EIGHT
AT TRINITY
Sir Edward Fawsley, Professor of Theoretical Physics at The Other Place, had expressed himself delighted at the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with Lord Peter Wimsey, and welcomed him to an extremely liquid lunch in the Trinity SCR. At Peter's request, they retreated to Fawsley's rooms for their post-prandial coffee, where they wallowed in splendidly deep armchairs, and admired the Professor's collection of books, which rivalled the college library, certainly as far as the Mystery section was concerned. Lord Peter was particularly pleased to observe that several volumes of Harriet's adorned the shelves.
"Oh, yes, I'm a great admirer of your wife's," said Fawsley, chuckling at the direction of Peter's gaze. "Shame you've given up on the detective business yourself, Wimsey. One hardly ever reads about you in the papers any more. Or is that a ruse to fool the unsuspecting public?"
"I rather lost interest after the war," said Wimsey, with perfect truth.
"So you retired from the field and let the younger men have a crack at things. That's very admirable; I wish more academics saw things your way. We have a terrible tendency to refuse to be put out to pasture. When I see some of my colleagues pontificating from their Chairs on subjects they last understood thirty years ago…well, they seem to have taken Kipling to heart:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
"Surely not all elderly scholars are past it, though?" objected Wimsey. "I can think of a number of men who wrote great works at a high old age."
"It's not unheard of," agreed Fawsley, "but that tends to happen in the humanities rather than in science. I'm not saying all the work one does in later life is useless – otherwise I should be the worst kind of hypocrite – but all the truly ground-breaking advances have been made by very young men. It's rare for an old man to be brilliant. But, of course, once he's covered himself with glory and honours, it's impossible to persuade him to give it all up and make way for the young bloods. Old dons are like old horses, you know. They cling to life, guzzling feed and taking up stable room, long past the point where they can offer anything useful in return. I sometimes think the best thing would be to shoot them all."
"Rather a draconian retirement policy," said Wimsey laughing, "though it would save a fortune in pension payments. I don't suppose Dr Black at Christ's was the first step in the implementation of your plan to win the plaudits of a grateful Exchequer?"
Sir Edward sat up as straight as his armchair would allow. "Wimsey," he said severely, "I have the distinct impression you are snooping. Didn't you just tell me you'd given up detecting?"
"I did," said Lord Peter ruefully. "The trouble is, it hasn't given me up."
Fawsley groaned. "I knew you had to be up to something!" he said. "The moment I heard your voice on the phone I said to myself 'Get ready for the third degree.' Spit it out, old man. What dread secret of mine are you trying to uncover?"
"It's more Dr Black's dread secret, actually. Have you any idea why he might have killed himself?"
"No," said Fawsley firmly, "I have not. And I am not going to help you go ferreting around in poor Black's private life. Surely it's better to let sleeping dons lie?"
"Normally I'd agree with you," said Peter. "A man's reasons for taking his own life are none of my business. But in this instance I'm not entirely sure he did. A rumour has reached my shell-like ear that there may have been Soviet involvement in his death, and I wanted your opinion on the matter."
"Oh really, Wimsey," said the Professor, bursting into something suspiciously like laughter. "How did you come up with something so ridiculous? Poor old Black was the least likely target for an assassination you could imagine."
"What about his political leanings? He was openly anti-Soviet, wasn't he?"
"Slightly to the right of Attila the Hun, I should say. But look here, Wimsey, if being a true blue Tory was grounds for assassination, then county cricket would be in an even worse state than it already is. Black had no active political involvement in any organisation. I should think he posed about as much danger to the Soviet Union as my dog does."
"It could have been a cover."
Fawsley frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"I should have thought the meaning was obvious," retorted Wimsey. "He was a member of the Apostles, after all. Did he have any known contact with Burgess or Maclean?"
There was no mistaking the look of unease that had crept across Fawsley's face at the mention of the Apostles; at the names Burgess and Maclean he actually winced.
"All right, yes, as a matter of fact, he did. But really, Wimsey, it's patently absurd to think that Black might be the Third Man. He really wasn't the kind of fellow who'd sell his country out to the Soviets, and in any case, that wasn't...." He broke off, looking profoundly uncomfortable.
"Wasn't what?" persisted Wimsey, who had long since learned to overcome social niceties in the pursuit of truth.
"Well, he was... Oh, I say, Wimsey, this is damnably unpleasant, and one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he... well, his contact with chaps like Burgess wasn't because of his politics, if you get my meaning."
"Oh, I see," said Wimsey, light dawning. "But that's exactly the sort of weakness the Soviets prey on, of course. And if they were blackmailing him he might have seen suicide as the only honourable way out."
"Yeees," said Fawsley, agreement being drawn from him as a dentist draws a tooth. "But what would they blackmail him for? Black wasn't the sort of chap to interest them. He had no political involvement and no connections - took the grammar school and scholarship route into Cambridge, and never left it again. As far as I know, his mother's his only living relative, and she's hardly in a position to do the USSR any favours. And even if they had got a hold over him, it doesn't seem very like Black to shoot himself in order to escape their clutches. He wasn't a very brave man. Some people aren't, you know."
