The Specimen

by Martha Lea

  I have not read anywhere of other observers of these creatures having come to the same conclusion. Of course, I would not claim to be the first to discover the true nature of their floraging habits and their purpose, however, I am still excited by this idea—of the ants’ apparent knowledge of, or at least their harnessing of, the basics of horticulture.

  I am still much given to spending long hours of thought on the subject of Mr Frome. His remarks, and his wildness, and his claims, and his final deed, seem, on the one hand, to mark him out as a singularly disturbed individual who perhaps spent too much time with his theories and not enough in the common pursuit of friendship and good humour. (Of course, I am an expert on this.) On the other hand, I wonder if, in his madness, there was some kind of logical reasoning. I have gone over it so many times.

  Gwen stopped writing, remembering Edward’s reaction to her experiment with the ants. He had stomped into her room, and she had listened to him quietly. The quieter she was, the more infuriated he seemed to become.

  “There is not the room here, Gwen, for your school-room antics with these pests. Whatever you think you may have observed in these jars is irrelevant and highly likely to be wrong. Just stick to what you came here to do, namely, illustrate my findings. And clear up this dreadful mess. We’ll have the blasted things in our food.”

  Who did this man think he was, to instruct her, to try to remove the one thing which allowed her to reconcile herself to this situation? Gwen did not clear away her ants in jars. She did not stop writing; her efforts were redoubled in the face of his attempts to obstruct her observations.

  She began to keep her notes locked up in her trunk.

  Chapter XLIII

  THE TIMES, Thursday, October 4, 1866.

  MURDER TRIAL AT THE OLD BAILEY.

  MR PROBART for the Prosecution called as witness a Mr Harpe, who said, “I am a bookseller in this city and I am well acquainted with Mrs Pemberton, the prisoner in this trial. She has come to my shop on many occasions, asking for a certain title.”

  Q: “What is the title, Mr Harpe?”

  A: “The prisoner has always asked for Eternal Blazon, sir, and when I have told her that no such title has come my way, the prisoner has always spent a deal of time lingering over other titles on display. Sometimes, she has bought a copy of obscurity, and most other times, nothing.”

  Q: “Curious, would you not say, for a lady to be perusing the shelves of an establishment such as your own, Mr Harpe?”

  A: “Perhaps, at first; I wouldn’t often get a customer such as the prisoner, but I came to expect her, sir, after a while. You never can tell what kind of reading matter a person will have in their house, sir, from appearances alone.”

  Q: “Please tell the court, Mr Harpe, exactly what kind of reading matter it is which lines the shelves of your shop.”

  A: “Everything I sell is absolutely legal and above board, sir, in my bookshop. Titles are of a mainly scientific interest, a specialist interest, not novels or any such matter.”

  Q: “And yet, Mr Harpe, the volume which the prisoner, by your account, was so keen to obtain, it does in fact fit loosely the description of ‘novel’, does it not?”

  A: “I believe it does, sir.”

  Q: “And yet you do not have any such ‘novels’ on display in your shop?”

  A: “No, sir.”

  Q: “But if I were to pay you a large sum, perhaps to obtain a certain title, then you might be able to oblige?”

  A: “There is no doubt that just about anything is obtainable in this city if the seeker is determined enough, sir.”

  Q: “Please tell me, Mr Harpe, what is the title of the last volume you sold to the prisoner?”

  A: “That’s easy enough, it was called The Book of Phobias, and I sold it to the prisoner on the 4th of August, the Saturday before the murder.”

  Q: “A novel, Mr Harpe?”

  A: “A scientific book, sir. By Dr Charles Jeffreye. It is about certain maladies of the nerves and so forth.”

  Q: “Maladies of the nerves. Thank you, Mr Harpe.”

  The unfortunate fate of Dr Jeffreye, who was crippled by a fall from his horse and later died, was briefly discussed. More witnesses were questioned—all booksellers—all of whom said that Mrs Pemberton was a regular patron who always asked for a particular title. Mrs Pemberton had visited the establishments of each on Monday, 6th August.

