The Specimen Page 16

  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.

  Chapter XXX

  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.”

  Chapter XXXI

  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.”

  “I have a cramp coming on in my foot; the exercise will get rid of it.”

  “Oh, that is a nuisance, isn’t it? Why don’t you walk up and down?” Isobel got up and put her arm under Euphemia’s elbow. “You seem a little clammy, if I may say so.” Looking at her closely she said, “You are in a state, Miss Carrick. I think I will go and find that girl of yours—Susan, isn’t it?

  “Now, wriggle your feet whilst I find some brandy, I won’t be long.” She peered at Euphemia’s eyes. “You look ghastly. I always used to get the cramps down my legs. Of course, all this sort of nuisance just disappears when you get married and—” She gave a nervous giggle. Perhaps it was a snort.

  Euphemia closed her eyes and clutched at the bottle. Isobel Scales was already at the door. Euphemia watched in fascination as the train on her mauve and vivid lilac skirt with the yellow trimmings whipped out of sight.

  When Isobel came back some fifteen minutes later with the brandy bottle (not the decanter which would have been easy enough to locate in the dining room) and a couple of glasses (not brandy glasses), Euphemia was almost back together again. She accepted the glass of brandy and drank it quite cheerfully.

  “I do apologise, Mrs Scales. How dreadful of me.”

  “Let’s not mention it. I’m not in the least perturbed by these mishaps. We are all human and subject to the whims of nature. And I think we are well enough acquainted by now, not to let that sort of thing embarrass us, are we not?”

  And you are fairly well acquainted with my kitchen, thought Euphemia, as Isobel Scales sipped at the brandy she had poured for herself and fully occupied the chair.

  “After all, I myself have fainted in this very house. If you don’t mind my saying so, you lace yourself rather tighter than fashion absolutely dictates, Miss Carrick. I have always striven for the nineteen; you on the other hand really have no need to be so fierce. My husband, when I was first married, was constantly arguing the case for a more ‘natural’ figure. His head was full of scientific this and medical reasons for that. To be honest, I did not care for his arguments at all. Being looser around one’s torso is in no way indicative of one’s morals, Miss Carrick.” Isobel Scales was in no particular hurry to leave. She gave another nervous snort. “This water is gone tepid, shall we ring for some hot? Then we can discuss my little plan to steal your dwarf away for a few days. Isn’t this fun?”

  There was no doubt in Euphemia’s mind that Isobel Scales was having fun of some sort. She found herself unable, finally, to keep it up any longer.

  “Mrs Scales,” she said abruptly, “Harris has departed this world. It was quite sudden, and unexpected, some five months ago.”

  Euphemia watched Isobel’s face moving. Flakes of powder fell from her face; spittle glistened on her teeth and made silvery strings as she opened her mouth silently and shut it again. Her hair was dressed so tightly that the skin around her temples forced her expression into something which was not natural. It was interesting to see her in daylight, and alone. Euphemia found herself wondering if Mrs Scales ever took her hair pins out.

  Mrs Scales had satisfied her appetite for brandy. She dropped the Angel’s fingers she had been holding to the china. “And so whom must I congratulate for those?”

  “Susan, of course. She made a point of learning the craft very quickly.”

  “Quite so.” Isobel Scales rose unsteadily to her feet.

  Euphemia forced herself out of her chair to see her out. She did not want Mrs Scales wandering the wrong way.

  Isobel Scales thanked Euphemia for the interview, but as she turned to leave what little colour there was in her face drained away. Euphemia was fascinated to see the grey skin clouded under the flaky powder and, sidling a little closer, waited to see what would happen next. Mrs Scales began to say something but it was incomprehensible; she raised her hands in the form of some gesture as the words refused to come out in the right order. Euphemia frowned. One moment there she was upright, the next moment she had fallen onto the carpet in a swoosh of silk and a small thud, which was made by her head, banging on the floor.

