Unseemly Science (19 page)

I frisked his jacket one handed and came away with a wallet and some small papers.

“Then perhaps your pockets will talk.”

I opened the wallet to find found three Republic pound notes. They were crisp, as if freshly issued. I folded them into my pocket and tossed the wallet to the side. I was earning more freely through robbery than I ever had as an intelligence gatherer.

“Why did you follow me?” I asked.

“You stole a valuable ticket. You think that goes unreported?”

“You don’t work for the police.”

His laugh had no warmth. I tried to ignore it as I began leafing through the papers from his pocket. Most were receipts. A couple were from restaurant meals. Three were cab fares. Two kinds of people keep such ephemera – the obsessive and those who wish to claim back money from an employer. Then I found a used coach ticket.

Angling it to catch the light of the moon, which was almost full, I read:
First Class. Ashbourne to Derby.
The date stamp matched my departure from the
Green Man and Black
’
s Head
. The man under my knee was the spy who had been keeping watch on us.

“You work for Dr Foxley,” I said.

“Bravo.”

I pulled the cravat from his eyes, making sure the knife blade was the first thing he saw. Though he had watched me go about as a woman, I didn’t think he would see through my disguise in the dark with the moon behind me. But I needed to be able to recognise him if our paths crossed again.

I examined the lines and angles of his face.

“I know who you are,” he said.

“You’ve never seen me before.”

“But now I do. I suppose you’ve been told this before – but you’re very like your sister. You are Edwin Barnabus, I presume?”

“And you’re W. Keppler,” I said, fanning out the visiting cards I had taken from his pocket.”

“
How careless of me,” he said. At which point I realised the cards must be false.

“The name will do for now.”

“I have a message for your sister,” he said. “It
’
s about her friend.”

I reacted without thinking, shifting the knife closer to his cheek. He flinched but when it didn
’
t touch him, the flicker of alarm was replaced by a slow smile.

“Killers don
’
t wear gloves,” he said. “You
’
ve got to want to feel it going into their flesh. And the blood
–
it ruins leather.”

I touched the flat of the blade to his neck. “What did you mean about my sister
’
s friend?”

“I mean, I
’
m going to tell you something. We
’
ve been trying to reach her. You
’
ll be the perfect messenger boy. Her friend
’
s going to be taken to Derby tomorrow night. Interesting things will happen there. Painful things. If your sister wants to stop them, she
’
d better be at the gates of the Ice Factory at nine o
’
clock.”

“Her friend
’
s long gone!” I hissed the words between my teeth.

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re wrong. Her friend’s securely tied.”

“No,” I said. Though I’d not heard from Julia since she left with Mrs Raike. “She’s out of your reach!”

“She?” he laughed again. The sound made the hairs stand on the back of my neck. “Not
that
friend. Not the girl. It’s the urchin boy. She seems fond of him. You know how women are.”

If man is possessed
of free will,
the future cannot be set. Thus the history of an empire may stand balanced, waiting for a breath of air to choose the direction of its fall.

From Revolution

Keppler did not thrash around or try to escape as I walked. He wouldn’t have wanted to give me that satisfaction. Nor would I have given him the satisfaction of knowing how desperate I was to get away. But I accelerated as soon as I was around the corner of the roof and out of his view. The thought of him following made me feel sick. I hurried back down the fire escape then ran from the building, pausing only to drop his knife down a drain.

I arrived back at the guest house, desperate with fatigue. Seeing the downstairs windows dark, I risked the front entrance. No one saw me as I slipped through the hallway to my room.

I closed the door behind me and heaved the chest of drawers in front of it. Then I stripped off my male disguise, unwound the binding and removed my chemise, which was damp with perspiration. I stood naked in the unlit room.

The binding cloth and a corset had been familiar to me since I turned thirteen and my body began to change. With each I presented a different aspect to the world. And depending on that aspect, the world treated me differently. Neither role seemed more strange to me.