  Mr Shanks for the Defence then addressed the court in respect of the evidence given by the various booksellers: “Mrs Pemberton does not deny having been a regular customer at many bookshops in the city. Nor does she deny having sought a particular volume mentioned earlier. Her motives, however, for having devoted so much time and effort in her search were entirely honourable. The volume mentioned, was, some of you will be aware, of ill-repute. What you may not be fully aware of is the fact that within that novel lay certain unsavoury accusations against Mr Scales. Mrs Pemberton’s brief was simple: to locate any surviving copies of that title and to destroy them. Why? Because she wished to eradicate foulness, however false, against her former companion. Why? Because she had forgiven him his falseness against her, and wished to do him well, not ill. This determined effort, sirs, is not the kind of sustained action of a murderess. Furthermore, the other volume, entitled The Book of Phobias, was obtained for the same reason. Spurious and lewd claims were made by its author against Mr Scales’ reputation. No one, who had travailed so long, in such a manner, would then murder the very person whose name she desired to clear.”

  Chapter XLIV

  Pará, Brazil. May, 1863.

  Gwen, hunched over a pot she had just taken from the fire, was utterly absorbed in her task. The stench coming from the pot stung Edward’s eyes. Augusta, unwatched by her mother, poked a stick into the fire—in and out—and then jabbed it inexpertly into the ground and tried to make a hole, immersed in the serious business of finding out what was possible with a stick. Gwen sat with her feet planted apart in a squat as though about to defecate. She stirred the foul brew, which Edward now realised was a broth containing fish skin and bones.

  “Soup?” he ventured, little expecting any response; her muteness towards him was absolute. Gwen seemed not to have heard him, and so he continued to watch Augusta should she fall into difficulties with her stick, or the fire, or both. Then Gwen reached to her side and held a tatty book up and waved it, only a slight twist from her wrist. Edward didn’t know what to make of this latest peculiar enterprise, but, at least, he had managed to get some kind of reaction from her, which might, at a stretch, be interpreted as communication.

  Gwen’s post-partum melancholia had been sudden and severe. It had not affected her ability to function as a mother, which surprised him, but she had suddenly one day taken ill and refused to speak or paint. She would spend long hours walking the perimeter of the casinha with the baby in a pouch, native style on her back. Or she would suddenly take instead to lying for days on end in her hammock. The malaise had not affected her appetite too badly. She seemed to be aware of the need to fill her stomach in order to nurse the child. She sang to it, whispered lovingly to it, but she would speak to no one else; not even Maria, who told Edward, without his asking, that European women always had some trouble of this kind and that he should keep an eye on her but stay out of her way. Edward resented the inclusion of Maria in their number, but knew that hiring anyone else would probably result in the same deluge of un-asked for advice. Sometimes, he did wonder if it was something more. He wouldn’t put a name to it; he wouldn’t call her mad. It was like no kind of madness he had ever seen. His entomologising rambles became truncated as a result. He scrutinised her, from a suitable distance, for signs of a change in her condition, either good or not so good. He couldn’t even bring himself to use the word ‘bad’. There seemed to be nothing bad about her. Occasionally, she appeared to be staring intently at something far away, and so absolute was her concentration, that Edward, more than once, fetched out the telescope to discover her
object of interest.

  During all this time, Gwen read and re-read a book. He was not permitted to see it. He knew that she kept it inside her painting bag, modified within the first week of their arrival to exclude tarantulas with an interest in art. If Edward came within twenty feet of the open book, it was snapped shut and tucked under Gwen’s arm or inside the tight folds of the pouch across her breastbone.

  Edward was sure that the tatty article she had just waved at him was the same volume which had received such intensive attention. It had a curious title: Eternal Blazon. He’d vowed to get at it one day and see what could possibly be written there which could be so consuming.

