The Custodian of Marvels

by Rod Duncan

  Without hunger, I slept more deeply that night than was usual. Otherwise I might have been disturbed by the tilt of the boat or the sound of movement in the cabin. As it was, my first awareness came with the feeling of a finger poking me in the cheek. It took several groggy seconds before I realised that it was not a finger but the muzzle of a gun. The squat figure of a dwarf loomed next to me in the near dark.

  My cry woke Tinker, who sprang to his feet.

  “Back off!”

  I don’t know if Tinker could see the gun or if it was something in the gruff command, but he did as he was told.

  “No one do nothing!”

  My head had cleared enough now to recognise the intruder’s voice and form.

  “Fabulo?” I asked.

  “The same,” growled the dwarf. “Now, tell the boy to light a lamp. And nothing stupid.”

  I heard the sound of a log being dropped. Tinker must have been holding it as a weapon. Then he opened the stove door. A dull glow bathed his face as he blew on the embers, coaxing a flame from a spill of twisted paper. In the yellow light I saw that Fabulo held a second pistol in his other hand. One was pointing at each of us. With the candle lantern lit he backed away and lowered himself onto the bench in the opposite corner.

  “Come,” I said, beckoning Tinker.

  The boy clambered onto the cot next to me, his knees drawn up to his chest, more like a spider than a child.

  “This is cosy,” said Fabulo. Short limbed and stubby fingered, he was the opposite of Tinker. He rested the pistols on his knees. “Let me see – when was the last time we met?”

  “You know the answer,” I said.

  “I’m just being polite. It’s what old friends do, isn’t it, when they get together – reminiscing? Do you remember your infernal machine? You fired a bolt of light from it and blinded Harry Timpson in one eye.”

  “It wasn’t my machine.”

  “And that wasn’t what I asked.”

  “Yes, I remember it! Too well. It was a hellish thing. I’m glad it’s gone.”

  “But it’s still there in your memory,” he said.

  “Is that why you’ve come? If you’re here to avenge your master, it’s your memory you should be worried about. He double crossed me. You both did. He would have killed me. Did you forget that bit?”

  “No,” said the dwarf with a sigh. “I’m sorry about that. Harry had a way of making things seem right. Even when they weren’t.”

  “I never set out to hurt him.”

  “True enough,” he said.

  “Then we should be square.”

  “So we should.”

  “Then why stick a gun in my face?”

  “Wanted to be sure, that’s all. Didn’t know if you might still hold a grudge.”

  “I’d find your visit a deal more pleasant if you’d put those pistols away.”

  He tapped his finger on the stock of one, as if weighing the risk, then placed them on the floor by his feet. “Better?”

  They were still within his reach, I noted. And still cocked.

  “Would you like some tea?” I asked

  “I’ve brought my own.” From inside his coat the dwarf slipped a metal flask.

  I felt Tinker begin to relax. His strange life had left him more suspicious of a bar of soap than a flintlock. This might have seemed like old times to him. We’d all been part of the same circus troupe – me cleaning out the beast wagon, Tinker minding the horses and Fabulo performing under the Big Top.

  Being a dwarf, Fabulo would always be a spectacle. But more than that, he’d been one of Harry Timpson’s close advisors. And now something had driven him to seek me out again. I wanted to know what.

  Tinker unfolded himself from the cot. I watched as he fed sticks into the stove. With a crackle and the smell of wood smoke he coaxed the fire back to life. Then he took the empty kettle and slipped out into the night.

  Fabulo and I regarded each other. His eyes did not leave me as he swigged from the flask. “This is a pleasant reunion,” he said, then looked around the cabin until his eyes lighted upon the casting of the naked woman. “I’ll bet that shocks the Republicans!”

  “She’s called the Spirit of Freedom,” I said.

  “She’s just like you then, eh? And just like me. I knew you wouldn’t stay put in one place. We’re travellers. We don’t belong in the world of the country people.”

  “I have to travel,” I said. “There’s a reward posted for my capture. I’m sure you knew that.”

  “But there’re many ways to hide. You took to the canals. I can drink to that.” This he did. “We’ll always be outsiders, you and me. That’s the truth. We’ve got to look out for each other. You didn’t need to run from us. The circus would’ve taken you back.”

  It was a kind of truth. One that ignored the fact they’d tried to kill me.

  “I thought the circus had folded,” I said.

  “Just because you don’t see us, don’t mean we’re gone.”

  “What happened to the big top? The wagons?”

  “Sold – most of it. Harry was in prison. The Great Harry Timpson! Who do they think they are to lock up a man like that? It was a sad thing. We needed the money for lawyers and bribes. In the end we got him a cell to himself. And food. And doctors. You know how old he was? One hundred and five. And knowledge you could never find in books. He died in that cell.”

  “Better than being hanged,” I said.

  Fabulo stared into the dark corner of the cabin, as if picturing the scene. “They’d have come to see that show! Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Can you imagine what tricks we might have pulled for a crowd like that?”

  “You think he’d have escaped the gallows?”

