The Darwin Affair

by Tim Mason

  In his attic retreat, Tom continued to sleep on the divan; to Tom, Mary Do-Not’s bed was still a shrine and not to be defiled, despite her treachery.

  Mary Do-Not, née Withers, had fallen in love with the family with whom she’d been placed, almost from the first. Cook treated her well enough, and Mrs. Huxley was the perfect mistress. Mr. Huxley had frightened her to begin with, but then she saw that despite his intimidating brows, he was the gentlest of men, one who loved his wife and adored his children. There was just enough space in her tiny room at the top of the house to continue writing, when she was not too exhausted, her history of the world.

  But in only a matter of weeks, a fearful shadow had fallen over the family. One of the children was sick. Little Noel, aged four, was Thomas and Henrietta Huxley’s firstborn. Now Noel was not seen outside of the nursery. Doctors arrived at all hours and left looking grim.

  Please God, no, not again, not the typhoid, they’ll think it’s me and send me away.

  Mary prayed when she rose before dawn. She prayed while she worked and when she collapsed into her narrow bed at the end of the day. She prayed without ceasing.

  Jane Field was growing ever more concerned about Martha Ginty. It had been a sudden impulse that prompted her to invite Martha to move in; perhaps it was because Martha had lost her child while Jane never had the child she had so badly wanted.

  Martha was installed in the nursery and usually proved to be a great help about the house and a sympathetic companion now that Mr. Field was working away from home. Bessie Shoreham was implacably jealous, but Martha was a down-to-earth workingwoman who did her best not to give offense. But some days a crazed light would come into her eyes and she would go out into the streets carrying a large sign she had lettered herself, looking for her boy.

  have you seen my tom?

  14 years ginger

  butcher prentis

  tell me no. 2 bow street

  On these days there was no talking to Martha. She would speed through the streets at a furious pace, thrusting her sign into people’s faces and shouting. Have you seen him? Tom Ginty, he’s my only boy! Have you seen my Tom?

  She became a recognized figure, one more London madwoman. Eventually she would tire herself out and return to Bow Street, the light gone from her eyes. Jane wasn’t certain Martha knew where she had been or what she had done.

  Sam Llewellyn had not been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police. Neither had he been reassigned to the detective division. By early August it was clear to him: foot patrol was his lot. Llewellyn could only hope his disgrace was a passing thing. In the meantime, he would pursue his own investigations. On the hob at his landlady’s he had dried the sodden papers he purchased from Button and flattened them under a brick in his room. When he spread them out to examine them, he found three telegrams and a column of addresses. Names flanked each of the addresses. The names were either ticked or not. For those that were ticked, the deliveryman had entered the o’clock.

  Llewellyn quickly examined the telegrams. Each was a single page, folded in thirds, with the address on the top fold. The constable ran his finger down the list. Sure enough, there were no ticks beside the addresses of the telegrams in his possession. Three names had checks beside them. Three others on the list were unchecked. A Mr. McBride off Curzon Street. Mr. Cable in Hertford Street. Mr. Cobb nearby in Half Moon Street. Had these telegrams floated away in the Thames? Had they been delivered, but the young man merely neglected to check them off? Or was he unable to do so? Could it even be so simple that the first unticked name on the list, McBride, was his man? Llewellyn could almost hear Inspector Field’s derisive snort. Human beings, the inspector always said, almost never make it easy for a bloke.

  From the addresses it was clear that the man from the ETC had been assigned a patch of London running adjacent to Green Park, with Piccadilly as its southern margin and Curzon Street at its northern boundary. There was nothing for it but for Llewellyn to knock on doors.

  His first stop, Mr. McBride, turned out to be the manager of the Mayfair Chapel, known as a center for clandestine marriages among the upper crust: a venue with a dubious repute and no great fondness for the police.

  “A telegram?” snapped McBride when the porter summoned him to the door. “We receive telegraphic communiqués on a regular basis. To which telegram do you refer?”

  “It would have arrived Thursday last, sometime after ten p.m.,” said Llewellyn. “Might someone else have accepted it? A caretaker, perhaps?”

  “There’s no one here at that time of night, Officer. A bizarre inquiry. Good day.” And shut the door in Llewellyn’s face.

  Hertford Street, No. 6, Mr. W. Cable. A Georgian townhouse in a pleasant leafy street. Shuttered up. The front step unswept, unwashed. Llewellyn knocked and listened at the door but heard nothing from within. He knocked again with the same result.

  The constable continued on toward No. 4 Half Moon Street, a short walk away. According to his list it was the residence of Cobb, Decimus. Llewellyn passed by it on the opposite side, observing. Like the Hertford Street address, it was shuttered, bottom to top. Not painted anytime recently. The streetlamp shattered. Llewellyn crossed the road and walked back toward No. 4 again. The day was warm, and beneath his heavy tunic he was sweating. Was that singing he heard coming from within the house? A woman, perhaps, or a girl singing a church tune? He climbed the steps and rang the bell.

  29

  The singing stopped as soon as the constable pulled the bell. Llewellyn waited. He could hear movement within No. 4. Then the door opened.

