Unseemly Science (7 page)

Control the light and you control the shadow
. Place your illusion in one and your
trick in the other.

The Bullet Catcher’s Daughter

There is no misdirection more fully compelling than a lock. The escapist in the Circus of Wonders taught me that. He showed me a trunk he used on stage and asked me how I thought he could get out of it. The padlock was huge to me, just a child, and heavy. It filled both my hands. I pulled on it, leaning back with all my weight. Only after I had given up did he show me the secret. Smiling, he tipped the trunk on its side. The base hinged inwards like a door. It was no prison at all.

Having bunched my blankets so that it seemed a person might be lying in the bed, I took Tulip’s hand and kissed it. She touched my cheek then gestured towards the door.

There was no lock. There was no guard.

I limped down the steps and followed the inky shadow of the huts all the way to the edge of the camp. Once in the trees it was too dark to see the ground and I had to feel my way.

Tulip had torn a strip from the sheet to use as a bandage. It cushioned the pressure of my boot against the wound. But every time I flexed my ankle, pain like a needle of ice stabbed through the throbbing ache. Every time I stumbled, I had to stifle a cry.

Money and spare clothes were at the wharf, together with my gun and the means of disguise. I reckoned there to be seven hours before dawn. Then perhaps another hour after that until a constable carried breakfast to the hut and found me gone. Even at a slow walk, my boat was in range.

Unless John Farthing decided to intervene. He had watched my preparation to escape, shame putting a stopper in his usual eloquence. I had no means to judge whether he would report what he had seen. Now more than ever, I needed a clear head, but when I thought of him my mind clouded with anger.

At last, I found my way out of the thickest part of the woods and was able to make out the line of a path. Soon I came to a road with fields to either side. There was a hill to my right. Recognising its profile against the starry sky, I reckoned the village of Cropston must lie ahead. After that would be Anstey and after that again, the suburbs of North Leicester and the wharf that had been my home.

But having walked less than a mile, I was limping so badly that I had to stop and lie in the verge with my boot loosened. Blood had soaked into the leather and the laces were sticky to touch. When I stood again, the pain was sharper than ever. I hobbled on for another half mile, then left the road to bathe my foot in the icy water of Cropston Reservoir. This helped more than the rest had done, though afterwards I could not re-lace the boot. Supporting some of my weight on a stick wrenched from the hedgerow, I picked my way on towards Anstey.

I had descended a gentle slope into a dip, when I heard the steam percussion of an approaching engine. Looking back, I saw a light in the trees which shifted with the movement of a vehicle as yet unseen. It was approaching at speed. I hopped on a few paces until my shadow flickered and disappeared on the road. The lights had touched me.

I dived into the verge. The vehicle had crested a rise a hundred paces back and was closing the distance fast. I could make out the bulky carriage of a black Maria behind the lights, which were now pointing down into the slope.

Cursing John Farthing’s name, I rolled further away from the road bracing myself to drop into a ditch. But there was only long grass, wet with dew. I snatched the pale bonnet from my head and stuffed it underneath me. Then I spread my dark hair over my face.

The thud and whoosh of steam driven pistons seemed impossibly loud. The lights dazzled through my closed eyelids. I could hear the clack of wheel rims on stones in the road. Then the beat changed. The steamcar rolled to a halt. There was a teeth-jarring screech of brakes.

I opened my eyes.

The black Maria had stopped a few paces short of where I lay and the lights were no longer directly on me. Two pairs of boots jumped down.

“Here you say?” said one man.

“Or nearby,” said another.

“Could have been a deer?”

“It was a woman.”

There was a sudden clattering in the hedge not five paces from my feet. A truncheon thrashing through branches. I held my breath.

A pause.

More thrashing, closer this time.

“We don’t even know she came this way.” That was the first man, over by the black Maria.

“I know what I saw!” The second voice was shockingly close.

I could see his torso and arm through the tangle of my hair. Again he attacked the branches.

“You know what you thought you saw,” said the first man. “Dreaming of women again.”

Laughter from the steamcar.

“Shut up!” He sidestepped closer.

My chest was burning for want of breath. All I could see were his lower legs. His foot came up hard against my knee. I braced myself for discovery, but he thrashed around in the hedge once more. An insect fell on the side of my face and started crawling over my hair.

