Soul

‘I repeat, sir, I am not entirely convinced one can measure intelligence by brain size alone. In fact I shall go one step further and suggest the possibility that intelligence may not be confined to the brain but exist in other parts of the body, both visible and invisible, including the soul.’

‘What? Now you are a mystic as well as an idealist?’

The Colonel laughed at the expression of indignation upon the student’s face. ‘At the moment, I am content with the role

of Doubting Thomas. Please don’t look so distressed, Campbell. I hope I haven’t thoroughly disillusioned my one fervent admirer?’

‘To the contrary, you have merely fuelled both his curiosity and his imagination. The time with the Bakairi tribe must have been most formative.’

‘Indeed, I am collating my notes into a book, with the help of my wife, whose intelligence I have never questioned.’

Hamish turned to Lavinia. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Huntington, I didn’t mean to slight the weaker sex.’

‘I shall assume it was a comment made in ignorance not malice, Mr Campbell.’

‘So I am forgiven?’

‘You are tolerated but not absolved of your presumption.’

The Colonel broke into a low chuckle as he closed the bureau, locking it with a small brass key.

‘My wife learned her scientific skills at the side of her father, the eminent naturalist Reverend Augustus Kane. Now, I believe it is time for the gentlemen to retire to the library, where a good claret and a cigar may lead to more frivolous discourse.’ Sensing an unspoken tension between the two younger people, Colonel Huntington hurried them out of the study.

Hamish exhaled, sending a thin stream of cigar smoke through the bluish atmosphere. Sitting opposite the Colonel, his feet comfortably perched on an ottoman, he contemplated the room. It was the perfect literary gentleman’s retreat: a circular space lined with bookcases from ceiling to floor, all carefully ordered according to subject, which was exactly how Hamish would organise his library, when he had the fortune to afford one. The books themselves reflected the Colonel’s diverse interests: Plato, Socrates, Epicurus, as well as more contemporary titles such as Macaulay’s History of England, Darwin’s Beagle Diary, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Lady Montagu’s Letters from the East, and many others beside. To the young student, the collection was an exhilarating insight into the mind of his mentor.

He glanced furtively at Huntington, who was stretched back in his chair, the quintessence of a man at his intellectual pinnacle, courageous in his opinions, resolute in his pursuit of originality. Would Hamish ever achieve such ease in his own skin? Would he ever belong so unselfconsciously?

One of the Colonel’s trouser legs had ridden up; the vulnerability of this strip of flesh suddenly seemed so seductively within his reach that it took all Hamish’s resolve not to lean across and caress it. Instead, he glanced over at the leopard skin covering the parquet floor and found himself wondering how Huntington might look naked upon it.

Trying to exorcise the salacious image, he glanced up to the mantelpiece. A sculpture of a female figure squatted there. Looking at her pointed breasts, swollen belly and rather pronounced vulva, he assumed she must be a fertility goddess, a trophy from some exotic expedition—the Pacific Islands perhaps?

There were several other artefacts around the room: a mummified head with wisps of hair trailing behind its shrunken ears; a totem pole embellished with several bear-like creatures; a bow made from bone and hide—each contributing to the ambience of the library as a place of learning and bizarre ritual. The most spectacular was a canoe strung from the rafters above their heads, a hollowed-out log etched with stick-like animals and figures, and smelling faintly of charcoal.

The Colonel followed Hamish’s gaze. ‘A burial canoe, they would place their dead in it and send it burning down the Amazon. I commissioned that one for myself. The shaman insisted. He told me that now I had eaten and shat with them, I would have to bury two souls: my black one and my weak white ghost brother.’

The two men laughed. Again, Hamish felt the excitement of approval, of belonging.

‘Interesting how the Celts, too, sent their dead across the water,’ he said.

‘It is one of the eternal elements, water. We float in the womb, and at our death they send us floating back out into that great lake.’

‘Colonel…’

‘James, call me James. I think we can dispense with formalities.’

‘James, I am seeking a position to further my studies. The subject I have chosen for my doctorate is fairly contentious and I need to prove I have both the support and the tuition of a respected professional.’

‘What do you want from me exactly?’

‘An endorsement for my first published leaflet.’ He placed the manuscript that had been sitting on his lap onto the ottoman. ‘And I would like to volunteer myself as your assistant for a period—say, a year—before I go up to Oxford. If you were to agree, I would consider it a great honour.’

‘Does it not concern you that we are of differing opinions when it comes to craniology?’

Hamish tapped his cigar into the ashtray and studied the underbelly of the canoe. His father was a timber merchant who had made a modest fortune through supplying artisans with the best and most seasoned woods. Hamish thought of him now, how he would be fascinated by the exotic nature of the wood hanging above. A man born and bred in Lancashire, the merchant had been determined to ensure that his only child would become a gentleman. He had succeeded to the point that father and son had become estranged. Hamish recalled now with shame his pomposity and his mortification at his father’s dialect and rustic manners. To his secret regret, he knew he would be embarrassed to introduce his father to Colonel Huntington.

The wood merchant had made enough money to send his son to Eton, but not enough to guarantee a stipend that would allow Hamish the trappings of a city gentleman all his life. Thus Hamish had made his way by capitalising on his charm, his good looks and intellect. He had ingratiated himself with the wealthiest boys at school, engineered weekend invitations to their country estates, charmed their mothers—many of them young and beautiful—in the thousand ways a handsome young gentleman could. In short, Hamish Campbell was gifted with all the attributes ambition required; something Huntington had recognised in his first encounter with the young man and of which he had initially been most suspicious.

Now Hamish needed a new patron. The relationship with Lady Morgan had suddenly become complicated, and he was running out of strategies to avoid a physical liaison. It was a dilemma; Lady Morgan was besotted, and Hamish was genuinely enamoured of her wit and ironic social commentary. Yet here before him was a benefactor who could also function as his mentor—an entirely different proposition, and one that was infinitely more exciting. But could Hamish afford to ally himself with someone whose controversial views might prejudice his own future publications?