On the contrary, Lonsdale thought fingerprints were far more interesting than decades-old plants. He tried to think of a way to avoid them, but Galton went to a bureau and began to remove a number of shallow trays. Lonsdale’s heart sank. There were dozens of specimens, and he was sure Galton planned to provide him with the life history of every one.
Galton had just opened his mouth to commence, when the door opened and the butler arrived with a silver tray bearing fine porcelain cups. Galton muttered under his breath while the man served them, then drained his in a single swallow. He indicated that Lonsdale should do likewise, so they could give their full attention to the grasses.
‘I met a colonel in the Gold Coast who had cups just like these,’ Lonsdale said, in a last-ditch attempt to delay the inevitable. ‘He was later committed to a lunatic asylum.’
Galton chuckled. ‘Not as a consequence of making your acquaintance, I hope. Of course, there’s a very narrow margin between sanity and insanity. Did you happen to notice the size of his head?’
Lonsdale blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You should read my books, like your charming brother. Men with large heads, like me, have greater intelligence than those with small ones. We are also less likely to go insane.’
‘But surely, the size of a man’s head must relate to the size of the rest of his body,’ said Lonsdale.
‘I’ve measured more heads than you can imagine,’ said Galton sternly, ‘and I can tell you that many small people have large heads, and many large people have small heads. The correlation isn’t to the size of the body, but to the intellect. Have you never noticed that our Prime Minister, Mr Gladstone, is amusingly insistent about the size of his head?’
‘No,’ said Lonsdale noncommittally. ‘I can’t say I have.’
‘He asked me once if I’d ever seen such a large head, to which I replied that he must be very unobservant, as it was in no way remarkable – well shaped but of average circumference. He was devastated until I admitted that I was jesting with him. He does indeed have a large head, although not as large as my own, of course.’
‘Hmm,’ said Lonsdale, wondering if the two of them had been drinking at the time, as it sounded altogether a peculiar conversation. ‘Is there anything that you can tell from the shape of a head as opposed to its size?’
‘I’ve seen nothing to suggest that head shape relates to specific abilities,’ Galton went on enthusiastically, ‘but things can certainly be learned from variation in the size of body parts, the skull included. My current work is on anthropometry – you know, relating body size and shape to certain types of moral and social behaviours.’
‘Really?’ asked Lonsdale, beginning to wonder if Galton was wrong about men with big heads being immune from insanity. ‘And yet we all know that appearances can be deceptive.’
‘My conclusions go well beyond anything as simple as appearances,’ said Galton with rank disdain. ‘I include not just analysis of specific body parts, but weight, height, strength, breathing capacity, reaction times, sight, hearing and quantitative judgements. And I correlate all these with tests and interviews for intelligence and morality.’
‘How do you test for morality?’ asked Lonsdale, as Galton lifted a tray of grass lovingly from its drawer.
‘By posing questions that assess a person’s ethical, religious and social character.’
Lonsdale was sceptical, but decided not to say so. ‘I see.’
‘Perhaps you do,’ said Galton. ‘But I should have to measure your head to be sure. Measurement will tell us everything we need to know about the human species. Measurement and scientific assessment. Have you heard of my “beauty map” of the British Isles?’
‘No,’ said Lonsdale warily, wondering what was coming next.
‘Whenever I travel, I carry a cross of paper and a pin with which to prick it. Every beautiful girl, I record by pricking a hole in the upper end of the cross; the average ones are recorded on the cross arms; and the ugly ones on the long lower arm. Ergo, I can tell you that the incidence of pretty girls is highest in London and lowest in Aberdeen.’
‘According to your concept of beauty,’ Lonsdale pointed out. ‘Aberdonians might have a different one.’
‘Then they would be wrong,’ said Galton shortly.
Deciding that dried grasses might prove less contentious, Lonsdale asked about them with as much ardour as he could muster.
Galton was delighted in the sudden interest in his collection, and, in repayment for his feigned enthusiasm, Lonsdale saw dinner moved back half an hour so that Galton could finish his lecture. Before long, Lonsdale was looking forward to meeting Louisa Galton as if she were his saviour.
