The Curse of the Labrador Duck

by Glen Chilton

  The juxtaposition of the cathedral and the adjacent Commandant’s House was unsettling. The Commandant’s House, constructed just a few years after completion of the cathedral, served as the residence of the fortress’s commanding officer as well as the site of interrogation and sentencing of prisoners. Although it was one of the spots allowed by our tickets, I found myself unable to visit the Trubetskoy Bastion Prison, last stop for prisoners before the Neva Gate. Peter’s own son, Alexis, was one of the first political prisoners to be detained there. Poor sod. History tells us that after a period of interrogation on trumped-up charges of treason, Alexis managed to escape, only to be fooled into returning by the promise of a pardon from his father, who had him tortured and beaten to death. Indeed, throughout my visit to the fortress, I could feel the souls of those who had died constructing it and of those who had died evil deaths afterward. Lisa and I walked slowly and spoke quietly; my camera stayed in its bag.

  Leaving the fortress, we recrossed the Neva, and found our way to Decembrists’ Square, the spot where Russia’s first revolution was quashed on December 14, 1825. At the inauguration of Nicholas I, rebel forces, intent on installing a constitutional monarchy, were routed. Some of the rebels were executed and a whole lot more were exiled to Siberia. The one unavoidable feature of the park was the huge statue of Peter on horseback, dressed in a Roman toga and capped with a laurel wreath. Peter, not the horse. The horse was busy stamping on a very large snake that somehow represented treason. The statue, commissioned by Peter’s wife, Catherine, and executed by sculptor Étienne Falconet, was erected in 1782. For reasons not explained in the book, Peter’s right arm was extended in a level salute. Lisa figured it out. “It’s like an amusement park ride. He’s saying, ‘You must be at least this tall to forge an empire!’”

  The park had its gentle side that afternoon. When a young Russian girl dreams of her wedding day, she must envision an early Friday afternoon in late June. She must imagine a silver-covered book full of photos of her fairy-tale princess dress, with the trees of Decembrists’ Square as a backdrop. The park that afternoon was stuffed full of brides. With a quick scan we spotted twelve brides in white and one in hot pink. Thirteen grooms must have been somewhere in the park, but, being almost irrelevant on the big day, they blended in with all the well-wishers in gray suits. This was a day about blushing brides. Flashes popped everywhere, and I pulled out my camera, wanting to be part of the revelry. I wanted to see how many brides I could get into a single photograph. No matter where I stood or how I twisted, four was the best I could manage. I briefly contemplated trying to get a bride to pose with me and The Beano but decided against it. I was having enough trouble with simple expressions like “Гдe ближaйший OTдeлeHиe Mилиции?”

  Only a fool would claim that Russia has beaten back all of its demons. Her system of governance could use some tweaking, the economy is still shaky, and the environment is decidedly crappy in places. However, when a nation is blessed with a citizenry with an indomitable will, a wealth of natural resources, a vision of greatness, and a spirit that can shove thirteen brides into one small park, success cannot be far off.

  Glen Chilton,

  Dept. Biology,

  St. Mary’s University College,

  14500 Bannister Road, SE,

  Calgary, Alberta,

  Canada

  T2X 1Z4

  Dear Glen,

  CONGRATULATIONS! I am delighted to say the entry you sent to the BEANO CLUB page has been featured in the comic. This means that you have won FREE Bronze Membership to the world-renowned BEANO CLUB!

  So that we can enrol you in the club, we’d like you to simply fill in the accompanying form and send it back to us in the return envelope provided. Remember—you don’t need a stamp.

  Once we have received the filled-in form, we’ll do the rest and send you your brilliant BEANO CLUB goodies.

  Well done again and welcome to THE BEANO CLUB.

  Best wishes,

  Euan Kerr

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Curse of the Labrador Duck

  Some endeavors are doomed from the start. Think of the Tower of Babel, Paul Hahn’s attempts to find every stuffed Passenger Pigeon in the world, or my attempts to learn organic chemistry. Similarly, some people can never figure out when to give up, and admit that an endeavor is well and truly doomed. Think of Captain Ahab and his blood lust for Moby-Dick, or attempts to convince tourists to visit sunny Mirmansk.

