Pole laid down the final sheet. Across from him his companion did not seem to have moved, but almost half the pie had vanished and the vegetable tureens were much diminished.
Darwin sniffed and shook his bewigged head. “A mystery, sure enough. And a clear cry for help. But I heard nothing that could not have been read aloud in the presence of Dr. Withering.”
“True enough. But there is more. And it is more personal to the family.” Jacob Pole tapped the letter. “Milly didn’t spell it out to me, because she knew I know all about it, but she has other worries on Kathleen’s behalf. You see, two years ago Kathleen was engaged to another Dunwell. That was Richard, Brandon’s elder brother. But he stabbed a man to the heart, was tried for it, and sentenced to death. The day before he was due to be executed he broke out of his cell and escaped along the cliffs east of Dunwell Cove. When he was cornered he jumped into the sea rather than be recaptured. Three days later his drowned body was found at low tide, trapped in the rocks and the tidal ponds. Kathleen was of course heartbroken by the murder, the trial, the verdict, and then the suicide. So now, when there’s talk of a phantom, and people say it’s the ghost of dead Richard… you can see how poor Milly’s thoughts are running.”
“She wonders about a ghost, which I can believe in no more than I am persuaded of the existence of a phantom who performs so mundane a function as the robbing of coaches.”
“Perhaps.” Pole was at last helping himself to food, while conscientiously avoiding Darwin’s eye. “But if it’s no ghost, then we need another explanation.”
“Which in the circumstances is quite impossible to provide.” Darwin reached far along the table, to slide within easy reach a round of soft cheese and a bowl of dried plums and candied peel. “Jacob, I love a good mystery as much as the next man, and perhaps a deal more. But if you have heard me say it once, you have heard me say it a hundred times: In medical analysis, there is no substitute for personal presence. For if medication and surgery form the lever of medicine, examination provides the fulcrum of diagnosis which allows them to act. One must observe at first hand: the jaundiced eye-ball, the purple or livid lips, the sweet or necrotic breath. One must examine the stools and the urine, and palpate the cool or fevered skin. Without that direct evidence, a doctor has nothing but hearsay. And in many ways, the curious events involving your cousin and her daughter are little different. So what, to continue the medical analogy, are the facies of the situation? I can list a dozen facts which may be important, and concerning which we know nothing. Without facts to sink them, a thousand ideas can be safely launched. Yet you would propose that we sit here in Lichfield, and conjure an order of events in west Cornwall? I say, that cannot be done with any shred of plausibility.”
Pole nodded gloomily. “I suppose you’re right.” He said nothing more, but went on quietly eating. After a few seconds Darwin reached across to pick up the letter and began reading it over.
“When is the wedding?” His words were hardly intelligible through a mouthful of Caerphilly cheese and plums.
“February 12th—ten days from now.”
“Hmph. Do you know the bridegroom?”
“Neither him, nor his dead elder brother. In truth, the whole Dunwell family are strangers to me.”
“And your niece, Kathleen?”
“I was present at her birth. She deserves the best husband in the world.”
“And finally, your cousin Milly. Would you describe her as an imaginative woman, one with an active fancy?”
“Quite the opposite. She’s direct and straightforward, with a bottom of good sense.”
“Hmph.” The silence this time went on for much longer, until at last Darwin stood up and walked over to the window. He peered out, looking up at the sky. “Ten days, eh? And it is sixteen days to the full moon.”
“That’s right.” Pole was suddenly smiling. “Ample time. It would be four days each way, six at very worst. We would be there and back, and you’d not miss a single meeting of your precious Lunar Society.”
“That is as well. Our group is overdue for a meeting with Mr. Priestley, reporting on his latest experiences with dephlogisticated air. All right.” Darwin was absentmindedly wiping greasy hands on the tablecloth. Once the decision had been made he moved at once to practical details. “Let us assume that Dr. Small and Dr. Withering will serve as locum tenens in my absence. It will take at least four days to reach Dunwell Cove, but such a timetable presumes that we will be able to obtain a coach to take us to the service running south from Stafford. In such weather, that may not be easy.”
“Ah—well, as it happens that’s already taken care of. I arranged for a two-horse dray to collect me here, first thing in the morning. It has ample room for two.”
