by Rod Duncan
The Bullet Catcher’s Daughter
Rod Duncan
being volume one of
The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire
Contents
The Bullet Catcher’s Daughter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Glossary
Chapter 1
There was once a line marked out by God, through which were divided Heaven and Hell. And thus was chaos banished from the world. The Devil created lawyers to make amends. They argued the thickness of the line until there was room enough within it for all the sins of men to fit. And all the sins of women too.
– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook
Had I been a man, I could have strolled into that dark warren of narrow streets, blind alleys and iniquity, letting the steel tip of my cane tap out a leisurely report of my progress, receiving winks and catcalls from barkers and gamblers, gin-sellers and rowdy girls.
But the Backs is no place for a lady. By which I mean that no woman can risk the scandal of being seen there. Thus I strolled along Churchgate attired and disguised as a young gentleman. And from many years of practice, I was able to walk as one also, rolling the shoulders rather than the hips, maintaining a distance between my feet, occupying the centre of the road. Men fancy that they recognise a woman by dress, figure and face but it is more through movement that gender is revealed.
The further I advanced towards my goal, the deeper the potholes became. Deeper too were the shadows of doorways and arches, for the street lamps gave less light here, as if the grandees of the gas corporation wished to hide the lawlessness and sin that lay ahead. All of which worked for my benefit that evening. I do not willingly expose my disguise to brighter lights.
Skulking can attract the interest of the curious, however. Therefore I held my head and top hat high, creating the illusion of one in possession of confidence. The act felt easier thanks to the weight of my father’s flintlock pistol, which bumped reassuringly against my leg.
On reaching Haymarket, one catches view of the border crossing itself. It consists of two identical sentry boxes, one on each side, wherein guards can shelter, and a wooden toll gate through which no goods ever pass. The deliberate symmetry does nothing to please the eye. On this October night, four flaming torches had been placed on stands across the road, each leaving a splash of yellow reflected on the damp cobbles.
I glanced up at the town clock and made some small show of checking my pocket watch, though covertly I scanned the road behind me for shadows out of place. Being so close to the border put me on my guard. And the meeting towards which I was making such cautious progress contained riddles yet to be answered.
Striding out again with that unnatural male gait, I crossed Haymarket and hurried through into Cheapside and then into that haven of smugglers known throughout the land as the Leicester Backs. With the rendezvous now close, I assessed the various decrepit figures propping up nearby walls, searching for one to enlist. My attention was drawn by a woman who stood apart from the others, huddled in a doorway.
She called out in a brittle voice as I approached. “Have mercy, kind sir, and spare a coin.”
I saw now that she wore a curious assortment of rags and sacking. In one hand she gripped a bottle of back-alley gin.
“Would it be mercy to buy you more poison?” I asked, forcing my throat muscles open so that the sound would resonate at the top of my chest, giving my words a masculine pitch. Though I had practised this art for many years, my voice could only pass when I spoke softly.
“Blindness is a mercy, sir, for those who walk in the night.” She held her bottle up for me to see and sloshed the inch of liquid that remained.
Nothing good would come of hiring her if she was already half blind from wood alcohol. I pulled a coin from beneath my cloak and flicked it up. Her head snapped towards the slight metallic ringing as it spun in the air and I began to think she used her ears not her eyes. With a swift movement, I made to trap it on the back of my gloved hand.
“What say you?”
“Heads,” she said, without hesitation.
“Heads for luck or heads for blindness?”
“For mercy, sir.”
Removing my hand, I revealed the space where the coin should have been, but was not. Then with a deceiving movement of my other hand, I pulled it from the air. The woman’s lips drew back into a grin, revealing the stumps of three stained teeth. I flicked the coin towards her and she snatched it, fleet as a snake strike.
“It seems you’re not blind yet.”
“No indeed, though I will work to remedy that with your good help.”
“Watch for me as I go,” I said. “Look for any other that may follow. I’ll visit again on my return.”
“Bless you, sir,” she said. Then, as I walked away I heard her calling out, “May many buxom women bear you sons.”
A bell jangled as I pushed the door and stepped into the warm closeness of the Darkside Coffee House. High-backed benches divided the room into a series of secluded drinking booths. Tables lay between them, on each of which guttered the inconstant flame of a small candle. A brass-mounted chromatic lamp adorned the shelf behind the bar. Its round lenses illuminated caddies of coffee, tobacco and hashish, but left the body of the room darker than the street.
I started to raise a hand to check the hair was still in place on my upper lip, but managed to stop myself halfway. The barman was watching me. Tilting my head forwards so the shadow of my hat brim lay across my eyes, I stepped towards him. “I’m here to meet someone,” I said. “A lady.”
“Aye.” He turned a gilt-rimmed glass onto a matching saucer and started pouring thick Turkish coffee from a silver pot. “Was waiting on seeing who the lucky man would be.”
