by Rod Duncan
“Perhaps another day,” I said. “Or maybe not if the rules change. But thank you.”
“If you need anything else, I’ll be directly outside.”
Once the door was closed, I hefted the first volume onto the table and lifted the cover. The paper was foxed with brown spots. A musty smell wafted up as I turned the first page and began scanning the headlines. The information I was looking for would be buried somewhere on an inside page.
The wall clock ticked laboriously as I worked. When the first volume was finished, I slid it across the table and replaced it with 1996 April–-June.
Skimming old newspapers is difficult for someone curse-blessed with an excess of curiosity. So many stories were hinted at by each headline. Murders, marriages, missing persons, patents rejected and notices of surgical demonstrations. Several times I found myself reading articles I should have brushed over. But soon I had moved on to July–September. A large stain ran through the pages, speaking of some accident in the past. A leaky roof, perhaps. October–December showed more of the same damage. But the beginning of 1997 was in better condition. And it was here that I found my first clue.
Under the heading, FEEDING THE DESERVING POOR, I read:
The households of several of the city’s leading families have banded together to lend assistance and education to the deserving poor. Using the best nutritional science and spare food donated for the purpose, seventy-five destitute but deserving families were fed on Sunday by volunteers, including the wives of several prominent businessmen.
There were no names and little more information except the recipe – an unappetising pea and barley soup, fortified with carrots, potatoes, onions and cattle bones. But the date and the description of the event matched the story Mrs Raike had told at the Abbey Park rally. I licked my finger and turned the pages, searching more carefully now. The next report came two weeks later.
DERBY SOUP KITCHEN BOOMING
Crowds gathered, Sunday, for the distribution of food to Derby’s deserving poor. The new soup kitchen on Upper Wharf Street has become a lifeline for many of the city’s destitute.
Again, there was no mention of Mrs Raike. Indeed, women were only referred to in terms of their relationships to named men. I sat back and stretched my neck which was becoming uncomfortable.
The following weeks yielded three more articles. The local businessmen were now calling for donations of food to help with their work. An empty warehouse had been procured. There was even a photograph of men and women standing next to a wagon- load of onions. The picture was of poor quality, the faces little more than smudges. I looked from one to the next, vainly searching for any similarity to Mrs Raike. The caption read:
Cllr Wallace Jones with the volunteers of the Upper Wharf Street kitchen.
I hurried on to the next volume and discovered Mrs Raike’s activities reported on the front page for the first time. The same photograph had been reproduced next to an article headlined: WHARF STREET SOUP KITCHEN CONTROVERSY RAGES
A petition is calling on the city council to toughen its stance on the Upper Wharf Street soup kitchen. The association of grocers and food retailers has been leading calls for tax exemptions from which the charity benefits to be withdrawn, claiming the businesses of hard-working people were being damaged.
“There’s thousands being fed at Upper Wharf Street,” claimed Gerald Hackworth, association chairman. “Before the kitchen opened, they had money for vittles. Now, that money is spent on alcohol and horses.”
At the time of going to press 1700 citizens had added their names to the petition. “There are hundreds asking to sign,” Hackworth claimed. “The City Council will ignore us at its peril.”
Another complaint against the soup kitchen is that it is taking women away from their work in the home. “They’re out of their element,” claimed one association member. “Women can’t understand the damage they are doing because they don’t know business.”
I examined the photograph again. The image was less smudged in this reproduction. The caption read:
Cllr Wallace Jones (centre) and the Upper Wharf Street organising committee
A man stood on the councillor’s right hand side, a woman on the left. The woman was too close to him to be anything but a family member – a sister perhaps, or his wife. I judged them to be in their twenties.
A week later and the Herald was reporting that the petition, now numbering 2800 signatures had been delivered to City Hall.
After that there was nothing.
I moved to the next volume – August–-September 1996. I had my eye in now and it took only fifteen minutes to skim through. October–-December was similarly devoid of mention of the soup kitchen.
I had to work through all of 1997 and half of 1998 before I found what I was looking for.
MINISTER OF PRISONS PRAISES DERBY WOMEN
The work of Mrs Raike’s girls, an organisation of local women, was recognised last week by Gordon Carlson. On his visit to the city, the Minister for prisons met Mrs Raike and some of her volunteers in their offices on Upper Wharf Street.
There was no photograph and little of substance in the report. But after a year and a half of obscurity, the organisation had re-emerged, and now in its familiar form.
Articles followed in train after that. Hardly a month went by without some new endorsement or report. There were occasional letters of complaint. Gerald Hackworth wrote in from time to time. Always there was a swift response, well- reasoned and amicable, in contrast to the attacks.
And there were photographs – Mrs Raike flanked by the great and the good standing at a distance from the camera. Eleven years had made no alteration to her appearance. She wore the same austere outfit that I had seen in Abbey Park, the same hat and veil. Nowhere was there a photograph of Councillor Wallace Jones and Mrs Raike together. Indeed, the articles did not mention him again.
