He scanned the table top, a frown on his face. “And while you do your share, I will inquire as to the status of our hot dessert. Ginger pudding was promised.”
The contrast was striking. As far west as Launceston, winter ruled. The road surface was iron-hard and stable, the crust of snow breaking barely enough to give firm support to a horse’s hooves. Hedgerows, formed from black tangles of leafless hawthorn, marked the converging lines of highway across the white and rolling landscape of the Bridetown Hills. Finches, robins, and starlings, perched within the hedges, were fluffed out to grey and brown balls of feathers. They did not move as the coach passed by. Within the vehicle the passengers sat just as unmoving, swaddled from toes to ears. The interior, no matter how much the occupants might struggle to block each crack and chink of door and window with rags and clothing, remained ice-cold.
But beyond Launceston, the road skirted left of the brooding, craggy mass of Dartmoor. The way to the south lay open. Within a few miles, the snow cover melted magically away, while at the same time, as by coincidence, the sun broke through and began to disperse a long-held low overcast. The road surface softened as the coach proceeded, and at last at the foot of the hedges the snowdrops and first yellow crocuses stood in open bloom. Beyond the boundary hedgerows, birds and rabbits busied themselves in the soggy fields.
“By the grace of the great Gulf Stream.” Darwin had abandoned the broad hat that had protected his head since leaving Lichfield, and for the past few miles he had been peering out through the coach window at the rapidly changing scenery. “The Stream laps the whole of the western peninsula, to the point where winter in Cornwall and Devon never approaches the severity of our inland experience. A few more miles south, and I swear we will see full Spring. But even in Lichfield, we still have reason to be grateful for the Stream’s existence. Were it not for that benign presence, all England would be colder than Iceland.”
Jacob Pole did no more than grunt. For three days he had said little and eaten less, contenting himself with making the atmosphere in the closed coach hideous with strong tobacco, that he first cut in thin slices from a purple-brown solid block, rubbed well between his hands to shred and flake it, and stuffed into a curved meerschaum pipe so well-used over the years that its golden exterior had turned almost black. He lit his pipe with the aid of a small oil lamp, constantly burning for just that purpose. Smoke rose up in pungent blue-white spirals to fill the closed coach. Darwin, as confined in movement as his companion, had grumbled about the nauseating stink as he scribbled both verse and prose in his bulky Commonplace Book, but between rhymed couplets and engineering ideas he had eaten and drunk enough for two from the hamper that sat next to him on the seat. His precious medical chest, too bulky to travel within, was lashed to the coach’s flat top.
“And because it is never true winter in the extreme southwest,” Darwin went on, “the native flora must surely contain members of the vegetable kingdom not encountered farther north and east. Think of it, Jacob. I may return home with the basis for a whole new pharmacopeia, derived from plants that I have never seen before.”
Another grunt was Pole’s main reaction, until at last he removed the pipe from his mouth.
“Blast it, Erasmus, I don’t have your spare padding. If you’re planning to keep up the geography and medical lectures, you might at least do it with the window closed.”
“So that you can once more asphyxiate me with your fumes? You are fortunate that there are no other passengers, less patient and long-suffering than I. Also, the day will come when you regret your emaciation.” Darwin patted his belly in a satisfied way. “This is not mere padding. It is valuable reserves, against the possible vicissitudes of Nature.”
But he pushed the window to, as tightly as it would go, and leaned back in his seat. “Five more minutes, Jacob, and it will be time to dot your pipe and light your brain. That last milepost shows us to be only one mile short of St. Austell.”
“I’m aware of that. Why d’ye think I’ve been sitting here steaming, the past half-day?”
“Are you afraid that your cousin may have alerted others to our impending arrival? I thought that you in your letter were to warn her against such action.”
“I did. And I rely on Milly completely. So far as anyone in Dunwell knows we are no more than guests for the wedding party on the bride’s side.”
“So why the long face?”
“Her reply created that.” Pole patted his chest, but made no move to draw a letter from within his quilted and buttoned overcoat. “Too much gratitude, in advance of results. She seems to think we’re gods—especially you.”
“And why not? We are as much gods as any that exist.”
“You don’t want to go talking like that around the people at Dunwell Hall. Especially Brandon Dunwell. According to Milly he’s a very pious, God-fearing man—a bit too much, I suspect, for her taste.”
“And therefore far too much for mine.”
“No doubt. But the real problem is, I’m afraid Milly is hoping for a lot more than we can deliver. I can tell from her letter, she’s thinking we’ll arrive at Dunwell Cove with a full explanation. And you told me yourself, you have absolutely no ideas about the phantom.”
Darwin’s full mouth pursed. “I said no such thing. If you will but recall our conversation on that first evening, I said that I had a thousand ideas. That is still true. But until we arrive at Dunwell I have no sieve, no way to retain truth and riddle away plausible nonsense. But that will change. In fact, it is already changing.”
While they were talking, the rhythm of the wheels was taking on a different cadence. The rumble of movement over town cobblestones replaced the crunch of gravel of a well-kept country road.
The coach was arriving, a few minutes earlier than the driver’s estimate, at the St. Austell coach house. The wheels were still turning when Darwin opened the door. He swung himself to the ground, lightly for a man of his size, and stared around with eyes gleaming.
They had arrived on a private vehicle, not a regular service, and the only person waiting at the coach house was a straw-haired boy nine or ten years old. Seated on a bench, he was enjoying the new-found sun and staring at Darwin with open curiosity.
“A bad start.” Pole, climbing out more slowly and gesturing to the driver to unload their cases and the medical chest, glared at the lad. “Nothing here. I was hoping we’d learn something in St. Austell and have a suggestion to offer Milly.”
“And so we may. Make no mistake, Jacob, as a witness a young boy is far to be preferred to a grown man or woman. He has fewer preconceptions as to what he believes he should see.”
Darwin walked across to the lad, who was still gawping at the new arrivals. He reached into his pocket, and fished out a shilling.
“Roight, sir.” The voice was full of the singing tone of the far West Country, and at the sight of the coin the boy had come to his feet at once. “You’ll be wanting me to handle the cases, sir?”
“No. Just answer one or two questions.” Darwin sat down on the bench and gestured for the lad to do the same. “What’s your name?”
“Georgie, sir.”
“Well, Georgie, we will be taking the coach from here to Dunwell Cove. Will it be arriving soon?”