A waiter appeared at her shoulder as she was about to turn the page. “May I be of service, ma’am?”
“Sure. What’s good, today?”
He smiled broadly. “The kippers are most piquant, and if I may recommend Mrs. Wilson’s strawberry jam for after? Does ma’am prefer tea or coffee?”
“Coffee. Strong, with milk.” She nodded. “I’ll take your recommendations, please. That’ll be all.”
He rustled away from her, leaving her puzzling over the meaning of a story about taxation powers being granted by The-King-In-Parliament to the Grand Estates, and enforcement of the powers of printing rights by the Royal Excise. Even the addition of a powerful dose of coffee and a plate of smoked fish—not her customary start to the day, but nevertheless remarkably edible on an empty stomach—didn’t make it any clearer. This place is so complex! Am I ever going to understand it? She wondered.
She was almost to the bottom of her coffee when a different bellhop arrived, bearing a silver platter. “Message for the Widow Fletcher?” he asked, using the pseudonym Miriam had checked in under.
“That’s me.” Miriam took the note atop the platter—a piece of card with strips of printed tape gummed to it. MEET ME AT 54 GRT MAURICE ST AT 10 SEE BATES STOP EB ENDS. “Ah, good.” She glanced at the clock above the ornate entrance. “Can you arrange a cab for me, please? To Great Maurice Street, leaving in twenty minutes.”
Folding her paper she rose and returned to her room to retrieve her hat and topcoat. The game’s afoot, she thought excitedly.
By the time the cab found its way to Great Maurice Street she’d cooled off a little, taking time to collect her thoughts and begin to work out what she needed to do and say. She also made sure her right glove was pulled down around her wrist, and the sleeve of her blouse was bunched up toward the elbow. Not that it was the ideal way to make an exit—indeed, it would wreck her plans completely if she had to escape by means of the temporary tattoo of a certain intricate knot—but if Erasmus had decided to sell her out to the constabulary, he’d be sorry.
Great Maurice Street was a curving cobblestoned boulevard hemmed in on either side by expensive stone town houses. Little stone bridges leapt from sidewalk to broad front doors across a trench which held two levels of subterranean windows. The street and sidewalks had been swept free of snow, although huge piles stood at regular intervals in the road to await collection. Miriam stepped down from the cab, paid the driver, and marched along the sidewalk until she identified number 54. “Charteris, Bates and Charteris,” she muttered to herself. “Sounds legal.” She advanced on the door and pulled the bell-rope.
A short, irritated-looking clerk opened the door. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Miriam stared down her nose at him. “I’m here to see Mr. Bates,” she said.
“Who did you say you were?” He raised a hand to cup his ear and Miriam realized he was half-deaf.
“Mrs. Fletcher, to see Mr. Bates,” she replied loudly.
“Oh. Come in, then, I’ll tell someone you’re here.”
Lawyers’ offices didn’t differ much between here and her own world, Miriam realized. There was a big, black, ancient-looking electric typewriter with a keyboard like a church organ that had shrunk in the wash, and there was an archaic telephone with a separate speaking horn, but otherwise the only differences were the clothes. Which, for a legal secretary in this place and time—male, thin, harried-looking—included a powdered wig, knee breeches, and a cutaway coat. “Please be seated—ah, no,” said the secretary, looking bemused as a tall fellow dressed entirely in black opened the door of an inner office and waggled a finger at Miriam: “This is His Honor Mr. Bates,” he explained. “You are…?”
“I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” Miriam repeated patiently. “I’m supposed to be seeing Mr. Bates. Is that right?”
“Ah, yes.” Bates nodded congenially at her. “If you’d like to come this way, please?”
The differences from her own world became vanishingly small inside his office, perhaps because so many lawyers back home aimed for a traditional feel to their furnishings. Miriam glanced round. “Burgeson isn’t here yet,” she observed disapprovingly.
“He’s been detained,” said Bates. “If you’d care to take a seat?”
