The Piltdown Man Hoax E-Book

Dr Miles Russell

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Piltdown. Even today the name sends a shiver down the collective spine of the scientific community, for this was the most dramatic and daring fraud ever perpetrated upon the world of science and academia. Between 1908 and 1912, a series of amazing discoveries relating to what appeared to be the earliest human were made close to the little village of Piltdown in Sussex. These remains belonged to the developmental 'missing link' between man and ape. The basic principles of evolution, first propounded by Charles Darwin some fifty years before, now appeared as indisputable fact. The Manchester Guardian ran the first headline: 'THE EARLIEST MAN?: REMARKABLE DISCOVERY IN SUSSEX. A SKULL MILLIONS OF YEARS OLD' it screamed, adding that the discovery was 'one of the most important of our time'. The news spread quickly around the world, with many voicing their eagerness to examine the find. Few archaeological discoveries have the capacity to be front-page news twice over, but 'Piltdown Man' is a rare exception. Forty-one years after he first became famous, the 'Earliest Englishman' was again hot news. It was late November 1953, and the world was about to discover that Piltdown Man had been a hoax. Not just any hoax mind, the London Star declared it to be 'THE BIGGEST SCIENTIFIC HOAX OF THE CENTURY'.

Leseprobe

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to the Sussex Archaeological Society, Hastings Museum and Art Gallery, the Booth Museum of Natural History, for permission to reproduce images taken from my 2003 book Piltdown Man: the Secret History of Charles Dawson. Thank you also to all at The History Press, especially Tom Vivian and Lindsey Smith, for their help, advice and unswerving belief that this final text would be delivered in 2012. Special thanks must go to all the people who commented upon my first foray into the Piltdown story in 2003 and who helpfully supplied new information, alternative pieces of evidence and different perspectives.

I owe, most of all, an immense debt of gratitude to Bronwen, Megan and Macsen who have, once again, endured the arrival of Eoanthropus dawsoni with smiles and calm toleration. Eoanthropus was sadly rather an inconsiderate houseguest who disrupted their lives, filled the dining room with paper, refused to go shopping or do the laundry and left dirty dishes all over the kitchen. It was good having him to stay once more, but hopefully now he has at last found a better place to go.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Preface

Introduction

The Man

The Hoax

Phase 1: A Splendid Fellow

The Fossil

The Caves

The Dungeon

The Axe

The Boat

The Statuette

The Horseshoe

The Spur

The Hammer

The Hoard

The Vase

The House

The Bricks

Phase 2: A Man of Articles

The Papers

The Book

Phase 3: A Curious Mind

The Toad

The Serpent

The New Man

Phase 4: The Big Discovery

The Ape Man

The Ape Men

Dealing with Suspicion

The Flint

The Map

The Bone

Postscript

Further Reading

Plates

Copyright

PREFACE

Hastings is a picturesque and historic town in East Sussex, on the south-eastern coast of England. Though it has a dramatically situated medieval castle, a pier, fishing boats and novelty Victorian seaside attractions, it is probably most famous today for a battle that took place on 14 October 1066, some 10km to the north-west of the modern town, between the armies of Harold II, Saxon King of England and William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy.

Today, visitors to Hastings are well served by four excellent museums: the Fisherman’s Museum, Shipwreck Heritage Centre, the Old Town Museum and, perched high above the modern town, Hastings Museum and Art Gallery. The latter provides a good introduction to some of the more intriguing characters and former residents of the Sussex town, such as Titus Oates (1649–1705), rector of All Saints’ Church, Hastings and religious conspiracy theorist; George Bristow (1863–1947) ornithologist, taxidermist and serial fraudster; Robert Noonan (1870–1911), socialist author who, under the pen name Robert Tressell, wrote the politically inspired novel The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists; Aleister Crowley (1875–1949), occultist and celebrity mystic, dubbed ‘the wickedest man who ever lived’; Archibald Belaney (1888–1938) local-born prankster who reinvented himself as ‘Grey Owl’; a pioneering Native American conservationist and John Logie Baird (1888–1946), who, whilst resident in 1923, created the first working television set. Curiously, there is one notable omission from this list of dream-weavers, visionaries, imaginers, charlatans and manipulators of the truth: Charles Dawson (1864–1916).

