Pole and Monkton looked at each other.
“If you wish, although I am very doubtful that it—” began the physician, his rich voice raised a good half octave.
“All right,” interrupted Pole. “Let’s do it. But I don’t propose to debate this here, in the scullery. Let’s go upstairs. I’m sure Will Bailey can find us a comfortable place, and a glass as well if you want it—perhaps he can even find you an acceptable substitute for that rhubarb pie.” He turned to the other physician. “As you know, Dr. Monkton, when you were tending to the man I did little more than watch. With your leave, maybe I should say what I saw, and you can correct me as you see fit. Agreed?”
“Well, now, I don’t know. I’m not at all sure that I am willing to—”
“Splendid.” Jacob Pole picked up the lamp and started back along the corridor, leaving the others the choice of following or being left behind in darkness.
“Colonel Pole!” Monkton lost his dignity and scuttled after him, leaving Darwin, smiling to himself, to bring up the rear. “Slower there, Colonel. D’you want to see a broken leg in the dark here?”
“No. With two doctors to attend it, a broken leg would more than likely prove fatal.” But Pole slowed his steps and turned so that the lamp threw its beam back along the corridor. “What an evening. Will Bailey and I had just nicely settled in for a pipe of Virginia and a talk about old times—we were together at Pondicherry, and at the capture of Manila—when word came up from downstairs that Dr. Monkton needed another pair of hands to help.”
“Why not Will Bailey?” asked Darwin from behind him. “It is his house.”
“Aye, but Willy had shipped a few pints of porter, and I’d been running reasonable dry. I left him there to nod, and I came down.” Pole sniffed. “I’m no physician—you may have guessed that already—but when I saw our man back there in the scullery I could tell he was halfway to the hereafter. He was mumbling to himself, mumbling and muttering. It took me a few minutes to get the hang of his accent—Scots, and thick enough to cut. And he was all the time shivering and shaking, and muttering, muttering…”
* * *
The woman had been standing by the side of the cot, holding the man’s right hand in both of hers. As the hoarse voice grew louder and more distinct she leaned toward him.
“John, no. Don’t talk that way.” Her voice was frightened, and for a brief moment the man’s eyes seemed to flicker in their sunk pits, as though about to open. She looked nervously at Jacob Pole and at Dr. Monkton, who was preparing a poultice of kaolin and pressed herbs.
“His mind’s not there. He—he doesna’ know whut he’s sayin’. Hush, Johnnie, an’ lie quiet.”
“Inland from Handa Island, there by the Minch,” said the man suddenly, as though answering some unspoken question. “Aye, inside the loch. That’s where ye’ll find it.”
“Sh. Johnnie, now quiet ye.” She squeezed his hand gently, an attractive dark-haired woman bowed down with worry and work. “Try and sleep, John, ye need rest.”
The unshaven jaw was moving again, its dark bristles emphasizing the pale lips and waxen cheeks. Again the eyelids fluttered.
“Two hundred years,” he said in a creaking voice. “Two hundred years it lay there, an’ niver a mon suspected whut was in it. One o’ auld King Philip’s ships, an’ crammed. Aye, an’ not one to ken it ’til a month back, wi’ all the guid gold.”
Jacob Pole started forward, his thin face startled. The woman saw him move and shook her head.
“Sir, pay him no mind. He’s not wi’ us, he’s ramblin’ in the head.”
“Move back, then, and give me room,” said Monkton. His manner was brisk. “And if you, sir”—he nodded at Pole—“will hold his shoulders while I apply this to his chest. And you, my good woman, go off to the kitchen and bring more hot water. Perhaps this will give him ease.”
“I canna’ leave him noo.” The woman’s voice was anguished. “There’s no sayin’ whut he’ll come out with. He might—” Her voice trailed off under the doctor’s glare and she picked up the big brass bowl and reluctantly crept out. Jacob Pole took the man firmly by the shoulders, leaning forward to assure his grip.
