The name resonated over and over, drumming its way through the heels of D’Arcy’s polished boots as he walked the pavement, underscored by the rhythm of the clattering hooves of horses pulling carriages as they jostled their way down the thoroughfare, eating its way up through his fear, into his very soul. To be thwarted on the brink of such success—all kinds of tragic scenarios unfolded in D’Arcy’s imagination: Tuttle triumphantly waving laudatory reviews in his face, the vision of a bookshop window displaying Tuttle’s biography while his own book lingered neglected on some obscure back shelf. It was all too horrible to contemplate and yet, the harder D’Arcy tried to dismiss it, the more obsessed he became.
By the time he had descended back into the theatrical vulgarities of Piccadilly Circus, he felt as if he’d already lived out the appalling mortification of such a possibility. Tortured, he collapsed at the edge of the Eros statue and stared grimly out at the parade of humanity that streamed past—even the poorest beggar and rag picker seemed enviable. They, at least, did not have a rival prominent author about to publish a biography on the very same topic they’d given six good years of their miserable lives writing. It was a writer’s worst nightmare, to have his subject stolen from under him—an insidious crime even harder to prove.
There only seemed two courses of action. He had to have access to Tuttle’s biography and he had to discover an element of Sir Joseph Banks’s life that was totally unique, scandalous, and guaranteed to propel D’Arcy’s biography above Tuttle’s. As the reader no doubt knows, indecision is far more crucifying than decisiveness and so, cheered by his own resolve, D’Arcy leapt to his feet and decided that a brief sojourn at his club, the Athenaeum, for a consoling drink before returning to the desk newly inspired would be in order.
• • •
The reading room at the Athenaeum boasted a high ceiling, unobtrusive waiters who served a good sherry to your very chair, a number of private alcoves in which it was possible to both hold court and hide out, and a selection of cigars a pasha would have been proud to serve. It was our protagonist’s favorite place to daydream, a place where he had germinated many an idea for a novelette, essay, or speech, and it was where he had now retreated, bathed in that warm glow of male exclusivity that every gentleman knew was guaranteed to restore world order and self-worth.
And thus, lounging in a leather chair, D’Arcy, hidden from his peers and elders by an overgrown aspidistra, ran through all the facts of Joseph Banks’s early life, from his preparation for the memorable expedition on the Endeavour to his broken engagement to Harriet Blosset. All the salacious material was already in the book; to introduce anything else without hard proof would not only be a lie, it would also be doing the great man a huge disservice. And having lived with Banks for over six years, D’Arcy truly felt that he could not compromise either his reputation or the explorer’s unless there was undeniable evidence. He had reached an impasse. This circuitous inner argument seemed to build and build when suddenly a voice booming out from another booth on the far side of the reading room jolted him violently back to the present.
“. . . I was just telling Thackeray the other day, never trust a pedant or an editor unless they are one and the same person! Eh, what?” The bellicose voice, laced with the kind of elitism D’Arcy loathed yet desperately wanted to be a part of, was instantly recognizable. D’Arcy froze in his seat, but the voice, oblivious of the young biographer and the disapproval of several other tutting members, continued bellowing through the rarefied atmosphere. “. . . Another wonderful occurrence, old friends, the drought is broken, Lady Fecundity is mistress again and I am writing! Yes, a veritable deluge of prose. A biography—one that will, like the last one, no doubt, soar on the wings of literary excellence and land firmly on the footnote of posterity. . . .”
D’Arcy could contain himself no longer and, after swinging around, peeked through the leaves of the aspidistra. His nemesis, clad in a red
smoking jacket and matching necktie, sat in a far booth, surrounded by a group of three friends. Horace Tuttle, bolstered by shameless enthusiasm for his own talent, waved his large hands about as if inscribing upon the air in invisible hieroglyphics declarations of great profundity. He was, indeed, a most tiresomely pretentious individual. Meanwhile the three friends—one minor publisher, one unimportant poet, and a rather more important critic—leaned forward, enraptured.
“A biography!” the critic exclaimed. “Do tell, Horry; The Times would be happy to print a teaser.”
“Let me guess,” the poet interjected eagerly. “Robert Browning? He’s terribly fashionable now; all the clever people love him.”
“Far too modern—no, this is someone who was a true Romantic scientist, a man who has defined our times. . . .”
“James Watt?” the publisher suggested hopefully.