Dawson, a local solicitor, is arguably the most famous of all former Hastings residents and characters. Discoverer of Eoanthropus dawsoni or ‘Piltdown Man’, the so-called evolutionary ‘missing link’ between apes and humans, Dawson was an early twentieth-century media celebrity; the most famous amateur scientist of his generation. From a more local perspective, he was also, in 1889, one of the founding fathers of the Hastings and St Leonards Museum Association, the present-day museum containing much of his extensive antiquarian collection amassed over a prolific forty year period. All of which begs the question: ‘why is he not represented in the current story of the town?’

The reason for Dawson’s omission from the history of Hastings is simple: the town was, and remains, deeply embarrassed by its premier antiquarian. Former residents Archibald Belaney and George Bristow may both have been fraudsters, but, it is often reasoned, Belaney did good work in the field of conservation (and has, after all, had a Hollywood film made of his life) whilst Bristow is often portrayed as nothing more than a ‘cheeky trickster’. Dawson, however, is seen as a charlatan, a serial liar and a deceiver who perpetrated one of the most infamous of all frauds upon both the scientific community and, perhaps more damningly, upon the Great British public. For that, even in death, Hastings seems unwilling to forgive him.

Dawson’s name has always featured heavily in the story of the internationally famous Piltdown hoax: a series of archaeological frauds which together appeared to comprise evidence of the earliest human. He was, after all, the finder of the first set of bones and was there at all times during the project to recover the evidence. Since the 1950s, when the fraud was first revealed, it has become apparent, through a careful examination of Charles Dawson’s finds, collections and publications, that the hoax perpetrated at Piltdown between 1912 and 1916 was, in reality, the pinnacle of Dawson’s alternative career in archaeological, historic, anthropological, literary and biological forgery.

In 2003, the author set out the case against Dawson, using evidence amassed from his forty years’ worth of truth manipulation, in the book Piltdown Man: the Secret life of Charles Dawson. The question of whether Dawson was in anyway involved in the Piltdown controversy can no longer in doubt; he is the only person implicated at every stage of the fraud and the only one with the means, opportunity and, as far as we can ascertain in the absence of surviving personal correspondence (or indeed of a signed confession), motive.

The book before you now, therefore, is less of a ‘Whodunit’, as that particular question has now been convincingly resolved, but more of a ‘Why’ or ‘Howdunit’. In this, Charles Dawson, the most successful archaeological and antiquarian forger that the world has ever known, takes centre stage, as is his right. We cannot ever truly see into his mind, but we can trace the history of fraudulent behaviour and see, at every stage of his many attested deceptions, why each and every ‘discovery’ was considered to be necessary. What was Dawson’s motivation in all this and what, ultimately, was he trying to achieve?

INTRODUCTION

Even today the name ‘Piltdown’ sends a shiver through the scientific community, for this quiet Sussex village was the site of a dramatic and daring fraud, the fall out from which continues to affect us.

Between 1908 and 1912, the discovery of human skull fragments, an ape-like jaw and crudely worked flints close to Piltdown was hailed by the world’s press as the most sensational archaeological find ever: the ‘missing link’ that conclusively proved Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. Few archaeological discoveries have the capacity to be front-page news twice over; but ‘Piltdown Man’ is a rare exception. Forty-one years after he first became famous, the ‘Earliest Englishman’ was once again a major celebrity, for in November 1953 the world discovered that Piltdown Man had never actually existed, the London Star declaring him to be part of ‘the biggest scientific hoax of the century’. There never had been a ‘missing link’ preserved in the gravels of Piltdown; the whole discovery had been part of an elaborate and complex archaeological forgery. The ‘Earliest Englishman’ was nothing more than a cheap fraud.

