Devoured (13 page)
But enough of that. Babbage took his quill and with a flourish wrote: ‘Notes on the Rights and Liberties of the Working Man.’ That done, he started another: ‘Notes on Man. In His Physical, Social, Moral and Economic Relations with Society.’ It was warm at 142 The Strand, so he kept up the scribbling and two Notes finished, it was ten to seven and time to meet Dr Canning.
A good early dinner was all that he needed and it was vital, imperative, to feed this intellectual because this evening he must tackle another greater task. An essay. This time an essay on … Well, he wasn’t going to give it away now, was he? But rumour had it, though not confirmed by The Yard, that one botanical was already dead and rumour had it these letters to be presented tonight would cause a storm and set the world alight.
He rubbed his hands in anticipation and, putting his coat on, stepped out into The Strand and turned towards Fleet Street, walking towards The Old Cheshire Cheese.
No pea souper, no swirling mist or phantasmagorical shadows. Nothing to confuse his journey, only a fluttering of snow. He shivered and walked a tad quicker, until he saw the welcoming lights of the tavern.
Inside the smoky hubbub, Babbage quickly spied who he needed to speak to, because Dr Canning stood up – a distinguished young man – and beckoned him over.
‘It’s good to meet you, Mr Babbage,’ Canning said, offering his hand. ‘And at such short notice, which I am grateful to you for, because a man in your position must be very busy. But I think what I’ve got to offer you will make your journey, even in this weather, worth the bother.’
Babbage swelled with pride, buoyant with, ‘No need to thank me, good fellow. I’m delighted. Delighted, if a scoop’s in play. Always love to hear from the scientific community, especially these days, Dr Canning. As a species, you are so rarely out and about!’
But Canning wasn’t laughing; rather he grew furtive, checking over his shoulder. But there was only the usual chatter of a pub and nothing untoward. Flora’s habits were infectious. And as he thought on her, he muttered, ‘Yes, we’re holed up with our books and our theories. I rarely get out of the museum, but the suggestions in these letters, and their implications, need to be shared with those who may be sympathetic to such thoughts. But as to the contents? Well, I will say nothing more. My work was only to read them, verify the facts, and pass them on to a credible source. The letters will speak for themselves.’
Babbage looked at the scroll on the table, which was tightly bound in rattan. He patted it and said, ‘First things first. Are you hungry?’ and without waiting for a reply, demanded pints of ale to be brought and some of his favourite grub. A supper of chops finished, Babbage slowly uncurled the golden parchment, which no longer smelt of the sea but the headier scent of power and money.
‘So these are the famous letters then from Lady Bessingham, Dr Canning? You see, I already knew she had them. Lady Bessingham has favoured me before. But is it true what I’ve heard? Did they bash her head in with a fossil? Do you know anything more on that?’
Dr Canning shook his head. ‘Read the letters, Mr Babbage, and you can ask your questions later.’
Babbage’s eyes widened a little as he looked about the tavern, then back to Dr Canning and dropping his voice said, ‘Well, if I were you, I’d be careful young man. I’ve been involved in scoops before. You need to mind where you go and who you talk to. Lady Bessingham trusted us. Are you sure there’s no one else she spoke to? And you definitely haven’t been followed?’
Canning shook his head, knowing he would move Flora tonight, before the letters were made public. He looked at his pocket watch. Two hours from now, they could be in a carriage and safely gone from London. But he said nothing to the hack about his fears. He pushed the scroll back towards Mr Babbage and insisted, ‘As a botanist and anthropologist, a member of the Royal Society etc. etc., I can guarantee you, sir, that you won’t be disappointed. But please, delay no longer. The letters, Mr Babbage. Read them, sir.’
July 1st, 1855
Dearest Lady Bessingham,
We are now in Empugan. A small Dayak village at the foot of a great mountain on the Simunjan river.
It is a relief to be here amongst the villagers. The walk was hard. My boots filled with leeches and palms tore my hands as we pushed on through the undergrowth. Uman used his parang, a Dayak machete, to hack through the lines of screw pine and rattan which blocked our route to the village. Only Emmerich took delight in this strangling labyrinth.
‘Wait a moment. A brief moment, gentlemen.’ We all had to stop while Emmerich bent down to the ground. ‘Some fine examples of the yellow
Coelogynes.’
Uman smiled at me as Emmerich lost his great bulbous nose in his treasured petals. ‘This is extraordinary.
Vanda lowii
. It grows on the small branches of a tree and its pendant flower reaches the ground. It must be six, no eight foot long. What a marvellous specimen.’And so his chatter continued, as the leaf-strewn floor began to clear, the trees and shrubs began to thin a little, the matted roots abated, and great, lemony beams of light shone down upon our weary bodies, like a sign from Heaven.
Uman told us it was not much farther. That we would soon
reach the foot of Ular Mountain and be back near a bend of the Simunjan river. And as he spoke, I felt ready for whatever might lie ahead.That was a day ago. Never, Lady Bessingham, have I been so glad to see other people. As we made our final push, like a mirage or a waking dream, the pleasant sound of laughing children carried through the shafts of space between the trees. And I will always carry in my heart the sight of San at that moment. He was ecstatic as he called out, as clear and loud as a hornbill
, ‘Selamat petang! Selamat petang pade!’
Suddenly the shapes moved in the trees before us
. ‘Selamat petang. Selamat petang pade.’
This time Uman was speaking. Steady and calm.At once, the shapes became forms. Before, all had been shadows. I blinked hard, for I did not trust my senses, but the forms were people – a small group of hill Dayaks.
