motive. You cannot entirely exclude the human factor.”
“In what way?”
There was a moment of silence before Canon Lister spoke again. He said: “Suppose that your examination of the scientific evidence made it fairly plain both how a murder had been committed and by whom. And suppose you found yourself sympathising with the murderer. Would you let your personal feelings influence your findings?”
“I would try not to let them do so.”
“Then you regard scientific truth as sacrosanct?”
“In its own sphere, yes. You must strive to arrive at the truth.”
“Whoever it hurts?”
“Yes. Whoever it hurts.”
“And you really think that human problems can be solved like an equation in algebra?”
“I think,” said James, “with respect, that non-scientists have a very odd idea of how scientists actually work. It isn’t an algebraic process at all. In some ways it isn’t even a logical process. A scientist starts by making a presumption. Then he tries to disprove it. He considers every possible alternative explanation, and as he discards them, one by one, the shape of what is left begins to appear.”
“That means that when you start on an inquiry, you can see the end, but you don’t know by what path you’re going to arrive at it.”
“Not exactly. You do follow a sort of path. Hacking down the brambles which block it, and diving up dozens of side paths until they peter out and force you back to your original track.”
“And at the end of it all?”
“At the end you hope to arrive at a small piece of firm ground. A trustworthy point of departure for further exploration.”
“As long as you don’t arrive at an imposing-looking building labelled ‘The Pavilion of Truth’ and when you go through the door you find it’s one of those constructions on a film lot, all front and no back, there’s nothing behind it at all. You step out onto a piece of wasteland, full of nettles and rusty tins and the messes left by passing dogs.”
There was so much bitterness in Canon Lister’s voice that James felt unable to say anything. He suddenly felt very tired. The Canon must have sensed this because he said, in his former cheerful voice, “Forgive me. You would rather be in bed than listening to the views of a tiresome old man. It has been a pleasure to talk to someone with such intelligent prejudices. Sleep well.”
As James rose to go, the Canon added, “If you happen to see Roger Blakeway, set his mind at rest. I entirely failed to identify him. That’s an example, you see, of personal consideration diluting the purity of truth.”
As James padded away up the grass path, he could hear Canon Lister chuckling to himself.
Seven
On Thursday morning James went around to see Henry Brookes. He had to have a word with him anyway, since the dilatory Furbank had announced his return and Friday was to be his last night at the school cottage.
The Chapter Clerk’s mind seemed to be on other things. He said, “Well, I’m very glad to hear that Masters is clear of suspicion. The whole thing was a storm in a teacup and I’ll tell the Dean. But he’s got a lot to cope with just now. Of course, you won’t have heard. Canon Lister passed away last night.”
James found himself staring at Brookes, his face stiff with surprise. He said, “Last night?”
“It may have been in the early hours of this morning. One of the students found him, in the summerhouse.”
“But—” said James. “Good Lord!”
“You sound surprised? He was eighty-four.”
“But I was with him last night. It must have been after midnight when I left him. I never realised—”
He was trying to adjust himself to the thought that someone who had been talking to him in such a friendly and sensible way a few hours before should now be—where? What had he found at the end of his path?
Brookes said, “It’s always a shock when someone goes suddenly like that. Did he seem to be himself?”
“Completely. I’d no idea there
“In what way?”
There was a moment of silence before Canon Lister spoke again. He said: “Suppose that your examination of the scientific evidence made it fairly plain both how a murder had been committed and by whom. And suppose you found yourself sympathising with the murderer. Would you let your personal feelings influence your findings?”
“I would try not to let them do so.”
“Then you regard scientific truth as sacrosanct?”
“In its own sphere, yes. You must strive to arrive at the truth.”
“Whoever it hurts?”
“Yes. Whoever it hurts.”
“And you really think that human problems can be solved like an equation in algebra?”
“I think,” said James, “with respect, that non-scientists have a very odd idea of how scientists actually work. It isn’t an algebraic process at all. In some ways it isn’t even a logical process. A scientist starts by making a presumption. Then he tries to disprove it. He considers every possible alternative explanation, and as he discards them, one by one, the shape of what is left begins to appear.”
“That means that when you start on an inquiry, you can see the end, but you don’t know by what path you’re going to arrive at it.”
“Not exactly. You do follow a sort of path. Hacking down the brambles which block it, and diving up dozens of side paths until they peter out and force you back to your original track.”
“And at the end of it all?”
“At the end you hope to arrive at a small piece of firm ground. A trustworthy point of departure for further exploration.”
“As long as you don’t arrive at an imposing-looking building labelled ‘The Pavilion of Truth’ and when you go through the door you find it’s one of those constructions on a film lot, all front and no back, there’s nothing behind it at all. You step out onto a piece of wasteland, full of nettles and rusty tins and the messes left by passing dogs.”
There was so much bitterness in Canon Lister’s voice that James felt unable to say anything. He suddenly felt very tired. The Canon must have sensed this because he said, in his former cheerful voice, “Forgive me. You would rather be in bed than listening to the views of a tiresome old man. It has been a pleasure to talk to someone with such intelligent prejudices. Sleep well.”
As James rose to go, the Canon added, “If you happen to see Roger Blakeway, set his mind at rest. I entirely failed to identify him. That’s an example, you see, of personal consideration diluting the purity of truth.”
As James padded away up the grass path, he could hear Canon Lister chuckling to himself.
Seven
On Thursday morning James went around to see Henry Brookes. He had to have a word with him anyway, since the dilatory Furbank had announced his return and Friday was to be his last night at the school cottage.
The Chapter Clerk’s mind seemed to be on other things. He said, “Well, I’m very glad to hear that Masters is clear of suspicion. The whole thing was a storm in a teacup and I’ll tell the Dean. But he’s got a lot to cope with just now. Of course, you won’t have heard. Canon Lister passed away last night.”
James found himself staring at Brookes, his face stiff with surprise. He said, “Last night?”
“It may have been in the early hours of this morning. One of the students found him, in the summerhouse.”
“But—” said James. “Good Lord!”
“You sound surprised? He was eighty-four.”
“But I was with him last night. It must have been after midnight when I left him. I never realised—”
He was trying to adjust himself to the thought that someone who had been talking to him in such a friendly and sensible way a few hours before should now be—where? What had he found at the end of his path?
Brookes said, “It’s always a shock when someone goes suddenly like that. Did he seem to be himself?”
“Completely. I’d no idea there
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