard, and, for a moment, he couldn’t collect his thoughts into an answer. “Yes, I knew him. Not as well as Evan does—did. But David attended a number of mathematics lectures, so we talked from time to time.”
“About electrical impulses in numbers?”
Was that mockery in Ó Deághaidh’s voice? Some sly reference to Síomón’s own discredited theories? He could not tell. Suppressing his urge to shout, he answered, “Yes.”
“But you were not friends.”
“No. Colleagues.”
“Respected colleagues, you might say. I understand. Do you know if he formed any closer ties with the other mathematics students?”
So far he’d answered freely, but now Síomón began to mistrust the shape of Ó Deághaidh’s questioning, which seemed designed to draw out his opinions in dangerous ways. “Not that I know of.”
Ó Deághaidh favored him with another thoughtful look, but apparently he had no further interest in David Levi, because he went back to the step-by-step questions, asking Síomón about his departure with Evan De Mora from the library, what they saw from the portico and walk, who first noticed the body, and when Síomón observed the unknown fugitive.
“Man or woman?” Ó Deághaidh asked.
“A man. At least, I believe so.”
A pause. “Tell us exactly what you saw.”
Síomón considered how to phrase it. “First I only saw a movement. I thought it was the wind, moving the tree branches, but then I clearly saw a … a shape or shadow amongst the trees. I’m sorry I cannot be more clear. When I pointed them out to Evan, whoever it was started running.”
“A shape or shadow. That does not sound so certain.”
“I wasn’t at first, but now I am.”
“So. You saw a man amongst the trees. He ran, and you gave chase. Very foolhardy of you, Mr. Madóc.”
“I know. I wasn’t thinking very clearly. Evan shouted for me to stop, but all I could think was I had to catch the murderer before he escaped.”
Ó Deághaidh nodded. “I see. Go on.”
Síomón licked his dry lips. Without a word, the same sergeant refilled his cup. Síomón drank the water down in one swallow, trying to ignore how Ó Deághaidh watched him. “I chased him across the green,” he said, “and around Begley Hall and into the alleys behind. I had stopped to catch my breath. Before I could go on, Evan caught up and tackled me to the ground. By that time, the stranger got away. But before he did, I had a clear look at him in the moonlight.”
“You saw his face?”
“No.” Síomón closed his eyes, trying to recall exactly what he had seen. Mist and shadows. The knife-cold wind blurring his vision. The hiss of leaves sliding over leaves. A figure outlined against the stone wall of the dormitory.
“He wore a strange squashed hat and a loose coat. I could not make out his face. But it was a man.”
“Are you certain of what you saw? Mr. De Mora says you took ill by the body.”
“I am quite certain,” Síomón said evenly. “I knew by his height and his clothes and the way he stood.”
“Just so.” Ó Deághaidh exchanged a glance with one of the gardaí. “Mr. Madóc, I should tell you that we’ve spoken with Mr. De Mora. He does not recall any stranger, man or woman.”
“Impossible. Evan ran after me. He threw me to the ground and said I was a fool to chase the man.”
“Mr. Madóc, your friend was quite clear about that point.
I saw no one,
he told us,
but with the clouds over the moon, I’m not surprised.
”
Síomón shook his head. “I cannot believe he said that. Sure there were clouds, but the moon was bright enough to see by.”
Ó Deághaidh’s expression did not change, but his gaze shifted momentarily from Síomón to the other men in the room, then back. “Tell me about your meeting yesterday with Seán Blácach,” he said.
“I had no meeting with Seán Blácach.”
“Do not lie to me, Mr. Madóc, else things will go badly.”
Síomón reached for his water cup, then remembered it was empty. In a level voice he said, “There was no meeting, Commander. Not yesterday. Not ever. No matter what he said—”
“Seán Blácach said nothing, Mr. Madóc. My sources are other witnesses. Three students have reported they saw two men outside the dining halls near dusk. One was Seán Blácach. The other was a tall fair-haired man, well dressed. Normally they would have thought nothing, except that the fair-haired man seemed quite agitated.”
