The Darwin Affair

by Tim Mason

  Hamburg

  London-born Molly English had immigrated to Hamburg years earlier and worked her way up from the shipyard streets to the higher class of brothel. A tall, striking woman, she still promenaded publicly, but now only in the more fashionable parts of the city. She dressed herself as an affluent British widow of a certain age—old enough to present a dignified bearing but still young enough for a bit of fun. Her attractive face could be made out under the veil she always wore beneath a stylish broad-brimmed hat. The dove-gray fabrics of her garments spoke of wealth; the large black dots scattered here and there across the veil said naughty.

  When her madam had announced a new customer for her through the speaking tube in her room, she thought the woman had placed an odd emphasis on the word new. The knock came; she opened her door.

  “Good Lord,” she said with a barking laugh, “whatever happened to you?” It was Molly’s way. She had seen a thing or two in her time and was not squeamish.

  The man who stood before her had been tall, she could tell, but now was stooped and skewed. In the wreckage of his face she saw what she imagined to be a livid knife scar from the left side of his mouth to his right ear. The jaw was shifted off-center and the nose flattened. The skin was multihued, from black to yellow to a dirty reddish brown. The eyes were intact, though, and stared at her from a great depth.

  In a thick voice he said, “I was hit by a train.”

  “Well, I could have told you that, dearie! Never mind, come to Mother and let’s see what she can do to make it all better.”

  He bypassed her and went to the hat stands, which lined one wall of the room, touching the hats, fingering the veils. He opened a wardrobe.

  “Come along, come along,” said Molly.

  He took off his coat and she embraced him. “Tell me if it hurts at all, will you, dear?” She ran her hands down his back and stopped abruptly. “What in God’s name is that?” said Molly, her eyes suddenly very wide.

  His hands leapt to her throat. Molly kneed him in the groin and thrust a fist toward his neck. The struggle was as ugly as most such are, with fingernails and shrieks and snarls. Molly soon knew what the outcome would be. The room swam. The man’s eyes grew so large, she thought she was falling into them. She saw her long-dead mother in Dorking, shaking a wet bedsheet as she hung it out to dry. The sharp snap! of the sheet was the sound of her own neck breaking; she heard that, too, and then nothing.

  Windsor

  In December of 1860, the state of South Carolina seceded from the union known as the United States of America. Six more states quickly followed suit, and four more threatened secession. It was all very worrying to Prince Albert. His ardent antislavery convictions were at odds with major commercial interests in the United Kingdom, entities that thrived on cotton and did a great deal of business with the Americans. Although slavery had been abolished throughout the kingdom years earlier, many in Parliament considered it problematic to take sides with the northern states against the nascent Confederate States of America. Wouldn’t an alliance with the Confederacy be in the better interests of the empire?

  One more pot threatening to boil over, thought the Prince wearily, putting down a brief from the Foreign Office. One more reason for my enemies to wish me out of the way.

  He looked up from his desk to find the Queen regarding him intently.

  “You are tired, my dear,” she said. “Come and walk with me.” The royal couple were at Windsor; there were miles of indoor walking possibilities.

  Albert smiled, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his temples. “We humans are capable of such wonders,” he said. “Look at what has been achieved in our lifetimes, my dear! Why is it, do you suppose, that we also are so eager to slaughter each other?”

  “Come.” Victoria offered her hand. He stood and took his wife in his arms.

  “If I could,” he said, “I would go back in time and return with you to the Crystal Palace on the opening day of the Great Exhibition. I would relive that day happily.”

  “It was grand, Albert.”

  Arm in arm, then, they made their way to the conservatory. Outside Windsor Castle an icy rain fell, but the air in the hothouse was humid and filled with the smell of earth and fecund growth.

  London

  Inspector Field leaned on his crutch, watching the boy. It was a cold day in Covent Garden with a spattering of rain; coal-burning braziers glowed beside the flower stalls, and vendors warmed their hands by them. Tom, a cloth cap pulled down over his ears, sat apart on a barrel, staring into space. His master, a Mr. Bowers, nodded grimly at his old friend, the inspector. Field approached the boy.

