Unseemly Science

by Rod Duncan

He took it and sat up, leaning his back against the brick wall of the privy. He held it in both hands close to his nose. He filled his lungs with the smell of it. I knew he wouldn’t eat it. The last one I had given him – which had won his misplaced loyalty – he had carried like a talisman. The knowledge of the gift had been more precious to him than the taste.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said.

  “You tricked me.” He mumbled the words into the apple.

  “It was the only way. You’re too good at hiding.”

  His white teeth flashed in a grin.

  “Now,” I said. “We’d better get some food into you.”

  We sneaked him in via the back stairs. He wasn’t keen and seemed to mistrust everything about being indoors, placing his feet as if he expected the carpeted floor to give way at any moment. Once in the room we opened the window wide, for the smell of him would have made an undertaker faint.

  I watched him as he gobbled down a bowl of cold oxtail soup and a hunk of cheese which we had discovered in the kitchen. Julia, now returned, looked at me aghast. The boy had the manners of a puppy. He finished off by licking out the bowl. Then he sat back and sighed, as might a king after a fine feast.

  “Now,” I said. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Watching,” he said, wiping away the remnants of the soup from around his mouth with the back of his sleeve. In doing so he inadvertently cleaned a patch of skin, which now showed pale through the surrounding dirt.

  “So you’ve been spying on me?”

  He pulled an indignant expression.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Keeping watch,” he said. “Looking out for you.”

  “Looking out for you?” Julia repeated, confused.

  “Protecting me, he means.”

  Tinker nodded.

  “Thank you, Tinker,” I said. “But we’ll have to find you something else to do now. New clothes. Somewhere to sleep.”

  “Somewhere to wash,” Julia added, earnestly.

  At this, Tinker took offence. “Don’t want new clothes!”

  “You’re in rags, Tinker. They look like they’d fall to pieces in the wash.”

  “Then don’t wash them!” he said.

  I admired the logic.

  “What’s to be done?” asked Julia. “He needs to go to school.”

  Her intervention was unlikely to help our cause. I decided to change tack.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were watching?”

  He gave me a look that seemed to say I was stupid.

  “I could have fed you.”

  “Fed myself.”

  “In the winter you could have come in.”

  “Then I couldn’t have seen.”

  “There was nothing to see.”

  But as soon as I said it, I knew I was wrong. The way his eyes flicked to Julia, calculating, then back to me. The way his lips thinned as he clamped his mouth closed, stopping the words from spilling out. The boy had seen something. And he wouldn’t say it in front of Julia.

  “Well you’re here now,” I said. “And that means you’re going to be washed – like it or not.”

  I am amazed by the power of a bowl of water and a block of soap. Tinker did struggle at first but, once we had his arms pinned and the wet flannel on his face, he seemed to give up the fight. Having seen the transformation, I understand the satisfaction that must be felt by a man restoring an ancient painting. Layers of dirt rubbed away to reveal pink skin beneath. The boy who had appeared as a monochrome illustration was revealed in beautiful colour. Sleeping rough and living off stolen scraps, he had no right to look so healthy.

  His shirt more or less fell away in the struggle to hold him still, so we continued washing his neck and arms. One hour and three bowls of water later we had done all within our power. His hair had proved impossible to comb. And his legs we had not dared to investigate. But his top half at least was washed. Perhaps the smell of him was less or perhaps our noses had grown accustomed to his proximity. All in all, Julia and I were satisfied.

  “What about his clothes?” she asked.

  “I’ve got clothes,” the boy said, pouting.

  “Tomorrow we’ll find new ones,” she said.

  I knew full well that Tinker wouldn’t still be with us in the morning. Though his piteous state was hard to witness, I understood something of his need for freedom.

  “Would you look for a shirt for him tonight?” I asked.

  “But the shops–…”

  “I don’t mean to buy one. Perhaps you could find one to borrow. The desk clerk might know someone who could help.”

  Julia shot me a sceptical look. “Are you sure?”

  The moment she was out of the door, Tinker grabbed his old shirt and somehow managed to wriggle into it without tearing either sleeve clean away. Then he pulled on that oversized coat and tied the belt. The scrubbed face seemed incongruous peeping out of that grimy collar. He was about to launch himself to the door when I grabbed his wrist once more.

  “What did you see, Tinker?”

  He wriggled in my grip for a moment then met my gaze.

  “Spy,” he said.

  It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. “You saw someone following me?”

  He nodded.

  “At the boat?”

  The nodding became more vigorous. “Stayed on the bank, he did. Under the trees. Didn’t see me though. You didn’t see me, neither.”

  I had seen something but not known what it was. He seemed proud of his achievement though, so I decided not to contradict him.

  “Can you describe him? If it was a him?”

  “Yeah. Thin like a drain pipe. And he moved funny.”

  I let go of Tinker’s wrist and watched him demonstrate, pulling himself upright and swinging his arms backwards and forwards like a marching soldier.

  “Three nights, he was there.”

  “When? Before the policeman came or after?”

