The Amazing Dr. Darwin

by Charles Sheffield

  “No, sir.” Darwin’s fat face had tightened with powerful curiosity. “We do not have a mystery. We have at least five of them. How did that man die? Who or what killed him? Where is the Heart of Ahura Mazda now? Where is its faithful guardian, Daryush Sharani, and why did he run away? And finally—least perhaps, but also perhaps strangest of all—who summoned me here to serve a dead man—when I am a servant of the living?”

  * * *

  Dinner at Joseph Faulkner’s house had taken a curious turn. The half-dozen guests had been drawn there at least partly by the promise of rare scientific and literary conversation from the eminent visiting physician and inventor from the Midlands. Instead they found a Darwin who was thoughtful and preoccupied. He ate his share and more of beef, parsnips, Yorkshire pudding, and horseradish sauce, but he allowed others to carry the full social burden until brandied plums and cream had appeared on the table and been disposed of. At that point he roused himself, poked with his finger for a fragment of meat lodged in his back teeth, and said, “Gentlemen—and ladies, too. If you will indulge me, I have a mind to play a game. I would like to propose a puzzle, a matter concerning which your thoughts and opinions would be most valued.”

  “At last!” Joseph Faulkner waved a hand around the table. “Speak on, Erasmus. Now I will confess it, I was worried by your silence tonight. The rest of us have said quite enough. My friends all came here to hear you.”

  The guests nodded, all but an aged aunt of Jacob Pole. She was very hard of hearing, but with wine at hand she seemed quite content and didn’t mind missing the conversation.

  “Anyone who came to hear me will be disappointed,” Darwin said. “For I have no answers, only questions.” He glanced around the room, well lit by wall candelabra and ceiling chandeliers, and found every eye on him. “Let me narrate the events that befell me this afternoon.”

  He told it carefully, summarizing everything from the arrival of the messenger at the Boar’s Head Tavern to his own departure from the Exhibition Hall for Faulkner’s house. As he spoke, he studied the others around the table.

  It was a curious and curiously varied group. Joseph Faulkner kept an unusually egalitarian household, with a suitably unconventional seating arrangement for both guests and servants. Darwin was at one end of the table. At the far end was the host, and on Faulkner’s left sat Mary Rawlings, a thirty-year-old redhead with milky skin and a determined look in her blue eyes. She had her hand often and possessively on Faulkner’s arm. Darwin had shrugged mentally. His own views were liberal. Mary must know that Faulkner had a wife across the Atlantic, and she was surely old enough to make her own decisions.

  In midtable there was an empty chair, intended for a manufacturer of agricultural equipment who had been detained by business in Norwich. He had sent his apologies, and into the vacant place Jamie Murchison’s heartache, brown-haired and blue-eyed Florence Trustrum, had slipped at the end of the meal. She quietly helped herself to preserved plums and coffee. Joseph Faulkner had no respect for the traditional class separations, and her switch from servant to diner excited no comment.

  Darwin had made his own evaluation of Florence as she supervised the serving of dinner, and decided that she was as healthy, vigorous, and straightforward a specimen of womanhood as he was likely to find in London. Imaginary ailments were as far from her life as the surface of the moon, and that made Jamie Murchison’s remarks all the less credible.

  Across from Florence sat Richard Crosse, who according to Murchison had visited her room but seen and heard nothing out of place. Seated between Colonel Pole and his deaf aunt, Crosse was a thin and intense young man in his middle twenties, slightly crookbacked and with one shoulder higher than the other. Somewhere in status between a paying lodger and a guest, he had kept his attention on his plate right through dinner. Only now did he turn dark, intelligent eyes toward Darwin.

  At the end of the recital of the afternoon’s events there was a respectful silence. “So you see,” Darwin concluded, “there are five mysteries, with five questions to be answered. What thoughts do you have on any of this?”

  There was another long silence. “Come now,” Faulkner said. “Theories. What about you, Richard? You are always full of wild ideas, and the only time you pulled your nose out of your studies this week, it was to tell me how excited you were about Dr. Darwin’s visit. You must have something to offer.”