“Where may I find her?”
Taking my money, he nodded towards the back.
Stepping between the booths I picked my way in the direction he had indicated. Sweet tobacco and hashish smoke mixed with the smells of bitter coffee and alcohol. Growing accustomed to the gloom, I could just make out the whites of eyes watching me. Here and there the bowl of a smoking pipe flared red.
The identity of this much-needed client had not been hard to ascertain. Her letter of enquiry had been phrased in that over-embellished prose so typical of the aristocratic houses of the south. An educated hand of swirls and serifs had written that letter. Heavy cream-coloured paper reinforced the impression. All spoke of money. But it had been the edge of a watermark that had narrowed my search to one estate.
It seemed that such a woman would be conspicuous in this setting, but when I reached the rear of the room and saw her, I marvelled at how well she had camouflaged herself. A coarse woollen shawl hu
ng from her shoulders and a plain bonnet hid all but a few of her blond ringlets. Only when she reached out her hand did the shawl part and I glimpsed the jewel-green blouse she wore beneath, its full sleeves nipped in at the forearm by long, tight cuffs. Even in that gloom the colour seemed bright.
I took her hand, and made a small bow.
“Mr Barnabas?” she enquired.
There was a shifting in one of the nearby booths; a whisper of cloth as if a head had turned or a hand had reached to open a watch casing. I slid into the seat opposite her and placed my coffee glass on the table between us.
“You speak too loud,” I whispered.
She leaned forwards, bringing her head close. “Please forgive me. But my mind has been racing. I did not think.”
“If I hear the bell above the door, I may choose to slip away,” I said.
As she composed herself, I examined the back wall of the coffee house and was pleased to see a curtain of glass beads strung across a recess. That I had not been able to see it from the bar made it an excellent route of escape, should one be needed. Store rooms would surely lie behind it, then a rear yard, perhaps a privy and beyond that the maze of hidden spaces and unwatched cut-throughs that had accidentally turned The Backs into a smugglers’ paradise.
“Why did you come in person?” I asked.
“Your services aren’t usually commissioned face to face?”
“I’ve never heard of an aristocrat of the Kingdom entering the Anglo-Scottish Republic by choice.”
She folded her arms before her.
“Are you not the Duchess of Bletchley?” I asked.
“And if I am? The border lies not thirty paces behind me.”
“But the embarrassment to your King should you be found?”
“A matter of no significance.”
A matter of significance it was, though I let it lie. “Your letter mentioned a person missing. A loved one perhaps?”
“A brother. My brother. He’s been gone three weeks.”
“You must know I’m not free to cross into the Kingdom. Even coming this close to the border is a risk.”
“My brother has crossed into the Republic,” she said. “He’s not so much missing, as out of my reach. And yet I wish to reach him.”
“There are many private intelligence gatherers for hire,” I said. “Men who are free to cross into the Kingdom if they wish. Why contract me? I can’t even visit your home to question those who might have information.”
“Your knowledge matches my needs,” she said. “And I’ve heard that you are most reliable.”
In my foolish vanity, her words made sense to me.
“Your coffee is growing cold,” she said.
“How am I to find your brother?”
“I know where he is.” She pulled the glove from her left hand, then reached inside with slender fingers and withdrew a fold of paper.
“I’ll need payment,” I said. “Gold, not some promissory note from the Kingdom bank.”
“Gold you will have.”
I reached out to take the paper from her, but stopped halfway. The air had shifted and I could smell the dank of the rear yard. Somewhere in the building a door must have opened. Or a window perhaps. I brought a finger to my lips, held my breath and listened. The low murmur of secret conversations in the Darkside Coffee House had fallen away to almost nothing. Keeping my head low, I peered around the high back of the bench. The barman was standing next to the open door, muffling the bell with his raised hand. Stepping in from the street were three figures, one wearing a tall top hat, the other two in cloth caps.
I grabbed the paper from the Duchess’s hand, pointed towards the bead curtain and mouthed one word. “Go.”
She was already moving, stepping towards the gap, her back towards me. So I ripped the false hair from my cheeks and upper lip then snatched the hat from my head, revealing the lacy head covering beneath.
But as I was shaking out my long hair, the Duchess turned for a final look. For a fraction of a second she stood wide-eyed, staring at the woman I had half-revealed myself to be. Then she was gone in a cascading clatter of glass beads and the thugs were charging towards the sound.
Chapter 2
There is no more complete and satisfying way for a man to disappear than for him to have never existed.
– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook
Illusion was my inheritance, fed to me on my mother’s lap as the drowsy rocking of the caravan and the slow rhythm of iron-shod hooves lulled me. It was a ripe strawberry conjured from the air, or a silver coin caressed from my soft cheek by the touch of a loving hand.