  Augusta let a trickle of urine, travelling part of the way down her chubby legs, fall to the ground. She stamped gleefully in the wetted earth and squatted again to poke at it with her fingers. Edward cast a glance towards Gwen. She opened her blouse and placed the book next to her skin. Edward backed away as she got up and removed Augusta from the mess and took her away to clean her, murmuring that she was a rascal, in a voice so quiet no one else would have recognised it as speech. Gwen left the child with Maria and returned to the pot. Edward fetched his gun out to the verandah and began to clean it, taking extra care over each section. He was far enough away now, for Gwen to carry on without hindrance. She turned her back to him again and spent an hour doing something which Edward was not allowed to see. Eventually, she stood and stretched, and with the book in her hand went inside.

  Edward went over to the pot. The concoction was beginning to congeal. It looked, for all the world, like glue.

  Chapter XLV

  Pará, Brazil. July, 1863.

  The last of Edward’s specimens had been packaged carefully and crated up, ready to be shipped back to England. Some were to be sold; the rest were to be kept safely in storage until their own return. Edward had decided that this was the best way to do things. They would now quit the casinha and take a boat up into the country to search for specimens as yet unknown to science. The Grindlocks had told him that Coyne, now back in the country, was interested in taking part in the expedition. Edward knew he needed a guide and so agreed to take him on. All this had been arranged, and Gwen had not spoken. Her manner was curiously ordinary despite the muteness. He had taken her silence to mean that she agreed with his plans wholeheartedly.

  Now, she had broken her silence. Edward’s mouth hung open, she thought, in quite an idiotic way. What was there not to comprehend? She waited whilst she folded the last of her moth-bitten clothes into her trunk. The only things which were not packed into it were her drawing things, and her tin of paints.

  “What do you mean, what plan?”

  “I have always intended to leave, Edward, when the child was big enough to stand the journey.”

  “But,” he said, “if she is big enough to stand the journey, as you put it, over the Atlantic, then she is big enough to take part in this excursion. It is what we came here for.”

  “It is not the excursion, Edward. It’s me. I don’t want to stay here with you any longer. I have had my fill. I cannot continue.” Perhaps, she thought, this is more arduous than the voyage I face, and she drew comfort from that.

  “Who have you told? The Grindlocks, have you told them?”

  “No, why on earth would I do that? I’ll make my own arrangements. I can explain my return in terms which will cast no aspersions on you, if that’s what worries you.”

  Edward threw his arms out, and Gwen stepped back, unsure the gesture was nicely meant. But Edward began to grab at handfuls of his hair.

  “You have to come with me. I can’t do the thing—not on my own. Those two weeks, remember, when we first came here. It was hell without you. You. You are—necessary.”

  “I’m not. You can collect things without me.”

  “We had an arrangement. An agreement. I trusted you, for God’s sake.”

  “To do what? To keep on lying? To keep on pretending that we have some kind of affinity? We don’t. Nothing binds us.”

  “Our daughter, Augusta. She binds us. She would be fatherless.”

  “She already is. It makes not a jot of difference.”

  “You can’t take her. I won’t allow it.”

  “You don’t have to allow it. We are not husband and wife.”

  “The law favours me, as her father. You count for nothing. Nothing!”

  “You have no interest in her. You can’t collect her.”

  “I have every interest in her, and I will not permit her removal.”

  “We’ll see about that. In any case, Edward, I can’t be a part of this excursion whilst you persist with the idea of including Mr Coyne.”

  “I had every impression that you were rather taken with him.”

  “I’ll not get on a boat with him, under any circumstances. He is altogether a menace.”

  Edward swivelled on his heel to face her, and his hands dropped away from knotting his hair. “Since when have you ever regarded Coyne as a menace?”

  “From the moment I met him.”

  “This is just bluff. You had something with him, and now you want to hide it.”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “That is exactly the answer I would expect from a guilty party.”

  “Listen to yourself! You’ll drive yourself mad over nothing if you keep this up. I’m going home, Mr Scales, and I’m taking Augusta with me.”

  Edward pressed his eyes with his fingers and for several long moments did nothing but breathe heavily through his nose, which made a dry whistle with every intake. Then he spoke from behind his hands: “Will you at least come and see us off?”

  Gwen suddenly felt sorry for him. He looked, and sounded, so pathetic, “Yes, of course, I will.”

