She followed him back to the museum and it had taken an age until he re-emerged, his head down against the wind. The sun was gone and it was dark as she followed her quarry, her boots making no sound in the snow, even though she was wearing the high stacked ones, which was vain of her. Her armour against the fear of something loathsome, and as she thought on the risks, she put her gloved hands around her throat. By now, she was not far from Newgate and the Old Bailey was just up ahead of her as she followed him into Fleet Street.
But where was he going? She’d looked at the tavern sign, which said The Old Cheshire Cheese. She’d hesitated for a second, and as she did, saw a wave of men come crashing down the road. They were lit by lanterns, shouting obscenities, and a couple of Specials were blowing whistles at them, but it was over in the wink of any eye. A young man wrestled to the ground for demanding something. Some shouting, a punch, a black eye.
What wasted effort, she thought. Did the working man still not realise that sedition was a step-by-step endeavour? That the right words would change everything. She’d heard the speakers in Victoria Park promise it – Giuseppe Mazzini, Marx, and all the others. Their words like fire and she’d clapped, whistled, and shouted that words could indeed bring the rich man down. Her station was settled, was it? Her place determined? Had God stuck a needle in her hand? Had God ordained her place, kneeling at the crotch of a rich man? She shook her little bonnet and the red rabbit fur caught in her mouth.
Inside the tavern, her quarry was over in a corner, and for a moment it was so very tormenting. Should she snatch the letters now and run? Because she was as swift as a breeze when she wanted to be. But the old windbag had been very specific with her that morning, in more ways than one, and after he had finished with her, he’d said, ‘Madame. Whatever you do, do it quickly, because for each passing minute that you waste of my time, I shall deduct a guinea. And when you come here next time, use the servants’ entrance.’
‘I don’t like the dogs,’ she had pleaded, and she didn’t. She hated them.
The Duke of Monreith had laughed at her, saying, ‘Just get the fucking letters, Madame, without the mess and the risks this time. Oh, and before you go …’
He had pushed her down and clamped her to him and run his hands over her breasts, but she felt nothing, except the ache of her knees and a pair of frightened eyes that had watched them from a corner of the room. Her pupil, the little one, Tabitha, and they’d done what he wanted. Called him Papa.
She’d spat the word, rancid and bitter, and when it was all finished, she’d looked at herself in a gilt mirror, wiping her mouth. Then turned around and saw the coins as they scattered all about her. He’d call her a filthy whore, but she picked up every one.
And there were more coins to be won here in The Old Cheshire Cheese, she was sure of it, and this work was sweet-smelling. In the tavern, the golden parchment was spread out across a table and she was so close. But then who was this? A great big fat thing who had joined her quarry and was talking to the younger man, pointing at the letters and asking him questions. She watched them all the time, her head down, sipping her gin as they were eating, chatting, laughing even. And when they’d finished, the great lard arse wobbled up, shook the younger man’s hand, and she noted that he had the letters now, all of them tied together with rattan, a parchment of gold, just as they were when Madame Martineau had first discovered them under the brushing drawer, a month ago. She cursed herself that she hadn’t snatched them when she’d had the chance. But there was no use crying over spilt milk now. She must simply secure the letters, whatever the risk, and be done with it.
Madame Martineau followed her new quarry, but the fat man seemed to notice that something was wrong, and turned round a few times, but then thought better of it and kept on going. My goodness, she thought, but he was an oaf. And talking to himself, she didn’t wonder? Yes, his lips were moving but her eyes were on his clothes thinking how many acres of gabardine did it make to finish that pattern? How many buttons? How much snipping … and as for the thread?
She would get ahead of him. She was fast, and moved along the alley like a cat, and then went back on herself. The iced sleet cut her face, but in her belly was a fire of such torching anger that she didn’t care about the weather, only getting what she needed.
Babbage had glanced quickly at the parchment scroll in his hand thinking ‘Writer-in-Chief’. How grand that sounded. Perhaps, when this was finished, any title would be possible. Why not? Sensations of the scientific kind were just his thing and this one was a corker; a meal ticket to a whole round of parties promising outrage, adulation, applause, and other more enticing rewards.
Ah, yes. How quickly his mind turned to ladies swirling in damask, enticing ankles and domed décolletage. Babbage walked along briskly, smacking his lips. He sneaked the little golden scroll up under his coat and hugged it to his breast, because it was a real sensation. If he cracked through at a pace, he could be finished by midnight, leaving plenty of time for a quick hop over to Granby Street for some gentlemen’s entertainment. Now
that
put a spring in his step.
