The Specimen (20 page)

Edward looked at Gwen. Why shouldn’t he just go to her now? No words would be needed. He felt a familiar drawing in, as though he were a hawk moth, in awe of her scent, unable to resist.
He came up close to her, his fingertips touching the bare skin of her arms, and she gave a half jump, half shiver of surprise.

“Won’t you let your hair down for me again?” He spoke the words right into her ear and pulled the thin, ebony rods from the coils piled onto her head. The rope of hair fell
heavily down her back, but she hardly moved, barely gave any indication that she had heard him speak or that he had touched her. After half a minute her head turned in his direction. He saw her
lips moving, the words lost in the amphibious chorus.

“In London the bells will all have rung out.” His lips touched her face. “Loosen your hair for me again. This rain is perfect for it; do you remember what you said?” He
grasped at her and fumbled underneath her clothes.

“Do you think about England that much?” She pulled away from him, detaching his fingers like so much sticky cobweb. “What is that?” They were roaring at each other now.
The moment, if it had indeed been a moment, was gone. They both strained to hear. Edward cupped his hand around his ear, and made out two distinct male voices, one Scottish and one American.

The Scot was saying, “I keep telling you why it’s Old Year’s Night, and yet you still insist on calling it New Year’s Eve, which any reasonable man would agree is
tomorrow night—tomorrow being the first day of the new year.”

“Oh, indeed; just as you like,” came the other voice.

Gwen and Edward both tensed at the sound of the heavy treading on the boards of the verandah. What must we look like? she thought. “Give me those,” she said and took her pins back
and piled up her long plait, jabbing everything into place. She tried to alter her features into something resembling a welcoming gaze. But still, she thought, we must look like two startled
rabbits. The men careened around the corner.

“Ah. A Happy New Year’s Eve to you good people both.”

“I must apologise for Mr Coyne. He means to wish you a good Old Year’s Night.”

Their arms were draped around each other’s shoulders; it was impossible to tell which man was being supported or if the stance was of mutual beneft.

Inside, with the shutters closed, it was just about possible to converse properly. The younger man spoke first; he wore a pair of spectacles designed to shade his eyes from the sun. The glass
was tinted Madonna blue, the frames sparkling slivers of silver. They gave his eyes a most astonishing aspect. Gwen had to acknowledge the effect, even though it did seem a little bit affected.

“Vincent Coyne, glad to make your acquaintance, sir, ma’am, on this fine New Year’s Eve.”

“Gus Pemberton, also pleased to meet you, madam, and sir, on the last night of the Old Year.” His voice was playful, like a rolling sweep of cool air.

“Scales. As a matter of fact you are both wrong.”

“Wrong? Hey, we got the wrong day. Ha! Sorry to bother you. We’ll just go squish some more of those toads and come back tomorrow.”

“No.” Gwen said. “Don’t go now that you are here. We just meant that clocks at home have already struck the hour.”

“Have you been to every house in the neighbourhood?” asked Edward, a little warily.

“Oh, no, sir, indeed we have not. We have been sent by your friends in town. Mrs Grindlock is a fine, fine lady, for whom I have the very highest regard.”

“Excuse him, he isn’t always like this.”

Gwen said, “That’s perfectly all right, Mr Pemberton. I’m sure half the population of the town is in much the same state.”

“I can assure you the numbers amount to more than half.”

Edward breathed in through his nose. “Perhaps some coffee.”

Gwen looked away and grimaced inwardly at Edward. Mr Coyne slithered into a lacquered cane chair. Pemberton turned to Gwen. “I’m sorry we startled you. We did call out but the
frogs—”

“—drowned us out.” Vincent tried to sit up. “
O da Casa
.”

“O of the house?”

“It’s the proper thing to do, in the jungle you know.”

Gwen suspected that Vincent was suddenly not quite as drunk as he had been outside. She smiled at him. “I haven’t been into the jungle yet, so I am still ignorant about that kind of
thing.”

Vincent’s eyes made an unabashed tour of her person and stopped at her middle, just for a second, before slewing his gaze around the room. “You speak the language, not quite so
ignorant.”