I closed the last volume and tucked my pencil and notepaper into my sleeve. When I poked my head from the door, the young librarian jumped up from his chair and was at my side in three long strides. I wondered if he had been watching all the while.
“I’ll be leaving now,” I said.
He walked me back to the main entrance, the click of our shoes echoing from the veined marble walls. Of Dr Bowers there was no sign.
I thanked him as he held the door for me. And then, as an afterthought, I asked: “Whatever happened to Cllr Wallace Jones?”
“Something has happened to him?”
“I was reading about him. But that was twelve years ago. Is he still alive?”
The librarian began to laugh, as if I’d made a joke. But on seeing my confusion, he pulled himself up. “Forgive me. But it’s common knowledge you see. His star has risen. He was appointed Minister of Patents last year.”
I stepped out of the door, as one born into sudden sunlight, dazzled by the revelation but unable to resolve it. I had begun to suspect that Mrs Raike might be Wallace Jones in disguise. But now to learn that he was Minister of Patents – one of the foremost officers among the Council of Guardians. He would surely not risk a public deception on such a scale. Perhaps I had made the mistake of projecting my own double life onto another.
My thoughts were cut short by a voice close behind me.
“Are you Miss Elizabeth Barnabus?”
I turned to see a uniformed constable standing next to the library door.
“Elizabeth Barnabus?” he asked again.
“Yes, but it’s all resolved,” I said, thinking at first that he had come at Dr Bowers’ request. Then it came to me that the old librarian did not know my name. “What’s this about?”
“Just come this way, Miss.”
He gestured down the library steps. I looked. Two more constables stood next to a black Maria, parked on the roadside. He grabbed my arm before I could run.
Chapter 10
One who can escape from a locked safe for the entertainment of the audience will never trust his secret to paper and in
k. For where would he find to keep it?
The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook
I was not alone in the maw of the black Maria. Three others sat on benches running along the walls. All looked at me as I clambered in, shielding their eyes or squinting against the daylight. One I recognised.
“Tulip?”
The door slammed shut behind me, blinking us into near darkness.
“Who’s that?” she asked, grabbing my hand just in time. The engine had clanged into gear, and I would have been jolted off my feet but for her support. I half fell onto the bench next to her.
“I’m Elizabeth,” I said. “We met–...”
“At the Secular Hall. You crossed as a child.”
“You remember.”
“I’d hoped to see you again. But not like this.”
A slit high on the side wall allowed a little light and air into the cell. It would have been too narrow to squeeze an arm through, let alone shoulders and hips. A memory of once escaping from a locked carriage came back to me. That time, I had been led by instinct. There had been a clutter of objects. I had found a way. This chamber was bare. I reached a hand to feel below the bench. It was merely a plank fixed along the wall. There could be no hiding here.
My eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom. The floor was a single sheet of metal. Other than the two benches, the only fixtures were leather hand straps dangling from the metal ceiling. The vehicle was purpose built – a prison on wheels.
“They must have signed the treaty early,” said Tulip, her voice small but close.
“It’s not due yet. And we’d have heard.”
“Signed in secret maybe?”
The black Maria had been steaming through a series of turns, throwing us first forward and then back. Now it started to accelerate. Steadying myself with a hand on Tulip’s shoulder, I clambered up onto the bench and looked out of the slit window. It took me a few moments to understand where we were. Then I recognised a landmark – the ruins of a Roman wall beside the road – and knew the canal must be close ahead.
“We’re heading west,” I said, lowering myself back to the bench. “If they were taking us to the border, we’d be going to the main crossing by the clock tower. That’s south.”
“Not if they want to keep it quiet,” said Tulip. “They’d want a crossing where no one would see.”
I listened, trying to pick up more clues, but our prison reverberated with the boom of the engine and the clatter of its wheels. All I could know for certain was that we travelled over cobbles.
I tried to think, to reason out the tumble of events and new knowledge. But panic was rising in my chest. If Tulip was correct we would be across the border in a few hours. I imagined the iron collar and chains that would be waiting for me on the other side. My skin crawled as if seething with lice.
Someone must have told them where to find me. For days, I had been nagged by the sense that I was being watched and followed. But the thought that a spy might be on my trail was comforting compared to the more likely truth. They had gone to make the arrest at the wharf where one of my neighbours had informed on me, telling them I had set off towards the library.
There was a screech of brakes and the engine noise changed. Our movement came to an abrupt stop, throwing us towards the front of the wagon. I could hear voices close outside – two men exchanging greetings. A bolt clanged, the door swung outwards and daylight streamed in. I could just make out three figures climbing up, then the door swung closed and darkness swallowed them. The after-image stayed with me though – the silhouette of a woman and two children. The boy had been holding her hand, the girl clinging to her skirts.
We made three more stops after that; the last prisoners in were two men. The benches were full so they had to stand, gripping the leather straps to keep balance.