“Inland from Handa Island,” said the man after a few seconds. His breath caught and rattled in his throat, but there seemed to be a tone of a confidence shared. “Aye, ye have it to rights, a wee bit north of Malkirk, at the entrance there of Loch Malkirk. A rare find. But we’ll need equipment to take it, ’tis twenty feet down, an’ bullion weighs heavy. An’ there’s the Devil to worrit about. Need help…”
His voice faded and he groaned as the hot poultice was applied to his bare chest. His hands twitched, flew feebly upwards toward his throat, and then flopped back to his sides.
“Hold him,” said Monkton. “There’s a new fit coming.”
“I have him.” Pole’s voice was quiet and he was leaning close to the man, watching the pallid lips. “Easy, Johnnie.”
The dark head was turning to and fro on the folded blanket, grunting with some inner turmoil. The thin hands began to clench and unclench.
“Go south for it.” The words were little more than a whisper. “That’s it, have to go south. Ye know the position here in the Highlands, but we’ll have to have weapons. Ye canna’ fight the Devil wi’ just dirks and muskets, ye need a regular bombard. I’ve seen it—bigger than leviathan, taller than Foinaven, an’ strong as Fingal. Five men killed, an’ three more crippled, an’ nothin’ to show for it.”
“It’s coming,” said Monkton suddenly. “He’s stiffening in the limbs.”
The breath was coming harder in the taut throat. “Go get the weapons… wi’out that we’ll lose more o’ the clansmen. Weapons, put by Loch Malkirk, an’ raise the bullion… canna’ fight the Devil… wi’ just dirks. Aye, I’ll do it… south, then. Need weapons… bigger than leviathan…”
As the voice faded, his thin hands moved up to clasp Pole’s restraining hands and Pole winced as black fingernails dug deep into his wrists.
“Hold tight,” said Monkton. “It’s the final spasm.”
But even as he spoke, the stranger’s muscles began to lose their tension. The thin hands slid down to the chest and the harsh breathing eased. Jacob Pole stood looking down at the still face.
“Has he—gone?”
“No.” Monkton looked puzzled. “He still breathes, and it somehow seems to have eased. I—I thought… Well, he’s quiet now. Would you go and find the woman, and see where that hot water has got to? I would also like to cup him.”
Pole was peering at the man’s face. “He seems a lot better. He’s not shaking the way he was. What will you do next?’
“Well, the cupping, he certainly needs to be bled.” Monkton coughed. “Then I think another plaster, of mustard, Burgundy pitch, and pigeon dung. And perhaps an enema of antimony and rock salt, and possibly wormwood bitters.”
“Sweet Christ.” Pole shook his head and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Not for me. I’d rather be costive for a week. I’ll go fetch his woman.”
* * *
“And that was it?” Darwin was seated comfortably in front of the empty fireplace, a dish of dried plums and figs on his lap. Jacob Pole stood by the window, looking moodily out into the night and glancing occasionally at Will Bailey. The farmer was slumped back in an armchair, snoring and snorting and now and then jerking back for a few moments of consciousness.
“That’s as I recall it—and I listened hard.” Pole shrugged. “I don’t know what happened after I left the room, of course, but Dr. Monkton says the man was peaceful and unconscious until he too left. The woman stayed.”
Darwin picked up a fig and frowned at it. “I have no desire to further lower your opinion of my profession, but now that he is gone I must say that Dr. Monkton’s powers of observation are not impressive to me. You looked close at that man’s face, you say. And as a soldier you presumably have seen men die?”
“Aye. And women and children, sad to say.” Pole looke
d at him morosely. “What’s that to do with it?”
Darwin sighed. “Nothing, it seems, according to you and my colleague, Dr. Monkton. Think, sir, think of that room you were in. Think of the smell of it.”
“The tobacco? You already remarked on that, and I recall no other.”
“Exactly. So ask yourself of the smell that was not there. A man lies dying, eh? He displays the classic Hippocratic facies of death, as Dr. Monkton described it—displays them so exactly that it is as though they were copied from a text. So. But where was the smell of mortal disease? You know that smell?”
Pole turned suddenly. “There was none. Damme, I knew there was something odd about that room. I know that smell all too well—sweet, like the charnel house. Now why the blazes didn’t Dr. Monkton remark it? He must encounter it all the time.”