“Yes.” Miriam sat down. “How much has Erasmus told you?”
Bates picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. His whiskers twitched, walruslike. “He has told me enough, I think,” he intoned in a plummy voice. “A woman fallen upon hard times, husband dead after years abroad, papers lost in an unfortunate pursuit—I believe he referred to the foundering of the Greenbaum Lamplight, a most unpleasant experience for you, I am sure—and therefore in need of the emolient reaffirmation of her identity, is that right? He vouched for you most plaintively. And he also mentioned something about a fortune overseas, held in trust, to which you have limited access.”
“Yes, that’s all correct,” Miriam said fervently. “I am indeed in need of new papers—and a few other services best rendered by a man of the law.”
“Well. I can see at a glance that you are no Frenchie,” he said, nodding at her. “And so I can see nothing wrong with your party, ft will take but an hour to draw up the correct deeds and post them with the inns of court, to declare your identity fair and square. Erasmus said you were born at Shreveport on, ah, if I may be so indelicate, the seventh of September, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty nine. Is that correct?”
Miriam nodded. Near enough, she thought. “Uh, yes.”
“Very well. If you would examine and sign this—” he passed a large and imposing sheet of parchment to her—“and this—” he passed her another, “we will set the wheels of justice in motion.”
Miriam examined the documents rapidly. One of them was a declaration of some sort; asserting her name, age, place of birth, and identity and petitioning for a replacement birth certificate for the one lost at sea on behalf of the vacant authorities of—“Why are the authorities of Shreveport not directly involved?” she asked.
Bates looked at her oddly. “After what happened during the war there isn’t enough left of Shreveport to have any authorities,” he muttered darkly.
“Oh.” She read on. The next paper petitioned for a passport in her name, with a peculiar status—competent adult. “I see I am considered a competent adult here. Can you just explain precisely what that entails?”
“Certainly.” Bates leaned back in his chair. “You are an adult, aged over thirty, and a widow; there is no man under whose mantle your rights and autonomy are exercised, and you are deemed old enough in law to be self-sufficient. So you may enter into contracts at your own peril, as an adult, until such time as you choose to remarry, and any such contracts as you make will then be binding upon your future husband.”
“Oh,” she said faintly, and signed in the space provided. Better not marry anyone, then. She put the papers back on his desk then cleared her throat. “There are some other matters I will want you to see to,” she added.
“And what might those be?” He smiled politely. After all, the clock was ticking at her expense.
“Firstly.” She held up a finger. “There is a house that takes my fancy; it is located at number 46, Bridge Park Lane, and it appears to be empty. Am I right in thinking you can make inquiries on my behalf about its availability? If it’s open for lease or purchase I’d be extremely interested in acquiring it, and I’ll want to move in as soon as possible.”
Bates sat up straight and nodded, almost enthusiastically. “Of course, of course,” he said, scribbling in a crabbed hand on a yellow pad. “And is there anything else?” he asked.
“Secondly.” She held up a second finger. “Over the next month I will be wanting to create or purchase a limited liability company. It will need setting up. In addition, I will have a number of applications for patents that must be processed through the royal patent office—I need to locate and retain a patent ag
ent on behalf of my company.”
“A company, and a patents agent.” He raised an eyebrow but kept writing. “Is there anything else?” he asked politely.
“Indeed. Thirdly, I have a quantity, held overseas, I should add, of bullion. Can you advise me on the issues surrounding its legal sale here?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” He put his pen down. “I can’t, because it’s illegal for anyone but the crown to own bullion.” He pointed at the signet ring he wore on his left hand. “No rule against jewelry, of course, so long as it weighs less than a pound. But bullion?” He sniffed. “You can perhaps approach the mint about an import license, and sell it to the crown yourself—they’ll give you a terrible rate, not worth your while, only ten pounds for an ounce. But that’s the war, for you. The mint is chronically short. If I were you I’d sell it overseas and repatriate the proceeds as bearer bonds.”
