Bone Idol (3 page)

Henry caught his eyes as if in a question, then seemed to make a decision. “I believe your identification might be a little hasty, sir,” he told the older man.

“The devil you say!” The little clergyman seemed astonished and half-disbelieving, almost as though he was waiting to find out that he was being teased, ready to tilt over into good humour and jovial back-slapping but, at the same time, wary.

Henry shook his head gravely. “It is true,” he said, “that this specimen is remarkably complete. But you will observe, naturally, that the head has been dislocated from the spine and come to rest among the bones of the ribcage.”

“Quite so, but its orientation suggests—”

“I suggest, sir, with the greatest of respect, that the skull has rotated, shifted by millennia of geological pressure, and that this is, in fact, a plesiosaur of the sort we have seen many times before. That this”—he gestured—“is the neck, and this the tail.”

Frozen, thunderstruck, the reverend boggled at his young correspondent. “Wh…?”

Albert was on his knees by the slab of rock before he had even thought about it. He ran his gaze over the bones, examining them one way then the other. He knelt up and regarded the other men with concern. His father was staring at Henry with a challenging, mulish expression. Probably nobody but Albert would have seen the hurt and uncertainty beneath that veneer. Henry’s expression was apologetic but steadfast.

Gently, Albert said, “I think Mr Elkington is right. Look at the articulation of the ribs in relation to the vertebrae. You…well, I believe you have placed the skull at the wrong end of the skeleton.”

His father shot to his feet. “No…” he said. “No, that can’t be right. I wouldn’t make such an elementary mistake.” But he sounded uncertain.

“Hardly an elementary mistake, sir,” said Henry, stiffly but not without kindness. “The great Professor Cope made much the same error with his elasmosaurus some seven or eight years ago…”

“Then all the more reason not to make it again!” He was almost quivering with distress.

“No…no,” he said, more decisively. “Thank you for your opinion, Elkington, but you are, after all, a young man. Inexperienced. I will publish. You will see.”

Arthur Boundry and Henry Elkington continued their discussion of the remains for the rest of the day and well into the night. Albert kept out of their way, worried about his father and feeling restless and confused when he thought of Henry. Henry with the fastidiousness and self-control that somehow—
somehow
—spoke to his soul of hidden depths.

Albert was pleased to see his father back to his old self. He had seemed so withdrawn of late. Seeing the old light and enthusiasm back in his eyes, he felt moved to speak of it.

“Father, what has been troubling you? You’ve seemed so preoccupied—is something wrong?” He paused, wondering whether he was overstepping his bounds. “Money worries…?”

His father smiled. “No, no. Nothing of that sort. I have been a proud, foolish old man—that is all.”

Albert was deeply confused by the easy joviality with which he said it. “Proud?” he said. “Foolish? What…?”

“Do you remember the saurian I started to reconstruct? The plesiosaur, curiously reversed…”

“Of course.” Albert nodded. “
Streptosaurus boundrii
—Boundry’s reversed lizard.”

His father sighed. “A vanity. And that sin was my undoing. Do you recall young Henry Elkington?”

How could I forget him?
Albert nodded, trying not to betray the fact that his heart skipped a beat and his skin tingled when he remembered the straightness of Henry’s spine; the quick, precise movements that characterised the man.

“An up-and-coming man,” the reverend continued. “And brilliant—quite brilliant.

More brilliant, perhaps, than I might have wished.”

Albert frowned. “I fail to see the problem. There are many brilliant men of science in your circle. Why should one more such trouble you?”

“Because he was more clear-sighted than I.” He gave a prolonged, heavy sigh that tugged at Albert’s heart-strings. “He was right, Albert. I had made the elementary mistake of placing the skull at the wrong end of the skeleton. My reversed lizard was not a new creature at all—just an ordinary plesiosaur, badly put together by a silly old man whose ambition outstripped his common sense.”

His eyes were downcast and he had patches of embarrassed colour high on his cheeks.

Albert’s heart hurt for him—he looked so vulnerable, suddenly, sitting there, his follies laid bare. His hands were shaking.

He sought to reassure him. “Then surely no harm was done,” he said. “The error was spotted, and no doubt put right. You must not exercise yourself about something that is over and done with.”

