The Oxford Murders

Go!

Go!

What is that?

It's a man!

- What is he, dead?|- No, sir. He's writing!

Repeat!

He's writing, sir.

He's writing in a notebook!

That man was not mad.|He was working

with shrapnel whistling round him|because he couldn't wait.

The contents of that notebook|were too important

to write it down later.

He had to do it|when his mind dictated,

he couldn't put it off|a single second.

What was so important that|he would risk his life for it?

What was he writing that|stopped him from standing up

and running, like any other man|would have done?

The "Tractatus|Logico-philosophicus",

the most influential philosophical|work of the twentieth century.

That soldier was called|Ludwig Wittgenstein,

the man who set the limits|on our thoughts.

The enigma that|he tried to decipher

was the following:

Can we know the truth?

All the great thinkers|throughout history

have sought a single certainty,

something which|no one can refute,

like "two and two make four".

In order to find that truth,

Wittgenstein used, in fact,

mathematical logic. What better|means of obtaining a certainty

than an immutable language,|free from the passions of men?

He advanced slowly,|using equation after equation,

with impeccable method,|until he reached

a terrifying conclusion.

There is no such truth

outside of mathematics.

There is no way of finding

a single absolute truth,

an irrefutable argument

which might help answer|the questions of mankind.

Philosophy,|therefore, is dead.

Because "Whereof we cannot speak,

thereof we must be silent."

Don't touch that, please.

This is an Enigma machine!

Just a copy. The original's in|the Imperial War Museum in London.

Sorry to sneak in like that...|The door was open.

Of course it was open. You surely|didn't expect me to get up

and let you in|on these legs, did you?

I'm...

Martin, our new overseas|student lodger, I presume.

- This man in the photo with you...|- Yes.

That's Turing, Alan Turing,

the man who deciphered|the Enigma code.

Thanks to him, we won the war.

Poor man died|such a strange death...

a poisoned apple, like Snow White.

And the one on the left?

My husband, Harry.

Harry Eagleton. He developed the|concept of fractional dimensions...

He deserved a bloody Nobel prize,|but he hated sucking up

to politicians.|Politicians or anybody.

He never had many friends.

He had one at least.|Arthur Seldom.

Poor boy. He spent day

after day in the house,|tidying Harry's papers.

He'd go without lunch or dinner,|going over the equations.

Eagleton tutored his doctoral thesis|on the logical series. In 1960,

- wasn't it?|- I see you've done your homework.

I know everything there is|to know about Arthur Seldom.

In fact, Mrs. Eagleton,|it's because of him that I'm here.

In Oxford, I mean.

I know what you mean.|Seldom is... unique.

Every prize,|every acknowledgement

he's received over the years|has been a real joy for me.

Careful, mother, or|your secret will be discovered.

What secret?

After daddy died,|you tried to marry him.

How dare you!|That's not true.

He's always been|like a brother to me.

Only because there was no chance|of him being anything else.

Beth!

There's no doubt|Professor Seldom is a genius,

but there's one area|he's no different from other men.

He likes young girls.

Beth, darling, couldn't you stop|being so spiteful just for a second?

Sorry, mother.

Take no notice of us.|We're like two bitter old spinsters.

Thank you, mother, for tarring me|with the same brush.

I'm sorry,

you are?

I sent a fax a few weeks ago,|about renting a room.

Ah, our overseas student.

Why don't you|show him to his room?

If I'd known,|I'd have rented a tux.

You look stunning.

My daughter has|a concert tonight. That's all.

A concert?

I play the cello|in the Sheldonian.

- It's the local amateur orchestra.|- Yes.

We're not quite|the London Symphony.

I... I love the cello.

Me too. Maybe it's because|it's all I get to cuddle

- these days.|- Beth.

Please.|You'll scare the young man.

Mother.

My daughter's suitors|tend not to be

around very long.

Difficult character, you know.

Having an old lady hovering in the|doorway doesn't exactly help either.

Are you calling me a busybody?

No, mother. You just want|to protect me, don't you?

Of course.

My mother has this theory

that unless a man lived|through the Second World War

he's not to be trusted.

My daughter

thinks I've gone a bit

gaga, but she knows

I'm right.

The Nazis changed the wheels

on that damned machine|every bloody day,

that altered the code, and we|had to decipher it all over again.

There were no computers|in those days,

calculations were done by hand.

You must have been very young.

Time for me to go.

Fancy a game of Scrabble?

Well, this is your study.

I trust you'll be comfortable.

It's perfect.

You should also be thinking|of a supervisor

for your thesis.

I've had one in mind|for a long time; Arthur Seldom.

Your parents?

Yeah.

Very American.|Is it close to the beach?

Not at all.|It's the desert, Arizona.

It actually happens to be my home.

Really? Lovely.

Anyway...

all the studies are shared.

Your colleague is|also an overseas student.

I'm sure we'll get on fine.

By the way,

I think you'll find Professor Seldom|only works as a researcher now.

I know, but the college told me that|he could supervise my doctorate.

Who told you that?

I've got a fax...

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