The Darwin Affair

by Tim Mason

  Field flung her off and began to climb the stairs, speaking to the darkness above. “The children have nothing to do with this, Mr. Cobb.” His voice sounded feeble to his ears; it seemed to go nowhere in the close, malodorous air. “Send down the children. When they are safely out of this, you and I can talk.”

  The singing was coming from above.

  Dies irae, dies illa

  Solvet saeclum in favilla:

  Teste David cum Sibylla!

  “You were a Paul’s boy, weren’t you Decimus,” said Field. “You’ve still got the voice for it, I must say. Send down the children.”

  The singing broke off.

  “The children are only here to fetch you, Mr. Bucket. I’ve no further use for them.”

  “Then send them down.”

  “I’ll send them down one piece at a time, Mr. Bucket.”

  The inspector felt sweat, clammy and chill, on his brow. “No need for talk like that now, is there.”

  “When I have your tongue out, you won’t tell me how to talk.”

  Field reached the first-floor landing. There were muffled noises coming from behind the door on his right: sporadic pounding, a faint cry, the sounds of a bad dream. Crowbar in hand, he addressed the door.

  “Mr. Darwin is most interested in the items you sent him, Mr. Cobb. I’ve just come from him. He is eager to talk with you about your ideas.” Field’s mind raced. “This tubercle, or what do you call it—you took him quite by surprise there, I must say. Gave him pause, it did.”

  “Do you think I’m a child?” The voice came from above him. Field whirled round. In the dim at the top of the next flight stood a figure in women’s attire, much disheveled.

  “Cobb?”

  Decimus pulled off the hat and veil and cast them aside, revealing close-cropped hair and a face creased with scars, the jaw out of alignment with the rest, the nose flattened. Field, wishing fervently he hadn’t just given away his pistol, started up the stairs, brandishing the crowbar. Decimus pulled Belinda from behind the folds of his skirt and placed her before him.

  “I will see Mr. Darwin, have no fear of that,” said Decimus, his voice slurred. “I will demonstrate to him his many errors. I am my own introduction, Mr. Bucket—I have no need of yours.”

  “Hallo, Belinda. All right, then?”

  The girl was shaking.

  “Our Tom is here, too, I imagine.” The inspector nodded toward the closed door behind him. “In there, perhaps?”

  And there it was, muffled, from behind the closed door, Tom’s voice crying out, faint but unmistakable.

  “Harm them, Decimus, and I will be the one taking you apart, I promise you.”

  A thin brass pincer or forceps of some sort, made for one-handed operation, appeared at Belinda’s throat.

  “Let’s do a trade, shall we?” said Field. “Big bad me for that little thing.”

  “What did you do to Mother?”

  Field stared at the man, whose outward form was now as monstrous as his actions. No, he thought, there ain’t no monsters, there’s only men. Think!

  “She died, Decimus.” He heard a sharp intake of breath from the man. Field took a step up. “You was very fond of her, no doubt—warts and all. Nothing like a mother’s cuddle, am I right, Decimus?” He took another step up. “She didn’t care that you was born like that, with that thing hanging off you, did she? Not her. No, you were her very own little monkey, you were—tail and all!”

  “Shut it!”

  “I touched that thing once, unintentional, didn’t I? Back there in that dark castle room. Disgusting, it was.”

  “Shut it!”

  The inspector climbed another two steps. “No, that mother of yours must have been one in a million if she didn’t fling you out onto the streets to be rid of you, or—I don’t know—sell you to Bartholomew’s Fair as a novelty.”

  Field saw the man above him shudder, his deep eyes staring.

  “Got it in one, didn’t I, Decimus? She did sell you. How many times?”

  “She knew how special I was!”

  “And that’s understating the case, matey.”

  “I’ll nail your lips to the door when I’m done with you! What did you do to Mother?”

  “Cut her stringy old throat for her, Decimus, and sent her corpse to St. Bart’s, like you done so many others.”

  There was a long silence and then Decimus began to laugh, a high, thin, cascading laugh that went on and on. “Oh, Mother!” he gasped, and then the laugh began again.

