Stone Cold (6 page)

‘Thank you.’ Sherlock entered the room, which was larger than the cramped stairway outside had suggested. It was furnished as a sitting room, with comfortable chairs, a table and
bookcases. Other doors led off to other rooms – presumably a bedroom and perhaps a dining room, although Sherlock was fairly sure, from what his brother had told him, that the students and
lecturers all ate together in some large refectory on the college site.

Dodgson gestured to a chair. ‘Please, sit down.’

Sherlock noticed a book open and upside down on a side table. ‘My apologies, sir.’ He said politely. ‘I am disturbing you.’

‘I was merely reading a b-b-book,’ Dodgson replied. ‘It is an activity which can be easily interrupted and then be restarted, unlike the activity of b-b-beading a rook, of
course. Once you have started beading a rook you have to keep on going to the end, if only because rooks are such impatient c-c-creatures. Once they start shaking their wings the beads go
everywhere, and you have no option but to start again.’

Sherlock stared at him. Giraffes and hippopotamuses for dinner, and rooks covered with beads? What was going on in this man’s mind?

Dodgson folded himself up into a chair that was far too small for him and gazed at Sherlock.

‘Where have you been living?’ he asked, normally but seemingly randomly. ‘Not at the family home, I suspect. Your brother has told me a little about your
circumstances.’

‘Recently I have been living in London, and before that China. Before
that
I was with my aunt and uncle in Farnham.’

‘Ah, Farnham. Yes, I have recently purchased a house in Guildford for my own family.’ He glanced sideways, out of the window. ‘My father died a few months ago. Your father is
in India, is he not?’

‘Yes, he is.’

Dodgson considered for a moment. ‘China? What took you there, might I ask.’

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. ‘A three-masted schooner,’ he said.

He had judged Dodgson’s attitude perfectly. The mathematician let out a sudden sharp laugh. ‘Oh, very good!’ he said. ‘Very quick.’ He stared at Sherlock for a
moment, seemingly re-evaluating him. ‘So you’ve been to China. Where else in the world have you travelled?’

‘France, America and Russia,’ Sherlock replied, remembering briefly his various adventures in those countries.

‘Ah, Russia. I too have been there. A fascinating country, but the local population seems to have so little imagination. All of their books are t-t-turgidly long t-t-tomes about what
people do and say from day to day.’ He shrugged. ‘It is interesting to compare their literature with their folklore. Look at the legend of Baba Yaga, for instance. An old witch who
lives in a hut that stands on chicken legs! What whimsy! Why do we not have anything like that in British folklore?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps there is a correlation between the harshness of people’s lives and the stories they tell each other at
night. In Britain our lives are generally pretty pleasant, but in Russia the winters can be harsh and the food scarce.’ He had said all that off the top of his head, without thinking it
through, but he made a mental note to come back to that thought. Perhaps he could write an essay about it, or something similar.

‘An interesting point, and possibly a valid one,’ Dodgson said. ‘But we digress from the point of your visit. You wish to study m-m-mathematics here at Cambridge.’ It was
more of a statement than a question.

‘Ye-es,’ Sherlock said, hoping that Dodgson had not noticed the hesitation.

‘And you have missed some schooling recently, for reasons that your brother is hesitant to describe.’

‘That is so.’

‘And, given those two postulates, the conclusion is that your brother wishes me to prepare you for the rigours of university life by tutoring you privately for a period of time, until I
feel you are ready.’

‘That,’ Sherlock said carefully, ‘is, I believe, my brother’s intent.’

‘Very well. Can I presume that you have studied at least a
little
m-m-mathematics during your incomplete schooling?’

‘I did.’

‘What can you remember? Did you, for instance, study Euclid’s
Elements
? Can you tell me what Euclid’s five basic n-n-notions are?’

Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘Firstly, that things which are equal to the same thing are also equal to one another.’

‘Correct.’

‘Secondly, that if equals are added to equals, then the wholes are equal.’

‘Also correct.’

‘Thirdly, if equals are subtracted from equals, then the remainders are equal.’

‘Without doubt.’

‘Fourthly, that things which coincide with one another are equal to one another.’

‘Spot on!’

‘And fifthly, that the whole is greater than the part.’

