The Amazing Dr. Darwin Read online

  “Here is list. Read, see for self—you will need every item on it. And you will be forced to buy in Inverness, two days away for you. By time you ready to begin, we will be finished and away from here.”

  Pole’s sallow face flushed at the tone in Hohenheim’s voice. He shook off Darwin’s hand and stepped within inches of the tall doctor.

  “Hohenheim, last night you impressed me mightily. And you did us both a favor giving us those potions. This morning Dr. Darwin did his best to return that favor, warning you of a danger out on the loch. Instead of thanking him you insult us, saying we made up a monster to keep you away. Well, go ahead, ignore the warning. But don’t look for help from me if you get in trouble. And as for the galleon, we’ll work without you.” He stepped back. “Come on, Dr. Darwin. I see no reason to stay here longer.”

  He turned and began to stride back up the hillside. Hohenheim looked after him and waved one hand in a contemptuous gesture of dismissal. His laugh followed Pole up the hill, while Darwin stood silent, staring hard at the other’s lean face and body. His own face was an intent mask of thought and dawning conviction.

  “Dr. Hohenheim,” he said at last. “You have mocked a well-meant and sincere warning; you have refused Colonel Pole’s honest offer of cooperation; and you have dismissed my word when I told you I did not come to Malkirk for the galleon. Very well, that is your option. Let me say only this, then I will leave you to ponder it. The danger in the loch is real, I affirm again—more real than I would have believed an hour ago, more real than the treasure that you are so intent on seeking. But beyond that, Doctor Hohenheim, I think I know what you are, and how you came here. Bear that in mind, the next time that you seek to astonish Malcolm Maclaren and his simple villagers with your magic flights to Inverness, or your panaceas drawn from the air.”

  He snapped his fingers—clumsily, with none of Hohenheim’s panache—turned, and began to stump after Jacob Pole up the hilly path that led to Malkirk. Hohenheim’s jeering laugh sped his progress as he went.

  * * *

  “He’s still there, with another crowd around him. Now he’s taken a big knitting needle from one of the women. I wonder what he’s going to do with it? I could give him a suggestion or two.”

  Jacob Pole stood upright, turning from the window where he had stooped to look at the open area between the houses.

  “Here, Doctor, come over and look at this.”

  Darwin sighed, closed his Commonplace Book in which he was carefully recording observations of the local flora, and stood up.

  “And with what new mystery are we now being regaled?” He looked out onto the dusk of a fine evening. On the green in front of them, Hohenheim had taken the knitting needle and waved it twice in a flashing circle. He grasped the blunt end in both hands, directed the bone point at his heart, and pushed inward. The needle went into his chest slowly, an inch, then another, until it was buried to more than half its length. He released his hold and as the villagers around him gasped a bead of crimson blood oozed out along the white bone and dripped onto his tunic.

  Hohenheim let the needle remain for a few seconds, a white spike of bone deep in his chest. Then he slowly withdrew it, holding it cupped in his palms. When it was fully clear he ran the length between fingers and thumb, spun it in a flashing circle, and handed it to be passed among the villagers. They touched it gingerly. As it went from hand to hand he took a small round box from his cloak, dug out a nailful of black salve on his index finger, and rubbed it into the round hole in his shirt. He was smiling.

  “What is that drug?” Pole had his nose flattened against the dirty glass. “To save him from a wound like that—I’ve never known anything like it.”

  “I think I have,” said Darwin dryly, and went back to his seat. But Jacob Pole was no longer listening. He went to the door and out, to join the group watching Hohenheim. The latter nodded as he appeared.

  “Good evening again, Colonel.” His voice was friendly, as though the morning incident had never happened. “We’ll have no sea monsters, eh? But you come at right time. Now I will show antidote, cure for all poisons. So far, I have used only for crowned heads of Europe. Great secret, of high value.” He glanced toward the other house. “A pity that Dr. Darwin is not here, he might learn much—or maybe not.”

  He reached into the tall cabinet by his side and took out a slim container of oily fluid. The pitch stopper came out easily, and he sniffed at it for a moment.