  “You’ll want to have your luggage sent on to the Grindlocks, I suppose. I shall see to that for you.”

  Gwen gave a small nod.

  “Gwen,” he said. She was moving away from him, but he caught her by the arm. She stood and waited for whatever was to come next, but all he said was, “I do love you. You know that, don’t you? Above all else.”

  At last, she gave another small nod and he let her go.

  Vincent Coyne’s blue spectacles flashed in the sun; his teeth seemed yellow beneath them in the harsh light. He strode up and down the deck of the two-masted boat, slapping its sides and slapping the crates of Edward’s things like tethered beasts which had previously irked him. Still, Gwen looked on the scene with a glad sense of detachment. It was nearly over. She must have smiled as Vincent Coyne looked up and saw her.

  “Hey,” he shouted, throwing a clenched fist high in the air, his gaze fixed on her. “She’s here.”

  Edward appeared from underneath the awning. He looked harassed. Augusta leaned precariously off Gwen’s hip where she had been sitting quietly. She flung her arms out towards Edward.

  “Bring her on board, just for a minute,” he said.

  “No. We’ll wave from here. Here will be sufficient.”

  “Don’t you trust him?” yelled Vincent, vicious, playful.

  “We don’t need to complicate her day.”

  “It’s not complicated, Gwen,” said Edward. “Just let her have a little inspection of the boat. Bring her aboard for ten minutes.”

  This will be the last thing, she thought, that he will make me do. In half an hour the boat will be setting sail, and I will be able breathe freely again. She relented and carried Augusta onto the boat.

  Edward took her into his arms and held her high up above his head.

  Had that been the signal, thought Gwen later, for the men to cast off? Around her, the scrambled activity, the sails filling, the ropes thrown, the men jumping here and there with careless concentration, calling to each other short words of affirmation: they were leaving.

  Her heart pumped with hatred as she saw that it was useless to make a fuss, or to demand that she be allowed to alight. He had devised this, and she remembered now his warning to her after Frome had walked a
way; that she should not make a fool of him again. I’ll wait, she thought; there’ll be some chance later. I’ll use this time to think of every possible pitfall. But the hatred surged through her like molten glass; its colours twisted and settled in her breast, hardening her resolve to one day be absolutely free of this man. She walked to the stern and faced away from him, alert all the while, to the presence of Vincent Coyne.

  Edward wrote in his diary:

  We resemble I don’t know what as the boat goes along at a spanking pace. The wind smacks the canvas with a cheerful bite, and the child leaps about the place, her little eyes bright with expectation; and I dare say there is a hint of something similar in my own. All that has gone before was mere preparatory work. The child puts her fingers into anything she can. She investigates any available surface, or drawer, or book, with avid enthusiasm. Her presence adds another dimension to the excursion, which will be no less the richer for it.

  In the absence of any practical measure to prevent it, and in the light of the perceived advantages of such a coalition, I have been obliged, after some lengthy discussions, to accept, under the unwavering and hearty recommendation of Mr Grindlock, the returned Mr Coyne as an addition to our party. The regrettable absence of Maria, who must return to her former duties at the Grindlock household, will be felt most keenly by the female members of the party.

  Edward emerged from under the awning with an ink-laden pen in his hand. Gwen watched him with a certain amount of satisfaction as he gripped the rail and reached over to be sick before staggering back. And now, as she trailed her gaze back to the open water, she saw her trunk, tucked in with some of the crates.

  Vincent Coyne stood at the bow, his arms pounding the air in time to a song he was singing. The wind caught it up and shredded it, the words lost as soon as they left his lungs. Phrases from the now unreadable volume preyed on her mind yet again. It was not only that the ghastly details of his past had been concealed from her but read about by others, nor was it that he had kept his marriage to himself—perhaps she could have found some way to reconcile herself to these things if it were not for the fact that her own name, and that of her sister, and of her family home had been so casually thrown into the pages of the book while Edward himself had never been named. In the whole damn compendium of confession, it was Edward whose identity had been protected. Gwen turned her face into the wind.