"What about his research? Could he have been working on something that might have piqued their interest?"
"I can't imagine what. Black was a pure mathematician, an ivory tower scholar of the first order. He made some very fine contributions to our understanding of mathematical theory, but it's nothing that would get any government worked up."
"Some aspect of number theory, wasn't it?"
"The Fibonacci sequence, yes. I've got an off-print of his most recent publication in my office, if you're curious. I haven't actually read it yet, but – I say, Wimsey, what's up? You look as if you can't decide whether to shout Eureka or call for an ambulance."
"Eureka, I think. You've just put two pieces of a puzzle together for me. Tell me, how well did Black know Alan Turing?"
Sir Edward put down his coffee cup. "In what sense are we using the word 'know' here?" he asked, eyeing Peter as if he were something particularly nasty that he had just trodden in. "I'm not prepared to help you with muck-raking, if that's what you're after. Alan Turing was a fine man and his death was a disgrace to the nation, an absolute disgrace. Especially after all…" He fell silent, a mixture of emotions struggling for dominance on his face. "It's a poor excuse for justice when a man's war record can't be cited at his trial," he said finally.
"It's all right, Fawsley," said Wimsey gently. "I was seconded to Bletchley for a few months during the war, and I know all about Turing's work there. Believe me, the last thing I'm interested in is dragging his name through the mud a second time. But I do need to know if there was a connection between him and Black."
Sir Edward stared. "You were at Bletchley? When?"
"1941. As a matter of fact, I was the one who wrote the report recommending that Churchill come and see the work that was being done there."
"Good God," said Sir Edward. "I had no idea. Next thing you'll be telling me David Niven was head of Hut 8. He was just as well qualified."
Wimsey smiled. "I am rather good at crosswords, Fawsley," he said mildly.
"Yes, I suppose you are. And now I come to think of it, Turing did mention that they'd had a peer of the realm dancing around in the early days. I suppose he meant you. Well, well, well. Bletchley hides more secrets than the pyramids."
"And Black?" prompted Wimsey. "Now that I've established my credentials, will you tell me if he knew Turing?"
Fawsley sighed. "Yes, he did," he said reluctantly. "They went back for years. They were both at King's in the '30s, you know. As to whether it was more than just friendship, I couldn't possibly comment. That sort of thing was rather part and parcel of the King's social experience in those days. It's different now, of course, especially since poor Turing's disgrace. All those chaps have battened down the hatches. Not that Black was ever the type to make a song-and-dance about it, but, well, by their works shall ye know them."
"You know Turing was working on research involving Fibonacci numbers when he died?"
"Was he?"
"Might he and Black have been collaborating?"
"It's possible. Black was inclined to deny all connection after Turing's trial – I told you he wasn't a brave man - but he may still have had contact privately. I agree that if Turing spotted a possible application for an aspect of number theory, Black would have been a good chap to look up. I say, you're not suggesting the Soviets were trying to use Black to get at Turing's work, are you?"
"It's possible, surely?"
"I don't know that it would have done them any good. Turing was forbidden to work on projects related to national security after his conviction, and all his notes were seized, so unless he was pursuing research in secret…. It's easy to check, anyway. He bequeathed his papers to the Cavendish Lab when he died, so all we have to do is go through his files. Not that that'll do you much good – you won't understand a word, frankly - but I'll tell you who could help you out, your chum Duffield. The work that got him elected to the Royal Society had something to do with Fibonacci numbers. I can't remember the details, but he'd be in a position to assess whether Turing's research had any sensitive implications. I'll get my secretary to give you access to them, if you like."
"Thanks, Fawsley, that's tremendously helpful. I'll collar Duffield as soon as I get back to Christ's, and I'll ask him if I can have a sniff at Black's own files while I'm about it. I'm rather pressed for time, though, so would it be all right if I came over to the Cavendish this evening? I'll send Bunter over after dinner to pick up the keys. And now let me ask you a different question. What do you think of Illya Kuryakin?"
"Our little Ruskie post-grad? Oh, he's definitely a Red. And I suspect that one day his research will indeed be of burning interest to the Politburo."
"A good scholar, then?"
"Outstanding. But they've no need to blackmail him, he knows his duty to the Party already."
"Any chance that he's a sleeper?"
"Almost certainly," said Fawsley, sounding surprised. "All those Russian students are, one way or another. But they're easy enough for our chaps to keep an eye on, and so far they've all toddled off back home with their doctorates without doing any harm. I say, Wimsey, you're not implying Kuryakin was involved in Black's death, are you?"
"I'm not implying anything," said Wimsey mildly. "I'm merely poking under various beds to see if any Reds come crawling out. Thanks awfully, Fawsley. You've been most helpful. I'll let you know if we find anything."