  Crosse shook his head, and turned beseechingly from Faulkner to Darwin. “I—I’m afraid that I—”

  “No one is obliged to provide comment.” Darwin came to the rescue. “I told you, Joseph, that all I have to offer is questions. It would be no surprise if others find themselves in the same position.”

  At the end of the table, Mary Rawlings was frowning and scratching the end of her snub nose with her forefinger. “Would you entertain the idea not of an answer, but perhaps of a sixth mystery?”

  “Gladly. Consideration of new questions often allows us to answer old ones.”

  “You never visited the exhibition, did you, and never saw the Heart of Ahura Mazda?”

  Darwin shook his head.

  “So you have been assuming that Daryush Sharani escaped from the locked hall in the same way as the would-be thief entered it, through an open window.”

  “That is true.” Darwin was frowning. “It was my assumption, but it seems a reasonable one. On the evidence of witnesses he was certainly present at the exhibition when it closed, at three o’clock, and certainly absent when the watchman opened the doors.”

  “It would be a good assumption—if Daryush Sharani resembled other men in his appearance. But he did not!” Mary Rawlings looked around the table for confirmation, and others nodded agreement. “He wore the most ornate and elaborate robes of scarlet and purple, and a tall red headdress. He also had a huge beard, big and black and bushy. There is no way that he could appear on the streets of London, even for two minutes, without being seen and remarked on by a score of people. Unless perhaps his clothes were found in the hall?”

  “They were not.” Darwin was looking at Mary Rawlings in admiration. “Young lady, rem acu tetigisti. You have put your finger on an absolutely crucial point. No clothes were found, nor the great ruby, the Heart of Ahura Mazda. Nor, for that matter, the day’s takings from the Exhibition, which were supposedly in excess of five pounds.”

  “So this man Sharani became disembodied,” said Jacob Pole at last. “Hm. Went up into thin air. I’ve seen a trick like that once or twice in India, but I never thought to see it in London.”

  “Nor will you.” Darwin roused himself and snapped his fingers. “Rather the opposite. Ah, what a fool I am! I did not have the sense to observe the results of my own actions.” He turned to his host. “Joseph, do you have a carriage available?”

  “Of course. But why? You cannot be leaving already, when it’s not yet nine o’clock.”

  “I must.” Darwin stood up. “I must go back to the Exhibition, to demonstrate to myself that I am indeed an imbecile—and would have remained one, but for the valuable assistance of this company. And anyone who cares to come with me will observe the evidence of my folly.”

  * * *

  The afternoon’s foggy damp had been succeeded by a hushed and relentless rain, enough to keep anyone indoors with no urgent reason to be abroad. The interior of the coach was drafty and wet, but Darwin was in high spirits.

  “The true disgrace is that I noticed it!” he said, as they clattered through empty streets toward the Thames. “And yet I did not apprehend its significance. When I was in the hall, I banged my stick on the stone floor, and remarked even then that the sound was strange. There was a boom to it, like an echo. I thought to myself, ‘Rafters,’ but the timbre was wrong. The echo was—under the floor!”

  Five of them were riding the coach. Joseph Faulkner had not asked who else might be going with Darwin—he was, and that was the main thing. Mary Rawlings had shown as much determination, grabbing Faulkner’s arm so that he could not move with
out towing her along. The fourth in the coach was Jacob Pole. Scenting an adventure, with perhaps a priceless ruby at the end of it, he had arranged for his aunt to be taken home without him. She seemed puzzled, but made no objection. Last came Richard Crosse. He had swung aboard uninvited, sitting up next to the coachman in the pouring rain and as jittery as ever. He leaned over to look inside the coach, seemed on the point of a flood of speech, then as suddenly sat upright again.

  The rapid night ride took less than five minutes, and at the hall Darwin bustled on ahead of the others. He stood before the great double doors, lantern in hand, and cursed mildly.

  “Ahriman’s ghost! Padlocked again—when now there is nothing to steal.” He turned to Richard Crosse. “You are more limber than I. The back window, then, and unbolt the side door.”

  Crosse melted away into the darkness without a word. Thirty seconds later there was a rattle of bolts, and Darwin could stride inside. He walked five paces, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and held the lantern high. “Do you see it? What we seek, of course, is some way down through a solid stone floor.”

