Charles Sheffield - The Amazing Dr. Darwin

“You would expect exactly what I got,” he went on. He was dabbing ether onto the joint, preparatory to covering it with a waiting square of oiled silk. “For have I not told you, Jacob, that the surest way to induce an attack of gout is through the consumption of ill-chosen food and drink? Salt is bad. Beer is bad. Claret and port are pure poison.”

Jacob Pole took no notice whatsoever. He was prowling between the fireplace, where a good coal fire showed an orange heart, and the narrow shuttered window. He paused to peer out of the crack in the shutter as another gust of wind hit the house, banging on the thick door like a gloved hand.

“Damnable,” he muttered. “Down the Pennines, and before that straight from the North Pole. And it’s snowing again. We ought to be in warmth and sunshine. What man in his right mind would live in a place like this, when he could head south and enjoy the sun by day, and be lulled to sleep by warm breezes at night?”

“Aye. The south, where an Army colonel could develop malaria, to leave him shaking and shivering three or four times a year, regardless of weather.” The square of silk was in position, and Darwin was carefully pulling on over it a woollen stocking. “I have Jesuit-bark in my chest, Jacob, if you need it. It is my professional opinion that you do.”

“Later, maybe.” Pole touched his hand to his jacket pocket, then returned to lean on the mantelpiece. “A slight case of trembles, but I’m in fair shape provided that I don’t catch a chill. Better shape than you, from the look of it. Salt ham and beer! What prompted you, ’Rasmus, after all your lecturings to me?”

Darwin pulled on his soft boot, wincing for a moment as the sore toe felt the touch of leather. “Hunger, Jacob, pure hunger. What else? I was on the road early this morning, in anticipation of the bad weather that you now see. I knew of the childbirth problem at Burntwood, but the case of blood poisoning at Chasetown was a surprise and the supplies of food that I had taken with me in the sulky were gone by midday. Salt ham and beer were all that were available; yet a working man needs fuel. He cannot afford to starve.”

“Be a while before that happens to you.” Jacob Pole nodded at Darwin’s belly. “And you were right about the weather. It’s absolutely foul outside, and it’s not even dark yet. I’m wondering.”

“Wondering what?” Darwin was smiling knowingly to himself.

“Wondering how I’ll ever get home tonight. There’s more snow in the sky, and the road to Radburn Hall was hard going even early in the day.”

“You should not even think of it.” Darwin stood up, pressing his right foot tentatively on the rug. “What sort of host would I be, if I sent a friend out to freeze on a night like this? Moreover, Elizabeth will surely not expect you. Do one thing for me, Jacob, as a favor to my sore toe. Go and tell Miss Parker to set an extra place for dinner.”

Another buffet of wind hit the stone walls of the house, but Jacob Pole had lost his gloomy expression when he hurried away toward the kitchen. He was back in just a few seconds.

“Erasmus, she said you already told her that I would be staying to dinner, and that just the two of us should be present.”

“And was I wrong?”

“No. But how did you know?”

Darwin was grinning, a friendly grin even without front teeth. “You arrive at my home while I am away on my rounds. That is unusual, but not unprecedented. You await my return. Very well. But when I come here accompanied by Dr. Withering, you say scarce a word to either of us. And when he goes, you stay. Add to that your touching of your jacket pocket, not once but half a dozen times. Is it not obvious that you have something that you wish to show to me, and say to me, and that it is something calling for privacy?”

“I do, and it does.”

“And it is not the delicate matter of a medical opinion.”

“How the devil can you know that?”

“Because if it were, you would have spoken long since. You share my high opinion of Dr. Withering.”

“Blast it, do you know everything?”

“Very little—until I am told.” Darwin led the way through to the dining room. Earlier there had been a noise of small children, but now the room was empty. Two places were set, facing each other across the broad oak table. In the middle sat earthenware tureens of parsnips, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, with between them a gigantic steaming pie, twenty inches across and already cut into ten slices. Jugs filled with milk and water stood at the end of the table, along with a concession to the visitor in the form of a pitcher of dark beer.

Jacob Pole sniffed the air. “Squab pie? My favorite.”

“With apples, onions, and cloves. But before you assign me powers beyond the natural, I will admit that this was to be my dinner long before I knew you would be here to share it.”

Pole pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and sat down at the table. “A pie that size. What would you have done if it were just you at table?”

“My v-very best.” Darwin’s voice took on the slight stammer that came often when he was joking. He had already lifted a mammoth portion of pie onto his plate and was reaching for the tureens. “Now, we are better equipped for conversation. At your service, Jacob.”