  “Two nights before. One night after. You come out on deck for a look. Then you go in and he gets out his watch and his book. Then he’s scribbling.”

  It would be less worrisome to think that it had been a constable. But I knew it could not have been so. They had me where they wanted without any use of spies. Nor could it be connected to Mrs Raike and the ice farmers. That all came later. I could think of one explanation only – the Duke of Northampton had been keeping watch on an asset he hoped soon to regain. A shudder started at the nape of my neck and ran down my spine. The boy did not seem to notice.

  When I had composed myself I said: “Thank you, Tinker. But now I’m gone from the wharf,. I don’t want you hiding out in the cold and the dark. Do you understand? There are better ways to be. Safer ways to live. And you won’t be needing to steal for food.”

  “What about the other one?” Tinker asked. I assumed he was speaking of Julia. But then he added: “He’s outside now.”

  I glanced towards the window. Tinker shook his head and gestured towards the front of the building.

  “Another spy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has he seen you?”

  Tinker grinned. Oh, the pride of the boy. If I had not been so alarmed by his revelation, I might have smiled.

  “Where is he?”

  But Tinker had heard something. I saw his eyes jump around the room, looking for a way to escape. Before I could stop him he’d snatched his apple and was off. The slam of the door was still ringing in my ears when it was opened again by Julia, a man’s shirt draped over her arm.

  “Was that… in the corridor?… I thought…”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s gone. It was the threat of new clothes.”

  Chapter 19

  Smoke is never thick enough nor mirrors so perfect.

  The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  I related to Julia all I had learned. She wanted to go out to the front of the hotel immediately and search – a naive response. She had no idea h
ow difficult it is to observe and remain unseen. If Tinker was correct and someone had been watching, he must be exceptionally good at his job.

  “You won’t find him,” I said.

  “Then let’s play the same trick we used to catch the boy. I’ll walk from the hotel dressed in your clothes.”

  “If he’s out there, he’ll have seen what we did. He won’t fall for the same trick.”

  The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked laboriously towards one in the morning. I could hear no other sound in the hotel, guests and staff being sound asleep.

  A few minutes earlier I had stood in the empty lobby, scanning the keys hanging behind the desk, memorising the numbers of vacant rooms. Now I worked to pick the lock of one of them, kneeling, eyes closed, probing the mechanism through the twisted wire in my hand. Feeling the resistance starting to give, I increased the pressure and the lock clicked open.

  The room smelt of soap and polish. The curtains were closed. In stockinged feet I stepped across the floorboards and sank down next to the window. I then took the small mirror I had been carrying and slid it slowly behind the curtain, bringing it to rest on the sill. With my head pressed to the wall, I could now see the reflection of the houses opposite. And with a fractional twist of the mirror I could scan the street.

  The gas lamps had been put out at this late hour. Although that meant less light, it left the shadows softer and as my eyes grew accustomed to the scene I started to be able to see into the doorways and side passages.

  We use our eyes to see the world. But, as every conjurer knows, it is the mind that makes meaning. Thus, as I stared into the mirror I tried to lay my preconceptions aside and observe the reality of the shapes and shadows. But all I could make out were the angles of empty spaces.

  Perhaps there never was a man watching. Or perhaps he had given up and gone away. I waited, listening to the heavy tick of the clock outside the room. It was not long before the mechanism whirred and a bell chimed the hour.

  I listened.

  The entrance to the hotel was directly below me but the click of the bolt being drawn was so faint that I would have missed it had I not been holding my breath. The door did not creak but I saw, through the mirror, a bar of lamplight opening onto the cobbles. For a moment it was obscured by Julia’s shadow. All was as we had arranged. Then the shadow was gone and the crack of light closed once more.

  I had positioned the mirror to take in a wide area of cobbles opposite, where a small street branched off from the main road. The angles there were deceptive and I thought there space for a man to hide. Also, to the right of the window was a narrow passage between a half-timbered house and a brick building. I stared into these places. My eyes stung for want of blinking. There was no movement. I heard the door bolt slide closed again below me. Julia would be returning to our room to await my report. The tension began to drain away. There was no one waiting on the street. I reached to take the mirror back but stopped mid movement.

  I had seen something. A glint of light from an upstairs window of the half-timbered building opposite. I had not noticed before, but there was a small mirror resting against the inside of the glass. It was black but for a fraction of a second it had blinked silver. It was a thing so small as to be of no consequence. Indeed, the movement could have come from the wind shifting a curtain. But now I knew where to look.

  I watched until my limbs were going numb. The clock struck two. Several times I imagined I had seen another movement, only to be convinced I had been mistaken.

  When the movement came, it was nearly three in the morning. This time there was no doubt. I saw a hand inching from behind the curtain and twisting the angle of the mirror. While it was still there, I slid my own mirror away from the sill and clutched it to my heart.

  My legs were an agony of pins and needles as I stumbled back towards our room, thinking every shadow an assassin poised to strike.