“Just coz you didn’t lock her in properly,” called the first man. “What’ll the chief do to you in the morning?”

The booted feet turned away from me. I let out my breath and filled my lungs again.

“You saw the blood at the hut. Wounded like that she can’t have gone far.”

“Lucky then. And lucky the other woman snitched. You’d still be asleep if she hadn’t raised the alarm.”

“They’re animals. Royalists.” He spat. It landed on the roadway, level with my face. He swivelled and hit the hedge as if he was smashing a cricket ball to the boundary. Then he stormed back to the black Maria, growling words I can’t repeat.

Do not hold one election and think the work of democracy to be complete. W
here there is
jam there will never be enough soap.

From Revolution

After they were gone, I pulled myself upright. One side of my skirt was soaked with dew. Somehow my foot did not feel so wretched – as if pursuit had scared the pain away. But progress was piteously slow and I was tiring.

The last mile, I would not have made, but for a farmer’s boy driving a wagon of hay in the grey light of dawn. At first he was too scared to give me a ride. But when I offered him the stolen butter knife, temptation won out and he let me climb up on the back.

Since my escape had already been discovered, returning to the wharf might put me back into danger. But that was where my money and the means of disappearance lay. Had there been another choice I would have taken it.

Smoke rose from the stove pipe of the coal barge, but the hour was early and the wharf still deserted. I stepped off the path and into the grass so that my footsteps would be silent.

Drawing level with
Bessie
, I crouched low to look in through a cabin porthole. I could see nothing but my own reflection, which was that of a wild woman. My hair hung in rats tails. My boot leather might have been too dark to show the blood but somehow my sleeve and the side of my face were streaked with it. No wonder the boy had been afraid.

The crude Kingdom flag was still gummed to the inside of the glass.

Climbing onto
Bessie
’s deck I saw that the hatch had been forced – the hasp ripped free leaving splintered wood behind. My pursuers had beaten me home. They could have left already. But they could also be hidden inside, waiting for my return. I stepped back onto the towpath, trying not to let my movement disturb the stillness of the boat.

“Elisabeth!”

It was Mrs Simmonds, the wharf keeper’s wife. She looked down at me from the top of the embankment, her mouth hanging open in shock. Then she glanced around. For a horrifying moment I thought she was going to call for the police. But then she put a finger to her lips and beckoned.

When she got me inside her house and closed the door, she did something entirely out of character – that woman who pried unwontedly into my affairs, that old gossip, that meddler. She enfolded me in a hug.

I was so taken aback that I burst into tears.

I could not stay at the wharf. Indeed, that had not been my plan, though for an hour as the Simmondses had fed me and painted my wounded foot with iodine, I had allowed myself to think otherwise. But someone had given me away to the constables – else I would not have been found at the library that day. The only people who knew where I had gone were my neighbours. Nothing on the wharf remained secret for long. Every hour increased the danger to my friends.

Mrs Simmonds filled the tin bath from the copper. Then she took my clothes one by one as I stripped, holding them well away from herself as she carried them to the sink. I watched her spooning salt into a basin of cold water for my blood-stained blouse.

When I was down to my chemise she averted her eyes.

“The soap is lavender scented,” she said in a house-proud tone that made me smile despite my desperate circumstances. “Wash and then sleep. The bedroom is upstairs.”

When she had gone, I shed my innermost layer and stepped naked into the bath. The sensation was indescribably wonderful. I had heard of the pleasures of lying with a man, but at that moment it seemed to me they could never compare to the sensation of being enfolded in the arms of the steaming water.

A small bundle of letters had arrived during my absence. With the hot water doing its work on my aching body, I dabbed my hands dry and began sorting them. The first was a demand from the lawyer, Yan Romero. I had been to the meeting in the Secular Hall. I now needed to make good with payment of ten guineas. I scrunched the paper in my hand and tossed it to the scullery floor. The second letter was from a man whose son had gone missing two years back. All hope had been abandoned but he had received report of a sighting of the boy living like a wild animal on the street. Could my brother be commissioned on a pay-by-results basis? It was not through heartlessness that I crumpled that letter and sent it to join Romero’s. The hope of a parent is sustained long beyond reason.

