Unseemly Science

by Rod Duncan

  I stood, making my chair legs scrape on the floorboards.

  The waiter hurried over. “May I help?”

  Farthing and the other man were standing just outside the window. There was tension between them. They exchanged words. Then the other man was marching back the way they had come. Farthing waited, checked over his shoulder and then disappeared inside the teashop opposite.

  “Miss?”

  I was surprised to see the waiter still standing next to me. He arched his eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry, did you ask something?”

  “I said, are you ready to order?”

  “Not quite. But do you have a boy who could run a message?”

  I took a new table at the back of the shop, far from the window. From there I observed as Farthing was led inside. Fresh from the sunlight, he would not be able to see me. I took the chance to look at him straight on. He had come to help me, but I still felt angry. My chest constricted and my pulse began to speed. Somehow he always had that effect on me.

  He took off his hat and dismissed the boy with a coin from his pocket. Then he saw me and I lowered my gaze.

  “May I join you?”

  “Please do,” I said. “Though the waiter will have all manner of bad thoughts about us.” I held out my left hand to remind him of the absence of a wedding ring.

  “But we’re–...”

  “You’re an agent of the Patent Office. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. You can meet whoever you want.”

  “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

  At which point, the waiter stepped to our table, notepad and pencil poised. After a moment during which neither of us had spoken, he made an effete cough.

  “A pot of tea,” I said. Then, as an afterthought, because I imagined the indulgence would annoy Farthing, I added: “And a platter of cakes.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said, after the waiter had gone.

  “But they look delicious.”

  “Why change the meeting place?” he asked.

  “Who was the man who came with you?”

  “A colleague.”

  “An agent?”

  “It was hard to get rid of him.”

  “So I was wise to wait here and not there.”

  “I found an excuse,” Farthing said. “You should have trusted me.”

  “What excuse?”

  He opened his mouth to respond but the waiter had returned carrying a silver stand, each layer of which supported a plate of cakes. I gestured to the lowest layer, the most abundantly piled. The waiter removed the plate from the stand and positioned it on the table. Farthing seemed appalled. When small plates had been placed before us, I chose a cream pastry for myself and a custard slice for John Farthing.

  Two waitresses brought the tea things. I watched as teapot, saucers, cups, spoons, sugar and tongs were arranged on the table. It was like a dance, each person coordinated with the movements of the others. Once they were done, the waiter made a final adjustment to the angle of the tongs in the sugar bowl and retreated to his place by the counter.

  “Shall I be mother?” I said, pouring the tea.

  “What’s the meaning of this charade, Elizabeth?”

  “What charade?”

  “Excess disguised as civility.”

  “Did you check the files?” I asked.

  He pushed the plate of cakes to one side, leaned closer and whispered: “I don’t think you know to what danger I put myself. Every time we consult the archive they make a record of the fact. We have to give a reference. I created a spurious case number. If they were to investigate me...”

  “You’re an agent. They won’t.”

  “They might!”

  “But you checked?”

  Farthing sat straight, taking a moment to compose himself. He picked up his fork and scooped the corner of the custard slice. I watched as he savoured it.

  “It’s really good,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “The files?” I prompted.

  “The files. Yes. But before that, I thought perhaps you could help me. A trade of sorts. There’s still a loose end to tie from the Florence May case.” He looked up from the custard slice.

  “They hanged her,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to remind you of it.”

  “Her legs kicked after she dropped.”

  He squirmed in his chair. “She… that is to say, the prison guards... they told us she sent a package from her cell. We now know it was addressed to you.”

  “And?”

  “I need to know what it contained.”

  “Why is the Patent Office concerned?”

  “You know I can’t answer that, Elizabeth.”

  “Is it something particular you’re looking for?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “Something of value?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  I remembered returning from the hanging – throwing Florence’s copy of the Bullet Catcher’s Handbook into the fire. I did not know why I’d taken it out again.

  “Did you receive it?” he asked.

  I looked into his eyes and said: “No.”

  “I’m afraid that’s hard to believe.” He blushed. “It may seem merely an artefact of your childhood profession. But there’re things about it you don’t understand. It’s very much our business.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “I’m of necessity constrained.”

  Now it was my turn to pick up my fork and eat. The sweetness and cream spread through my mouth. I’d not tasted such rich food in weeks. The sugar made my heart kick. I took a sip of tea as I waited for it to slow. Farthing watched me.

  “Now tell me about the files,” I said.

  After a moment of apparent indecision he produced a slim notebook and started leafing through its pages. “Foxley has seventy-three registered inventions and discoveries. They’re stamped ‘medical research’. Every one of them. Which makes his work exempt from inspection. We can’t interfere. And because his personal file has the same designation, I couldn’t approach him without approval – even if this was a sanctioned investigation – which it isn’t.”

