Intelligent Designing for Amateurs Reprint Edition

By Nimue Brown

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2012 Nimue Brown
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78099-952-4

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Anthropological observations of the curioushabits of personages native to Barker Street

Hopefully there would be dead people next door. That wouldliven things up tremendously. Ever since the new tenant was firstmentioned, Temperance had been trying to imagine what anarchaeologist would look like, and had become stuck somewherebetween the beard and the muddy boots. Granny said an archaeologistdug things up, which had formed most of her impression.Temperance had never encountered an actual archaeologistbefore, and until recently, hadn’t even met the word in person. Itwas one of those large, pleasing, hard to spell words that sheliked to roll around in her mouth. There were others.Obsequious. Crepuscular. Epigrammatic. Meanings did notalways excite her young mind, but a word that came with aperson had more appeal. Granny told her something aboutdigging up iniquities, or possibly aunties. Antimacassars?Digging up definitely suggested mud, and led Temperance tothink from there about the likelihood of dead people. Deadpeople went into the ground, so it stood to reason they couldcome out of it again. What else was there to unearth aside fromcoal and ore?

“Nothing at all like a body snatcher,” Granny had insisted,when the subject came up at breakfast, but Temperance wasn’tsure. What else would anyone want to dig up, really? Treasuremight be nice, she supposed, but that seemed more like piratebusiness.

Still, having a new neighbor would cheer the whole street up.The bigger, separate house next to their little terrace had beenempty all winter. Seeing the dark windows at night alwaysinclined her to feel sad.

“How’s that sweeping going, then?” Granny demanded frominside the house.

The sweeping had not, in fact, started, the girl having entirelyforgotten about the broom in her hand. Pushing curls of escapingbrown hair out of her face, Temperance surveyed the twig strewnpath to her grandmother’s door. Sweeping seemed so pointless.The wind would bring it all right back in no time. She sighedheavily, feeling very sorry for herself.

Before she could start on the job, the sound of hooves andwheels drew her attention to the street again. All of the deliverypeople had already done their rounds for the day. Horse-drawnvehicles were otherwise unusual here. The inhabitants of BarkerStreet were all very decent people, but not equal to carriages,excepting for weddings and funerals. Temperance loved funerals,but the approaching wagon lacked the plumes and splendiddisplay of misery. Instead she saw a neat little trap, followed bya heavily loaded cart where a great many things were piled upbehind the driver and passengers.

With a little squeak, she dropped the broom and ran to thegarden gate. Then, because she did not want the archaeologist tothink her childish, she slowed down. Walking in what she hopedwas a dignified way, she soon reached the next property just asthe tired horse came to a halt.

The person inside the trap was carefully helped down, andthen approached the front door. There was no beard whatsoever,and no obvious signs of mud. Perhaps there had been a mistake?The trap itself took off at a jaunty speed. Temperance wonderedif this was the archaeologist’s wife, come on ahead to make theirnew home nice. The man himself would probably be in a hole fullof bones at this very moment, Temperance reasoned.

One of the men got off the cart. He had wild hair and a bigcoat. On the whole he seemed a better candidate for the adventurouslife, and Temperance watched him expectantly.

“All to be unloaded here?” he asked the woman.

“If you please.” She nodded to the girl who was sitting on thecart. “I assume you can find the kitchen, Mary?”

The girl nodded and hurried inside. The two men set aboutunloading items of furniture from the cart and taking them intothe house. Temperance felt rather puzzled by all of this. Thereweren’t any bones being unloaded just usual, household things.Unless the bones were in one of the tea chests. She supposed thatwould make sense, even if it was a disappointment.

“Hello girl,” said the tall woman, with an accent that clearlycame from another place.

Temperance had spent hours planning how to make her introductionsto the new neighbor. She had already establishedherself as being absolutely essential to Charlie Rowcroft, BarkerStreet’s resident inventor. Now, she meant to impress the archaeologist,or for that matter his wife, with her clever, useful nature.Thus, she would gain free access to their home as well. Staringup at the new arrival’s face, she couldn’t remember any of theplanned speech and found herself instead saying, “Have you gotany dead people?”

The woman smiled. “Not on me, no. Why, are you in need ofone for some reason?”

As a short-term measure, the best answer she could think ofwas to run back and tell Granny all about it.

Granny Alice swept in, a rounded but immaculate form in an olddress and ruthlessly polished boots. She liked to make animpression, her tightly bunned hair and stern expression deliberatelymisleading. Depositing a large laundry basket on thekitchen table, she was relieved to find some free space for achange. The owner of both wash load and table, CharlieRowcroft, did not take much interest in tidiness. It held true forher disheveled appearance, as well as the chaotic state of thehouse.

“Seen much of our new neighbor?” Alice asked, wonderingwhat the eccentric pair would make of each other.

Charlie looked up mournfully and shook her head. “I’ve notbeen out at all this week. I didn’t even realize anyone had takennumber seven.”