In 1912, the year of the Piltdown ‘discovery’ and only two short years before the mechanised hatred of the Great War spewed its filth across Europe, Britain was an island where class and gender boundaries remained apparently secure with a controlling aristocratic elite and a downtrodden, subservient working class. Women did not posses the vote nor any sense of equality. There were few automatic workers’ rights and no real sense of natural justice. Health care depended upon wealth and status; social standing being rigidly enforced from birth. Religious and ethnic minorities were, at best, treated with suspicion, at worst they were targeted for persecution. Abroad, Britain had established a financially successful empire suppressing millions across Asia, Africa, America and Australia.

Yet despite all this, Edwardian Britons, especially those in the more educated middle and upper classes, possessed an immense sense of optimism. The provision of electricity, air flight, transatlantic shipping, rail, telecommunication and the motor car all hinted at greater things to come. There was, thanks in part to popular ‘science-fiction’ authors such as Jules Verne and H.G.Wells, a tangible sense that technological improvement would one day raise the quality of living for all.

The year 1912 also marked a very real turning point in British history; a time which, in retrospect, we can see the brave new world of technological advancement perceptively beginning to unravel. It was the year in which celebrity adventurer Captain Robert Scott lead the ill-fated expedition to the South Pole; the year in which the ‘unsinkable’ RMS Titanic was lost to the North Atlantic with over 1,500 lives. It is also a point at which the major powers of Europe began their inexorable slide towards global conflict: the London Peace Conference between Britain, Germany, Austro-Hungary, Italy, France and Russia failing to resolve the then escalating violence in the Balkans.

Soon, millions would be dead in both the white heat of battle and the flu pandemic that followed in its wake. The combination of war and plague that ravaged the world between 1914 and 1920 would ultimately prove the catalyst for immense social change, but in 1912 there was no real inkling that such a catastrophic alteration to the basic fabric of life was close at hand. To the bulk of the population, things were pretty much how they’d always been and how they always would be. The discovery of Piltdown Man, the much sought-after ‘missing-link’ between ape and man, confirmed the belief that British science was the envy of the world. It was yet another triumph at the very heart of the empire.

The Man

No one really knew Charles Dawson. Those who thought they did, described him in favourable terms: his colleague Sir Arthur Smith Woodward, calling him ‘a delightful colleague … always cheerful, hopeful and overflowing with enthusiasm’, a man with ‘a restless mind … and never satisfied until he had exhausted all means to solve and understand any problem.’ Sir Arthur Keith observed that he had been ‘a splendid type’ whilst Judges in Uckfield, where Dawson had been chief clerk, noted he had been ‘quiet and unassuming with pleasantly smiling eyes … a man of romance.’ His wife, Helene, simply remembered him as ‘the best and kindest man who ever lived’. In life he had many friends and operated within a wide and diverse social circle. The few photographs of him that exist show an amiable fellow with a jaunty moustache and devilishly twinkling eyes. He appears kindly, jovial, and mischievously intelligent.

Charles was born on 11 July 1864 in Preston, Lancashire to Hugh and Marianne (Mary) Dawson, the fourth of five children, the others being Hugh Leyland (b. 1860), Thomas (b. 1861), Constance (b. 1862) and Arthur Trevor (b. 1866). Hugh, by trade a successful cotton-spinner, used his inheritance to finance his dream of becoming a barrister, but he seems to have been dogged by ill health. Eventually, the family moved to St Leonards-on-Sea, then a new suburb of Hastings in Sussex, where the sea air was considered a significant improvement to the industrial atmosphere of Preston. Whether the change in environment improved Hugh’s health, we do not know for, in the national census for 1881, aged 44, he was still being described as a ‘Barrister (Not in Practice)’. By then the family, together with a professional nurse and four other domestic staff, were occupying a five-storey town house with a view towards the English Channel.