Darwin shrugged his heavy shoulders and chewed on another wrinkled plum. “Dr. Monkton has gone beyond the point in his profession where his reputation calls for exact observation. It comes to all of us at last. ‘Man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he’s most assured.’ Aye, there’s some of that in all of us, you and me, too. But let us go, if you will, a little further. The man gripped your wrists and you held his shoulders. There was delirium, you have told me that, in his voice. But what was the feel of him?”
Pole paced back and forth along the room, his skinny frame stooped in concentration. He finally stopped and glared at Will Bailey. “Pity you’ve no potion to stop him snoring. I can’t hear myself think. A man can’t fix his mind around anything with that noise. Let’s see now, what was the feel of him.”
He held his hands out before him. “I held him so, and he gripped at my wrists thus. Dirty hands, with long black nails.”
“And their warmth? Carry your mind back to them.”
“No, not hot. He wasn’t fevered, not at all. But not cold, either. But…” Pole paused and bit his lip. “Something else. The Dutch have my guts, his hands were soft. Black and dirty, but not rough, the way you’d expect for a farmer or a tinker. His hands didn’t match his clothes at all.”
“I conjectured it so.” Darwin spat a plum stone into the empty fireplace. “Will you allow me to carry one step further?”
“More yet? Damme, to my mind we’ve enough mystery already. What now?”
“You have seen the world in your army service. You have been aboard a fighting ship and know its usual cargo. Did anything strike you as strange about our dying friend’s story?”
“The ship, one of King Philip’s galleons, sunk off the coast of Scotland two hundred years ago.” Pole licked at his chapped lips and a new light filled his eyes. “With a load of bullion on board it.”
“Exactly. A wreck in Loch Malkirk, we deduce, and bearing gold. Now, Colonel Pole, have you ever been involved in a search for treasure?”
Before Pole could answer there was a noise like a hissing wood fire from the other armchair. It was Will Bailey, awake again and shaking with laughter.
“Ever been involved in a hunt for treasure, Jacob! There’s a good one for me to tell yer wife.” He went into another fit of merriment. “Should I tell the Doctor, Jacob?”
He turned to Darwin. “There was never a man born under the sun who followed treasure harder. He had me at it, too—diving for pearls off Sarawak, and trawling for old silver off the Bermudas’ reefs.” He lay back, croaking with laughter. “Tell ’im, Jacob, you tell ’im all about it.”
Pole peered at him in the dim light. “Will Bailey, you’re a shapeless mass of pox-ridden pig’s muck. Tell him about yourself, instead of talking about me. Who ate the poultice off the black dog’s back, eh? Who married the chimney sweep, and who hanged the monkey?”
“So you have found treasure before?” interjected Darwin, and Pole turned his attention back to the doctor.
“Not a shillings-worth, though I’ve sought it hard enough, along with fat Will there. I’ve searched, aye, and I’ve even hunted bullion out on the Main, in sunk Spanish galleons; but I’ve never found enough to pay a minute’s rent on a Turkish privy. What of it, then?”
“Consider our wrecked galleon, resting for two hundred years off the coast of Scotland. How would it have got there? Spanish galleons were not in the habit of sailing the Scottish coast—still less at a time when England and Spain were at war.”
“The Armada!” said Bailey. “He’s saying yon ship must have been part of the Spanish Armada, come to invade England.”
“The Armada indeed. Defeated by Drake and the English fleet, afraid to face a straight journey home to Cadiz through the English Channel, eh? Driven to try for a run the long way, around the north coast of Scotland, with a creep down past Ireland. Many of the galleons tried that.”
Pole nodded. “It fits. But—”
“Aye, speak your but.” Darwin’s eyes were alight with pleasure. “What is your but?”
“But a ship of the Armada had no reason to carry bullion. If anything, she’d have been stripped of valuables in case she went down in battle.”
“Exactly!” Darwin slapped his fat thigh. “Yet against all logic we find sunk bullion in Loch Malkirk. One more factor, then I’ll await your comment: you and I both live fifteen miles from here, and I at least am an infrequent visitor; yet I was called on to help Dr. Monkton—who has never before called me in for advice or comment on anything. Ergo, someone knew my whereabouts tonight, and someone persuaded Monkton to send for me. Who? Who asked you to fetch me from Matthew Boulton’s house?”