The final letter was addressed in Julia’s hand.

Dear Elizabe
th. Today I met with the lawyer
of the boatmen who transport th
e ice, and also with the lawyers
of the warehouse in which the ice is stored. They are each as bad as the other! Indeed, they each claimed in different ways that others were at fault. I have no recourse but to follow your advice.
As soon as can be arranged,
I
will
depart for Ashbourne, which they call the Gateway to the Peaks. There I must meet a guide, for the ice farmers’ homes are of necessity remote. I travel without chaperone. Whatever happens, please do not tell mother.

Having dried myself, I slipped into a borrowed nightgown and towel-turbaned my hair. Writing paper, pen and ink had been left out for me as requested. I pulled back the lace cuffs for fear of smudging them with ink and then scratched out a hurried reply.

Dear Julia. The ice farmers
, boatmen and warehouse must surely
keep records. An innocent man will not withhold his accounts. Are they kept in ledgers? Can pages be removed and replaced? Is
the handwriting the same throughout?

It is ever thus
–
-
w
hen
clients
have eliminated the obvious and whatever remains seems impossible, they call on the inte
lligence gatherer for help. We
are left to sift the
fine detail for the inconsequential.
Therein the devil hides.

Having climbed the stairs as directed, I entered the bedroom, a place of chintz and porcelain figurines, a boudoir with no hint of Mr Simmonds.

The room being warm, I lay on top of the covers. In any case, it did not seem right to get into their bed. Though I had been on the move all through the night, I held no hope of finding sleep. It was mid- morning and bright. My stomach was busy digesting a breakfast of bacon, eggs and strong tea. Thoughts shuttled through my mind like receipts through a department store.

I closed my eyes to rest from the sunlight that streamed through the net curtains. Just for a moment, I thought, then I would open them again and start to focus on the problem of hiding.

When I did open my eyes once more it was dark. For a moment I could not remember where I was. Then the sound that had woken me repeated and I sat bolt upright – a fist hammering on a wooden door.

“Open in the name of the law!”

Mrs Simmonds answered from the hallway below, her voice high pitched with alarm. “How can I know you’re a constable?”

More hammering.

I was off the bed like a dog out of a trap, feeling a stab of pain from the forgotten wound as my left foot touched the ground.

“My husband isn’t home. I can’t let you in.”

“You’ll open the door or we’ll break it down!”

There was nowhere in the bedroom to hide. I grabbed the towel, which had worked loose from my hair, and half ran down the stairs, using the banister rail to help support my weight. Mrs Simmonds pleaded to me with her eyes. I could see a light moving through the dimpled glass of the window in the back door. A man with a lantern. There was steam in the scullery. My wet clothes lay piled in the tin bath, waiting for the mangle. There were not enough of them to hide below.

“This is your last warning.”

The banging on the door was even louder.

“Wait,” squeaked Mrs Simmonds. “I’ll fetch the key.”

I opened the door to the coal store, lifted the nightgown and climbed inside. Then I closed the door behind me and started excavating a hollow in the heap of anthracite.

The front door slammed open with a boom. “Out of the way!” Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. Cupboard doors opened and slammed.

Lying in the black hollow in the windowless room, I started burying myself, lump by lump. I could taste coal dust. I had not finished when the door swung open. For a second, the light flooded in. I froze – face half turned towards the side. Then the door slammed and I was in blackness again.

While the search was going on, Mr Simmonds returned to the cottage with Julia’s father. I could hear them remonstrating with the officer in charge. At last it was done and nothing had been found.

“I’m sorry, sir. And ma’am,” the constable said. “But there’ve been sightings. The fugitive’s a Royalist so we have to take it serious. If you see her, you must contact us.” And then after a pause: “It’s prison for harbouring a fugitive... you know that? And worse for a Royalist spy.”

The door slammed closed.

I waited.

“Where is she?” asked Mr Swain in a low voice.

“Elizabeth?” That was Mrs Simmonds calling in a half-whisper. “I thought she was downstairs.”

Lumps of coal clinked against each other as I sat up. The door opened and I saw the three of them staring in. All their mouths fell open at the sight of me.