You cannot believe, Lady Bessingham, how glorious these people are. They are not like us. They are taut, sinewy, and bedecked with beads and a blaze of feathers. And swirling all across their bodies, a maze of stars, serpents, angels, and crosses. Twisting tattoos. I have drawn the best and enclose them with this letter. At first, on my first sight of the tribe, I could not take their beauty in
. ‘Selamat petang. Selamat petang, abang.’ Abang,
meaning brother. They are our brothers but we have left this world of Nature far behind in our vast metropolis. We have buried ourselves in hats, gloves, and manners. The Dayak call us orang putus. White man.Uman and Emmerich spoke
batang lupor,
the hill tribe
dialect, and we soon formed a little party on the forest floor, handing over beads and folds of calico, drinking cups of arak, and showing willing, by chewing betel.The little party over, we followed the group of Dayaks to their village. And what became apparent was that though he has not said so, I believe Mr Ackerman has been here before. The village heads shook his hand firmly and nodded to him as if there was already some agreement. If this is the case, Katherine, how odd of him not to mention it. I saw him just an hour ago, handing out cigars to a number of local tribesmen and laughing together like they were old friends. It is the first time I have seen Ackerman share anything, and that alone is strange.
Each of my party have been given a bilik, and what luxury it is after the crushing closeness of camping in the forest. San whimpered a little, so he is sharing with his uncle, who seemed keen to watch over the boy, which is only natural, for this is a strange place and we should remember that San is very young. He’s not shown such shyness before, but here in Empugan he seems a little nervous. He jumps at the screeching sounds of the jungle and does not play with the other children, who anyway are hidden away from us by their mothers. It is the custom here, I think.
Tomorrow we have an early start. The
tuai rumah
, the tribal chief, will take us a mile by foot, up into the mountains, where durian fruit are plentiful. This is where the Mias live. The
orang-utan.
Their name so close to ours here, so that even
through words I feel connected. That we are all as one. That we were not created in seven days, as those blinkered priests would have it. That there was no Fall nor Flood but, somehow, we are like the rocks. Do you remember, Katherine, chipping the cliffs in Kent? Do you remember that blustery day, and what we discovered? The fossils and ammonites?The planet is spinning in space. The earth, trees, rocks, and flowers.
Orang-utan. Orang putus.
These words so close and our link with the natural world, so dangerously intimate. But these thoughts are sacrilege, Katherine, and I must whisper them because those bigots in the pulpits would shake their fists, insisting that Man was made in His Likeness and the animals were created instantly, as God’s miracles. ‘Let there be light,’ they cry but forgive me, madam, because I do not think it is light Convention wants, but the darkness of ignorance.I know you have warned me. And I know how upset you become when arguments about Man are manipulated for different purposes. So you are right to tell me to be careful.
In your last letter, Katherine, you sounded upset. But do not let that unnatural man trouble you. He sounds like a brute, and does not deserve your ear. Perhaps you should ask my father about this Dr Finch, before making any final decision on his future.
But enough of my sage advice! It’s so hot here. I must rest now, and lay down this pen. I miss you, Katherine. Can I tell you that? I miss your laughter and your company. I miss your mind. I miss having another person who, like me, is prepared
to think the unthinkable and is prepared to delve. And when I think of you, I remember the day you came on a different journey with me. I can recall every detail as if it was yesterday. The corsage you wore. Our picnic on The Backs. Cambridge had never looked so splendid and yet, even there, a shadow loomed, but we would not have our Paradise ruined. I was younger then. Oblivious to the harsh world around me and only intent on the beauty before me. You blinded me, Katherine. You blind me still. And I know when you read these words you will laugh and quip that my head is full of foolish, romantic nonsense. But I will tell you with all my heart, that as I lie here, the image of your face has never been clearer, and that I have never felt so far away from home.Your faithful etc.
Benjamin Broderig
Unbeknown to Dr Canning, he had indeed been followed. And how did Madame Martineau do it? Well, she’d done a tad of snooping a little earlier round Chelsea way, which is but a hop from The Borough. And the footman at Nightingale Walk had taken her round the back and told her for half a guinea and a little lift of petticoat, a maid had gone missing.
‘But chasing maids is an easy occupation, if you’ve got a nose for it.’ He’d winked. ‘Flora James she’s called. Right little tease, and when I caught up with her to warn her to scamper, she was holed up at the British Museum in a room with a name plate on which said, “Dr John Canning”. Bold as brass, she was. I warned her that everyone was looking for her and that she’d better hop it or she would cop it.’
Madame Martineau had purred, ‘Go on …’
‘She’d been running errands for Lady Bessingham the day before she died, and rumour had it that her and this Dr Canning had been reading letters and calling for jugs of porter, scribbling things and whispering. Not that I told the coppers any of this. Downstairs staff should stick together, unless there’s money in it.’
And locating Dr Canning had been easy. At the British Museum, it had been the work of a moment to wheedle information from a porter, and only a few moments more to find his lodging rooms in nearby Gordon Square. And when there was no answer at his door on the fifth floor up, she suddenly realised her folly, because only moments earlier hadn’t she just passed a gentleman academic who appeared in a hurry? He’d been in the road outside faffing with something.
Merde
. How could she be so stupid? She’d been so intent on finding the lodging rooms, she hadn’t noticed, until now, that he’d been carrying letters. Letters! A scroll of golden letters! And so turning on her heels and flying down the stairs and out the door, Madame Martineau was just in time to catch sight of him turning the far corner of the Square.