CHAPTER 6

The calf had a sweet mild face and another, sadder face. I wanted to reach out and pat it, but I was not sure which of its two curly foreheads to pat. In any case, a glass wall stood between my hand and the creature, which seemed the most natural and humble of beasts. In the glass was a faint reflection of my face, and behind me was a tall presence crowned with russet hair. Was Franz Richardson looking at the calf, or at me? I bent my head to the notebook Mr Bleeker had given me, copying the label. Polycephalous calf, born Bendigo, 1857.

‘A fine example of the taxidermist’s art, is it not?’ said Dr Musgrave.

‘Jove, yes,’ said Franz, much louder than my own murmur — ‘Poor creature’ — and Mr Bleeker’s grunt as he pushed his dripping umbrella into the hollow elephant’s foot by the door. We three visitors to Athena Hall stood in a hallway furnished in the style of a country gentleman’s residence — lion and deer heads, tiger-skin rug — but also full of glass cases crammed with curiosities. I was in awe of anyone who could fit so many strange things behind glass.

My head was awhirl with so many things, but one feeling at least was relief. Nobody had even mentioned my act of closing the curtains at the previous night’s performance. After complaints from Charlie, Mr Bleeker had issued a decree that no one was to depart from the script, or the running order, or work up any business, or even take an extra curtain call, without his permission. And first thing this morning Franz had sought me out, thanked me for helping him, hoped I would help again when my duties permitted, and asked me to tell him if Mr Davis bothered me any further. His voice was warm and melodious, and if Mrs Bleeker had not fetched me away I would have sat down beside him on the piano stool there and then.

And now here we were again, side by side — if only I could keep up with his swift steps.

‘Look,’ he cried, stopping beside a cabinet. A lizard reared on its hind legs, a ruff extending stiffly from its neck.

Chlamydosaurus kingii, I wrote. Mr Bleeker had asked me to record the name of any item that took my fancy. But everything took my fancy. All I could take in was a jumble of gaping mouths, tusks and teeth, pink gums; jars of liquid the colour of Yarra Yarra water, with blurred shapes floating inside; bones as long as Mr Bleeker’s leg, or as short as my little finger. Now I had a good idea what had been inside those queerly shaped parcels that were seen going into Athena Hall.

Mr Bleeker was smiling at Franz like a father, and I felt the warmth of his pride. How alike the two tall men were, though Franz was more upright and muscular and incomparably more handsome. Our host stood looking up at them, hands behind his back. Like his lizard, he had a ruff. It was made of white hair, and it stood out broad and stiff from his head and chin, but his eyebrows and eyes were nocturnally black.

My only disappointment was that one story Mrs Bleeker had told me was clearly not true. Athena Hall was not made of solid gold. In fact the only gold I could see was a large signet ring on Dr Musgrave’s right index finger. Why would anyone circulate such stories? Perhaps because he had retired so suddenly: folk do love a mystery.

I looked around for Franz. He was ahead, with Mr Bleeker and Dr Musgrave as they strode through room after room, past glass case after glass case. I ducked under a huge grey bird and trotted behind them.

‘You have come across our Ornithorhynchus?’ said Dr Musgrave, pausing, and as Mr Bleeker chuckled, he added, ‘There is much argument as to whether she whelps like a cat or lays eggs like a duck.’ Mr Bleeker muttered something about knowing a fake when he saw one, but Dr Musgrave was already ahead, out of earshot, and Franz paused only to press his face to the glass and mouth a solemn Quack. He turned, winked at me and I hid my face in my book. Ornitho … But then I had to scamper again, towards a large case and a tiny skeleton, and Dr Musgrave was saying, ‘Homo sapiens, probably male, in his prime, found in the Kalahari region of Africa,’ and Mr Bleeker was stooping and gazing into the eye sockets with the most melancholy look on his face.

‘Nicely articulated, just forty inches tall. The same height as the General?’

‘Exactly,’ said Mr Bleeker, looking even more gloomy.

Dr Musgrave clapped him on the shoulder, and he winced a little. ‘Come, sir. We shall have a fine exchange of wonders in my study.’

I trotted behind again, writing Homo sapiens. I was an intruder in a gentlemen’s club where my betters were circling each other with their ruffs extended.

But once in the study, the gentlemen seemed more at ease. No glass cases here, only tall cabinets full of drawers and a vast curtain of burgundy velvet that covered an entire wall at the far end of the room.

Dr Musgrave beckoned to me and led me to a corner table with a leather ledger on top, bigger than Father’s gigantic church Bible. ‘Take a seat, young lady. Here is a complete record of my collection, in alphabetical order. You may look up any item here, and anything you cannot find, please ask me.’ As I began to turn the pages, densely covered with tiny handwriting, a servant wheeled in a trolley and withdrew. Mr Bleeker sprawled on a Chesterfield, his legs stretched across a Turkey carpet, with a pot of Foochow at his elbow. Franz perched on the edge of his armchair, beside a whisky decanter. Dr Musgrave offered round fruit cake, then sat behind his desk and presided with twinkling benevolence.