  On the wharf I had felt that I was being watched. But here I had felt nothing. This spy was an expert. A different proposition to the man Tinker had described making notes about my movements. That man had stood in view – for Tinker at least.

  But to keep watch and not be seen, not even suspected, over a period of days in a busy town – this required focus, experience, talent and detached intelligence. Not to mention the stimulants needed to stay awake and the skill to use them without pushing yourself into madness. It was a dangerous combination of talents.

  The man at the wharf must have been working for the Duke of Northampton. I could see no other possibility. But this watcher had to be different. Had he been from the Duke, I would be arrested already and back at the internment camp awaiting deportation. The man spying on me now could not know my identity. That meant he had picked up my trail since I left Mrs Raike in Derby. And that suggested he was watching because of the investigation into the ice farmers. Spies like this one were not cheap. I could see no reason why his rare talents would be directed to a matter so trivial.

  I remembered also my question about Mrs Raike. Her interest in this obscure case had never made sense to me. She had done her research, discovering Julia’s connection to a private intelligence gatherer. She had specifically invited my friend to come in order to secure my brother’s services. Something had elevated the ice farmers in her eyes above the masses of the deserving poor.

  I tapped my knuckle on the door of our room, three times quietly. Then I turned the handle and stepped inside.

  The gaslight had been extinguished. I could see Julia’s form under the bed covers. As the door clicked closed she sat up bolt upright. In the same movement she held out her arm, pointing my gun towards me.

  “It’s me!” I hissed.

  Her arm wavered for a moment then dropped. I rushed to her and eased the pistol from her fingers.

  “I didn’t know what had happened to you!” she said. “You were supposed to come back.”

  “And so I have.”

  “When you didn’t come… I found the gun in your travelling case.”

  I held it up for her to see. “Next time pull back the hammer. It won’t fire unless it’s first cocked.” I showed her the movement then un-cocked it again and put it in her hands. “Now you.”

  I made her do it three times before I took it back. “Tomorrow I’ll show you how to load.”

  Chapter 20

  It is not in the entrails of doves that the fall of empires can be read, but in the breeding of secrets and the multiplication of lies.

  From Revolution

  We did not sleep that night. I propped a chair under the door handle by way of a barricade. Then we sat with our heads close to each other and I whispered to her my reasoning and my fear.

  She would not at first accept the conclusion, so foreign did the idea seem. But her logical brain could not deny it. If the watcher had known my identity, he would have reported me to the constables. Or, more likely, he would have tried to capture me himself and claim the bigger reward. I would already be sitting in the internment camp awaiting deportation. But if he didn’t know who I was, there could be no reason for him to follow me.

  “You don’t mean…” Julia wafted her hand close to her face, as if fanning away a sudden heat. “But he can’t be… Why would anyone want to follow me?”

  “We should find out, don’t you think?”

  There was no value in alarming her further, so I didn’t unpack my fears. The man following was an expert in his trade. He would not be hired cheaply. Whoever had set him to follow Julia must have a powerful reason. My mind kept returning to Mrs Raike and her strange obsession.

  “When you arrived in Derby, had any work been done on the case of the ice farmers?”

  “There was a list of names,” she said. “People to be questioned. And a ledger of numbers – an account of deliveries of ice to Derby during February. The number of boats, the size of each cargo.”

  “Who wrote the numbers in the ledger?”

  “I didn’t think to ask. Why is it importa
nt?”

  I had no way to answer.

  At five o’clock, with the sky turning from black to grey, I slipped out from the back door of the Green Man and Black’s Head carrying a hunk of cheese and the end of a loaf of bread, stolen from the kitchens.

  I stood in the middle of the cobbled coach yard and turned slowly, searching the deeply shadowed corners. Tinker had made his way to the wharf to hover just beyond my view. And now he did the same in Ashbourne. I couldn’t look after him. Nor had he asked me to. But an unfamiliar feeling had begun to ensnare me – the responsibility for a life more piteous than my own.

  I wanted to run.

  Instead I clicked my tongue. Something moved on the roof of the outhouse. I stepped closer and whispered: “I need your help.”

  He landed lightly on his feet, dropping immediately into a crouch. His face was smeared with dirt, though not as evenly as it had been. I held out the food to him. At first he seemed suspicious that I might be trying to trick him into a new set of clothes. Only as I started to explain did he relax enough to nibble the bread. By the time I’d finished, his white teeth were a shining grin.

  “Easy,” he said.

  “No. It’s dangerous,” I said, feeling the snare tighten its grip.

  At midday, having packed away every trace of our presence, Julia and I locked up the hotel room for the last time. We carried our cases to the lobby, handed over the key, paid the balance and left. The doorman ran to call a cab for us and then loaded our things. For once I did not begrudge him the tip.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  “The coach station, if you please,” said Julia, keeping her voice low, as I had instructed. We didn’t look up to the window opposite until we were in the cab. And then only a glance. Any more would have seemed staged, as indeed it was. Even though he was a man of great skill, our spy would have no way of reaching the coach station ahead of us.