Standing alone and unclothed, I was gripped by a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. At first I could not give it a name.

I remembered the naked corpse and found myself wondering what had become of the dissected parts. They would be burned, I supposed, rather than buried. Either way, they would end up as dust. Given time, so would I and all the grand gentlemen who had watched the autopsy.

In death, laid out and inert, they had named Jeremiah Tuesday as a member of the criminal classes. It had seemed strange to me at the time. But now I understood. They’d needed to make such show of classifying him precisely because he was naked – un-uniformed so to speak. Else, in death he would be level with them all.

There I stood alone in a guesthouse room, un-uniformed also. I, who committed the taboo of mutability. I stepped between roles. I eluded class by being a traveller yet educated, a foreigner in exile. A chameleon. What would they say of me if I had not escaped across the rooftop, if my pursuer had clicked his knife and slipped it between my ribs? How would I have been defined in death?

Here is a woman from the criminal class. A liar, trickster, conjuror, impersonator, a breaker of every social code. A gypsy. An anarchist. A cancer. An underminer of the foundations of the world.

I had lost count of the rules I’d broken since fleeing from the Kingdom. Theft, robbery, breaking and entering, making threats to life, using forged documents.

I looked down at my body, ran a hand from my breast over my waist to my hip. The outline was too curved for me to be mistaken for a man, yet not curved enough to fit the ideal of womanhood. The faint lines of muscle on my arms and stomach suggested a labourer, yet my hands were as smooth as a lawyer’s.

I pulled back the bedcovers and lay down. Those few who knew of my adventures thought them a facet of my character. As if hiding came naturally and living as an imposter had no cost. Perhaps they fancied I would always be able to reach a little further or perform some magic trick to escape. They couldn’t see the narrowness of the tightrope I walked.

The hollow feeling gripped me again. This time I knew its name was loneliness.

There are but a few with the capacity and education to understand a system
as
so
complex as revolution with its many principles, actors and workings. To the rest is given the capacity to believe.

From Revolution

The day of my meeting with John Farthing had arrived. According to our agreement, he would have searched the archive for mention of Dr. Erasmus Foxley. I made my way to Bridlesmith Gate. But instead of entering the tea shop he had nominated, I selected a similar establishment on the opposite side of the road.

I told myself this contrary act was a precaution. From my table, I would have a good view of the street. If Farthing
had
had a change of heart and brought the constables, I would be able to watch as he led them into the wrong building. His chosen tea shop was austere, even by Republican standards. This one had tiered cake platters in the window display. I knew he would hate it.

I had never asked where in America he came from. He had an expansive stride that suggested wide open spaces. It was so unlike the clipped movements of English gentlemen that I spotted him approaching from the end of the street. It seemed wrong to me that a man who walked without restraint could hold the law in such close affection.

He had halved the distance to the tea shop when I realised he was not alone. Another man strode beside him, hurrying to keep up. He wore a longer coat than Farthing’s and a top hat instead of a Homburg, yet there was something about the two men that was indefinably alike.

I stood, making my chair legs scrape on the floorboards.

The waiter hurried over. “May I help?”

Farthing and the other man were standing just outside the window. There was tension between them. They exchanged words. Then the other man was marching back the way they had come. Farthing waited, checked over his shoulder and then disappeared inside the teashop opposite.

“Miss?”

I was surprised to see the waiter still standing next to me. He arched his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, did you ask something?”

“I said, are you ready to order?”

“Not quite. But do you have a boy who could run a message?”

I took a new table at the back of the shop, far from the window. From there I observed as Farthing was led inside. Fresh from the sunlight, he would not be able to see me. I took the chance to look at him straight on. He had come to help me, but I still felt angry. My chest constricted and my pulse began to speed. Somehow he always had that effect on me.

He took off his hat and dismissed the boy with a coin from his pocket. Then he saw me and I lowered my gaze.

“May I join you?”