Dodgson clapped his hands together. ‘Ideal. You have them in a n-n-nutshell. From Euclid’s basic propositions and notions, of course, the whole of m-m-mathematics can be constructed,
theorem by painstaking theorem.’ He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. ‘It is a fine subject, m-m-mathematics. God’s universe is described in the language of numbers,
just as Rembrandt’s universe is described by the colours of the oil paints on his palette and Mozart’s by the vibrations of air that we call musical notes.’ He paused, thin
fingers steepled beneath his chin. ‘Let us see how far your mathematical knowledge extends. Tell me, young Sherlock, what is the next n-n-number in this sequence: 1, 2, 4, 8, 16 . . .
?’

‘32,’ Sherlock said immediately. ‘Each number is double the one before it.’

‘Of course. Elementary, in fact. What, then, is the next number in
this
sequence: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 . . . ?’

Sherlock thought for a moment.

‘There is p-p-paper and a pen on the table beside you, should you require them.’

‘No need.’ Sherlock considered the numbers, both in relation to the ones before them and the ones after them. The numbers increased each time, suggesting some kind of additive
process, and –

‘Each number is the sum of the two numbers that precede it,’ he said triumphantly, the words coming out of his mouth a split second after the answer had arrived in his brain.

‘Just so. That is a very interesting set of numbers known as the Fibonacci sequence. It was first described by the mathematician Leonardo of Pisa, also known as Fibonacci, over five
hundred and fifty years ago, although an Indian student of mine here at Christ College tells me that the sequence has been known in Indian mathematics for a great deal longer.’ He appeared to
be talking to himself now, more than to Sherlock, and his stammer had disappeared. ‘I must try and find out as much as I can about the Indian poets and philosophers Pingala, Virahanka and
Gopala. I suspect I may have to learn Sanskrit, although this college is probably as good a place to do that as anywhere else.’

‘That Indian student – is his name Mathukumal Vijayaraghavan, by any chance?’

‘You k-k-know him?’

‘We are boarding at the same establishment.’

‘Ah.’ Dodgson thought for a moment. ‘What about the following sequence: 1, 5, 12, 22, 35, 51, 70, 92, 117, 145 . . . ?’

Sherlock mulled the numbers over in his head for a few moments. There was no obvious link – the numbers weren’t squares, or cubes, or multiples, or anything simple. Eventually, and
with a looming sense of impending defeat, he took the paper and pencil from the table and scrawled the numbers down, then scribbled various possibilities around. Eventually, however, he had to
admit defeat.

‘I’m afraid I can’t work it out.’

‘No shame in that. What if I t-t-told you that the fact the second number is a 5 is important?’

Sherlock considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Still no.’

‘Very well. I will see you . . .’ he considered for a moment, ‘every Monday, Wednesday and Friday between the hours of ten o’clock and twelve o’clock. Tea and
b-b-biscuits to be provided by you.’

‘That would be . . . fine.’ Sherlock stared at Dodgson for a moment. ‘What
is
the next number in the sequence?’

‘I will let you tell me. It will give you something to think about between now and the next time we meet.’

Sherlock sensed that the discussion was at an end. He was about to get up and make his farewell when Dodgson said, ‘Your brother – I haven’t seen him for a good few years now.
Well, they have been a good few years for me. I trust they have been good for him as well. How is his
character
nowadays? Does he still take offence easily? Does he hate to be
teased?’

‘He can be rather . . . prickly,’ Sherlock conceded.

‘Yes, I was afraid of that.’ He frowned.

Sherlock wondered what exactly Dodgson’s question was about. It seemed to be bothering the mathematician quite a bit. Suddenly he remembered what his brother had told him, about Dodgson
writing children’s books under the pen name Lewis Carroll. ‘Are you proposing to put my brother in one of your books as a character?’ he said, feeling a sudden elation.
‘What a marvellous idea!’

Dodgson looked guilty. ‘I have been thinking about it,’ he confessed. ‘Obviously your brother told you about my first book –
Alice’s Adventures Under Ground
.
It has done tolerably well, and I am considering a sequel, of sorts. Alice’s c-c-continuing adventures, as it were. I have been telling the story piecemeal to the daughters of some friends,
and the character of Humpty Dumpty has appeared in it – from where I do not know. You are familiar with the nursery rhyme?’

