The Hidden Family: Book Two of Merchant Princes

by Charles Stross

  “Because.” He looked irritated. “Little lady, if you don’t want to cooperate while it’s unofficial, I can go away and waste my time making it official. And then you’ll have to cooperate, and it will be the worse for you because I won’t have to knock on your door polite, like. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.” She didn’t smile. “I first met Erasmus Burgeson because one of your own officers directed me to him when I asked if he knew where I could find a pawnbroker. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Ah, well.” Smith looked even more annoyed now, but not in her direction. “You wouldn’t happen to know which officer this would be?”

  “Hmm. He’d have been on duty in Highgate Close on, um, the morning of Saturday the sixteenth. I think he thought I might be lost. That might be enough for you to find his notebook.”

  “Humph. So you asked for a pawnbroker and he gave you directions to Burgeson. Is that all? Why did you want a pawnbroker in the first place?”

  The Inspector’s blunt manner was beginning to annoy Miriam. But that’s what he wants, she realized suddenly: He wants me to make a slip. Hmm. “I arrived on the India Line ship Vespasian that morning, after a crossing from Ceylon,” she told him, very deliberately keeping to her story—the Vespasian had indeed docked that day, with some passengers aboard, but was conveniently halfway across the Atlantic by now. “I was so preoccupied with packing my posessions and getting ashore that I forgot to ask the purser to convert my scrip to honest currency. In addition, clothing suitable for the climate of Ceylon is inadequate here. So I thought a sensible first step would be to find a pawnshop and exchange an old pair of earrings and a small pearl necklace for a decent wool suit and the wherewithal to find a hotel room and cable my banker.”

  All of which was, very remotely, true—and indeed Erasmus had arranged, for a fee and by way of a friend of a fellow traveler, for the purser of the Vespasian to find a passenger of her name in the ship’s manifest should anyone ask—but it was only as Miriam spun it out in front of Smith’s skeptical gaze that she realized how thin a tale it sounded. If she was in Smith’s shoes she could punch holes in it with very little effort. But Smith simply nodded. “I see,” he said. “Your husband left you adequately provided for, didn’t he?”

  Miriam nodded. “Indeed.” Keep it close. Make him dig.

  “And so you dabble in manufacturing.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, so Miriam didn’t answer. She just sat tight wearing a politely interested expression, wishing for the phone to ring or something to disturb the silence that stretched out uncomfortably.

  “I said, you dabble in manufacturing.”

  “I do not ‘dabble’ in anything, Mr. Smith,” Miriam finally stated in her iciest tone. “You’re a police officer. You can go ask the patent office questions—I’m sure Mr. Sagetree will be able to tell you whether there is any merit in the applications I filed last week. The first three, Inspector, of the many I have in mind.”

  “Ah. I stand corrected.” Smith leaned back in his chair. “Well then, may I rephrase? Do you have any opinion of Burgeson’s business? Does he strike you as in any way at all being odd?”

  Miriam shook her head and allowed an irritated expression to cross her face. “He’s a pawnbroker,” she said. “He’s a very literate pawnbroker with a good line in conversation, but I imagine sitting in the back of a shop gives him a lot of time to read, don’t you?”

  “A literate pawnbroker. So this would explain why you have visited his establishment on three occasions?”

  Shit, shit, shit—“The first time, as I’ve told you, I needed money and suitable attire. The second time—let me see, on my first visit I had noticed a hat that was not then out of hock. I went back to see if it was available, and also to redeem my earrings and necklace. On the third occasion—well, he’d shown me some of the antiquarian books various of his customers pawned when they fell upon hard times. I confess I was quite partial to a couple of them.” She forced a smile. “Is that a crime?”

  “No.” Inspector Smith stood, unfolding smoothly to a good six feet. He was a huge, imposing man, overweight but built like a rugby player, and now she noticed that his nose had been broken, although it had set well. “But you should be careful who you associate with, Mrs. Fletcher. Some people question Mr. Burgeson’s patriotism and devotion to the Crown, you know. He keeps strange company, and you would not want to be taken for one among them.”