  Field sprang up the remaining steps and yanked Belinda, tumbling her down the steps to the landing below. He thrust the crowbar at Cobb’s face, but the brass forceps closed tight around Field’s wrist and flung the jimmy up. It flew from his hand and clattered to the landing below.

  “There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand, Mr. Bucket, and I mean to hang each of yours round my neck.”

  A tentative voice came from the shattered street door below. “Mr. Field, sir?” said Sam Llewellyn. Decimus glanced down the stairs, and Field jerked his own captive wrist over the banister and brought Decimus’ forearm down on the rail hard enough to snap it. Decimus cried out, dropping the forceps and Field’s wrist was free. He flung himself on the man.

  Llewellyn stepped through the splintered door and into the house. He saw the lantern on the floor and picked it up. He heard a pitched struggle going on above him, men fighting and a child wailing. He started up the stairs and immediately tripped over a body. He scrambled to his feet. The scrawny crone was sitting on the bottom-most step, staring at him with crazy eyes and tilting her head meaningfully up the stairs. He peered up into the gloom.

  “Coming, Mr. Field! Coachman told me you were here. I sent him to fetch more police. They’ll be here in minutes, you’ll be glad to know.”

  He took a phosphorous match from a pocket.

  “No!” shrieked the old woman.

  Llewellyn struck the match against the lantern’s side. Instantly the flame ballooned into the lantern and out again, and up Llewellyn’s arm with a whoosh. He dropped the light, shattering the glass. He beat at the flames on the sleeve of his tunic as a line of fire leapt from the broken lantern up to the wall on the left side of the stairs. It hit the gaslight there with a boom and blossomed into many-hued flames. The fire continued running up the staircase, following the line of the gas pipe, blistering the wallpaper and exploding at each lamp on the way up.

  Llewellyn shoved the old woman toward the street door. “Fetch help!” he cried. The constable took the stairs three at a time. He found Belinda shivering in a heap on the first landing and picked her up. “Mr. Field!” he shouted.

  Above him, the inspector and Decimus were locked in an embrace, staggering on the stairs like drunken dancers, Decimus clutching a blade to Field’s throat and Field struggling to hold it off. Suddenly they both were lit by a brilliant orange light billowing up from the great skirt Decimus wore; it lit his face with a garish glow. The knife clattered down and Field fell back against the rail. And then Decimus’ hands were in motion, one struggling to pull off articles of clothing and the other slapping ineffectually at the flames.

  Field shouted down to Llewellyn. “Get the girl out, I’ll get Tom!”

  The inspector half fell down the steps toward the constable who remained transfixed, staring at the sight above. Field picked himself up and rounded the landing, heading to the closed door. “Go on, Sam, go!” Llewellyn, clutching Belinda, turned and pounded down to the street door.

  Field threw his shoulder against the entrance to Decimus’ domain, but it held fast. Flames were spreading up and down the staircase behind him. He kicked twice and put his boot through. He found a latch on the inside and turned it. The door sprang open. There was no time to take in the magnitude of the obscenities mounted throughout the room. He skirted the narrow iron-framed monk’s bedstead and made for the casket resting on a catafalque. He tried to lift the cover; it was screwed down.

  “Tom!” />
  Smoke was pouring into the room. Field looked about desperately. He ran back to the landing and searched the floor for the crowbar. Flames were spreading everywhere. There! The iron bar was already growing hot.

  “Coming, Tom!”

  Field levered the crowbar under the casket lid and thrust down, putting all his weight to it. The lid split and the casket slewed off the catafalque, crashing to the floor. He pried off the cover, grabbed for the boy, and Tom’s fist hit him just below his right eye.

  “It’s me, Tom! It’s Mr. Field!”

  Field hoisted him, still striking out with his fists, up from the coffin and stood him on the floor. The boy’s knees buckled and Field caught him. “I’ve got you, boy!” Tom seemed to focus his eyes on the man before him and suddenly he was sobbing. Field put an arm round his shoulders and led him out of the room. The heat hit them first, and the garish light. A piercing cry drew their eyes to the landing above.