  “Very good. Here is phial, see? Now, pass it round, one to another. Smell it—but not taste it. Deadly poison. If you want, replace with other poison—makes no difference to my antidote. I have made this extract from yew leaves. Colonel, you take it.”

  Pole sniffed carefully at the bottle. “It’s terrible.”

  “Pass on to next man.” The villager next to Pole handled the bottle delicately, as though it might explode. It went from hand to hand, some sniffing, others content to look, and at last came back to Hohenheim.

  “Good. Now watch close.” He reached again into the cabinet beside him and took out a neatly made cage of iron spokes around a wooden frame. A grey rat ran from side to side within, nervously rearing up against the narrow bars and sniffing hungrily at the air. Hohenheim held the cage high for a few seconds, so that the villagers could observe the rat closely. He set the cage on the ground, poured a drop or two of liquid from the phial onto a fragment of oat bread, and slipped it deftly between the bars.

  The rat paused for a few moments, while the circle of villagers held their breath. At last the rat sidled forward, sniffed the bread, and devoured it.

  “I will count now,” said the tall doctor. “Fifty pulse beats, and you see result.”

  He put his left hand to his right wrist and began to count in a clear, deep voice. At thirty the rat hesitated in its movements around the floor of the cage, and reared up against the bars. Ten more beats and it slipped to its belly, paws scrabbling against the wood.

  Hohenheim did not wait to complete the count. He lifted the phial to his lips and tossed the contents down his throat. As the villagers muttered to themselves he inverted the bottle, allowing a few last drops of viscous liquid to fall to the grass.

  “Now—and quickly—the antidote.”

  He pulled a flask of green liquid from his cloak, drained it, and carefully replaced the stopper. Amid the excited hubbub of the watching group, talking to each other in Gaelic about what they had witnessed, Hohenheim turned to Malcolm Maclaren. He was quite calm and relaxed, with no trace of nervousness about the poison.

  “There is a limited amount of this antidote. If any have desperate need—or want for future use—I can make arrangement. Normally I do not sell, but here where doctors are few I will make special case. You tell them, eh? While you do it”—he was looking at the southern road in the gathering dusk, nodding knowingly—“I think I have business to attend. See? I bought yesterday in Inverness, now it comes. If you will help unload, I can use tomorrow.”

  He pointed to the laden cart coming toward them, drawn easily down the hill by two dusty horses. “Those are my supplies for work here.” He turned to Jacob Pole. “As I told you, we are well advanced in plans. We have located the wreck, we have equipment to look at it. Maybe you and Dr. Darwin stop wasting your time here, would like to make arrangements to go home to south? Galleon will be done before you begin to look, eh? So good night, Colonel, and sleep well.”

  He nodded to Pole, bowed again to the circle of villagers, and strolled away toward the arriving cart. It was heavily laden with boxes and packages, and most of the villagers followed him, openly inquisitive. Jacob Pole stood, biting at a fingernail and staring angrily after Hohenheim.

  “Arrogant pox-hound!” he said to Zumal, who alone still stood by him. The black man ignored him. He was busy. He turned the dead rat out of the cage, replaced everything back in the tall cabinet, and carefully closed it. Placing it on a low trolley, he pushed it to the house and went inside. While Pole still stood there undec
ided, Malcolm Maclaren came back along the path toward him. The stocky Scotsman was looking worried, biting his lip and frowning.

  “Colonel, I’m not wantin’ to trouble ye now, but is Dr. Darwin inside an’ available for a word?”

  “He is inside.” Pole still sounded angry. “But if you can keep him to one word you are a better man than I am.”

  He led the way to the house. Darwin was sitting in the same chair, still at work on his notes. A bottle of Athole brose stood untouched by his side and he had been forced to light the oil lamp, but otherwise everything was exactly as Pole had left it. Darwin looked up and nodded calmly to Maclaren.

  “Another display of medical thaumaturgy, I have no doubt. What was the latest wonder? Ex Hohenheim semper aliquid novi, if you will permit me to paraphrase Pliny.” His tone was cheerful as he laid down his pen and closed the book. “Well, Malcolm Maclaren, what can I do for you?”