“Indeed.” Darwin raised his thin eyebrows. “And what of your necessary baggage?”
“It’s all with me. You see, I thought that I—”
“Say no more.” Darwin raised a plump hand, and leaned far back in his chair. “I now wish to ruminate on the fact that my actions are apparently so easily dictated.” He waved at the table, where half the pie remained untouched. “And you must eat, instead of pecking like a sparrow. Come, Jacob, no protests. You know the rule of nature: Eat or be eaten. I do not relish the thought of a winter travelling companion who is weakened by lack of nourishment.”
He scanned the table top, a frown on his face. “And while you do your share, I will inquire as to the status of our hot dessert. Ginger pudding was promised.”
* * *
The contrast was striking. As far west as Launceston, winter ruled. The road surface was iron-hard and stable, the crust of snow breaking barely enough to give firm support to a horse’s hooves. Hedgerows, formed from black tangles of leafless hawthorn, marked the converging lines of highway across the white and rolling landscape of the Bridetown Hills. Finches, robins, and starlings, perched within the hedges, were fluffed out to grey and brown balls of feathers. They did not move as the coach passed by. Within the vehicle the passengers sat just as unmoving, swaddled from toes to ears. The interior, no matter how much the occupants might struggle to block each crack and chink of door and window with rags and clothing, remained ice-cold.
But beyond Launceston, the road skirted left of the brooding, craggy mass of Dartmoor. The way to the south lay open. Within a few miles, the snow cover melted magically away, while at the same time, as by coincidence, the sun broke through and began to disperse a long-held low overcast. The road surface softened as the coach proceeded, and at last at the foot of the hedges the snowdrops and first yellow crocuses stood in open bloom. Beyond the boundary hedgerows, birds and rabbits busied themselves in the soggy fields.
“By the grace of the great Gulf Stream.” Darwin had abandoned the broad hat that had protected his head since leaving Lichfield, and for the past few miles he had been peering out through the coach window at the rapidly changing scenery. “The Stream laps the whole of the western peninsula, to the point where winter in Cornwall and Devon never approaches the severity of our inland experience. A few more miles south, and I swear we will see full Spring. But even in Lichfield, we still have reason to be grateful for the Stream’s existence. Were it not for that benign presence, all England would be colder than Iceland.”
Jacob Pole did no more than grunt. For three days he had said little and eaten less, contenting himself with making the atmosphere in the closed coach hideous with strong tobacco, that he first cut in thin slices from a purple-brown solid block, rubbed well between his hands to shred and flake it, and stuffed into a curved meerschaum pipe so well-used over the years that its golden exterior had turned almost black. He lit his pipe with the aid of a small oil lamp, constantly burning for just that purpose. Smoke rose up in pungent blue-white spirals to fill the closed coach. Darwin, as confined in movement as his companion, had grumbled about the nauseating stink as he scribbled both verse and prose in his bulky Commonplace Book, but between rhymed couplets and engineering ideas he had eaten
and drunk enough for two from the hamper that sat next to him on the seat. His precious medical chest, too bulky to travel within, was lashed to the coach’s flat top.
“And because it is never true winter in the extreme southwest,” Darwin went on, “the native flora must surely contain members of the vegetable kingdom not encountered farther north and east. Think of it, Jacob. I may return home with the basis for a whole new pharmacopeia, derived from plants that I have never seen before.”
Another grunt was Pole’s main reaction, until at last he removed the pipe from his mouth.
“Blast it, Erasmus, I don’t have your spare padding. If you’re planning to keep up the geography and medical lectures, you might at least do it with the window closed.”
“So that you can once more asphyxiate me with your fumes? You are fortunate that there are no other passengers, less patient and long-suffering than I. Also, the day will come when you regret your emaciation.” Darwin patted his belly in a satisfied way. “This is not mere padding. It is valuable reserves, against the possible vicissitudes of Nature.”
But he pushed the window to, as tightly as it would go, and leaned back in his seat. “Five more minutes, Jacob, and it will be time to dot your pipe and light your brain. That last milepost shows us to be only one mile short of St. Austell.”
“I’m aware of that. Why d’ye think I’ve been sitting here steaming, the past half-day?”