Of Thomas and Constance Dawson we know almost nothing, but the remaining three siblings, Hugh, Arthur Trevor and Charles, conformed to the Victorian family stereotype: one enrolling in the armed services, one joining the Church and the other following his father’s career path (in this case the legal profession). Hugh Leyland Dawson was the only one of the three remaining brothers to attend university, graduating from St John’s College Cambridge in 1881. Thereafter he was ordained, finally becoming Vicar of Clandown (near Bath) in 1895, where he remained until his death in 1931. Arthur Trevor Dawson enrolled in the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, later serving as a lieutenant in the navy. Later he became Managing Director and Superintendent of the Ordnance at Metro-Vickers and Maxims Ltd (one of the premier shipbuilding engineering and arms manufacturers of the early twentieth century) and, for his services to the State, was knighted in 1909, aged only 42. During the Great War, he rose to the rank of naval commander and was made a baronet in 1920. He married Louise Grant, sister of Rear Admiral Noel Grant, a hero of the First World War, and they purchased a second home, Edgwarebury House in Elstree, London. Successful by any standards, the couple moved within an elite social circle, Arthur Trevor being in a position, in 1906, to introduce his elder brother Charles to King Edward VII.

It is tempting to view Arthur Trevor’s success as a spur to his elder brother, a mixture of sibling rivalry and jealousy increasingly driving Charles to enhance his own status and social standing. In truth, however, there is no evidence to suggest that Charles and Arthur Trevor’s relationship was ever on anything but friendly and mutually supportive terms. Charles may have envied his brother’s success, but perhaps, in reality, both sons had simply inherited their father’s own apparent desire for self-improvement; betterment, esteem and status position being hard-wired into the Dawson mindset.

In 1881, Charles, then aged 16, was an ‘Articled clerk of Law’ working for F.A. Langhams, a firm of solicitors based in London with a branch office close to the family home in Hastings. By 1890 he was working with James Langham, in Uckfield, a modest but steadily expanding East Sussex town, becoming a full partner and taking over the practice in 1900. By 1901, Charles had moved to rented accommodation in Uckfield and in 1906, with George Hart as fellow partner, the branch office became ‘Dawson Hart and Co. Solicitors’, a name that it retains to this day. In Uckfield, Dawson played a not inconsiderable part within local affairs, being clerk to the Urban District Council and clerk to the Uckfield Justices. He was also appointed secretary of the Uckfield Gas Company, solicitor to the Uckfield Building Society and a trustee of the Eastbourne Building Society. In his professional capacity, furthermore, he acted as steward to a number of large and prosperous estates including the Manors of Barkham, Netherall and Camois.

On 21 January 1905, aged 40, the bachelor Charles married Helene L.E. Postlethwaite, a widow with two grown children, Gladys and Francis Joseph (later Captain) Postlethwaite. Helene, of Franco-Irish descent, may have been introduced to Charles through his younger brother Arthur Trevor for, at the time of their engagement, she was resident in Park Lane and a prominent member of Mayfair society. The wedding took place at Christ Church, Mayfair and was by all accounts a rather grand event, the bride being given away by Sir James Joicey MP; Dawson’s best man being the wonderfully named Basil Bagshot de la Bere of Buxted. Following the wedding reception, held at Trevor and Louise Dawson’s London residence, Charles and his new wife honeymooned in Rome. Afterwards, Dawson made plans to return to Sussex and in 1907 the family moved into Castle Lodge, a spacious town house set in the grounds of a Medieval castle at the centre of the market town of Lewes.

From his earliest days Charles was a fossil collector, gathering specimens from the coast, cliffs and quarries around Hastings, much of which he donated to the British Museum (Natural History Museum). In gratitude, the museum conferred upon Dawson the title ‘honorary collector’ and in 1885, in recognition of his many varied discoveries, he was elected a Fellow of the Geological Society, quite an achievement for a man who was only then aged 21. In 1889, Dawson co-founded the Hastings and St Leonards Museum Association, one of the first voluntary museum friends’ groups established in Britain. At this time Dawson also found himself acting as solicitor to a number of prominent antiquarian collectors in the region and was, therefore, in a good position to catalogue artefacts bequeathed or otherwise donated to Hastings Museum. By 1890, he was even conducting his own excavations in the town, most notably on and around Castle Hill. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Dawson found himself on the Hastings Museum Committee, in charge of the acquisition of artefacts and historical documents whilst in return the museum proved the ideal place for Dawson to display his ever-expanding collection.

