The Darwin Affair

by Tim Mason

  The horse’s great brown eyes turned anxiously on Tom.

  “Don’t ask me, Lily. I got no more idea nor you. I’m in harness, too, see.”

  “Young Thomas!” said Peter Sims.

  Tom whirled about and stood at attention, blushing. “Yessir.”

  “It’s near time, boy, let’s look lively there.” A chorus of snorts and whinnies arose from Lily and the three other royal horses traveling on the Fairy. Peter moved from horse to horse, nodding approval.

  “Well done, young man. Already you’re an improvement over the old sot you replaced. Still, be on your toes, Master Thomas. It’s kings and emperors from here on out, nothing can go amiss.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You sound London-born, boy. However did you come to end up in foreign parts?”

  Tom remained silent.

  “There’s a story there, I see,” said Peter, “but leave it. We’re docking in a few minutes and we’ve got to be ready to spring.”

  The Fairy’s horn blew just then.

  “Stand to, Thomas! Here we go!”

  Servants scurried up and down the train’s corridors bearing trunks. Valets and ladies’ maids busily dressed and coiffed their masters and mistresses. Orders were shouted and countermanded; the train’s whistle began blowing at regular intervals. The town of Coburg drew near. On the hill above it stood a massive fortress. From its ramparts trumpets blasted a royal welcome.

  Inspector Field found Sir Horace Dugdale moving along the crowded corridor with Sir James Clark.

  “Sir Horace, may I have a word?”

  He nodded. “Clark, you go on, I’ll catch you up in a moment. Yes, Mr. Field?”

  “Sir, we need to keep the royal couple out of sight, in closed carriages from here to the castle.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Sir, the assassin is here, showing himself brazenly. The situation is now urgent, don’t you see?”

  “What do you want me to do about it? You are here, are you not? Do your job!” He turned and hurried down the rapidly filling corridor.

  Field made his way through the rising chaos in the train corridor until he came upon Colonel Ponsonby, to whom he quickly related his news.

  “I thought I heard a shot,” said Ponsonby, “but I just took it to be a hunter in the woods.”

  “Sir, there is a hunter in the woods and we know who he’s hunting!”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s to be done about it at this point, except to remain vigilant. This thing’s in motion, Field, there’s no stopping it. Our people will dress you for the banquets and all the rest of it, by the way. Your own clothing won’t do here, you know. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” Ponsonby hurried off, leaving the inspector fearing he’d made yet another mistake, sending his best and only man away just when he needed him most.

  It was Albert’s brother, Ernest, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, and Albert’s son-in-law, Frederick, Crown Prince of Prussia, who somberly greeted Victoria and Albert at the station. The marriage of Frederick, or Fritz, to Crown Princess Victoria—Vicky—had been arranged entirely by the Queen and Prince Consort and was one of their greatest triumphs. Handsome Fritz had been presented to Vicky at Balmoral when she was sixteen years old. They were betrothed on the spot and married two years later. Uniting these families would, in Albert’s opinion, help moderate the traditionally militaristic Prussia once the old emperor died and bring its interests closer to those of the United Kingdom. Vicky was very much her father’s child: intelligent, interested in the sciences and arts, and concerned, at least in theory, for the welfare of the common people. In Fritz, they found her perfect match and the anomaly Albert had been hoping for: a progressive Prussian.

  Charles Field, still wearing his own unacceptable clothing and feeling not only out of place but also quite powerless, struggled to keep as close to Albert as possible during the short journey to Ehrenburg Palace. There, the Princess Royal, wearing a long black veil and mourning clothes, awaited her parents on the steps. Field pushed forward, eyeing the gathered crowd anxiously while the Queen fell on her daughter’s neck, weeping copiously. Then the inspector was swept on in an irresistible stream of pomp and glory.

  36

  London

  The installation of Miss Coffin into the household at No. 2 Bow Street seemed at first to ease Martha Ginty’s agitation; it was as though the newcomer provided a connection to Martha’s son and a ray of hope that he would someday return to her. For Bessie Shoreham, however, the new presence was an outrage, especially since Bessie was forced to share her chaste pallet at the top of the house with the old hag.