“Vulgar commerce—no, no, my subject is . . . Joseph Banks,” Horace Tuttle concluded, pronouncing the name as if by doing so he himself was summoning the man back into existence.
D’Arcy could stand it no longer. Leaping to his feet, he marched over. “Tuttle . . .” He stood before the seated group, his voice trailing away, his nerves having failed him at the last moment.
Horace Tuttle, an imposing, handsome man in his early forties, his hair as black as his niece’s was blonde, drew himself up to his full height (which was over six foot and certainly taller than our hero’s) and extended his hand. D’Arcy’s own arms remained conspicuously glued to his sides. The slight was noted and hung upon the rarefied air like a great fat question mark suspended precariously above them.
“Hammer, it is a pleasure to see you again, particularly as we are nearly family.”
D’Arcy still did not shake the proffered hand, which stayed frozen in midair. Before him he could see intrigue bleeding into the puzzled expressions of Tuttle’s entourage. He had to say something, and swiftly.
“I’m afraid both our friendship and professional relationship are now at an end. I believe you to have deliberately and maliciously embarked upon the same biography I, myself, have dedicated the past six years of my life to, an endeavor you no doubt heard of from my fiancée, your niece. In fact, sir, if I were a lesser man I might even suspect you of stealing or accessing my manuscript in some form. . . .”
Horace Tuttle’s hand curled into a fist as his smile transformed into a snarl. Startled, his face flushing with the vicarious excitement of the spectator, the minor publisher sprung to his feet and laid his hand rather limply upon Tuttle’s wrist, as if to restrain him from any rash action. It was a symbolic gesture D’Arcy, if he had been less incensed (and a little more mature), might have heeded but, swept away by the conviction of his grievance, D’Arcy continued his diatribe, which knew no bounds.
“Indeed, of all the plethora and riches this country has to offer in terms of geniuses, poets, and prophets to immortalize, is it not extraordinary that you, sir, should alight upon the very one I have chosen?”
“Are you, Hammer, accusing me of the heinous sin of plagiarism?” Tuttle’s voice echoed around the reading room. Several newspapers and one slim volume of poetry were dropped as eminent members of the Athenaeum Club rose to their feet. There had not been such an accusation heard within those four walls since Thackeray had argued with me and, trust me, that argument was not forgotten.
An icy silence descended upon the large chamber as D’Arcy became acutely aware of the unfurling drama he had initiated; a drama he realized, with a great swoop of his heart, he was now utterly powerless to stop. “I am, sir; indeed I am. I charge you with having deliberately stolen the theme of my own biography, a manuscript well gone in its development, and I do suspect you of having read those very pages. . . .” But by now his voice was drowned out by the cries of outrage as literary men, now incensed in turn, sprung into action. The uproar in the reading room was unacceptably loud, and I should know, dear reader, for I was there.
Suddenly the two men found themselves surrounded by an audience. Tuttle’s face darkened. He started toward D’Arcy, who was forced to jump aside, but the older biographer was firmly held back by the critic and the poet, now flanking him. “This is intolerable!” Tuttle announced, then, grabbing his gloves from the table, swung them in D’Arcy’s direction in an attempt to hit his cheek. To his deep shame D’Arcy dodged the insult.
“Enough!” I shouted, my melodious voice instantly recognizable to all. Immediately the crowding men parted to reveal the source of the command. I stood at the far end of the chamber. Now, how to describe myself? I would like to say tall, charismatic, the embodiment of charm, but, perhaps for the sake of modesty, an elegant portly man in his forties will suffice. I was, at the time, arguably the most well-known author in the country, so naturally I held some authority in the circumstances. Moving swiftly through the chamber, I approached the two biographers, who remained head-to-head, like a pair of fighting stags about to charge.
“Horace.” I nodded to Tuttle, who nodded back but did not remove his gaze from D’Arcy nor drop the hand that held the white gloves at the ready. Then, with the careful but exquisite focus of a consummate observer, I walked around them as if examining an interesting tableau or statue.
“Hammer, is it not? I did enjoy your first book.”
“Thank you, sir,” D’Arcy stammered, awed despite his anger, but he still dared not move for fear those white gloves might again come flying in his direction.
“The accusation is plagiarism, is it not?” I deliberately kept my voice mild, indeed, perhaps too mild—my very tone made the accusation sound absurd.
“It is, and a flagitious one at that,” Tuttle thundered while D’Arcy wisely remained silent.