  The fresh air assaulted Euphemia on the doorstep. It went into her ears and up her nose. It travelled along her sleeves and slipped into her armpits. Mrs Scales’ driver got down from the coach when he caught sight of her. Euphemia said, “Fetch this doctor from this address. Are you literate, or do I need to read it out to you? Very good. Mrs Scales is gravely ill—do not come back without the doctor.”

  The coach bounced on its springs as he stepped up and settled himself, slapping the reins. The two horses touched noses and tossed their heads. The gravel beneath hooves and wheels crunched.

  “She seemed all right before, ma’am,” said Susan, who had managed without Euphemia’s assistance to get the conscious but immobile Mrs Scales onto the day-bed and into a comfortable repose while they waited for the doctor. “But just because someone seems all right, doesn’t mean to say that they are all right.” Susan dabbed at Mrs Scales’ forehead with a cool damp muslin and felt her pulse. Both of them were thinking about Mr Harris’ sudden demise but neither wanted to admit that they feared a repeat performance.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Taking the lady’s pulse, ma’am. I learned it years ago.”

  “And what good will that do?”

  “It won’t do any good at all, ma’am, but it tells me how strong and fast her heart is beating.”

  “And how does she do?”

  “She’s in a bad way, ma’am. Like a bird that’s been mauled by the cat.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Susan.” Euphemia got down onto her knees and spoke to Isobel in a businesslike voice. “The doctor will be here very soon, I should think. But, in the meantime, would you please let me know if there is anything you need. Is there a particular remedy, Mrs Scales, which you have been prescribed of late?”

  “I don’t think you’ll get no answer from her, ma’am.”

  Isobel’s breaths were shallow and laboured; her eyes were open and the lids flickered a little as she tried to focus on Euphemia. Under duress Susan took a pair of scissors to Isobel’s corset after unbuttoning the silk jacket of her dress.

  “Don’t fuss, Susan; it can’t possibly do any harm and it may do some good.”

  Cutting the linen tapes made no difference and Isobel’s paralysis remained unchanged. Susan continued to dab at Isobel’s forehead and now also at her chest with the damp muslin. Isobel continued to breathe but just as badly. Euphemia got up and went to stand at the front door. Isobel Scales’ penchant for games had taken a turn for the worse.

  Euphemia smoothed the already smooth covers on the bed in the guest room Susan had prepared in a rush while the doctor had examined the patient on the day-bed downstairs. Mrs Scales had been carried up to the room in the arms of her driver. She had recovered from her three hour-long episode enough to talk, though Euphemia wished that she would go to sleep. It had been a difficult day. Isobel slurred as if drunk.

  “When I am dead, I want you to invite my husband to your Spirit conference. Th
ere are conversations I was unable to have. I would like you to help me.”

  “Your time is not now, not even close. The doctor has said so.”

  “That doctor is wrong.”

  “As you wish. I will do my—whatever I can.”

  Euphemia could think of nothing more horrible than being witness to whatever conversation Mrs Scales had in mind for her errant husband. She shuddered to think of it. The idea of the intimacy appalled her.

  “It doesn’t really matter how long it takes for you to accomplish my request. I will not mind waiting. Though I am concerned for your sister, Miss Carrick.”

  Euphemia drew back and released Isobel’s hands from what she had been hoping conveyed tenderness or at least polite sympathy. “My sister conducts her own affairs in the way she has seen fit. I have no influence over her.”

  “She can’t have known what she was committing herself to.”

  “Don’t tire yourself, Mrs Scales.”

  “I have been battling with this—malady, for years, Miss Carrick. I am tired, indeed, of keeping up the pretence. You know what I speak of. My concern for your sister. Troubles me. I did what I thought I must. I tried to help. I have gone to lengths.”

  “It is so cold in this room, I must apologise.”

  Euphemia went to the small fireplace where the flames were failing yet to throw any heat into the room. She put a lump of coal into the middle of the fire. Euphemia pulled the cord to ring for Susan, and when she came, Euphemia told her to bring another bed-warmer for Mrs Scales.

  “The cold does not trouble me. Death will be cold; I will have an eternity to get used to it.”