by Rod Duncan
Immediately Julia stood again. “Would you like tea?”
“Sit, girl!” said Mrs Raike, in that crackly voice that I knew to be part of her disguise.
Julia obeyed.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“I... That is, we...” Julia’s eyes darted to the table, on which the severed finger lay concealed.
“Well?” demanded Mrs Raike.
“What is it you want to know?” I asked.
“Why did you announce yourselves as working for me?”
“We didn’t,” I said. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“Don’t speak in that tone!” said the housemistress.
I caught Mrs Raike’s eye. The shared look was a mere flicker of a glance, but enough to remind us of each other’s vulnerabilities. She gestured for the housemistress to back down.
“We received a complaint,” she said, her voice more measured. “The Ice Factory state that you visited. You were there?”
“What did the complaint say, exactly?” I asked.
“That two women working for the Foundation used deception to gain access to the factory. Staff were questioned. Aggressively so. Other visitors in the party were distressed.”
“Just that?”
“It would have been sufficient on its own. But then you announced your connection to the Foundation. You brought us into disrepute!”
“We didn’t!” Julia’s protest came out as a squeak.
“You were there, girl?”
“Yes, but–...”
“Did you make an appointment?”
“We went as tourists, but–...”
“And you asked questions?”
“We... I mean Elizabeth–...”
“Were questions asked, girl?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t intervene. The decoded message was echoing in my mind. Target A signed up Mrs Raike three weeks ago. Will send message indicating disapproval. I had always known that petty ice theft did not merit the urgency given to the case. Picturing the neatly severed finger, I understood.
I had drifted into my own thoughts, losing track of the conversation. Now I became aware of it again. Julia was still being interrogated.
“I... it wasn’t like that,...” she said.
“Then explain!”
“He asked for questions. We just–...”
I stood. Everyone looked at me.
“We’ve received a complaint about your conduct,” I said, stepping to the table.
“How dare you...” the housemistress began, but then faltered as I held my hand above the table.
I waited until both women were watching. Then I whipped the towel away. They leaned forwards trying to see into the box, but were seated too low. I picked it up and, with a showman’s flourish, placed it in Mrs Raike’s hand.
“This is the message we received.”
At first Mrs Raike seemed to be having a convulsion. She threw the box onto the floor, spilling its contents. She staggered from her chair. Her reaction was quicker than Julia’s had been and so much more powerful.
“You expected this,” I said. “You were waiting for it.”
Mastering my own revulsion, I picked up the finger. “You see the cut? Look closely. See how fine the work?”
Mrs Raike had backed away as I advanced. But now she had reached the wall. “It came packaged in ice. To keep it fresh, it seemed. But everything was part of the message. The finger, the ice, and the way it was severed. Look.” I held it close to her face. She was crying.
My wrist was grabbed from behind. The housemistress pulled me sharply. I dropped the finger.
“Stop!” she cried. “Stop it! Stop it! Can’t you see what you’re doing?” She knelt and picked up the finger, holding it in both her hands as if it were a wounded bird.
Julia was on her feet, her mouth opening and closing as if she couldn’t cope with the rapidity of unfolding events. “What’s happening?”
“The message wasn’t meant for us,” I said. “And it was never about ice, though ice was part of it. It’s about death and bodies. And kidnapping.”
Mrs Raike stepped back to the chair as if in a dream. The act of walking like an old woman had been forgotten, though Julia was too beset by other revelations to notice the slip in her disguise.
“Her name’s Antonia,” said the housemistress. “Sweet natured and quick. When the ice farmers asked for help, she was the perfect choice. She didn’t go to the mountains as you did. She watched the boats as they came to the ice factory. For weeks she kept tally, counting the blocks being unloaded. Each day she sent a letter to say the number. At the end of the month, if the factory made short payment we were ready to present the evidence. The ice farmers would have their redress. But then...”
Here the housemistress faltered. For a moment there was silence. Then Mrs Raike spoke.
“The letters stopped.”
“Didn’t you contact the police?” I asked.
“We had decided to,” said Mrs Raike. “Three days had passed. Then a letter did arrive. This one unsigned. The writer said he had taken Antonia and was holding her safe but if we told anyone she would be harmed.”
“He?”
“No woman would do such a thing.”
Her assertion of female virtue seemed ill-founded but I let it pass.
“Why didn’t you say before?” I asked. “In the name of all that’s sacred, why?”
Mrs Raike and the housemistress shared a look, as if this was a question they had wrestled with. I hoped she was sweating under the layers of makeup. Flush with anger, I hoped she was suffering.
“You’ve risked Julia’s life! Did you not think she might be taken also?”
“She wasn’t to admit a connection to me,” said Mrs Raike.
“And that would help, how?”
“She was instructed to be discreet to the utmost.”
“It’s true,” said Julia.
“No!” I gripped Julia’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “They knew the danger. They wanted my brother to help. And me. They’d read reports of our activities last year. We’d be easy to control. That’s what they thought. In case we found anything inconvenient.”
Mrs Raike looked away.
