The Darwin Affair

by Tim Mason

  “Wake up, Tom.”

  Tom opened his eyes and saw Master’s face just above his. Master held a candle and seemed to be studying him. Help me, God. In his mind Tom gauged the distance between his bed and the window. It was still full dark outside.

  “The skull comprises interlocking plates. Elegant, secure, unmoving. Not like the mandible, is it, Tom? The jaw is always moving. Chew, chew, chew, talk, talk, talk.”

  Dear God above, help me.

  “Can I trust you, Tom?”

  The boy managed to nod.

  “Your riding clothes are laid out for you. The next stage of our journey begins.”

  Decimus turned and left the room. Tom blinked back tears. He had just now pissed himself, but perhaps they would not be coming back here, so this one crime at least would go undetected.

  For the next week, Master and Tom rode horseback at a desultory pace, stopping at small inns for the night. If the village had a telegraph office, Master would step into it for a minute or two. Had Tom thought about it, he would have guessed Master was expecting messages, or sending them, but he made sure he didn’t think about it.

  Out in the countryside they shot quail and hare for practice, and for practice of another sort, Tom skinned and boned them. Master gave Tom a variety of instruments and showed him how to work them. There were several blades on springs, which could be hidden about the body. There was a shiny brass garrote that operated like a noose when you pulled the cord back sharply. Lily was magnificent; she and Tom grew close in a remarkably short time, and the boy’s skills as a horseman grew as well.

  Master was alternately silent and talkative. “I have people everywhere, Tom,” he said at one point. “Allegiances shift; loyalties cannot be relied upon. I have learned to spread wide my net. There are many of us who feel the threat posed by this Prince and the demon he champions. They see the need for action, they see the need for a warrior of my abilities. When you are disappointed by one Arpington-Dix, Tom, you turn to the next one, in a manner of speaking.”

  One night they stayed in a town called Sint-Niklaas, and Tom nearly thought about Christmas before he caught himself and stopped thinking altogether. Master spoke in low tones with a serving girl that night, the one who had brought them sausage and potatoes for their supper, and then the two of them disappeared. When the girl didn’t reappear in the breakfast room the next morning, Tom didn’t think about that either.

  The Isle of Wight

  On the eve of her departure for the continent, Victoria hosted a small dinner at Osborne House, the residence in the Isle of Wight that Albert had designed and built for their private use. It had rained heavily all day, and even among this distinguished company there was an unmistakable air of damp. The conversation did not sparkle. After dinner the Queen retired early and Albert asked one of the guests to join him in his study.

  Again the lamps were extinguished and the servants sent away as the Prince sat down in the dark with his old friend, Sir Richard Owen. Again rain slanted against the windows, as it had three months earlier, when Owen last had dined with the royal family. The two men sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the rain and sipping the fine whiskey that was shipped by the barrel for the Queen from her beloved Scotland.

  “Do you ever wonder, Owen, about the paths your life did not take?” said Albert finally. “I do, from time to time. Had not fate and circumstance thrust me into all this, who might I have been? What might I have been? Do you ever so speculate?”

  “No, sir, I must say I do not.”

  “It follows, then, that you have no regrets?”

  Owen’s smile was perplexed. “None that I am aware of.”

  What the devil is he getting at?

  “I believe, had things been different for me, I should have been a serious student of natural philosophy instead of merely an ardent amateur. I have been rereading your writings, Owen. A remarkable body of work, going back decades now.”

  “I am flattered, Your Highness.”

  “I often examine that exquisite chambered nautilus you were so kind to give me—how many years ago was it? That shell alone presents a world of mystery, does it not? Back and back and back it goes, chamber after chamber. And so, confronted by such mystery, I read and ponder and struggle to understand.”

  “Whenever do you find the time?”

  “Life is short and uncertain, Sir Richard, I make the time.”

  Is there an edge to his voice?

  “It seems to me, sir, that your thinking on a number of matters has undergone changes over the years, yes?”

  “Indeed, to be a man of science is to be continually learning anew, sir, discovering and unfolding the wonders of the natural world.”

