The Darwin Conspiracy (30 page)

‘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 whatsoever.

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 reac
tion 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.

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.