Authors: Martha Lea
The Specimen (17 page)
“See how its fat body writhes so slowly in my hand, Gwen. It would have stayed inside this rotting log for years, perhaps, before finally pupating. It’s one of the longhorn beetles.
I’ll find one for you.” My God, she wanted to say, I know a beetle larva when I see one. Who on earth do you imagine you are talking to?
She tried to hear the forest around them under the sound of his voice. It seemed incredible that a man who had not even known the Cardinal beetle in his own country should now be telling her
about exotic Coleoptera. The morning chorus had calmed some time ago, but around them here and there were isolated bird calls and the ever present hum of insect life in the air. Gwen played a game
with herself. How many things could she spot before Edward pointed them out to her. She knew other people used these paths. There were villages deeper into the forest, though what she regarded then
as deep forest would be as nothing by the time she would have finally left Brazil. It would not be unusual to meet someone, even though they had not, so far. I am being silly, she told herself. But
the sensation that she was being observed, like the squirming fat larva in Edward’s hand, would not leave her. She watched, rather repulsed, as Edward put the larva into a small vial of
preservative and straight into his collecting bag; its final moments dismissed to the dark pocket of red leather.
She could not believe what he was doing, treating her like some silly young girl out for a walk in the park, pointing out the greenness of the grass or the song of a blackbird. How could this be
the same man she had wanted to spend all her days with? She wondered what it would take to have been able to make him understand her desire to see everything around her in the same state of awe
that he had enjoyed. His being able to name some of the flora and fauna was a clever kind of trick, but she couldn’t see that it served any particular kind of usefulness to his understanding
of the place. The flora specimens they took were identified, housed and despatched to England in the Wardian cases. The butterflies not for his own collection were wrapped in triangles of paper and
sent off to be set by others and placed in private collections. No, she thought, in naming these things, in speaking their names, he is claiming them. As they stood on the high ground and looked
down into a swampy hollow filled with huge arums she tried and failed not to mind as Edward’s tremulous voice told her that they were standing under a Cassia tree. A surge of desire rushed
down through her legs, but it was undirected and confusing. It was not Edward she desired. The heat prickled her neck and back, and her head felt hot in irritation. She grasped his arm, and he
patted her hand saying, “Time to go back? Better not overdo it.”
She clenched her teeth and watched where she trod, and noticed little more than the mango trees lining the road. The feeling that she was being watched disappeared slowly. Perhaps it was just a
monkey, or some animal like that.
After a couple of days, Gwen followed the road again away from the direction of town. She went alone, taking herself into the nearest edges of the forest. She did not tell
Edward about her plans. She told Maria that she was off for a little stroll, that she would not be long. A rush of excitement came over her, and as she turned off onto a path leading into the
forest itself, butterflies danced in the patches of sunlight around her.
Now the light changed; a diffused green was cast over everything. She dared to look up into the canopy. She was at the bottom of a pond and she reeled. Her bowels fluttered. She bent over and
took deep breaths, and stared blinking into the shadows, which somehow contrived to surge before her eyes. The white tips of wings danced in and out of the islands of shade, the rest of the insects
virtually invisible to her unpractised eye. They never went very high. It was, she thought, as if they were pretending to be moths. Upside down, some rested beneath wide, waxy leaves and she put
out her finger, almost touching their closed wings before they took off again to settle out of reach. She retraced her steps back onto the sunnier main path through the forest and was mesmerised by
the sight of several different blue Morphos. There was a very leisurely, luxuriant pattern to their flight; the way they seemed to know where the warm air would facilitate their desire most
effectively. They would twist, mid-glide, like a seagull. No wonder Edward came back so frustrated sometimes. The changing hues of iridescent blue flashed in the sunlight as if they were taunting
her. It was lovely to see these things in their proper context, and she was more than sorry for the burgeoning collection of butterflies in the wooden cases. And yet she wanted to hold one, to see
it as closely, she thought, as the Creator in that moment of inspiration. And then she checked herself, remembering Darwin’s theory. Her feelings and thoughts and learning were tangled and
knotted, so that she didn’t know what she should think or feel, confronted by the magnificence of everything surrounding her. How was it possible to believe and doubt at the same time, to see
connection and disconnection in every object. She was completely overwhelmed—and burst into tears.
And now there was that suspicion again that someone was watching her. She had tried to dismiss it as a benign sensation in her brain. But she felt it more in her back; not only out here on the
forest path but around the house she felt it sometimes. Some days, it was more acute than others. She could not talk about it. Every time she had felt like saying something about it, there had been
the notion that Edward would not take her seriously or think that she was, after all, of flimsy character; a silly female, unable to function satisfactorily in this new environment, suited only to
exist on the banks of the Helford in Cornwall. And sometimes she allowed herself to think that this was true. It must not be true, and yet while she was in awe of her surroundings she wanted to
escape them. She found herself wishing that she would not have to speak to Edward when he returned. Already his voice grated in her mind and tipped her nerves. I am just his facilitator, she
thought. He would not be here without me; no self-respecting man would have agreed to my unequal share in this endeavour. She wondered if this was the real reason she had been reluctant to begin
her part of the bargain here.
She unlaced her boots and tossed them into a corner, pulled off her silk stockings and rubbed at her ankles, then she went barefoot through to Edward’s room and rummaged
in his closet. Maria’s voice at her back remonstrated, and Gwen froze, her hands clutching at the waistband of Edward’s trousers. “You can’t wear a man’s clothes, Mrs
Scales. I’ve got a better idea.”
THE TIMES
, Wednesday, October 3, 1866.
MURDER TRIAL AT THE OLD BAILEY.