“Any number of men could fit that description.”
“No, sir. No, they could not. We have a list of those in Awveline and the university who match this description. You are on that list. So are three others, including your friend Evan De Mora. Do you deny meeting with Seán Blácach?”
“I do.” His voice came out as a whisper. Louder, he repeated, “I do deny it, no matter what anyone else claims.”
A short interlude followed, with Ó Deághaidh consulting with the gardaí. One exited the room, only to return within moments with a stack of scribbled notes. Ó Deághaidh pressed his lips together, as if annoyed, then his countenance cleared.
Síomón thought the interview done, but Ó Deághaidh launched into another series of questions about Síomón’s activities for the previous week—every lecture, every session in the library, every person who spoke to him, or who could confirm his whereabouts. “We are not singling you out, Mr. Madóc,” Ó Deághaidh said, during a pause. “We are asking everyone the same questions. Mr. De Mora sits in another room in this same building, and Mr. Blácach in another yet. Tomorrow we shall interview Miss Patel. I cannot expect you to like our methods, but I do expect your cooperation.”
“I am cooperating,” Síomón said wearily.
“Yes, you are.” But to Síomón’s ear, Ó Deághaidh’s tone sounded ambiguous. “Tell me,” he went on, “about the arrangements you have with your uncle. He manages your estates of Gleanntara, in County Laingford, does he not?”
“He manages
our
estates,” Síomón said, with a slight emphasis. “My sister and I own the property jointly. Why do you need to know this?”
“To complete my understanding of your circumstances, Mr. Madóc. Your parents left everything—land and money—to you without division, is that not so?”
“Yes. We had talked earlier about dividing the estate—the will allowed us to alter the arrangement once we came of age—but then my sister took ill.”
“And so you kept things as they were.”
Síomón nodded, but his mind had wandered. He was seeing Gwen’s face, chapped by hours in the cold, and hearing her singsong voice as she talked about following a number.
There will be nothing like it was,
he thought.
Not unless we wind ourselves backward through time a half dozen years.
To his relief, the interview ended at last. Síomón stood and shook hands with Ó Deághaidh. The gestures and the words came to him automatically, even in such a strange situation, and he did not begrudge them this time.
“I’ve ordered a cab for you,” Ó Deághaidh said. “Remember that we might need to speak with you again tomorrow.”
A sergeant escorted Síomón from the building and helped him into the waiting carriage. Once inside, Síomón collapsed into the corner. His entire body ached, as though he had worked every muscle from his scalp to his toes. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he kept seeing David’s pale face, his outstretched hand, as though he had tried to grasp something in those last moments of life. Then there was Ó Deághaidh and his endless questions, seemingly random but by now Síomón knew that Ó Deághaidh never spoke or acted without purpose.
At last the cab stopped before the house where Síomón rented a suite of rooms. He climbed down stiffly and was grateful when his valet met him at the door. Kevin Garret removed Síomón’s muddy coat without comment and handed him a hot drink.
Síomón drank down the tea in one long swallow. “Thank you, Kevin. No need for you to stay up. I’ll take myself to bed.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Síomón stumbled into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands were shaking again, and he nearly called Garret back to help him unbutton his shirt. It was then he noticed the stain on his sleeve. Blood, he realized, suddenly queasy. David’s blood, still damp to the touch.
* * *
Their guardians invited Professor Glasfryn to visit the spring after Síomón and Gwen turned thirteen. Glasfryn was a retired professor, Uncle Liam told them, and had taught mathematics at Éire’s largest university, in Awveline City. He was man of considerable reputation, their Aunt Eilín added, in a tone that suggested they would show respect for once.
“What do you know about him?” Síomón asked Gwen.
“Nothing,” Gwen replied, a little too quickly. Then, “Enough to know he’s worth listening to.”
They had retreated to the attic above their bedrooms. Their aunt called it their schoolroom, but for Síomón and Gwen, it represented a refuge from the ordinary. Not even their most recent tutor, a man they both liked, ever ventured into this space. Síomón wanted to ask Gwen what she meant by
worth listening to,
but her expression had already closed. He took up the nearest book and pretended to study a diagram of numerical theory.