‘Indeed.’

‘It was only when I received your brother’s letter asking me to take you under my wing that I suddenly realized, to my eternal shame and horror, that I appeared to have put
M-M-Mycroft into my story as Humpty Dumpty!’

Sherlock had to stifle a laugh. ‘Based on his . . . size?’ he asked.

Dodgson nodded. ‘Is he still . . . ?’

‘More than ever,’ Sherlock confirmed.

‘That is not the whole of it,’ Dodgson admitted. ‘The character of Humpty Dumpty – haughty, rather argumentative, a pedant – that is how I remember your brother
being.’ He smiled. ‘Not that it was a problem when he was here. I had, and always will have, the greatest respect for Mycroft. I am not, however, blind to his foibles.’ A pause.
‘Do you think he will mind?’ he asked plaintively.

Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘As long as the character is not
obviously
him,’ he said eventually, ‘I think he would be flattered. He would not, however, wish to be
recognized
, especially by those who do not know him very well.’

‘Then I will plough on with the telling, and the writing, and send him a copy when it is finished, inscribed to the man who inspired the most majestic character in the whole
book.’

‘I think he would like that.’

‘Then I think our business here is done, young man,’ Dodgson said, clapping his hands together and springing to his feet. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, I have a rook to bead,
and you must be going. I will see you in two days at the appointed time. Don’t forget the tea and biscuits.’

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments. Was Dodgson serious or not? ‘If I bring the tea as
leaves
,’ he asked, as if this was the most ordinary conversation in the world,
‘and the biscuits in a bag, would you be able to work with them? It’s just I’m not sure I can carry a tray with a pot and a plate all the way here, and the tea would probably get
cold.’

‘By all means bring the elements,’ Dodgson replied, ‘and we shall construct the final proposition together.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said, baffled but also intrigued about what lay in store during his course in mathematics. He had a feeling that, at the very least, he wasn’t going to be
bored.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day walking around Oxford and its environs, familiarizing himself with the town. The sun was shining, making the light-coloured stone from which
the various colleges were constructed seem to glow in the ruddy afternoon light.

Sherlock never liked being in a place where he didn’t know what was down the street or around the corner. Wherever he went, he had to know the local geography. He even bought a street map
from a shop in the town and checked it as he walked, so that he learned the names of the areas through which he was passing.

While he wandered, he turned over and over in his mind the conversation he had engaged in with Charles Dodgson. The man had a very eccentric mind – that much was clear – but he had
to be an able mathematician and logician, otherwise the University authorities would not let him lecture. They obviously turned a blind eye to the odder side of his personality. Sherlock wondered
how much of that odder side was deliberate affectation.

It occurred to him that there were other things that he wanted to talk to Dodgson about, but that he had forgotten to mention. There was the question of how Dodgson could balance his serious
mathematical work with his writing of books for children, for a start. There were a lot of things Sherlock wanted to know about his brother’s early life too, when he was at Oxford. There was
also the question of the thefts of body parts that had come up over dinner the previous night. Sherlock remembered Reginald Musgrave saying that Dodgson had been questioned about the matter, and he
desperately wanted to get more facts from the man. Why body parts? How had they been stolen? Where had they gone? Sherlock found that, as he walked, his brain was turning more and more to these
unanswered questions.

He knew what he was doing, of course. He was looking for a mystery. Over the past two years he had been confronted by several of them, seemingly insoluble ones, and he was getting a taste for
thinking his way through a maze of conflicting evidence and impossibilities to find the truth within. Maybe this was another one.

Acting on the thought, Sherlock asked a couple of passing locals where the mortuary was. He wasn’t sure why – he had no actual plans of going there – but he was interested to
know. The first two people he asked – ladies doing their shopping – looked at him strangely and just carried on walking. Perhaps they thought it strange that a boy was asking about
something as macabre as a place where bodies were stored. The third person – a burly, whiskered man in a waistcoat that was too small for him, muttered, ‘Students!’ and walked
away. Fortunately the fourth person – a businessman in bowler hat and suit – told him. It wasn’t far away – part of the local hospital. He filed the location in his brain in
case he ever needed it and continued on with his explorations of the town.