“No wonder you look so pale and pasty. Some fresh air and agood meal wouldn’t go amiss.” Granny reinforced the observationwith a few tuttting noises.

“It’s no good, I’ve got to get this finished,” Charlie replied,flipping through reams of notes without seeming to look at anyof them. “I don’t get paid until it’s done. Can I owe you for thisweek?”

Alice had been expecting as much. Inventing was not areliable trade, although Charlie could be depended upon to payher debts. Eventually.

“I’ve made a pie,” Alice said casually. “Got a bit carried awaywith it. Far too much for me and Temperance, and I’d hate tothrow good food away. I don’t suppose I could foist a bit of it offon you?”

Charlie flashed her a grateful, sheepish sort of smile. “You’retoo good to me, Granny,” Charlie replied.

“I just don’t like seeing perfectly good pies go to waste. I’llsend the girl over later with a piece.”

“I’ve no time to teach her today,” Charlie said, apologetically.

“Don’t worry, she’s too keen on spying on the new neighbor toconcentrate on anything else. I doubt you’ll see her for long.”

“The archaeologist?” Charlie commented.

“Did you know he’s a woman?” Alice enquired. “I suppose weshouldn’t be surprised by these things anymore, what with youinventing.”

“I had no idea,” Charlie said.

“Not far off your age,” Alice added. She’d hoped there mightbe a friend in the offing for her young neighbor. Charlie could usesome company of her own age, and someone with the right kindof mind to understand her.

However, Charlie didn’t seem very interested, which wasusually the problem. Alice supposed it went with a certain kindof cleverness, but it didn’t make for much of a life.

After Granny had straightened the dishes, made a pot of tea anddealt with an unexpected mouse, Charlie was left alone to hermore usual silence. Alice was the sort of grandmother everyoneought to have. She looked like a battleaxe, cleaned like a fairytaleelf, smoked peculiar concoctions in her pipe and adopted straygirls whose families did not want them. Temperance was aproper grandchild, Charlie a waif who had washed up in herstreet a few years previously. Her own family did not approve ofcleverness in girls, or of anything else much.

She turned her attention back to the job in hand. Mr. Trefidickhad ordered “some kind of device that will stop my machinesfrom exploding so often.” It wasn’t proper inventing, justpatching up the insanities in other men’s creations. Properinventing had not proved very lucrative. No one wanted herhandy table piece that kept toast warm for quite a long time, oranything else in that vein. The clockwork bird-scarer languishedunder a table, along with the shoe removing device and thepocket mathematics machine that hadn’t turned out at all pocketsized. Other projects remained in the developmental stage,mostly because she could not yet picture a use for the ticking,whizzing innards. That kind of work required a lot of time. Sodid “some kind of thing that will make this thing a bit quieter,”and those were always the paying jobs.

The thought of an archaeological neighbor did not exciteCharlie’s interest. She was not a sociable creature, so a newaddition to life on Barker Street held no appeal. Furthermore, shehad failed to notice all signs of the new arrival, including theunloading of the cart. Voices beyond the window had goneunheeded as she remained focused trying to beat an uncooperativebit of metal into place. And then she hadn’t heard the cartleaving because her entirely faithful miniature reconstruction ofa Trefidick machine and then dutifully exploded. Again. Historypeople, of all the professionals, held little interest for her. Theywere, by definition, a backward looking set, and CharlieRowcroft was all about the future.

Having unloaded her worldly possessions, the archaeologiststayed at number seven for one night, then disappeared againalmost as quickly as she had come. The residents of Barker Streetwere disappointed, but peered around their curtains regularly, inthe hopes of some new and gratifying development. Very littleelse had happened lately to entertain them. In the last fewmonths the biggest dramas had been a chicken escape, the manwho had fallen off his bicycle, and Temperance breaking awindow. A person did not move to Barker Street in search ofadventure, unless they were Temperance, but her case was verymuch the exception. Still, the occasional distraction was notunwelcome. A quiet life could become all too tedious after awhile.

CHAPTER 2

The pernicious Welsh climate and itsinfluence upon the development ofhistorical sciences

Wales corresponded almost exactly to Justina’s image of hell: Notso much fire and brimstone, more rain and mud. On arrival atthe train station, she had been obliged to walk nearly two milesto a grubby little inn. She had been promised something decent;something worth bothering with, but from the moment ofdeparting the train, and relative civilization, pessimism had setin. The landscape looked so empty, if one did not bother to countthe sheep. Counting sheep did not seem an appropriate task fora woman of her class and distinction. Wales seemed to offer littleelse though. There were hardly any roads, much less thetrappings necessary to decent, human existence. Only the lure ofa compelling man and the promise of adventure had drawn herthis far. There would have to be some dramatic improvements, orshe would be on her way.

Chevalier had arrived at her inn late, but enthusiastic,whisking her off into a world of frenetic activity where she hadno chance to really question anything he said, much less protestabout it. A brisk walk, a dramatic plan, and a promise to meetagain after dinner rapidly ensued.