Glasfryn arrived in midafternoon. Now stationed in the parlor, at their aunt’s command, Síomón and Gwen watched the liveried footman help the old man disembark from the carriage. He looked nothing like Síomón had imagined. Old, yes. But with a face so brown and seamed, it was as though he’d spent his years laboring in the sun, not confined to lecture halls. Gwen stood with her hands clasped together, silent and demure, but Síomón could tell she was studying Glasfryn as intently as he was.
They took an early tea in the parlor while Aunt Eilín fussed over their guest, and Uncle Liam explained at tedious length about the twins’ schooling. Glasfryn stirred his tea and nibbled at the scones, but it was clear to Síomón that he was ignoring their uncle.
“Let me talk to them,” he said, interrupting Aunt Eilín’s third inquiry about his health.
Their aunt bit her lips, clearly irritated. Their uncle started to make excuses why he ought to remain present, but when Professor Glasfryn waved them away absently, Uncle Liam rose and motioned for Aunt Eilín to come with him.
“But Liam,” she said softly. She glanced toward Gwen with an anxious expression, but then she shook her head and excused herself.
Glasfryn waited until the door closed. “Now then,” he said. “Let us speak openly.”
He began with straightforward questions about their lessons. They answered dutifully, just as they did with their tutors. Without their uncle to explain and repeat himself, the interview lasted only a quarter hour.
Glasfryn fell silent and studied them a few moments through rheumy brown eyes. “What do you think about numbers?” he asked abruptly.
Síomón and Gwen blinked. “What do you mean?” Síomón asked.
“The ancient Greeks thought numbers were dead. Myself, I wonder if they were right. Maybe mathematics is like so much lumber. Take the sticks and build a house.”
Gwen’s cheeks flushed pink. “What about Pythagoras?”
“Answer my question first.”
His tone was blunt, but Gwen smiled, unflustered. “If you view numbers as dead, then you imply a dead house, and one that invites termites. Besides, the premise is wrong.”
Síomón caught his breath at her words, but Glasfryn’s mouth widened into a slow pleased smile. “How so, young miss?”
“You assume a universal quality of men, just as your statement assumes a universal quality of mathematics, or even of numbers themselves.”
“Does it follow, then, that you believe numbers exist apart from mathematics?”
A slight hesitation. “I do.”
Another pause, while Glasfryn drank down his cold tea. When he spoke again, it was to ask Gwen more questions. She answered—tersely at first, then with growing volubility. Glasfryn eventually turned his attention to Síomón and, in the same way, drew out more and more of what the twins had worked at in mathematics, their private research as well as their formal lessons.
Questions soon gave way to discussion. With the professor leading, they spoke of topics ranging from the mundane to the bizarre—of the origins of mathematics, of whether numbers had undiscovered properties invisible to the ordinary mind, and the newest theories from Egypt and Mauritania. Twice their aunt pleaded they stop for dinner. Both times, the professor waved her away. After another interval, a troop of servants brought in trays of covered plates and pots of tea, leaving them on the sideboard. Síomón didn’t remember eating, but he assumed they did, because later the servants retrieved the piles of dirty dishes.
The bells were ringing midnight when the professor rose and held out his hands to them both. “We must have you at Awveline, and soon,” he said. “I shall speak with your uncle tomorrow.”
Glasfryn rose late the next day, and departed for Awveline shortly after luncheon. Síomón and Gwen watched from their attic refuge as their visitor exchanged a few final words with Uncle Liam. Once the carriage exited through the gates, Gwen took Síomón’s hand. “Come with me,” she said, leading him down the back stairs and through the service quarters to the garden and beyond.
Síomón retained only vague impressions from that walk. The sunlight upon Gwen’s hair. The crunch of autumn leaves. The woodland scents of pines and damp earth. The warmth from his sister’s hand as she led him deeper into the wilderness.