We passed the brightly lit windows of the Eagle and Child. Inside, people were standing at the bar, laughing soundlessly as they raised their pints of beer, as if they were in a silent film. We crossed the road and turned left, skirting around a monument. The curved wall of the theatre appeared in front of us.
“You mean that in this case, in order to establish the context, we need at least one more term.”
“Yes,” said Seldom. “With only the first symbol we’re still completely in the dark. We can’t even determine which direction to take first: whether we should consider the symbol simply as a mark on a paper, or try to attribute some meaning to it. Unfortunately, all we can do is wait.”
He climbed the steps to the theatre as he spoke and I followed, reluctant to let him go. The foyer was deserted but we were guided by the sound of the music, which was light and joyful like a dance. Trying to be as quiet as possible, we went upstairs and along a carpeted corridor. Seldom opened one of the doors leading off it, which had diamond-shaped padding, and we entered a box with a view of the small orchestra on stage. It was rehearsing what sounded like a Hungarian csardas. We could now hear the music clearly and loudly.
Beth was leaning forward in her chair, her body tense, her bow moving backwards and forwards furiously across the cello. I listened to the dizzying rush of notes, like whips lashing against horses’ flanks, and in the contrast between the lightness and joyfulness of the music and the efforts of the players I remembered what Beth had told me a few days earlier. Her face was transformed as she concentrated on the music. Her fingers moved quickly over the fingerboard but there was something distant in her eyes, as if only part of her were there. Seldom and I went back out into the corridor. He looked grave, reserved, but I realised he was nervous because he started rolling another cigarette mechanically, even though he wouldn’t be able to smoke there. I said goodbye and Seldom shook my hard firmly. He thanked me again for having accompanied him.
“If you’re free on Friday,” he said, “would you like to have lunch with me at Merton? Perhaps we can come up with something else between now and then.”
“I’d love to. Friday would be perfect for me,” I said.
I went down the stairs and back out to the street. It was cold now and drizzling. Standing under a street light, I took out the piece of paper on which Seldom had drawn the three figures, trying to shield it from the fine rain. I almost laughed out loud when, halfway home, I realised how simple the answer was.
Five
As I rounded the last bend of the close and came up to the house I saw that the police were still there. An ambulance was there now too and a blue van with the logo of the Oxford Times, A lanky man with curly grey hair flopping over his forehead stopped me on my way down to my room. He was holding a small tape recorder and a notebook. Before he could introduce himself, Inspector Petersen leaned out of the hall window and asked me to come upstairs.
“I’d rather you didn’t mention this to anyone,” he said quietly. “We gave your name only to the press, as if you were on your own when you found the body.”
I nodded and went back to the top of the steps. While I was answering the reporter’s questions I saw a taxi draw up. Beth got out with her cello and went past without seeing us. She had to give her name to the policeman at the door before she was allowed inside. Her voice sounded weak and slightly strangled.
“So that’s the girl,” said the reporter glancing at his watch. “I need to talk to her too. Looks like I’m going to miss my supper. One last thing: what did Petersen just say to you, when he called you over?”
I hesitated a moment.
“That they might have to bother me with more questions tomorrow,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “you’re not a suspect.”
I laughed.
“So who is?” I asked.
“I don’t know, the girl, I suppose. It’s what you’d expect, isn’t it? She’s the one who’s going to end up with the money and the house.”
“I didn’t know Mrs Eagleton had money.”
“War Heroes’ Pension. It’s not a fortune, but for a woman on her own…”
“But wasn’t Beth already in rehearsal at the time of the murder?”
The man flicked back through his notebook.
“Let’s see: according to the pathologist’s report, time of death was between two and three. One of the neighbours saw the girl leave for the Sheldonian a little after two. I called the theatre just now: she got to the rehearsal at exactly two-thirty. But that still leaves a few minutes, before she left. Which means she was in the house, she could have done it, and she’s the only beneficiary.”
“Are you going to put that in your article?” I asked. I think I sounded a little indignant.
“Why not? It’s more interesting than blaming it on a burglar and telling housewives to keep their doors locked. I’m going to try to have a word with her now.” He smiled mischievously. “Read my article tomorrow.”
I went down to my room and, without turning on the light, took my shoes off and lay down on the bed, one arm over my eyes. I tried again to reconstruct in memory the moment when Seldom and I entered the house and the sequence of our movements, but I couldn’t find anything else there, at least not the kind of thing Seldom was looking for. All that reappeared vividly in my mind was the disjointed movement of Mrs Eagleton’s neck as her head fell to one side, eyes wide open and terrified. A car engine started up and I raised myself on my elbows to look out of the window. I saw them bring Mrs Eagleton’s corpse out on a stretcher and load it into the ambulance. The police cars switched on their headlights and, as they turned around, yellow cones of light created a succession of fleeting, phantasmagorical shadows on the walls of the houses. The Oxford Times van had already left and once the small convoy of vehicles had disappeared around the first bend, I found the silence and darkness of the close oppressive for the first time. I wondered what Beth was doing upstairs, alone in the house. I switched on the light and saw Emily Bronson’s papers, with my notes in the margins, on the desk. I made coffee and sat down, intending to continue where I’d left off. I worked for over an hour, but didn’t get much further. Nor did I attain that merciful calm, that singular mental balm-apparent order within chaos-that comes as you follow the steps of a theorem.
Suddenly I thought I heard gentle knocking at the door. I pushed the chair back and waited a moment. I heard the knocking again, more clearly this time. I opened the door and in the darkness made out Beth’s slightly embarrassed face. She was wearing a lilac dressing gown and slippers, and her hair was simply held back by a hairband, as if she had rushed from her bed. I told her to come in. She stood just inside the door, arms crossed, lips trembling slightly.