“We refused to help,” I said. “But it was my brother and I they wanted. So they took you – my dear friend – and sent you out, expecting you to be taken. And once you were, I would have no choice. They knew I’d travel through hell to find you. And in doing so, I’d find the lost Antonia.”
Julia was shaking her head. “They wouldn’t.”
But Mrs Raike would not contradict my story.
“Why didn’t you ask directly? If not us then some other intelligence gatherer. It isn’t as if the Gas-Lit Empire’s poorly provided with spies!”
“We did ask,” said the housemistress. “We asked five. Three said no. One said he would do it, but asked an amount of money we couldn’t access. And one agreed – the youngest of them all. A man we later discovered had no experience. He ran away with the money.”
“Disappeared or ran?”
“What’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference? Do you really not understand? And then you sent my friend into danger!”
“There’s no need to raise your voice.”
“I’m angry! You sent a woman to investigate and she’s been taken. Then you sent a man, who’s now most likely buried in a shallow grave. And then you send Julia in the expectation that she’d be taken too – so that my brother and I would descend into the same pit of snakes! Why does this Antonia’s life play on your conscience more than ours?”
Mrs Raike was crying silently, tears running over the makeup, which had begun to smear. For a moment she seemed paralysed. Then she ran to the door. Only after she was gone did the housemistress answer.
“Antonia is Mrs Raike’s daughter,” she said.
The housemistress got to her feet and brushed down her skirts. “I’m sorry for your trouble,�
� she said. “But you’re safe now. And I trust you’re not out of pocket.” She held out her hand to Julia. “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?”
“If you wish, you can go back to North Leicester. I’d understand. But before that you have to walk out of this inn in plain view and return to Upper Wharf Street with us. You have to be seen. They have to see. Whoever they are.”
She was right. Even through my anger, I knew it. The spy had been following Julia. She was known to be working for Mrs Raike.
Julia was on her feet. “I won’t go!”
“You must,” I said. “However badly we’ve been treated, there’s a woman’s life at stake.”
“Then you’ll come too.”
“I’m a fugitive, remember. I can’t retrace my steps.” Then, turning to the housemistress, I said: “Mrs Raike made a bargain with me – do you know what it was?”
Her eyes flicked to Julia then back to me. She nodded.
“If I track down these people, would she honour her promise?”
“I’ve known her since we were children. I’ve never seen her break a promise. Bring back her daughter and she’d give you the world, if that was in her power.”
“What promise?” asked Julia.
“To help me stay in the Kingdom. It’s that or I travel north and try to lose myself in Scotland or beyond. I’m furious that she risked your life. Unspeakably furious. But I’ve got to give it a try.”
“How can you find them? You don’t know anything about them.?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I took the metal box from the housemistress and turned it to show the cut where the finger had been separated from the hand. “The coded message said: Half payment on collection. Half on autopsy. This is hardly a butcher’s work. More a surgeon’s, don’t you think? And then, what did it say: returned Nottingham late? So a surgeon based in Nottingham, who needs quantities of ice but can’t be seen to be buying it. Someone who’ll go to any lengths to keep his activity secret.”
If it were possible, the housemistress became paler still. “You don’t mean body snatchers?”
That was exactly what I meant. “Please tell Mrs Raike that our agreement stands. Nothing has changed. I’ll keep to my side of the bargain. She must keep to hers.”
With the housemistress waiting outside, I said goodbye to Julia, charging her to see that the horses were returned to Ashbourne. She gave vent to her distress. I held mine back. But when the door was closed between us, I sank to the floor and wept.
Chapter 28
Art has aforetime been the plaything of kings. We shall recommission it to the service of the common man. He shall it uplift and educate.
From Revolution
Autopsy – the word glowered at me from the decoded message. North Leicester Intelligence Gatherer reports Target A signed up Mrs Raike three weeks ago. Target A was surely Julia. Will send message indicating disapproval. We had received the message – Antonia’s severed finger – and passed it on to its intended recipient. Your description woman target B too vague. That had to be me. I took comfort that the description had been insubstantial. Determine identity. Highest priority. It would be disastrous if they did discover my identity. But again, comfort could be taken from the fact that they had not done so yet. May require intervention as before. Intervention could mean anything. But a young intelligence gatherer had gone missing. Mrs Raike might assume he had run off with the advance payment, but I feared worse. Usual bonus. It had happened before. That supported my theory about the missing intelligence gatherer. Half payment on collection. The man was a hired hand. Half on autopsy. The skin on the back of my neck tightened as I re-read the transcription.
Then the final word on the first message: Fox.
The recipient must have known the identity of the sender. Perhaps the name was some deeper code. Even so, it felt like cold vanity to include it. To make free with any badge of identity in such a conspiratorial message is to believe yourself beyond harm.
From Derby to Nottingham is a journey of just fifteen miles. There was no time for better precaution so I travelled by coach with no disguise but the wig and a small beauty spot. I found a respectable boarding house just south of Castle Rock and secured a twin room on the ground floor with the story that my aunt would be joining me in a couple of days and that her arthritis made climbing stairs quite impossible.
