Charles Sheffield - The Amazing Dr. Darwin

Crosse shook his head. “Last night? This morning? Sir, I am not sure.”

“This must not be.” Darwin went to Crosse and gestured to Jacob Pole to support him on the other side. “We will go to the dining room, sir, and you will eat and drink. I will advance hypotheses, and you will correct me as you choose. Silence, now—I neither need nor expect an answer yet. Speak if you must, but above all, you must eat. Remember the natural law of the world, Mr. Crosse. Eat, or be eaten!”

It was an odd little procession. Joseph Faulkner and Florence Trustrum led the way, he looking back over his shoulder all the time. Next came Darwin and Pole, supporting Crosse between them. He walked like a zombie, without either volition or resistance. Last came Jamie Murchison, stolid young face scowling in puzzlement. At the door to the dining room, Crosse at last lifted his head and stared straight at Darwin.

“How did you know ? How could you possibly know?”

“I know only part. I conjecture much. And on one central element, I am so ignorant that I scarce know what to ask you.” Darwin steered Crosse to the table and nodded at Florence to fill a plate with roast pork and carrots and a glass with a mixture of beer and brandy. “But I do know where to begin. It is to assure you, Richard Crosse, that I know of no law that you have broken. You are as innocent as I, or the colonel who sits at your side.”

Pole’s audible sniff suggested that might be no great reassurance, but Darwin went on, “In a legal sense, you are blameless. But in a moral sense, Mr. Crosse, things are more complex. You sought to obtain assistance for a dying man, when many would have thought only of flight. That was commendable. But you were guilty of one universal failing—something that we all do, all too often. We wish to prove our own cleverness and importance to the whole world.”

Crosse bowed his head in assent. After another unhappy look at Darwin he picked up a fork and at last began to eat.

“I am as guilty of that as anyone,” went on Darwin. “Do you know where my own thoughts began on this matter? In as self-centered and introspective a place as one could dream of. I asked myself, who knew that I, Erasmus Darwin, was at the Boar’s Head Tavern yesterday afternoon? For only someone with that knowledge could seek to summon me to the Exhibition.”

Florence Trustrum, showing excellent instinct, placed another piled plate of food in front of Darwin. He began to eat with his fingers, his eyes never leaving Richard Crosse.

“Let us define that small group of people. Joseph Faulkner and Jacob Pole certainly knew, since they were there with me. Mary Rawlings also presumably knew. Jamie Murchison knew, but since like Colonel Pole he was there with me when the message came, that struck him from the list of candidates. Who else? It seemed that there might be several others, but they must all be people close to Jacob Pole or Joseph Faulkner . Only they could know that we were meeting at the Boar’s Head during the afternoon. So. The possible universe was circumscribed. But I could go no further with logic alone, to point a finger at one man or woman. Something new was needed. That something was what I hoped to find when we returned to the Exhibition Hall last night. At first, I thought that I had discovered it. The garments of Daryush Sharani were my guide, and they would allow us to follow him. But the hounds proved useless. I returned to this house, as baffled as I have ever been in my life.” Darwin shook a finger at Pole. “You, Jacob, had already been planting doubts in my mind, suggesting that the hounds would prove useless at night and underground.”

Pole shrugged. “I was right. They were useless, ’Rasmus. They told us nothing.”

“Only because we asked them the wrong question. A dog can answer only in a dog’s terms. Remember when Tom Triddler released the hounds? They sniffed at the clothing, and wagged their tails, and were all excitement. It was only when he shouted at them again, and told them to hunt for the scent, that they lost all enthusiasm. As well they might! They had done their job, and they knew it. They did not deserve harsh words from their master. The source of the scent of the garments was right there—in person.” Darwin pointed to Richard Crosse. “The hounds knew it, and they told us all that they could tell. Was it their fault that we were unable to read the message?”

“But why ?” Jacob Pole scowled at Darwin across the table. “I don’t know about all this dog’s mind reading, but what is the point of all this? False rubies, and curses, and fancy dress, and deception. But ’Rasmus, say what you will, a man died at the Exhibition. You seem to be forgetting that.”

“Not at all. We come to it now.” Darwin licked his fingers, and nodded across the table at Richard Crosse. “Sir, I could make my estimate of the whole course of events. But at this point, I think you ought to make your statement. Remember, I am not the magistrate, nor is Mr. Faulkner. But a magistrate will be here, if we find it necessary to call for him. Forget your reticence, and speak. Let me preface you with only this: after I examined the contrivance in the river vault beneath the Exhibition, I suspected that the unusual materials for its construction would have been purchased from a local chandler. We have confirmation of that; your own name is I suspect to be found on the receipts.”

Richard Crosse laid down knife and fork and stared in turn at each person seated around the table. He bit his lip. “I will tell. But after yesterday’s disastrous events, I pledged my own soul to make no public revelation of one element of this affair. For all the rest, Dr. Darwin has said it for me. I wanted to prove my own cleverness, by a successful hoax on the whole world. You see, I had the means to do it—a method of my own devising, that would hold a grown man helpless. And it would do no damage.”

“To a well man,” said Darwin. “But for a man already suffering from degenerative heart disease, like the would-be thief…”

“I know that now—too late.” Crosse rubbed at his gaunt jaw. “I thought that I had a harmless hoax. I would fool all this great city with the Heart of Ahura Mazda, and with the great exhibition of the power of the jewel. And then Daryush Sharani would disappear forever. I never intended to boast of my success, or to tell of the hoax. But I was the fool.”

“And you were taking people’s money,” Florence Trustrum said.

He nodded at her. “I was. But never with thought of personal gain. The takings were a small amount, far less than the cost to me, and people seemed well pleased with what they saw. My family is well-to-do. If the weather had not turned so foul today, I would be on my way home to Fyne Court, in Somerset. I intended to say no more to you and Mr. Faulkner than that I was tired of life in London, and preferred the quiet of the Quantock Hills.”

“Which would be a pity,” Florence said softly.

“But the Earl of Marbury!” Joseph Faulkner, at the end of the table, broke into the conversation for the first time. “And all the other men made helpless by your ‘demon.’ What of them? I can accept the facts of your imposture, and even your disguise as Daryush Sharani. There is nothing new in elaborate robes and false beards. But you have said nothing to explain the true mysteries: how the Earl was persuaded to cooperate with you, or how the man died yesterday when he attempted to touch the Heart of Ahura Mazda. That is what we need to hear.”

Richard Crosse stared down at the tablecloth and shook his head. “I have promised myself that I will never speak of that. If I were able to forget it myself, I would do so.”

“Then we’ll have the magistrate in, and the devil with it!” Faulkner slammed his hand down on the table. “Without the rest, what you have said is no explanation at all.”