  One of the greatest doomed fictional endeavors is that of Caspar Gutman in the novel The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. If you have seen the film version of the story, starring Humphrey Bogart, you will know what I mean. If you haven’t, I’ll save you the trouble of having to rush out to the video store by giving you the gist of the plot, without giving away the ending.

  A beautiful young woman hires detectives Miles Archer and Sam Spade to find her runaway sister. The story about the sister is a ruse and Archer is shot dead. The young woman is one of several characters who will stop at nothing to find a priceless jewel-encrusted statuette of a falcon. Sam Spade becomes entangled with these characters, each hoping to make a lot of money when the falcon is turned over to Caspar Gutman, who has been searching for it for seventeen years. Death and mayhem continue.

  In the search for the world’s stuffed and now extinct Labrador Ducks, a few specimens are probably gone forever. But one specimen hung on the periphery of my vision like some mysterious, elusive, hanging duck-shaped thingy. The story involves a long and horrible chain of dead protagonists. Indeed, there are so many corpses that you may need a score card.

  In 1952, rather late in the day for Labrador Ducks, William E. Glegg of the Zoological Museum in Tring published, in the prestigious ornithological journal The Auk, an article entitled “Discovery of an Unrecorded, Mounted Male Specimen of the Labrador Duck, Camptorhynchus labradorius.” As the first new Labrador Duck to be discovered in over half a century, and indeed the last new specimen to be discovered until my quest began, this was quite a find. In his brief article, Glegg wrote:

  About 1947–1948 it was reported that another specimen of the Labrador Duck had been discovered in England. Mr. R.L.E. Ford of Messers. Watkins and Doncaster, London, who discovered and purchased this bird, informs me that it was mounted and a perfect drake. The specimen was found in a case of various mounted birds of North America in a country house where it had been for about 100 years, but nothing was known of its history…Mr. Ford sold it to a private collector in Britain, but he is not at liberty to disclose his name or the price, which was substantial. Information has reached me from other sources that the specimen was found in Kent and was sold to Capt. Vivian Hewitt for 500 pounds, after being offered to the British Museum.

  The next mention of this duck comes in Paul Hahn’s 1963 book, Where Is That Vanished Bird? Hahn listed the birds by country in alphabetical order, and so after the two birds in Austria came bird number three. Hahn wrote: “BAHAMAS 3. Captain Vivian Hewitt, Derby Island. Male. See William E. Glegg, Auk, 1952…,” after which he recounted some of the details provided by Glegg’s article.

  And that, as they say, is pretty much that. Where does one start, particularly since there is no such place as Derby Island, Bahamas? If you were me, you would write to the Canadian Consulate in Nassau, asking for help. After all, why do I pay taxes if not to occupy the precious time of Canadian diplomats in foreign countries? Mrs. Monique L. Brooks of the consulate wrote back to suggest that I get in touch with Mr. J. F. Bethell, President of the Bahamas National Trust. I did.

  While waiting for a response from the National Trust in Nassau, I attended the American Ornithologists’ Union annual meetings in Cincinnati, presenting a paper about the songs of White-crowned Sparrows, and another about fleas on Song Sparrows. Folks at the Cincinnati Museum of Natural History had prepared an exhibition of stuffed specimens of extinct birds. Among them was a Great Auk with a notice claiming, “The specimen and egg exhibited here wer
e owned by the late Captain Vivian Hewitt and were sold to the Museum by Spink & Son, Ltd of London on 24 September 1974.” This was my first breakthrough. Not only did I know that Captain Hewitt was dead, but I also knew who had handled his affairs. I raced off to find Bob Kennedy, Deputy Director for Collections and Research at the Cincinnati Museum, to ask if they had also purchased the Captain’s Labrador Duck. He said they had not, but was able to provide me with the address of Spink & Son, antique dealers.

  Spink & Son Ltd, must be quite the group; their letterhead suggests they work by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen, His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Natasha de Wiart of Spink & Son passed on to me the address of Miss Patricia McCawley, now retired, who had been the secretary of the late Mr. David Spink at the time when they handled Captain Hewitt’s estate. Miss McCawley wrote to say that she and David Spink had handled all of the Captain’s collections, including stuffed Great Auks and some auk eggs, but no specimens of the Labrador Duck. She went on to tell me the Captain must have sold the duck privately before his death, as it certainly wasn’t among his effects listed by her and Mr. Spink in Nassau before their transport to London. In later correspondence, descendants of Hewitt’s housekeeper, Mrs. E. M. Parry, fondly described Miss McCawley as a family friend.