  The figure before him was outlined by the darkness behind. The skin was white, the hair pulled back tightly, the clothing a dull black. She had a narrow, severe face. Two moles sprouted tufts of black hairs, one on her nose and another on her chin.

  Llewellyn belatedly realized he wasn’t prepared with a story.

  “How do you do, ma’am? I’m Officer Llewellyn of the Metropolitan, and I’m looking for . . .” He gingerly took the torn sheet of blue paper from his tunic pocket and consulted it. “Looking for Mr. Cobb of No. 4 Half Moon Street.” It was hard not to stare, the moles were almost comically prominent.

  “What for?” said the woman.

  Charles Field had drummed it into his men: Don’t answer questions, ask them. Don’t talk, let them do the talking. Above all, don’t explain!

  The woman’s deep-set eyes bored into him.

  “Well,” he explained, “it seems someone’s been intercepting of messages sent by the Electric Telegraph Company. Making off with them. It’s like interfering with the mails, you see. Now, Mr. Cobb was sent a telegram”—he consulted the paper again, hearing his former superior’s voice shouting in his ears, You’ll be singing a bloody aria next!—“not long ago, a Thursday it would have been, and the Metropolitan wonders did he receive it?”

  “You’ve got his name on a list?”

  “Is Mr. Cobb in, ma’am?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Is that so? When do you expect him?”

  “Wouldn’t know.”

  Llewellyn peered past her into the gloom of the hall. He thought he heard someone weeping.

  “Perhaps I might leave my card so Mr. Cobb can get in touch when he returns?” The constable brushed right past the woman, drawing one of his official calling cards from his tunic. He placed it on the little table by the door, looking about him, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. There was a stale, cooked cabbage smell in the air and another odor he couldn’t place. There was a closed door beyond the small table and a straight-backed wooden chair, a hat rack on the opposite side of the hall, and a flight of stairs before him.

  Llewellyn caught his breath. Two figures were sitting silently on the staircase; a gangly teenaged boy, staring at him with tears streaming down his face and a girl of ten or so. The lad’s face was pockmarked and dirty, and the tears made rivulets through the grime. Llewellyn turned to the woman, raising his eyebrows.

  “T
heir master’s gone off abroad,” she said. “Nobody knows when he’ll be back.”

  A voice came back to him. It belonged to the shopkeeper in Oxford, the neighbor of the guest house that had no guests. She’s always going off, she’s always stopping her eggs. She’s a witch to her core, and not just along of them warts.

  Llewellyn struggled to hide a surge of fear. Could this be the elusive egg-stopping Oxford landlady, warts and all? He decided to take a gamble.

  “Well, Mrs. Andrews, when you do hear from Mr. Cobb, have the goodness to let him know that the Metropolitan wish to speak with him.”

  There was a silence.

  “What did you call me?”

  Got it in one, didn’t I. Lucky me.

  The youth on the stairs stood. “Get out,” he said.

  The girl beside him blinked rapidly. On impulse the constable spoke to her. “Traveling on his own, is your master?”

  “Taking him with him, ain’t he,” the girl said tearily.

  “Taking who, miss?”

  “Get out!” shouted the boy, descending the steps, glaring savagely, his fists clenched.

  This is why a policeman needs a partner.

  Llewellyn started backing as resolutely as he could past the woman to the door, feeling the hostile presence of the house swelling until he could barely breathe. The boy advanced on him, fishing for something in his pockets. “You will convey my message, then, Mrs. Andrews?” continued the constable, mastering himself. “Let Mr. Cobb know that Officer Llewellyn wishes to speak with him urgently.” His hand found the doorknob behind him. “In fact, for anything he has to say, I’ll be all ears.”

  He stumbled awkwardly out the door and flung it shut. Out on the street Llewellyn walked briskly away, gulping for breath. He had located the man, he knew it!

  Now what?

  His exhilaration was punctured in an instant. There was nowhere he could go with his information. Already on shaky ground with the Metropolitan, if he were to reintroduce his disgraced superior’s “Darwin conspiracy” he’d be laughed into the streets, or worse. Llewellyn was halfway across Green Park when he realized there was only one person who would believe him and understand the importance of his discovery: Charles Field.

  The door just off the entrance hall swung open, and Decimus Cobb stepped out of the library, sliding something brass and barbed into a thin leather sheath, spring-loaded into one sleeve. He was followed by Tom, who carried a large traveling case at the end of one arm and Master’s kit at the other.

  “A cheeky constable,” said Decimus. “Very. I saw him at Oxford. One of Bucket’s men.”

  “He saw you, you mean!” hissed Mrs. Andrews.

  The Chorister ignored her. “John?”

  Getalong approached his master hesitantly.

  “John, you neglected to destroy the contents of the messenger’s pouch, didn’t you?”

  The youth hung his head.

  “You make me tired, John. I’m actually sick of the sight of you. It will be a relief to be far, far away from you for a long time. Are you whimpering?” The boy shook his head. “You had better not be. Nor you, little Miss Blinky!” The girl hiccoughed and sniffed.

  Decimus turned to Tom. “All right, then?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We’re off to parts distant, children! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  The children stared at him mutely with glassy eyes.