“Thank you.” Miriam beamed at him ingratiatingly to cover up the sound of her teeth grinding together. Ten pounds for an ounce? Erasmus, you and I are going to have strong words, she thought. Scratch finding an alternative, though. “How long will this take?” she asked.
“To file the papers? I’ll have the boy run over with them right now. Your passport and birth certificate will be ready tomorrow if you send for them from my office. The company—” he rubbed his chin. “We would have to pay a parliamentarian to get the act of formation passed as a private member’s bill in this sitting, and I believe the going rate has been driven up by the demands of the military upon the legislature in the current session. It would be cheaper to buy an existing company with no debts. I can ask around, but I believe it will be difficult to find one for less than seventy pounds.”
“Ouch.” Miriam pulled a face. “There’s no automatic process to go through to set one up?”
“Sadly, no.” Bates shook his head. “Every company requires an act of parliament; rubber-stamping them is bread and butter for most MPs, for they can easily charge fifty pounds or more to put forward an early day motion for a five-minute bill in the Commons. Every so often someone proposes a registry of companies and a regulator to create them, but the backbenches won’t ever approve that—it would take a large bite out of their living.”
“Humph.” Miriam nodded. “Alright, we’ll do it your way. The patent agent?”
Bates nodded. “Our junior clerk, Hinchliffe, is just the fellow for such a job. He has dealt with patents before, and will doubtless do so again. When will you need him?”
Miriam met Bates’s eye. “Not until I have a company to employ him, a company that I will capitalize by entirely legal means that need not concern you.” The lawyer nodded again, eyes knowing. “Then—let’s just say, I have encountered some ingenious innovations overseas that I believe may best be exploited by patenting them, and farming out me rights to the patents to local factory owners. Do you follow?”
“Yes, I think I do.” Bates nodded to himself, and smiled like a crocodile. “I look forward to your future custom, Mrs. Fletcher. It has been a pleasure to do business with such a perceptive member of the frail sex. Even if I don’t believe a word of it.”
Miriam spent the rest of the morning shopping for clothes. It was a disorienting experience. There were no department or chain stores: Each type of garment needed purchasing from a separate supplier, and the vast majority needed alterations to fit. Nor was she filled with enthusiasm by what she found. “Why are fashion items invariably designed to make people look ugly or feel uncomfortable?” she muttered into her microphone, after experiencing a milliner’s and a corsetiere’s in rapid succession. “I’m going to stick to sports bras and briefs, even if I have to carry everything across myself,” she grumbled. Nevertheless, she managed to find a couple of presentable walking suits and an evening outfit.
At six that evening, she walked through the gathering gloom to Burgeson’s shop and slipped inside. The shop was open, but empty. She spent a good minute tapping her toes and whistling tunelessly before Erasmus emerged from the back.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said distractedly. “Here.” He held out an envelope.
Miriam took it and opened it—then stopped whistling. “What brought this on?” she asked, holding it tightly.
His cheek twitched. “I got a better price than I could be sure of,” he said. “It seemed best to cut you in on the profits, in the hope of a prosperous future trade.”
Miriam relaxed slightly. “I see.” She slid the envelope into a jacket pocket carefully. The five ten-pound notes in it were more than she’d expected to browbeat out of him. “Is your dealer able to take larger quantities of bullion?” she asked, abruptly updating her plans.
“I believe so.” His face was drawn and tired. “I’ve had some thinking to do.”
“I can see that,” she said quietly. Fifty pounds here was equivalent to something between three and seven thousand dollars, back home. Gold was expensive, a sign of demand, and what did that tell her? Nothing good. “What’s the situation? Do you trust Bates?”
“About as far as I can throw him,” Erasmus admitted. “He isn’t a fellow traveler.”
“Fellow traveler.” She nodded to herself. “You’re a Marxist?”
“He was the greatest exponent of my faith, yes.” He said it quietly and fervently. “I believe in natural rights, to which all men and women are born equal; in democracy: and in freedom. Freedom of action, freedom of commerce, freedom of faith, just like old Karl. For which they hanged him.”