By 1892, Dawson was turning his attention to matters archaeological, joining the Sussex Archaeological Society as honorary local secretary for Uckfield. The following year he was chosen, together with the society’s librarian and clerk, to represent the organisation at the fifth Congress of Archaeological Societies in association with the prestigious London based Society of Antiquaries. By 1893 he found the time to co-direct excavations beneath Hastings Castle and in the Lavant Caves near Chichester, with John Lewis. In recognition of his many discoveries, theories and constant hard work in the field of antiquarian research, Dawson was elected a fellow of the Society of Antiquaries London in 1895. At the age of 31, and without a university degree to his name, he was now Charles Dawson FGS, FSA.

In 1901 Dawson was present at the founding of the Sussex Record Society, a sister group to the Archaeological Society intended to research, curate and publish historical documents relating to the county of Sussex. In April of 1902, by the time of the group’s first annual general meeting, Dawson had become a full member of the council. At this point he had begun to write extensively (and tirelessly) on all aspects of Sussex history and archaeology. He studied ancient quarries and mines, re-analysed the Bayeux Tapestry and produced the first definite study of Hastings Castle. He took a great interest in the fledgling art of photography and was invited on a number of archaeological expeditions, most notably in 1907 accompanying John Ray in the exhumation of prehistoric burials in Eastbourne.

By now, Charles was investigating more unorthodox aspects of the natural world, including toads petrified in flint, sea serpents, horned cart horses and a new species of human. It was even reported that in the latter years of his life, he was experimenting with phosphorescent bullets as a deterrent to the Zeppelin attacks on London. As his scientific interests diversified, he began to press his candidature for Fellowship of the Royal Society, something that, as an amateur enthusiast, would have marked the pinnacle of academic recognition. His first candidacy certificate was filed in December 1913, and was renewed every year, without success, until his death in 1916.

His greatest claim to fame, however, was the discovery of the so-called missing link between ape and man, derived from the Sussex village of Piltdown. At the time of its announcement in December 1912, the solicitor from Sussex found himself, together with his colleague Arthur Smith Woodward of the then Natural History Museum at the centre of a world-wide media storm. In honour of its discoverer, the new species of human was given the name Eoanthropus dawsoni, literally ‘Dawson’s man of the dawn’. He was now the most successful antiquarian in Europe. A painting unveiled at the Royal Academy in 1915 shows him at the peak of his academic achievements, standing with the greatest scientific minds of Edwardian England with an image of Charles Darwin, father of evolutionary science, sitting contentedly in the background.

Unfortunately, at the point of this, his greatest achievement, Dawson was taken gravely ill. The exact nature of his sickness remains unknown, though it has been suggested he was suffering from pernicious anaemia. Despite resting for a brief period at home during the spring of 1916, by June his condition had worsened, and he was confined to bed. Early on 10 August 1916, aged only 52, he died. Death robbed him of the chance of knighthood, an honour that many others associated with the Piltdown find were to receive. The funeral, held on 12 August at the Church of St John Sub-Castro in Lewes, was attended by over 100 mourners, the service being conducted in part by his brother, the Reverend Hugh Leyland Dawson.

Twenty two years later, on 22 July 1938, as a lasting tribute to both Dawson and his Eoanthropus dawsoni, a monolith was erected at Piltdown, at the spot where the skull had been first been discovered. In September 1950, the Natural History Museum supervised the opening of a section through the adjacent gravel terrace, the edges of which were bricked up with two glass windows set along the western edge to act as a permanent witness section. In 1952 the area was designated as a Geological Reserve and National Monument by the Nature Conservancy. Dawson’s legacy was complete.

The Hoax

There the story might have ended, were it not for some persistent and nagging doubts that there was ‘something not quite right’ about the Piltdown discovery. There never had been full agreement over what the finds actually represented, nor how they could be reconstructed. Worse, as the 1920s and '30s played out, the question of where exactly to place Eoanthropus dawsoni within the tree of human evolution could not satisfactorily be resolved. When Dawson had first produced the bones from Sussex, there was little or no comparative material with which to work. Few fossil remains of early humans had been found and there was a great deal of argument surrounding the way in which to interpret lines of descent.

