Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

“Dr. Barton did not tell me. However, all agree that he was an outstanding archivist, with a knowledge of sources unmatched in this or any other college. He required that I first make a fair copy of every page that he gave me, and return the originals to him before I was permitted to study them. I did return them, in all cases but for a few sheets which happened already to be twice-copied by Newton himself. Dr. Barton assured me that some of the writings here are not to be found anywhere else.”

Darwin reared back, staring again at the sheet he was holding. “Then what Elias Barton had were new works by Isaac Newton?”

“So I was assured, at least for some of the pages.”

“They must be enormously valuable. Did it not seem implausible that Elias Barton would permit you to study them, month after month, and never seek to announce the discovery that he had made?”

“To be honest, I thought little of that. To have these, in my own hands, to study, to transform the results to modern guise, and to marvel at them — not much else entered my head. And Dr. Barton did say that all would be made known at the right time.”

“What time?”

“I cannot be certain. When, I think, certain activities of his own were completed.”

In his excitement, Selfridge’s tone had been rising higher and higher. Now, as though again suddenly self-conscious, he laid the papers back on his desk and said in a trembling voice, “I have committed no crime, have I? I surely intended none.”

“No crime known to me. Even if these papers were obtained by some irregular route — which I very much suspect — the offense was not with you but with Elias Barton. I wonder, though, why you were not more honest this morning, when you heard the news of his death and were asked if you had any connection with him.”

Suddenly the old Selfridge was back, a youth who would no longer look Darwin in the eye. “I had some connection with Dr. Barton in life, but I played no part in his death. Yet I felt sure that if ever I mentioned the papers that he had given to me, that would be the end.”

“Of your own studies and access to them? Perhaps you are right. For the moment, hold what you have. Study the work, and cherish it.”

“I will. I know of nothing more precious. I would protect these things with my life.”

“That will not, I trust, be necessary. Even if you were forced to give up the originals, you have the fair copy?”

“Of every line and every symbol.”

“Then I think you have nothing to fear.” Darwin started to leave, but turned back. “One more question. You have indicated that you owe much to Elias Barton, and I can appreciate that you may be reluctant to say anything against your tutor. But your rooms are just above his. Did you observe any change in his behavior, or in aspects of his life, in recent months?”

Selfridge hesitated. “If he were alive, I would not say this. But since he is dead, I do not see how it can be held against him. In the past six months, he changed. Rather than greeting me when we passed each other, he was as likely to scowl and mutter. We held no more tutorials. He also became more slovenly and careless in his dress. When I first met him his clothes were always clean and carefully matched as to color and style. He had a special fondness for cinnamon velvet and for green brocade, and the cut and balance had to be perfect. However, in recent months it seemed he put on the first garment that came to hand, wearing it regardless of color, match, cleanliness, or anything else. Also, there was the smell.”

“He stank?”

Again, Selfridge looked away from Darwin. “Of his person, I cannot tell, since we were never in close proximity. But my room, as you see, lies directly above his. The dreadful odors and noxious fumes that rose through the boards of my floor, especially at night, sometimes made it impossible for me to sleep, even with every window open to its widest.”

“Can you describe the smells to me?”

“They were various. One night it would be sulfurous, the next an acrid, acid vapor that left me coughing. This is poor description, I know, but I lack the words to be more precise.”

“That is in no sense your fault. I would do no better. We lack a taxonomy of smells, and all our descriptions will remain inadequate until the arrival of some new Linnaeus able to name and catalog odors. But in your case, with smells so foul, did you not think to complain to the College Steward?”

“I did not want to... cause trouble. I owed Dr. Barton for his former kindness to me.”

“Do you know what he was doing to make those stinks?”

“I heard rumors.”

“Did you believe them?”

“Not for a moment. Excuse me if my next words offend, but I do not believe in any forms of the supernatural. Neither gods nor demons form any part of a rational world view.”