As I grew, I learned that others built lives on stuff they fancied more solid. To them, illusion was a shifting mist they wished to define or dispel. But instead of shunning us, these people were drawn to buy tickets for our shows. At first they might choose seats at the back of the tent, as if embarrassed to be seen in our low company. But night by night fascination would overcome their better judgement until they were sitting on the edge of their seats in the front row. But the harder they clung to that which they thought solid, the further their gaze drifted from the moment of the trick.
The first great illusion given me by my father was the gift of being, when needed, my own twin brother. I learned by stages to move as he moved and to look as he looked. My voice would always be the weakest part of the illusion, but even this could be covered by misdirection. At a distance of twenty paces, under the deceiving illumination of the stage lights, my friends could not tell me from a man.
Of itself that would not have been enough. To create a great illusion one must combine several tricks. And so I learned the art of the quick change, taking every movement of the transformation and rehearsing it ten thousand times until I could walk across the stage, pass behind a cabinet and without breaking stride, or so it seemed, emerge from the other side as a man. For by repetition, the workings of the clock are slowed.
Mine was a secret nurtured. I practised it in windowless rooms. Even in the Circus of Mysteries, most did not know it. There had been but seven people who held the secret. With the Duchess’s unexpected backward glance, there were eight.
The fast beat of footsteps crashed towards me from the front of the Darkside Coffee House. I repeated the mantra in my head and let my limbs follow the dance they had rehearsed. Lift. Unbutton. Swirl. Reverse the cloak. In the same movement, rip away the false coverings from my lower legs.
Breathe.
Click the release button and snap the cane into a parasol. Collapse and fold the top hat into a lady’s purse. Pull the flintlock free from its straps. Grip it beneath the table.
Breathe again.
The two thugs crashed past me, clattering the curtain, thundering out to the storerooms at the back. Thus my first thoughts were with the Duchess, fearing she’d had insufficient start to reach the border, though it must lie very close.
Then I heard the clipped footsteps of the third man approaching. Hard soles to judge by the sound. New and expensive. He drew level with the booth, but instead of following his men out through the rear, he hesitated mid-stride and turned towards me.
I felt the fear gripping at my chest.
“Madam?” he enquired, leaning forward for a clearer view in the low light.
“I want no trouble, sir.” I said, in the manner of a woman of The Backs. Hearing the tremor in my own voice, I felt certain he would also.
“Do you drink alone?”
“Would you keep my company, sir?”
“Don’t trade wordplay with me woman.”
“Then shall it be foreplay, sir?”
Beneath the table my hand shook. I placed my thumb on the hammer of the pistol, braced ready to pull it back.
“Who sat here with you?” he asked.
“A fine lady,” I said.
“And?” He tapped his cane on the table.
“And a young gent, sir. He’d promised me business but you’ve chased him away.”
&
nbsp; The man stood tall again, drew a small cloth purse from under his cloak and shifted it in his fingers so the coins clinked within. The sound was similar enough in character to mask the cocking of the flintlock, yet not loud enough to allow the risk. I watched the purse as if transfixed.
“What did the fine lady and the young ‘gent’ speak of as they drank their coffee?”
I dropped my voice and leaned forward as if in conspiracy. “She was much insulted, sir.”
“How so?”
“I couldn’t say. But she was un-pleased to see me on the young gent’s arm.”
My voice was more level now. My heart still thudded fast but no longer jumped within my chest.
“Where is your hat, madam?” he asked. “That is not a hat.”
“They call it a fascinator, sir.”
“Then it is not a hat and you are not properly dressed.”
“It passes in The Backs.”
The thugs’ footsteps were approaching once more from the rear. The curtain clattered as they side-stepped through. It seemed the Duchess had given them a run, for there was a bitter smell of sweat on them and a stormy anger on their faces. The man in the top hat took a deep breath and half-closed his eyes.
“I fancy we have not the story complete,” he said.
“Why, it’s the truth, sir!”
“And yet...” He narrowed his eyes still further. “There is something about you.” Turning to the more muscle-bound of his thugs, he said. “We’ll need to question her more. See to it.” Then he strode away, followed by the smaller one. At the door, the barman received the purse of coins and bowed. The bell jangled and they were gone.
The remaining thug regarded me with an emotionless stare. “Up,” he said.
No time remained to think or to be afraid. I swallowed the bitter dregs from my coffee cup, then clinked it down loudly onto the saucer, cocking the pistol at the same moment.
I stood.
“Out,” he said, violence just below the surface of his voice.
Men have died for not believing a woman would shoot them in the heart. So I chose instead to press the pistol to his groin. Obligingly, he froze. Then his gaze tracked down, ever so slowly, to the weapon in my hand. His expression might have been comical, but I had no doubt he’d break my neck as quick as clicking his fingers, and with as little effort, were my aim to waver.
