Dark Matter

Newton was still in possession of Mister Osborne’s knife and used this to scrape something off the manacles onto a piece of paper which he showed to me. “If I am not mistaken, this is dried blood. But we shall examine it under a microscope later on.”

“You have a microscope? I have never seen through a microscope,” I admitted.

“Then you are to be envied. For the first sight of natural phenomena under the microscope is always most breathtaking.”

“If you are right,” said I, “and this is blood, then George Macey must have been privy to information that others wished desperately to know, or else they should not have tortured him so cruelly.”

“Mint workers are always in possession of some secrets,” said Newton, “although I hazard that there’s not one of them, Macey included, who wouldn’t give up what he knows for a few guineas. No, it is more tempting to conclude that Macey was tortured for information he did not possess, otherwise the excruciating pain of this device would surely have persuaded him to talk much earlier on, and certainly before receiving any mortal injuries.”

“That’s a terrible thought,” I said sickly. “To be tortured for information you had would be bad enough. But how much worse it would be with nothing to betray.”

“Your instinct for self-preservation does you a dubious credit,” said Newton, and, folding away the paper with the suspected dried blood, he offered me a wintry smile. “It persuades me that I need not utter another salutary to remain silent about this matter. Whoever killed George Macey would doubtless slit our throats as easily as other men would slice a cucumber.

“Come, let’s away from here, lest some should see us and feel disquiet at our proximity to this machine.”

Leaving the Storehouse, Newton declared his wish to visit my house and use his microscope which, he said, would assist our further enquiry. But outside the door to the Warden’s house we found Mister Kennedy, who was another of the Mint’s informers, and two gentlemen I did not recognise.

Mister Kennedy was a most forbidding-looking fellow, having a false nose made of silver to cover the gaping holes of the nostrils of the one that was lost: from an accident in the mill room, he said; but there were, I knew, plenty who speculated that the real accident had been received in the cunny parts of a whore. This feature, however, lent Mister Kennedy a villainous aspect that enabled him to mix with some of the worst rogues in London. He, having received a shilling from one of the two gentlemen for having brought them to Newton, now withdrew, leaving them to introduce themselves. It was the taller, older and less modish of the pair who did the talking:

“Sir,” he said, bowing gracefully, “this is indeed an honour. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Christopher Love. Perhaps you have read my work on the chemical teachings that are being done in the University of Leyden?”

“I regret I have not had that pleasure,” Newton said gruffly, for he hated being sought out by new disciples while he was about the business of the Mint.

“No matter,” said Doctor Love. “This is the Count Gaetano, from Italy, who is a most adept and notable philosopher in his own country, and has done great work in the secret art.”

The Count, attired in powdered silk and wearing the largest feather I had ever seen on a man’s hat, contrasted sharply with the scholarly black of his companion, whom I judged to be in the fiftieth year of his age. He bowed with more panache than an Irish actor and then spoke most haltingly to my master, in an accent that was as thick as the braid upon his sleeves.

“Sir, I should be greatly honoured if you would be my guest for dinner. At your convenience, sir. Very much.”

“I am not insensible of the honour you do me, Count,” answered Newton. “However, I accept very few invitations.”

“The Count appreciates you are a busy man,” said Doctor Love.

“Very much.”

“Nevertheless he feels he has something which would be of very great scientific interest to you.”

“Very much.”

And so saying, Doctor Love removed from a square of velvet a gold ounce, which he presented to Newton.

“Before my very own eyes,” explained Doctor Love, “the Count used a tincture of his own discovery to convert what had been a miserable piece of lead into this golden ingot.”

Newton examined the gold with a show of deep feeling.

“I took it at once to a goldsmith,” continued Doctor Love, “who declared it to be the purest gold he had ever seen.”

“Indeed,” said Newton, weighing the gold piece in the palm of his hand and all the while looking greatly affected.

“Who could be better than yourself, Doctor Newton, Warden of the Royal Mint and England’s greatest scientist, to put this gold to the test? And if you were convinced that it was real, we considered that you might care to witness the Count’s process of transmutation for yourself.”