Dark Matter

Newton got up from his chair and walked over to the bookshelf where the Mint records were kept, as well as several numismatic histories, account books, law reports, Mister Violet’s Commons Report of 1651, and the small library that George Macey had owned, being a Latin primer, a book on mathematics, a book on the French language, and a book of shorthand.

“It is not possible to know much about him now,” said I.

“Except that his reading showed a commendable desire for self-improvement,” said Newton. “It is always best that a man educate himself. The superior education is the one wrought from private study. Even I taught myself mathematics. And yet I wonder that Mister Macey wished to learn French. My own French is less than perfect. For I like the French not at all.”

“Since we are still at war with them,” I said, “I cannot fault you for that, Doctor.”

Ignoring Melchior, who wrapped his tail around Newton’s hand like a whore’s shawl, Newton picked up Mister Macey’s French grammar, blew the dust off the cover—which was always considerable in the Mint office, from the constant vibration of the coining presses, not to mention the cannon—and turned the pages of the book. To my surprise, for I knew Newton had already examined the book once before, he found a paper that was pressed between the leaves.

“It’s a bookseller’s account,” said Newton. “Samuel Lowndes, by the Savoy.”

The Savoy was a great town house on the south side ofthe Strand, with grounds stretching down to the river. Most of it was given over to a hospital for sick and wounded seamen and soldiers, so that the whole area teemed with men recently returned from the war in Flanders—some of them terribly mutilated by grapeshot or bursting charge; and there were several poor wretches that I saw who were missing limbs or parts of their faces.

The remainder of the building was leased out to a French church, the King’s Printing Press, two gaols—both full—some private lodgings, and a number of shops that included Samuel Lowndes, the bookseller.

Mister Lowndes was a slight figure of a man, with an urchin’s face and a most obsequious manner so that the minute Newton and I came through his door, he pulled off his apron, put on his wig and coat, and, with wringing hands, waited upon the Doctor in a most servile, cringing way.

“I want a bookseller,” muttered Newton. “Not a Lord Chamberlain.”

“Doctor Newton,” exclaimed Mister Lowndes. “Why, sir, what a very great honour you do my shop by coming into it. Do you search for something in particular, sir?”

“I search for information about a customer you had last year, Mister Lowndes. A Mister George Macey, who worked for His Majesty’s Mint in the Tower. As I do myself.”

“Yes, I recall Mister Macey. Indeed, now I come to think more upon it, it’s almost a year since I have seen him. How is Mister Macey?”

“Deceased,” Newton replied bluntly.

“I am right sorry to hear it.”

“There were certain circumstances about Mister Macey’s death which show the grim character of homicide,” explained Newton. “And it touching upon the business of the Mint, we consider it a matter imperative to speak to all who can shed some light as to what his habits were. We have recently discovered that he was customer of yours, Mister Lowndes. Therefore I would be grateful if you could assist me by bending your recollection to other people you might have seen him with; some names he may have mentioned to you; or perhaps even the books he bought.”

Mister Lowndes looked most discomfited by the news of Macey’s murder; and yet he quickly did as Newton had asked and straightaway consulted a ledger book that contained a record of all his customer accounts.

“He was a pleasant man,” said Mister Lowndes, turning the ledger’s thick pages. “Not an educated one like yourself, Doctor. But a conscientious one; and governed by a Christian sense of duty.”

“Very commendable, I’m sure,” murmured Newton.

Mister Lowndes found the page he had been searching for. “Here we are, sir,” he said. “Yes, he purchased several books of a didactic nature, as you can see for yourself. And one that surprised me very much, being so unlike the others. Also, it was expensive. Very expensive for a man of his means.”

Following Mister Lowndes’s forefinger upon the ledger, Newton observed the written entry for a moment and then read aloud the title and author to which the bookseller did refer. “Polygraphia, by Trithemius. I know your Latin is good, Mister Ellis. But how is your Greek, sir?”

“Polygraphia? I think that would mean ‘much writing,’” said I, whose Greek was never much good at all.

“Quite so,” agreed Mister Lowndes. “Although the book itself was written in Latin.”

“And yet Macey had no Latin,” objected Newton. “The elementary character of the Latin primer he bought from Mister Lowndes would seem to confirm as much.” Newton paused and tapped his bony finger upon the page of the ledger. “Did he explain why he wanted this particular book?”