  “Strange company?” She looked up at Smith.

  “Strangers.” He wore a peculiar tight, smug expression. “Frenchies, some of ’em. And papists. Uppity women suffragists, too.” Miriam glanced past his shoulder then looked away hastily. Roger was leaning in the laboratory doorway, one hand behind his back. I don’t need this, she thought to herself.

  “He hasn’t done anything to hang himself yet,” Smith continued, “but there’s always a first time.” He nodded to himself. “I see my job as ensuring there isn’t a second, if you catch my drift. And that the first ’appens as soon as possible.”

  Miriam looked past him. “Roger, go back to your workbench,” she called sharply.

  Roger turned and shuffled away, bashfully. Inspector Smith shook himself, the spell broken, and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Huh. Another bad ’un, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Smith smirked at Miriam. “Wouldn’t want anything to ’appen to him, would you? I really don’t know what the world’s coming to, a single woman running a business full of strapping young men. Huh. So, let’s see. The question is, are you a good citizen?”

  “Of course I’m a good citizen,” Miriam said tightly, crossing her arms.

  “I really don’t see what your point is.”

  “If you’re a good citizen, and you were to learn something about the personal habits of a certain pawnbroker—” The inspector paused, brow wrinkled as if he’d just caught himself in an internal contradiction: “casting no aspersions on your reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.” Another pause.

  “But if you happened to know anything that would be of interest, I’m sure you’d share it with the police…”

  “I’ve got a business to run, inspector,” Miriam pointed out coldly.

  “This business pays taxes which ultimately go to pay your wages. You are getting in the way. I’m a law-abiding woman, and if I find out anything you need to know you will be the first to hear of it. Do I make myself understood?”

  “Ah, well.” Smith cast her a sly little glance. “You will, as well, won’t you? Huh.” He paused in the doorway. “If you don’t you’ll be bleeding sorry,” he hissed, and was gone like a bad smell.

  “Oh shit,” Miriam whispered, and sat down heavily in the swivel chair he’d vacated. Now the immediate threat was past, she felt weary, drained beyond belief. The bastard!

  “Uh, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Roger.” She nodded tiredly. “Listen. I know you meant well, but, next time—if there is a next time—stay out of it. Leave the talking to me.”

  “Uh, yes.” He ducked his head uncertainly. “I meant to say—”

  “And leave the fucking crowbar behind. Have you any idea what they’ll do to you for attacking a Police Inspector with a crowbar?”

  “Ma’am!” His eyes bulged—at her language, not the message.

  “Shit.” She blinked. “Roger, you’re going to have to get used to hearing me curse like a soldier if you work for me for any length of time. At least, you’ll hear it when the bastards are attacking.” She caught his eye. “I’m not a lady. If I was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” she added, almost plaintively. And that’s for sure, more than you’ll ever know.

  “Ma’am.” He cleared his throat, then carefully pretended not to have heard a single word. “It’s about the furnace. I’ve got the first epoxide mixture curing right now, is that what you wanted?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, relief forcing its way out of her in a shout.

  “That’s what I wanted.” She began to calm down. A thought o
ccurred to her.

  “Roger. When you go home tonight, I’d like you to post a letter for me. Not from the pillar box outside, but actually into the letter box of the recipient. Will you do that?”

  “Um.” He blinked. “Would it be something to do with the King’s man as called, just now?”

  “It might be. Then again it might not. Will you?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “Don’t like those folks. Not at all.”

  After he retreated to his workbench Miriam sat down in front of the manual typewriter and threaded some paper into it—then paused. They can identity typewriters by their typeface, can’t they? she remembered. Sort of like a fingerprint. And they lift messages off used ribbons, too. She pulled out the notebook computer and briefly tapped out a note, then printed it on the battery-powered inkjet printer she’d brought over with her. Let them try and identify that.