She watched him coming up the alley towards her. What a fine lump of roast pork he’d make. She’d shut him up alright. He was so fat the coat flapped open so that she could see the bulge in his breeches, pathetically small, and that made her laugh a little and so, why not? Why not do it properly this time? A little flimflam of her own?
She stepped out of her corner and hissed, ‘Fancy a saunter, sir?’ And then, before he could take in her waist and say, ‘Yes please, missy,’ all was blanking out for Olinthus Babbage, Opinion Writer and Commentator of the
Westminster Review
, with a mind so full, so overflowing, so palpitating with the scoop before him, that he barely noticed her booted ankle and the patch of ice which sent him falling over like a skittle. He didn’t feel the gripping and digging which dragged him, groggy and moaning. He barely felt the weight which pressed him down and placed the gag around his mouth. Or the linen thread unravelling which wrapped him tight.
But he saw the bone folder which keeps the seams flat. It was glinting in the moonlight. Carved and pretty and made from horn. Babbage was choking. He was spluttering. Not words like he was used to, but blood.
The thread was so strong, five-ply Irish stuff, the thickest and the best. An awl came next, and was pushed against his neck, searing through his skin, making puncture marks and holes. Followed quickly by the thread because here was a real artisan at work. Babbage had recently written admiringly about them in an article entitled ‘An Essay on the Rights of the Working Man’.
And he didn’t know then that it was to be his last social commentary, because his papers were being lifted from him. His headlines and essays snubbed out, and never written. The flattening blade worked quickly. Snow fell. Vermin scuttled.
And when she had finished her work, she sat down in the snow for a second, exhausted, but then found a place to shelter. Because the wind was really whipping and the soughing hurt her ears, but in this little brick and mortar dell, she nestled down. Just a little look to make sure. To taste that taste again. Madame Martineau opened up the scroll and up rose that delicious scent of pressed orchids and heady, tropical rain and fecundity, the type she had only ever dreamt of. Because she did have dreams, helped by salicene to escape the city which hemmed her in.
August 1st, 1855
Lady Bessingham,
I should have read the sign better, for it was there. On the morning of the hunt, one of our party had taken to his bed in a state of mild delirium. I thought little of it at the time and Mr Ackerman was adamant, saying it was nothing more than a passing tropical sickness. But I can still hear Mr Demarest now, as I write, moaning in the hut next to mine.
Before we left him behind, we gave him quinine. The villagers put little wooden figures all about to drive the evil spirits back down into the Underworld, which they said were infecting him, but perhaps they drove the spirits upwards and they followed us, along the mountain trail. But how should I write this? And what should I tell you? I still do not really know what happened
out there in the forest, but I am altered and I am not the same. You must hear my story, Katherine. It is a confession.As we set off, Ackerman took the lead, and as we walked, lectured me on the trade of specimen collecting. ‘Supply and demand, that’s what you need to understand
, ja?
This work’s not about pretty pictures and Latin classification. It’s about survival, but then you would hardly know what that means, would you?’ I couldn’t argue that I wasn’t rich. I could see that some of us were here in Borneo to pursue something like a hobby whilst Mr Ackerman with his shabby breeches and worn-down boots was in many ways no better than a workhorse. But he was not without luxuries. He had a fine French gun, a belt of English leather, and an endless supply of whisky, which he didn’t share with the rest of us. A gift from a grateful client, he liked to boast.‘You can have anything you want in this country if you are prepared to work,
ja
? Why, I could buy ten of these boys,’ a wave at San, who cowered from him, ‘for a box of cigars
.’I gave him short shift but he continued. ‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed you peering at my ledger trying to see what names I have in there, but I can assure you, it’s none of your damn business.’
‘Settle down now, Mr Ackerman,’ despaired Emmerich. ‘Mr Broderig hasn’t been anywhere near your ledger. None of us would dream of being so presumptuous.’
Mr Ackerman shot everything that moved, even if the creature was not worth the ammunition. I watched him eyeing
a sick
Presbytis rubicunda
which I would normally have shot myself, its skin being a glorious auburn colour, but this one was shabby, dragging its feet, its life almost over. We all knew that it would disappear into the depths of the forest to die quietly, its final resting place a nest of leaves.Bang. One shot. A brutish laugh, then up hopped Ackerman and seized the dead monkey with his hands and tossed it into the bushes. San and Uman were silent, but I read their eyes. This is not how we treat Nature. This is not the way. But I said nothing, nothing at all.
