Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Read online

  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

  NINE

  BLOOMSBURY

  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 bett
er 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.

  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, s
he 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.