Authors: Beth Bernobich
“As you’ve guessed, I’ve come about the murders last spring.”
Ó Deághaidh’s voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Síomón’s skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the Garda gave up its investigation for lack of evidence.”
“The department merely suspended their inquiries. They did not close the case.”
“And now?”
“And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has.”
Síomón stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve had another death, Mr. Madóc. A young woman named Maeve Ní Cadhla.”
The news struck Síomón like a physical blow. He’d talked to Maeve just yesterday afternoon. She had answered the last arguments from her adviser, and meant to start writing her thesis the following semester. It was to be a paper concerning a simpler proof for the prime number theorem.…
“When?” he whispered. “How?”
“Last night,” Ó Deághaidh said. “A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons.”
Síomón stared at Ó Deághaidh, still unable to comprehend the news. All around them, the autumn day continued, serene and lovely. A half-dozen balloons drifted across the skies, their motors silent at this distance. Blue messenger craft and grand air-yachts, heading across the Éireann Sea to the island of Albion—some to the kingdom of Alba in the north, or beyond to Denmark’s territories, others for the various districts of the Anglian Dependencies—Manx or Wight or Cymru or to Anglia itself, who gave the region its name. Above them all, a single red balloon floated between the pale gray clouds.
“We’ve notified Lord Ó Cadhla about his daughter,” Ó Deághaidh continued in that soft strange tone. “And we are talking to certain people who might have useful information. However, I would appreciate your silence until we make our formal announcement of the crime.”
With an effort, Síomón recovered himself. “How do you know it’s the same murderer?”
“The evidence so far supports our theory.”
He could be speaking of mathematical theorems and their proofs, not of a young woman slaughtered by a madman. Dislike sparked inside Síomón, and he had to struggle to keep that reaction from his voice. “And you want it kept a secret. Why?”
“Several reasons, but the chief among them is that your provost pleaded strongly for discretion. He plans on making a general announcement tomorrow. You knew the young woman, did you not?”
“Of course I knew her!”
The words burst out of him, loud enough to startle a passerby. Síomón wiped his forehead and tried to calm himself. “Of course I knew her,” he repeated quietly.
A gifted young woman, who had discarded all the trappings of wealth and privilege when she entered the university, much to her family’s dismay. The family had become reconciled, then proud of her achievements. Síomón recalled how Maeve’s cheeks flushed with the passion of numbers when she argued a theory. It was hard to accept that she was dead.
A breeze ruffled the Blackwater’s surface, drawing silvery lines over the dark waters—waters that had cradled the murderer’s first victim. The season had been early spring, the soft twilight air filled with newly blooming flowers.
“Did you like her?” Ó Deághaidh asked.
Síomón thrust his hands into his pockets to still their trembling. “I—I respected her greatly, Commander Ó Deághaidh.”
“What about the others?”
“Are you asking if I liked them, or respected them?”
“Both. I’m sorry to disturb you with these questions, when you’ve surely answered them before.”
You know I have not,
Síomón thought. When they interviewed him five months ago, the gardaí had merely requested an accounting of his activities for every night the murderer struck. No one had asked Síomón about personal matters, nor had they requested his opinion of his fellow students’ abilities. He suspected the provost had used his political influence to shield the students, and thus protected the university against further scandal.
But Ó Deághaidh was evidently waiting for some kind of response. “I knew them all,” Síomón said. “In some cases, I knew more than I liked. It’s a large university, but a small department—the graduate department, that is.”
Ó Deághaidh nodded. “The Queen’s Constabulary is much like that.”
Síomón’s pulse gave a sudden painful leap. The Queen’s Constabulary of Éire normally concerned itself with only royal affairs. But then he remembered Maeve’s family. Lord Ó Cadhla was a high-ranking minister in Éire’s government and adviser to the queen. It was his influence, no doubt, that had brought Commander Ó Deághaidh to Awveline City.
“You look unsettled, Mr. Madóc.”
Síomón ran his hand over his face. “I am more than unsettled. I am distressed. It’s a hard thing, to hear that a friend has died.”
And you gave me that news without warning. Then watched to see how I acted.
