The Amazing Dr. Darwin

by Charles Sheffield

  “Knowing all?” Darwin started up in his chair. “Why, man, I know nothing of the most fascinating part of this whole business: what is your machine, that could render a would-be thief totally helpless, and how does it work? That’s what I want to know, not the details of glass rubies, stage magic, or deception.”

  Crosse averted his eyes. “That I have sworn to myself I will never reveal. It has done enough damage already. If it were ever to be broadcast…”

  “It would not be.” Darwin was wriggling in his seat with excitement. “Not by me, or Jacob, or Joseph. I swear that what you tell us will go no further. On that you have my word as a physician and a human.”

  “What of the others?”

  “Well, I suppose.” Faulkner glared at Darwin. “Damn it, Erasmus, don’t you think that Jacob and I ought to be allowed to make up our own minds? I know that to find out what’s going on here, you’d be quite happy to pawn our souls.” He turned to Pole. “What do you say, Jacob? I will go along with this, if you will.”

  “Right.” Pole nodded to Richard Crosse. “Be assured of our silence, and speak on. Anything you say to us will never be breathed to another mortal. Though so far as I’m concerned, I’m as sure as a pig’s tail curls that I’ll not understand more than two words of your explanation.”

  “I wish that were true. But it is elementary, at the same time as it is mysterious.” Crosse went to the desk and took out paper, pen, and inkwell. “I have results, but no sound basis for a scientific explanation. A turning wheel, like the waterwheel that you looked at last night, bearing magnets both fixed and moving, will produce a flow of electricity in loops of wire—the long copper lines, that you saw beneath the Exhibition Hall. And that flow, passed through other coils that I took out of the machine and threw into the river, becomes a force strong enough to bind a man immobile. I attached one wire to the metal plate around the pedestal holding the Heart of Ahura Mazda, and one to the metal rim of the protecting glass case, in such a way that I could disconnect it from the side of the pedestal itself without others seeing my action. It was connected thus.” He sketched a series of simple diagrams in black ink, labeling each one as he did so. His trembling hands grew steady as he worked. “I assure you, I had tested this machine a hundred times on myself. It freezes the subject, with an indescribable feeling both pleasant and unpleasant at once. Free movement is impossible, but when the flow ceases there are no harmful aftereffects, merely a continued tingling like pins and needles.”

  “And that is what you did to the Earl of Marbury?” Darwin was peering at the sheet, his eyes alight.

  “Exactly that—with no ill result afterwards, to him or to anyone else who tried the same. It seemed a perfect device for protecting the Heart of Ahura Mazda, the word of which would quickly spread all around London and assure the total success of the hoax. As soon as that game was over, I intended to explore the electrical effects that I had discovered until I had plumbed their deepest meaning. But after the death of the thief yesterday…” The face of Richard Crosse had filled with life and energy when he talked of his work. Now it clouded.

  “I cannot explain why it proved fatal,” Darwin said softly. “But I can suggest several avenues of thought that should be followed. First, the thief was wearing shoes that were broken and wet. As you and I both know, damp increases electric flow. More important, I suspect, was the swollen and thaw-fed condition of the underground river. If the rate at which the waterwheel turns dictates the level of the charge received by the pedestal, our wretched thief could have received an impulse many times that of your earlier experiments. Enough to blister his hand, and enough to provide a fatal jolt to an already weakened heart.”

  “Your suggestions are ingenious. But they will not be the basis for future experiment. Never again will I pursue such reckless follies.” Crosse fell silent and hung his head as Florence Trustrum came into the room carrying cups, saucers, and a large silver pot of hot chocolate. He looked up only to give her a quick smile of thanks as she placed the tray at his side.

  “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, after she had left the room. “You are right. I did not check sufficiently the natural variations in the electric force. A man is dead who should be alive.”

  Darwin raised his eyebrows and glanced at Pole. “Jacob?”

  “Me?” Pole favored Darwin and Crosse equally with his scowl. “Why, damn it, I’m not going to do anything at all. If a thief and a rogue is dead who should have been arrested, I say, good riddance. It’s time saved for the hangman.”

  “Very well. Joseph?”

  “I agree with Jacob. And it’s no concern of mine if the honorable citizens of London Town flock to see a hoax. From what Florence said, she and the rest more than got their money’s worth. I don’t want any more thaumaturgical exploits in this house—even if you call it science, Richard. But for the rest, my opinion of you has not changed. You are still welcome to stay here with me.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I must go back to Somerset.” Crosse gave the closed door a long and unhappy look. “I should go at once.”

  “Go if you must, if that is your decision,” Darwin said. “But if you others will permit it I would like one private word with Mr. Crosse. Alone. And it is nothing, I assure you, to do with electricity.”

  “And thank the Lord for that.” Jacob Pole stood up and moved toward the door. “I said I wouldn’t understand all your technical talk, and I was right. Electricity. What a waste of time and effort.”

