Charles Sheffield - The Amazing Dr. Darwin

“Best I have, sir.” Triddler put the dog down and swept off his cap, to reveal a totally bald head. He put the cap on again hurriedly. “Cold down here.”

“But that will not interfere with the hounds?” Darwin asked.

“No sir. Nothing does. Not cold, not dark, not nothing.”

Darwin nodded to Pole. “There, Jacob. You will see that your fears are groundless.” He turned to Tom Triddler. “Are we ready to begin?”

“I am, and the dogs are.” Triddler stared around him. “What an ’ole. Wouldn’t like to come courting down ’ere. Got a scent for the dogs, ’ave yer? Old sock, somethin’ like that.”

“This way.” Darwin led them to the heap of discarded clothing. “Any one of these should do it.”

“Aye. Perfec’.” Triddler drew the two hounds to the pile and pointed down. The dogs snuffled and wagged their tails furiously, while all the people clustered round them. “They’ve got it now—an’ off we go. Go on, now, Blister. An’ you, Billy, on yer way.”

He was holding the two leashes lightly, while the dogs sniffed and snuffled. “Go on, now,” he repeated. “We’re waitin’. We don’t ’ave all night.”

His second urging was very necessary. The two dogs had turned around once, then settled on their bellies on the floor, tails wagging happily. But when Tom Triddler shouted them again into action they sank to rest, their jaws on the cold stone. Their tails drooped, and they stared at him with mournful eyes.

After another few attempts to spur them on, he shook his head. “I’ve never seen nothin’ like it, Mr. Faulkner. They won’t budge. Not an inch. Seems they don’t like it ’ere underground.”

“What did I tell you?” Pole gave Darwin a superior nod, and began to retreat toward the ladder. “I think the dogs have the right idea. It’s damn cold down here, and it stinks. As you said, ’Rasmus, dogs have powers that we lack. They know we’ll find nothing more. I’m ready to go home.”

“Powers that we have lost ,” Darwin muttered, but his tone lacked its usual conviction. In his disconsolate manner, he was a good match for the two bloodhounds. “I was quite convinced… But maybe you are right, Jacob. We will accomplish nothing more tonight. We might as well to bed.”

He limped after Pole toward the ladder, so rumpled and so woebegone that Joseph Faulkner called after him: “Come now, Erasmus. There’s always tomorrow.”

“Aye,” came the testy reply over Darwin’s shoulder. “Another day to make a fool of myself.”

“Ah,” Faulkner said softly to Mary Rawlings. “That’s not our Dr. Darwin, founder of the Lunar Society and Europe’s leading physician. That’s gout speaking. Come along, my dear, let’s be out of here. There are more pleasant nighttime pursuits than underground sewer wandering. And in the morning you will see a new Erasmus.”

But the morning came to a city immobilized. During the night, the rain had frozen and then turned to snow. A deadly sheath lay on every flat surface, from east of the Tower to a mile past Westminster. A few hardy (or foolhardy) merchants had ventured forth, their draft horses skidding and shivering on treacherous roads, and after a hundred yards retreated. By ten-thirty the whole city was again shrouded and quiet.

Darwin sat in the parlor at Faulkner’s house. He and Jacob Pole had been persuaded to stay over, but now he was chafing with impatience. The revelation had come to him during breakfast. There was a way to trace Daryush Sharani, and a sure one—if only Darwin could pursue it. But his weight and his gout together conspired against him.

Finally he went to Florence Trustrum’s room on the ground floor, and asked her if she would deliver a letter to Jamie Murchison. She muffled herself in a wool head shawl, thick overcoat, and ugly leather boots, and set out into the still, white wilderness. Darwin sat at the window, counted the seagulls perched on the gable roof, and wondered at the instinct that sent them flying far inland when the northeasters blew in with the winter storms.

Florence returned breathless in little more than half an hour. “Jamie will do it this morning,” she said.

“You are upset.” Darwin took her by the hand. “What happened?”

“It was… nothing.” She gave him a direct glance from bright blue eyes. “Oh, why not. I will tell you. Jamie—he asked me to marry him.”

“Ah. And you replied?”

“I told him—that I did not know. But I think I do.” She was gone, leaving the smell of warm wet wool behind her. Darwin nodded to himself, and went back to watching seagulls.

It was after noon when Murchison arrived. Joseph Faulkner, Jacob Pole, Florence Trustrum and Darwin were again in the dining room, enjoying a quiet lunch of cold pork, applesauce, sage and onion stuffing, and hot boiled carrots. Darwin had left instructions to the staff and Murchison was shown in at once, snowy boots and all. He hesitated on the threshold.

“You have it?” said Darwin eagerly, through a mouthful of pork crackling.

“I do. I went to the chandlers as soon as I received your message.”

“And you found an address?”

“I did.”

“And it is?”

Murchison looked at Joseph Faulkner, gulped, and stammered: “They gave me an address for the delivery of just the goods that you listed. But it was here !—this very house!”

“What!” Darwin stared at Faulkner, who shook his head.

“No good looking at me, Erasmus. I have not the faintest idea what you two are talking about.”

“This house.” Darwin subsided into his chair. After a few seconds of open-mouthed gaping at his empty plate, he closed his eyes and breathed a vast sigh. “It is so. And at last I see a whole picture.” He stood up. “Come on. All of you.”

With the other four trailing along behind, Darwin headed for the ground floor and the rear of the house. At a closed door he knocked and went straight in.

“But this is Richard’s room!” protested Florence.

“Aye. Mr. Crosse is fortunately in absentia at the moment. So let us see—what we shall see.” Darwin had moved to the writing desk by the window and was coolly opening drawers and examining their contents.

“Erasmus, this is a little too much.” Faulkner moved to Darwin’s side. “Richard is from an old Somerset family that I well respect, and I think of him as my guest. To see his room commandeered in such a way, and his private belongings despoiled—”

He paused. Darwin had reached deep into a left-hand drawer of the escritoire and pulled out a large, glittering stone.

“The Heart of Ahura Mazda.” He brought it close to his face, turning it to allow its facets to catch the light from the window. “Hm. Jacob, what do you think? This is more your department than mine.”

Pole took the gem and examined it for no more than two seconds. He sniffed and handed it back. “What a letdown, after such a chase. That’s no ruby, priceless or otherwise. It’s nothing more than high-quality glass. Cunningly cut, I’ll admit that. I’d give you a shilling for it.”

Darwin plunged his hand again into the drawer. “And now we have a part of the Guardian himself. His beard.” In his hand was a tangle of hair, thick and black and bushy. “And as for the rest of Daryush Sharani…”

Darwin looked past Faulkner and the others. “Come in, sir, and claim your possessions. My behavior here leaves much to be excused.”

In the doorway, face ashen, stood Richard Crosse. The dusting of snow on the shoulders of his black coat matched his countenance. At Darwin’s gesture he moved forward and sank down to sit on a narrow window seat.

Darwin stared at him for a moment, and his expression changed. “When did you last have food and drink?”