by Rod Duncan
Dusk had turned the surface of the water black and silver. I stood watching the taxi puffing away. The smell of frying onions drifted across from a neighbouring boat. Suddenly I felt alone. How could I have believed my luck would change? Instead of earning the money I so desperately needed, I had wasted time and accumulated troubles.
There could be no doubt that John Farthing or some other agent had rummaged the boat. How else could he have produced my pistol in the unlit house? Yet, as I crouched on Bessie’s aft deck and ran my finger around the edge of the hatchway, I felt the stub end of a matchstick trapped just where I had left it four days ago. The searcher had been an expert and had covered his tracks.
The galley smelled of old wood and lamp oil, as it always did. Walking towards the cabins, I shifted my weight from side to side, tilting Bessie in the water, as if to prove to myself that only ropes held her in place. If January came and I still lacked the 100 guineas, I could perhaps haul her away up the canal and try hiding from my creditor. How long could I last before he found me? It seemed the moonlight flit would prove my only option. The Duchess was my sole client. But to pursue her brother would be to defy the Patent Office. And I would rather play dice with a creditor than with the hangman.
I opened the cold iron stove and looked inside. It remained ready, just as I had left it. I struck a lucifer, watched it flare then held it to the kindling. There would be hot water for tea within the hour.
My sleeping cabin did not seem to have been disturbed, though I felt certain it had been searched. Skirts and blouses hung in the cupboard just as I remembered them. I brushed my fingers over the pigeonholes. Shoes, boots, underwear and chemises – each item lay in its proper place. I lifted a roll of stockings and felt beneath them for the slim pile of letters which I kept as if hidden.
The sky outside had faded almost to black. I lit a lantern and moved through to the other sleeping cabin, supposedly my brother’s. For the sake of appearance, I had arranged it as I supposed a man would have done. One creased shirt lay dangling over the edge of the bunk. A pair of mud-soiled shoes I had left in artful asymmetry near the door, one on its side. It was in the secret compartment below the head of the bunk that I perceived the first evidence of the searcher’s hand. I knew to lift the mattress, unblocking a hole in the top of the compartment before pulling out the hidden drawer. Thus I set up no air currents and did not disturb the scrap of tissue paper I had placed there.
Yet someone had disturbed it.
The Duchess of Bletchley’s letters lay uppermost in the compartment. Underneath were bills, letters from earlier clients and receipts. There was nothing here that the Patent Office did not already know. Yet the proof that they had been on my beloved boat left a feeling of queasy weakness in my stomach. I sat on the bunk and placed my face in my hands.
Two things remained for me to check. Lifting a plate in the galley floor, I looked down on the axle that had once turned Bessie’s paddlewheels and the small oil reservoir that had kept the drive mechanism lubricated. I gripped and twisted the cap of the small tank. It unscrewed with a metallic squeal of protest, revealing a dark but dry void below. Also the end of a length of wire, which my thin fingers were able to grip and pull, lifting a small woollen bag clear of the tank. The dull clink of coins was enough to reassure me that the agents of the Patent Office had not been tempted to steal my money in the same way that they had stolen my turquoise inlaid pistol.
Reaching around below the driving shaft, I felt for the small shelf that had served as my pistol’s hiding place. My fingers closed around something. I pulled it up out of the hatch, knowing what it was, even before it came into my sight.
I sat on the floor of the cabin, staring at the turquoise inlay on the stock of my pistol, asking myself if I had perhaps misjudged the efficient John Farthing and the wrinkled man. Had the emotionless rules of their order obliged them to put back what was not theirs? More likely they had returned it with such care in order to entrap me. If they found it in my hands, I would not be able to claim innocence a second time.
Gently, ever so gently, I reached into the access hole and placed the pistol back on its hidden shelf, not daring to make a sound, fearing the door might burst open before I had the hatch fully closed again.
Chapter 11
To make pleasure from deception is the art of the illusionist. But the deception of a conman brings anger and shame. Beware the difference, for the line is very thin.
– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook
Using money from one creditor to pay off another is a mark of desperation. Failing to do so is the road to ruin. I could take the Duchess’s gold and run. But she would surely send men after me, as would Leon. What chance was there of escaping the both of them? If I was forced to haul Bessie along the canal in a moonlight flit, it would be better to have fewer people hunting me down.
Sitting in the galley of my beloved boat, I contemplated my situation. I could already see the wooden boards that made up the floor of Bessie’s coal bunker. If the weather remained mild I might last another ten days. The coal boatman would help me if I asked, though I had no prospect of paying him back.
Winter is a creditor from which no one can hide.
Holding the caddy at an angle, I filled a spoon with tea leaves, then after a moment’s consideration tipped half back. I would return the Duchess’s purse, though perhaps a few coins lighter than it should have been. I wondered how precisely she might be able to calculate the cost of my trip to Sleaford.
So preoccupied was I with these thoughts that the slight tilt of the boat did not alert me. Only when a bony knuckle rapped on the hatch did I become aware of the unwelcome presence of Mrs Simmonds, wife of the wharf owner.
She knocked again and I cursed my inattentiveness. Usually I could prevent her from gaining access. But to get rid of her now without explicit rudeness would be impossible.
“I’ll be with you directly,” I called.
Whether she actually mistook my words for an invitation was not clear. However, the result was the same. The hatch opened and she stepped down into the galley, her waspish face all curiosity as she peered from fixture to fixture hungrily cataloguing the details of my existence.
