The Darwin Conspiracy (17 page)

Her head ducked and bobbed with enthusiasm and her black bangs waved across her forehead. Of course, she was more than happy to show him around. She led the way with an athletic lope, declaiming over her shoulder like a tour guide.

“It’s called the ‘spirit collection’ because the specimens are preserved in alcohol to kill the bacteria that cause tissue degradation. There are four hundred and fifty thousand jars, including over twenty-five thousand of plankton.”

They entered an airtight chamber; the door behind them locked and a few seconds later the door in front clicked open. He looked at her quizzically.

“For temperature control,” she explained. “We keep it at thirteen degrees Celsius, below the flash point of alcohol. That also reduces evaporation. If there’s alcohol spillage, sensors pick it up. There’s nothing like this collection anywhere in the world. It goes back to Captain Cook in 1768—earlier, actually.”

They entered the storage rooms, rows upon rows of metal cabinets stretching in all directions. She continued the tour.

“We have twenty-two million specimens on seven floors—the largest such collection in the world. We’re especially proud of our type 
specimens—they’re the definitional archetypes by which a species is first named and described. We have almost eight hundred and seventy-seven thousand of them. They’re extremely important—during the war they were secretly transported to underground caves in Surrey for safekeeping. Couldn’t let the Jerries bomb them. That’s how essential they are.”

Hugh nodded to show he was impressed—and he was.

“The whole point of type specimens is lost on us today,” she went on. “Of course it was rooted in the nineteenth-century mania for classification—God bless all those amateur scientists for trying to make sense of the natural world: you know, a place for everything and everything in its place.

“But it was also rooted in religion. If the Lord made each and every species, and if they were fixed and never-changing, then it made sense to hunt down the best representative of each one. That was the only means of settling arguments about what belonged where. You found a bird, you opened a drawer, you compared it to the best of the lot, and you knew where you stood. So collectors were actually documenting God’s work. Everything fit neatly. There was no contradiction between science and religion.”

Her bangs shook with enthusiasm as she talked.

“Until Darwin came along. He upset the apple cart with his idea that every living organism was part of an ever-growing tree of life, with many branches. That’s why he called his theory the
transmutation
of species. He didn’t use the word ‘evolution,’ you know, not until
The
Descent of Man,
in 1871.”

“And do you have many specimens from Darwin himself?” Hugh asked.

“Thousands. He sent back everything—not just pickled stuff for the wet collection. We have birds and reptiles and fish and bones, eggs and shells and pollen, everything you can imagine.

“Here’s one”—she pulled a drawer, which slid open quietly, and held up a bottle labeled in black ink—“a baby parrot fish. They munch coral in their beaks. Darwin theorized that’s what caused sandy beaches.”

She gave a snort of a laugh. “No one’s right all the time.”

“And do you have any of his finches?” He thought of using the proper name,
Geospizinae
—the subfamily for Darwin’s finches, named 
after him in honor of their pivotal role in leading him to understand dif-ferentiation among species—but refrained. Name-dropping was discouraged among British scientists.

“Of the thirteen species, twelve are represented here; we have five hundred fifty skins, sixty spirit specimens, and ten skeletons.”

“They include the ones he himself collected?”

“Of course. He collected thirty-one specimens, of which twenty-two reached the museum. We retain nineteen.”

“How are they labeled? I mean, he mixed up all his specimens, didn’t he—took finches from the various islands and put them all in the same bag? Years later he had to implore FitzRoy to show him
his
finches.”

“You’ve hit the sore point, haven’t you, you naughty boy.” She was smiling. “In terms of location, our labels simply follow his best guess. I suppose in the long run it was fortuitous.”

“Why?”

“It proves that he had no inkling of the theory back then, doesn’t it?

If he had come upon it while he was in the Galápagos, he would hardly have made such a ridiculous mistake, would he?”

“I guess not.”

“So we know that the theory dawned on him after he returned to London, just as he said. It took a year or two. There was no
Eureka
moment. He returned to our shores in 1836 and he sketched a thirty-five-page outline in 1842.”