  “Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.”

  Decimus suddenly stomped several times on the floor. Turning to Mrs. Andrews he said, “Whatever has happened to the Hamlets? Are they dead?”

  “Getting there.”

  “When they do go, Mrs. Andrews, kindly remind Getalong to empty their pockets before sending them downstream.” Decimus arched his eyebrows at John Getalong.

  The woman glared at him. “Is there anything else you’d like from me whilst you traipse round foreign parts? I don’t think so!”

  “Careful, now, Mrs. Andrews. Just because Tom and I are going away doesn’t mean you are on holiday, my dear.”

  “You got peelers ringing the bell, calling me by name. You got this boy here, this Tom—his mother is a madwoman, did you know that? She goes about with a great sign, ‘Have you seen my Tom, call at No. 2 Bow Street!’”

  Decimus looked sharply at Tom, but the boy’s face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  “I don’t like that,” said Decimus. “We can’t have her parading about with a sign. Approach her, Mrs. Andrews, if you will. Speak to her. Tell her about the son you lost when he was but a boy. You do, after all, have that in common. Remember? Offer your pretty bosom for her to cry upon, go with her to Bow Street, and persuade her one way or another to give up her sign-carrying ways.”

  “Oh, yes, your majesty!”

  “And if you don’t, my dear, no matter where I am or how far away, I’ll know. I’m like God that way.”

  “I won’t be around, Decimus. I’m clearing out.”

  “Where you choose to lay your warty head is your concern, my dear, so long as you accomplish the very important tasks I’ve assigned you. Leave even one undone and you won’t like the consequence, I promise you.”

  “The police will be back!” she said shrilly. “Wot am I to do with them?”

  Decimus flushed red. “How the devil do I know, Mother! Must I think of absolutely everything? Come, Tom, I can’t bear it here another moment. We have one quick social call to make, and then we’re off!”

  Before their relationship had soured and his mission had been terminated, Decimus had been a guest several times in Sir Jasper Arpington-Dix’s home overlooking the Mall, receiving instruction concerning his assignment. The butler, opening the door to him now, knew him by sight. The servant feared the tall man with the sunken eyes even more than he feared his master, although he couldn’t say why. Something about the way he looks at you. The butler admitted Decimus and Tom without question and without first asking his employer if he was in, hence Sir Jasper’s surprise when he found the pair in his drawing room.

  The butler watched from an adjoining room through a generous keyhole. He heard the man with the disconcerting eyes say something about Germany and then Sir Jasper shouting angrily. The boy stood mutely at the tall man’s side, holding a wooden case. Strangely, the visitor began talking about a tumor, or so the butler thought; the man’s voice was low and even.

  . . . has by this time grown too large to be removed without dire consequences to the patient . . .

  The boy laid the case on a side table and opened it. Sir Jasper rang for his servant furiously. The butler decided not to hear the bell. The lad gave the tall man an apron, which he looped over his head and tied about his waist. Sir Jasper was red in the face, shouting for his manservant to come at once.

  When the boy gave the man something sharp and shiny from the box, the butler stood and walked quickly toward the rear of the house and the tradesmen’s door. As he slipped out, he thought he heard singing. The butler tried to maintain his dignity as he hastily crossed the Mall, dodging carriages. He kept up a rapid pace as he entered St. James’ Park. He had family in Wiltshire. They would take him in, at least for a time, he was almost certain of it.

  The bodies across the passage from the Fortune of War held a fascination for Charles Field. As the room’s protector, he now possessed his own key to the place, and he would look in from time to time as Mrs. Carmichael and the youths went about their work. The corpses came and went at a brisk pace not only because it was necessary they do so—flesh being what it is—but because there was no shortage of supply or demand. Field would return to the pub ruminating on the brevity of life and the common lot that awaited all. He carried with him the copy of Origin that he’d purchased, and when he had nothing else to do—which was often—he would read, standing at the bar, struggling with the text. He’d have a drink. And then another.

  If I understand what Mr. Darwin is
saying, a creature will do anything at all in order to survive. And every creature that does make it does so because some other creature don’t. Everything and everyone at war all the time, just to keep the show going, and it’s been a very long-running show indeed. Look at it that way, nothing matters, really. Not being a policeman nor working in a pub nor fencing the odd corpse. Look at it another way, of course, it makes every second we got desperate precious.

  Someone at his elbow was talking.

  “Hello? I say, Inspector Field?”

  Field looked up from his book and tried to focus. He’d had more whiskey than he’d intended.

  “It’s Sergeant Willette, old man, of the Thames Valley Constabulary.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Field without enthusiasm.

  “I came to town on purpose to find you, but you took some finding, my friend.”

  Field looked away and nodded. “Drink?” he said.

  “Stout for me. You’ve had a change in situation.”

  Field motioned to one of the barmen. “Pint of stout for the gentleman.”

  Willette looked about the smoky pub, filling up at the end of the afternoon. “Forgive me, Field, but what in the name of God are you doing here? If I may ask?”

  “I don’t believe you may, sir.”

  Willette nodded. “Fair enough, I suppose.”