  “That was the information you were trading?”

  “There’s nothing more I can do.”

  “But Foxley’s a criminal.”

  “Then Republican law should put him in prison.”

  “There isn’t proof.”

  “Ah... so he might be a criminal?”

  The waiter returned. “Is everything satisfactory?” he asked.

  “Quite,” said Farthing. “Thank you.”

  “The cakes?”

  “Delicious, yes.”

  “The tea?”

  “Thank you. All is fine.”

  The intervention was fortunate because my anger had been gathering. By the time the waiter stepped away I had counted to twelve and was able to speak in a level whisper. I leaned forwards again.

  “There’s been another kidnapping. A boy this time. They’re holding him as bait.”

  “Bait?”

  “To trap me.”

  “So the boy means something to you?”

  “He’s an unfortunate. An orphan.”

  “How does a threat to him put pressure on you? If he is just an orphan–…”

  “Just an orphan?”

  “Forgive me. I forget your history. And I’ve seen your kindness. I shouldn’t doubt that you’d want to help any child. But why did they believe kidnapping him would bring pressure on you?”

  “The boy, Tinker, he’s got no one else. Somehow – I don’t know why – but he’s attached to me. And I… I won’t rest until I’ve seen him safe.”

  Farthing nodded, as if this made perfect sense. But my words had been a revelation to my own ears. The resentment I’d felt towards the boy, my rejection of the unasked-for responsibility – in that moment I knew it had gone.

  I’d been leaning forwards as I spoke but suddenly felt exhausted and had to rest back in my chair.
With so much misfortune in the world, I didn’t know why my pity had settled on that child. I was not aware of having made a choice.

  “Tomorrow evening I must go to meet them,” I said. “At the Ice Factory in Derby. They’ll try to kill me. And then Tinker.”

  Farthing was staring at his hands. “I beg you not to go.”

  “Look at me!” I said.

  But he spoke without meeting my gaze. “If you go there, I won’t be able to help.”

  “What if Foxley is killing for his research? Would the Patent Office still not help? He’s published research on the freezing of live animals. Can’t you think what he might be doing with the people he takes?”

  “Don’t you understand? Medical research is never unseemly.”

  “It is the most unseemly science of all!”

  “Not legally. As an agent, if I set foot in his laboratory there’d be uproar. It’d be like a constable from London going to Carlisle to arrest the Council of Guardians! Elizabeth, I know you hate the Patent Office, but we’re holding back the chaos. There are people who’d do anything to bring us low. If I were to help you, they’d use it to attack us.”

  “They’re hurting Tinker…”

  “If the Patent Office falls, millions die.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s what I believe!”

  “Well I believe my father died because of it!”

  “Must you say that? You still blame me after all I’ve done! You can’t bring yourself to think that a man from the Patent Office – me – that I could do any good, without it being an attack on your dignity. Elizabeth, will you not just this once think better of me! Must your history and mine always stand between us? From the first time I saw you, I admired your intellect. I’ve wanted nothing but good for you. It’s circumstance that stands between us. If my wishes had agency, the wrong you’ve suffered would already have been undone!”

  It was not the words themselves that shocked me – not at first. It was the intensity of emotion etched into his face. One of his hands gripped the edge of the table. The distance between us seemed to have shrunk. I could smell the vanilla on his breath.

  I tried to speak. But a feeling that I could not understand or name had taken hold of my chest. I was suddenly aware of my heart, the pressure of my clothes on my skin, the heat of my breath as I exhaled.

  “Elizabeth?”

  I stood and my chair fell. The waiter jumped. Everyone in the tea shop was watching.

  “I need to use the ladies room,” I said. “Please forgive me.”

  The waiter snapped his fingers. One of the waitresses hurried over and took my arm. She led me past the counter to a passageway and through a door. As soon as it had closed behind us I whispered: “I need to get away from that man.”

  “You do?” Her eyes were wide with imagined scandal.

  “Is there a back way?”

  She showed me through another door to a kitchen and then through that to a pantry and finally to a rear yard. I found myself wishing that John Farthing would not have the money to pay the bill. And I hated myself for thinking it.

  Chapter 34

  The magician’s assistant must be long gone before the wand is flourished to make her disappear.

  The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  The ticket office for the tour around Derby’s magnificent ice factory was an unassuming building of red brick. It acted as a gateway, the entrance being on the street and the exit within the perimeter railings.

  I advanced into the bare foyer in the manner of a man and I paid my money at the office window. The machine chattered, spewing out my ticket. A clock hand displaying the number of visitors ratcheted one place forward. From my previous visit, I knew that every visitor would be counted out again with the same machine at the end. If the numbers did not tally, a search party would doubtless be dispatched. It was this system I needed to subvert.