The stories Mrs Bleeker had passed on about the good doctor’s Bluebeard secrets seemed more and more ridiculous. I smiled at the humbug. Still, I could not help staring at the hatbox below the desk where Dr Musgrave sat. The collector followed my gaze.

‘Aha, you are mesmerised by the famous hatbox where I keep my mother’s hand.’ I wished I could disappear. ‘A far older and much more interesting hand, from a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. But the good folk of Ballarat prefer to think of me as Sweeney Todd. And I suppose you have heard the story about these fellows.’ He pointed to the two human skulls that sat as paperweights on either end of his desk. ‘Cornish and United. The first two traders I met at the Beehive. They took me for a raw new chum and tried to swindle me. So I had my revenge.’ He stared at me and screwed his face into a startling mask of rage, and for a moment my stomach lurched so violently I was afraid I might vomit. Then Franz burst out laughing, and I smiled, ashamed of my queasy moment.

Mr Bleeker lifted his face from his teacup and explained he was seeking a Wild Man. He was a manager with a double mission: to conduct the General and his troupe around the world and return a profit; and to find a Wild Man for Mr Barnum’s museum, preferably with a Wild Woman and Wild Children.

‘I thought Mr Barnum was already supplied with Wild Men,’ said Dr Musgrave. ‘You have the What-is-it, do you not?’

‘Ah, Johnson. Wears his animal skins for a dollar a day. Lately his savage gabble has been stuffed with rude Anglo-Saxon words.’

‘And Indians?’

‘Those shiftless brutes. Laze around and refuse to perform their war dances.’

‘And an albino family?’

‘The Lucasies? Pa’s bad-tempered. Beats his wife and child.’

‘So.’ Dr Musgrave put one finger to his chin. ‘You seek a Wild Man who is peaceable, industrious and kind to the weak.’

Franz gave his joyous laugh, so hearty and open.

Mr Bleeker looked grim. ‘I’d hoped to find a good native family in the Antipodes. But I’ve seen nothing but miserable specimens.’

Dr Musgrave leaned back, steepled his fingers and began to talk about Australia. A prodigiously large continent, most of it unknown. About an inland sea and a vast fertile region of lakes and plains, hidden far in the interior. About how he was associated with expeditions planned to explore this mysterious wilderness. His voice was deep and rumbling and, sitting before his huge record book, I began to tremble with his earth-shaking visions. He hoped to find new plants, new animals, and new people. A new race of men. A brace of specimens on their way to New York. An exclusive contract, for Mr Barnum’s museum. His red lips moved in his white whiskers like an anemone seeking prey. Franz’s eyes were glowing green.

Mr Bleeker had his eyes shaded with his hand, as if from too bright a light. ‘You don’t know of such a race, do you?’ he interrupted. ‘It’s speculation.’

‘Speculation has its fruits.’ Dr Musgrave lifted a hand towards the lofty walls with their landscape paintings, the leather and gilt and mahogany. He swivelled in his chair and pointed through the velvet-draped window to the parkland and pastures sloping down through veils of rain to the lake. His hand dropped onto the skull on his desk. ‘And speculation brings us new scientific insights. Now we know the human brain is not fixed for all time.’ He patted the skull affectionately. ‘No, sirs, humanity is a work in progress. Who knows the attributes of the Coming Man? A superbeing, for sure: but will he be fair or dark, smooth or hairy, large or small?’

My breathing quickened at the familiar phrase. I could not help myself.

‘If you please, sir,’ I asked, ‘what is the Coming Man?’

Mr Bleeker frowned at me, but Dr Musgrave smiled. ‘Ah, your charming little secretary is a seeker of knowledge! Well, my dear, it is not an exact, scientific phrase. Shall we say it is an anticipation of mankind’s brave new future.’

‘Does it have anything to do with electricity?’

‘Electricity is quite the thing these days, isn’t it?’ Dr Musgrave chuckled, and I had the sensation he was patting me on the head. ‘But this is a very learned subject for a young woman. Perhaps you should read Lamarck, he has much to say on the development of species.’

