Unseemly Science

by Rod Duncan

  He grinned, looking around the party for anyone to share his joke. A few of the students laughed, though the smiles were not quite so easy as before. The reaction seemed to satisfy him, though. He clapped his hands again and started leading us down the side passage to the left. After a few yards he glanced back, checking the rear marker was still following.

  We had been walking for some minutes when I noticed a slowly repeating boom. It was so quiet and low that at first it seemed to be a tremor rather than a sound. But as we progressed through the ice tunnel, it grew and I recognised it as the rhythm of some large beam engine. I was about to mention it to Julia but stopped myself. Her expression could have been a sulk or focussed concentration. Either way, I decided it safer not to disturb her.

  It was a curious quality of the tunnels to play tricks with sound, sometimes muffling, sometimes amplifying. Turning into yet another passage, the engine noise became suddenly louder. The young couple whispered to each other. The lady in front turned her head as if trying to determine the direction it came from. Hat feathers twitched above her.

  Our guide stopped in front of another set of doors, did a quick head-count, then without introduction led us through into a vast underground chamber. Lamps in the wall and ceiling, regularly spaced, receded into the mist. Before us stood towering racks of shelving, on which lay blocks of ice, each perhaps two foot thick and six foot along the sides.

  “Don’t touch the metal,” shouted our guide.

  Three of the students who had been edging towards the nearest ice block, pulled up mid-step. Frozen, so to speak.

  “Down here it’s twenty below. Touch the racks and you’d freeze to the metal. Don’t want you leaving your skin behind.”

  It seemed strange that he hadn’t warned us before. But it came to me that this apparently genial man took pleasure in shocking his audience.

  The rhythmic boom echoed in the cavernous hall. I could now make out other rhythms, quieter than the first. Strips of cloth fluttered from a metal grille in the wall. I put my hand next to it and felt the frigid breeze.

  “We’ve seven Rawlings and Buckley heat exchanging engines,” our guide announced. “Four of them are in use at any one time. The others can be maintained or fixed if they’re broken. That’s what keeps it so cold in here. Takes a ton of coal an hour to feed them. But if we had to freeze the water to make these blocks we’d need ten times that. And it would take too long. That’s why we bring ice in from the mountains.”

  One of the students put up his hand. “Why don’t you stack the blocks on top of each other? Why the shelving?”

  “That’s how they tried it at first,” said our guide. “Like stacking blocks of stone. And it worked. Three or four blocks, straw scattered between. Worked fine. But you try making a stack as high as this room. That’s when ice flows. More like tallow than brick. Then the piles fall over and you’re in all kinds of mess.

  “The racks were built in 1897. Over a hundred years old and no one’s found a better way. You can’t improve on perfection. The blocks get pushed along by shunting pistons. They start at the top of the hall, then work their way down by stages. The ice comes here at maybe two degrees below. We form it into these blocks, send it on its journey. By the time it reaches the floor level, we’ve taken it to minus twenty and it’s ready to go out.”

  Our party set off at a brisk walk along the edge of the room. I was glad of the movement because I had started to shiver and was having to clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering against each other. I saw now that the racks sloped like a child’s marble run. I imagined the life of a block of ice, sliding down from near the roof all the way to the floor.

  A loud crash made us jerk our heads around. Ice was sliding along the rack. Another loud crash – the sound of a block reaching the end of the room and dropping to the shelf below.

  “Why are the blocks that size?” asked the leader of the students.

  “It was the largest the boats could carry back in 1897. That was before the canals were widened. There are hoists at the very end of the line to lift the blocks up to where the barges are waiting. From there, they’re away to keep the best ice houses stocked. We send two hundred blocks a year to the king himself in London town.”

  The elderly ladies gasped audibly, displaying a virtuous distaste for the monarchy. I wondered how many times our guide had used that line and enjoyed a shocked response.

  I put my hand up. “How do you keep track?”

  “Keep track?”

  “If this were a wool warehouse, you’d have a system to account for it all. You’d know which farmer had given how much. Otherwise how would you know what to pay them?”

  He scratched at his beard. “All the ice is weighed as it comes in. We keep records just like any warehouse.”

  “But wool doesn’t melt,” I said.

  “You think our ice melts? Must be a warm coat you’re wearing.”

  “Wasn’t there a dispute. In the newspaper it said–...”

  “Don’t believe what you read!” he snapped. Then just as suddenly as it had gone, the jovial tone returned. “Ice farmers, eh? Sleeping all summer. Not what you’d call the deserving poor.”

  Others in the group laughed, though not as easily as before.

  “I read someone had been stealing their ice,” I said.

  “Stealing off each other most likely. Just because you read it, don’t make it true. If someone had been stealing their ice, then it’s further up the chain. We keep account of it all. We’ve shown the books to the lawyers.”

  “They think it’s being taken from this factory.”

  “They’re wrong. And that’s an end to it!”