  “Escape? No. But we’d have given them a show, my friend. A fireball? A storm? Harry would have dreamed up something. The Greatest Show on Earth! They’d have been talking about it in a hundred years. He’d have been happy to go that way.”

  “Do you blame me for his death?” I asked.

  He fixed his dark eyes on mine and said, “If I wanted to see you harmed, I could have pulled the trigger just now. Or I could have turned you in. Do you know how much the Duke of Northampton’s offering for your capture? The man’s obsessed with you. The price goes higher each month you’re free. No, Elizabeth, I don’t blame you for Harry Timpson’s death.”

  I suppressed a shudder at the mention of the duke. The way Fabulo had delivered his speech made it sound rehearsed. I searched his face, but could detect neither sincerity nor lie. We had drawn closer to the purpose of his visit, I felt sure of that. But I still could not see where we were heading. There was something unsettlingly fey about his manner.

  The moment was broken by a dull clanking and the padding of feet on the deck. Tinker hefted the full kettle back down the steps into the cabin. He knelt next to the stove, oblivious to the tension.

  “What’s your cargo?” Fabulo asked, as if making small talk.

  “Furniture and small packages.”

  “They pay you well?”

  “Enough.”

  “No pirates trying to steal your cargo?”

  “None.”

  “So life’s good.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And a new horizon every day.” He raised the flask as a salute then took another swig. “What of winter?” he asked.

  “We’ll manage.”

  “There’s always thieving. If it gets too bad.”

  “I’ll not be doing that.”

  “Not even a thin chicken from a fat farmer?”

  For a time neither of us spoke. I kept my eyes away from Fabulo’s pistols, still cocked on the floor. My own pistol lay under the pillow next to me, loaded but not cocked. I shifted closer to it, as if making myself more comfortable.

  There was a faint crackling from the stove and the smell of ardent spirits from Fabulo’s breath. Tinker had curled up on the floor and seemed to be falling asleep. A pleasant domestic scene. The ket
tle began to rumble.

  “I saw you last evening,” I said. “You were watching from the hedgerow. I’d thought you were a deer. You should have come and introduced yourself.”

  “Would you have welcomed me?”

  “I’d have wanted to know why you’d travelled all the way into Lincolnshire to see me.”

  “Ah. I was working round to that. But, since the pleasantries are out of the way, I may as well ask. There’s an enterprise I’m engaged in that could do with a woman of your talents.”

  “You’re offering me employment?”

  “We’d be partners.”

  “I can’t perform in a circus. You know that. There are bounty hunters looking for me.”

  “Not the circus. If all goes to plan, we’d not be seen. Not by anyone. There’d be payment at the end. Rich payment, at that.”

  “This is thieving then?”

  “We’ll take something, yes. But not from any person. None will be the poorer. You’ve no need to worry your pretty conscience. And there could be money upfront if you say yes. You could dump your cargo in the canal. Let it rot.”

  “If none’s to be poorer, who’ll you be stealing from?”

  “That’s the part you’ll like the best,” he said. “You’ll be stealing from the International Patent Office.”

  Until then I’d thought him foolhardy. But as I heard this, I knew that he was mad. To steal from the Patent Office was certain death.

  As he’d been speaking, I’d inched my hand under the pillow. Now I snatched the pistol and had it cocked before he could reach for his.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Don’t you know the risk you put me in – coming here and saying such things?”

  “No one’s listening!”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “The Patent Office ruined your life,” he said. “I’m offering a way to get even.”

  “You’re offering a noose and I want you gone! I’ll give you this choice – I can pull the trigger here and now or you can promise to never come here again.”

  CHAPTER 3

  September 2009

  There is no better way to hide one truth than with another.

  The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook

  Two weeks after that unexpected meeting with Fabulo, I was sitting in Professor Ferdinand’s office in the university. From the floorboards to the wall panels, the room seemed to glow in the late afternoon light. A century of beeswax and polishing might be needed to turn oak to such a colour. The desk had it too, on which lay my copy of The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook and the tea things, long cold.

  I was trying to absorb the professor’s revelation – that this gnarled volume of obscure aphorisms, which I had been carrying in secret through months of near poverty, might itself be priceless.

  “Would you buy it then?” I asked.

  The suggestion had a remarkable effect on the professor. His face flushed. He picked up a sheaf of papers and began to fan himself. For a moment he seemed overcome.

  “The college is not so wealthy,” he said. “Besides, a priceless thing cannot logically be bought.”

  “Then I’ll offer it for what you can afford!”

  “Why would you do such a thing? It would bring dishonour in the eyes of your people.”

  “I have no people.”

  “But your ancestors must have–”

  “I need the money!”

  He blinked rapidly on hearing my crude statement. Republicans like to believe their comfort comes from virtue. Reminding them of its true source is akin to mentioning bodily functions. He took a moment to compose himself.

  “Are you not interested?” I asked.

  He puffed out his cheeks. “I am tempted,” he said. “Indubitably tempted. But there are steps that would need to be taken. Its sale would require the permission of the International Patent Office.”

  “It’s a book,” I said. “Not a machine.”

