Waters finished his exposition with a smart little thump of the fist on the table. I knew what that was. It was the postman’s knock, bringing the answer to that letter of mine. A horrid sinking feeling at the solar plexus warned me that in a very few minutes I should have to ask a question. Why need I do it? The subject was remote and difficult. I could easily pretend not to understand. If there really was a difference between the synthetic and the natural product, it was not my business to investigate it. Waters was changing the subject. He had gone back to the first day of creation. Hang him! Let him stay there!
‘So that, as Professor Japp said, as long ago as 1898, “The phenomena of stereo-chemistry support the doctrine of vitalism as revived by the younger physiologists, and point to the existence of a directive force, which enters upon the scene with Life itself and which, in no way violating the laws of the kinetics of atoms” — that ought to comfort you, Hoskyns — “determines the course of their operation within the living organism. That is that at the moment when Life first arose, a directive force came into play — a force of precisely the same character as that which enables the intelligent operator, by the exercise of his will, to select one crystallised enantiomorph and reject its asymmetric opposite.” I learnt that passage by heart once, as a safeguard against cocksureness and a gesture of proper humility in face of my subject.’
‘In other words,’ said Matthews, ‘you believe in miracles, and something appearing out of nowhere. I am sorry to find you on the side of the angels.’
‘It depends what you mean by miracles. I think there is an intelligence behind it all. Else, why anything at all?’
‘You have Jeans on your side anyway,’ put in Hoskyns. ‘He says, “Everything points with overwhelming force to a definite event, or series of events, of creation at some time or times, not infinitely remote. The universe cannot have originated by chance out of its present ingredients.” I can’t tell you what produced the fast molecules of gas, and you can’t tell me what produced the first asymmetric molecules of Life. The parson here may think he knows.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Perry, ‘but I give it a name. I call it God. You don’t know what the aether is, but you give it a name, and deduce its attributes from its behaviour. Why shouldn’t I do likewise? You people are making it all very much easier for me.’
It was no good. I had to ask my question. I burst in violently, inappropriately, on this theological discussion:
‘You mean to tell me,’ I said, ‘that it is possible to differentiate a substance produced synthetically in the laboratory from one produced by living tissue?’
‘Certainly,’ said Waters, turning to me in some surprise, but apparently accepting my tardy realisation of this truth as mere vagary of my slow and unscientific wits. ‘So long, of course, as the artificial substance remains in the first or racemic form, for this would be optically inactive, while that from the living tissues would rotate the beam of polarised light, when viewed in the polariscope. If, however, that racemic form had been already split up by the intelligent operator, or some other living agency, into its two dextro-and laevo-rotary forms, it would be impossible, to distinguish between them.’
I saw a path of escape opening up. Surely the synthetic muscarine at St Anthony’s would have had this other operation performed on it. There was no reason at all why I should interfere. I relapsed into silence, and the conversation wandered on.
I was recalled to myself by a movement about me. Matthews was explaining that he had to be getting home. Waters rose to accompany him. In a minute he would be gone and the opportunity lost. I had only to sit still.
I got up. I made my fatuous farewells. I said I had a perfectly good wife to go home to. I thanked my host and said how much I had enjoyed the evening. I followed the other men out into the narrow hall, with its loaded umbrella-stand and ugly, discoloured wall-paper.
‘Dr Waters,’ I said.
‘Yes?’ He turned smiling towards me. I must say something now or he would think me a fool.
‘May I have a word with you?’
‘By all means. Which way do you go?’
‘Bloomsbury,’ said I, hoping desperately that he lived at Hendon or Harringay.
‘Excellent, I am going that way myself. Shall we share a taxi?’
I murmured something about Professor Matthews.
‘No, no,’ said he, ‘I’m going by tube to Earls Court.’
We found our taxi and got in.
‘Well, now?’ said Waters.
I was in for it now. I told him the whole story.
‘By God,’ he said, ‘that’s damned interesting. Fine idea for a murder. Of course, any jury in the country would be only too ready to believe it was accident. Tempting Providence, and all that. And unless your man was fool enough to use the synthetic muscarine in its racemic form, you know, I’m very much afraid he’s pulled it off. There’s a chance, of course. They may not have gone further than that. Why didn’t you ask Benson while you were about it?’
‘I thought of doing so,’ I admitted. ‘At least, I didn’t know about this racemic business, but I thought there might be some way of telling the artificial stuff from the real. But Harrison seemed satisfied—’
‘He would be. I know these people. Wrapped up in their own subjects. An engineer — he ought to know something about molecular structure. But no. He’s no occasion to study Organic, so it doesn’t occur to him that there’s anything to know about it. The word of a first-year student at Anthony’s is enough for him. You have more imagination. Why didn’t you—?’
‘I don’t know that I quite wanted to.’
‘Let bad alone, eh? But damn it, it’s interesting. I say, what a scoop for the papers, if it comes off! “First murder ever caught by the polariscope.” Better than Crippen and the wireless. Only they’ll have a bit of a job explaining it. Now, look here, what are we going to do about it? Who did the analysis?’
‘Lubbock.’
‘Oh, yes — Home Office man, of course. We’ll have to get on to him. It’s chance if he’s kept the stuff by him. What? Oh, he has. That’s all right then. We’ve only got to take a squint at it and then we shall know. I mean, if the stuff really is racemic, we shall know. If not, we never shall. What’s the time? Quarter-past eleven. No time like the present. Here, driver!’
He thrust his head out of the window and gave an address in Woburn Square.
‘It’s all on our way, and Lubbock never goes to bed before midnight. I know him well. He’ll be keen on this.’
His energy swept me up, feebly protesting, and in a few minutes’ time we were standing on Sir James Lubbock’s doorstep, ringing the bell.
The door was opened by a manservant, of whom Waters inquired whether Sir James was at home.