“Are you afraid that your cousin may have alerted others to our impending arrival? I thought that you in your letter were to warn her against such action.”
“I did. And I rely on Milly completely. So far as anyone in Dunwell knows we are no more than guests for the wedding party on the bride’s side.”
“So why the long face?”
“Her reply created that.” Pole patted his chest, but made no move to draw a letter from within his quilted and buttoned overcoat. “Too much gratitude, in advance of results. She seems to think we’re gods—especially you.”
“And why not? We are as much gods as any that exist.”
“You don’t want to go talking like that around the people at Dunwell Hall. Especially Brandon Dunwell. According to Milly he’s a very pious, God-fearing man—a bit too much, I suspect, for her taste.”
“And therefore far too much for mine.”
“No doubt. But the real problem is, I’m afraid Milly is hoping for a lot more than we can deliver. I can tell from her letter, she’s thinking we’ll arrive at Dunwell Cove with a full explanation. And you told me yourself, you have absolutely no ideas about the phantom.”
Darwin’s full mouth pursed. “I said no such thing. If you will but recall our conversation on that first evening, I said that I had a thousand ideas. That is still true. But until we arrive at Dunwell I have no sieve, no way to retain truth and riddle away plausible nonsense. But that will change. In fact, it is already changing.”
While they were talking, the rhythm of the wheels was taking on a different cadence. The rumble of movement over town cobblestones replaced the crunch of gravel of a well-kept country road.
The coach was arriving, a few minutes earlier than the driver’s estimate, at the St. Austell coach house. The wheels were still turning when Darwin opened the door. He swung himself to the ground, lightly for a man of his size, and stared around with eyes gleaming.
They had arrived on a private vehicle, not a regular service, and the only person waiting at the coach house was a straw-haired boy nine or ten years old. Seated on a bench, he was enjoying the new-found sun and staring at Darwin with open curiosity.
“A bad start.” Pole, climbing out more slowly and gesturing to the driver to unload their cases and the medical chest, glared at the lad. “Nothing here. I was hoping we’d learn something in St. Austell and have a suggestion to offer Milly.”
“And so we may. Make no mistake, Jacob, as a witness a young boy is far to be preferred to a grown man or woman. He has fewer preconceptions as to what he believes he should see.”
Darwin walked across to the lad, who was still gawping at the new arrivals. He reached into his pocket, and fished out a shilling.
“Roight, sir.” The voice was full of the singing tone of the far West Country, and at the sight of the coin the boy had come to his feet at once. “You’ll be wanting me to handle the cases, sir?”
“No. Just answer one or two questions.” Darwin sat down on the bench and gestured for the lad to do the same. “What’s your name?”
“Georgie, sir.”
“Well, Georgie, we will be taking the coach from here to Dunwell Cove. Will it be arriving soon?”
“Yes, sir. He be here any time now.”
“Is it always the same coach that is used for Dunwell Cove, or are there several?”
“There’s only the one. Same coach, and mostly same horses.”
“And it is always driven by the same coachman?”
“Yes, sir. Always the same man, it be, for a long time now.”
“What is his name?”
“Jack Trelawney.” Conflicting expressions ran across the boy’s open face. “Stinkin’ Jack, some around here be callin’ him.”
“But it is not a fair name?”
“No, sir. He were once powerful smelly, a while back. But not now.”
“I see. You like Jack, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, that I do.” Georgie blushed, a fiery scarlet like a sunburst. “He never thrazzes me for nothing, not like some as drive the coaches.” He looked down, then turned to glance up at Darwin through thick eyelashes that any girl might have envied. “He’s not being in trouble, is he?”
“No trouble at all, so far as I know. But would you point him out to me when he comes in?” Darwin stood up, dropped the coin into a grubby hand, and was rewarded with a shy smile.
“Yes, sir. I’ll point ’im out. Thank’ee, sir.”
Pole had watched and listened from over by the coach, which had already been turned and provided with fresh horses in preparation for its journey back to Taunton. “A good shilling down the drain,” he grumbled, as Darwin returned to his side. “And we’ve not been in St. Austell above five minutes.”
The Amazing Dr. Darwin Page 12