  “Quite so. Earlier in your career, for instance, I think you stood firmly with the Frenchman Cuvier, did you not? Species may have gone extinct, but they were created separately and intact by the Creator.”

  I see, it’s about Darwin again.

  “I stand with no man, Your Highness. I’m a follower of knowledge, not men.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” said Albert, impatiently. “I am asking you about your current position on species mutation, sir. It seems to me it has changed over the years. Evolved, if you will.”

  He’s openly hostile, he’s angry.

  “Well, sir?” said the Prince. “You now acknowledge a sort of mutation, do you not? Or do I misread you?”

  “My researches into the comparative anatomy of vertebrates have enlarged my understanding, certainly. I believe now that there exist archetypes from which variations may occur, as the twigs of a tree emanate from the branches, imitating and enlarging upon the shapes that precede them.”

  “Variations occur, precisely! How?”

  “The archetype is of divine origin, of course. The variations are occasioned by divine intervention.”

  “So, Sir Richard, evolution is God’s invention! God nudges creation from time to time, and so we get mutation of species!”

  “As you acknowledge, my lord, these are complex matters for even the most ardent of amateurs.” Owen realized that he’d said the wrong thing; the Prince was quietly furious.

  “Do you not imagine, Owen, that if Charles Darwin had not existed, you by now would have reached the promised land yourself, in a manner of speaking? It would be you who had rightful claim to the most significant discovery since Newton. Since Galileo, since Archimedes. Already you were on the road toward it, ja? You were getting there. If it hadn’t been for Darwin, the evolution theory would be your claim to eternal glory. But since it is Darwin’s, not yours, you are compelled to declare it false and reject it.”

  Owen’s face flushed.

  “Poor Sir Jasper Arpington-Dix,” said the Prince out of the blue. “I am told by the police they suspect murder.”

  Dear God, he’s telling me he knows. He knows everything.

  “They say whenever dismemberment is involved,” continued Albert drily, “foul play is suspected. I am so happy you were able to spend a few moments helping this ardent amateur understand the great matters of the world, Sir Richard. Good night. And goodbye.”

  He sat at the desk in his little guest room, quill in hand. He would place an advertisement in the Ostend newspaper. And in the papers of neighboring towns. Sir Richard Owen, his face white with terror, his hand shaking, wrote out the message.

  Choral Master: Nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest, neither anything hid that shall not be known and come abroad. Repent and return.

  33

  Her Majesty the Queen and her entourage boarded the royal yacht at Woolwich on the evening of the twenty-second of September. The Victoria and Albert was a steam-powered, paddle-wheeled palace. Her long, sleek hull was a gleaming black with rich gold trim. The two massive paddle wheels were discreetly enclosed amidships; the smokestacks were taller by far than the highest masts in the harbor, and the staffs bearing the royal banners were higher still. There was a pavilion on deck for royal dining, and belo
w decks were accommodations that emulated on a smaller scale Victoria’s other homes. Farther sternward were the mess and quarters for servants and crew.

  This was to be a family trip, not a state visit, so Albert kept the number of passengers low. There were six close friends who already had endured royal entertainments and were not likely to kick up a fuss at the discomforts of further travels with Her Majesty: bone-chilling cold because of Victoria’s hatred of heated rooms and, in the evenings, flickering candlelight because Victoria considered gaslights to be a decadent modernity. The bare minimum of personal attendants were aboard, a little over a dozen for Victoria and Albert together. The Queen’s personal physician, Sir James Clark, was on board. In addition, there were the equerries and the palace grooms, Peter Sims among them. And a shipboard crew of 240.

  The royal couple dined with their guests not on deck this evening but in the saloon below. By the time the yacht weighed anchor around 3 a.m., bound for Antwerp, most everyone was asleep. But not Charles Field or Sam Llewellyn. They lay awake in hammocks, suspended one above the other.

  “Crikey, Mr. Field,” said Llewellyn in an awed whisper. “Will you look at us?”

