The mysterious case of the library thieves: who stole Charles Darwin's priceless notebooks?

Libraries are places of sanctuary, or so we like to think. They hold the records of our best ideas, meticulously catalogued by obscure systems of reference, kept in cool, silent rooms, under the guardianship of that synonym for fierce, the librarian. There are few better places to keep something safe. Or so you might think.

This week, Cambridge University Library announced that two of Charles Darwin’s priceless personal notebooks disappeared from their archives twenty years ago, probably stolen.

In September 2001, a routine request determined that the notebooks were not in their normal location in the archive strong room. Searches yielded no results.

“My predecessors believed when they first discovered the notebooks were missing in January 2001 that they had been misfiled” said University Librarian Dr Jessica Gardner.

“That is rare but it can happen. But standing back from it as a new librarian… particularly with the help of national experts, we have reached the reluctant conclusion that they are likely to have been stolen.”

When it comes to the library archives, it is difficult to know for sure that any missing object has not been lost.

“We’ve been collecting for over 600 years,” says Gardner. “We have over 200 kilometres of shelves, which would stretch all the way to Manchester from Cambridge.”

But after 20 years of repeated searches, culminating in a new “fingertip” search through the Darwin archive (which includes over 8000 letters and fills 180 boxes), Gardner decided that enough was enough.

“I'm not prepared to accept that you just go on searching internally forever” she tells me. Instead, the library this week launched a public appeal for anyone with any information regarding the notebooks to come forward.

Their value to a collector is self-evident. Known as the “transmutation notebooks” because they contain the young Darwin’s first speculations about how species might “transmute” into later ancestral forms, the two postcard-sized objects also hold an early sketch of his famous Tree of Life. They are valued at millions of pounds.

Presented to the University Library by the Pilgrim Trust and the Darwin family in 1942, the notebooks have been housed in the archives ever since.

When they were first discovered to be missing, there was only one clue of any significance. Library records showed that in September 2000, four months before the loss was discovered, they were transported from the archives to the library’s photographic unit. A media request for photographs had come in, details of which the library is strangely vague on, although Gardner is quick to emphasise that the requesters had no direct access to the notebooks. Their records show that the photographs were completed in November. But what happened next is anybody’s guess. Were they returned to the archives and then taken directly from the strong rooms? It seems unlikely.

The one suggestive fact that Gardner points to is that in late 2000, the photography unit was operating out of a temporary location in the grounds of the library, while its “very, very secure” premises in the heart of the building were being refurbished. It is easy to imagine that the shift in routine and arrangements might have created an opportunity for a skilful thief.

This is also not the first time that a priceless Darwin notebook has disappeared. In 2009, the “Galapagos notebooks” detailing his discoveries during the famous voyage of HMS Beagle were found to be missing from his family home at Down House. At the time, the English Heritage launched a public appeal but the notebooks have never been restored. Perhaps the same thief has struck again.

Who could be on the suspect list? Gardner assures me that no record survives of who exactly handled the notebooks during their transfer and photography in 2000 but you would imagine that librarians in charge of the collection and staff photographers at the time might be spoken to as witnesses, to see if they remember anything unusual.

Could it have been a daring international art thief who sniffed out an easy few million? The fact that Gardner has been taking the advice of antiquarian book sellers “both nationally and internationally” seems to hint at the possibility. Professional library heists are not unknown. One of the largest ever recorded took place in Pittsburgh’s Carnegie Library over two decades and is believed to have been an inside job. So far 40 books have been recovered, including a priceless original copy of the Geneva Bible dating back to 1615. It was sold to the Leiden American Pilgrim Museum in the Netherlands for $1200 and returned to Pittsburgh when the museum’s owners realised what it was.

In 1978, thieves broke into the Harry S. Truman Library and Museum in Independence, Missouri and plundered a case in the lobby containing swords, scabbards, and daggers gifted to Truman by Saudi Arabian Crown Prince Saud and the Shah of Iran. The weapons, which were decorated with gold, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, had a combined value of more than $1 million. The robbery took less than a minute and the items have never been recovered.

If a thief did get hold of Darwin’s notebooks, it seems unlikely that they have succeeded in turning a profit from them. “It’s very clear from the advice of the book traders that there is no way that these manuscripts ever could be sold on the open market. They are simply too well known,” says Gardner. But that does not preclude the possibility of private collectors willing to turn a blind eye to their provenance or indeed that they are simply languishing in a strongbox, as someone quietly awaits an opportunity to fence them, when the heat is finally off.

“It's possible they are under a bed” says Gardner. “That's the best case scenario; someone has found they can't sell them or they're just holding on to them.”

Perhaps we should also not discount the enthusiasm of amateur collectors. “Darwin is one of the best loved scientists of all time. His work is highly collectible and that is clearly a factor in what has happened,” says Gardner. Her appeal to the goodwill of the public is clearly partly a response to that possibility. There is a long history of cultural superfans proving light-fingered opportunists when it comes to displays of objects that interest them.

In 1984 a woman called Julia Schinghomes walked into Alan Turing’s old school, Sherborne in Dorset, and quietly pocketed an entire collection of his personal effects. She later wrote to the school  to express her pleasure at having the items in her possession before returning some pieces by mail. In 2018, she offered the items to the University of Colorado under the name Julia Turing, claiming to be a family member. The US department of Homeland Security promptly confiscated them.

Will the culprit ever come forward? Gardner is clearly an optimist. “I have real hope. There’s a great example from Lambeth Palace library when they lost over a 1000 rare books during the chaos and destruction of the Second World War. Over 40 years later they were returned following a death bed confession. So yes, I have hope. I would encourage anyone with information to come forward.”