  Decimus had flung off his burning clothes. Naked, his body red with the glow of the fire, he turned in circles, swatting at the flames, his tail visible and grotesque.

  “Come down, Decimus! Follow me!”

  The infinitely deep eyes found the inspector and the boy. He stopped flailing and stood, shuddering. He grasped the rail, took a deep breath and began to sing.

  Dies irae, dies illa

  Solvet saeclum in favilla . . .

  The banister above them gave way, blazing spindles falling about their heads. Field swung Tom clear of the flaming debris. He knelt, drew Tom’s arms over his shoulders from behind, then stood and staggered to the stairs. Step by step, with fire on either side, he descended, Tom hanging on his back. A piercing scream came from above. Field looked up in time to see a portion of the staircase above him descend, plummeting straight down like a pillar, carrying a burning human torch atop it into the depths of the building. Field sped, stumbling down the steps.

  The night outside was lit by the flames. Constables were keeping back a growing crowd. Snow lay thick on the front steps, glowing from the flames, red and blue and orange, as the inspector emerged from the broken front door, clothes and hair smoking, the boy on his back. A great cheer went up from the crowd.

  Inspector Field carried Tom down the steps, walking away toward a snow-covered Green Park. Llewellyn, bearing the girl, followed in his wake. From behind them came, finally, a great roar and a gust of rushing wind.

  44

  Within days, Inspector Field sent a note to the Prince that contained the series of words they had agreed upon to let Albert know if there were any developments in the case: We have heard from Bishop Adolf. He waited impatiently for a reply. At home all was quiet, with Jane Field tending to Tom and Belinda as they recovered from their ordeal. Field’s right wrist was bandaged where the brass forceps had cut into the flesh. His eyebrows had been singed off in the blaze; consequently he wore a perpetually startled expression.

  Days passed and Field received no answer to his note to the Prince. He felt a need to communicate directly after all they’d been through together. Almost two weeks later, in mid-December, Field decided to pay a visit, without benefit of invitation. The royal couple were at Windsor, where he had never been.

  What do I do? he wondered, riding in a coach through the frigid countryside. Knock at the big front door?

  As it happened, people were coming and going when Field approached the massive, sprawling castle. A man at the entrance had been part of the traveling entourage the year before; he recognized Field and somberly asked him to follow. They walked in a fine drizzle from the lower ward to the upper. Field was deposited within a door there and left to himself. No one seemed to pay him any attention. People moved swiftly and quietly on earnest errands, speaking in hushed tones.

  “I beg your pardon,” said the inspector to a passing servant. “I’m here to see His Highness, the Prince Consort.”

  “Follow me, sir,” said the man. “The other doctors are keeping themselves close, I’ll bring you to them.” Before Field could say anything the man turned and walked briskly up a flight of stairs, so the inspector followed after. At the top of the stairs he saw two ladies holding each other and weeping. Further along the corridor they came upon men moving a piano on casters. A butler asked them what they were about and one of them replied, “His Highness asked for it brought near.” The butler nodded and they continued.

  The servant guiding the inspector stopped at a closed door. “Your name, sir?”

  “Field.”

  The man rapped softly at the door and opened it. Within, a half-dozen grave-looking gentlemen looked up.

  “Mr. Field,” said the servant. “To see the Prince.”

  The inspector saw Sir James Clark look up, startled. “Who wishes to see him?”

  Field walked into the room. “Detective Inspector Field, Sir James, of the Metropolitan Police, you remember me.”

  “Are you serious? Under no circumstance!”

  Colonel Ponsonby crossed the room to speak to Field in low tones. “How do you do, Field. Perhaps you weren’t aware, but the Prince is gravely ill.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sir James. “He’s rallying.” The other physicians in the room looked at each other doubtfully. Sir James raised his voice. “His Highness doesn’t need to receive some damned policeman just at present.”

