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

“Some of which many of us have seen. A huge collection of papers exists. But what Barton realized — as young Selfridge would not, even if he was exposed to them — was that the alchemic pages he had discovered formed no part of any known body of work. They were new sheets, never before circulated, never before perused by anyone in the near fifty years since Newton’s death in 1727. Barton surely intended to publish them eventually — but would he not be as surely tempted to seek even greater glory? Those pages, remember, came direct from the hand of Newton, the largest-minded genius of this or any age. Barton permitted Selfridge access to the mathematical papers, which apparently duplicated known work. But the alchemy, which was new—”

“He kept for himself!” Arbuthnot’s face was fiery red with excitement. “He would, man, sure he would. Keep it to himself — confirm — duplicate. And if there was anything sensational in Newton — lead into gold—”

“But Barton would have realized the dangers,” Wentworth protested. “Whatever his faults, he was a man of unequalled knowledge of the past century. The mental breakdown of Newton himself in 1693 was well-known and widely reported, and many attributed that to dangerous chemical experiments.”

“Barton probably believed that he was observing full caution.” Darwin addressed himself to Rufus Arbuthnot. “Would you agree, Doctor, that a man is usually quite aware of physical problems? A sprained back, or in my own case, a gouty big toe, which cannot easily be ignored. But mental conditions, in which the observing organ of the brain is also the organ affected, present far more subtle problems.”

“Aha! No doubt of it. Mental patients don’t seek medical assistance — don’t know they’re sick, half the time, have to lock ’em up willy-nilly. Think Barton noticed changes? Seclusion couldn’t have helped.”

Wentworth said in amazed tones, “So when all is done, the Master was right. We are in a very real sense dealing with accidental death, even though the act itself spoke of suicide. It is not at all what I expected, but I’ll drink to a swift closure.” Wentworth reached for the bottle.

“Not quite over.” Darwin reached across and arrested Wentworth’s hand in the act of pouring. “There may not be, I fear, as comforting an outcome as you envisage. Something else must be examined: Barton’s rooms.”

“That has been done, Erasmus, once and then twice.”

“Perhaps. But it must be repeated with a more directed focus. The experiments of alchemy are not conducted within the confines of an egg-cup. There must somewhere be an alchemic laboratory. With your permission, Collie, we must search for it.”

“I suppose we must. But Rufus, we have taken a great deal of your time. If you would like to return to your practice in Sidney Street—”

“In a pig’s eye, Collie. I smell mischief. Am I correct, Dr. Darwin?”

“My own nose says the same, though I greatly wish that we are both wrong. Collie, can we take with us a couple of strong college servants, also a few iron tools?”

“What do you want with them?”

“I am not sure.”

Wentworth laid down with resignation the glass that he had all the time been holding. “All right. You go to the E Staircase of Third Court. I will meet you there with people and tools.”

The path across the quadrangles from M Staircase of Second Court to E Staircase of Third was no more than a hundred yards, but in the hour since Darwin had returned from his meeting with Selfridge the weather had changed again. The three men hurried along under darkening skies from which the first heavy drops were already spattering.

E Staircase was dark and silent. Darwin advanced to the oak door of Elias Barton’s rooms, banged on it with his fist, and cursed. “Locked, as of course I should have known. I didn’t think to ask Collie for the key. We’ll have to wait for him, unless some of these rooms share a common lock. Jacob, you carry a deal less weight than I. Nip up one flight, would you, and see if Selfridge has a key that might also fit here.”

Pole’s boots clattered loud on the stairs, turning one short flight and up again. A silence followed, after which the sound of boots repeated, slower now. Pole reappeared shaking his head.

“Sorry, ’Rasmus, but Selfridge isn’t there. No one is. The door stands open, but the room is empty. And the desk is cleared.”

“Damnation. I take blame for this. Dr. Arbuthnot, if a person were to leave here bound for the West Country, what would be the most logical avenue of departure?”

“Leave here westward? Coach to London, I’d say. Path via Oxford’s shorter — but transport less frequent and convenient.”

“And a coach to London leaves?”

“Far side of the marketplace. On the hour.”

“Which approaches fast. Jacob, I need your help.”

“Damn it, Erasmus, I can’t run all the way to the marketplace, any more than you could. And look at it out there, it’s pissing down.”

The rain was sheeting into Kitchen Lane, beyond the sheltered passageway.