The Darwin Manuscript, page 2
He closed his window and guided the car with increasing speed back onto the road. Mary held her hand to her mouth in horror and Andrew said, “Those bastards don’t play games, Mary. They play for real.”
[2] London, England—6 Weeks Earlier
Andrew Carlish and his young brother Joey, christened Josiah but nobody dared use the name, sat on upright chairs before the ancient desk in their lawyer’s office. Joey was unlike his brother and had tousled fair hair on his boyish face, with a slim figure some three inches shy of six feet.
On his worn leather chair that no longer had a swivel or a rocking motion, sat the painfully thin figure of Frederick Makepeace, who unsuccessfully still tried to make his chair swivel as he turned to face each client.
“I’m sorry I could not attend your father’s funeral in Shrewsbury,” he said with a loud sniff followed by a couple of snorts and trumpets as he blew his large beak of a nose into a colourful handkerchief. “Unfortunately…”
“It is quite all right, Mr. Makepeace,” said Andrew, glancing anxiously at his watch and not wanting to be late for his lunch with his friend Mary. “It was a quiet family affair.” In fact, the funeral was exceptionally quiet, because they told local friends and well-wishers it was a private affair, and only Andrew and Joey were present.
“Yes, well,” mumbled Makepeace who as usual seemed at a loss for words. “Your father’s will is quite straightforward with no surprises. Apart from a couple of small items he wants Andrew to have, your father leaves the house and contents to you both equally and hopes that you will keep it in the family, although he fully understands you may wish to sell it. His final bank accounts and investments, after tax and duties, will provide you each with a sum of about a quarter of a million pounds.”
“The two items for you, Andrew, are the family bible and the Wedgewood vase in the study cabinet.”
Andrew and Joey were both familiar with the terms of their father’s will, and their visit today was merely a formality and courtesy to the family lawyer. They shuffled their feet and prepared to leave.
“There is just one final thing,” said Makepeace with another snort and nose-blowing session that caused Andrew and Joey to glance at each other with raised eyes. “Your father left this sealed letter for Andrew, and requests that he read it immediately in my presence and that he keep the contents private.”
Andrew looked in surprise at Joey, who shrugged his narrow shoulders, and he reached forward to take the thin envelope from Makepeace. The lawyer leaned back in his chair and after failing to make it swivel he busied himself with various papers on his desk.
Andrew slit open the envelope and quickly read his father’s short note:
Andrew, my son, you know already that I leave you my bible and the pottery heirloom. I hold no hope of you having any religious aspirations, but trust you can find some sense from the message it holds. You are aware that Josiah Wedgewood originally created it to guide our illustrious ancestor and it is my wish that you use it to steer your life in the right direction.
Your ever-loving father, AC.
He folded the letter and returned it to the envelope without a word, and then stood up and leaned forward to shake hands with Makepeace. The elderly man shuffled to his feet and wished both of them well.
“I’ll forward the money to your accounts in due course,” he said with yet another loud sniff.
The brothers waved goodbye and left quickly as Makepeace sank into his chair blowing his nose with great gusto and trying to get his chair to give at least a small swivel.
In the lift, Andrew handed the letter to Joey. The brothers had been close all their lives and held no secrets from the other. Joey glanced through the note and returned it to Andrew before they reached the ground floor.
When they were in the taxi and on their way for Andrew to meet Mary for lunch, Joey said, “What do you make of Dad’s note, Andrew, didn’t you think it was a little cryptic?”
“Oh, you have been playing your computer games again, but I don’t think it’s too important,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m sure it has something to do with our ancestors and perhaps something in father’s bible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…I recall going into the study to say goodnight when I was about six or seven years old, and Dad was pushing a folded piece of paper into the back cover of his old bible. He quickly turned away from me to finish the job, and then placed the bible back on his desk before giving me a hug. You know he never shouted at us even when angry, and it was the same on that day, I could sense he was angry that I saw him with the paper, but he simply asked if in future I would knock before entering his study.”
“The man was a masterpiece of understatement. Well, we can have a look at the bible next weekend.”
“Okay,” said Andrew. The brothers each sank into thought about their recently deceased father, loving him for his full life of contentment and happiness, yet already missing him. Andrew Carlish—the father, for the eldest son for generations had carried the same name—was a professor of English Literature at Cambridge until he retired shortly after the death of his wife from cancer. They had been married for almost forty years.
If the elder Andrew was sorry that neither of his sons displayed any interest in literature or the arts, he certainly never showed it. In fact, just the opposite, he supported them fully in their chosen careers.
Young Andrew left Cambridge without completing his final year to train as an officer in the Army at Sandhurst, after which he quickly moved from the Coldstream Guards to the SAS Regiment.
He was a very proud father when he saw his son graduate with honours from Sandhurst and no less proud during the next five years when young Andrew won many battle honours and other awards he never spoke about upon his return home.