  The Scot fidgeted uneasily for a few seconds, his dark face working under the full growth of beard.

  “I did not come to talk to ye of Hohenheim,” he said at last. “No, nor of yon galleon that ye seek to raise. I’m askin’ help. Ye may recall I spoke to ye about my brother, away inland these past two month. We had word come in today, rare bad news. He took an accident, out on the mountains. A fall.”

  Darwin puffed out his cheeks but did not speak. Malcolm Maclaren rubbed his big hands together, struggling for the right words.

  “A bad fall,” he said finally. “An’ we hear of injury to his head. They’re bringin’ him on back here, an’ I’m expectin’ him tomorrow, before nightfall. I was thinkin’…” He paused, then the words came in one rush. “I was wonderin’ if ye might be willin’ to do some kind of examination on him an’ see if there’s any treatment that would help him to regain his health and strength—we have plenty of money, that’s no problem, we’ll pay your usual fee an’ more.”

  “Aha,” said Darwin, so softly that Jacob Pole had trouble catching his words. “At last I think we see it.” He stood up. “Fee is not an issue, Malcolm Maclaren. I will examine him gladly, and give you my best opinion as to his condition. But I wonder a little that you are not consulting Dr. Hohenheim. He is the one who has been displaying prodigies of medical skill to the people of your village. Whereas I have done nothing here to show power as a physician.”

  Maclaren gloomily shook his grizzled head. “Don’t say that. I’ve had argument enough this very day on that subject, from man and woman both. I saw what he can do. Yet there’s somethin’ I canna put a name to, that makes me…”

  His voice trailed off and he and Darwin stood eye to eye for a long moment, until Darwin nodded.

  “You’re an observing man, Malcolm Maclaren, and a shrewd one. Those are rare qualities. If your evaluation of Dr. Hohenheim is not one that you can readily place on logical foundations, that is not necessarily sufficient reason to distrust it. Like the animals, humans communicate on many levels more basic than words.”

  He turned to Jacob Pole. “You heard the request, and I am sure you see the problem it creates for me. I promised to help you with your equipment. But if I am also to be here, awaiting the arrival of Maclaren’s brother, I will be unable to do it. I know you will not wish to wait another day—”

  “An’ there’s no reason for that,” said Maclaren gruffly. “If it’s another pair of hands ye need, I’ve twenty men ready to serve—even if I have to break heads to persuade them of it. When do ye need that help?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon will do well enough.” Jacob Pole sensed that Maclaren was in his most cooperative mood. “I’ll want help to carry something to the loch. On that score, you know all about the Devil there. But have you ever seen it yourself, and is it dangerous?”

  “Aye, I’ve seen it, but never close, and never more than a shape in the water. Others here have seen it better. But I’ve never heard word of harm that came to any man that left the beast to live in its own way.” Maclaren sat down, raising his head to look at the others. “We’ve had trouble in these parts, plenty of it, but it was not from the beast in the loch. Men have lost their lives, these past years in the Highlands—an’ their heritances. But it was not the Devil’s doin’ that left the women lonely an’ took all of us down close to beggary. For that ye have to look closer to your own kind. Aye, but I’m runnin’ loose an’ sayin’ more than I ought.”

  He shook his head, stood up, and abruptly left the room. Pole, following him to the door, could at first see no sign of him in the dusk. Then he made out a squat, dark figure, striding rapidly across to the house with the black shutters. For the first time since they arrived, a light was showing in the window there.

  * * *

  It was a problem, and one that he could have anticipated. Jacob Pole crouched by the box that held Little Bess, grumbled to himself, and frowned at the late afternoon sunlight that was turning the peaks to the east into soft purple.

  Darwin had been adamant, and Maclaren had agreed with him. The villagers could help carry the box, but they must not see the cannon inside. With weapons forbidden since the Disarming Act, a Highlander risked fines and transportation if he knowingly so much as assisted in carrying arms. The responsibility for handling Little Bess at the loch had to remain with Jacob Pole alone.