But the gaunt colonel shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to read a letter aloud to you before I say anything else. The only thing you must know before I begin is that the writer, Millicent Meredith, is my cousin. Milly is a widow, and four years ago I helped her with a family problem. Although we have always been regular correspondents, it is so long since we last met.”

Darwin, his mouth already full of pie, reached out for the envelope. It had been opened, sliced cleanly at the top with a sharp letter opener. He slid out four pages of thick ivory-white paper, written on both sides in purple ink.

He handed the pages to Pole but kept the envelope, examining it carefully before placing it on the table to the left of his plate.

Pole, after a preliminary clearing of his throat, began to read.

Dear Cousin, You have often in the past urged me to follow the advice of your esteemed friend, Dr. Darwin, and to discard supernatural explanations for any event, regardless of appearances—

“She has my ear and sympathy already.”

“Aye. I thought that would catch you.”

So it is for this reason that I am writing to you now, when my own rational faculties no longer seem able to operate. First, let me say that the plans for Kathleen’s marriage have been proceeding apace, and I trust that you have received already the official invitation. Since Brandon Dunwell is eager for the ceremony to follow tradition, and to take place like all Dunwell family marriages at Dunwell Hall, Kathleen and I have decided to remain here in Dunwell Cove until the wedding. Brandon’s family, who have already begun to arrive in anticipation of the event, are of course staying at the Hall, but I judge that inappropriate for the bride and her mother. Kathleen, you will be glad to hear, is in good health, although rather thoughtful in spirits. I hope that this is in contemplation of the major change which is soon to occur in her life, rather than to the events here which so perturb me. Lest you accuse me of wandering, let me move at once to those events. The coach ride from St. Austell to Dunwell Cove is about seven miles, Dunwell Hall being on the direct route to the cove and less than one mile away from it. The coach runs regularly, but only twice a week, and it stops at the Hall as necessary to pick up or discharge passengers. As I understand it, the service has been this way for many years. Ten days ago, a party of three of Brandon Dunwell’s relatives arrived from Bristol. They boarded the coach at St. Austell, and rode in it to Dunwell Hall. When they arrived, they found that each of them had been robbed of their personal valuables, which since they carried jewellery appropriate to a wedding exceeded ten thousand pounds in value. This loss took place in spite of the fact that each of the travellers insists that the coach did not stop anywhere on the journey, nor did anyone enter or alight. The coachman confirms this. Also, since even here in Cornwall the January evenings are often chilly, the coach doors were closed and the window openings all muffled. That was mystery enough. However, six days ago the episode was repeated identically with the arrival of another couple of Brandon’s relatives. The loss in their case included golden brooches and diamond bracelets, removed from the chests and hands of their wearers and of great value. Again, both travellers insist that the coach did not stop, nor did anyone enter or leave the coach, and again this is confirmed by the coachman’s own account. It was then that I heard the first whispers around the village of Dunwell Cove: That the phantom who robbed the coach is none other than Brandon’s dead brother, Richard, whose spirit haunts Dunwell Hall and the road outside it. Naturally, any muttering of such a nature is profoundly distressing to Kathleen, who I am sure by now has heard it. The rumors continue to grow, since only last night a third party of travellers was robbed by the phantom. They were travelling as before from St. Austell to Dunwell Hall, and again they were friends and relatives of Brandon Dunwell. That is the situation as it obtains today. Brandon is sullen and furious, claiming that someone is seeking to ruin the celebration of his marriage. His relatives are equally angry, in their case at the material loss. But if I am honest, the only one for whom I care is Kathleen, and illogical as it seems, she has somehow taken onto herself the blame for the appearance of the phantom. Yet she swears, and she has never yet lied to me, that she has no idea what can be happening. And so, dear cousin, I am casting my net blind over the ocean of my relatives. I am writing to you, and to certain others whom I trust and who are of wide experience, to ask if you can offer any explanation as to what has been happening on the coach ride between St. Austell and Dunwell Hall. Despite your urge that I remain always skeptical of events beyond Nature, the invisible phantom who haunts the coach appears able to perform acts so inexplicable, and yet s cannot conjecture. As you well know, dear Kathleen is my only daughter. She appears about to make an excellent marriage, to a man who is the sole owner of Dunwell Hall and of all its extensive lands and properties. And yet… and yet I know not what. You once helped me greatly, and I have no right to presume again upon your time and good nature. But any suggestions, or any thoughtful advice that you may be able to offer will be gratefully received by—your loving cousin, Milly.