Joey graduated from Cambridge with honours in mathematics and the university begged him to remain and continue his studies, but becoming a professor was not his destiny. Joey went to work for a software company in Berkshire for a year and then spent a couple of years with various software companies in California before returning home to start his own business in the same industry.
His father happily provided all the capital required for offices, staff, and equipment and was amazed and bursting with pride when Joey returned it all with interest in less than two years. Andrew was home on leave that day, and sat back at the family reunion with a wide grin of pleasure to see the love showered upon his brother by their mother and father.
Thinking back about that day now, Andrew realized it was the last happy family get-together, because a few months later the hospital diagnosed Mom with cancer. He gave a quick shiver and was pleased to see the taxi pull up outside the Gaucho Grill in Chancery Lane where they both alighted.
“Joey,” said Andrew over his shoulder as he paid off the taxi, “Say nothing to Mary about Dad’s letter, please.”
“Of course, bro’—family stuff. Yeah?” said Joey, clapping him on the shoulder before skipping across the pavement into the warm atmosphere of the restaurant.
-o-
A week later, Joey and Andrew gave a cursory glance over their father’s desk and each took a closer look at the rows of books on the shelves that almost filled the walls of the study.
They had driven down from London in Andrew’s car early that morning, and despising the motorways with all their speed cameras and police patrols, Andrew took the A40 out of London sped around the Oxford bypass and positively raced along the road to Cheltenham and Gloucester.
They turned north and went past Worcester, Kidderminster, Bridgenorth and finally Shrewsbury. It was the long way, but in his Jaguar XKR-S so early the morning, it was most pleasurable.
They enjoyed a very early pub-lunch at the 200-year Bell Inn before trundling the last few miles to their home set in the farming country south of the town.
“No, Joey,” said Andrew, “Don’t waste your time looking through those old tomes, where did Dad usually keep his bible?”
“By his bed,” said Joey with a chuckle, as they left the study and raced upstairs.
Their parents had slept in adjoining bedrooms for as long as the boys could recall; their mother’s room decorated brightly in pastel shades with flowered drapes and bed covers, the furniture was of Mediterranean style in pale lilacs and pinks.
In complete contrast, their father’s room had highly polished red mahogany furniture and thick red velvet drapes, even the bed covers were dark and heavy. It was a dour room, and the two sons did not enter it much as children; and even today, Andrew could not recall the last time he was in that room.
Joey went immediately to the windows and drew back the drapes and opened the window to the let the blustery winter air freshen the room. Andrew sat upon his father’s bed and opened the heavy bible with its ornate tooled leather bindings.
He saw that William Pickering published it in 1825 and suddenly realized just how old the book was, but when he turned the next page, he was even more startled. There was an inscription: To Charles on his 21st birthday. May you find the same comfort from the words in this book as I have enjoyed. The umbrella stand with its map of the world may reveal its secrets in time. Uncle Jos. 12 Feb. 1830.
This was a bible read by Charles Darwin, and given him by his uncle, Josiah Wedgewood, who lived at nearby Maer Hall.
Andrew became aware of his family’s relationship to Darwin when he was a young teenager, but being more interested in sports and not at all interested in history or literature, he quickly put it out of his mind. Even when attending a mathematics lecture at Cambridge he thought nothing of it when the professor said, “What is your solution to this problem, Carlish. Or should I call you Darwin?’
“Excuse me, sir?” said Andrew, puzzled by the question.
The professor adjusted his rimless spectacles and looked around the small lecture room. “Can any student tell me why I should call Andrew Carlish by the name Charles Darwin?” he asked.
If any student knew the answer, they were not going to supply it, because it was well known when this elderly professor asked rhetorical questions he liked to give his own answer.
“Very well, you dunces, let me tell you. If any of you were familiar with The Times crossword puzzle, you would know immediately that his name is an anagram of Darwin’s. He then wrote CHARLES DARWIN on the board and below it ANDREW CARLISH and proceeded to join each corresponding letter.
“Let us hope you have similar success in life as your namesake, Carlish; but for now I would like you to simply solve this problem…”
Thinking of this memory now, as he read the inscription in Darwin’s bible, Andrew realized that the old professor was closer to the truth of his hereditary than he knew. The stories Andrew’s father told him may well have been true.
Immediately below the first inscription was another, written in a different hand:
To my son, Andrew Carlish, upon his 21st birthday. May you find and benefit from the treasures within. Charles Darwin 12 February 1879.
There were no other writings at the front of the bible, but on the end pages there were numerous pencil scribbled notes and dates. He paid no attention to these and looked for the slit in the thick binding on the rear cover.
“Joey, pass me those tweezers on the dresser, will you?”
Joey came over and sat beside Andrew who showed him Darwin’s inscription to their ancestor. “Darwin was an atheist at this time of his life, and would never have given his son a bible for its teachings. It must have been obvious there was another message somewhere in the book. I hope it is still there…”
Gradually he teased out a folded sheet of very thin paper from inside the heavy back cover. It crackled as he opened it and the brothers leaned forward to read the faded writing together.
