“You’ve just seen my daughter,” he said, and his voice was suddenly full of anguish and despair. “She needs a lung transplant. We’ve been waiting for a donor for a year, she’s on the emergency transplant list. She’s got a month to live at most. Twice now we’ve had a possible donor. Twice I’ve pleaded and begged. But both times the families were Christian and they wanted to give their children a Christian burial.” He looked at me hopelessly. “Do you know that under British law it’s forbidden for the organs of parents who’ve committed suicide to be transplanted into their children? That’s why,” he said, tapping the book cover, “it’s interesting sometimes to go back to the beginning of things. The ancients had other ideas on transplants. The Pythagoreans believed in the transmigration of souls…”
The man broke off and stood up. The door opened and Lorna came through pushing a bed. The little girl seemed to have fallen asleep. The man exchanged a few words with Lorna, then left, pushing the bed down the corridor. Lorna stood waiting for me to come to her, with an enigmatic smile and her hands in her pockets. Her apron, of a very fine fabric, was stretched pleasingly tight over her bust.
“What a lovely surprise,” she said.
“I wanted to see you in your nurse’s uniform.”
She raised her arms seductively, as if she were going to turn and show off her uniform, but she only let me kiss her once.
“Any new developments?” she asked, wide-eyed with curiosity.
“No more murders,” I said. “I’ve just been to the second floor. Seldom took me to Frank Kalman’s ward.”
“I saw you being cornered by Caitlin’s father,” she said. “I hope he wasn’t too depressing. I suppose he told you about the Spartans, and was scathing about Christians. He’s a widower and Caitlin is his only child. He’s managed to get leave from his job, and for the past three months he’s been here almost all the time. He reads everything he can lay his hands on about transplants. I think by now he’s gone a bit…”-she tapped her temple-“cuckoo.”
“I was thinking of going to London for the weekend,” I said. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“I can’t this weekend, I’m on duty both nights. But come on, let’s go to the cafeteria, I can give you a list of bed-and-breakfasts and places to visit.”
“I didn’t know Arthur Seldom had been to your house,” I said as we made our way to the lift.
I looked at her with a casual smile and, after a moment, she smiled back amused.
“He came to give me a copy of his book. I could give you another list, of all the men who’ve been to my flat, but it would be much longer.”
When I got back to my room at Cunliffe Close I found the envelope I’d prepared for Mrs Eagleton under a notebook and I realised that I’d never paid Beth the rent. I packed enough clothes for the weekend into a bag and went upstairs with the money. From behind the front door Beth told me to wait a moment. When she opened, she looked relaxed and calm, as if she’d just had a long bath. Her hair was wet, she was barefoot and she was wearing a long dressing gown, tightly wrapped around her. She invited me into the sitting room. I barely recognised it-she’d changed the furniture, the curtains, the rug. The room looked much more intimate and quiet, with a sophistication that seemed inspired by some home decor magazine. Though now completely different, it still looked pleasant and simple. Mainly, I reflected, if she had intended to make Wery last trace of Mrs Eagleton disappear, she had certainly succeeded.
I told her I was going to London for the weekend and she said that she too was going away the following day, after the funeral, on a short tour with the orchestra to Exeter and Bath. I suddenly heard the sound of splashing water from the bathroom, as if a rather large person were getting out of the bath. Beth looked very uncomfortable, as if I had caught her out. I assumed she was remembering, at the same time as I was, the contempt with which she had spoken of Michael only two days earlier.
I took the bus to London and spent two days wandering around the city, in pleasantly warm sunshine, a tourist happily lost. On Saturday I bought The Times and found a short announcement about Mrs Eagleton’s funeral, together with a brief summary of events which did not, however, provide any new information. In the Sunday papers there was no mention of the case. In Portobello Road, thinking of Lorna, I chose a rather dusty though well-preserved copy of the memoirs of Lucrezia Borgia, before catching the last train back to Oxford. On Monday morning, still half-asleep, I left for the Institute.
At the end of Cunliffe Close there was an animal lying in the road. It must have been run over during the night. I had to stop myself from retching as I passed it. I’d never seen such an animal before. It looked like a type of giant rat but with a short tail, around which lay a pool of blood. Its head had been totally crushed, but the black snout remained. Where its belly had once been, the unmistakable bulge of what must have been its offspring protruded as if from a torn sack. I quickened my pace involuntarily, trying to escape what I’d seen and the violent, almost inexplicable horror that it had evoked in me. The entire way to the Institute I struggled to rid myself of the image. I went up the steps of the building as if reaching a refuge. As I pushed the revolving door I saw a piece of paper stuck to the glass with Sellotape. The first thing that caught my eye was the diagram of a fish, placed vertically, drawn in black ink, that looked like two overlapping parentheses. Above it, in letters cut from a newspaper, it said: “The second of the series. Radcliffe Hospital, 2.15 PM.”
Eleven
In the secretary’s office I found only Kim, the new assistant. I motioned urgently for her to remove her earphone, s and made her follow me to the entrance. She stared at me in surprise when I asked her about the piece of paper stuck to the door. Yes, she’d seen it when she arrived, but hadn’t given it much thought. She’d supposed it referred to a charity event for the Radcliffe-a series of bridge matches, or a fishing competition. She’d been intending to tell the cleaning lady to move it to the notice board.
Kurt, the night watchman, emerged from his room under the stairs, ready to go home. He approached us, looking worried that there might be a problem. The paper had been there since the previous day, he’d seen it as he arrived. He hadn’t removed it because he’d assumed somebody had authorised it before he came on duty. I said we ought to call the police and that someone should stay there to make sure nobody touched the glass panes of the revolving door or removed the paper as it might be linked to Mrs Eagleton’s murder.
I ran upstairs to my office and phoned the police station, asking to be put through to Inspector Petersen or Detective Sergeant Sacks. I was asked my name and the number I was calling from and told to wait. After a couple of minutes Petersen came on the line. He let me speak without interrupting, at the end simply getting me to repeat what the night watchman had said. I realised that, like me, he thought another murder had already taken place. He said he’d send an officer and the fingerprints examiner to the Institute straight away. Meanwhile he’d go to the Radcliffe to check if anybody had died there yesterday. He’d want to talk to me again afterwards, and also, if possible, to Professor Seldom. He asked if we’d both be at the Institute. I said that, as far as I knew, Seldom should be about to arrive: there was a notice in the hall for a lecture at ten o’clock by one of his graduate students. It suddenly occurred to me that the piece of paper might have been stuck on the door for Seldom to see as he arrived. Perhaps, said Petersen, for him and another hundred mathematicians. He suddenly sounded uncomfortable. “We can talk about it later,” he said, ending the call quickly.