Dark Matter

To Naomi Rose

Praise for Dark Matter

“An engaging tale … Nobody who reads Dark Matter will ever think of the real Isaac Newton quite the same way again.”—Boston Globe

“A robust recreation of life at the end of the 17th century … a most gripping and well-appointed entertainment.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“An illuminating, often crackling exploration into the mysteries of science, mathematics, religion, and human nature … Kerr’s mastery of period detail makes the story all the more delicious.”— Booklist (starred review)

“An exciting read … The ever-versatile Kerr weaves a rich tapestry of interesting characters and period details.”—Library Journal (starred review)

“Fascinating … Kerr successfully evokes a dangerous milieu.”—Washington Post“An exciting and cleverly written historical thriller … Kerr excels at bringing the past to vivid life.”—San Francisco Chronicle

“A remarkable feat of evocation.”—Denver Post

“Intellectually rigorous … rich as history and philosophy.”—Kirkus Reviews

The Tower of London

a. Moat

b. Water Lane

c. Bloody Tower

d. Salt Tower

e. Broad Arrow Tower

f. Irish Mint

g. Brass Mount

h. English Mint

i. Warden’s House

j. Master’s House

k. Brick Tower (home of the Master of Ordnance)

l. Chapel

m. White Tower

n. Tower Green

o. Beauchamp Tower

p. Bell Tower

q. Comptroller’s House & Yard

r. Entrance to the Mint (and Newton’s office)

s. By ward Tower

t. Middle Tower

u. Lion’s Tower

v. Tower Street to East London

Prologue

ARISE, SHINE; FOR THY LIGHT IS COME, AND THE GLORY OF THE

LORD IS RISEN UPON THEE.

(ISAIAH 60:1)

swore not to tell this story while Newton remained alive.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth of March 1727—Sir Isaac Newton having died some eight days previously—I took a coach from my new lodgings in Maiden Lane, Covent Garden, with Doctor Samuel Clarke, who was Newton’s friend and commentator, to the Abbey to see Newton lie in state like some fabulous Greek hero.

We found him in the Jerusalem Chamber, a great oak-paneled room with a large open fireplace that lies to the southwest of the Abbey, where there are some tapestries and stained glass ascribed to the period of Henry III, and marble busts of Henry IV and Henry V. It is said that Henry IV had a fit while praying one day in the Abbey and was carried into the Jerusalem Chamber where he died, thus fulfilling the prophecy that he would die in Jerusalem.

I cannot answer for whether the likeness of Henry was a good one, but Newton’s embalmer had done his job well and not made the face up like a whore, which is a very common failing with these people. His flesh looked quite natural, being florid, soft and full, as if the man had been only sleeping. And since there was no perceptible smell, Newton having been dead for a week or more, which is a long time for a corpse to be out of the ground, I could readily attest to the efficiency of the embalmer’s hand at least, for although Spring was not quite arrived, it had been quite warm of late.

The man I saw, laid out in an open coffin upon a great long refectory table, wore a full-bottomed flaxen wig, a plain white linen stock, and a black three-piece suit. His face was lined, somewhat heavy about the jowls and, despite a keen, aquiline nose that had always put me in mind of the Roman, not unkind. I had thought I might have perceived in the air of his face some of the penetrating sagacity which had once distinguished his composures. Perhaps even some final wisdom. But in death Newton was a quite unremarkable-looking figure.

“He was in great pain with the stone when he died,” said I.

“But still quite lucid,” replied Doctor Clarke.

“Aye. He was always that. Newton was the most lucid of souls. Newton looked upon all of creation as a riddle, with certain clues that were laid about this world by God. Or perhaps as a kind of cipher which, by great concentration of mind, he might translate. I think he believed that a man who might decipher an earthly code might similarly fathom the heavenly one. He believed nothing unless he could prove it as a theorem or draw it as a diagram.”

“Newton has given us the golden thread by which we may find our way through God’s labyrinth,” said Doctor Clarke.

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps that is right.”

After dinner I returned to my lodgings in Maiden Lane. I slept uneasily, alone with my still-smouldering remembrances of him. I could not say that I had known Newton well. I doubt there was any man or woman who could ever have claimed as much as that. For he was not just a rare bird but a shy one, too. And yet I can say that for a while, with the exception of Mrs. Conduitt, I knew him as well as anyone could have known him.

Until I met Newton I was like London before the Great Fire, and gave little thought to the poor repair of my intellectual buildings. But when I encountered his spark, and the strong wind of his mind fanned the flames in the narrow streets of my own poor brain—which were quite filled with rubbish most of them, for I was young and foolish then—the fire took hold so quickly that it raged quite unchecked.

Perhaps, if it had been just the fire ignited by his own acquaintance, something of the man I was might have been saved. But there was also the fire in my heart that was ignited by his niece, Mrs. Conduitt—Miss Barton that