“Hello, my dear,” said Julia’s father.

“Oh my,” said Mrs Simmonds. “I think you’ll need another bath.”

Later, when the house was back in order and I was clean again, I joined Mr and Mrs Simmonds and Mr Swain who were waiting in the living room. They all watched as I seated myself.

“I can’t stay here,” I said.

Relief spread over Mrs Simmonds’s face.

“Then you shall come to our house,” said Mr Swain. “There’s space in the attic. I can build a bed for you. There are no windows, but by that same token you can have lamps and no one outside will see.”

Mr Simmonds nodded, but I could see his anxiety.

“I can’t walk yet, but as soon as I can, I’ll be away. The swelling’s starting to go down. I can move my ankle already.”

“Where will you go?” asked Mr Simmonds.

“If you don’t know, you won’t be called on to lie.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“You’ve done too much already. I feel guilty to ask...”

“Ask anything,” said Mrs Simmonds.

“I need to borrow your husband. And Mr Swain also.”

I watched from a hidden place at the top of the embankment as the two men used boathooks and a towrope to manoeuvre
Bessie
away from the quay, then along the cut and into the boathouse. Though they both lived on land, they did not bump her once.

I slipped in after them before they closed the boathouse doors.

“She’ll be safe here,” said Mr Simmonds.

“Thank you. But I was going to ask if you thought, while she was here, you might... mend the engine.”

Mr Simmonds sucked his teeth. Mr Swain stroked his chin. Neither spoke.

“You’ve each spoken of it in the past – how good it would be to see her on the move again.”

“They say she was a fine sight,” said Mr Swain. “And I’ve seen a photograph from when she carried the post. Her paddles frothed the water to buttermilk. But to fix the engine... I’d have loved to see her running. But it’s been… how many years?”

“Too many,” grunted Mr Simmons.

“A boat sitting idle that long. You can’t expect it to be easy.”

“You said her engine had been left well- greased,” I said.

“Metal is metal,” said Mr Simmons.

“I have money. Not a fortune. But if parts were needed... My purpose would be to steam away and hide among the waterways. She’d need to be disguised as a working boat. Perhaps it’s too difficult?”

Mr Swain steepled his fingers “Well, having a look could do no harm. Was she built in the Kingdom or the Republic do you suppose?”

“Kingdom,” said Mr Simmonds. “I’ll get the Imperial spanners.”

Smoothing my skirt under my knees, I knelt by the hatch in the floor. Then bending low, I reached in shoulder-deep and felt underneath the axle to grasp my father’s flintlock pistol. It was the only possession that still connected me to my family. The emblem of a leaping hare on the stock had been fashioned from inlaid turquoise. I laid it next to me and reached below the floor again to retrieve a cloth purse. I had gained
two hundred
guineas through the sale of a jewel-inlaid box some months before. Most of that had been spent paying off debts. I weighed the purse in my hand, hearing the last few gold coins chink against each other.

A flicker of movement snapped me from my thoughts. Something dark had passed outside the porthole. I held my breath, listening. There was silence, then the clang of the boathouse door and the sound of the men returning.

Mr Swain lowered a lamp through the access hatch and clonked a spanner against the axle. “Caked with grease,” he said.

“Is that bad?” I asked.

Mr Simmonds tutted as he bent low, getting his head and shoulders deep into the hole in the galley floor. He sniffed noisily.

They both got to their feet. Mr Swain brushed invisible dust from the knees of his trousers. Mr Simmonds paced the distance between the access hatch and the galley’s aft wall.

Bessie
had once been a postal boat. Workers had sorted letters and parcels as she sped through the night. The pigeonholes that lined most of my galley were testament to that past. But the aft section was different. Unlike the fine joinery that characterised most of the fittings, this had been constructed from cheap pine. Painting it over had been one of the first tasks in making the boat habitable.

“What’s behind here?” Mr Simmonds asked, rapping his knuckle against the pine boards.

“I think it was a coal bunker,” I said.

Mr Simmonds pulled a face that said he disagreed.

Mr Swain had joined him now and was running his fingers around the edge of the aft wall. “A crowbar do you think?”

“I’ll get one.”

I watched through the porthole as the wharf keeper hurried away. “What’s happening?”