  “Agreed.” Faulkner was following Pole through the doorway. “Does anybody understand this thing called electricity?”

  Darwin and Crosse looked at each other. In unison, they shook their heads.

  “We do not, Joseph.” Darwin smiled. “Not yet. For it is as your great countryman, Mr. Franklin, puts it so well in one of his letters: ‘If there is no other purpose for the electricity than this, it may serve to make a vain man humble.’ ”

  Jacob Pole paused, the door knob in his hand. “Then you should get Mr. Crosse’s machine, ’Rasmus, and take a double charge for yourself.”

  He closed the door before a response could be offered. Darwin shook his head and tried not to grin. “Pardon me, Mr. Crosse. I have known Colonel Pole for a long time. If I may again become more serious, my previous inquiries of you were motivated by scientific curiosity. What I say now has no such origin. You may choose to regard it as an unwarranted and unconscionable intrusion in your private affairs.”

  Crosse had been quietly tearing to pieces the diagrams he had drawn of his equipment. “Continue,” he said. “I have at least been provided with fair warning.”

  “Very well. The subject is Florence Trustrum. You look on her with favor?”

  “Is it so obvious?” Richard Crosse’s voice was bitter. “I try to hide it. I look on her with favor, and more than favor. But as you see, I am not made to—to ‘court an amorous looking glass.’ ” His hand went to his left shoulder.

  Darwin snorted. “And yet your namesake, Richard, that you now choose to quote, ascended to the throne of England and wed the woman of his choice. Stop your self-pity. You are as whole as any man in this house, if you but think yourself so.”

  “I cannot entertain that thought. I will be returning to Somerset as soon as the weather permits—if I am free to do so.”

  “You are free. But I urge you not to go. You should stay here, and determine if Florence feels an equal warmth for you.”

  “She has no need of me. A new suitor is already here. You saw him.”

  “I did. I suggest that he is no threat to you in Florence’s eyes. Mr. Murchison is a pleasant young man, and probably an honest and an honorable one. I wish him no hurt, and I should not be taking sides. But let me say this: the world is full of pleasant, handsome men, as harmless and as simple-minded as Jamie Murchison. You are different. You have that rarest gift, the one that marks our transition to a higher being. You have creativity; an inspired inventiveness coupled with true scientific insti
nct.”

  “A creativity that kills. Dr. Darwin, I am flattered, I cannot deny it. But there are others far more ingenious than I.”

  “No, sir.” Darwin spoke with great authority. “Trust me in this. There are all too few such, in any time and place. London today does not contain five such men and women. If you do not pursue the great problems that you alone can see, who will pursue them? Mr. Faulkner, or Miss Rawlings, or Colonel Pole? Never. We may have the desire, but we lack the divine touch. Perhaps you think that your own children will do what you will not? Maybe. But only if they exist. You, and people like you, have a duty to the world: you must marry, and love, and propagate.”

  Richard Crosse removed his hand from his left shoulder and stared quizzically at Darwin. “Yet you are single, sir.”

  The older man paused. It was many seconds before he answered. “Aye. For now, but not I think forever. And I have children already, from a former marriage. However, you make an excellent point. I should be truer to my own principles. I will remember that.”

  Darwin stood up, patted Crosse’s shoulder, and walked across to the door. On the threshold, he turned. “I am going to join the others now. Florence Trustrum will be back here in a few minutes, to collect the cups and the chocolate. She is fond of you. Say to her what you will. But say it.”

  “Sir, one moment.” Crosse hurried to Darwin at the door, his pale face suddenly resolute. “I will try, surely I will try. But you should know that I have no gift for honeyed words. I have tried ten times to tell Florence how I feel, and each time I have failed.”

  “Then, Richard, you must try an eleventh time.” Darwin smiled his gap-toothed smile. “Courage, man. Nature leaves no space in the world for failures. You can win. See here.” Darwin reached into his pocket, and pulled out a glittering chunk of red glass. “Here is your own creation, the Heart of Ahura Mazda. Look on it when you speak to her. Surely the man who could conceive this can win a heart to replace it.”

  Crosse nodded, and took the jewel. Darwin finally closed the door, turned, and headed toward the rear of the house. He walked without noticing where he was going, absorbed by a new and intriguing thought. If Richard Crosse did not try again and did not win, why then, that very failure made him unfit to sire descendants. And the same idea could be applied to every field of activity, for animals as much as for men. A grand principle was at work, Nature forming what it needed for future generations, by an inevitable and continuous weeding of the present. It was happening now, and it had happened always.

  Erasmus Darwin walked on, right past the room where the others were waiting for him. The smell of fresh-baked bread drew him by instinct toward the kitchen, while his mind strayed far away. Already he was wondering how his new thoughts could be framed in their most general form.