But he knew better than to say so to a stranger, much less a member of the Queen’s Constabulary.
Ó Deághaidh himself appeared unmoved by Síomón’s outburst. He motioned toward the path. “I understand your distress,” he said. “But come, let us keep walking.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Síomón continued down the path. Ó Deághaidh kept pace with him with long, easy strides. They had come to a section where young ash trees bent over the path, making a leafy tunnel of green and gold. Close by, the Blackwater murmured and a dank, muddy scent filled the air. Most of the pedestrians had turned aside to the upper walkways, and they were truly alone.
Síomón waited for the questions to continue, but once more Ó Deághaidh surprised him. “I’ve read the latest mathematical papers,” he said. “Some of the theories from Mexica are intriguing, if somewhat whimsical. Those from the West African scholars, from the Nri Republic in particular, appear more practical.”
This time it was obvious the abrupt shifts in subject were deliberate. “You mean the theory of numbers in relationship to the production of energy?” Síomón asked.
“Yes, those. But also the ones concerning electrical properties of certain equations.”
He went on to explain which properties he meant, and in far greater detail than Síomón would have expected from any garda or even an officer of the Queen’s Constabulary. Indeed, Ó Deághaidh seemed unusually well informed about recent controversies and debates in the field, even about the exotic corner of number theory Síomón had chosen for his doctoral thesis.
“How numbers affect dreams,” Ó Deághaidh said. “Is that a fair description?”
His musing tone lulled Síomón into speaking as he would with a fellow student. “Not quite,” he said. “My theory depends upon the concept that numbers have both abstract and tangible qualities. That is, we use numbers to measure and quantify, but we also use them to express theories completely divorced from the physical realm. I believe we might take that concept one more step—that they have a spiritual quality as well.”
“Some might call that numerology.”
Ó Deághaidh spoke softly, almost indifferently, but Síomón’s face flushed. “You are hardly a mathematician, Commander Ó Deághaidh. How would you know?”
“Because I studied the subject myself. I never completed my degree, which I sometimes regret. However, I read the journals still.”
Síomón exhaled softly. So and so. The commander was a failed mathematician. That would explain much. “My apologies,” he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I’ve had many arguments about my thesis. I’ve become somewhat sensitive on the topic.”
“Sure and we all have our prickly moments, Mr. Madóc. No need to apologize. But speaking of mathematics, I understand your sister also intended to study at Awveline University. I spoke with your adviser, Professor Ó Dónaill, this morning, and he mentioned her name. He said she had begun work on prime numbers before.”
Síomón stopped and wheeled about. “What does that have to do with your investigation, Commander? Or do you like to distress everyone you question, the guilty and innocent alike?”
He had spoken out loud, hardly caring who overheard them. Ó Deághaidh regarded him without any expression on that lean brown face.
“Once more I apologize,” he said. “I was merely expressing my sympathy, however clumsily.”
They had exited the tunnel of trees. Here a set of granite steps led up the bank to Mac Iomaire Avenue, which now crossed the river into the city’s financial district. Síomón was vaguely aware of foot traffic on the pavement above, but no one paid any attention to them. It was just as Ó Deághaidh had suggested back in Aonach Sanitarium, though now Síomón suspected the privacy was for Ó Deághaidh’s benefit, not his.
“Have you any more questions, Commander?” he asked.
Ó Deághaidh tilted his head and studied Síomón a moment before answering. “None for today, Mr. Madóc. The official investigation begins tomorrow after Doctor Ó Néill makes his announcement. I’ll send someone by your quarters to take your formal statement.” He smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I thank you, Mr. Madóc, for your company and your patience.”
He held out his hand. Síomón shook it, noting the strength in his grip. “Good day then, Commander.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Madóc.”
Ó Deághaidh climbed the stairs and turned onto the bridge, where he soon blended into the crowd of clerks and messengers. Síomón lingered a moment longer by the riverbanks, taking in for the first time the fragile sunlight upon the autumn leaves, shimmering like so many raindrops. His gaze returned to the river and he shuddered. Paul Keller’s body had been discovered not far from this bridge, his throat slashed and his face hacked into a purpled bloody mass.