  “What do you think you’re a-doing, Tom Ginty?”

  Tom sprang to his feet. “Sorry, Mr. Field.”

  “Save the apologies for your master, boy!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Bowers.” The flower vendor moved off, leaving Field alone with Tom.

  “Mr. Bowers asked me to step round, Tom. He’ll not keep you on for my sake—you have to apply yourself, and you won’t do that by sitting down on the job.”

  Tom was silent.

  “What’s all this I hear about knives, then? Again? You have to handle knives in many of lines of work—you can’t shy away from them your whole life!”

  “I can handle a knife,” said Tom in a leaden voice. His eyes met Field’s and he lowered his voice. “He’s coming.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Later or sooner he’ll come, you know he will. He’ll find you. He’ll find me.”

  Field took a deep breath. “Come round to Bow Street at the end of the day, Tom. Mrs. Field is preparing a Twelfth Night feast, she will be expecting you. Besides, someone else there wants to see you.”

  Tom turned away from the inspector, silent and sullen. Field grabbed his shoulder and spun him back. There was a blade in Tom’s hand now, from nowhere; he held it close to Field’s face. “I can handle a knife,” said the boy again.

  In one motion, Field jerked Tom’s wrist straight up and kicked him behind his near leg, bringing the boy down to his knees, the knife clattering to the paving stones. Field laid the end of his crutch on the boy’s back to keep him where he was and leaned down to speak quietly into his ear. “I can handle a knife as well, Tom. If he comes, we’ll see to it, won’t we.”

  Field released him. He picked up the knife and Tom got to his feet. The flower vendor reappeared, looking alarmed, but the inspector shook his head reassuringly. “Police moves, Mr. Bowers,” said the inspector. “Boys love ’em. You won’t have any further problems with this one, I’m sure of it.”

  Field returned the knife to Tom and the boy pocketed the weapon. “Next time, Tom, you can try that one on me. Come to supper, now, don’t forget.”

  Field turned up his collar and was on his way. He had mastered his crutch by now and moved through the market at a brisk pace. He found a hackney cab and hauled himself into it.

  “No deliveries whilst I was out, my dear?” he said when he reached his home. “No callers, no mail?”

  Jane shook her head. “Are you expecting something, Mr. Field?”

  “Smells good in here, I must say.” He retired to his study, which overlooked a bleak courtyard. The thin rain turned to sleet.

  Jane worked all the afternoon, roasting fowl and baking venison pasties, a favorite of her husband’s. The plum pudding had been the labor of weeks. Bessie Shoreham assisted by rushing in and out of the kitchen for no particular reason, every now and then dropping exhausted into a chair, blowing strands of hair from her eyes and mopping her brow with a kerchief.

  “Lor’, Missus,” said Bessie, “sometimes I do not know why we bother!”

  The newest member of the Field household sat on the stairs, staring at the front door and twisting a lock of hair into knots. The inspector emerged from his study and looked up at the girl. He pulled out his watch and pocketed it again.

  “All right, Belinda?” She nodded.

  At that moment the bell jangled. Th
e girl stood and stared apprehensively. Field opened the door, revealing Tom, cap in hand, the remains of his injured ear exposed: a crusted scab surmounted by the rosy pink flesh of an otherwise healthy young ear.

  “Come in, Tom.”

  The boy stepped across the threshold and stopped, staring up at the girl.

  “Hallo, Tom,” said Belinda. “You went abroad.”

  “Blinky.”

  “Belinda, if you please. I went many places, too, you would not believe the places I went. I was snatched, you see, and put in black and made to cry for the dead.”

  Jane was looking up the stairs, watching from the kitchen door and wiping her hands on her apron. Bessie hovered just behind, peeking over Jane’s shoulder.