As more fossil discoveries were made, especially during fieldwork conducted in China and Africa, it appeared that the aspects that best defined Eoanthropus, a human forehead and an ape-like jaw, were not present elsewhere. In fact, new fossil remains demonstrated that human-like teeth and jaw were a very early feature in human development, whereas the brain and forehead changed more gradually. Piltdown had these key features in reverse; it was an anomaly that scientists were beginning to find incredibly embarrassing.

Analysis of the fluorine content of Eoanthropus undertaken in the late 1940s created more problems, suggesting that the bones of ‘Dawn man’ could not be any more than 50,000 years old. Such a date meant that Piltdown Man could not have been an ancestor of the modern human, merely an archaic form or genetic ‘throwback’. Most scientists now felt it easier to simply ignore the old man from Sussex altogether. Thankfully, resolution to the problem came in December 1953 when the myth that Eoanthropus dawsoni had been a genuine living being was exploded forever. Joseph Weiner, Kenneth Oakley and Wilfred Le Gros Clark delivered their fatal blow in the pages of the Bulletin of the British [Natural History] Museum Geology. Entitled simply ‘The solution of the Piltdown problem’, the article revealed that the jaw and teeth of Piltdown Man had all been forged. Piltdown Man had never lived: he was nothing more than a cheap hoax.

The main question since the exposure has been with regard to the identity of the perpetrator. Weiner, in his 1955 book The Piltdown Forgery, was sure that it was ‘not possible to maintain that Dawson could not have been the actual perpetrator; he had the ability, the experience, and, whatever we surmise may have been the motive, he was at all material times in a position to pursue the deception throughout its various phases’. The backlash that followed seems, in retrospect, hardly surprising for, nearly forty years after his death, Dawson remained a significant and well-liked figure within the worlds of palaeontology, anthropology and antiquarian archaeology. To attack him meant to assault every single one of the scientific experts that had lined up to support him and bolster his research. Surviving members of the family were livid: his stepson, Captain Postlethwaite writing to the London Times in outraged terms within days of the first press release.

Since 1955, the argument has swung both for and against the possibility that Dawson, the discoverer of Piltdown Man, could also have been its creator. Most of the discussions rely on the premise that Piltdown was a ‘one off’, a single, if rather elaborate hoax, designed to fool the scientific community, embarrass key figures of the Establishment or to verify (or perhaps even to discredit) fledgling models of human evolution. Under such circumstances, one of any number of people may plausibly be held responsible, though the most ‘usual’ of cited suspects are Charles Dawson, Arthur Smith Woodward, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin and Venus Hargreaves (all members of the original excavation team), as well as the writer Arthur Conan Doyle, the anatomist Arthur Keith, museum curator William Butterfield, zoologist Martin Hinton, palaeontologist William Solas, neurologist Grafton Elliot Smith, jeweller Lewis Abbott and chemists John Hewitt and Samuel Woodhead.

In 2003, the author published the results of research into the career and discoveries of Charles Dawson FGS, FSA. The book, entitled Piltdown Man: the secret life of Charles Dawson and the world’s greatest archaeological hoax examined all of Charles Dawson’s major antiquarian finds, looking at both the composition and circumstances of each, and his many varied publications. Of the discoveries listed, it became apparent that at least thirty-three, including the Piltdown skull, mandible, teeth, animal bone assemblage and flint artefacts, the ‘shadow’ figures of Hastings Castle, a hafted stone axe from near Eastbourne, an ancient boat from Bexhill, Roman bricks from Pevensey, artefacts from the Lavant Caves near Chichester, a cast-iron Roman statuette from Beauport Park, a Bronze Age antler hammer from Bulverhythe, a Chinese vase and a toad preserved in stone, were all clear fakes. The chief (and in some cases only) suspect was none other than Charles Dawson himself.

In addition to these forgeries, it was possible to show that other dubious discoveries, such as a horseshoe from Uckfield, a spur from Lewes and a prehistoric standard mount from St Leonards-on-Sea were fakes, probably generated by Dawson whilst an ‘Arabic’ anvil and a small axe from Beauport Park were possible fakes associated with the Sussex solicitor. With regard to Dawson’s publications, at least one was clearly plagiarised whilst papers on Dene Holes, the Red Hills of Essex and Sussex iron, pottery and glass, together with the two volume study the History of Hastings Castle were all compilations of other people’s work.