  The inspector allowed himself a smile in the darkness. “There’s one thing to say for impersonating Detective Bucket, Sam. He does move in exalted circles.”

  Around 4 a.m. the royal yacht hit a brief patch of weather, and the policemen were sick by turns.

  “Why does it pitch so?” gasped Field. “It’s the Queen’s own boat, for God’s sake. I didn’t think the Queen’s own boat ought to be subject to pitching!”

  London

  It was one of Martha Ginty’s bad days. Jane Field had noted her agitation at breakfast, Martha muttering to herself, seeming to be in a world of her own. When later in the day Jane found her missing from the house, she went looking for her.

  She did not have far to search. Martha was sitting on a bench near the local pump, her large sign leaning against her knees, deep in conversation with an old woman. The woman was dressed in black; her black-plumed hat was a forest of long black hat pins.

  “Mrs. Field,” cried Martha, “I have wonderful news! This lady says I needn’t worry about my Tom no more, I needn’t go about with my signs, searching him out! He’s gone and made something of himself, she says!”

  “Is that so?” said Jane, glancing dubiously at the woman and wondering how it would affect a person to go through life with two such prominent facial warts.

  “Well,” said the old woman, “if it’s the same lad I’m thinking of, it is.”

  “But it must be!” cried Martha. “How many ginger-haired Toms who were ’prenticed to the butchers of Smithfield could there be?”

  “Where is he, then?” asked Jane.

  The woman in black shrugged. “Abroad.”

  “Gone abroad,” said Martha, “to study with a surgeon, Tom is.”

  “Which surgeon is this?” said Jane. “I was a nurse, you see—I may know the man.”

  The woman stared for a moment and then said, “Tailor.”

  Jane felt a distinct tingle just below her sternum. Her husband had told her everything he knew about the case that so bedeviled him, including Sam Llewellyn’s description of the lady on Half Moon Street, warts and all. When he said the murderer Cobb’s other name was Tailor, she hadn’t connected him with the St. Thomas surgeon known for his speed and skill. Now she did. Good Lord, she actually had seen the man herself on several occasions!

  “This is wonderful news indeed,” said Jane evenly. “Come along home, both of you, and you can tell us all about it, Mrs . . . ?”

  “Miss Coffin. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “A bother! Not likely, not when you bring word of Martha’s Tom. It’s a pity, though, the boy don’t write a note to his mother, don’t you think? Letting her know the good news himself, instead of leaving her half-mad with grief?”

  “As I understand it,” said the woman with the warts, “the boy can’t read or write.”

  “Oh, no, no, no!” said Martha. “I taught him his letters when he was a boy. Tom reads ever so well.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, come along, then, both of you. We’ll celebrate with a nice bit of cake I’ve got put by.”

  The woman looked uncertain.

  Martha spoke up. “Miss Coffin lost her position in the medical man’s household, Mrs. Field. It was along of the surgeon moving off to foreign parts with my Tom.”

  “In that case, Miss Coffin, you must stop with us! I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’ll need to collect my things.”

  “Excellent. No. 2 Bow Street, we’ll be expecting you.” There was a glitter in Jane’s eyes. She had always envied the role Mrs. Bucket played in helping Mr. Bucket unravel the Dedlock mystery.

  She took in the murderess herself, didn’t she? Kept her as a lodger. Well, here’s a chance to do the same for my Bucket!

  Antwerp

  Charles Field and Sam Llewellyn spent the day in their cubicle, recovering, as the royal yacht crossed the North Sea. At dusk the Victoria and Albert churned up the Scheldt estuary and finally dropped anchor. The policemen emerged from their small cabin, feeling hollow but improved, and made their way to the stern, where they leaned on a rail and stared. Antwerp lay before them, its harbor lighting up, lamp by lamp, spreading amber dimples across the black water. They would stay aboard with the royal party for the night and disembark in the morning to continue their journey by train.

  “I do believe travel suits me, Mr. Field,” said Llewellyn.