Mr Coyne was extraordinarily beautiful; he wore the whiskers on his chin clipped to a neat point, rather than cultivating the bushy side-whiskers, which, Gwen thought, made most men who wore
them resemble guinea-pigs. Not handsome. Mr Pemberton was handsome; Gwen registered it. The two men were like a pair of elegant butterflies, opposites but perfectly matched; whereas Edward, in
comparison, was like the longhorn beetle grub. She watched his squirming accommodation of the unexpected guests with cool fascination.

Pemberton cleared his throat. “You really don’t have to trouble yourselves with the coffee.”

“Please, it’s no trouble.”

“We don’t like to impose,” said Pemberton.

“You are not imposing. Really, we have made ourselves such hermits; of course, we must offer you something. It is the thing to do, in the jungle, I believe.”

Gus Pemberton laughed. “Yes, indeed, Mrs Scales.” The chorus from outside almost swallowed his words completely.

“Mrs Scales,” Vincent sounded very serious, “I have had a letter from a good friend of mine who tells me that—”

“Later, Vincent, later,” Gus Pemberton said.

“Here we are then, gentlemen, a pot of coffee for the weary and travel-worn.”

“That was very clever of you, Edward.” Gwen couldn’t help it, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I had made it before, and, would you believe it, the pot was still hot.”

Thank God for these people, thought Gwen. She studied Mr Coyne’s profile. I feel that I know him; or rather, that I am meeting him at last. Mr Coyne’s blue spectacles glimmered in
the lamplight as he pushed them up the bridge of his nose. A beautiful young man—but for all his show, perhaps a bit nervous. The air between the four of them felt charged with something
alive. Gwen felt its invisible form move between them, sinuous, shifting, elemental. She thought, this is the creature which has been following me and watching me. It knows my heart, and it knows
too that my heart is leaving Edward.

They were still drinking coffee, and Edward had grown tired of his guests. Still, he listened to the conversation to which he felt he could not contribute.

Gus Pemberton took out a fat cigar and asked if anyone minded if he stepped outside to fumigate the frogs.

Gwen watched Gus Pemberton and Edward go out onto the verandah. Then she said, “Mr Coyne, you mentioned a letter earlier.”

Vincent cleared his throat. “I believe we could be of mutual beneft to each other regarding the person you wish to find.” He lowered his voice a little and glanced in the direction
of the verandah where Gus Pemberton had managed to get his damp cigar to light. In a confiding tone, he said, “I have only mentioned to Gus half of what it could mean. You’ve read
Darwin, most likely a given that you are aware of his sparrows.” He paused, and Gwen nodded, mentally correcting him, unsure of how flinches could have any relevance. He continued, “It
all has to do with isolation. I have been paddling through the forests, and to cut it rather short, Mrs Scales, I believe it is perfectly possible for an isolated tribe of a type of
pre-human
people to exist within.” Gwen raised her eyebrows but remained silent. It was beginning to dawn on her that perhaps Mr Pemberton’s friend really was mad, as he had
jokingly suggested. She wanted to ask whom the letter was from. She remained politely and silently attentive, but she didn’t want to appear complicit, and certainly didn’t want to
prolong the discussion.

Vincent took her silence as a cue and continued, “With no contact hitherto from the outside world, what’s to say that a missing link can’t in fact be found right here in the
Amazons?” Clearly, he expected her to say something.

“Mr Coyne, are you saying that you think there exists a living example, a specimen of
proof
that human beings are descended from apes?”

“Yes! that’s it,” Vincent almost squealed. “Wouldn’t it be the most fantastic discovery? Darwin provides the theory; and Vincent Coyne provides the
proof.”

Gwen swallowed. “Mr Darwin, if my memory serves me correctly, has not exactly, not quite yet, at any rate, proposed the theory you suppose he has. And, in any case, I am sure you are aware
that others have already said it. The person, for instance, who published
Vestiges
almost twenty years ago.” Vincent stared at her. He seemed baffled. Gwen thought, He doesn’t
know about that book. In fact, she hadn’t read it either; she only knew about it because of a similar but less personal discussion with Captain Swithin. She said, “Perhaps it was not
available in America.” Vincent seemed not to have heard her.

He said, “It is only a matter of time. Everyone is aware of what he is getting at. Everyone is talking about it. He’s testing the water. He’s making little amendments here and
there with every new edition. Eventually, when he thinks we’ve had time to adjust to the idea of natural selection—he’ll put in a new chapter about Man.”