That Charles Dawson was the ultimate designer, creator, instigator and perpetrator of the Piltdown hoax cannot be in doubt. Dawson was the only man with the experience, the knowledge and the ‘form’ to create the fakes and the various other forgeries that preceded it. He was the only person who had the means, opportunity and motive throughout nearly twenty-five years of archaeological, geological and antiquarian deceit. He was the only one who truly benefitted, not just from Piltdown Man, but from all the many ‘finds’ that came before it. In short, Piltdown was not a ‘one off’, more the culmination of a life’s work.

It was a dangerous game, but Charles Dawson played it so very well.

PHASE 1

A SPLENDID FELLOW

We do not know exactly at what point Charles Dawson was seduced by the idea of forgery, but it is clear that the first evidence of fraud comes with one of the earliest of his discoveries.

The Fossil

Dawson had been an avid collector of fossils from a very young age, gathering specimens from the cliffs and quarries close to the family home in Hastings. In many of these formative searches, Dawson had been encouraged by Samuel Husbands Beckles, a Fellow of the Royal Society and a distinguished geologist, then in his twilight years. Beckles, who as a lawyer may well have known Dawson’s father Hugh, had lived in St Leonards-on-Sea since his retirement in 1845. He spent much of his time exploring the fossiliferous outcrops of Sussex and Hampshire, being credited as the first to recognise dinosaur footprints on the Isle of Wight. He discovered a number of dinosaur species new to science, including a small herbivore, named Echinodon becklesii in his honour, and a bipedal carnivore named (much later) as Becklespinax. By the time of his death, in 1890, he had amassed a huge collection of fossils, including a significant number retrieved from ‘Beckles’ Pit’, a 600m2 excavation into the rocks of Durlston Bay in Dorset that he had overseen throughout 1857.

Together, the two men, Dawson and Beckles, collected an impressive array of fossils, the prize of which, noted as the ‘finest extant example’ of ganoid (plated) fish Lepidotus mantelli, was donated to the Natural History Museum in 1884. Other discoveries followed, including three new species of dinosaur, one of which was named Iguanodon dawsoni after the young solicitor by the palaeontologist Richard Lydekker, and a new form of fossil plant, later named Salaginella dawsoni. Under Beckles’ apprenticeship, the 20-year-old Dawson was getting himself noticed. In gratitude for the burgeoning archive of dinosaur remains, the Natural History Museum conferred upon Dawson the title of ‘honorary collector’ and in 1885, thanks to his new circle of scientific friends, he was put forward and elected a Fellow of the Geological Society.

There is nothing overtly suspicious about the majority of Dawson’s fossil discoveries, in fact specimens such as Lepidotus, Salaginella and Iguanodon are exactly the sort of things that a determined amateur palaeontologist feverishly searching the quarries of East Sussex would, during the latter years of the nineteenth century, be expected to find. Neither is there any doubt concerning the integrity of Samuel Beckles whose collection was donated to the Natural History Museum following his death in 1890. It was in the months following the passing of this great amateur palaeontologist, however, that Dawson’s alternative career in deception took its first faltering steps.

As a solicitor with a passion for fossil remains and a close personal friend of the late Samuel Husbands Beckles, Charles Dawson was the perfect choice to sort, catalogue and record the collector’s archive prior to its deposition in the Natural History Museum. In fact, Arthur Smith Woodward, then an assistant curator at the museum, observed that the young man ‘gave much help to the British [Natural History] Museum in labelling the collection of Wealden fossils which was acquired from that gentleman’s executors’. Not all the finds, however, made it to the stores of the London museum, some remaining (largely unlabelled and lacking full documentation) in Dawson’s hands, finally ending up in the stores of the Hastings and St Leonards Museum. Dawson, it would seem, was reluctant to hand over all of the Beckles collection. Perhaps he kept some fossils as a keepsake to remind him of his erstwhile friend, or perhaps he felt that, as joint finder, he deserved to retain some of the pieces. Perhaps he believed that the more local Hastings institution deserved some of the collection for the purposes of display and research. Perhaps there was a more sinister motive behind the retention of specific artefacts.

