enormous square building, impressive but excessively heavy in its conception. I felt a little foolish and inconsequent in such a place, but I addressed the officer on duty firmly, quite as if this were not the case.
‘I should like to ask you how I may go about visiting a prisoner who was arrested last night,’ I said.
He did not appear to perceive anything amiss with my request, and simply and stolidly enquired the name of the said prisoner, after which he informed me that he had been detained in police cells for the night, located in the very building where I found myself, and that he was still there, awaiting the van which would transport him to the Castle Hill Gaol.
What could they possibly have against Arthur? He is innocent, and dining with murder victims, even unluckily twice in a row, cannot possibly constitute a real basis for accusation. Well – I suppose they must needs do it, and that I should feel reassured that British justice follows a carefully weighed and balanced process intended to avoid haste and foolish error.
The officer showed me to a room behind the one over which he presided to receive members of the public, and I sat down and waited. Eventually Arthur was shown in by another officer. He did not seem overly pleased to see me.
‘You should not c-come here,’ he began, ‘it is no place for—’
I cut him short rather firmly. I admit that I had expected such comments and previously rehearsed my reply – it came out rather stiffly as a consequence.
‘Arthur,’ I said (it was the first time, I believe, that I used his Christian name aloud), ‘please, please do understand that no displeasure occasioned by outer circumstances, however dreadful, can compare remotely with the suffering of being forced to stand by, passively and in ignorance, when another person is in danger. If you want to protect mefrom anything at all, then let it at least be from that which is causing me unbearable torment, and not from mere outward circumstances which cannot possibly touch me!’
He understood what I meant perfectly. His attitude changed, and he took a chair, and leant towards me, looking into my eyes seriously, unfettered by the discreet but stolid presence of the officer near the doorway.
‘Do not t-torment yourself,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure there is no need. It is all a great mistake, and will surely be put right very soon. I can hardly blame the police for making this error; after all, I was rather unluckily placed! But they will not pursue it, I suppose. The true murderer can hardly hope to hide for long.’
‘Have the police already questioned you?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, for hours!’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘A hundred times the same questions – what were my relations with Akers and Beddoes, why did I dine with them, and so on and so forth. And whether I had hit them over the head with heavy instruments. I grew quite t-tired of replying, always in the same manner, to the fifty different versions of that last question they continued to fling at me. I kept telling them that I dined with Mr Akers, accompanied him back to his rooms at St John’s, bid him goodnight below, saw him begin to mount the stairs, and departed. I dined with Mr Beddoes, walked back to his house with him, bid him goodnight at the gate of his garden, and departed. I realise that it may appear amazing to the point of being positively suspicious, but the fact remains that I heard nothing of any murder in either case!’
‘Did they ask you what you had talked about over the two dinners?’
‘They pressed me only to admit that there had been quarrels.’
‘Were there quarrels?’
‘Of c-course not! Akers told me that he had had a brilliant idea about a solution to the n-body problem; he almost could not contain himself for pleasure at its elegance and beauty. But after barely mentioning it, and scribbling a formula onto a scrap of paper, he thrust it away in his pocket, and abruptly changed the
‘I should like to ask you how I may go about visiting a prisoner who was arrested last night,’ I said.
He did not appear to perceive anything amiss with my request, and simply and stolidly enquired the name of the said prisoner, after which he informed me that he had been detained in police cells for the night, located in the very building where I found myself, and that he was still there, awaiting the van which would transport him to the Castle Hill Gaol.
What could they possibly have against Arthur? He is innocent, and dining with murder victims, even unluckily twice in a row, cannot possibly constitute a real basis for accusation. Well – I suppose they must needs do it, and that I should feel reassured that British justice follows a carefully weighed and balanced process intended to avoid haste and foolish error.
The officer showed me to a room behind the one over which he presided to receive members of the public, and I sat down and waited. Eventually Arthur was shown in by another officer. He did not seem overly pleased to see me.
‘You should not c-come here,’ he began, ‘it is no place for—’
I cut him short rather firmly. I admit that I had expected such comments and previously rehearsed my reply – it came out rather stiffly as a consequence.
‘Arthur,’ I said (it was the first time, I believe, that I used his Christian name aloud), ‘please, please do understand that no displeasure occasioned by outer circumstances, however dreadful, can compare remotely with the suffering of being forced to stand by, passively and in ignorance, when another person is in danger. If you want to protect mefrom anything at all, then let it at least be from that which is causing me unbearable torment, and not from mere outward circumstances which cannot possibly touch me!’
He understood what I meant perfectly. His attitude changed, and he took a chair, and leant towards me, looking into my eyes seriously, unfettered by the discreet but stolid presence of the officer near the doorway.
‘Do not t-torment yourself,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure there is no need. It is all a great mistake, and will surely be put right very soon. I can hardly blame the police for making this error; after all, I was rather unluckily placed! But they will not pursue it, I suppose. The true murderer can hardly hope to hide for long.’
‘Have the police already questioned you?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, for hours!’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘A hundred times the same questions – what were my relations with Akers and Beddoes, why did I dine with them, and so on and so forth. And whether I had hit them over the head with heavy instruments. I grew quite t-tired of replying, always in the same manner, to the fifty different versions of that last question they continued to fling at me. I kept telling them that I dined with Mr Akers, accompanied him back to his rooms at St John’s, bid him goodnight below, saw him begin to mount the stairs, and departed. I dined with Mr Beddoes, walked back to his house with him, bid him goodnight at the gate of his garden, and departed. I realise that it may appear amazing to the point of being positively suspicious, but the fact remains that I heard nothing of any murder in either case!’
‘Did they ask you what you had talked about over the two dinners?’
‘They pressed me only to admit that there had been quarrels.’
‘Were there quarrels?’
‘Of c-course not! Akers told me that he had had a brilliant idea about a solution to the n-body problem; he almost could not contain himself for pleasure at its elegance and beauty. But after barely mentioning it, and scribbling a formula onto a scrap of paper, he thrust it away in his pocket, and abruptly changed the
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