“They were various. One night it would be sulfurous, the next an acrid, acid vapor that left me coughing. This is poor description, I know, but I lack the words to be more precise.”
“That is in no sense your fault. I would do no better. We lack a taxonomy of smells, and all our descriptions will remain inadequate until the arrival of some new Linnaeus able to name and catalog odors. But in your case, with smells so foul, did you not think to complain to the College Steward?”
“I did not want to... cause trouble. I owed Dr. Barton for his former kindness to me.”
“Do you know what he was doing to make those stinks?”
“I heard rumors.”
“Did you believe them?”
“Not for a moment. Excuse me if my next words offend, but I do not believe in any forms of the supernatural. Neither gods nor demons form any part of a rational world view.”
Darwin nodded his approval. “Which makes you — and me with you — an exception in a superstitious world. I too find no need to hypothesize deity or devil. You will meet criticism, but hold steadfast to your opinions. Today we are in the minority, yet our day will come though it may take a thousand years. As for the foul fumes created by Elias Barton, they will trouble you no longer. And if it eases your mind, let me say that I have a good idea as to their true nature, although I am not yet prepared to declare finality on the subject.”
Darwin left the room and began his descent of the wooden stairs. As he went he heard Selfridge’s door slam shut and the lock go into place. It troubled his mind — he sensed unfinished business there — but it must wait until more urgent matters were settled.
“Selfridge is, as you said, shy and reclusive. He was also not fully honest with me. On the other hand, Collie, neither were you.”
Darwin was once again in Wentworth’s comfortable rooms in Second Court, and from the look of the other two men they had been in no hurry for his return. A bottle of white wine sat on the table; another, empty, was on the floor, and within easy reach stood a plate of ripe strawberries and raspberries. Pole had taken up residence by the window, basking in full sun, and for the first time since the previous night’s storm he was not shivering.
“I, not honest with you?” Wentworth, in the act of again filling his glass, paused. “Why do you say that?”
“You tell me. On the way here this morning, I told Jacob that you were full-hearted and generous, and would never say a word against any man. Yet that does not seem to apply to Elias Barton. Where the Master would give the man an honorable quietus, you seem implacably opposed to it. Why?”
Wentworth’s lips tightened. “Very well. These words for this room alone, Erasmus. Elias Barton was, as all agreed, a man of great talents. He was also a man of flaws.”
“As we all are.”
“Not these flaws. No member of the college will admit it — the Master, recently appointed, may not even be aware of it. But Elias Barton, who as a Senior Fellow was called upon to respect chastity and celibacy, did not. That failing is not uncommon, but Barton lapsed in a peculiarly unfortunate way. There is no way to put this, except directly: Barton had a taste for young men. The ones most readily available were his own students, and he seduced several of them. I suspect that Thomas Selfridge was his catamite. That is the reason why, despite a lack of evidence, I remain suspicious of Selfridge’s complicity in Barton’s death.”
Darwin shook his head. “I do not believe it. Barton contrived his own demise.”
“I am most glad to hear that. You are an acute observer, Erasmus, more than I. But that is not all. Tolerant as I like to think myself, I cannot condone sodomy within this college.”
“If there is sodomy within St. John’s, be assured that Selfridge is not involved. I saw complete absorption in abstract studies, far beyond the normal — not an indifferent student, as you had suggested, but an exceptional one. However, after speaking with Selfridge I also feel an increased concern about other events relating to the death of Elias Barton. Collie, I would appreciate it greatly if you would take me at once to Dr. Arbuthnot.”
“We are ahead of you there, Erasmus.” Wentworth waved for Darwin to sit down. “At Colonel Pole’s suggestion I sent a man over to Arbuthnot’s office, bearing my request that Rufus Arbuthnot come here as soon as he returned from his lunch appointment. I said he was needed for a meeting of the highest importance and urgency. Rufus knows me well enough not to disdain such a message, and he is a good friend of this college. So sit down, relax for a moment, and give me your opinion of ripe berries augmented by a truly fine Sauternes.”
“The wine, with your permission, I will forgo. Let me tell you what I heard in Selfridge’s room.”
Darwin sat down at Wentworth’s side, picked absently at the plate of fruit in front of him, and summarized his conversation with the young sizar. He omitted nothing relevant to the death of Elias Barton, while seeing no reason to mention another curious fact derived from his own observations.
He ended with a digression on the difficulty of classifying odors, elaborating his earlier remarks to Selfridge to the point where Jacob Pole was nodding off and Driscoll Wentworth poised to interrupt. Darwin’s impromptu lecture was ended by the precipitous arrival of Rufus Arbuthnot.
The doctor was short, round, and energetic. He breezed in, calling before he was through the door, “What’s this now, Collie? Cryptic messages — highest importance — urgent — must meet, must meet now. Tosh, man, you’ve had me over here once already today — with a coat over a nightshirt, and where’s my dignity?”
He spoke in bursts in a lilting Welsh accent, nodded to Pole and Darwin, helped himself without asking to a glass of wine, and went to stand by the window, where he bobbed up and down like a round windup toy.
Wentworth waved his hand. “Colonel Jacob Pole, Erasmus Darwin.”
“Good afternoon — Colonel, Doctor. Now then! Would that be Dr. Darwin of Lichfield?” Arbuthnot stooped and peered at Darwin as at a biological specimen. “Your fame precedes you, sir. Did you not affect that amazing cure of the Vicar of Northesk? And one yet more remarkable of Lady Buxton?”
Darwin smiled his ruined smile. “Remarkable, Dr. Arbuthnot, only that in the latter case there was nothing at all wrong with the lady. She merely needed to be told that, and firmly.”
“Like a fifth of my wealthy patients, while genuine sickness in the poor goes untreated.” Arbuthnot leaned forward and helped himself to one of the few remaining raspberries. “So what is it, Collie? Military matters — medical matters — or more of this morning’s claptrap?”
“Dr. Darwin would value your opinion regarding the last mentioned.”
“John Chevallier still sitting with his head in the sand, eh? Barton blown off the roof — stuff and nonsense. I hope, Dr. Darwin, that the Master has not been troubling you.”
“No. I have yet to meet the gentleman.”
“Keep it that way.”
“But I would like to ask your opinion regarding the death of Elias Barton. You saw his corpse long before I did.”
“Early this morning. Already dead. Condition of the body, hmm, dead, say, six hours.”
“And in your examination, did you inspect his hands?”
“Of course. Ah, see where you’re going. ’Course I did, hands often revealing. Fingers and thumbs, you mean? Blackened and stained. But old marks, those. Played no part in his death. He jumped from the roof of Third Court, simple as that. No one on Earth — including the Master, stupid man — ever persuades me Barton slipped. Blown over, even more stupid. Landed feet-first, he did. Like he decided — bit too late — he didn’t wish to die.”
“I concur completely. And the blackened and stained fingers. Might you suggest a cause?”