“Where on earth are you staying?” she enquired as he tried toleave her. “Because really, if it is even slightly less depressingthan the Wilting Bush, I demand that you escort me there at once.This place is like a relic from the Dark Ages.”

“Dear lady, I fear I can offer you nothing more salubrious.”He kissed her hand, and bowed. “So fair a flower should beprotected from the rough winds, yes? But so courageous a heartwill not baulk at the challenges of a great and noble quest, I feelcertain.”

Justina had every desire to baulk at the bed she had recentlyseen, but in face of such a compliment, could not quite work upthe desire to confess her apathy for the whole business. Sherather hoped that he was leading her on, that the evening wouldevolve into something far more pleasing.

Normally, she had a great deal of self-possession. “No,” was aword that came naturally to her lips. And yet something aboutthis man made it fiendishly difficult to maintain her usual senseof right and wrong. The inn was terribly wrong. Ill-furnished,damp-smelling and intermittently smoky. But she could not quitearticulate her dislike of it to him. Once Chevalier had swannedoff with all the same arrogant assuredness displayed by hisarrival, she wondered what on earth she had agreed to.

“It will be worth it,” she repeated, suffering her way througha monstrous bowl of stew made out of God alone knew what.”He will be worth it.”

Wales proved even worse to observe from the position ofbeing in an illicit trench by lantern light and unexpectedly alone.She blamed him entirely and had already decided what cuttingand chastening words to bestow on Alain Chevalier if he did everdare to show his face in her presence again. Although she chidedherself for believing him, with his pendulum parlor tricks and hisseductive voice. It was the kind of thing her mother would like,and she should have been more alert to the intellectual dangers.Chevalier claimed a secret, esoteric method for uncoveringtreasure, and offered her a share in it. He had arrived at a lowpoint in her life, and she ascribed her own fleeting weakness totemporary vulnerability. She would not be so foolish again.

They had walked a most innocent-looking field together thatafternoon. He had proffered extravagant compliments – not thatshe ever paid great attention to those. There were few thingsJustina had been told about the lusciousness of her lips, theradiance of her cheeks, the fine sparkle of her eyes, the dignity ofher brow and the allure of her auburn tresses, that she had notheard a hundred times before. Then Monsieur Chevalier hadwaved his tool about and declared this to be the very spot fordigging. They had marked it with a little pile of field stones. Nomatter that they had not conversed with the land owner. Allwould be well. Why had she believed him?

“Meet me here, dearest lady, in the middle of the futteringnight,” she grumbled aloud as the rain water seeped into herboots.

Calling this a ‘trench’ was a joke. What she had was a muddyhole, now an inch deep with water as the rain soaked throughher clothes to chill her skin. Of course there was no sign of AlainChevalier now, with his pristine white hands that had never duginto anything more challenging than a trifle. He had sounded soplausible when they first met at a lecture some weeks before. Socharming. Having chosen to remain, in appearance at least anold maid, Justina was used to the purely academic interest ofscholars even more aged than her own thirty years. Handsomeyoung men did not normally frequent such gatherings in thehopes of finding lady archaeologists to flirt with. That had beenpart of the attraction in attending. Justina suffered agonizingennui in the company of handsome young men and oftencontemplated murdering those who proposed to her.

It now occurred to her to wonder what he had really beenafter. No doubt her physical charms had enthralled him. He hadseemed a promising rake, likely to mislead. Otherwise she wouldhave ignored his attentions. However, the manner in which hehad chosen to mislead was not remotely to her liking. Perhaps itwas his idea of amusement.

She slammed down the shovel, meaning to get out of thisridiculous hole and depart with what little dignity she could stillmuster. Down in the mud, metal clunked on metal. She pausedand tapped the shovel down again, less forcefully this time. Thesame dull clink cut through the patter of rain. Her heart skippeda little. A sudden sense of adventure clashed with her desire to beanywhere warmer and drier than the hole.

“Drat,” she said, with feeling, because now of course he hadto stay and dig. The find seemed to be calling to her, begging,demanding that she unearth it. They generally did. Or at least,the idea of how they would lift her to fame and accolades hadthat sort of effect.

It would probably be some worthless item of junk, planted bythe nefarious Alain as part of the jest. Only the grass she’d liftedat twilight did not suggest recent digging. The thrill of the findacted upon her as any vice might upon the devoted addict. Herpulse raced, and she could think of nothing else but digging.

As she worked, an edge came clear, catching the lamplight.She pulled it free and could see the faint glint of something elsebeneath it. Heavy, filthy and slightly curved, the item did notlook at all familiar. Justina forgot about pendulums and rottenjokes, her attention wholly focused on digging up whatever theWelsh mud concealed. The rain ceased to matter, the cold nolonger registered in her mind. Only when the lamp faltered,threatening to run out of oil, did she struggle back to hertemporary lodgings, barely able to carry what she had lifted fromthe ground. One thing to be said for the dingy place, was that theproprietor took little interest in her comings and goings.
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