“Why did he take twenty-two years to write the damn thing?”

“Well, that’s what Americans call the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?”

He followed her into the control chamber—again they were briefly locked in together.

“Personally,” she said, “I don’t believe the answer is all that complicated.”

“What is it, then?”

“Think of it this way: Christianity was around more than eighteen hundred years. It took him two decades to overturn it. A ratio of ninety to one—that’s not so bad.”

The lock clicked open. She escorted him down to the first floor and the top of the majestic grand staircase leading to the lobby below. They were eye-level with the dinosaurs.

“Tell me,” said Hugh. “Do you have any specimens from the
Beagle
marked ‘R.M.’?”

“We do,” replied Ms. Fallows. “From Robert McCormick. I suppose you’ve heard of him.”

Hugh had, but only that morning. Two days ago he had found the
Beagle
’s crew list on the Internet and printed it out; it began with “Ash Gunroom—
steward
” and ended with “York Minster—
passenger.
” On the train he had scanned it and found the name that matched the initials

“R.M.”—Robert McCormick,
surgeon.

She continued: “There are just a few dozen. Some were mixed in with Darwin’s and sent along by him after the ship’s return. There aren’t many because of course he abandoned the voyage early on, at Rio, didn’t he?”

“Did he?”

“Indeed. Darwin himself wrote that. He even provided a catchy little description: the chap walked off on dockside sporting a parrot on his shoulder. That’s how we know it occurred.”

“Are the specimens dated?”

“Yes, of course. McCormick was trained as a scientist, even if he wasn’t a very good one.”

“And the dates are . . . when?”

“All from the first few months, up until the ship docked at Rio. Well, they could hardly be after that, could they?”

“I suppose not.”

“You
suppose
not. I should think you’re on safe ground there.”

Hugh detected a mild reproach. She seemed to think he was doubting the great man’s word.

“Yes,” he said. “And whatever happened to him?”

“McCormick? Oh, I’m not sure I know. He undoubtedly continued his voyages and stayed abroad for many years. Then, as I seem to recall, he perished somehow, perhaps in a shipwreck.”

She seized his hand to say goodbye with the same enthusiasm as when she had met him, her bangs swinging across her forehead.

“Hardly matters,” she said quietly. “I mean, he was a marginal character in the whole drama—wasn’t he?”

Hugh got caught up in the traffic jam because of the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and was twenty minutes late meeting Bridget. When he reached the park, threading his way through the crowd, he saw her at the entrance, leaning against an iron railing, her flowerprint dress pinned tight around her thighs. Her hair gleamed in the sun.

Surprisingly, catching sight of her unawares, he was struck by her beauty. He quickly damped down the thought, not because she was married but because she had once been his brother’s fiancée. When she saw him, she walked over brusquely.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a tense smile.

“The traffic.”

“I figured.” Uncharacteristically, she wasn’t making a big deal of it.

“All the goddamned tourists. Let’s go this way.” She led him along a path that curved left into the lush foliage of the park. He figured she had plotted their walk in advance. The sun had come out.

“Fine day,” he said.

“Cut the small talk.” Whatever overlay of English intonation had been there was gone.

“Okay. It’s a lousy day.”

“What’s that called anyway, that literary device, the one when nature mirrors your innermost feelings? Wordsworth and all those other dreary poets?”

“The pathetic fallacy.”

“That’s it. Well, this is the opposite. Nature is definitely
not
mirroring my feelings. And I definitely feel
pathetic.
”

“You sounded upset on the phone.”

“I am, a bit. More than a bit. And the way I look at it, you’re responsible.”

“Me?”

“You suddenly appear out of nowhere. You don’t know what you’re doing, where you’re going. You’re still hung up on your brother. It stirs everything up.”

“What things?”

“Emotions, dummy. Emotions.”

He was quiet.

“If you had answered my letter,” she said, “we might have kept up. We could have dealt with some of this back then and maybe laid it to rest.”