Late in November 1891, Arthur Smith Woodward presented a paper concerning an exciting new fossil discovery before the Zoological Society of London. The find, a single tooth, was potentially earth shattering, as it seemed to provide the first evidence of a ‘European Cretaceous Mammal’: an important missing link in the history of life on earth. The tooth had been found, Woodward reported, by ‘Mr Charles Dawson of Uckfield, in an irregular mass of communated fish and reptile bones, with scales and teeth’ from a quarry near Hastings. Undeterred that the precise location, date and circumstances of the tooth’s discovery were vague, Woodward observed that its size, when combined with the shape of the crown, strongly suggested that the fossil had derived from a wholly new species of the mammal order Multituberculata. This new species could, Woodward suggested, until the acquisition of further material ‘bear the provisional name of Plagiaulax dawsoni, in honour of its discoverer’.

The order Multituberculata first appeared in the Jurassic period, between 206 and 144 million years ago, being at their most diverse and widespread during the late Cretaceous. Multituberculates do not belong to any of the groups of mammals alive today. They were small and hairy in appearance, their pelvic anatomy suggesting that they gave birth to tiny, marsupial-like young. The final lower premolars of most Multituberculates formed enlarged, serrated blades, such teeth often being described as ‘plagiaulacoid’ after the Mesozoic Multituberculate genus Plagiaulax.

The tooth that Dawson had presented to Woodward was larger than any known example of the genus Plagiaulax. It was also far more abraded than was common, Woodward observing the extraordinary amount of wear ‘to which the crown has been subjected’, having lost nearly all of its enamel. It was the patterning of wear that most seemed to perplex the young geologist, especially as the abrasion had not been produced ‘entirely by an upward and downward or antero-posterior motion, of which the jaws of the know Multituberculata seem have been alone capable’. Any doubts concerning the antiquity of the abrasion were dispelled by Woodward, however, who noted that when he had first received it, the fossil had been so firmly embedded within its soil matrix that only long and diligent work by the technicians of the British Museum laboratory could satisfactorily detach it.

We now know, however, that the ‘discovery’ was in fact nothing of the sort; careful examination of the tooth showing that the side-to-side abrasion sustained, which Woodward noted as being otherwise unknown in the natural wear of this order of ancient mammal, is wholly artificial. Such damage, which had eroded the crown and much of the original enamel, could only have occurred through a programme of extensive and prolonged post-mortem rubbing with an iron file. In short, Plagiaulax dawsoni was a fake.

Quite why Dawson moved from ‘honorary collector’ and supplier of genuine finds to master forger it is impossible to say. Perhaps time spent fossil hunting in the quarries of east Sussex was not producing sufficient rewards; perhaps the process was simply taking too long or was losing its appeal (Dawson’s spare time increasingly being taken up with his career and other interests); perhaps he just craved greater academic recognition? For whatever reason, at some point in 1891, Charles Dawson made the decision to gently manipulate existing geological data. He created a fraud.

Doctoring a Plagiaulacoid tooth taken, in all probability, from the extensive collection of his late colleague Samuel Beckles, Dawson filed down the crown, eroding much of the enamel in the process, and, in doing so, manufactured evidence for a wholly new species. Interestingly, although the find was only small, Dawson had hit upon the best way of increasing artefact significance and generating academic interest: he had created a ‘missing-link’ or transitional form, in this case between ‘terrible lizard’ and mammal. Transitional forms were later to play a prominent part in his antiquarian career, culminating, of course, with the missing link between ape and man that Piltdown so clearly represented. Plagiaulax dawsoni, however, was in retrospect a basic and fairly clumsy fraud, and anyone with access to a microscope and a degree of scepticism could easily have spotted it. At the time of its announcement, though, no one in the scientific community doubted its authenticity, especially as Dawson had gone to extreme lengths to ensure that the tooth was apparently still embedded in soil at the time it was donated to the Natural History Museum.