To My Dear Son,
I greatly look forward to meeting with you on the occasion of reaching your majority and even today I can recall my own enormous feelings of excitement and anticipation when I reached 21 years of age. Sadly, we have only met a few times for obvious reasons, but I wish you to know that you have always been in my thoughts.
Your mother and I enjoyed some wonderful days together and we love each other dearly. When she told me she was expecting a child I immediately purchased the Rectory Farm House near Shrewsbury, where your mother told me she wished to live and raise our child, and as I’m sure you know I never let her want for anything, excepting my company, which I was not able to give.
I am pleased and proud that you have done so well with your studies at Cambridge and when I learned you are planning to continue your work in literature I decided to pass on to you the two gifts I received from Uncle Jos.
The bible was of great comfort to me on my voyages, but now I have found a better use for it as you must already have learned! The amazing cylindrical map projection on the umbrella stand is truly a work of art and I am surprised that Uncle Jos made only the one copy, which I have been so proud to own and display.
It has guided my life with some success, as I am sure you will agree, and just as its riches helped me when I needed it most, may they help you tenfold today.
I look forward to hearing your views on my publications as a highly esteemed literature scholar rather than as my son, but in case we are unable to discuss the subject when we meet let me tell you something of great importance.
There have been many theories projected on why I took so long to complete and publish ‘Origins’ upon my return to England, and also on why there were quite a number of new editions with additional material.
The truth of the matter is I dithered and procrastinated upon the final chapter, whether it should even be included, or if it should be a publication in its own right. Like all true cowards, in the end I did nothing with it, and I left it unpublished.
Because the contents of that chapter have shaped my life in great part, and because I have now realized they could cause more attention than ever ‘Origins’ received, I bequeath the manuscript to you, Andrew and trust in your decision, whatever it may be: Publish or Destroy!
May your life be long and happy,
Your loving father,
Charles Darwin. Down. 1879.
Andrew handed the paper to Joey and walked over to the window to stare out at the spreading Shropshire countryside. He could see a development of new homes where a large wood that he and Joey spent many happy hours playing had been levelled to make way for progress. Not for the first time in his life, Andrew wished he had been born a hundred or even two hundred years before.
“Look, Andrew, there’s another document inside the cover!”
He plucked at it with the tweezers and slowly it appeared; another old sheet of paper, but perhaps newer than the one they had just read. It contained sentences, dates and signatures in different hands, all making similar comments:
“The world may have been ready for ‘Origins of Species’ but I do not think it is ready for the publication of his final manuscript.” A.C. 1925
“I concur.” Andrew Carlish, 1950
“It should be destroyed.” Rev. A. Carlish 1978.
“I was close to publishing the manuscript, but lacked the strength of character to do so, perhaps if you agree with my thinking, you will publish it. You certainly have the strength of mind to see finally Darwin’s true thoughts in print and I think it is what he would wish.” Andrew Carlish, Shrewsbury. 2008.
Andrew and Joey looked at each other with raised eyebrows, and Joey flicked through the bible looking for any annotation or papers. There were no directions regarding the current whereabouts of Darwin’s final manuscript, and without them, the whole point of the messages is lost.
“It won’t be up here,” said Joey, glancing around the sombre bedroom.
Andrew shut the window and drew closed the heavy drapes. “You are right, young Joey,” he said, striding across the bedroom, “Father kept all his papers and books of any value in his study. Let’s continue the search downstairs.”
[3] The Manuscript Is Revealed
“There must be thousands of books here,” said Joe, eyeing the packed shelves on each wall of the study.
“Yes, but we’re not looking for a published book, Joey. It’s a manuscript we want to find.”
“I know that, but you know, I was thinking of a hollowed out book or something. Or, perhaps a book could contain a message about where the manuscript is hidden.”
“Joey, any message of that nature would have been on the papers in that bible. What we need to find is the hiding place of the actual manuscript.”
Joey grunted his acknowledgement, but immediately set about lifting the heavy books from the bottom shelf and flicking through their dusty pages. Andrew continued to sit at the desk and look around the study thoughtfully.
“A lot of help you are,” said Joey, scornfully. “Why don’t you look for a safe in the floor, or a hidden room behind these bookshelves? It would be better than just sitting there.”
Andrew got up and made his way towards the door. “Coffee?” he said to Joey.
“Strong, black, and sweet,” laughed Joey as he continued his search among the smaller tomes on the higher shelves.
An hour or so later Andrew was sitting back at the desk looking at a pile of first editions and other valuable books. “I think we should give these to Mary and ask her to get the best price for them,” he said.
“Pointless keeping them, ‘cos we’ll never read them. In fact, do you think we’ll ever live in this old place?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, and although we’re some years into the new millennium I think it is time the Carlish/Darwin family had a completely new start.”
“Let’s get the old place sold, then,” said Joey.
