The Darwin Conspiracy

by John Darnton

she liked his big brown beard and she laughed, saying that he reminded her of Papa in many ways, not the least of which is his devotion to work and his ideals. I could not bring myself to talk about him at length, because I thought my shaking voice would betray me.

  At night I have difficulty sleeping. I thrash about in bed and awaken often. Sometimes I find myself dripping in perspiration from the warm night air that blows in from the garden, bringing the scent of honeysuckle. I have strange thoughts, which I am loath to confess, and most vivid dreams.

  Recently I have taken to reading Goblin Market just before bedtime. It arouses feelings that are difficult to explain. The refrain sung by the horrid little goblin-men—‘come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy’ —echoes through my sleep along with visions of ripening oranges and strawberries and peaches, all dripping their juices.

  The only person to whom I might confess my love is Mary Ann Evans but, alas, I have not seen her for some months now. And even to her, I would not reveal his identity.

  2 July 1871

  Despite my vow to do so, I have not totally given up my efforts to shed light on the events on the Beagle and the underlying cause of Papa’s misery. I do not go out of my way to unearth clues, but I pick them up and examine them when they fall into my lap. I think life is like that: it is when one stops exerting oneself that one often succeeds in attaining a goal. So it was with my sleuthing.

  Over the years I have heard of a secret dining club established by Mr Huxley called the ‘X Club’ ( lately, whenever I hear of it, I think of my own Mr X). The club contains a handful of eminent scientific thinkers and activists like Messieurs Hooker, Spencer, Lubbock and Busk. As far as I can tell, its main purpose is to infiltrate the Royal Societies and the rest of the scientific establishment to form a beach-head for Papa’s ideas. Yesterday, some four club members came to Down House for the weekend and, listening in on the after-dinner conversation, I was shocked to learn that one raison d’être for their visit was to collect money for poor Mr Alfred Wallace, who is perpetually in financial straits. I had heard that the club was pressing the government to give Mr Wallace a pension of some £200, but it now appears that Mr Wallace was demanding such a pension.

  ‘He made it crystal clear,’ Mr Huxley said. ‘To put it bluntly: if he doesn’t get it he will expose everything.’

  I immediately thought back to another conversation concerning Mr Wallace that I overheard years ago. What could he possibly know—and threaten to reveal—that would make it so important to buy his silence?

  The club members agreed to do it. Papa himself said he would inform Mr Wallace and, in carefully worded code, tell him in no uncertain terms that he ‘must not murder our baby’.

  I later looked at his accounting book and saw that he entered the monthly sum under the label ‘miscellaneous household expenses’, a category he is customarily loath to employ.

  6 July 1871

  What a coincidence! Here it was only four days ago that I wrote in my journal that clues often come unexpectedly and then this afternoon I discover the single most important clue to date.

  I was looking through a stack of Papa’s papers in his study—with his permission this time, since he is considering writing an autobiography and had asked for help in its preparation. Papa was seated in his leather chair on the other side of the room. Imagine my surprise when from out of the papers dropped an artist’s sketch from the Beagle ’s voyage. It was done by Conrad Martens, who at one point served as ship’s artist. Staring at it, I was immediately struck by something that was not right: in a flash it put the lie to Papa’s story about what had happened on that fateful voyage.

  My hands started to tremble. I chanced a look at Papa, but he did not notice my agitation—he was busily making notes for his book on facial expressions in men and animals. I looked again at the sketch of Papa and another man standing on either side of a tree. The man was identified as Mr McCormick. Its significance was unavoidable now that I had grasped it. Were it introduced as evidence in a trial, it would instantly undermine the alibi of the accused and lead to a verdict of guilty.

  Ever so quietly I put the sketch between two blank sheets of paper, which I slipped inside a book. I then told Papa I needed to rest from my work—a pretext he was always quick to honour—and left the study. I went to my bedroom and hid the book under my bed. That is not a good hiding-place, though, for the housemaid is certain to find it.