  What could I say about this duck so far? Captain Vivian Hewitt, now dead, is rumored to have purchased a Labrador Duck in England in the late 1940s for £500. He later moved to the Bahamas. When he died, Hewitt’s collection was sold by the firm of Spink & Son, who have no record of the Labrador Duck. Spink is now dead, and his secretary knew nothing of the duck. So far, I really hadn’t much to go on.

  A few months passed, so I wrote again to the Bahamas National Trust. This time Mrs. Lynn Gape responded on behalf of Mr. Bethell, explaining that they had no information on either Captain Hewitt or his Labrador Duck, but that they had graciously run an advertisement in the local newspaper on my behalf. It read: “Anyone having information regarding a Captain Vivian Hewitt of Derby Island, The Bahamas, should please contact Dr. Glen Chilton…,” with my contact details.

  Less than a week later, I arrived at my office to find my telephone ringing. A gentleman in the Bahamas, whose name I didn’t catch, explained that he had been a colleague of Hewitt’s in the Bahamas before the Captain took ill and returned to England for treatment. The caller asked if I knew that Captain Hewitt was dead and I responded that I did. He then asked me if I knew that the Captain had never married, and I replied that was new information to me. After a lengthy and uncomfortable pause, he said that Hewitt (ahem, ahem) may have left behind at least one illegitimate child (ahem, ahem), and that I might want to be in touch with Major Paul Kenneth Parry (ahem, ahem). Parry…Parry…Wasn’t that the name of Hewitt’s housekeeper? Apparently it was Major Parry who had directed Spink & Son to deal with Hewitt’s substantial collections. The last my informant had heard, Major Parry had been living on Guernsey in the Channel Islands.

  What in the world was I getting myself into?

  Using my directory to members of the American Ornithologists’ Union, I found an email address for Chris Clark in Jersey, not ever so far from Guernsey. Chris graciously snooped around. A couple of days later he told me that although Paul Kenneth Parry had passed away eighteen months earlier, he could provide me with the address of his widow.

  My letter to Mrs. Parry was answered by her son-in-law, John Lipscombe, who explained that about 1965 Major Parry had directed Spink & Son to deal with Captain Hewitt’s collection. John went on to explain that Major Parry had a surviving brother. “But I fear that he will not be able to help you much in your search.” John was also kind enough to pass along my letter to Major Parry’s nephew, Mr. Vivian Davies, who was living in Dorset, in the hopes that he might have some information about the Labrador Duck. In a follow-up letter, Mr. Lipscombe wrote: “Vivian Hewitt was not an organized man and I believe that he was not that with it for quite some time before he died.”

  This is a really cooperative family! Vivian Davies, the nephew of Major Parry, wrote to pass along what he knew of the later stages of Vivian Hewitt’s life, and of his collection of natural history artifacts. He had spoken to his elderly uncle, the surviving brother of Major Parry, “who is a recluse of well over 80, living in North Wales, the only surviving member of my immediate family, who cannot remember any details concerning the duck or its disposal.” Mr. Davies gave me two further potentially valuable leads. He put me on to a biography of Captain Hewitt, Modest Millionaire, by William Hywel, and described it as “an interesting account of a remarkable man.” He also told me that, at the time of Hewitt’s death, all of the bird collections were sent to Dr. Jim Flegg, director of the British Trust for Ornithology at Tring.

  The current Director of the BTO, Dr. Jeremy Greenwood, responded to my letter of inquiry. He had asked several former members of the BTO staff for information, but none could recall coming across a Labrador Duck, and they were 99 percent sure that they would have known about it if such a specimen had come their way. He went on to speculate, or “gossip,” as he said, that the great majority of Hewitt’s vast collections had remained behind in Wales, but when the Captain moved to the Bahamas, he took the best and most valuable objects with him. The BTO had been given the former material, and thus never got to see some of Hewitt’s best items. There was a suspicion that much of Hewitt’s really good stuff in the Bahamas had been disposed of without official record before Spink & Son got to it, if only to avoid taxation, which Hewitt seems to have been particularly keen to avoid. Greenwood also suggested that, whatever the BTO hadn’t wanted, had been purchased “by du Pont and is therefore possibly to be found in the Delaware Museum.”