  “I hated my masters, Tom, but I liked what they give me to wear, in a way,” continued Belinda, “and it was all new, every stitch of it made to order just for me, and there was even jewelry I wore, too, made for mourning the dead, necklaces and bracelets but all sewn up in black cloth so what was the point of it, I had to wonder. Then I was locked in a cupboard on a train and took by the police and I didn’t know what would become of me, but when I told them my name, they said the big policeman was looking for me and they brought me along here to his house where I have my own bed. You needn’t marry me, Tom, I think of you more as a brother than a husband, in point of fact; you can rest your mind easy on that score.”

  “Well,” said Tom finally, “that’s all right, then, Belinda.” And for the first time in a great while, Tom smiled.

  The bell rang again and Sam Llewellyn arrived, looking wet and cold. Soon after, Jake Figgis and Tom’s mother, Mary, presented themselves at the door. Mary still had a distracted air, but Jake put on a brave smile and Tom was very attentive. The inspector ushered his few guests upstairs to the dining room, where supper was ample but quiet, except for Belinda’s commentary, which was extensive.

  Near Ostend

  The woman in gray was an invalid; the servants of the great house could tell that much. Master had given them strict instructions: Madame was to be offered every comfort. They never saw the face beneath the veil. Her trunks contained numerous fine ensembles, all in shades of gray, all costly. She seldom spoke; when she did, her voice was deep, somewhat slurred, and her German was British-accented. The girl assigned to be her ladies’ maid would prepare Madame’s toilette and then clear up afterward; she never saw Madame unclothed. The kitchen staff were ordered to prepare foods that were easily chewed.

  Madame walked up and down the corridors of the house using a cane, and when the weather permitted, she paced the terrace in the courtyard. She sent telegrams repeatedly and waited with increasing agitation for replies that did not come.

  The months passed. She recovered her strength. The staff took it as a good sign when eventually Madame asked for meat.

  43

  Early in 1861 Charles Field returned to full-time work with the Metropolitan Police, limping still, but without the crutch. Belinda became a true member of the household at No. 2 Bow Street, Jane Field painstakingly teaching her her letters, and not to steal. The inspector was unable to trace the girl’s origins and she herself had no idea what her surname might be, so it was decided that Belinda Field would do.

  Tom seemed to settle into his situation at the flower market; his master came to be satisfied with his work. He was a frequent guest in the Field home and over time became less withdrawn. Eventually he started talking about the house in Half Moon Street, and once he’d begun, Belinda dared to speak of it as well. Neither spoke of Decimus Cobb and the inspector did not press them, but he learned about the other inhabitants, John Getalong and Hamlet and Mrs. Hamlet. Field decided not to mention Getalong’s sad end, but when he told them that Hamlet was dead, Belinda grew thoughtful.

  “He was not a nice man,” she said, “and he stank, but he was old and stupid and so should be pitied, I imagine.”

  Tom told Field about the witch he’d met at the guest house in Oxford who came to live in the London house—dressed in black and mean as mean—and she turned out to be their captor’s mother. Tom told him about the young woman at the top of the house who was writing a great book.

  “Mary Do-Not,” added Belinda with a sidelong glance at the boy.

  “Her real name was Mary Withers.”

  “Tom was in love with her.”

  “Hush!” said Tom.

  “She made people perish, that’s what everyone said.”

  “Perish?” said Field. “How did she do that, then?”

  “No one knew,” said the girl.

  “I don’t believe it meself,” said Tom.

  “All them households, Tom! Are you saying all them folk she spoke of dying did not get the typhoid and die? She was bad luck, through and through.”

  Tom didn’t answer and Field let it go.

  Winter turned to spring, followed by a mild summer. Inspector Field, back in harness, made a couple of notable arrests, including the headmaster he’d been pursuing for the poisoning death of his children’s governess. Autumn was glorious but short-lived; winter looked to be arriving prematurely. Slowly the threat of Decimus Cobb receded from Charles Field’s mind. Perhaps, after all, the man had been cut to bits by the Coburg train.