  I know what I shall do. Relying upon the same theory that I used in disguising my journal—the theory of hiding in plain sight, which proved so useful to me during our childhood games of roundabouts—I shall secrete it in the house’s central place. I have a hiding spot there, a loose board that no one else knows about.

  8 July 1871

  The sketch has pricked my curiosity, causing me to resume my investigation. I have conceived of a bold plan to get to the bottom of the mystery once and for all. Miraculously, things seem to be falling into place. I do believe that Fate is on my side—perhaps the gods are conspiring to finally shed light on the dark doings of four decades ago.

  Our family has been planning a retreat in the Lake District, where we have taken a cottage. I have contrived with Hope Wedgwood to go there five days earlier on the pretext of helping to ready the cottage. With just the two of us and some servants in attendance it should be easy for me to slip away one morning and travel north to visit the family of R.M., for I am convinced that he is the key that will unlock the past. I heard his name mentioned in connection with Mr Wallace only last week (it was during that same conversation wherein I learned of Mr Wallace’s extortion scheme). I found the family’s address in Papa’s old papers and have already written ahead to request a quick visit without, of course, revealing anything of my purpose. I asked them to send a reply to me at the cottage in Grasmere rather than here.

  I remember Papa once berating me for ‘spying’. Little does he know how proficient at it I am!

  Hope and I leave early tomorrow.

  10 July 1871

  Success at last! But why do I not savour my triumph, feeling instead a hollowness inside? The answer is not hard to come by: now that I know what occurred during the notorious nuit de feu, I have learnt that Papa really is something akin to an imposter. His capacity for deceit far outstrips my own.

  Shame on him! I now understand his feelings of guilt which have taken such a toll on his health all these long years.

  Why do I feel so miserable, having been proven correct in my suspicions? I believe that on some level I wanted my imaginings to be false, that without knowing so I had hoped in some corner of my heart that Papa might turn out to be the great person the world thinks him, instead of this, a trickster who has built his edifice of renown upon a bed of quicksand. Fie! I do not know how I shall be able to look upon him without registering disgust—that is not too strong a word for what I now feel towards him.

  The mystery was not so difficult to solve, after all. R.M.’s family wrote that I was welcome to visit, though they confessed curiosity as to my motive. I reached them easily in little over two hours by changing trains at Kendal.

  They live in a small house in the centre of town. The woman died two years ago, at seventy-five, and as R.M. had never returned from abroad, the house has been taken over by a cousin or two, whose relationship to each other and to R.M. I never got straight, though they share his name. They received me cordially and served tea and cake, and when I stated my purpose—that I had come out of interest in their relative and wondered if he had left them any papers or souvenirs—they warmed to my enterprise. The man searched the attic and after half an hour returned with a sheath of yellowed letters bound together by a blue ribbon. He said that R.M.’s family had saved his letters from abroad, written those many decades ago, and he gladly turned them over to me for my perusal. The cousins appear distinctly uninterested in R.M.’s adventures on the Beagle. I got the impression that they never read the letters and in fact did not know or care much about him whatso
ever.

  Indeed, they did not seem well informed about my father’s work, as they asked me no questions about him, which I’ve come to discover is unusual in social settings. They certainly did not know that one of the letters contained information of singular importance; nor did I tell them or register any reaction of surprise upon the reading of it. I handed it back as casually as if it were a blank piece of paper and watched the man replace it in the bundle, which he then tied up again.

  During the entire train-ride back, my mind was reeling. What should I now do? Do I dare to confront my father with my new-found knowledge of his treachery?

  11 July 1871

  How unfathomable life is; how Fate does play with us!

  Imagine my surprise this morning when I went out for a walk alone and, crossing a gorgeous sun-lit meadow, saw a man walking by a grove of trees, looking lost in thought. Upon drawing closer, the figure appeared familiar. My heart suddenly leapt up into my mouth when I realised who it was—none other than my X ! He saw me at the very moment I spotted him and looked equally surprised and—if I may say so—more than a little pleased. He quickly joined me and as we walked side by side I discovered that his presence here was not a coincidence, for he had learnt that our family was to spend a vacation in Grasmere and had arranged to rent a cottage nearby. At that, I thought I might die of happiness on the spot, but I was careful to disguise my joy. Looking down, he asked when the others would arrive, and I told him they were due the day after tomorrow. At that, he looked up towards the sky, which was a brilliant blue, and breathed deeply, almost as if he were sighing.