  Was I any further along in my search? Official sources in the Bahamas were unaware of Hewitt and his duck. It seemed that the Captain had fathered at least one illegitimate child, Major Parry, with his housekeeper. That son, who once lived in Guernsey, is now dead. None of the remaining relatives, including an elderly brother, a son-in-law, and a nephew, were able to tell me where the duck might be. The British Trust for Ornithology got a lot of the Captain’s stuffed birds, but didn’t get his duck. It may have slipped through the net and found its way to Delaware. If not, it may have been given or sold to someone in the Bahamas with no record. Frustratingly, I was still dealing with rumors; I had no solid evidence that the duck ever really existed.

  After a bit of digging, I found that the museum in question is the Delaware Museum of Natural History in Wilmington. Gene Hess of the museum wrote to say that, although they obtained stuffed seabirds and birds-of-paradise from the Hewitt collection, along with a substantial egg collection, the Labrador Duck was not among their holdings. Hess was kind enough to forward my inquiry to Mr. John E. du Pont, founder and former director of the Board of Directors of the Delaware Museum. A response to that inquiry came to me from Mr. du Pont on the beautiful letterhead of Foxcatcher Farms, explaining that the material obtained from the Hewitt collection did not include his Labrador Duck. “In fact, neither I, nor the Delaware Museum of Natural History, has ever owned a Labrador Duck specimen, nor egg, feather, or any part thereof.”

  I was very impressed that Mr. du Pont, clearly an important man of substantial means, took the time to write to me about something as trivial as a Labrador Duck. A few days later, news crossed my desk to suggest that Mr. du Pont may have plenty of time to answer queries like this. A colleague suggested that I check into John du Pont using newspaper services available online. Perhaps you already know the story, but it was big news to me. After thirteen days of testimony, and a further week of deliberation, a jury of six men and six women found Mr. du Pont guilty of the murder of Olympic wrestler David Schultz on 26 January 1996. He was sentenced on 13 May 1997 to thirteen to thirty years in prison. The murder of the 1984 Olympic gold medal winner occurred at du Pont’s Philadelphia estate and was witnessed by the victim’s wife. Psychiatric experts for the defense had argue
d that du Pont believed that Schultz was a member of an international conspiracy to kill him. John’s share of the du Pont empire had an estimated value of $250 million, making him the wealthiest person ever to stand trial for murder in the United States. I suppose his letter concerning the Labrador Duck was written to me from a psychiatric prison. In a curious twist to the story, Mr. du Pont is also famous for owning the rarest and most valuable postage stamp in the world, the Penny Magenta, which he purchased in 1980 for $935,000. That alone might be enough to secure a label of insanity.

  IF YOU ARE really sharp, you will have noticed that, to this point, I had no really good evidence that Captain Vivian Hewitt ever actually owned a stuffed Labrador Duck. There is the statement about Hewitt in the 1951 article by Glegg, apparently based on rumor, and an unsubstantiated repetition of those details in Hahn’s 1963 summary. It is well within the realm of possibility that I had spent six years chasing an unfounded rumor. At this point, it seemed that different aspects of the Labrador Duck story were beginning to converge.

  At the tip of the convergence, I finally made some real progress. When Lisa and I made a whirlwind trip through Scotland, attempting to track down Mr. O’Connell, the owner of a purported Labrador Duck egg, we took the opportunity to drop in on Bob McGowan, senior curator of birds at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. After showing us some great ornithological treasures, including Great Auk eggs, McGowan continued to show us just how really hospitable Scots are. He took us to the museum’s coffee shop, and insisted on treating us. We swapped stories about what brave and honorable men and women ornithologists are, and how wonderful we were to have chosen that path in life. McGowan asked about my work on the songs of birds, and related a story about his wife denying that birds in different regions sang different dialects. I promised to send him some of my publications on exactly that topic. We gradually got around to a discussion of Labrador Ducks.