“Yes, sir. He be here any time now.”
“Is it always the same coach that is used for Dunwell Cove, or are there several?”
“There’s only the one. Same coach, and mostly same horses.”
“And it is always driven by the same coachman?”
“Yes, sir. Always the same man, it be, for a long time now.”
“What is his name?”
“Jack Trelawney.” Conflicting expressions ran across the boy’s open face. “Stinkin’ Jack, some around here be callin’ him.”
“But it is not a fair name?”
“No, sir. He were once powerful smelly, a while back. But not now.”
“I see. You like Jack, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, that I do.” Georgie blushed, a fiery scarlet like a sunburst. “He never thrazzes me for nothing, not like some as drive the coaches.” He looked down, then turned to glance up at Darwin through thick eyelashes that any girl might have envied. “He’s not being in trouble, is he?”
“No trouble at all, so far as I know. But would you point him out to me when he comes in?” Darwin stood up, dropped the coin into a grubby hand, and was rewarded with a shy smile.
“Yes, sir. I’ll point ’im out. Thank’ee, sir.”
Pole had watched and listened from over by the coach, which had already been turned and provided with fresh horses in preparation for its journey back to Taunton. “A good shilling down the drain,” he grumbled, as Darwin returned to his side. “And we’ve not been in St. Austell above five minutes.”
“But my shilling, to spend as I chose.” Darwin’s voice took on a more thoughtful tone, and he went on, “A shilling spent, not wasted. You see, Jacob, there is a hidden calculus, not recognized yet by our philosophers but perceived instinctively by many financiers. Knowledge is a close relative to money, just as money is related to knowledge.”
Pole flopped down to sit on his travelling chest. “Damn it, ’Rasmus, you’re getting too deep for me. Money leads to knowledge, eh? So what knowledge did your shilling just buy from yon lad?”
“I do not yet know.” Darwin shrugged his heavy shoulders. “As I said, it is not a recognized calculus, and its working rules have still to be established.”
“Then for the moment I’ll hang on to my shilling.” Pole nodded toward the bench, where Georgie was gesturing urgently to Darwin and pointing along the road. “Here’s what you got for yours.”
Approaching the coach house on foot was a dark-clad figure holding a leather gun case. His long overcoat was marked in front with pale brown stains, and he wore a round hat with a rim pulled low to shield his single eye from the bright sun. A black patch covered the other eye, and bushy brows and a full black beard emphasized rather than concealed thick lips, red and glistening. The man’s complexion was very dark, adding credence to the idea that the remnants of the defeated Armada had two centuries earlier discharged their exhausted Spanish crews onto the Cornish coast. The coachman took in Darwin, Pole, and luggage with one swift glance, nodded a greeting at the boy, and strode on through into the coach house.
Two minutes later he was back from behind the building, driving a two-horse cabriolet with a modified wooden body. He held the reins lightly and the team was fresh and frisky, but the coach wheeled smartly around to stop precisely at the pile of luggage.
He jumped down from the driver’s seat and grinned at his passengers with a rapid gleam of white teeth. “Jack Trelawney, at your service. Dunwell Cove or Lacksworth, sirs? Or are you for Dunwell Hall?”
The voice, like the man’s actions, was quick and economical, lacking the Cornwall burr. The brown eye scanned the two men, head to toe. Without waiting for an answer he bent to hoist the medical chest to the rear of the coach.
“Dunwell Cove. The Anchor Inn.” Darwin had done his own share of rapid observation. Jack Trelawney was of medium height and build, but he had lofted the heavy chest with no sign of effort. The tendons on the backs of his work-hardened brown hands stood out as he lifted, showing in white contrast to fingers and nails yellow-stained on their end joints as by heavy and prolonged use of tobacco.
“Very well.” Trelawney had just as rapidly loaded the other luggage. “We have a light load today, and you are the only passengers. Payment before we start, if you do not mind. Thank you, sirs.” He pocketed the money without seeming to look at it and gestured them to board.
“I think maybe a ride in front, with the weather so improved.” Darwin moved to stand close to Jack Trelawney, then paused and frowned. “What do you say, Jacob?”
“Not for me. I’m still thawing out.”
“Oh, very well. Then I’ll keep you company.” Darwin swung open the door of the coach and led the way inside. He waited until the door was closed. Trelawney had climbed up front in the driver’s seat, and the two-wheeled cabriolet was on the move. Then he was out of his place again.
“Devil take it, Erasmus, can’t you sit still for a second?” Pole, in the act of taking out pipe and tobacco, was forced to stop, because Darwin was leaning right over him, examining doors and windows. “What are you up to?”
“Looking for a way for the phantom to enter.” Grunting with effort, Darwin progressed from ceiling to floor, and was soon on hands and knees peering under the seats.
“For God’s sake! If you think the phantom hides away under there, and pops out when nobody’s looking…”
“I do not.” Darwin, hands and sleeves filthy with cobwebs and old dust, finally climbed back to his feet and dropped into his seat facing Pole. “A modification to the original vehicle, with well-fitting doors and windows. It would please my friend Richard Edgeworth, because it is not of conventional design. But it is soundly made. Be silent for a moment, Jacob. I wish to listen.”
Jacob Pole sat, straining his own ears. “I don’t hear a thing.”
“You do. Listen. That is the squeak of coach bodywork. And all the time there is the clatter of the wheels over hard surface. That snort was one of the horses, hard-breathing.”
“Of course I hear those. But they are just noises. I mean, there’s nothing to listen to.”
He had lost his audience, because Darwin was up again, this time opening a window. He stuck his head out, peering in all directions.
“The coast road, of course.” His bulk filled the opening and his voice sounded muffled. “Typical Cornwall, granite, slate and feldspar. But St. Austell has reason to be glad of that, for without decomposed feldspar there would be no treasure house of china clay. Furze, broom, and scabgrass. Poor soil. And I note lapwings, terns, and an abundance of gulls. Forty yards from road to cliffs, and beyond them a drop to the sea. Very good. And now for the other side.” He was across the coach in two steps, to open the window there.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Jack Trelawney’s voice, calling from the front of the coach, showed that he had noticed the activity within.
“Perfectly well. Enjoying the scenery and the weather.” Darwin stayed for half a minute, then closed the window and slid back to his seat. “Rising ground to the right, we’re on the edge of a little moor. More granite, of course, and no sign of people. I doubt that the ground here is very fertile.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Pole sniffed, and continued stuffing his pipe. “I didn’t know you were thinking of setting up farming here, or planting a flower garden. And I’m wondering what you are proposing to tell Milly and Kathleen. They have as little interest as I do in a catalog of local muds and rocks, and still less in the Cornish bestiary.”
“I am not proposing, initially, to tell anything. It would be premature. I intend first to ask questions. As for an inspection of the surroundings and setting of Dunwell Hall and Dunwell Cove, we are seeking to explain a strange event. And any event, no matter how strange, inhabits a natural environment, which must itself reside within limits set by the physically possible. Therefore, we must first establish those bounding conditions.”