  Stepping through the building, I went to join the other visitors who were assembling out at the back. The guide with the bristling black beard was there to check my ticket. As we waited for the party to be complete, I meandered back until I was next to the ticket office once more. When the foyer was empty and the guide looking in the other direction, I disappeared inside.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I said to the man behind the ticket window. I loosened my collar as if in need of air. “I’ve come over poorly.”

  “Can’t give refunds,” he said, gesturing with his thumb towards a list of terms and conditions on the wall. “Sorry.”

  “So be it.”

  I watched as he pressed a key on the ticket machine. It made a double click and the clock hand ratcheted back to remove one from the number of visitors. I stepped away as if leaving. Then, having checked that no one observed, I ducked below his window and re-entered the site.

  In that way, I disappeared.

  Wearing extra clothes concealed underneath my male outer garments, I was sweating by the time I followed the group down the steps into the well of cold at the entrance to the ice tunnels. The problem had been to pack so much clothing and equipment without appearing to be burdened. My skirt, petticoat and blouse I had wrapped around my waist. My precious flintlock was strapped vertically against my back. When I wore a binding cloth alone, I had a handsome figure. These additions gave me a more rounded outline. They altered my gait also and I found myself swaying like a duck as I stepped inside.

  I sat on a pile of hay bundles, as I had done before, and buckled the iron spikes to my boots. The guide was lightly dressed just as he had been on my first visit. My fellow tourists were a mix of earnest Republicans, all keen to learn about the perfections of the age.

  “Tight as you can,” said the guide, his beard bristling as he spoke. “We don’t want feet slopping around. There’s two miles of tunnels ahead. It’ll feel like four if you don’t get the buckles right.”

  He used the same patter, so far as I could remember. That was good. My plan relied on his routine being unchanged. I watched his eyes flicking around the room – doing his first count of the number of people in the party, which was now different by one from the number on the ticket machine.

  He lit the pole lanterns and passed one to a middle- aged man on whose arm clung an expensively- dressed young woman. I remembered to hold my arms out for balance as I stood, as if the spikes were unfamiliar to me. Indeed, the experience was new, for I had never walked in them as a man.

  Setting off into the first tunnel, I realised that the spikes were more suited to a male gait. It was easier to walk planting my heels than it had been carrying my weight on my toes. As we descended into the layer of mist, I let myself drift back through the group until I was just in front of the rear marker.

  “Isn’t this exciting?,” I said.

  “We’ve wanted to see it for years,” responded the man with the lantern.

  I wondered how many years they had been together. She seemed too young for it to have been long.

  “What is your line of business?” he asked.

  “Dairy produce,” I said, relieved when his expression betrayed indifference. “What’s yours?”

  “Carpets,” he said. “Wholesale, naturally.”

  We had arrived at the first stopping place. The party were gathering in a semi-circle. I positioned myself just behind the shoulder of the carpet man and watched as our guide went through the expected headcount.

  Having heard his talk before, I was able to observe more closely. This time I caught the flick of his eyes around the group as he delivered the line about the frozen child. A woman raised a hand to her face, failing to mask her horror. A momentary smile curled the mouth of the guide – the same unwholesome pleasure I had observed in him before.

  Speech delivered, he led us on. I noted again how the tunnels played tricks, deadening some sounds and amplifying others. I could hear the deep boom of the engines long before we reached the entrance to the giant ice warehouse.

  I watched the front lamp dip under t
he lintel of the doorway. We followed in single file. When it came to my turn, I made a point of holding the door open for the carpet man’s wife. He followed through after her. As the door swung closed, I slipped back through it into the corridor.

  If the guide followed the same routine, he wouldn’t count heads again. The visitors would be returned to the surface via the elevator cage. They would be escorted back out through the little red- brick building. The ticket man would press the button on the machine for each head that passed. When all were through, the clock would register nought. To the system, I no longer existed.

  When the noise of voices had receded from the other side of the door, I fumbled in my pockets for matches and candle. Soon I had light again, though not as much as the lanterns had shed.

  I checked my watch. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. Four hours remained before they would expect me to arrive and bargain for Tinker’s life.

  Cupping the candle in my hand, I retraced my steps through the tunnels. The door to the anteroom was locked, but not sturdy enough to resist my shoulder. I broke through without too much noise and positioned myself on a pile of hay bundles to wait. Discovering that two of my fingers had gone numb, I got up again and began to pace, squeezing my hands into fists and releasing them again and again, trying to get the blood to circulate.

  The cold continued to work its way in. By half past seven, I was shivering intermittently. Running on the spot warmed me, but my throat and lungs became raw from dragging in the icy air.

  At eight o’clock, with one hour remaining, I set off back along the passageway at a brisk walk, counting side tunnels and memorising as much of the place as I could. I found a small chamber in which to change. It could not have been any warmer than the passage outside, but the sense of enclosure made me feel less exposed.