“Please do,” I said. “Though the waiter will have all manner of bad thoughts about us.” I held out my left hand to remind him of the absence of a wedding ring.

“But we’re–...”

“You’re an agent of the Patent Office. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. You can meet whoever you want.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t.”

At which point, the waiter stepped to our table, notepad and pencil poised. After a moment during which neither of us had spoken, he made an effete cough.

“A pot of tea,” I said. Then, as an afterthought, because I imagined the indulgence would annoy Farthing, I added: “And a platter of cakes.”

“That’s not necessary,” he said, after the waiter had gone.

“But they look delicious.”

“Why change the meeting place?” he asked.

“Who was the man who came with you?”

“A colleague.”

“An agent?”

“It was hard to get rid of him.”

“So I
was
wise to wait here and not there.”

“I found an excuse,” Farthing said. “You should have trusted me.”

“What excuse?”

He opened his mouth to respond but the waiter had returned carrying a silver stand, each layer of which supported a plate of cakes. I gestured to the lowest layer, the most abundantly piled. The waiter removed the plate from the stand and positioned it on the table. Farthing seemed appalled. When small plates had been placed before us, I chose a cream pastry for myself and a custard slice for John Farthing.

Two waitresses brought the tea things. I watched as teapot, saucers, cups, spoons, sugar and tongs were arranged on the table. It was like a dance, each person coordinated with the movements of the others. Once they were done, the waiter made a final adjustment to the angle of the tongs in the sugar bowl and retreated to his place by the counter.

“Shall I be mother?” I said, pouring the tea.

“What’s the meaning of this charade, Elizabeth?”

“What charade?”

“Excess disguised as civility.”

“Did you check the files?” I asked.

He pushed the plate of cakes to one side, leaned closer and whispered: “I don’t think you know to what danger I put myself. Every time we consult the archive they make a record of the fact. We have to give a reference. I created a spurious case number. If they were to investigate me...”

“You’re an agent. They won’t.”

“They might!”

“But you checked?”

Farthing sat straight, taking a moment to compose himself. He picked up his fork and scooped the corner of the custard slice. I watched as he savoured it.

“It’s really good,” he said. “Thank you.”

“The files?” I prompted.

“The files. Yes. But before that, I thought perhaps you could help me. A trade of sorts. There’s still a loose end to tie from the Florence May case.” He looked up from the custard slice.

“They hanged her,” I said.

“I’m sorry to remind you of it.”

“Her legs kicked after she dropped.”

He squirmed in his chair. “She… that is to say, the prison guards... they told us she sent a package from her cell. We now know it was addressed to you.”

“And?”

“I need to know what it contained.”

“Why is the Patent Office concerned?”

“You know I can’t answer that, Elizabeth.”

“Is it something particular you’re looking for?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“Something of value?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I remembered returning from the hanging – throwing Florence’s copy of the Bullet Catcher’s Handbook into the fire. I did not know why I’d taken it out again.

“Did you receive it?” he asked.

I looked into his eyes and said: “No.”

“I’m afraid that’s hard to believe.” He blushed. “It may seem merely an artefact of your childhood profession. But there’re things about it you don’t understand. It’s very much our business.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“I’m of necessity constrained.”

Now it was my turn to pick up my fork and eat. The sweetness and cream spread through my mouth. I’d not tasted such rich food in weeks. The sugar made my heart kick. I took a sip of tea as I waited for it to slow. Farthing watched me.

“Now tell me about the files,” I said.

After a moment of apparent indecision he produced a slim notebook and started leafing through its pages. “Foxley has
seventy-three
registered inventions and discoveries. They’re stamped ‘medical research’. Every one of them. Which makes his work exempt from inspection. We can’t interfere. And because his personal file has the same designation, I couldn’t approach him without approval – even if this was a sanctioned investigation – which it isn’t.”

“That was the information you were trading?”

“There’s nothing more I can do.”
“But Foxley’s a criminal.”