  “Have you not read it? It describes the construction of devices to be used in stage magic. Some of the entries are vague, to be sure. Yet others contain detail. The same laws cover this book as would cover the blueprints to an engine. If you would sell it, the Patent Office must first judge whether it’s conducive to the wellbeing of the common man. As with any machine, they must pronounce it seemly before it can be sold. But once it has a patent mark – then I could consult the faculty. I would make the case but it’s they who’d provide the funds.”

  At the name of the Patent Office, my stomach had twisted. Its agents were already searching for the book, though I couldn’t admit that to the professor. One of their agents had shown particular interest. That was John Farthing – a man who always confused my emotions. He had traced it from its previous owner, but had not managed to prove that I’d received it. I didn’t understand the nature of his interest, but had lied to keep it from him nonetheless.

  My turmoil must have shown because the professor regarded me with new focus and said, “I fancy there’s more you have to tell.”

  “I can’t abide the Patent Office,” I said, offering one part of the truth to hide another.

  His frown smoothed. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m aware of the antipathy felt by your people for agents of the law.” He leafed back through the vellum pages to the beginning of the book and read: “There was once a line marked out by God through which were divided heaven and hell. The devil created lawyers to make amends. They argued the thickness of that line until there was room within it for all the sins of men to fit…”

  “…and all the sins of women too,” I said, completing the quote from memory.

  “There,” he said. “We are like two old bullet-catchers meeting at the crossroads. I started the quote and you completed it, proving we’re related. But only distantly because lines similar to these are found in every known version. It’s the most ancient part of the text.”

  He sipped from his teacup, pulling a face that suggested he’d expected it still to be warm.

  My purpose in seeking out the professor had been to sell the book. But now it seemed that avenue was being closed to me.

  “How old is it?” I asked.

  “This copy?” He stroked the gnarled leather of the back cover. “If I had to guess, I’d put it around 1810.”

  “But that was before the time of the Patent Office! Why would they be interested?”

  “Are they?”

  “You said as much.”

  After a pause long enough to make me feel uneasy he said, “Perhaps I did. But it’s not my part to talk politics.”

  The frustration had been rising in me through our interview. Unable to contain the feeling any longer, I stood and paced away from him. There was a daybill framed on the wall, bearing Harry Timpson’s famous profile. I wondered what that old rascal would have done in my place. For all his knowledge, the professor had given me little. He seemed to be leading me on a meandering path through the fog. From what he said, the book could not be sold. But somewhere in this landscape of confusion might be knowledge that could help me. I sensed as much. A tingling intuition whispered that it was near. I took one more look at Timpson’s picture then turned.

  “Perhaps I could lend you the book,” I said. “The Patent Office wouldn’t need to give permission for that.”

  He tilted his head. If his brain had been powered by cogs, I fancy I might have heard them whirring.

  “Would you like to study it?” I asked.

  “I would like that very much.”

  “You could hold it secure for me?”

  “Yes, indeed!” His enthusiasm was growing with each exchange. At last I had something to bargain with. “I have a safe,” he said. “It could be locked away. I would take the greatest care. I would–”

  “But if not money,” I said, cutting him short, “what then would you give me in return?”

  “You said you would lend it.”

  “I merely raised the possibility. You might like to think of an ince
ntive to offer. You would get a period of time in which to study the book. I would get, what? Some knowledge of yours, perhaps?”

  “What kind of knowledge?”

  “You said it’s not your part to talk politics. That means you have something to say but are holding it back. If you’d just tell me what it is, I might be persuaded to let you borrow the book. For a few days. And afterwards – you’d tell me what your studies had revealed.”

  I sat down once more. But no sooner were we eye to eye than he was out of his chair, pacing as I had done. He came to a stop facing Harry Timpson’s picture.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “You never told me your name,” he said. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Martha.” It was the first name that came to mind. “Martha Morris.”

  “In certain cultures they believe that to know someone’s name is to have magical power over them. What do you think of that, Martha Morris?”

  “Fascinating.”

  “It must be their true name, of course.”

  His words hung in the air. I couldn’t decide whether they were an innocent observation or if he was accusing me.

  “It would be an honest exchange,” I said.

  He considered this. “It does seem that we each have something that the other desires. But I’d need two months with your book.”

  “How about ten days?”

  He nodded readily, leaving me with the thought that I could have offered less.

  “I accept your terms,” he said.

  “And the agreement will be a secret between us?”

  “That suits me well.”

  “Then I’ll leave my book in your care.”

  I found myself holding his gaze. The small intimacy of the trade had changed the nature of our relationship. It took a moment to adjust.

  “What I have to tell you is… delicate. I must insist that you not speak of it. Not beyond this interview.” He waited for my nod before continuing: “As an anthropologist, I’m interested in the development of culture. Not just from other parts of the world. Thus my research has taken me through the vast collections of books in the libraries of our own nation. I have counted them. I have made lists of numbers and dates. I’ve drawn charts in which a curious phenomenon is revealed. The number of books published each year over the centuries has inexorably risen. This with one exception. In the years 1810 to 1821 the trend was reversed. In particular, no one seemed to be writing about history and technology.”