  “Missus, it’s not fair!” hissed Bessie. “And them pins! They’re everywhere! Turn over in bed and they’re like to run me through!”

  Jane let her servant know confidentially that there was a reason behind it all: the two of them were going to act as real-life detectives, just like Master.

  “This is a great secret between us, Bessie. We’re watching her, do you understand? But quietly. No one’s to know, not Martha, not nobody!”

  “I don’t want to be no ’tective. I did used to think I give good service, but I see I was wrong.” For once, though, Bessie’s tears were of no avail. Mistress was determined to be as sly, resourceful, and heartless as her husband.

  Miss Coffin claimed she did not know where her former employer and the boy had gone off to, but the day after she moved in, Jane cautiously followed her and saw her pause at a branch office of the Electric Telegraph Company. The close-set eyes turned to scan the street behind, but by then Jane was ardently studying a shop window. In the reflection she saw the woman duck into the office.

  Sam Llewellyn, meanwhile, on his reverse journey, found that travel without royalty was much less comfortable but somewhat quicker. He would be on the cross-channel steamer in another day, sooner than he’d expected. He stared out the train window at the flat, featureless landscape. Fogs crouched over the valleys; the river ran alongside the train, vanishing and reappearing like an apparition. What would he find at No. 2 Bow Street, he wondered. He’d bring with him one of his mates from the Metropolitan, now that his stock had risen in those quarters. He’d station the other constable on the opposite side of the front door, to catch Mrs. Andrews if she bolted.

  The air grew chill as the day wore on.

  Joseph Julius Kanné, until recently the Queen’s travel arranger, had progressed even faster than Llewellyn. He arrived at St. James’ Palace in a righteous Gallic rage. “I am dismissed!” he cried. “I serve at the pleasure of the Queen, or so I thought, but now? It seems I can be sent down by a lackey!”

  One of those in range of his remarks was a head butler who nodded sympathetically while wondering privately if he might possibly seek promotion to Kanné’s post. He might not have a goatee, for God’s sake, but at least he was English! He’d pen a note and send it along in the pouch; he had a beautiful hand, everyone said so.

  Not a half mile from the palace, Mary Do-Not, née Withers, dipped her quill and wrote by candlelight. After leaving the Huxley home, she returned to Half Moon Street and was shocked to find the house boarded up. Making her way round to the back, she found her way into the house from the little overgrown garden, terrifying Hamlet’s widow, who stood trembling with a candle and a knife.

  “Put a light on, can’t you?” said Mary.

  “There was peelers watching for a time,” said Mrs. Hamlet, “and then they put boards over the door. I daren’t light the gas.”

  So No. 4 now had a population of two. The money Mary had taken from the Huxley household box was enough to keep the two of them alive. Mrs. Hamlet was terrified of Mary but had no choice but to take her bread. Mary added further chapters to her book and waited. She was confident Master would send for her; he had promised she had roles to play that history would long remember, and Mary was devoted to history.

  At the Royal College of Surgeons, Sir Richard Owen canceled an afternoon lecture and walked round the square to
his home, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly. He told his manservant he was ill and retiring for the night, and did not wish to be disturbed, even by his wife. He locked his bedroom door and took a telegram from an inner pocket with trembling fingers, reading it yet again:

  but lot’s wife looked back from behind him and became a pillar of salt. choral master

  In Oxford, Bishop Samuel Wilberforce puzzled over a telegram he had received. It asked him to use his influence to assist a worthy young woman to secure a position in service with one of the nation’s first families. The sender promised she would perform her duties ably, but the bishop was confused. Which choral master? he wondered. I am acquainted with several.

  Elsewhere in Oxford, Sergeant Willette had a round-the-clock watch placed on old Mrs. Andrews’ vacant guest house. At the constabulary, he conducted extensive research into the practices of the “resurrectionists.” In fact, on the subject of body snatchers in general, and those who might be connected with Decimus Cobb in particular, Willette was becoming something of a fanatic.