“He came to somewhat different conclusions where I come from,” Miriam said dryly, “although his starting conditions were dissimilar. Are you going to shut up shop and tell me what’s troubling you?”
“Yes.” He strode over and turned the sign in the door, then shot the bolt. “In the back, if you please.”
“After you.” Miriam followed him down a narrow corridor walled in pigeon holes. Parcels wrapped in brown paper gathered dust in them, each one sprouting a plaintive ticket against the date of its redemption—graveyard markers in the catacombs of usury. She kept her hand in her right pocket, tightening her grip on the small pistol, heart pounding halfway out of her chest with tension.
“You can’t be a police provocateur,” he commented over his shoulder.
“For one thing, you didn’t bargain hard enough over the bullion. For another, you slipped up in too many ways, all of them wrong. But I wasn’t sure you weren’t simply a madwoman until you showed me that intricate engine and left the book.” He stepped sideways into a niche with a flight of wooden steps in it, leading down. “It’s far too incredible a story to be a flight-of-the mind concoction, and far too…expensive. Even the publisher’s notes! The quality of the paper. And the typeface.” He stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared up at her owlishly, one hand clutching at a load-bearing beam for support.
“And the pocket kinomagraph. I think either you’re real or I’m going mad,” he said, his voice hollow.
“You’re not mad.” Miriam took the steep flight of steps carefully.
“So?”
“So it behooves me to study this fascinating world you come from, and ask how it came to pass.” Erasmus was moving again. The cellar was walled from floor to ceiling in boxes and packing cases. “It’s fascinating. The principles of enlightenment that your republic was founded on—you realize they were smothered in the cradle, in the history I know of? Yes, by all means, the Parliamentary Settlement and the exile were great innovations for their time—but the idea of a republic! Separation of Church and State, a bill of rights, a universal franchise! After the second Leveler revolt, demands for such rights became something of a dead issue here, emphasis on the dead if you follow me…hmm.” He stopped in a cleared space between three walls of crates, a paraffin lamp hanging from a beam overhead.
“This is a rather big shop,” Miriam commented, tightening her grip on the gun.
“So it should be.” He glanced at her, saw the hand in her pocket. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You’ve obviously got some scheme in mind, one that means someone no good, whatever else you’re doing here. And I might know too much.”
Miriam came to a decision and took her hand out of her pocket—empty.
“And I’m not an innocent either,” Erasmus added, gesturing at the crates. “I’m glad you decided not to shoot. Niter of glycerol takes very badly to sudden shocks.”
Miriam took a deep breath and paused, trying to get a grip on herself. She felt a sudden stab of apprehension: The stakes in his game were much higher than she’d realized. This was a police state, and Erasmus wasn’t just a harmless dealer in illegal publications. “Listen, I have no intention of shooting anyone if I can avoid it. And I don’t care about you being a Leveler quartermaster with a basement full of explosives—at least, as long as I don’t live next door to you. It’s none of my damn business, and whatever you think, I didn’t come here to get involved in your politics. Even if it sounds better than, than what’s out there right now. On the other hand, I have my own, uh, political problems.”
Erasmus raised an eyebrow. “So who are your enemies?”
Miriam bit her lip. Can I trust him this far? She couldn’t see any choices at this point but, even so, taking him into her confidence was a big step. “I don’t know,” she said reluctantly. “They’re probably well-off. Like me, they can travel between worlds—not to the one in the book I gave you, which is my own, but to a much poorer, medieval one. One in which Christianity never got established as the religion in Rome, the dark ages lasted longer, and the Norse migration reached and settled this coast, as far inland as the Appalachians, and the Chinese empire holds the west. These people will be involved in trading, from here to there—I’m not sure what, but I believe ownership of gold is something to investigate. They’ll probably be a large and prosperous family, possibly ennobled in the past century or two, and they’ll be rich and conservative. Not exactly fellow travelers.”
“And what is your problem with them?”
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