Pole frowned. “Why, he did.” He pointed at Will Bailey.
“Nay, but the woman told me you and Monkton asked for that.” Bailey looked baffled. “Only she didn’t know the way, and had to get on back in there with her man. That’s when I asked you to do it—I thought you knew all about it.”
Darwin was nodding in satisfaction. “Now we have the whole thing. And observe, at every turn we come back to the two strangers—long since disappeared, and I will wager we see no more of them.”
“But what the devil’s been going on?” said Pole. He scratched at his jaw and wiped his nose again on his sleeve. “A dying man, Spanish bullion, a leviathan in Loch Malkirk—how did we get into the middle of all this? I come here for a bite of free dinner and a quiet smoke with Willy, and before I know it I’m running over the countryside as confused as Lazarus’ widow.”
“What is really going on?” Darwin rubbed at his grey wig. “As to that, at the moment I could offer no more than rank conjecture. We lack tangible evidence. But for what it is worth, Colonel, I believe that you were involved largely accidentally. My instincts tell me that I was the primary target, and someone aimed their shafts at my curiosity or my cupidity.”
“The bullion?” Pole’s eyes sparkled. “Aye, where they tickled me, too. If you go, I’d like a chance to join you. I’ve done it before, and I know some of the difficulties. Rely on me.”
Darwin shook his head. The plate of fruit had been emptied, and there was a dreamy look on his coarse features. “It is not the treasure, that can be yours, Colonel—if it proves to exist. No, sir, there’s sweeter bait for me, something I can scent but not yet see. The Devil, and one thing more, must wait for us in Malkirk.”
* * *
The pile in the courtyard of the stage inn had been growing steadily. An hour before, three leather bags had been delivered, then a square oak chest and a canvas-wrapped package. The coachman sat close to the wall of the inn, warming his boots at a little brazier and shielding his back against the unseasonably cold May wind. He was drinking from a tankard of small beer and looking doubtfully from the swelling heap of luggage to the roof of the coach.
Finally he looked over his shoulder, measured the angle of the sun with an experienced eye, and rose to his feet. As he did so there was a clatter of horses’ hooves.
Two light pony traps came into view, approaching from opposite directions. They met by the big coach. Two passengers climbed down from them, looked first at the pile
of luggage on the ground, then at the laden traps, and finally at each other. The brooding coachman was ignored completely.
The fat man shook his head.
“This is ridiculous, Colonel. When we agreed to share a coach for this enterprise it was with the understanding that I would take my medical chest and equipment with me. They are bulky, but I do not care to travel without them, for even a few miles from home. However, it did not occur to me that you would then choose to bring with you all your household possessions.” He waved a brawny arm at the other trap. “We are visiting Scotland, not removing ourselves to it permanently.”
The tall, scrawny man had moved to his light carriage and was struggling to take down from it a massive wooden box. Despite his best effort he was unable to lift it clear, and after a moment he gave up, grunted, and turned to face the other. He shook his head.
“A few miles from home is one thing, Dr. Darwin. Loch Malkirk is another. We will be far in the Highlands, beyond real civilization. I know that it has been thirty years since the Great Rebellion, but I’m told that the land is not quiet. It still seethes with revolt. We will need weapons—if not for the natives, then for the Devil.”
Darwin had checked that his medical chest was safely aboard the coach. Now he came across to grasp one side of the box on the other trap, and between them they lowered it to the ground.
“You are quite mistaken,” he said. “The Highlands are unhappy but they are peaceful. Dr. Johnson fared well enough there, only three years ago. You will not need your weapons, though there is no denying that the people hold loyal to Prince Charles Edward—”
“The Young Pretender,” grunted Pole. “The upstart blackguard who—”
“—who has what many would accept as a legitimate claim to the throne of Scotland, if not of England.” Darwin was peering curiously into the wooden box, as Pole carefully raised the lid. “His loss in ’46 was a disaster, but the clans are loyal in spite of his exile. Colonel Pole”—he had at last caught a glimpse of the inside of the box—“weapons are one thing, but I trust you are not proposing to take that with you to Malkirk.”
The Amazing Dr. Darwin Page 2