  “Never you mind what suits you, Sam Llewellyn. We are not on holiday. If our fellow does for the Prince on our watch, there’ll be no one to blame but you and me.”

  At the same moment, Tom Ginty and his master stood with dozens of other local sightseers who had gathered on the quay, looking out at the royal vessel, lit by a thousand lamps, sleek and regal.

  “Magnificent,” said Decimus. “Isn’t it grand, Tom?”

  Tom nodded. They could hear piano music coming from the royal yacht. They even could hear, once in a while, a sprinkle of genteel laughter.

  “Look, there at the stern!” whispered Decimus. “If it isn’t our old friend Detective Bucket and the other one, the cheeky constable!”

  Tom had already spotted the man who had gripped his arm in the Oxford library and spoken to him of his mother.

  “You know why they’re here, don’t you?” whispered Master. “It’s along of us! Look how high you’ve risen, Tom—that the mighty should tremble before you!”

  Tom nodded again, staring intently at the two policemen across the water.

  “If only one could set the whole thing alight,” said Decimus, “imagine how it would burn!”

  That night after the evening meal, the policemen and Peter Sims were summoned to attend the Prince in the saloon. The three men brushed themselves up, combing hair and mustaches, and Sims led them forward toward the royal suites.

  “Perhaps we’ll even learn where we’re going and when!” said Field. “A plan, a plan, my kingdom for a plan!”

  “Please, sir, hush,” said Sims, “begging your pardon.”

  “Pardon granted, young Sims,” said the inspector, and then in a stage whisper to Llewellyn, he said, “‘So wise so young, they say do never live long.’ That’s Shakespeare, Mr. Sims. For nigh unto two days now, I’ve either been kicking my heels or sicking up in a pail, what we need is a plan!”

  Someone behind a door coughed and Field was silent for the rest of their transit through the yacht.

  The three men, admitted to the saloon, stood in the door, momentarily dazzled. Before them was a vast semicircular room paneled in maple, the pale golden wood lit by dozens of flickering candles. The carpet was a vivid crimson and the built-in banquettes were done in bright green silk. An ebony piano gleamed in the distance. A porcelain heater, its tiles painted with red and pink roses, stood near the long oblong oak table, which dom
inated the room. And there, seated at the head of the table and staring intently at them, was Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

  She motioned to Albert, standing above her. The Prince leaned forward and she whispered in his ear. He nodded and murmured.

  Opposite the royal couple stood Sir Horace Dugdale and another man, dapper and goateed, also staring at the policemen.

  The Queen cleared her throat. “Does Mr. Dickens tell you in advance what he has in store for you, Mr. Field?”

  Field’s mind raced. “Your Majesty?”

  “One hopes one has not seen the last of Mr. Bucket,” continued Her Majesty.

  “Oh. Yes, ma’am,” said the inspector. “No, ma’am.”

  Victoria nodded at the young groom. “Sims,” she said, and Peter Sims bowed deeply. She glanced at Llewellyn appraisingly, then braced her hands on the table to rise. Albert pulled back his wife’s chair and helped her to her feet, and a lady-in-waiting appeared from the shadows, adjusting the Queen’s voluminous skirts.

  “Do you really believe one is in danger, Mr. Field?” said the Queen.

  “All will be well, Your Majesty, I’m certain.”

  “Your certainty may be misplaced, you know. We have been given ample reason to beware ‘the arrow that flieth by day’ and ‘the pestilence that walketh in darkness.’ Stop that,” she said abruptly to the lady-in-waiting. “You’re pinching.”

  With a great rustling of silks Her Majesty moved toward the door while Field and his men made way before her. She paused at the threshold.

  “This is a simple family journey, Mr. Field. We trust you will not make a nuisance of yourself.”

  And she was gone. Field realized he hadn’t been breathing for some time.

  “Men,” said the Prince, gesturing, “be seated.”

  Hesitantly, Field, Llewellyn, and Sims took the seats indicated. Just then another man entered the saloon, handsome, distinguished-looking and tall.

  “Ah, Ponsonby,” said Albert. “Good, we can begin.”