I heaved the sash window up and open, then leant out to survey the small back garden. Cucumbers grew under glass in a line of cold frames against the side wall. A brick path ran between a potting shed and a greenhouse. The thought came unbidden that there would be places for Tinker to hide should he find me again. Irritated with myself for the sentiment, I shoved my case under the bed and set about my tasks.
My first call was to the postal office. I scanned the notice board behind the counter and was relieved to find no picture of myself. Emboldened, I asked the clerk for the city directories. He pointed me to a stack of volumes further down the counter, the biggest of which was devoted to medical businesses.
Every town was famous for something. With North Leicester it was trade and smuggling. With Derby it was ice and heavy industry. But with Nottingham it was medicine. Any doctor who hoped to rise through the ranks of his profession would surely study there. A year spent in one of its hospitals was as good as a certificate on the consulting room wall.
I leafed through the heavy volume to the list of principal medical establishments. The Women’s Hospital on Peel Street, the Borough of Nottingham Lunatic Asylum and the Forest House Children’s Hospital could all be discounted. None of them had operating theatres. The City Hospital did carry out surgical procedures. But it was to the General Hospital that bodies were transported for autopsy. The list of surgeons who worked there took up nine pages.
Having thanked the clerk for his help I purchased, for one penny, a sheet of notepaper and an envelope. Then, making sure that no one overlooked me, I wrote:
Dear Mr Farthing. You told me once that I should contact you in the event that I needed anything. I am doing so with this letter, which is my request to meet you at noon today in the art gallery in Nottingham Castle. You will understand why I cannot come to your office in person.
When he visited me in the prison camp, John Farthing had told me that he could be contacted via premises situated on High Pavement. The street was easy to find, though I could not at first locate the building. Looking for something of grand scale, I walked clear past it. But on retracing my steps, noticed the brass name plaque next to the door. It seemed too ordinary a property to be occupied by an agency of world-encircling power.
I offered a boy tuppence to put the letter in Farthing’s hand, but he was too afraid to approach an agent. Tenpence restored his courage and he scampered into the building. I climbed a short flight of steps on the opposite side of the road to the grounds of a library that must once have been a church. From this vantage point, I could look down on the street, whilst pretending to study old gravestones.
I did not have long to wait. John Farthing emerged at a great rush, followed closely by the boy. I slipped into the library before either had a chance to look up and see me.
Nottingham Castle is built on top of a rocky crag in the centre of the city. Little more than a gatehouse remains from the original fortifications. Instead of a drawbridge and portcullis there stands a ticket window and turnstile. I paid my money and entered. Immediately before me were manicured lawns and borders of roses. Paths lead to a large building of pale stone at the top. It was towards this I climbed. Instead of entering, I chose a bench overlooking the gatehouse and sat to wait.
I was still unsure of Farthing’s reaction to my escape. He had seen my preparation – the folding of my stocking to thicken the ankle. I felt myself blushing as I remembered. He had stared at my reflection in the dark glass of the window and seen what a man should not see. I believed it was shame that stopped him reporting me. Or perhaps it was simply beyond the narrow focus of his loyalty. Thoug
h Patent Law transcends all borders within the Gas-Lit Empire, it is of limited scope.
Even if he had planned to make a report, one of the prisoners in the hut had got there first. The image of Tulip swam in my mind, the woman who saw me leave. She’d told me that she was a bad person. I had not believed her.
Now, at last, one question from that episode would be resolved. If Farthing came accompanied by the constabulary, I would know the nature of his loyalty. I had already planned my escape route.
The town clock struck twelve with no sign of him. Feeling a pang of disappointment, I decided that ten more minutes could do no harm. But it was not until the fading of the half hour chime that he at last came hurrying through the gatehouse turnstile. Even at a distance he was unmistakable. Some men seem to lurch or tumble as they run. John Farthing had balance.
I kept watching the turnstile. The next person through was a nurse leading two toddlers. There were no constables.
He did not notice me. I counted to ten before getting up and following him inside the building. I took my time climbing the stairs to the art gallery on the first floor. He took off his hat as I stepped towards him and I saw that he was perspiring.
He ran a hand back through his hair. “I thought I’d missed you.”
“And I thought you might be fetching the constables.”
A look of pain crossed his face and I immediately regretted my words. He turned, as if to examine the paintings on the wall – a triptych of Ned Ludd smashing the stocking frames.
“Forgive me,” I said. “You came as I asked.”
“I couldn’t have not come, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you.”
“I was surprised by your letter. Getting away was... difficult. Discreetly, I mean.” He faced me again. “Why did you call me here?”
We found a pair of back to back benches and sat one on each, heads close together but facing in opposite directions. To an observer it would have seemed we studied the paintings on different walls. In a low voice I related my adventure – in edited form. I did not give away the real identity of Mrs Raike. Nor her relationship to the kidnapped Antonia. And I was especially careful to steer away from any hint of my method of disguise. That was one card I was glad to keep up my sleeve – one power I still had to use against John Farthing if the need came.