Before the university had recovered, other murders had followed. Li Cheng. Úna Toíbín. Nicolás Ó Cionnaith. All of them graduate students—three in the mathematics department. The newspapers had focused immediately on that fact. They dwelt in loving detail upon university politics, the youth of the victims, and any irregularities in their pasts. That the murderer had mutilated his victims with a knife only heightened the titillation.
A madman,
said the newspapers.
Surely not one of us,
said the provost, thinking first of his reputation, so entwined with the university’s.
The Garda had made no public statements, preferring to ask their questions in private. In the end they had run out of questions, and the cases remained on hold.
Until now.
Síomón glanced up. Above the city, the skies arced, empty of balloons for the moment. Then he glimpsed a swiftly moving speck—the red balloon from earlier, rising higher and higher toward the sky’s limit.
* * *
In spite of his best efforts, Síomón could not find a cab until he had jogged halfway back to the center of Awveline’s Old City. He arrived at the mathematics quadrant just moments before the clock tower struck three o’clock. Síomón galloped up the steps and into the building for mathematical studies, then around the stairs to the back of the lecture hall. A quick survey of the room showed him that Professor Ó Dónaill had not yet made his appearance. Even better, Evan and Susanna had saved him a seat a few rows down from where he stood. He sidled along the row and sank into the chair between them.
“Late,” Evan whispered.
“Within reasonable deviation,” Síomón replied.
“Certain combinations do prove to be predictable,” Susanna murmured.
Síomón managed a smile at the familiar exchange, which had hardly varied over the four years they had known one another. They had first met in the library, in a furious argument over a rare volume of mathematical theory. The argument had led to a debate, which led in turn to a lasting friendship. Susanna, dark and neat and practical, came from a wealthy family who had immigrated to Éire from Gujarat several generations ago. Evan was the son of a north county family that traced its antecedents back to the first Anglian Wars. He was tall and fair and angular, with looks so much like Síomón’s that many mistook them for brothers.
“How was Gwen?” Evan asked.
Síomón had to draw a breath before he could answer calmly. “The same as always.”
Susanna laid a hand on his arm, lightly. Evan glanced around, then leaned close to Síomón. “An officer, from the Garda I believe, came by the library this morning. A man named Ó Deághaidh. I told him where he might find you. I hope that was right.”
Síomón made a show of arranging his pens and books. “He’s with the Garda, Evan. Of course you did right.”
He ought to tell them about Maeve, in spite of Ó Deághaidh’s orders, but he could not think how to phrase it without sounding trite.
Did you hear the news? Maeve died last night. They say she was murdered by a lunatic.
To his great relief, a door swung open at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Ó Dónaill, the senior lecturer in the graduate department for mathematics, stalked to his podium, his white hair floating behind him in an unruly halo. The next moment, a side door banged open. Seán Blácach, a third-year graduate student, darted through and made for an empty seat behind Síomón. Papers spilled from his books, and he had a hurried, disheveled look.
“I’m sure someone robbed the city of all its cabs,” he muttered.
Síomón shrugged, conscious of Evan’s sidelong glance and how Susanna had pursed her lips in obvious distaste. Blácach ordinarily did not speak to them, except in passing before exams. He was a student of the fringes, dabbling at his studies in between gambling and other questionable pursuits. His family had little money, and Síomón often wondered how he could afford to stay at university.
Now Blácach leaned over his desk, between Evan and Síomón. “No luck today,” he whispered to them. “But I can try again tomorrow. Will that do?”
His breath smelled sour, as though he’d been drinking already. Susanna shifted uncomfortably. Evan bent over his books, clearly unwilling to acknowledge Blácach. Reluctantly, Síomón glanced over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.
Blácach smirked. “Oh, how very chaste we are today. I thought you two might not dare—”
He broke off, and Síomón was abruptly aware of a thick silence in the lecture hall, and Professor Ó Dónaill gazing fixedly at them. “My apologies for being tardy,” Ó Dónaill said. “Please do not let it overset you, Mr. Madóc, Mr. Blácach.”