Emmerich had no interest in catching the mighty Mias. It was a creature, he said, that when you looked in its eyes, looked back at you pleading for its life. Instead, he came only for plants and flowers.
‘Benjamin, stay close to me and learn. Mr Ackerman would choose to walk past this little botanical treasure but he would be foolish, for this, gentlemen …’ We all stopped in our tracks as he pointed at a hideous plant. ‘
Nepenthes villosa.
Extremely rare. Prise it open, Uman. That’s right, slowly does it.’ Uman slid the blade between the teeth. The plant opened, revealing two scaly bodies, blank eyes.‘Are those lizards inside?’ I asked, astonished.
‘It’s not just the mighty that’s king in this forest, Benjamin. This plant doesn’t need to beat its chest or break a neck. It merely opens its mouth, thus.’ He prized the pitcher plant open further. ‘A lizard climbs in and
das schmeckt gut, ja?’A slow and menacing ‘clap … clap … clap’ came from the wings. ‘I think you have made your point, Professor Mann. Now gather up your little pets because some of us have a living to make
.’Emmerich smiled as if to say ‘Take no notice of him,’ but something about Ackerman’s manner troubled me. Even little San looked anxious and sprang to Emmerich’s help to gather up the pitcher plants. Five boxes filled and we started up again.
It was only a few minutes of trekking back along the mountain trail when I heard a distinctive rustling in a tree above my head. ‘Mias,’ whispered the tribal chief. He waved us to lie down, stay silent, as a fully grown male crashed through the canopy showering us with leaves. I glanced back at Emmerich who smiled, nodded.
The crack of the gun twisted in my stomach, like a knife. Ackerman. I didn’t see him keel up and point the barrel of the gun, but without a flicker of hesitation, I knew the shot was his.
The great beast fell to the ground and the jungle roared its disapproval. Birds screeched and monkeys howled as the dust rose up into the air, then all was deadly silent.
‘Bullseye. Straight through the heart. My aim is getting better
, ja?’
The others held back for a moment, afraid the sleeping giant would stir, but Ackerman was right about death. And I asked myself, could I really shoot these creatures? Bringing down a hornbill or a squirrel was easy. But something made me ache in the pit of my belly. Was it guilt? Mourning is too strong a word, but it was loss. And yet this was the work we were here for.Ackerman gave the ape a kick. ‘It’s dead. No question.’ He was still panting from the kill. ‘What are you waiting for? Hurry yourselves. I want at a whole troop before the sun is down. Amsterdam Museum will pay a fortune for these skins. We’ll leave this one by this myrtle till we have finished the hunt.’ Ackerman continued haranguing the servants. San scurried around, avoiding Ackerman’s odd swipe at his head as he went about his tasks.
‘Maaf, tuai rumah. Maaf, maaf.’
Over and over poor San muttered, pleading his apologies to the dead ape for doing the white man’s bidding. And as I watched them, I saw Uman stroke the creature’s hair then crouch down and listen to its heart, his head cocked like a bird. ‘Its spirit hasn’t left,’ Uman said, and then began to hum a low long chant
. ‘Ummmm toh Urang. Ummm toh Urang.’Ackerman hissed in my ear, ‘You see why Orang Putus is Master here, Mr Broderig? Still, we have to let the Natives have their mumbo jumbo nonsense. But tell the chief we need to find another now. Make haste or I shall leave the lot of you behind.’ But before we all moved on, I looked back at the great ape. Its brown eyes staring out into its forest kingdom, lost forever
.
We shot the apes all day, as Ackerman insisted. Five in as many hours. I took a young female down from the trees with a single shot. She limped away, howling, as Ackerman rasped in my ear, ‘Finish her off. Did you see the baby clinging to her back? Finish her, Broderig, before I do.’
I shot again. Another crack and I reloaded for a third. But someone pulled my gun down. ‘It’s enough, Mr Broderig.’ It was Uman. ‘The Mias is dead.’
I peeled the baby off its dead mother and it gave out such a yell I almost dropped the creature. I gave the little Mias over to San, who held it tight.
‘It won’t live,’ said Ackerman. ‘Shoot it now. It will only sicken and then the skin’s worth nothing. Here, give me the Mias and I’ll deal with it.’ But the little boy was too quick for the Dutchman, and in a flash he had shimmied up a tree with the Mias clinging to him.
‘Leave him alone, Mr Ackerman.’ It was Uman who stood directly in front of Ackerman, neither threatening nor afraid. And for a fleeting moment, I think Ackerman saw what I saw. If there was a hierarchy on this trip, it wasn’t simple.