  There was a knock at his office door. Hastily, he adjusted the black silk cloth that he now always wore round the top of his head, angled down on the left side, covering the livid, angry confusion of cartilage and skin where his ear used to be. He put the looking glass into a drawer and said, “Come.”

  It was his young aide. Evidently a new party was moving into the guest house abandoned by Mrs. Andrews.

  “Four adults and a child, sir. It won’t be a guest house no more, according to the shopkeeper next door. They’re making a funeral chapel of it.”

  Willette nodded and put on his hat. “Let’s have a quiet look, shall we?”

  37

  Coburg

  Charles Field had been dressed soon after his arrival in Coburg by a valet traveling with the party, a wry young Cockney named, memorably, Sheldon Olderwiser. The somber clothes almost fit him, although the inspector might have wished for a bit more fabric in the leg and a bit less fabric round the middle. Field and Olderwiser would share a tiny bedroom one floor above Her Majesty’s suite during their stay in Ehrenburg Palace.

  As soon as he was presentable, Field took up his position just outside the Queen’s chambers. He could hear her voice, excited and imperious as she was being dressed for dinner, and Albert’s voice, measured and calm. Then Field heard a hushed exchange from a nearby staircase. He stood sharply at attention.

  It was Crown Princess Victoria and her husband, Prince Frederick, who appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by a nurse with a writhing toddler in arms. The royal couple were whispering urgently in German, oblivious to the inspector. Fritz seemed to be proposing something that Vicky adamantly opposed. Finally Fritz nodded in capitulation, and Vicky told the nurse in English to stand the little boy on his feet.

  Field’s intake of breath was involuntary; he could never bear to see injured children. The Prince and Princess turned on Field, surprise and outrage on their faces, and the nurse quickly pulled the toddler’s sleeve down over his malformed left arm, which hung from him, limp, blue, and lifeless. The inspector had no idea what to do or say.

  Finally Vicky spoke. “The fool of a surgeon did this to our son with his forceps. The Queen and Prince Consort are not to know just yet. Is that understood, whoever you are?”

  “Ma’am,” said Field, bowing, “of course.”

  Field was then forgotten; the Princess Royal turned back to the nurse. “Halten Sie immer seine Hand” she said, then caught herself and spoke English to the woman. “Never let go his hand, Mrs. Hobbs, never!”

  The nurse took the toddler by his maimed hand and led the way into Victoria’s chamber. A joyous cry went up from the Queen and the door was shut.

  It was known as the Hall of Giants. The immense naked figures circling the room held brightly burning candelabra at the ends of their muscular plaster arms. The lavishly sculpted ceiling, erupting with baroque effusions, rested on the Giants’ heads. The hall was packed with eminent diners: an empress, an emperor, the families of two royal houses, high military officials, dignitaries, churchmen, and courtiers. The din was astonishing; it seemed to Charles Field that everyone talked at once.

  The assemblage wore mourning, but the sea of black was enlivened by a glittering of jewels. Field stood at attention, as instructed, against the wall immediately behind Her Majesty, his eyes scanning the crowd. Victoria chatted in German with her son-in-law’s father, Emperor Franz Joseph, seated on her right. Albert was on her left, with his beloved Vicky at his side and his much loved (but remarkably dissolute) brother, Ernest, flanking her. It was the first meeting of Queen Victoria and Franz Joseph, and the banquet was followed by many toasts to the emperor and empress, their offspring, and the union of the families.

  At one point in the long evening, Olderwiser passed by Field and winked. “When do we eat?” whispered the inspector. The valet pursed his lips, shook his head, and quickly straightened Field’s collar. “It’s been a long bloody day. I’m hungry!” Olderwiser chuckled and moved on.

  The Ehrenburg stable hands and the visiting grooms supped early and well in a common mess. After their meal, Peter Sims and Tom Ginty retired to the small stable where the Queen’s horses were housed, adjacent to the larger palace stables. They saw to their four charges, and then Peter stepped out to have a drink with some of the lads, leaving Tom to make up a pallet on the floor for his bed. He was just settling down for the night when Master walked in, kit in hand. Tom jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Master nodded at the boy and moved purposefully to Lily. Tom took an anxious step forward. Master opened his kit and took from it something that he offered the horse from his palm.