  THE PHANTOM OF DUNWELL COVE

  “Salt ham, bread, sauerkraut cabbage, and near two pints of beer to slake the thirst. So what, then, would you expect?”

  Erasmus Darwin seemed to be addressing the question to his own big toe. His bare right foot and broad calf were propped up on a wooden stool in front of him, while he stooped forward to examine the reddened and swollen toe joint. It was no easy task. He was grossly overweight, with an ample belly that hindered bending. The face that frowned down at the offending foot was fat and pockmarked, redeemed only by its good-natured expression and bright grey eyes.

  “You would expect exactly what I got,” he went on. He was dabbing ether onto the joint, preparatory to covering it with a waiting square of oiled silk. “For have I not told you, Jacob, that the surest way to induce an attack of gout is through the consumption of ill-chosen food and drink? Salt is bad. Beer is bad. Claret and port are pure poison.”

  Jacob Pole took no notice whatsoever. He was prowling between the fireplace, where a good coal fire showed an orange heart, and the narrow shuttered window. He paused to peer out of the crack in the shutter as another gust of wind hit the house, banging on the thick door like a gloved hand.

  “Damnable,” he muttered. “Down the Pennines, and before that straight from the North Pole. And it’s snowing again. We ought to be in warmth and sunshine. What man in his right mind would live in a place like this, when he could head south and enjoy the sun by day, and be lulled to sleep by warm breezes at night?”

  “Aye. The south, where an Army colonel could develop malaria, to leave him shaking and shivering three or four times a year, regardless of weather.” The square of silk was in position, and Darwin was carefully pulling on over it a woollen stocking. “I have Jesuit-bark in my chest, Jacob, if you need it. It is my professional opinion that you do.”

  “Later, maybe.” Pole touched his hand to his jacket pocket, then returned to lean on the mantelpiece. “A slight case of trembles, but I’m in fair shape provided that I don’t catch a chill. Better shape than you, from the look of it. Salt ham and beer! What prompted you, ’Rasmus, after all your lecturings to me?”

  Darwin pulled on his soft boot, wincing for a moment as the sore toe felt the touch of leather. “Hunger, Jacob, pure hunger. What else? I was on the road early this morning, in anticipation of the bad weather that you now see. I knew of the childbirth problem at Burntwood, but the case of blood poisoning at Chasetown was a surprise and the supplies of food that I had taken with me in the sulky were gone by midday. Salt ham and beer were all that were available; yet a working man needs fuel. He cannot afford to starve.”

  “Be a while before that happens to you.” Jacob Pole nodded at Darwin’s belly. “And you were right about the weather. It’s absolutely foul outside, and it’s not even dark yet. I’m wondering.”

  “Wondering what?” Darwin was smiling knowingly to himself.

  “Wondering how I’ll ever get home tonight. There’s more snow in the sky, and the road to Radburn Hall was hard going even early in the day.”

  “You should not even think of it.” Darwin stood up, pressing his right foot tentatively on the rug. “What sort of host would I be, if I sent a friend out to freeze on a night like this? Moreover, Elizabeth will surely not expect you. Do one thing for me, Jacob, as a favor to my sore toe. Go and tell Miss Parker to set an extra place for dinner.”

  Another buffet of wind hit the stone walls of the house, but Jacob Pole had lost his gloomy expression when he hurried away toward the kitchen. He was back in just a few seconds.

  “Erasmus, she said you already told her that I would be staying to dinner, and that just the two of us should be present.”

  “And was I wrong?”

  “No. But how did you know?”

  Darwin was grinning, a friendly grin even without front teeth. “You arrive at my home while I am away on my rounds. That is unusual, but not unprecedented. You await my return. Very well. But when I come here accompanied by Dr. Withering, you say scarce a word to either of us. And when he goes, you stay. Add to that your touching of your jacket pocket, not once but half a dozen times. Is it not obvious that you have something that you wish to show to me, and say to me, and that it is something calling for privacy?”

  “I do, and it does.”

  “And it is not the delicate matter of a medical opinion.”

  “How the devil can you know that?”

  “Because if it were, you would have spoken long since. You share my high opinion of Dr. Withering.”

  “Blast it, do you know everything?”

  “Very little—until I am told.” Darwin led the way through to the dining room. Earlier there had been a noise of small children, but now the room was empty. Two places were set, facing each other across the broad oak table. In the middle sat earthenware tureens of parsnips, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, with between them a gigantic steaming pie, twenty inches across and already cut into ten slices. Jugs filled with milk and water stood at the end of the table, along with a concession to the visitor in the form of a pitcher of dark beer.

  Jacob Pole sniffed the air. “Squab pie? My favorite.”

  “With apples, onions, and clov
es. But before you assign me powers beyond the natural, I will admit that this was to be my dinner long before I knew you would be here to share it.”