We piled up the bodies and built a fire. San sat playing quietly with the infant, whispering
, ‘Maaf, maaf,’
meaning sorry. Ackerman skinned his prizes. Orang-utans are magnificent creatures even in death. Mine was left till last. I worked the skin myself. I felt murderous, but still I scraped. The skin was a good one. I boiled the bones. I asked San to leave the baby and help me finish my work, but when the boy tried to prise the clinging Mias off, it gave out such a scream, I told San not to bother. Ackerman scowled at me, and I believe he would have hit the boy, but tropical nights are sudden, and this one fell before the deed was done. And so, we burrowed down to sleep. The little creature had
tucked itself into the boy’s arms and they curled together, like innocents, their faces gently lit by the dying embers until the darkness took them.
The crack of the whip brought me to my senses. I opened my eyes to see Ackerman, standing over me like some vile prison warden. I’d noticed his whip the day we left Sarawak. He hadn’t touched it until now, but as I cursed him and staggered to my feet, I sensed his mounting agitation.
‘Our guide here,’ the towering Ackerman embraced the
tuai rumah
in a menacing grip, ‘has just informed us that he wishes to return to Empugan, giving us only one day’s more hunting. So, English boy, if it’s not too much trouble?’Uman and the others were already up finishing the skinning and tagging. Emmerich was squatting by the fire. I smiled at my benevolent botanist, surrounded as he was by a cluster of orchids. ‘I gathered these this morning. The forest is full of them. Mr Banta knows more about my chosen field than he would at first let on, isn’t that right Mr Banta?’
‘I bow to your superior knowledge, Professor Mann, but what do you think we should call this?’ asked Mr Banta, looking at me for an answer. The orchid in his hand was spectral white and covered with flecks of silver. We named it there and then. An incomparable beauty
. Paphiopedilum katheriniadum.
Your namesake, Katherine, and as I held the petals in my hand, a damsel fly weaved above my outstretched palm. Its needle body a flash of violent, brilliant blue, its wings crossed with a
labyrinth of ebony veins. And at that very moment, a stream, a beam, a thread of gold pierced down and lit the insect from the sky and it cast a tiny, hovering shadow across the luminous flower. And then the fly lifted its membrane wings and, in a flutter, was gone.‘San. Get here, now boy. We’ll tag and measure in Empugan.’ Ackerman sweated as he loaded his gun. ‘The sun is rising fast and I have a hoard of creditors to pay.’
Packing up our kit and picking up our boxes, we moved off.
For three hours we moved liked ghosts. Ackerman went ahead of us, sprung like a coil, his gun pointing this way and that. San clutched the baby Mias, which was sucking his thumb, keeping it quiet. For three weary hours we followed the guide who urged us onwards, hold back, lie down, with just a show of his hand. But there was nothing except empty forest. The Mias had gone.
‘Evil spirits,’ whispered Uman.
I could see the sky begin to darken. A crack of lightning. A rumbling answer.
‘A storm is coming, the spirits are unhappy. We must say a prayer, or turn back,’ said Uman.
‘No.’ Ackerman spun around, his face smouldering anger. ‘I say we go on. My only master, and yours may I remind you, is money. I need another beast to make it worth my while. Large or small. Young or old. It doesn’t matter. The baby would do it. What do you say, San? A child and his little monkey. Yes, I’ll take the pair of them together. You’re very quiet San. Lost your tongue?’
San shrunk back, away from Ackerman’s leer, shielding the infant Mias, but Ackerman grabbed him by the arm, stroking his hair, his eyes all the time on Uman.
‘What do you think, Mr Broderig? I know the English are very keen on children.’
Uman grabbed the boy back and shouted at the frightened child, ‘Get on with your work and stay away from the white man.’
The boy obeyed his uncle, wiping back his tears.
‘Leave the boy alone, Mr Ackerman. We understand your meaning and it’s very badly done. You can make up your catch near Empugan. Show some respect, sir, and leave the child alone.’
Emmerich was shaking as he spoke. His hat askew, his face furrowed by years in the eastern tropics. But despite this sorry appearance, Emmerich moved himself solidly between the malevolent hunter and his latest prey.
‘You foolish old man,’ said Ackerman. ‘And what have you contributed to this trip, I’d like to know? I suspect your decision to join this merry throng was not altogether for scientific reasons. Am I right or am I wrong, Professor Mann? Are you not married to a very Christian lady who is waiting vainly for her husband to return? But who needs religious devotion when you can have a beauty like our little San? These dark fellows know what I’m talking about. Heh, I’m speaking to you …’