  I could scarcely believe my good fortune, for chance had truly smiled on me. Under no other circumstances could we have been alone together. To be by his side without others present was what I dearly wanted and yet I was innocent of having brought it about. I had done nothing other than take a morning promenade; luck alone had guided my footsteps and his. My friendly angel had even conspired to leave Hope back in the cottage. Yet even so, I knew that I should not be there. And the knowledge that I should have immediately returned to the cottage after a polite greeting made our meeting somehow more thrilling.

  We soon found ourselves headed into the woods. As the trees cast the path into shadow, he asked if I were chilled, and though I was not, I for some reason replied yes. At that he kindly removed his jacket and placed it upon my shoulders, touching them as he did so. I felt my blood quicken. We walked deeper into the woods and although the trees were tall oaks, for some reason I thought of fruit-trees and the goblins’ call: come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy.

  A branch lay across the path. It was hardly an obstacle, but he stepped across first and reached back to take my hand and help me over. Afterwards he did not let my hand go but grasped it tight. I felt the strength of his fingers around mine and a sensation of being overpowered that affected me deeply.

  Soon he dropped my hand, only to slip his arm around my waist, drawing me closer to him. As we walked I could feel his thigh against mine. All this was done without speaking and so nonchalantly that it seemed the most normal thing in the world. I did not feel normal, however. My insides were churning and I found it hard to breathe.

  He suggested that we stop and rest for a bit, to which I could only nod my assent. Much to my surprise, he stepped off the path to one of his own making. As we were now holding hands again, I could do naught but follow.

  Indeed, I felt I had very little will of mine own to support me and would at that point have followed him wherever he led. We ducked under the branches and after only a dozen or so steps we came to a small clearing the size of a house, entirely surrounded by tall trees. In the centre was a patch of sunlight on the grass. Here he took his jacket from my shoulders and spread it on the ground that I might sit upon it. I did so. Quickly he was by my side, and before I knew what was happening, he turned towards me and took me in his arms and kissed me hard upon the lips. I thought I would faint. I tried to push him away, but not very forcefully, and he seemed to discern that my resistance was feigned. For in truth I did not want him to stop. At that moment the oddest thought popped into my head—I remembered years ago kissing the Lubbock boy in our hollow tree-trunk. I felt my blood flowing hotly as it did then.

  X did not pause in his seduction. He kissed me again and this time I returned his ardour, placing my hand upon the back of his neck and holding his face close. I felt his hands upon me. I did not know what to do. He kissed me again. It lasted so long that I became dizzy. I felt his hands again, more insistent now. Finally, I was able to push him away. He had a strange look upon his face, almost angry—I would not have recognised him had I chanced upon him in that state. He suggested that I lay back to rest but I demurred.

  After some time we began talking, about this and that, inconsequential things—I honestly do not remember, my thoughts were such a jumble—and we both pretended that nothing extraordinary had happened.

  But it had. I feel I shall never be the same. I have drunk from some deep well of whose existence I had only dreamt.

  We left the clearing and this time his hand upon mine felt natural. He began talking excitedly and used an endearment: ‘angel’, he called me. I liked the sound of it, though it was a strange term to use. I felt nothing like an angel at that point.

  When we parted, he suggested that we meet again tomorrow, at the same place, for another ‘walk’. He gave me such a look that there was no doubting his intention. I readily agreed. He then stared me full in the face in such a way that I blushed. I cannot describe the look that followed, except to say that it did not seem to be one of affection; indeed, much as it pains me, it seemed the very opposite.