  Pole pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and sat down at the table. “A pie that size. What would you have done if it were just you at table?”

  “My v-very best.” Darwin’s voice took on the slight stammer that came often when he was joking. He had already lifted a mammoth portion of pie onto his plate and was reaching for the tureens. “Now, we are better equipped for conversation. At your service, Jacob.”

  But the gaunt colonel shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to read a letter aloud to you before I say anything else. The only thing you must know before I begin is that the writer, Millicent Meredith, is my cousin. Milly is a widow, and four years ago I helped her with a family problem. Although we have always been regular correspondents, it is so long since we last met.”

  Darwin, his mouth already full of pie, reached out for the envelope. It had been opened, sliced cleanly at the top with a sharp letter opener. He slid out four pages of thick ivory-white paper, written on both sides in purple ink.

  He handed the pages to Pole but kept the envelope, examining it carefully before placing it on the table to the left of his plate.

  Pole, after a preliminary clearing of his throat, began to read.

  Dear Cousin, You have often in the past urged me to follow the advice of your esteemed friend, Dr. Darwin, and to discard supernatural explanations for any event, regardless of appearances—

  “She has my ear and sympathy already.”

  “Aye. I thought that would catch you.”

  So it is for this reason that I am writing to you now, when my own rational faculties no longer seem able to operate. First, let me say that the plans for Kathleen’s marriage have been proceeding apace, and I trust that you have received already the official invitation. Since Brandon Dunwell is eager for the ceremony to follow tradition, and to take place like all Dunwell family marriages at Dunwell Hall, Kathleen and I have decided to remain here in Dunwell Cove until the wedding. Brandon’s family, who have already begun to arrive in anticipation of the event, are of course staying at the Hall, but I judge that inappropriate for the bride and her mother. Kathleen, you will be glad to hear, is in good health, although rather thoughtful in spirits. I hope that this is in contemplation of the major change which is soon to occur in her life, rather than to the events here which so perturb me. Lest you accuse me of wandering, let me move at once to those events. The coach ride from St. Austell to Dunwell Cove is about seven miles, Dunwell Hall being on the direct route to the cove and less than one mile away from it. The coach runs regularly, but only twice a week, and it stops at the Hall as necessary to pick up or discharge passengers. As I understand it, the service has been this way for many years. Ten days ago, a party of three of Brandon Dunwell’s relatives arrived from Bristol. They boarded the coach at St. Austell, and rode in it to Dunwell Hall. When they arrived, they found that each of them had been robbed of their personal valuables, which since they carried jewellery appropriate to a wedding exceeded ten thousand pounds in value. This loss took place in spite of the fact that each of the travellers insists that the coach did not stop anywhere on the journey, nor did anyone enter or alight. The coachman confirms this. Also, since even here in Cornwall the January evenings are often chilly, the coach doors were closed and the window openings all muffled. That was mystery enough. However, six days ago the episode was repeated identically with the arrival of another couple of Brandon’s relatives. The loss in their case included golden brooches and diamond bracelets, removed from the chests and hands of their wearers and of great value. Again, both travellers insist that the coach did not stop, nor did anyone enter or leave the coach, and again this is confirmed by the coachman’s own account. It was then that I heard the first whispers around the village of Dunwell Cove: That the phantom who robbed the coach is none other than Brandon’s dead brother, Richard, whose spirit haunts Dunwell Hall and the road outside it. Naturally, any muttering of such a nature is profoundly distressing to Kathleen, who I am sure by now has heard it. The rumors continue to grow, since only last night a third party of travellers was robbed by the phantom. They were travelling as before from St. Austell to Dunwell Hall, and again they were friends and relatives of Brandon Dunwell. That is the situation as it obtains today. Brandon is sullen and furious, claiming that someone is seeking to ruin the celebration of his marriage. His relatives are equally angry, in their case at the material loss. But if I am honest, the only one for whom I care is Kathleen, and illogical as it seems, she has somehow taken onto herself the blame for the appearance of the phantom. Yet she swears, and she has never yet lied to me, that she has no idea what can be happening. And so, dear cousin, I am casting my net blind over the ocean of my relatives. I am writing to you, and to certain others whom I trust and who are of wide experience, to ask if you can offer any explanation as to what has been happening on the coach ride between St. Austell and Dunwell Hall. Despite your urge that I remain always skeptical of events beyond Nature, the invisible phantom who haunts the coach appears able to perform acts so inexplicable, and yet s cannot conjecture. As you well know, dear Kathleen is my only daughter. She appears about to make an excellent marriage, to a man who is the sole owner of Dunwell Hall and of all its extensive lands and properties. And yet… and yet I know not what. You once helped me greatly, and I have no right to presume again upon your time and good nature. But any suggestions, or any thoughtful advice that you may be able to offer will be gratefully received by—your loving cousin, Milly.