  It was Mary Rawlings who found it, over in one dark corner of the hall. The hinged wooden trapdoor had been painted grey and sanded over, so that it resembled stone flags. When it was lifted she hung back, nervous for the first time, but Darwin unhesitatingly swung the panel full open and peered down. He listened intently. A moment later he had laid the lantern on the floor and was descending into blackness.

  “Pass the light down to me.” His voice came back hollow and distant, added to a nearby sound of trickling water. “Then come yourselves.”

  Joseph Faulkner went first, with a caution appropriate to his age. The others followed, with Jacob Pole firmly in tailguard position.

  “Guarding the rear,” he muttered.

  “Aye, Jacob.” Darwin’s voice boomed from the darkness ahead. “Your own, no doubt.”

  They were emerging to stand on a long wet ledge about five yards wide. Beyond it, black and restless, flowed a stream of twice the width.

  “It’s a river,” Mary said. “A real underground river.”

  “It is.” Darwin was staring around him with vast satisfaction. “And it should be no surprise to us. London is ancient. We tend to forget the obvious, but this city, too, was once no more than woods and meadows. Most of the old streams run now below the surface, invisible and out of mind. And this must be one of them.”

  “You know, ’Rasmus, you’re quite right.” Jacob Pole was leaning over and staring at the water, his mouth open. “And me a Londoner, native born. I ought to be ashamed of myself. I knew this from my childhood. There were four old rivers on the north shore, the Walbrook, the Fleet, the Tyburn, and the Westbourne. Unless my old schooling serves me false, this must be a spur of the old Walbrook. The main river rises in Finsbury, and runs close by the Mansion House. It joins the Thames by Dowgate—or used to; but I’ve heard no mention of it for years and years.”

  “But what are you seeking here?” Mary stepped close to the lip of the stream, peering over the worn stone edge at the water. “Is it that?”

  She was pointing down. In the moving water, firmly supported by metal braces from the stony edge, sat a new structure. It was a waterwheel, and it was turning steadily under the pressure of the flow.

  “That will do excellently well for a beginning.” Darwin hunched low, and examined the wheel’s construction. “Skillfully made,” he said after a moment. “And recently set in place. There is a natural steady flow from the river, but I think temporal variation comes mostly from tidal change. Now then. Here, things become more interesting.” He was moving with the lantern, following a pair of long black lines that ran from the wheel’s center, into a complex tangle of broken gears and wheels, then finally appeared again to run across and up the slippery wall. He bent low, and scraped at the surface of one of the lines with his thumb nail. There was a glint of metal beneath.

  “Where do they lead?” Faulkner asked. Mary Rawlings was holding his arm, in real or simulated nervousness, and the older man was enjoying the whole experience. “What’s above there? It must be part of the hall itself.”

  “It is.” Darwin followed the lines up with the lantern’s beam, until they disappeared into the ceiling. “We are exactly beneath the pedestal. If it were present, the Heart of Ahura Mazda would stand right above us.”

  “But where’s the Guardian?” Mary asked. “Weren’t you expecting to see Sharani here?”

  “I was hoping to do so. I was not expecting it.” Darwin ventured along the stony side of the underground stream, leading the way quietly through dark and filthy culverts. Water dripped steadily onto their heads from dark wooden beams and brick arches, the latter furred over with mildew and patches of grey fungus. All the while, the rain-fed stream murmured along no more than a yard from their feet.

  “Aha.” Darwin paused, half a dozen paces ahead of the rest. “Something new. Bring the other light, Joseph, and let’s take a close look.”

  He had reached a forlorn heap of garments, bright scarlets and purples dulled by lantern light. Beyond them, the stream branched into three smaller tributaries.

  Darwin lifted a glittering robe and turban. “The servant of Ahura Mazda. Vanished into thin air, as Colonel Pole suggested, at this very point.” As he spoke, a cold air blew through the tunnel, rippling the cloth in his hand.

  Pole gave a little grunt and retreated a step. “Disembodied. Then we can follow him no farther with human agents?” His voice hovered between hope and disappointment.