M
R Probart for the Prosecution addressed the Jury: “The prisoner is a woman, as we shall see, whose enthusiasm for
immorality in her younger days persists into the present. Following her ill wonts has led her here: Murder. Gentlemen, why are we never surprised in this city when foul murder is committed by a
female of low morals and even lower reputation? Perhaps it is because these two thrive together. Be not deceived by the prisoner’s apparent stature, by her—notable—command of
language; and nor yet by her insistence of guiltlessness. This, gentlemen, is a wily female cornered, who would stop at nothing to get what she wants.”
At this last, Mrs Pemberton leaned forward. “I will have you retract every last slanderous word, sir,” before she was reminded by Mr Justice Linden that she must,
“internalise her outbursts, however well founded she believed them to be”. The Clerk was not asked to strike the prisoner’s remarks from his notes, and nor were the members of
the Jury advised to ignore them.
In response to the Prosecution’s statement, Mr Shanks for the Defence said: “Observers of this case may be forgiven if they have thought, up unto this moment, that what we are
trying to set out for examination is a simple case of a lovers’ tryst gone horribly, murderously wrong. The murder victim, the late Mr Scales, as you will come to see, treated the prisoner,
Mrs Pemberton, with deviousness and subversive intent from the moment he laid eyes on her; this, you will see, is true. He lured her away from her family home, from the security and safety of her
known world under false pretences. We know this to be true, for we know that Mr Scales was already a married man, and having no intention of enlightening the young Mrs Pemberton to this fact,
allowed her to believe that in travelling with him to Brazil, she would eventually become his wife. It is a familiar tale, but in finding herself unwittingly cast in the tawdry plot, Mrs
Pemberton, her passion high, one might assume, would, one might assume, seek revenge at the most convenient time and not, Gentlemen, wait, wait, wait and wait more long years until she was under
the gaze of the entire City of London to commit a murder she might so easily have done many years before. Think on it, if you please, Gentlemen. In attempting to untangle the ghastly threads of
any murder, one must cast his mind in the role of the perpetrator. A cold and calculated act, from a person as level and as intelligent as the prisoner, Mrs Pemberton—would it result in
such an obvious mess? Would she have allowed herself to have no alibi? The obvious answer, of course, is that a woman as level and intelligent as Mrs Pemberton is not the murderous type. The
crime, Gentlemen, does not fit the accused, and it does not fit the accused in such an obvious manner that I wonder, like the prisoner herself, and indeed many others, that she was charged with
the crime—if there was a crime—at all. Life, real life, is not always as neat as we would like it to be. Mrs Pemberton was unfortunate in her acquaintance with Mr Scales from
beginning to end. It seems that, even in death, Mr Scales has contrived to leave his mark upon her. Mrs Pemberton happened to have called upon Mr Scales on the day preceding the night he was,
allegedly, murdered. This small fact has cast such aspersions on her—and why?”
Witnesses were then examined before it was stated that the Jury should be taken to see the house where the body of Mr Scales was found.
Gwen could barely breathe in the only evening gown she had brought with her. It had seemed such a ridiculous thing to pack into her trunk. It dug into her armpits, and her
bosom was pressed painfully inside it.
“Mr and Mrs Scales! Marvellous! Hettie will be so pleased that you have been able to come to our little gathering.”
“Mr Grindlock, good evening. We could hardly not have come; it was very good of you to invite us.” Edward’s speech was as stiff as his collar.
“Not at all, it’s a pleasure to see you again. How are you finding your feet? Getting the feel of the place yet?”
“Absolutely, yes, absolutely.” Edward cast a sideways glance at Gwen and placed his free hand briefly under her elbow. “Collecting’s been most productive.”
“Mrs Scales!” Hettie’s voice floated in a sing-song warble over the room, closely followed by the woman herself, diaphanous and fluttery, in a muslin confection with a silk
stole. She beamed into Gwen’s face and prised her away from Edward’s hands. “Do give Mr Scales a drink, Tristan. Mrs Scales, do come with me, and meet the ladies of our little
amateur operatic society,” she said, steering her away. Leaning into her she said, “It’s such a pity my brother can’t be here—I hope he will be with us by Christmas.
I’m sure you’ll adore him to bits. Tristan,” she called over her shoulder, “you did say, didn’t you, that Marcus Frome will be coming tonight?”
“Indeed, indeed I did, my dear,” he said, “many, many times.” He caught Gwen’s eye and gave her half a wink. His wife caught the tail end of his action, and he
hastily poked a finger to his eye to brush away an invisible fleck. It was misjudged and he injured himself. Hettie admonished him from across the floor with a hint of a frown.
“Someone for your husband to talk to, my dear girl. Marcus Frome is a doctor of medicine, poor man. He has been travelling to the interior, back and forth, back and forth. We could never
pin him down—so committed to his work, you see. Always writing up his papers. Lost now, of course. Here we are. Ladies, you must make our newest member very welcome.”
They had arrived at the far end of the room, where a gaggle of pouchy-looking ladies opened their huddle and drew Hettie and Gwen into the circle.
The names were rattled off like a peculiar mantra, and Gwen regarded each one in turn with a polite smile.
“What are you, Mrs Scales? Wonderful, to have a ‘Mrs Scales’ in our society.”
“I paint. I’m an artist.”
“Oh, yes, we know all about that,” one said with a dismissive air. “But what are you—contralto, soprano?”
“I’m barely passable, is what I am,” said Gwen. “I don’t think I would make a very useful addition—quite apart from my, from our routine being very rigid.
Though it is very kind of you, of course. I am very flattered.”
“Oh, but all the ladies from home are in our society, Mrs Scales.”