  Through all these months Sir Richard Owen felt a distinct chill emanating from the palace, but his fear of turning a corner one day and meeting Decimus Cobb overshadowed all. Owen’s academic work continued to thrive, and his fame grew as the lines were drawn ever more sharply between his camp and the evolutionists. The prime spokesman for the latter, Thomas Huxley, began a series of lecture tours throughout the country, often explaining Mr. Darwin’s theories to audiences of working-class men and women who were intrigued by the possibility that everyone might indeed be created equal.

  Samuel Wilberforce, bishop of Oxford, felt himself to be haunted unfairly by his possibly infelicitous remarks concerning Huxley’s monkey grandparents. He sought to raise himself in public opinion through highly visible charitable works. He was perfectly content, therefore, to interview the modestly dressed young woman sent to him by some choirmaster or other out of his past. He was favorably impressed by her demeanor, her beauty, and her astonishing knowledge of world history. She made him think of an exquisite porcelain doll. He would be happy to lend his name if it might help her to secure employment in an exalted household.

  Charles Darwin, confined by illness and fame to Down House, worked tirelessly on his next book, which promised to be even more controversial than the first.

  Down House

  Emma Darwin was opening the little parcel when her husband stopped her. “My dear, allow me. I believe this will be yet another finch from a correspondent in Ostend who seems to think I am in need of finches.”

  She gave the box to her husband with a sympathetic smile. He had been ill again in the night.

  “Feeling better?” she said.

  “Much.”

  Moments later, alone in his study off the garden, Darwin carefully unwrapped the brown paper and opened the small box. He was confident it would not contain a finch and he was right. It was a human ear, pressed under a small glass plate. Female, he decided, aged forty years or so. He set the parcel down, pulled the chamber pot from beneath the daybed, and vomited. He opened the garden door and set the pot outside; a winter wind rushed into the room and he closed the door. He moistened a cloth from the ewer at the basin and wiped his face.

  A similarly wrapped parcel had come from Ostend a week earlier, also containing a human ear. Gender uncertain but likely female, aged sixteen or seventeen years. Both ears had a characteristic bump in the outermost whorl, a feature that occurred in only about a tenth of the population. At this juncture, it was only a rumor in scientific circles: Darwin is planning to include humans in his grand theory. One piece of evidence will be the tubercle, the little point in the ear, which he says corresponds to the sharp point of the fox’s ear, or the cat’s, or the bat’s. Or the monkey’s. His anonymous cor
respondent, therefore, likely was someone in the field of natural philosophy and privy to current scientific scuttlebutt.

  Each box held an angry note harping on the same theme, that anomalies were just that and nothing more, and suggesting in graphic terms how Darwin might dissect himself in order to learn from his own mistakes. When he had received the first one, he assumed the severed ear had originated from a legitimately obtained corpse. Now, he had to suspect this was not the case. A madman was killing women. Darwin put a peppermint in his mouth and picked up a quill. The letter went out by the afternoon post to his brother, Erasmus, in London, Darwin’s lifelong confidant. What should one do? Erasmus promptly sent a note to his friendly acquaintance, Police Commissioner Richard Mayne of the Metropolitan.

  As it happened, Mayne was lunching with Samuel Wilberforce when the note was put into his hands. “Good Lord,” said Mayne under his breath. He looked up at his companion. “Sorry. It’s just that our man, Detective Field, has been claiming for months that there was a violent conspiracy to discredit Darwin, and now . . .”

  The bishop put down his fork.

  “Yes?” he said. “And now?”

  Mayne read the note again. “Well, I had better get him onto it.”

  “Get whom onto what?”

  “This is just between us, you understand,” said the commissioner, folding the note and pocketing it. “It seems some anti-evolutionary chap has been sending human body bits to Charles Darwin. I say, old man, are you quite all right?”

  The bishop took a sip of wine before answering. “Perfectly, perfectly,” he said, but his hand trembled as he set down the glass and he’d gone white as a sheet in an instant.

  Inspector Field asked Sam Llewellyn to accompany him by train to Orpington.

  “We’ll be traveling on from there by coach to the village of Downe,” said Field. “Commissioner Mayne wants us to check on Mr. Charles Darwin and that’s where he lives when he’s at home, which is almost always as I understand it.”