His father still did not meet his eyes. “That’s just it,” he said. “I had already published.

Elkington told me he could not allow the mistake to stand. He would publish a paper exposing my mistake, shattering my reputation in palaeontological circles once and for all.”

Now he looked up, and there was a hectic, feverish glitter in his eyes that Albert did not like. “But I will show him,” he said. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a crumpled wad of papers. “My research!” he beamed. “Every paper circulated on
Streptosaurus boundrii
.

There is only one more remaining to be purchased, and then the matter will be closed. Once I have recovered the last copy of my paper from Wollaston-Franks, I shall burn the infernal things and that will be an end to it.”

Albert thought for a moment. It was all too strange. But he laid his hand on his father’s arm and smiled.

He was perplexed, and more than a little worried.

* * * *

Albert shuffled some papers together, intending to tidy them later. He knelt to sweep the ever-present rock dust from the carpet with a stiff horse-hair brush, and succeeded mainly in making himself sneeze. He was tipping the rock dust into the fireplace when the door banged and startled him so badly he jerked, dropped his brush, and scattered the ashes across the carpet, undoing his half-hearted attempts at housekeeping.

His father stood in the doorway, lips white and compressed, vibrating with tension. His dandelion-fluff hair was in disarray, his glasses slightly askew. Albert, alarmed, took him in with a glance and saw that, despite his pallor, there was a flush high on his cheeks and his fingers were trembling.

He went to him at once, taking his hands in his own, shocked by how cold they were.

“Come and sit down,” he said. “Let me get you a brandy.” He felt quite frantic.

Albert generously filled a brandy glass as his father sank slowly into a seat. He pressed it into the shaking fingers and his father knocked it back in a single draught. He closed his eyes as though in pain and held up one hand to Albert to indicate that he should give him a moment. Albert watched him worriedly as he got unsteadily to his feet and poured himself another brandy. The neck of the decanter clattered against the lip of the tumbler with the shaking of his hands. He swallowed the second brandy as he had the first. Albert gently prised the glass from his fingers and chafed his cold hands.

When he spoke, his voice sounded broken and fragile. Albert was suddenly very aware of how old his father was.

“He won’t sell,” he said.

“Who?” Albert was at a loss. “Who won’t…?”

His father heaved a sigh. “It’s all down to your Henry Elkington.” He almost spat the name.

Albert stared. “He isn’t
my
—”

“His mentor, that blasted fool Wollaston-Franks.
He
won’t sell. He won’t sell the paper.” Although he was furious, he looked small and defeated to Albert’s eyes.

Sir Augustus Wollaston-Franks, Curator of the British Museum. Albert had not known he was Henry’s patron. “Oh, well. Wollaston-Franks is a collector of ephemera—bookmarks and visiting cards. I suppose a flawed research paper, only one copy remaining…”

The old clergyman was not to be comforted. His face was mottled with anger, his colour alarmingly high. He was almost ranting. “Collector
nothing
. This is Elkington’s doing. He means to ruin my reputation for his own gain. To make his own name on that of an older, a better scholar…”

Albert was truly alarmed now, half fearing that his father would work himself up into an apoplexy. He laid a soothing hand on his arm.

“Calm yourself, please,” he implored, shaking inside with emotion. “It is nothing new to be challenged by scientists with views other than your own.”

“It is not a challenge!” his father choked. “It is sabotage! He means to ruin my scholarly reputation, and to ruin me.”

After a few minutes he gave another deep sigh and straightened, his lips set in a determined line, but with a peculiar, far-away look in his eyes that Albert could not fathom or interpret.

“No…” he said slowly. “No, all is not yet lost. The situation can still be remedied.”

“But surely…” Albert was unsure how to handle his father in this new, strange mood, but it was in his nature to be forthright. “Surely the damage is already done? The story will already have circulated. Without a major discovery, something new to draw the attention of the geological world…”

A gleam of unholy glee showed in his father’s eyes. He chuckled to himself suddenly, and patted at the papers he held clutched against his chest. “That’s it, Albert! Just such a find, uncovered at my dig site in Wyoming, in the United States of America, retrieved and brought back in triumph to the British Museum… Yes! It is the perfect solution to all my troubles.” He fairly bounced with excitement.