  “No!” cried Tom, leaping to the horse’s side and thrusting his fingers into her mouth. He pulled out a large lump of rock crystal. He sniffed it.

  “Eat it,” said Master. There was a click and the tip of a blade lay against Tom’s throat. “Eat it.”

  The boy put the huge lump into his mouth, his eyes watering.

  “You see? It’s a sweet. You disappoint me at every turn. Why would I wish to harm Lily? I went to trouble enough getting her where she is, and you with her. Do you think Master is a bad man, Tom? Is that it?”

  The knife point pressed on his Adam’s apple. The rock crystal in his mouth was large enough to interfere with his speech. “No,” he struggled to say.

  “Did you know, Tom, Mrs. Andrews is concerned about your mother? Says she’s lost her mind. She’s keeping an eye on her. Surely you recall Mrs. Andrews’ warm ways?”

  Tom barely nodded.

  “Keep it in mind. You remember the schedule, Tom?”

  He nodded again. The lump filled his mouth, dissolving slowly into a syrup.“In three days’ time,” said Decimus, “you travel to the Prince’s boyhood home in the hills. That is, unless I choose to make my move sooner, in which case I imagine the journey to Rosenau will be canceled.” Something like laughter came from him.

  The sugar was like having a small brick in his mouth; the boy fought a rising panic.

  “I will be back with instructions as my path is revealed to me.”

  A door opened, Peter Sims came in, and the knife at Tom’s throat disappeared with a click.

  “Hallo, Thomas,” Peter called out. The horses stirred and greeted him in turn. Peter approached, casting an eye over each animal as he moved through the stable. Finally he saw Decimus.

  “Who are you, then?”

  Decimus was examining Lily’s teeth and barely looked up. “Ich bin der Tierartz. Wer sind Sie, mein Freund?”

  “What’s he say?” said Peter with a little slur.

  “’E say . . .” Tom spat out the sugary lump. “He says he’s the animal doctor.”

  Decimus turned from the horse and smiled at Peter, patting his wooden kit. “Ich werde wieder in drei Tagen,” he said, walking to the door.

  “Thomas?”

  “He says he’ll come again in three days.”

  Decimus nodded bri
skly and was gone.

  Victoria was the tourist and Albert her tour guide, showing her locales connected sentimentally with his boyhood. They were accompanied by Vicky and Fritz, as well as Albert’s brother, Ernest, and his long-suffering wife, Alexandrine. There was resistance, at first, to Inspector Field tagging along for these outings. Ernest eyed him darkly and Vicky protested to her mother. Oddly enough, it was the Queen herself who seemed to be Field’s defender. The inspector witnessed a whispered exchange (in German) between mother and daughter and distinctly heard the words Mr. Bucket. Field rode up front with the coachman, Peter Sims.

  “How are you getting on?” whispered Field.

  “Very well, sir, thank you. Sorry to see our friend Mr. Llewellyn leave us.”

  “You and me both, lad. That’s a nice-looking mare, the chestnut.”

  “Lily is new to us, sir. She’s a lovely beast indeed.”

  The inspector nodded, scanning the paths and surrounding woods for a fine black horse and a tall rider who stood in the stirrups.

  They visited an old church Albert had attended as a child. They found a favorite overlook of Albert’s youth, offering views for the Queen and Vicky to sketch or paint. Everywhere they went a local dignitary or cleric was awaiting them with a prepared speech. Inspector Field wondered at the patience the Queen displayed for the endless speechifying.

  On the second day the family drove up to the massive fortress, the Festung, which glowered over the town. Victoria and her entourage were led through the ancient stone stronghold by Sir Horace Dugdale and Duke Ernest, who was in the process of restoring it. The Queen was rapturous with it all, from the parapets and their stunning views, to the exquisite wooden marquetry chamber, to the room where Martin Luther had been hidden for a month in 1530. Luther’s patron, an ancestor of the Saxe-Coburg line, had tucked him up here, fearing his young reformer might otherwise be burned at the stake for his radical notions. Finally the royal party descended to the Festung’s dungeons.