At the time he had known that that was in the offing. He suddenly realized that was why he hadn’t answered.

They passed a bank of flowers in full bloom, their blazing colors turned toward the sun. The air was dizzying, with perfumed scents and honeybees. She must have loved Cal deeply, he thought, and that called up a rush of affection and gratitude that reminded him of the first week he met her, in Paris.

“Maybe you haven’t moved on after all,” he said gently.

“That’s not the problem. The problem is
you
haven’t, and if you don’t, then I can’t either.”

“How come? Christ, I haven’t even seen you for six years. What does my life have to do with yours?”

“A lot. Don’t forget, we were almost brother and sister.”

“I know—another three months and you two would have been married.”

She paused, looking away. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Look, there are certain things you don’t know. There are
a lot
of things you don’t know.”

They came to a crowded bridge over a pond so that they were forced to walk single-file, and his questions were aimed urgently at the back of her shoulder—“Like what? What do you mean?” He caught up and took her elbow in one hand. “Explain what you mean.”

“Hey, not so hard.”

“Goddamn it, Bridget. Stop being so fucking mysterious. If you know something, just say it.”

She shook him off. “That’s the problem. I don’t
know
anything, I just wonder about things. There’s an awful lot to be explained.”

“Like what?”

“Things you have no idea about.”

They came to a bench; she sat down and he sat facing her. Across from them scum and paper floated on the pond’s edge. A handful of ducks waddled along the rocks, lunging at soggy pieces of bread tossed by a little boy in a sailor’s suit.

She was quiet for a moment and he waited her out, staring at her.

“Look,” she said finally. “This is awkward. I don’t know quite where to begin. But you should know that things weren’t so good between Cal 
and me at the end.” Hearing her pronounce Cal’s name made everything suddenly real.

“When he went back to the States—I know that you thought he was just on a visit, but it wasn’t clear to me that he was coming back. He didn’t know himself. When we said goodbye, we thought there was a chance we might never see each other again.”

“But you were going to be married in England. His whole life was here. You mean he was breaking it off?”

“Not really. But he was acting strangely. He wasn’t himself.”

“How do you mean? In what way wasn’t he himself?”

“You always think of him as the older brother, the confident one, the one who knew exactly what he was doing. But he wasn’t always like that. He had devils of his own.”

“What are you saying? He told you he wasn’t sure about getting married?”

“No, not exactly. He found it hard to talk about.”

“Talk about what?”

“That he was so troubled.”

She gave a half sigh, opened her purse and reached inside, pulling out a postcard, which she handed to Hugh. The edges were worn. It was a photo of the Statue of Liberty, standing radiant in the sun, the water an unnatural bright blue. On the other side, with a start, he recognized his brother’s hand. The writing was so small it took a while to decipher it.

Dearest B,

Sorry I haven’t written more, but not much to say.

Nothing’s resolved. I haven’t told Dad about the lab. No idea what I’ll do. Please bear with me. Some bad times,

especially at night. Churchill’s black dog is still baying at my heels. I love you more than I can say. Someday, perhaps, if we’re lucky, we’ll look back on all this as a

dream—rather, a nightmare. Please, please forgive . . .

Love, C.

There was a P.S. Hugh stared at it, unbelieving:
I’m hoping to talk to
Hugh.

It struck him through the heart.

“When he left,” she said, “he was in a bad way. He quit his job at the lab. He was in a bad car accident. He wasn’t sure of anything. And he was low. He tried hiding it from me—I could almost cry when I think of it . . . I
did
cry—how he tried hiding it. Because he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. I’m not sure he even knew what it was; just that he felt miserable.”

“Churchill’s black dog . . . ?”

“That was his expression for it—depression.”

Hugh couldn’t take it in: Cal depressed. Cal needing him. “And the lab—he loved that job. Why would he quit?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. He just came home one day and didn’t want to work there anymore. He said he didn’t believe in the place, that they’d lost track of their
mission.
”