  I am now writing this in bed at night. All day I have been in a state of confusion and excitement. I know I love him and I believe he loves me in return. I do not know for certain what will happen tomorrow, but I am sure of one thing: whatever happens, whatever actions my emotions dictate, I shall do nothing that I will later come to regret.

  CHAPTER 18

  On the train to Preston, Hugh cradled Beth in his arms while she fell asleep. He stared out at the dreary Midlands moonscape of Birming-ham and Manchester and imagined it during Victorian times—the coal mines and slag heaps, the steaming pits and belching smokestacks.

  Most of it was abandoned now, used up and sucked dry, a burnt-out battlefield. He thought of Josiah Wedgwood’s china factory on the Mersey Canal, the fortune it spawned that enabled Darwin to putter about with beetles and ferns and shells. The might of industrial England, conferring leisure, power, and the right to rule, had gone the way of Ozymandias’s statue.

  Lizzie’s second notebook was a godsend. He and Beth had discussed it late into the night, lying next to each other in bed—how the new pieces fit into the puzzle.

  At least they now knew why Lizzie had become an atheist and why she had changed her name to Bessie.

  “It was the whole trauma of FitzRoy’s suicide,” Beth said. “She felt guilty for it and so she wanted to reinvent herself. She swore off spying and abandoned her journal.”

  “So why did she resume it six years later?”

  “She fell in love. As she says, a woman in love has to confess it to somebody, even if that somebody is only a blank piece of paper. And love can have a curative effect, even if it’s directed at a scoundrel.”

  The shock was discovering the identity of X, which became obvious once they added up the clues: he was a progressive, a friend of Ruskin’s, and affiliated with the Working Men’s College. In addition, he was some one known to the Darwin family, who visited them at home and accompanied them on outings. Beth was the first to say X ’s name aloud—she pronounced it under her breath and later she would claim that somehow Goblin Market had figured in her deduction. “Litchfield!” she said.

  “My God, it’s Litchfield. Etty’s fiancé.”

  Hugh knew instantly that she was correct. And it filled him with foreboding. In analyzing her correspondence, Beth had noticed that th
ere were two long gaps when Lizzie had written no letters to anyone. She mentioned them to Hugh. One gap came shortly after April 1865, when FitzRoy died and Lizzie fled to Germany and her first journal ended.

  The second came in mid 1871—and here the second journal also ended.

  Hugh knew what had occurred then: Etty had married Richard Litchfield and Lizzie had gone abroad again, this time to Switzerland.

  “Beth,” he said. “You better face something: if Lizzie is your great-great-grandmother, then Litchfield is your great-great-grandfather.”

  “That bastard!” was all she said.

  But now, with some of the missing pieces filled in, the puzzle was even more frustrating.

  “She discovered what the nuit de feu was,” Hugh complained. “Why the hell couldn’t she just write it down?”

  “I know. It’s exasperating.”

  “She makes it out to be some sort of singular event that affected the whole outcome of the voyage.”

  “Well, at least we’re getting somewhere. We know who R.M. is. And the key to unlocking the mystery is that letter that Robert McCormick sent home. Lizzie tracked down his family, found the letter, and everything fell into place.”

  “It apparently laid out the whole story of what happened on the Beagle—and the story was disturbing enough to turn her against her papa.” Hugh got out of bed, retrieved the photocopy of the journal, and searched for the passage. “Here it is: she calls him an impostor and says he fills her with disgust. Strong words.”

  “The blackguard is Litchfield, who ‘deflowered’ her, as they put it so eloquently back then. That last entry—it’s heartbreaking. She’s about to run off for a rendezvous with him and she has no idea where her passion is taking her.”

  Again, Hugh thought of the historian as God, the speeding car. The accident was about to happen. He didn’t want to dwell on it.

  He pondered the sketch by Martens—significantly, it was of Darwin and McCormick together. It was important enough for her to steal it from her father. But what did it show? She called it evidence that could lead to a verdict of guilty. Evidence of what? Guilty of what? And then she had hidden it in a “central place”—no, that wasn’t the exact wording. He opened the journal again and found the passage. She hid it in