However, dining with the Galtons transpired to be a peculiar experience. The dining room was long and thin, with photographs on all the walls. A large black sideboard held tiny blue and white Japanese dishes, and a Zulu bead pot was used as a receptacle for the fire tongs and poker. The table was set for three.
Louisa was a small, sickly lady who ate little and complained a lot, while Galton chatted about population statistics and African flora, neither subject of which required any input other than occasional eye contact. After a few moments, Lonsdale realized he was holding two conversations simultaneously, although neither Galton nor his wife seemed to resent the other’s interference. Had he not been there, Lonsdale suspected the discussion would have been much the same.
‘The kitchen maid is with child,’ confided Louisa in a hoarse whisper during the consommé Desclignac. ‘I’m sure the butler is responsible.’
Service being in the fashionable à la Russe style, the butler was standing near the door, and Lonsdale was certain he must have heard the accusation, although his impassive features revealed nothing.
‘There are more species of grass than any other type of plant,’ announced Galton in a voice more suited to the lecture hall than the dinner table. ‘Barley, wheat and rice are grasses, you know.’
‘I’ll never be able to replace Potter, if I let her go,’ continued Louisa. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s most inconsiderate of her.’
‘Maize is a grass, too,’ said Galton sagely. ‘It’s been cultivated for thousands of years.’ He picked up a piece of bread and waved it. ‘People were eating food like this when they were still living in caves and hunting mammoths.’
‘Are any of your servants in the family way, Mr Lonsdale?’ asked Louisa. She stole a venomous glance at the butler. ‘I couldn’t find my silver hairbrush this morning, and one can’t help but wonder what one would find if one searched the servants’ rooms.’
The butler stepped forward to manoeuvre a fillet of salmon à la Belle-Ile onto her plate. He seemed competent, but Lonsdale could not but help notice that he left a trail of sauce drops down her back. The master of the house was subjected to no such indignity, and Lonsdale suspected that the servants disliked Louisa every bit as much as she disdained them.
‘All populations – animal and plant – share a normal distribution,’ droned Galton. ‘Like humans, most individuals are normal, while others are so far removed from the usual that you wonder whether they’re the same species.’
‘Servants are a different species,’ declared Louisa confidentially, when the remains of the fish had been removed and replaced by fricandeau de Duc de Cambridge. Lonsdale noticed that her veal was considerably more singed than his or her husband’s.
‘When I was in southern Africa, I ate maize meal in a village once,’ said Galton. ‘It comes in a paste. You roll it into a ball, push a dent in one side with your thumb, and use it to scoop up meat grease. After the meal, the natives allowed me to measure their heads.’
‘I came across an interesting case recently,’ said Lonsdale, during a rare lull in the conversation, when both Galtons were concentrating on sawing through their leathery lamb. This was mostly concealed by a rather oily gravy that spilled across the tablecloth when anyone tried to ply a knife. ‘A man was murdered, after which
the killer removed his cerebrum.’
He glanced up nervously, suddenly aware that such a statement was hardly the kind of topic enjoyed by the average household over dinner. The Galtons, however, were far from average, and neither seemed disconcerted by his choice of subjects.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Galton, waving his knife. ‘The cerebrum is a fine organ. It’s what separates us from the monkeys, you know. Have you ever seen a monkey’s cerebrum, Lonsdale?’
‘Not that I recall,’ replied Lonsdale, wishing he had kept quiet.
‘That Potter has no brain of any kind,’ said Louisa, giving the butler a glare. ‘If she had, then she wouldn’t have allowed herself to fall pregnant.’
‘A scientist can learn a great deal from a cerebrum,’ said Galton, slicing a potato in two with the neat precision of a surgeon, and eating one half so quickly that Lonsdale thought it might not have touched the inside of his mouth before it was swallowed.
‘The butler doesn’t have a brain, either,’ whispered Louisa. ‘He has a good position here, and he’d never secure himself another if I dismissed him for tampering with the maids.’
‘The cerebrum is the seat of the soul,’ announced Galton. ‘It was once thought to be the heart, but we now know that the heart is merely a muscle, and does nothing but pump blood around the body. The cerebrum, however, holds the very essence of our humanity.’
