The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

attend Harvard. But Angus had never taken to the dense, urban nature of Cambridge. There were too many people there engaged in nonacademic business. No, he greatly preferred the charming quaintness of Princeton. “An oasis of consideration,” he called it. So, after his senior year in high school, Angus Turner enrolled in Princeton University, and for over five decades, there he stayed. Despite his wiry physique, strong jawline, thick head of black hair sprinkled with silver, and charming smile, the professor had never married. When asked why he was single, he would always chuckle and with a wink say, “I’m not. For over five decades, I’ve been married to my students.”

During his time at Princeton, Professor Turner taught thousands of students who universally sang his praises. His passion for mathematics, logic, and cryptography infected the mind and inspired the soul. Many a student who entered his class with the intent of merely checking a box on their list of major requirements became enthusiastic members of “Turner’s army,” which was the name given to students who took every class he offered, relevant or not. There was an old joke that Professor Turner could offer a class titled “Boredom” and still get full enrollment.

Envious professors would frequently ask the students what made Turner so special. The answers were many and often vague. “He makes math exciting” or “He’s dynamic,” they would say. But Albert always felt that those descriptions wholly missed what made Professor Angus Turner the legend that he was. To Albert, what made him so impactful was that he performed.

In every class he had attended, Albert had never seen Professor Turner use a note. He delivered each lecture like the headliner in a one-man show—every word chosen as though a misplaced adjective could derail the class’s fragile attention. The professor embellished each mathematical concept he discussed with some story of historical drama or intrigue, driving home points with dramatic sweeps of the brass-capped walking stick that never left his side. If the topic were ciphers, he would tell a tale of two lovers separated by war who communicated their love through an obscure code. If he spoke of logic, he would paint a vivid picture of the giants of Greek philosophy debating truth in front of a rapt crowd. He was a master of timing, knowing when to raise or lower his voice, when to make a joke, when to allow emotion to creep into his voice. He kept every eye on him. Even today, when Albert snuck into one of Turner’s lectures, which he occasionally did, he was astounded to see that, at seventy-four years old, the salt-and-pepper-bearded professor still won the respect of his students with each note of his voice.

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” hummed the professor’s familiar tenor as he greeted Albert and Ying at his front door, walking stick in hand. He wore a dark-brown cashmere sweater vest over a light-blue gingham shirt that oozed academia. The pair couldn’t help beaming, like high school students around a movie star.

“To what do I owe this great honor, Dr. Puddles and Ms. Koh?” Turner had gone on sabbatical at Oxford years ago and had adopted just a hint of an English accent, a source of much amusement to his students. Upon greeting Albert, his warm eyes never left his former student’s face, and Albert felt again that inchoate emotion Turner always inspired in him—that he would follow this man anywhere.

Trying to contain his excitement, Albert said, “Well, Professor. We’ve been handed a problem that we think you might be able to help us with.”

“How exciting,” exclaimed the professor. “Please come in. I can’t wait to hear all about it.” Turner placed his long, bony fingers on Albert’s and Ying’s backs and guided them into the house.

Ying and Albert crossed the threshold and were ushered into the living room. Albert recalled how he used to love the evening “chats” that the professor would host with his top students every Wednesday night. It had felt like being in some rarefied secret world. A world free of the messy practicality of the “real world.” A world of order and ideas.

“Ms. Koh, it’s delightful to see you outside of the classroom,” Turner said, turning those magnetic eyes on the young woman. “Can I interest you in a glass of my signature homemade lemonade?”

Ying smiled and turned bright pink. “Yes, please.”

“I’m alright for now, but thank you, Professor,” said Albert. Puddles had sworn off sugary drinks as being an inefficient consumption of empty calories.

Five minutes later, the three of them sat around the Colonial-style living room with its warm draperies, old leather, and polished wood, sipping lemonade. The Turner living room functioned almost like a narcotic. Whatever stress the outside world exerted on a person’s body faded away amid the yellow lamplight, soothing colors, and quiet creak of the den.

“Well, Dr. Puddles, do tell.”

Albert pulled the paper from his pocket and laid it out for the professor next to a spectacular marble chessboard. Turner was a world-class chess player and loved an impromptu game. Albert was convinced that Turner left the board out in all its conspicuous grandeur to lure unsuspecting victims into a match.

Leaning over the chessboard, the professor placed his glasses on his leathery face and scanned the document.

Albert began, “Last night, there was a burglary at the Bank of Princeton. The security guard was killed, but in the struggle with the thief, he managed to grab this paper. As you can see, it’s a game tree encoded with a cipher. Ying and I were able to crack the cipher, which revealed these words. We believe that the thief plotted out the crime using a game tree and that this was the plan.” Without thinking, he took a sip of Turner’s lemonade. The icy sweetness relaxed him.

“Oh dear,” said Turner, clearing his throat. Albert thought he detected a note of fear in Turner’s voice—something he would never associate with the professor.

“Anyway, the reason we came to you is that