Free Disquiet at Albany by N. M. Scott

sir, a person who, when dominated by this Sumatran rat’s genes, will kill mercilessly without fear or favour.’
    ‘When I first examined my patient he was suffering from a virulent strain of wasting disease. He was fifty-three but aged beyond his years, the ravages of the illness having left him wheelchair-bound and almost without energy to eat properly or digest the food so necessary to sustain life. It was when I performed the first phase of detoxification that I of course discovered he was initially being poisoned by an outside source. Antimony was present in his blood stream, gentlemen, and when I informed him of this he balled his fists and tears ran down his cheeks.’
    ‘“My valet Garson has betrayed me,” he stuttered, “but it is Chymes and Troy who want me out of the way most. Heal me, doctor, make me whole again so I may have my revenge, my just revenge. Go to my rented house in Norfolk – Foxbury Hall – money is no object. You have the old rat’s skin and bone, the provenance, the hand-written account by my dear friend Alfred Wallace detailing his miraculous recovery, the life-giving force for renewal the potion contained. Do it before it is too late. You have my complete trust. I am confident you will succeed.”’

17
    Journey To Down House
    Thus it was proposed to take a railway journey down to Kent to visit Charles Darwin’s widow. By this time, the year being 1887 when this case I am writing of first came to the attention of Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous author and naturalist had been dead these last five years. His legacy to Wallace was immense for he, along with his neighbour John Lubbock, who owned three hundred acres of land adjacent to Down House, Darwin’s family home, petitioned our Prime Minister Gladstone to provide his old friend with a civil pension, which was most agreeable, for Wallace did not have a salaried job and had lost money in stocks and shares.
    Down House, with its delightful prospect, pretty garden and paved walk, proved a very homely and comfortable residence, and I was particularly moved, nay impressed, by the great man’s study where he wrote up all his research into the origin of species. One could almost feel his presence there, still studiously at work at his desk.
    ‘Welcome Mr Holmes. My dear departed husband and I were always most entertained by the fire of an evening reading aloud your various adventures, so aptly recorded for posterity by your acclaimed biographer Doctor Watson. Would you both like a pot of Earl Grey?’ She rang a bell that summoned a maid who hurried away to prepare the tea things.
    We settled down on a comfy sofa before the sitting room fire.
    ‘And how may I help you? Your letter was a trifle vague.’
    ‘Alfred Wallace mentioned the other evening he had come into the possession of a peculiar mummified animal skin wrapped around a set of old bones. A shaman from the island of Sumatra presented him with this queer trophy upon his recovery from a virulent strain of yellow fever from which he nearly died.’
    ‘I remember, Charles and I were most relieved to learn of his surviving the illness. He suffered terribly from tropical ulcers on his legs and could barely crawl across the hut in which he sought refuge. That was in 1858 I believe, on one of the remotest Indonesian islands.’
    ‘Do you perchance know what became of that bundle of old bones, Mrs Darwin?’
    ‘I have more than an inkling. I well recall how repulsive the items were and, like dear Annie, Alfred’s wife, I would not allow Charles to bring them into the house. You must understand, the place was already crammed with umpteen specimens, and research material took up every available space. There was just no room. The book he was then writing meant he must needs be surrounded by so much clutter. But, there you are.’
    ‘What did your husband make of the specimen?’
    ‘I will be completely frank, Mr Holmes. Upon close inspection he was at first of the opinion that the