Since crossing the canal and the river, there had been a few miles of steady climb before the land levelled out again. The bench below the slit window being full, I could no longer climb up to look out. But once, as we stopped for water, I heard beyond the sound of the tender being filled, the throbbing hum of twin airship engines passing low overhead.
The only airship terminus for miles was the international hub at Anstey. That meant we had veered somewhat north of west, taking us away from the border not towards it. We were being taken to a place of confinement pending deportation. They wished to guard us so that we could not drop into hiding as the signing grew closer. I silently berated myself for underestimating the foresight of the Republic’s government.
The sound of running water stopped and I heard the squeak of the filling arm being retracted. Then the engine noise picked up and we jolted into movement once more. Tulip’s shoulder bumped against mine. I wondered what had made such a strong woman take refuge in the Republic.
After Anstey, the cobbles gave way to a dirt road, softening the din inside our cell. But here the carriage began to sway and lurch. Every pothole threw us one way and the other. Heads bumped on walls. The children were crying and one was sick on the floor. The journey slowed. The light through the slit window became egg-yolk yellow. Shadows passed more frequently across the small window. The sun outside was getting low.
Then we stopped. This time the engine stopped also, with a long whoosh of venting steam.
The door opened. Outside, a line of uniformed constables stood shoulder to shoulder. Beyond them I could see trees and a row of green painted huts. I searched for a perimeter wall but could see none. It was an army camp, I guessed. Not a prison. I felt my heart accelerate. Unlike the black Maria, this place had surely not been designed to prevent escape. And with forest all around, getting away would be easy.
“Come when your name’s called,” said one of the constables. He read from a sheet of paper: “Fredrick Morison.”
One of the standing men shuffled to the door and was helped out.
“Happy Rathsphere.”
A man on the opposite bench got up and followed.
“Arthur Purling. William Fotheringham. Thomas Thatcher.”
When the carriage was empty of men, the constable who had been calling the names followed them out of view. Another constable took his place, holding another list.
“Sunshine Turner, Angeline Turner, Drake Turner.”
The mother pulled her two children to their feet and headed out.
“Tulip Slater. Elizabeth Barnabus.”
After the vomit smell and body odour of our confinement, the first thing that hit me was the cool freshness of the air. There was birdsong and soft light. And then I saw the men walking away in a line towards one of the huts. The left ankle of each had been shackled. Each leg iron was linked to a long chain which they carried between them.
“Left arm out,” a constable said to Tulip.
She obeyed, meekly. He snapped a shackle around her wrist, shut it tight, tested it then gestured her along and turned to me.
“Left arm out.”
There is a technique used by the escapists, whereby they flex their muscles and inhale deeply as they are tied. When they later breathe out and relax they can wriggle free, because the chains and ropes have fallen loose. But the wrist is bone and sinew. There is nothing to flex.
The constable grabbed my arm and snapped the manacle in place. I felt the iron grip. Then he shoved me in the back and I found myself stumbling towards Tulip.
Behind me, he instructed the next in line. “Left arm out.”
Each of our manacles was connected by a short length of chain to an iron ring, through which a longer chain had been threaded, linking all together, just as the men had been. Except that they had been joined by the ankle.
Tulip leaned close to whisper. “Too shy to tell us to raise our skirts?”
“They’re Republicans,” I reminded her.
The constable folded the list of names and stood back to survey the line. “Lift the chain!” he called.
After a moment’s confusion we had each gripped part of the length with our manac
led hand and were being led over the grass towards a hut some distance from the one the men had entered. The young girl was crying. Not able to lift the chain, she let it drag along the ground next to her.
The constable counted us in through the door of the hut, though it seemed unlikely that any could have wandered off since being shackled. An iron ball had been padlocked to both the front and back of the long chain, too big for our manacle rings to pass over. But once we were inside the hut, the ends were also locked to ring-bolts in the floor.
“Food will be served before sunset, courtesy of the Council of Guardians. I suggest you wash and make yourselves comfortable.” So saying, he closed the door. I tried to listen for the sound of a lock or bolt being shot, but everyone was suddenly talking at once and I had no chance to hear.
There were ten of us on the chain, including the two children, but only nine beds along the wall of the hut. A pot- bellied stove stood on a rectangle of slate, the chimney pipe heading straight up through the roof. Jugs and bowls for washing had been placed together with chamber pots in the corner of the room. The windows were not barred. Chain and ring bolts notwithstanding, this place had been built for some other purpose.
Somehow we arranged ourselves along the room and everyone moved as one towards the beds. The poor mother and her youngest child were obliged to squeeze together furthest from the door. The rest of us had a bed each, though the chain allowed comfort to none. It could either lie heavily across the chest, or uncomfortably under the body. In this, the men would have an easier time. Had it been attached to our ankles it could have lain on the floor along the foot of the beds.
“We could turn around,” I said, reasoning that if our heads were at the bottom of the bed, we too could lay the chain along the floor. No one else seemed convinced of my idea.