  Very well; but how in damnation was he supposed to manhandle two hundredweight of cannon so that it pointed correctly to cover the loch? He was no Malcolm Maclaren, barrel chest and bulging muscles.

  Grunting and swearing, Pole lifted the one-pound balls out of the box and laid them on the canvas next to the bags of black powder. Thank God the weather was fine, so nothing would get wet (but better hurry, and be done before the dew fell). With powder and shot removed, the box and cannon was just light enough to be dragged around to face the right direction. But now the sides of the box made it impossible either to prime or fire. And the cannon was too heavy to lift clear.

  Pole sighed and took the iron lever that he had used to pry open the top of the container. He began to remove the sides, one by one. It was a slow and tedious job, and by the time that the last pin had been loosed and the wooden frame laid to the ground, dusk was already well on its way.

  At that point, he hesitated. He had intended to fire one test round, to make sure that range and angle were correct. But perhaps that should wait for the morning, when the light would be better and the travel of the ball more easily seen. After a few moments of thought, he loaded a bag of black powder and a ball, and placed the fuse all ready. Then he went across to a square of covering canvas, well away from the powder, and took out tobacco, pipe, flint and tinder. He sat down. His pipe was already charged and the flint in his hand when he looked down the hill to the surface of Loch Malkirk. He had been too absorbed in his own work to pay any attention there. Now he realized that two figures were busy by the loch’s edge.

  Hohenheim and Zumal were wheeling a handcart full of boxes and packages. At the flat-bottomed coble they halted and began to transfer cartons. As the breeze dropped, Hohenheim’s words carried clearly up from the quiet water. Pole, crouched there in his brown cloak, was indistinguishable from the rocks and the heather.

  He repressed his instinctive reaction, to call a greeting. As they finished loading and moved offshore he sat, pipe still unlit, and watched closely.

  “Steady now, until I give the word.” That was Hohenheim, leaning far forward in the boat’s bow. With the sun almost on the horizon, the shadow of the boat was like a long, dark spear across the calm surface of the loch. Hohenheim was leaning over into the shadow, so that it was impossible for Jacob Pole to see what he was doing.

  “Back-paddle, and slow us—now.” The coble was stationary on the calm surface. The man in the bow reached down over the front of the boat, pulled up a loop of line from the water, and tied it to a ring in front of him.

  “Looks good. I see no drift at all since yesterday.” Hohenheim turned and nodded to Zumal. “Get ready now, and I will prepare the rest.”

 
The black man laid down the paddle and began to strip off his clothes. The setting sun was turning the surface of the loch into a single glassy glare in Jacob Pole’s eyes, and Zumal was no more than a dark silhouette against the dazzling water. Pole raised a hand to shield his eyes and tried to get a closer look at Hohenheim’s activities.

  The scene suddenly changed. As he watched, the even surface of the loch seemed to tear, to split along a dark, central line, and to divide into two bright segments. Pole realized that he was seeing the effects of a moving ripple, a bow wave that tilted the water surface so that the sunlight no longer reflected directly to his eyes. Something big was moving along the loch. He dropped his pipe unheeded to the heather, and his heart began to beat faster.

  The coble was close to the seaward end of the loch, where the shallow water lay. The moving wave was still more than a quarter of a mile away in the central deep. But it was moving steadily along toward the boat. Pole watched in fascination as it came within about forty yards, to where the bed of the loch began to rise. Then the wave veered left and turned back along the shore. The two men in the coble were too busy to notice. Hohenheim had now taken a small barrel from the bottom of the boat, removed its top, and was adjusting something inside it. He said a few soft words to Zumal, naked now in the stern, and laughed. Behind them the ripples still spread across the sweep of water.

  “Ready?”

  Pole heard the single word from Hohenheim as the sun finally dipped below the western horizon and everything took on the deeper tones of true twilight. Zumal’s nod was barely visible in the gloom.

  “As soon as I lower it, follow it down. It lasts only a short while, so act quickly.”

  Pole watched the flash of flint and metal that followed the last words. It sparked three times, then there was the glow of tinder. Hohenheim was holding a smoldering wad of cotton over the open end of the barrel.