Albert, strangely, did not feel comforted.

The British Museum, London, February 1876

Wollaston-Frank’s office was tucked away in the labyrinthine back rooms of the museum. Small and gloomy, it reminded Albert a little of their parlour at home—except it was clear that this man’s passion was postal stamps and bookplates. They covered every surface in bundles and piles and boxes, and certain special examples were framed and kept behind glass on the walls. Sherry was laid out, and a tray full of glasses. Clearly others were expected.

The gentleman behind the desk, who got to his feet as they entered the room, gave a curt, old-fashioned bow. He had dark hair and beard, deep-set eyes and a stilted way of speaking that reminded Albert ever so slightly of Henry. “Arthur!” he said, in clipped tones.

“How very good to see you again so soon. And this must be your son.” He spared Albert a brief smile. “I’m afraid you’ll find the conversation tonight a terrible bore, young man. When it isn’t about money, it will be about dusty old bones.”

Albert beamed. “Dusty old bones are a particular passion of mine.”

“Caught the bug from your father, eh?” Sir Augustus twinkled in an avuncular way that endeared him to Albert. “My own dear daughter has often commented that collecting is an hereditary disease, and an incurable one at that.”

Albert laughed dutifully at the man’s witticism, but it was true—bone hunting and collecting fossils was in his blood. He wasn’t here today to discuss their shared passion for curios, though. He was here with a request.

“Sir Augustus…” he began, but Wollaston-Franks cut him off with a smile, anticipating what he was going to say.

“I hope you’re not here about that paper again, my boy. I’ve told your father and I’ll tell you—I don’t mean to sell it to you.”

“But Sir Augustus—”

Wollaston-Franks interrupted him with an upraised hand and gestured for them to take a seat. He threw back the tails of his coat as he sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

“I’m a collector, gentlemen.” He gave the reverend a soft, conciliatory smile. “But I’m not a gossip and I’m not a fame-seeker. The paper will stay in my collection of ephemera. It won’t see the light of day until we’re both—until we are all—long dead. I hope that gives you some peace of mind.”

Albert glanced across at his father and saw with concern that his expression was downcast. But then Augustus Wollaston-Franks went on. “Now that’s established, let us move on to the more pertinent matter—what do you intend to do to repair your reputation?

Scientists are a fickle lot, and as soon as you make a grand discovery, all this will be forgotten. You spoke to me of a dig in the Americas?”

Albert relaxed as his father brightened at once and went into a bubbling speech about the world-changing discovery he believed was waiting for him in the Mauvaises Terres. He had been secretive about the find, and his secrecy had made Albert uneasy, but Wollaston-Franks seemed to know all about it. He listened patiently, nodding and smiling at several points. “Good,” he said, when the reverend’s excited babble wound to a close. “Then I’m delighted to tell you that I have found further funding for your dig. Lord Gideon Dawlish is a keen patron of the new sciences—or, to be more precise, his wife is. Between ourselves, and without wishing to be indiscreet, Gideon is not much interested in anything he can’t gamble away, drink or tup.”

Albert wondered briefly what had happened to Wollaston-Franks’ assertion that he wasn’t a gossip, but he held his tongue.

“However, his wife controls their money, and she is—Ah, this will be the man himself.

Enter!”

The door swung open and Gideon Dawlish sauntered in. He was a tall, slender man with hooded eyes and a mop of reddish curls. When they shook hands his skin was slightly clammy and Albert found his touch instinctively distasteful.

“Is there any chance of a brandy, Wollaston-Franks?” Albert noticed he didn’t use the curator’s title—perhaps as a Peer he felt he didn’t need to, but there was something in his manner Albert found faintly repugnant. His father, meanwhile, was too excited about the dig to notice much about the man—too excited even to note that he yawned several times, www.total-e-bound.com

ostentatiously and unapologetically, as he talked about the dig. Albert saw that Sir Augustus had been right—it must be Lord Dawlish’s wife who was a keen patron of the sciences, because it could not be him.

The only time the man showed a touch of animation was when—much to Albert’s surprise—his father insisted that Henry Elkington should accompany them on the dig.