“Mr Coyne, I think if and when that chapter is written, then it will be proposed, as I understand it at any rate, that you cannot prove the theory by finding living specimens. I think
that, perhaps, in time, Mr Darwin may suggest that apes and humans have what we might call a, a common ancestor, who has long since been laid down in the stones of time. As far as I can see, during
the process of natural selection, if you choose to take up the theory in earnest, the links are changed with each generation, so that we are a long line of descendents and ancestors. We cannot live
at the same time as our ancestors, Mr Coyne.” Gwen felt herself becoming breathless. “An isolated tribe of people, however primitive-seeming, cannot be our ancestors; they would merely
be an isolated tribe of people with certain attributes, probably attributable to external circumstance.” Gwen felt that she had tied herself up in a tangle of theory she knew little enough
about, but she hoped that Mr Coyne would understand that she wanted no part of his plan. He was unnerving her. She threw up her hands in feigned defeat and looked to the verandah to see whether Mr
Pemberton was coming back inside.

Vincent Coyne laughed, and Gus Pemberton stepped into the room saying, “He at least had the sense to do that.”

Cornwall. February 16, 1861.

Euphemia’s meetings were reduced to two or three evenings a week. Isobel Scales came once a month. The unbridled and undiminished audacity of the woman. Once a month
Euphemia’s Spiritualist meetings morphed into a game of Cheat; only two of the players were aware of the game or the lack of rules and the other players concealing tricks or double bluffs.
Euphemia’s contacts with the other side were leaving her uncharacteristically ravaged with fatigue.

Isobel Scales brought with her a variety of new clients in various states of mourning and others with a nose for something a little sensational. She had a reputation for punctuality and
preciseness in everything. So, it was with some bemusement that Euphemia found herself entertaining Isobel Scales at ten-thirty in the morning in the middle of the week. It was shocking to see her
so garishly dressed. She wore the front of her skirt flat in contrasting layers of mauve and yellow silk, whilst her rump displayed a voluminous puff of satin and taffeta ruffles in alternating
rosettes. The whole thing jarred on Euphemia’s eye, and she wondered what kind of imbecile could design such an outrage.

“I’m disturbing your reading,” Isobel perched her puff, settling herself into the nearest chair. Euphemia followed her gaze to the book lying splayed open on a small card
table. She took it up and closed it, not bothering to mark the page. The polished calfskin felt cool.

“It’s just a trifle. I haven’t managed to get along with it yet. Epistolary novels!—I have it on loan from Mrs Coyne. She was anxious to hear my opinion of it.”

“Mrs Coyne, you’ll have to remind me if I have made her acquaintance, I—may I?”

Euphemia pretended not to have noticed Isobel’s request and kept the book in her lap, covering it with both hands.

“Oh, but you must remember poor Penelope Coyne.”

“Perhaps I do. I must confess that I have an ulterior motive for calling on you like this.”

Euphemia relaxed and her fingers stopped palpating the embroidered hem of her napkin. Perhaps Isobel would soon go away. She hadn’t taken off her gloves.

“I have a little occasion to organise at our London house next week and I wondered if I might borrow your cook. Of course, we can come to some sort of agreement; I would be happy to do a
fair swap, if you are willing. It is just that none of the staff have your cook’s particular talent in the art of
petites bouchées
, and I did so want something a little more
extraordinary—though all of my kitchen staff are quite excellent in their own ways.”

Euphemia did not know whether to be flattered or outraged. Instead, she sat in a fug of agitation and listened to the cranking internals of the hall clock mark the half hour. If she did not
manage to get the tonic into her tea in the next ten minutes she would have to excuse herself. Her fingers tapped out a syncopated tinkle on the saucer.

“I have no need of a confirmation immediately, of course. Has your cook ever been on a locomotive, to your knowledge, Miss Carrick? I am afraid it inspired in me a fit of terror the first
time I stepped up into a carriage. Heaven knows we should be used to them by now.”

Heaven knows a lot, thought Euphemia, putting her hand into her pocket and fingering the stopper on the bottle of laudanum.

“My dear, don’t rouse yourself on my account. There is plenty of time, after all.”