I bowed my head, hot with humiliation. Mr Bleeker rubbed his chest. ‘Let’s get back to business,’ he said. ‘Mr Barnum’s always interested in new wonders. How much …’

All at once, I heard a child’s voice. ‘Bye-bye,’ it said. We all looked round for the hidden little one. Dr Musgrave chuckled, walked to the window, took a velvet cloth off a domed object I had assumed was a clock. When he opened the cage door, a large white cockatoo sidled onto his arm and edged its way to his shoulder. Dr Musgrave returned to his chair, scratching the creature’s poll with fingers as white as its feathers. Its eyes rolled up in ecstasy. ‘Erasmus is a contented bird, is he not? As I am a contented man, or should be, for I have everything I could wish for. But I am a collector. A collector’s passion is never satisfied.’ He took a little bag from his top pocket and let the bird peck inside. ‘I will never forget the day on the Sussex downs when I caught Apatura iris, my first Purple Emperor. I was twelve. I swished my net, pinched my prey firmly at the base of the wings, plunged it into the killer bottle. I can still smell it.’ He raised his right thumb and forefinger to his nose, sniffed delicately. ‘Lemon.’

How could he be so affectionate with one creature, I thought, and so deadly with another? Was that how men of science were?

Franz rose from his seat and strolled round the room, whisky glass in hand, examining the pictures and cabinets. I opened my notebook. Wild man, I wrote. A new race of men. How much … Franz was progressing slowly towards the curtain at the end of the room.

Dr Musgrave was telling Mr Bleeker that he had had another letter from someone in his troupe, a Mr Davis, who had offered his services to purchase collector’s items anywhere in Australia where the tour was visiting. Mr Bleeker explained in a tight voice that Ned Davis was the agent of the troupe and there was a limit to his authority; if the doctor wished to do business, he must send his mail only to himself, the manager, he would provide an itinerary. Suddenly Dr Musgrave turned to Franz with a voice of command.

‘Mr Richardson, don’t open that curtain.’

Franz’s hand, about to reach for the burgundy folds, drew back as if he had touched something red-hot.

‘It conceals my most precious specimens,’ the collector continued in a softer tone. ‘I cover them to protect them from light, and also because, to the unscientific eye, some can appear … well, they are not for the eyes of the fair sex.’ He smiled and nodded to me, and I folded my hands over my notebook. Then he turned back to Franz. ‘You look like a young man of understanding. What do you know of passion?’

I felt a furious blush rising, covered my cheeks with the notebook.

Franz gave an innocent smile. ‘I have a passion for music, sir. I play piano.’

‘My dear mother played the piano,’ said Dr Musgrave, his eyes twinkling again. They began to speak of sonatas and concertos and bagatelles. Franz perched on the edge of Dr Musgrave’s desk, stroking Erasmus’s crown of feathers while the collector fed the bird fragments of cake. Now Mr Bleeker prowled around the room, avoiding the curtain. My pencil flew over the page. Dr Musgrave had travelled to Europe, had been to concerts. Franz gasped when he revealed he had met Mr Liszt himself, had watched him play his Dante symphony with Saint-Saëns on two pianos at Gustave Doré’s house in Paris … How did you spell Saint-Saëns?

Then a hand reached across my page. ‘Mary Ann,’ said Mr Bleeker quietly, ‘you don’t need to write this down.’ He raised his voice. ‘Excuse me, doctor, we don’t wish to detain you. Let’s get back to the Wild Man. I can speak for Mr Barnum.’

‘Of course. What a pinnacle of his profession he is, your employer. But let us understand our position. While I esteem him immensely, I am not of the same mind. He is primarily a collector of living curiosities, while I am a collector of the dead.’

‘Well and good for science,’ said Mr Bleeker, ‘but nothing beats living curiosities. You should see the crowds for our wonderful performers.’

‘Yet no performer lasts forever,’ said Dr Musgrave. ‘When he has gone to meet his maker, what remains of him but a few cartes de visite? But in a collection such as mine, marvels are preserved. Skeletons, full forms in formaldehyde, the creations of the taxidermist. I have been dabbling in the art of embalming. I like the sensation of driving the fluid inch by inch through the arteries, the veins, the lacy network of capillaries. The rubber bulb sucks and gasps as if the little creature were learning to breathe.’ He paused, gazed at our stony faces; I gulped to keep down my bile. He sighed. ‘I must sound macabre.’

‘No, sir: scientific,’ said Franz. ‘First-rate science too, that lizard’s a corker. I thought he was going to run up my arm.’

Dr Musgrave stroked the cockatoo’s poll, stared at Franz. ‘Gentlemen, I freeze time.’ His words rumbled round the room, then faded until all I heard was the bird’s clicking beak.

Then Mr Bleeker snorted. ‘You’re not telling me I should have my dear friend the General stuffed.’

The gentlemen laughed, Dr Musgrave loudest of all. ‘No, no. And I am a specialist these days. I collect the young. They are most poignant. Would you care to see?’ He stood and walked to a side cabinet, the cockatoo teetering on his shoulder, opened a drawer. The gentlemen peered inside, then Franz made way for me. The drawer was full of small skulls. They looked human, but too narrow, with low foreheads and elongated crowns. I wrote Homo sapiens, New Britain, New Guinea.