  So saying, the man who enjoyed shocking his visitors wheeled and marched away. It was all the elderly ladies could do to keep up.

  The way back out of the ice factory proved considerably less interesting. Once we’d left the giant warehouse the tunnel ran on for half a mile before we came to an elevator cage. Our guide ushered in the student with the lamp. The other students followed as did the elderly ladies and the newlyweds. Julia stepped in after them and I was poised to follow when our guide held out his arm to stop me.

  “She’s full,” he said. Then he slid the metal door closed with a crash. “The topside foreman will be there to help you out,” he called. Then he pulled a lever on the wall. A bell chimed and the cage juddered upwards. Within a second it was out of view and we were alone.

  He stepped closer. I wanted to keep my distance but the tunnel wall was directly behind me.

  “Don’t know what your game is,” he said. “But you’ll do no good messing with men’s business–...”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  The words just blurted out. As soon as I heard them I regretted it. His fists clenched and unclenched. The hum of the winches stopped. Far up the shaft I heard the door clang as it was slid open.

  “We don’t threaten,” he said. “Not in the ice factory. Got to stick together down here. There’s too many accidents waiting with all the machines and the ice. It’s Mrs Raike isn’t it?”

  The winches hummed to life again. I could hear the cage rattling down the shaft towards us. He bent closer.

  “Answer me, girl!” he growled. “Was it Mrs Raike sent you?”

  “No.”

  He stared. I stared back, as no Republican woman should ever do. The moment stretched. The rattling grew loud. Then he looked away.

  “Women!” He fairly spat the word.

  The door slid open. Inside the elevator cage stood Julia, her expression alive and intense. She held out her hand as if to grab me. I jumped in beside her, expecting him to follow. But he remained in the tunnel.

  I slid the door closed. The bell chimed and we lurched upwards. Only then did I release the breath I had been holding. “Thank you,” I gasped. “Thank you! Thank you!”

  “For what?”

  “For coming back to rescue me.”

  She looked puzzled. “I came back bec
ause I couldn’t wait to share the news. I know how to break the code!”

  Chapter 26

  That man is rare who will feel enriched on learning the workings of a trick.

  The Bullet Catcher’s handbook

  “What’s the first sequence?” Julia asked.

  I read from the coded message: “C 7 3”

  She was kneeling on the floor next to me with the two pages from the Nottingham Post spread out in front of her. “I’m going to try column C, line seven, word three.”

  I watched her trace the page with her first finger, repeating with the other page. “That gives us ‘Was’ or ‘January’. Write them down.”

  I did as instructed. “The next sequence is D 1 9.”

  “That’s ‘Which’ or ‘Bad’.”

  “Doesn’t sound right,” I said. “No sentence starts ‘Was which’.”

  “So we eliminate that.”

  But the words from the other page gave us an equally unlikely opening: ‘January, bad, the, and’. Julia sat back on her heels. She bit her lower lip. Then her frown dropped away and she turned the pages over.

  “Try again,” she said.

  “Write down ‘The’ and ‘Returned’.” Her finger traced the pages again. “Now write ‘What’ and ‘Nottingham’.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “The second side of the second page.” I read out the sequences one after the other. She called the words: “Returned. Nottingham. Late. Your. Message. Waiting.”

  “It’s actually working!” I said, grinning with the unexpected victory. Her eyes were wide and seemed brighter than I had seen them before. “It was in front of us all the while,” she said.

  “How did you work it out?”

  “I just thought about something else. Like you told me. It popped into my mind. Now read the rest of the numbers. I want to know what it says!”

  Returned Nottingham late. Your message waiting three days. Will send this reply first post. Name you gave for target A previously unknown. Sudden increase security Mrs Raike Charitable Foundation makes membership records inaccessible. Pursue new target B. All expenses will be met.

  Addendum. Have this morning learned of possible identity target A living North Leicester. Dispatched intelligence gatherer with description from your message. Fox.

  After I finished adding punctuation as best I could, we read it through again. Alarm had replaced our excitement.

  “Am I target A?” asked Julia.

  I nodded. “It’s most likely. And I’m target B.”

  “My parents...”

  “... Are in no danger. Intelligence gatherers work quietly. He probably just went to the pub and bought a drink or two for the local gossips.”

  “And Fox?”

  “A name perhaps?”

  The word had come from an article describing a meeting of the South Nottinghamshire Hunt. It seemed unlikely that the writer would add a name to a coded message since the recipient would know already who had sent it.

  “Let’s do the next one,” said Julia.

  Knowing the system, it took little time to unlock the second message. Using the other newspaper page as key, we transcribed the words:

  Confirmation. North Leicester intelligence gatherer reports target A signed up Mrs Raike three weeks ago. Will send message indicating disapproval.

  Your description woman target B too vague. Determine identity. Highest priority. May require intervention as before. Usual bonus. Half payment on collection. Half on autopsy.

  After Julia had read the message out loud, we took turns at reading it silently. There was no name at the end of this one. But I could find no article containing the word fox on the second page.