  “We cannot,” said Darwin cheerfully. “However, that does not mean he cannot be followed by inhuman ones. Friend Daryush Sharani has made a most serious mistake. He should have thrown his outer garments into the river, rather than leaving them here. Don’t touch the rest of these clothes.” He turned to Faulkner. “Joseph, we require assistance. Can you find me a pair of bloodhounds?”

  “At this hour? Erasmus, you certainly ask a lot of me.” But Faulkner sounded delighted, and after a moment he turned to Crosse. “Richard, you know Tom Triddler’s place, up past the Mansion House. Would you go there, and ask him for a pair of his best tracking hounds? Tell him it is for me. You’ll have to bang on his door, because he’s half deaf. But keep hammering. He’ll come.”

  Crosse hesitated, turning his head to one side and opening and closing his mouth. Finally he nodded and hurried away into the darkness without speaking.

  “I just don’t know what’s got into Richard tonight,” Faulkner said. “He’s behaving very odd. So witless and confused, you’d think he was in love.”

  “He is certainly that,” said Darwin. “With Miss Florence Trustrum. Is it not obvious to you? He regards her with the hopeless yearning of a mortal for a goddess. Knowing your own fascination for such things, I am only astonished that you did not observe it long since.”

  He walked slowly back along the tunnel to the place where they had entered, and squatted down on the wet stone. And there, as unconcerned as though he sat in Faulkner’s warm parlor, he began to examine in detail the mass of gears, wheels, wires, and pulleys that sat directly beneath the pedestal in the Exhibition Hall.

  “Broken,” he said after a few minutes. He held up a handful of components. “Quite deliberately, and beyond repair. I conjecture that several elements have also been removed. Without hints from its maker, its purpose is hard to divine.”

  “Never mind that old junk.” Jacob Pole had been wandering moodily around, staring down now and again at the dark water. “I was hoping for excitement and treasure, not standing around in a smelly damp sewer. Are you really expecting a dog to be able to track down here, in the cold and dark? Tracking dogs need light and air.”

  “Not at all, Jacob. That is an old wives’ tale.” Darwin raised himself laboriously to his feet. “A good tracking dog will follow a scent as well at night as during the day, as well for a nonliving scent as for a living spoor, and as well underground as on the surface. If we are looking f
or a mystery tonight, we will find none greater than a hound’s nose. It possesses subtleties for distinction of odors that we can scarcely imagine. How many centuries will it be, think you, before mankind will produce a machine to rival the nose of a dog for sensitivity and discernment?”

  “Well.” Pole sniffed. “I’m not persuaded. We’ll see, soon enough. But I’d always been told that if you took a tracking hound into a dark, airless place—”

  He was interrupted by a cry from above, and a sound of clattering footsteps overhead.

  “Here they come,” Darwin said. “And now perhaps we can observe one of the wonders of Nature.”

  Richard Crosse came down the ladder first, carrying a mournful-looking black hound with jowls and ears that hung below its lower jaw. After him came a rumpled man carrying a second dog.

  “Late work, Tom Triddler,” said Faulkner cheerfully. He rubbed his hands. “No matter, I’ll see you’re well rewarded for it. Good trackers, are they?”

  “Best I have, sir.” Triddler put the dog down and swept off his cap, to reveal a totally bald head. He put the cap on again hurriedly. “Cold down here.”

  “But that will not interfere with the hounds?” Darwin asked.

  “No sir. Nothing does. Not cold, not dark, not nothing.”

  Darwin nodded to Pole. “There, Jacob. You will see that your fears are groundless.” He turned to Tom Triddler. “Are we ready to begin?”

  “I am, and the dogs are.” Triddler stared around him. “What an ’ole. Wouldn’t like to come courting down ’ere. Got a scent for the dogs, ’ave yer? Old sock, somethin’ like that.”

  “This way.” Darwin led them to the heap of discarded clothing. “Any one of these should do it.”

  “Aye. Perfec’.” Triddler drew the two hounds to the pile and pointed down. The dogs snuffled and wagged their tails furiously, while all the people clustered round them. “They’ve got it now—an’ off we go. Go on, now, Blister. An’ you, Billy, on yer way.”