  “On that score,” said Ponsonby quietly to Field, “I must agree with our physician friend. The Prince, whatever the prognosis, is ill and not receiving. Sorry, old man.”

  “I am sorrier than I can say,” said Field, “that my lord the Prince is unwell. I just wanted to tell him that the man who tried to do him harm is dead.”

  Colonel Ponsonby stared at Field. “But he died a year ago, you told me yourself. He was crushed by a train at Coburg.”

  “As it happens, he survived the wreck and returned to these shores not long ago, intent upon his mischief.”

  “Good God.”

  “Fortunately for us all, he perished in a fire before he . . .”

  Field trailed off as an elegantly dressed young woman entered the room from an opposite door. With her was a young kitchen maid carrying a bowl. “Thank you, Withers,” said Princess Alice, “but he simply will not eat. Let us try again in an hour.”

  The kitchen maid curtsied. “Yes, miss,” she said, and left the room.

  “Sir James,” said the Princess, “father has asked me to play something, will that be all right? It won’t overexcite him?”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Sir James bowed and she returned to the sick room. Field caught a momentary glimpse through the door of a knot of somber people—the royal children and their mother—gathered about a bed, and then the door closed.

  Sir James turned to Field. “Are you finished?” The inspector nodded and bowed and was about to go when he saw something in the royal physician’s eyes, something that he had seen again and again in his long career as a policeman.

  Thinks he’s got away with something, he does.

  “Withers!” cried Field suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That girl just now, where did she come from? How long has she been here, waiting on the Prince?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Sir James.

  “Dear God, he sent her here, and you knew all about it, didn’t you! You, Dugdale, Sir Jasper—dear Lord, how many of you are there?”

  “Steady on, Field,” said Ponsonby.

  “Whether it’s poison she’s been giving him, or the miasma, or whatever you doctors bloody well call it, that kitchen maid is killing the Prince!”

  “Get this madman out of here!” Sir James shouted. But Field was already leaving, hurrying into the corridor, trying to make out which way the girl called Withers might have gone. From behind him he heard the piano strike up and a female voice singing.

  A mighty fortress is our God,

  A bulwark never failing;

  Our helper he amid the flood

  Of mortal ills
prevailing . . .

  Suddenly the piano and the singing stopped, and so did Charles Field, stock-still. A cry sounded fearfully through the castle; not the voice of a monarch but the wail of a woman who has suffered irretrievable loss.

  45

  It took some time to sift through the ruins of the house in Half Moon Street. It was grim work. Many of the body parts that the searchers turned up were mounted, labeled, and given fanciful Latin names; others were jumbled together in crates, preserved but unlabeled. All of them were studied by investigators in the coroner’s office and at the Metropolitan, who sought to match them with old cases of missing persons. Eventually the thoroughly unmistakable remains of Decimus Cobb were recovered. After the coroner had finished with them, Field ordered them transferred to the Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons: a gift from the Metropolitan Police to the famous collection of anatomical aberrations. When Sir Richard Owen demurred, Field sent him a note to let him know that he would accept the bones of Decimus Cobb and would have them mounted and prominently displayed, for the edification of the public and as a private reminder to Owen of all that Field knew. And so it was done.

  From Peter Sims, the inspector learned that a kitchen servant by the name of Mary Withers had indeed left Windsor abruptly, without giving notice; no one knew where she had gone. Field himself was not allowed anywhere near the royal family. The inspector was not entirely surprised to find himself in disgrace with the highest in the land, but it stung nonetheless. It also meant he most likely would have to find new employment.

  In the mid-nineteenth century, for the most part, no one knew what caused diseases, including typhoid fever. Charles Field did not, certainly, but no more did the leading physicians of the day. In the medical community, bad air—miasma—was considered the likely culprit, a theory that was almost entirely worthless. Prince Albert had not been well for two years prior to his death; he may have been suffering from, and may have died from, a number of other possible diseases. But typhoid’s signature rash had appeared across the Prince’s abdomen. And Inspector Field had made an accusation—these things were indisputable.