  She took care to pull on her gloves before feeding the paper in, and before folding it and putting it in the envelope, leaving no fingerprints to incriminate. Then she addressed it and sealed it. If they were tailing Roger or had staked out Burgeson’s shop it was just too bad—nothing she could do would help—but if they were still looking for information she doubted things would have gone that far. Besides which, Erasmus had agreed to make inquiries on her behalf: If the inspector nailed him for sedition, there’d go her most fruitful line of inquiry in pursuit of the hidden enemies who’d murdered her birth mother and tried to kill her.

  It was only on her way home, having given the anonymous tip to Roger, that she realized she’d stepped over the line into active collusion with the Leveler quartermaster.

  Snark Hunting

  One week and two new employees later (not to mention a signed, formal offer for the house), Miriam practiced her breaking-and-entering skills on the vacant garden for what she hoped would be the last time. After spending two uncomfortable hours in the hunting hide, she felt well enough to risk an early crossing.

  Paulette was in the back office doing something with the fax machine when Miriam came in through the door. “What on earth—” She looked her up and down. “Jesus, what’s that you’re wearing?”

  “Everyday office outfit in Boston, on the other side.” Miriam dropped her shoulder bag, took her hat and topcoat off, then pulled a face. “Any word on my mother?” she asked.

  “Nothing I’ve heard,” said Paulie. “I put out a wire search, like you said. Nothing’s turned up.” She looked at Miriam worriedly. “She may be alright,” she said.

  “Maybe.” Black depression clamped down on Miriam. She’d been able to keep it at bay while she was on the far side, with a whole different set of worries, but now she was home she couldn’t hide it anymore. “I’m going to the bathroom. I may be some time. Taking this stuff off’s a major engineering undertaking.”

  “Want me to make you some coffee?” Paulette called around the door.

  “Yes! Thanks!”

  “So you have to play dress-up all the time?” Paulie asked around the door.

  “It’s only dress-up if you can stop after a couple of hours,” Miriam said as she came back out, wearing her bathrobe. She accepted a coffee mug from Paulette. “What you’re wearing now would get you arrested for indecent exposure over there.” Paulette was in jeans and a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a black T-shirt.

  “I think I get the picture. Sounds like a real bundle of laughs.” Paulette eyed her thoughtfully. “Two thoughts strike me. One, you’ve got a hell of a dry cleaning bill coming up. Secondly, have you thought about putting artificial fibers on your to-do list?”

  “Yeah.” Miriam nodded fervently. “Starting with rayon, that came first I think. Then the overlocking sewing machine, nylon, and sneakers.” She yawned, winced at her headache, then stirred the coffee. “So tell me, how have things been while I’ve been away?”

  “Well.” Paulie perched on the desktop beside the fax. “I’ve got the next gold shipment waiting for you. Brill is doing fine, and those, uh, feelers—” She looked furtive. “Let’s just say she’s going to be from Canada. Right?”

  “Right,” Miriam echoed. “What else has she been up to?”

  “She’s been visiting your friend Olga in the hospital. Once she spotted someone trying to tail her on the T, but she lost him quick. Olga is out of intensive and recovering nicely, but she’s got a scar under her hairline and her arm’s in a sling. The guards—” Paulie shrugged. “What is it with those guys?”

  “What’s what?”

  “Last time she went, she said one of them said she ought to come home. Any idea what that’s about?”

  “Uh, yes, probably he was a relative of hers. You say she’s visiting Olga now?”

  “Why, sure.” Paulette frowned. “I’ve just got an odd feeling about her. Great kid, but she’s hiding something. I think.”

  “If she wanted me out of the way she’s had more than enough opportunities to do it quietly.”

  “There is that,” Paulette agreed. “I don’t think she’s out to get you. I think it’s something else.”

  “Me too. I just want to know for sure what she’s hiding. The way she and Kara were planted on me by Angbard’s office, she’s probably just reporting back to him—but if she’s working for someone else…” The fax machine bleeped and began to emit a page of curling paper. “Hmm. Maybe I should check my voice mail.”