Lonsdale was relieved when Galton turned to the subject of his cousin Darwin, whom he had previously refused to mention. His wife, meanwhile, began a tirade on their coachman’s gambling habits.
‘It reflects badly on us, his employers,’ she said bitterly. ‘What if he gets into debt, and undesirables come knocking on our door? The scandal would be almost as grave as if news of Potter’s pregnancy leaked out.’
‘But if Potter is with child,’ said Lonsdale, speaking for only the third time since the meal had started, ‘then people will find out. It will show.’
Galton went into a fit of coughing, but as soon as his wife and guest gave him their full attention, he miraculously recovered, and began to hold forth on the different methods used for drying peas.
‘Do you like peas, Mr Lonsdale?’ asked Louisa, then forged on before he could answer. ‘The servants do, which is why they are such a rascally horde. No good can come of eating peas.’
‘Chickens eat peas, but then a chicken’s crop is a remarkable organ,’ interposed Galton. ‘Have you ever looked at one under the microscope, Lonsdale? But of course you have! You are a Cambridge man, are you not?’
The time passed slowly, despite the fact that the butler served the roast quail and its accompanying salad, and then the Boodle’s gentleman’s pudding, at impressive speed. The moment the port had been removed, Louisa retired, leaving the butler to serve coffee to Galton and Lonsdale.
‘Don’t smoke?’ said Galton, as Lonsdale declined a cigar. ‘My constitution wasn’t made for smoking or London fogs. I’ve had to go to Switzerland to get away from them. But, speaking of Switzerland, I made some intriguing scientific measurements there. Fill up your glass – you’ll be interested in this.’
It was almost eleven o’clock before Lonsdale was able to escape. He did so armed with a baboon skull Galton thought might remind him of Africa. He walked through Kensington Gardens, feeling the meal settle in his stomach like molten lead, while the teeth of the ape formed an uncomfortable lump in his coat pocket.
When he arrived home, the first thing he heard was Emelia’s nasal voice emanating from the drawing room, despite the late hour. He tried to sneak past without being seen, but she heard him and came out to demand that he play the piano. He opened his mouth to refuse, but closed it when he saw Anne was there, along with a pair of elderly aunts who had accompanied the young ladies for decency’s sake. As it was late, both were sound asleep.
‘A sonata,’ demanded Emelia imperiously, and then named the fiendishly difficult ‘Grande Sonate’ by Alkan, which was well beyond Lonsdale’s modest abilities. He thought he saw gleeful spite gleam in her eyes when he started to demur.
‘No, play Haydn’s “Sonata in C Major”,’ said Anne. ‘Alkan is too taxing for the listener at this time of night. Come, Alec, I’ll turn the pages.’
Lonsdale did as he was told, enjoying her easy company. She looked particularly lovely that night, in a long, silky dress of pale blue that drew attention to her long neck and fine skin. Emelia he was quite happy to ignore.
‘Em and Annie will come dine on Sunday after church,’ said Jack, speaking too loudly, as he usually did when he had had too much to drink. ‘Join us, Alec.’
Anne smiled. ‘Please do.’ Lonsdale inclined his head to accept, pleased when Anne smiled with what appeared to be genuine delight.
‘Excellent!’ cried Jack. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Webster to make something special.’
He drained the brandy in his glass and Lonsdale saw Emelia’s dark brows draw downwards, leading him to suspect that it would not be long before after-dinner drinking was forbidden. He could not imagine why his sensible, rational brother had chosen such a gorgon, but supposed it was love. He hoped it would last, or both of them were going to be unhappy.
‘Why don’t we visit the botanical gardens at Kew afterwards,’ suggested Anne. ‘There’s an exhibition of African grasses.’
She smiled sweetly at Lonsdale, who wondered if Jack had put her up to it.
‘How about the British Museum instead?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘A new wing has just opened and there is a copy of the Magna Carta, letters written by Queen Elizabeth, and some of Darwin’s original manuscripts.’
‘Who’s Darwin?’ asked Emelia.