“Then Republican law should put him in prison.”

“There isn’t proof.”

“Ah... so he
might
be a criminal?”

The waiter returned. “Is everything satisfactory?” he asked.

“Quite,” said Farthing. “Thank you.”

“The cakes?”

“Delicious, yes.”

“The tea?”

“Thank you. All is fine.”

The intervention was fortunate because my anger had been gathering. By the time the waiter stepped away I had counted to twelve and was able to speak in a level whisper. I leaned forwards again.

“There’s been another kidnapping. A boy this time. They’re holding him as bait.”

“Bait?”

“To trap me.”

“So the boy means something to you?”

“He’s an unfortunate. An orphan.”

“How does a threat to him put pressure on you? If he is just an orphan–…”

“
Just
an orphan?”

“Forgive me. I forget your history. And I’ve seen your kindness. I shouldn’t doubt that you’d want to help any child. But why did
they
believe kidnapping him would bring pressure on you?”

“The boy, Tinker, he’s got no one else. Somehow – I don’t know why – but he’s attached to me. And I… I won’t rest until I’ve seen him safe.”

Farthing nodded, as if this made perfect sense. But my words had been a revelation to my own ears. The resentment I’d felt towards the boy, my rejection of the unasked-for responsibility – in that moment I knew it had gone.

I’d been leaning forwards as I spoke but suddenly felt exhausted and had to rest back in my chair. With so much misfortune in the world, I didn’t know why my pity had settled on that child. I was not aware of having made a choice.

“Tomorrow evening I must go to meet them,” I said. “At the Ice Factory in Derby. They’ll try to kill me. And then Tinker.”

Farthing was staring at his hands. “I beg you not to go.”

“Look at me!” I said.

But he spoke without meeting my gaze. “If you go there, I won’t be able to help.”

“What if Foxley
is
killing for his research? Would the Patent Office still not help? He’s published research on the freezing of live animals. Can’t you think what he might be doing with the people he takes?”

“Don’t you understand? Medical research is
never
unseemly.”

“It is the most unseemly science of all!”

“Not legally. As an agent, if I set foot in his laboratory there’d be uproar. It’d be like a constable from London going to Carlisle to arrest the Council of Guardians! Elizabeth, I know you hate the Patent Office
, b
ut we’re holding back the chaos. There are people who’d do anything to bring us low. If I were to help you, they’d use it to attack us.”

“They’re hurting Tinker…”

“If the Patent Office falls, millions die.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s what I believe!”

“Well I believe my father died because of it!”

“Must you say that? You still blame me after all I’ve done! You can’t bring yourself to think that a man from the Patent Office – me – that I could do any good, without it being an attack on your dignity. Elizabeth, will you not just this once think better of me! Must your history and mine always stand between us? From the first time I saw you, I admired your intellect. I’ve wanted nothing but good for you. It’s circumstance that stands between us. If my wishes had agency, the wrong you’ve suffered would already have been undone!”

It was not the words themselves that shocked me – not at first. It was the intensity of emotion etched into his face. One of his hands gripped the edge of the table. The distance between us seemed to have shrunk. I could smell the vanilla on his breath.

I tried to speak. But a feeling that I could not understand or name had taken hold of my chest. I was suddenly aware of my heart, the pressure of my clothes on my skin, the heat of my breath as I exhaled.

“Elizabeth?”

I stood and my chair fell. The waiter jumped. Everyone in the tea shop was watching.

“I need to use the ladies room,” I said. “Please forgive me.”

The waiter snapped his fingers. One of the waitresses hurried over and took my arm. She led me past the counter to a passageway and through a door. As soon as it had closed behind us I whispered: “I need to get away from that man.”

“You do?” Her eyes were wide with imagined scandal.

“Is there a back way?”

She showed me through another door to a kitchen and then through that to a pantry and finally to a rear yard. I found myself wishing that John Farthing would not have the money to pay the bill. And I hated myself for thinking it.