  She didn’t, not at first. Instead she went back into the bathroom and spent almost an hour standing in the cramped shower cubicle, at first washing and thoroughly cleaning her hair with detergents of a quality unimaginable in New Britain, even for the rich—then just standing there, staring at her feet beneath a rain the temperature of blood, wondering if she’d ever feel clean again. Thinking about the expression on Roger’s face when he’d been ready to murder a secret policeman for her, and about Burgeson’s kindly face, high ideals, and low friends. Friends who believed fervently in political ideals Miriam took for granted, and who were low subversives destined for the gallows if Smith and his friends ever caught up with them. Gallows where whoever had kidnapped or murdered Iris belonged—and that in turn led Miriam to think about her mother and how little time she’d spent with her in the past year, and how many questions she’d never asked. And more questions for Roland, and his face as he’d turned away, hurt by her rejection; a rejection he didn’t understand because it wasn’t anything personal, it was a rejection of the world he would unintentionally lock her into, rather than the person he was.

  Miriam had lots of things to think of—all of them bleak.

  She finished with the shower in much the same black mood she’d been in that fateful evening when she’d first opened the locket and unhitched a mind-gate leading to a world where things turned out to be paradoxically worse. Why bother? She wondered. Why do I keep going? True love would be a great answer if she believed in it. But she was too much the realist: While she’d love to find Roland in her bed and fuck him senseless—the need for him sometimes brought her awake from frustrated dreams in the still small hours—there wasn’t a cozy little cottage for two at the end of that primrose path. Miriam had held her daughter in her arms, once, twelve years ago, kissed her on the head and given her up for adoption. Over the next few years she’d spent nights agonizing over the decision, trying to second-guess the future, to decide whether she’d done the right thing.

  The idea of bringing another child, especially a daughter, into the claustrophobic scheming of the Clan filled her with horror. She was a big girl now, and the idea of expecting a man to protect her didn’t strike her as cool. That wasn’t what she’d gone through pre-med and college and divorce and most of med school and the postgraduate campus of hard knocks for. But facing all this on her own was so daunting that sometimes it made her lie awake wondering if there was any point.

  She wandered through into the bedroom and sat on the futon beneath the platform bed in the corner. Her phone was still sitting on the floor next to it, plugged in to charge but switched o
ff. She picked it up, switched it on, waited for it to log on, then hit her mailbox.

  “You have messages. Message one…” A gravelly voice, calling from ten days ago. “Miriam?” She sat up straight: It was Angbard! “I have been thinking very deeply and I have concluded that you are right.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

  “What you said about my security is correct. Olga is at evident risk. For the time being she remains in the hospital, but when you return, I release her into your care until Beltaigne, when I expect you both to appear before the Clan council to render an account of your persecution.”

  Miriam found herself shaking. “Is there anything else?”

  “There’s no news about your mother. I will continue to search until I find something positive to report to you. I am sorry I can’t tell you anything more about her disappearance. Rest assured that no stone will go unturned in hunting for her assailants. You may call me at any time, but bear in mind that my switchboard might—if you are correct—be intercepted. Good-bye.”

  Click. “Message two—” Miriam shook her head. “Hello! This is a recorded greeting from Kleinmort Baintree Investments! Worried about your pension? You too—” Miriam hit the delete button.

  “Message three: Call me. Please?” It was Roland, plaintive. She hit ‘delete’ again, feeling sick to her stomach. “Message four: Miriam? You there? Steve, at The Herald. Call me. Got work for you.”

  It was the last message. Miriam stared at her phone for a good few seconds before she moved her thumb to the delete key. It only traveled a millimeter, but it felt like miles. She hung up. “Did I just hear myself do that?” she asked the empty room; “did I just decide to ignore a commission from The Herald?”

  She shook her head, then began to rummage through the clothes in her burnished suitcase, looking for something to wear. They felt odd, and once dressed she felt as if she’d forgotten something, but at least it was comfortable and nothing pinched. “Weird,” she muttered and went back out into the corridor just as the front door banged open, admitting a freezing gust of cold air.