  I’d just been handed the transcription for a third time when I was jolted from my focus by a heavy knock on the door. Julia clasped a hand to her chest. The knock came again and a boy’s voice called from outside. “Message for Miss Swain.”

  Neither of us answered. There was a pause before he called through the door again: “He said to put it in y’r hand.”

  The floorboards creaked as Julia stepped across to the room. I positioned myself next to the wall so I would be out of sight. But when she pulled back the bolt and opened up, I found I could see through the crack of the door jamb.

  “You Miss Swain?” asked the boy.

  “Yes.”

  “He said you’re to have this.”

  She accepted a small parcel.

  “He? Who?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Tall? Short?”

  “Tall,” said the boy, illustrating by stretching a hand above his head.

  “Bearded? Shaved? What kind of hat?”

  “Shaved, Miss. And it were a bowler.”

  He scampered away.

  I held the package while Julia re-bolted the door. It was cold to touch, the brown paper damp with condensation. Julia cut the string and opened it up to reveal a grey metal box. I prised off the lid. A quantity of crushed ice lay within. And resting in the middle of it, a woman’s severed finger.

  Chapter 27

  Allow the audience time to anticipate what they are going to see. The longer the moment of uncertainty, the greater will be their applause.

  The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  I understood what it was on first glance. But realisation grew more slowly for Julia. The horror of the object seemed to stop her mind from grasping its reality. Seeing her face whiten, I tried to take the box from her but she wouldn’t release her grip. I peeled back her fingers one after the other and set it down on the small table.

  She drew in a sudden breath and, with both hands clutching her heart, stepped backwards until she half fell into a chair. I walked directly to the window and looked out.

  “Is that...?” she managed.

  “A finger,” I said. “Yes.”

  I could see no one watching on the street, so returned to the table. There was water in the base of the box. Not much though. The ice could not have been in it for long else more would have melted. I guessed the time at between ten minutes and half an hour.

  Tipping the box, I spilled the water, ice and the finger onto the table.

  “What are you doing?” Julia cried.

  “Looking for clues.”

  I turned the box searching for markings or writing but found none.

  “The thing itself is the message,” I said.

  “Does he mean to do the same to us?”

  “If you want to cut someone’s fingers off, you don’t tell them first. It’s a warning. Worse will happen unless...”

  “Unless what?”

  “We’re supposed to know the answer.”

  Clenching my jaw against revulsion, I picked up the finger and dropped it back in its box. Then I marched to the washstand and scrubbed my hands until they were sore. Even then they felt unclean. Julia got back to her feet and approached the box. As I dried my hands, I saw her peering into it. “Whose finger was it?”

  “I fear we’re supposed to know that as well. Unless we do as they wish, more fingers will follow. They have this poor woman a prisoner. They assume we know it already. And they believe we care deeply. This was meant to shock.”

  We both stared at the finger. It had belonged to a delicate hand, unscarred and without calluses. The owner had lived free from physical labour. The nail was long enough to project beyond the finger tip – another indication that she did not work. Though manicured in the past, the end was chipped in one place. I brought my head down low to examine the wound where the finger had been cut from the hand. It had been removed at the middle joint. The end of the finger bone peeked from the surrounding flesh, unmarked, as if it had been cut free with the delicacy of a scalpel rather than the brute force of a cleaver.

  “They know where we are,” Julia said, the obvious truth hitting her at last. “They know!”

  “The question is how. We’ve been in the mountains for days. I can only think it was Peter. No one else knew where or when we’d return.”
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  Julia’s hand went to her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “I sent a letter,” she said. “A report. Those were my instructions – to keep Mrs Raike informed. You don’t suppose...”

  “You gave an address?”

  “I’m not such a fool!”

  “We’ve not been near a postal office. How did you send it?”

  “Downstairs. At the reception. I paid the desk clerk.”

  Understanding rushed at me and I felt sick. “He franked the envelope for you?”

  “Yes. I didn’t have a stamp.”

  “The franking machine will print the name of the inn. Anyone looking at the envelope would know where we are.”

  “But the only person to read the letter would be Mrs Raike.”

  I had no means of explaining my mistrust of the woman. It would lead to an argument just when there was no time to talk.

  “Pack,” I said. “Do it now. Somehow we have to get out of here without being followed.”

  But before either of us could move, the door rattled under the impact of another heavy knock. I grabbed a towel and threw it over the metal box and the pool of melting ice. Then I took up my position, flattened to the wall.

  Julia stood trembling. “Who is it?” she called.

  The knock sounded again, louder this time.

  “Who is it?”

  “Open the door, girl!” A woman’s voice.

  Julia fumbled with the bolts. In strode the unmistakable, bombazine- clad figure of Mrs Raike, followed a step behind by the housemistress who swiftly closed the door.

  Julia flustered, moving first one way and then the other until she had the room’s two chairs arranged for the guests. I sat next to her on the bed.