Lonsdale regarded her doubtfully, not sure whether she was teasing. Her puzzled expression told him that she was serious. He was amazed at her astounding ignorance: it could not be easy to be so unaware.
‘The chap who described the evolution of life-forms,’ explained Jack. ‘He was very controversial – particularly with clerics.’
‘Oh, he’s the one who claimed to be descended from a monkey,’ said Emelia in distaste. ‘We don’t want to see his nasty scribblings, do we, Annie? That sort of thing belongs in a Penny Dreadful.’
‘On the Origin of Species is a great scientific work,’ said Jack, startled.
‘It is tedious in the extreme,’ proclaimed Emelia firmly. ‘And I want to do something fun anyway. How about a Punch and Judy show?’
‘You choose Punch and Judy over Darwin?’ asked Lonsdale, unable to disguise the disdain in his voice. Emelia’s expression turned ugly.
‘Punch is a subversive maverick, and his political opinions are an interesting commentary on modern society,’ put in Anne quickly, thus saving her sister from further embarrassing herself, and Lonsdale from saying anything he might later regret.
‘How was your evening with Galton?’ asked Jack, also eager to change the subject. ‘Did he tell you anything about his new book?’
‘Boring,’ muttered Emelia under her breath.
‘He mentioned that—’ began Lonsdale, but stopped when Emelia gave a small scream.
‘He has a skull in his pocket!’ she shrieked, pointing at Lonsdale’s coat.
Lonsdale regarded her in astonishment before realizing that the baboon skull from Galton could be seen poking out of his pocket. He pulled it out, to show her it was a baboon, but she backed away in alarm.
‘Ugh! Disgusting!’ she cried. ‘Keep it away from me.’
‘It’s interesting, Em,’ said Anne, taking it from Lonsdale and turning it over in her hands. ‘Look at these teeth.’
‘I shan’t,’ snapped Emelia, folding her arms with a pout.
‘Damn funny thing to keep in your pocket, Alec,’ muttered Jack, while Lonsdale thought that Emelia might well possess less inside her skull than the baboon had.
‘I never realized how massive their canines are,’ said Anne, handing it back to Lonsdale, ‘or how tiny the brain case. I wish we had a human skull, so we could compare.’
L
onsdale was half tempted to promise to find one, but had no wish to provide Emelia with more reasons to dislike him. It was a pity, he thought, that the two women were sisters, as any attempt to further a friendship with Anne would necessarily throw him into company with Emelia, and he would have to endure her quite enough when she married Jack.
‘Shall we say the Chelsea Physic Garden for Sunday, then?’ asked Anne, and Lonsdale was pleased she seemed to want the outing to go ahead. He smiled at her, and she blushed and looked away.
‘As long as it’s not raining,’ said Emelia. She rested her hand on Jack’s arm and smiled coquettishly; Lonsdale saw his brother melt. ‘Alec and Anne can discuss skulls, and we can talk about our wedding.’
‘I’m sure we can find something more interesting than skulls,’ said Lonsdale, noting with pleasure that Anne seemed to regard the prospect with as much delight as he did.
The next morning, the train from Waterloo rumbled through the Surrey countryside and toward Brookwood station, where Lonsdale was to meet Willoughby Senior. It had been a scramble to make the train, as he had overslept after his late night. The promised letter from Willoughby had arrived, but it was only when the train was moving that Lonsdale was able to read it. What he learned caused his heart to beat faster. At last! He was about to get the answers he needed!
The Manor House, Bisley, Surrey
Dear Mr Lonsdale,
I am grateful for your letter and for your understanding of the distress and pain caused when my only son, the beloved child of my old age, was taken from me in so brutal a fashion.
You kindly offered to visit me to discuss my son’s fate and the subsequent lack of interest in it by the French and our own police. The train ticket I have already sent you will give you passage from Waterloo to Brookwood, and I will have a coach awaiting you on your arrival. For your convenience, the driver will take you to a local establishment, The Volunteer in Brookwood. I will be awaiting you there, and we will have some four hours together before you must catch your train to London.
Mind of a Killer Page 21