“Beyond those of the immortal Isaac?”
“Beyond even Newton.” Selfridge went to the desk and picked up four sheets of paper. “Pray do not misunderstand me, Dr. Darwin. Sir Isaac remains the supreme scientific genius of this or any other era, and it is a mark of his unparalleled abilities that he was able to accomplish his feats without either the science of infinitesimals, or an easy or flexible notation. He made use of geometric tools so unwieldy that no other man could lift them, and still he accomplished miracles. But see here. This is Newton’s analysis of cometary motion, just as he developed it by geometric methods. And here — less than one-third the length — is my own proof of the same results, carried out with the aid of the calculus.”
“Impressive indeed.” Darwin examined both sets of pages carefully. “This first sheet appears to be very old. May I ask where you obtained what appear to be Sir Isaac Newton’s own notes?”
It was as though he had struck Selfridge in the face. The other flinched, turned pale, and took a step backward. He said nothing, until Darwin was at last forced to repeat, “Come, now, where? I have no thought to trick or trap you. You are a student, and clearly a most talented and dedicated one. But it is unusual for an undergraduate to be able to acquire such a page, even if it is only a fair copy, written in Sir Isaac’s own hand.”
Selfridge walked to the chair in front of his desk and sank down onto it as though his legs refused to support him. “I obtained it, and many others, from Dr. Barton,” he said in a weak, husky voice.
“I believe you. He was your tutor; it is entirely reasonable that he should assist you in your studies.”
“But I swear that I know nothing about his death.”
“It is about his life that I would like to ask you.”
“I know little.”
“More, perhaps, than you realize. For instance, you tell me that you obtained the Newton papers from Dr. Barton. Did he tell you how he came by them?”
“It was in a sense at my request. When first I came to St. John’s, close to two years ago, I knew no one. However, Dr. Barton was named as my tutor. I was assigned this room, just above his, and we spoke every week or two of the usual assignments of the undergraduate curriculum. In truth, those studies interested me little, and I performed indifferently well. But one day as I was leaving his tutorial he asked me what, given complete freedom, I would choose to study. I told him of my ambition, which I had formed when I was just sixteen years old; I wished to learn the most modern mathematical methods of analysis, now under development on the Continent, and make them a standard part of the English arsenal of analytical weapons. I am afraid that I was so presumptuous as to suggest that Cambridge, which I perceived as locked into the notation and notions of Newton, was in danger of becoming a backwater of mathematics.”
“Presumptuous indeed, to criticize Newton here, of all places, where he developed his great System of the World and wrote the Principia. But all advances begin life as some form of heresy. How did Elias Barton respond to you?”
“He laughed. He asked me if I had studied Newton’s works as Newton himself wrote them, and not in the contaminations and abridgements of lesser minds. And I was forced to concede that I had not. Such source materials were unavailable to me back home in Devon. I thought that was the end of the matter. But some months later, perhaps a year ago, Dr. Barton stopped me as I ascended to my room and said that he had something to show me. What you are holding formed a small part of it. It was works of Newton, written in the master’s own hand. Great as Newton was, Dr. Barton informed me, he was in the habit of making fair copies of his own and other people’s works.”
“Do you know how they were obtained?”
“Dr. Barton did not tell me. However, all agree that he was an outstanding archivist, with a knowledge of sources unmatched in this or any other college. He required that I first make a fair copy of every page that he gave me, and return the originals to him before I was permitted to study them. I did return them, in all cases but for a few sheets which happened already to be twice-copied by Newton himself. Dr. Barton assured me that some of the writings here are not to be found anywhere else.”
Darwin reared back, staring again at the sheet he was holding. “Then what Elias Barton had were new works by Isaac Newton?”
“So I was assured, at least for some of the pages.”
“They must be enormously valuable. Did it not seem implausible that Elias Barton would permit you to study them, month after month, and never seek to announce the discovery that he had made?”
“To be honest, I thought little of that. To have these, in my own hands, to study, to transform the results to modern guise, and to marvel at them — not much else entered my head. And Dr. Barton did say that all would be made known at the right time.”
“What time?”
“I cannot be certain. When, I think, certain activities of his own were completed.”
In his excitement, Selfridge’s tone had been rising higher and higher. Now, as though again suddenly self-conscious, he laid the papers back on his desk and said in a trembling voice, “I have committed no crime, have I? I surely intended none.”
“No crime known to me. Even if these papers were obtained by some irregular route — which I very much suspect — the offense was not with you but with Elias Barton. I wonder, though, why you were not more honest this morning, when you heard the news of his death and were asked if you had any connection with him.”
Suddenly the old Selfridge was back, a youth who would no longer look Darwin in the eye. “I had some connection with Dr. Barton in life, but I played no part in his death. Yet I felt sure that if ever I mentioned the papers that he had given to me, that would be the end.”
“Of your own studies and access to them? Perhaps you are right. For the moment, hold what you have. Study the work, and cherish it.”
“I will. I know of nothing more precious. I would protect these things with my life.”
“That will not, I trust, be necessary. Even if you were forced to give up the originals, you have the fair copy?”
“Of every line and every symbol.”
“Then I think you have nothing to fear.” Darwin started to leave, but turned back. “One more question. You have indicated that you owe much to Elias Barton, and I can appreciate that you may be reluctant to say anything against your tutor. But your rooms are just above his. Did you observe any change in his behavior, or in aspects of his life, in recent months?”
Selfridge hesitated. “If he were alive, I would not say this. But since he is dead, I do not see how it can be held against him. In the past six months, he changed. Rather than greeting me when we passed each other, he was as likely to scowl and mutter. We held no more tutorials. He also became more slovenly and careless in his dress. When I first met him his clothes were always clean and carefully matched as to color and style. He had a special fondness for cinnamon velvet and for green brocade, and the cut and balance had to be perfect. However, in recent months it seemed he put on the first garment that came to hand, wearing it regardless of color, match, cleanliness, or anything else. Also, there was the smell.”
“He stank?”
Again, Selfridge looked away from Darwin. “Of his person, I cannot tell, since we were never in close proximity. But my room, as you see, lies directly above his. The dreadful odors and noxious fumes that rose through the boards of my floor, especially at night, sometimes made it impossible for me to sleep, even with every window open to its widest.”
“Can you describe the smells to me?”