tell me is that he works for a number of trading companies, as well as individuals, and specialises in the more unusual specimens. He quite plainly ridiculed my interest in insects and reptiles, telling me emphatically that what wealthy buyers wanted was the Beast.
Because if money was a concern, he stressed the word again, bearing down on me with his mesmerising eyes, then it was the Magnificent, the Mighty, the Stupendous, and the Monstrous that we collectors must provide.
And Mr Ackerman spoke quite vocally about his concern that with so many new Naturalists arriving, men such as himself were feeling the pressure to produce increasingly impressive finds. Therefore, the results of any expedition, he stressed, given the great costs in organising such a venture, should be significant.
And so after a week or more worth of chess playing and entomological discussions, zoological transgressions, philosophical digressions, and economic ramblings, I am sharing my journey with these Dutchmen, and it seems, aside from embarking on a collection of reptiles and beetles, shall be going on an ape hunt.
Your dutiful servant,
Benjamin Broderig, etc.
FOUR
THE BOROUGH
It was past midnight when Ashby finally left Westminster, the Duke’s speech on trade delivered to no one much, the audience a paltry collection of the dead and the dug up. The Lords was not The Commons, but it was still an opportunity to show off, without any of the bother of intelligent argument.
At the late-night sitting, the Duke had snatched the speech from Ashby’s hands, declaring that he would not offer up anything tangential, but would stick to the point. Ashby bowed, noticing an odd scent which sometimes clung to the Duke’s clothes. The Duke smelt of sweat and cigar smoke but also of something else, something which was hard to put a name to. Ashby pondered on it as he sat at the back of the chamber listening to his master’s drone, slightly distracted. His eyes were dimming, and as they did so, other senses rose to the fore. His imagination, his sense of touch, his sensitivity to smell. There was a tap on his shoulder. A manservant in liveried clothes, interrupting these thoughts.
‘Oi, Ashby. The Duke’s in need of his snuffbox. Fingersmith’s been at ’im. Says you carries a spare one.’
Ashby delved into his pocket and found the silver one he carried for the Duke, which had no jewelled edges but would do perfectly well, and ensure that all went smoothly tonight and that, as ever, order prevailed.
The speech over, Ashby headed out into the ink of midnight, bent double by the snow. He trudged along, keeping his eyes to the ground, an acid light thrown from the gas lamps, spacing out farther and farther until there was but one solitary beam, positioned on a corner where alley met alley, which said Welcome to The Borough.
Checking in his pockets with fumbling fingers, the old man remembered Madame Martineau’s words, which had festered in his mind for over a week now.
‘Oh yes. What I have is worth a pretty penny, alright. So you get the money, Mr Ashby, if you know what’s good for you. Because what’s good for you is good for the Duke of Monreith.’
She’d stepped out of the dark, not far from where Ashby stood now, almost as a spectre might. A chimera of silk, a vapour of perfume, as she tucked her arm around his and drew him into her, her jutting hip like a knife, her fingers like daggers, as she repeated, ‘And make sure the money’s clean. I don’t want anything grimy. I won’t put a figure on it, but let me tell you, what I have to offer is security. We don’t want the whole apple cart upturned, do we now? We don’t want turmoil. We want everything to stay just as it was, a world which is immutable. Like my heart,’ and she’d laughed. ‘Like stone, Mr Ashby. But stone can change given the right conditions. Situations can shift and in your case, perhaps not for the better. Haven’t you read Charles Lyell? I
Because if money was a concern, he stressed the word again, bearing down on me with his mesmerising eyes, then it was the Magnificent, the Mighty, the Stupendous, and the Monstrous that we collectors must provide.
And Mr Ackerman spoke quite vocally about his concern that with so many new Naturalists arriving, men such as himself were feeling the pressure to produce increasingly impressive finds. Therefore, the results of any expedition, he stressed, given the great costs in organising such a venture, should be significant.
And so after a week or more worth of chess playing and entomological discussions, zoological transgressions, philosophical digressions, and economic ramblings, I am sharing my journey with these Dutchmen, and it seems, aside from embarking on a collection of reptiles and beetles, shall be going on an ape hunt.
Your dutiful servant,
Benjamin Broderig, etc.
FOUR
THE BOROUGH
It was past midnight when Ashby finally left Westminster, the Duke’s speech on trade delivered to no one much, the audience a paltry collection of the dead and the dug up. The Lords was not The Commons, but it was still an opportunity to show off, without any of the bother of intelligent argument.
At the late-night sitting, the Duke had snatched the speech from Ashby’s hands, declaring that he would not offer up anything tangential, but would stick to the point. Ashby bowed, noticing an odd scent which sometimes clung to the Duke’s clothes. The Duke smelt of sweat and cigar smoke but also of something else, something which was hard to put a name to. Ashby pondered on it as he sat at the back of the chamber listening to his master’s drone, slightly distracted. His eyes were dimming, and as they did so, other senses rose to the fore. His imagination, his sense of touch, his sensitivity to smell. There was a tap on his shoulder. A manservant in liveried clothes, interrupting these thoughts.
‘Oi, Ashby. The Duke’s in need of his snuffbox. Fingersmith’s been at ’im. Says you carries a spare one.’
Ashby delved into his pocket and found the silver one he carried for the Duke, which had no jewelled edges but would do perfectly well, and ensure that all went smoothly tonight and that, as ever, order prevailed.
The speech over, Ashby headed out into the ink of midnight, bent double by the snow. He trudged along, keeping his eyes to the ground, an acid light thrown from the gas lamps, spacing out farther and farther until there was but one solitary beam, positioned on a corner where alley met alley, which said Welcome to The Borough.
Checking in his pockets with fumbling fingers, the old man remembered Madame Martineau’s words, which had festered in his mind for over a week now.
‘Oh yes. What I have is worth a pretty penny, alright. So you get the money, Mr Ashby, if you know what’s good for you. Because what’s good for you is good for the Duke of Monreith.’
She’d stepped out of the dark, not far from where Ashby stood now, almost as a spectre might. A chimera of silk, a vapour of perfume, as she tucked her arm around his and drew him into her, her jutting hip like a knife, her fingers like daggers, as she repeated, ‘And make sure the money’s clean. I don’t want anything grimy. I won’t put a figure on it, but let me tell you, what I have to offer is security. We don’t want the whole apple cart upturned, do we now? We don’t want turmoil. We want everything to stay just as it was, a world which is immutable. Like my heart,’ and she’d laughed. ‘Like stone, Mr Ashby. But stone can change given the right conditions. Situations can shift and in your case, perhaps not for the better. Haven’t you read Charles Lyell? I
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