‘The mothers bind their babies’ heads with bark-cloth bandages, much as the Chinese bind their ladies’ feet,’ said Dr Musgrave. ‘The infant skulls are soft. They take their new shape very quickly.’

Franz whistled. ‘Say. How did you get ’em?’

Dr Musgrave reached into the drawer, held one skull up to the window as if it were a rare wine. ‘This child was about eight months old. See how the light shines through?’ On his shoulder, the cockatoo rocked back and forth. ‘Bye-bye, bye-bye.’

Mr Bleeker gave it a furious glare, then stooped further towards the skulls in the drawer. I wrote Bark-cloth bandages.

‘I think Mr Barnum deserves a wild Australian family,’ said Dr Musgrave earnestly. ‘I will do my best to procure one for you.’

A pause. Franz filled the gap. ‘You are very kind, sir.’

‘Not at all, Mr Richardson. I am a man in the grip of a passion’ — he sighed — ‘and I recognise a fellow sufferer. All I ask is that you bear my passion in mind. I crave the rare, the exquisite, the wonderful.’ He had his hand on his heart. ‘Above all, the young.’

I scribbled and scribbled, my eyes on the skulls. Fifteen of them, like eggs about to hatch.

Mr Bleeker straightened up. ‘Come, Franz. Come, Mary Ann. My goodness, time flies. We’ll be wanted at the theatre. Good day to you, doctor. Thank you for your time.’ He strode at top speed out of the study, back through the rooms, ignoring the grins and snarls of the creatures in the glass cases, his coat-tails flying. Franz and I exchanged quick bewildered glances, then rushed to follow. Behind us came a demented screeching.

‘Mr B!’ called Franz. ‘Wait! What is the matter? Is it your dyspepsia?’

We caught up with him on the doorstep, where he stood muttering in the rain, waving his arm to call the carriage he had hired for the journey. The horse splashed down the drive and we climbed in, Franz taking his employer’s arm and holding the umbrella over his head as if he were an invalid.

All the time, in the rain, in the carriage, they argued. Mr Bleeker said he wouldn’t trade with such a scoundrel for all the tea in China, and Franz insisted that the doctor was a capital fellow with a fine collection, and Mr Bleeker said it was nothing but pickled punks, and Franz said at least pickled punks did not have to pretend, to caper and gabble while people stared, and Mr Bleeker said that wasn’t pretence, that was art, didn’t he understand anything he’d been taught? At that, Franz took off his wet hat and pushed the brim around in his fingers. His hair was dry above where the brim had sat and wet below. I wanted to comb it all out and dry it in the sun.

‘Shall I write you out a list of the doctor’s marvels?’ I asked Mr Bleeker. He held out his hand for the notebook, and I passed it over. He leafed through the pages, sighed, snapped it shut.

‘Thank you, Mary Ann. You have a good hand. You’ve been diligent. Perhaps there were too many marvels. And by the by, you should leave the questions to us.’

I began my apologies, but Franz cut in. ‘Perhaps she needed more precise instructions. And I am glad she asked questions: that shows initiative. I am curious myself. Tell me, Mrs Carroll, why did you ask about the Coming Man?’

A green spark leaped in his eyes as he leaned forward to me. Mr Bleeker frowned, rubbed his chest. I groped for words. ‘I scarcely know, the phrase just took me.’

‘It was a damned fine question for a man of science,’ Franz said. ‘That’s the doctor to a T, isn’t it? All those marvels, but he doesn’t make a cent from them. And they are beyond hurting, are they not?’ He turned to Mr Bleeker, who had his eyes fixed out the window, then back to me. ‘Mrs Carroll, what do you think of his collection?’

‘It is wonderful, quite extraordinary.’ I spoke quickly, hardly thinking what I was saying. ‘Of course I have not seen Mr Barnum’s museum, but I have seen nothing like it.’ Now both men leaned forward eagerly, staring at me, the representative of popular taste, and I felt pressed to say more. ‘I wonder how he got all those poor creatures together?’

Mr Bleeker slapped his knee. ‘Jove, she’s hit the nail on the head. Thank you, young woman. As for you, dear Franz, you’ve still got a lot to learn about the wonder business. Think. Dr Musgrave opened a drawer. Showed us the heads of babes and little children. You asked the question yourself. How did he get them?’

Franz made as if to speak, then shook his head in bafflement, clapped his hat back on and stared out the window while Mr Bleeker brooded in his corner. We travelled back to Ballarat in rain and silence, and I thought of the great wall of burgundy and the skulls packed neatly in their nest. To my great surprise, I began to feel colder and colder.