“Such a delight,” I said. “Do come in.”
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” she said, before returning her attention to the galley pigeonholes in which crockery and dry foodstuffs were stored.
I made a small curtsy. “Mrs Simmonds.”
“How were your ancestors?” she asked.
It took me a few seconds to understand her meaning. “Dead, alas,” I replied.
“Well, yes. That is to be expected. But how were their graves? Are they together or in separate plots? Is there a vault?” She seemed genuinely concerned – a fashionable interest in death, no mere affectation in her.
“We didn’t find them,” I admitted, truthfully. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”
Mrs Simmonds arranged the hoops of her skirt and with some difficulty slid onto the small bench next to the table. “Tea would be agreeable, thank you. But what a disappointment you must have had. To have travelled so far and found none of your kin.”
“We’re a far flung family,” I said, pouring steaming water into the pot, then, as an afterthought, adding the half spoonful of tea leaves I had omitted earlier.
“A family should have a home,” she said. “I’m descended from five generations of Loughborough men and women. Mr Simmonds is descended from seven. Just think of that. Seven generations! St Mary is like a home to us. Our families lie shoulder to shoulder, Elizabeth. Shoulder to shoulder the entire width of the churchyard.”
It felt inappropriate to sit directly opposite the woman to whom I paid my mooring fees. Indeed, her skirt filled the space below the table and the thought of my knees pressing into it did not appeal. Thus, having placed the pot, strainer, sugar, cups and saucers, I remained standing. She seemed to find this arrangement acceptable and proceeded to stir the water in the pot.
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“More leaves, my dear.” She reached for the caddy. “One spoon for each person in your party and then one more for seemliness.”
“Thank you,” I said, watching my precious reserves of tea disappearing into the pot.
“I worry that your brother–”
“I’m sure I will find a suitable husband when the time comes,” I said.
“Yes, yes. That too. But I worry you have no teacher for these skills. Your maid will run rings around you if she sees your lack of knowledge. When you manage a household of your own – a regular household, that is – you’ll be in her power and no recourse.”
“Thank you as ever,” I said, sipping from the cup she had given me. The taste pinched my mouth. Too strong. Too bitter.
She spooned a great quantity of my sugar into her own cup and then slurped noisily, with obvious satisfaction. “To business,” she said. “Your rent. It falls due–”
“In three days,” I said.
“Indeed. But since Mr Simmonds and I will be away, we’ll need payment today. Your good example has shamed us into action. We’re travelling to Loughborough to visit our families and attend to their various memorials.”
“My brother should wake later.”
“We’ll expect him this evening,” she said, with a look of satisfaction that made me suspect I had missed something important. Then she pulled a blue and white striped envelope from her purse and handed it to me. The markings belonged to the office of the Avian Post and were unmistakable.
I thanked her, hiding my surprise. “I’ll put it in his hand,” I said.
“But Elizabeth, this letter is addressed to you.”
I saw then that her eyes were on me, intently examining my reaction.
I sat for many minutes after she had gone, turning the envelope in my hands. I had never before received a message by Avian Post. The address must have been written by the pigeon master at the local loft. The script had a left-leaning slant.
Miss Elizabeth Barnabus
c/o the North Leicester Wharf
North Leicester
I held the sealed fold of the envelope to the light and brought it close to my eye. If Mrs Simmonds had steamed it open, I might expect some wrinkling to remain. When casually dampened and dried, paper does not return to the same pristine flatness, though the heat and pressure of an iron can sometimes do the trick.
Inserting the tip of a thin knife under the flap of the envelope I slit carefully along its length. Inside, I found a sheet of pale blue paper onto which lengths of white silk ribbon had been glued. It was on these that the Duchess had written her message:
Elizabeth: I have had recent business dealings with your brother but he has terminated our relationship. I am taking the liberty of writing directly to you regarding this matter. When I sent payment to your brother, it was in the form of coins. I trust he may have retained the bag in which they were conveyed. If you examine the inner seam, you will find a maker’s label. You will have no trouble in locating the maker’s premises. If your brother wishes to return the remaining coins, I would be grateful if he could entrust them to you, to be carried to the bag-maker’s assistant in the aforementioned shop, this coming Friday during the afternoon.
Go alone.
An official notice printed at the very bottom of the page informed me that the message could be erased with soapy water and the ribbon sold back to the local Avian Post loft at a rate of one penny per inch.
John Farthing’s warning had caused me to put the quest for the Duchess’s brother out of my mind. But with her message in my hand, questions started to return. Why had she addressed it to my female persona? The cryptic language told me that she expected it to be opened en-route. Clearly, it would have been read by the local pigeon master as he glued it to the paper. But did she fear that it would also be read by the Patent Office? Who did she believe was being spied on – herself, my brother or perhaps both? And if John Farthing had read it, what would his reaction be?
Upturning the small woollen bag, I spilled the Duchess’s remaining gold sovereigns onto the galley table and began arranging them in piles of ten. From her initial payment of seventy coins, sixty-one remained. Two coins would pay Bessie’s mooring fees for the month. Another three might keep me in coal and food during the same period, if I lived frugally. But one hundred would be needed to pay off Leon, securing my boat and my livelihood for another year. Picking up a coin and turning it in the lamp light, I wondered at man’s strange fascination for this metal.
Night conceals but twilight conceals doubly so. With dusk falling, I climbed from the forward hatch onto the crutch of the boat, face bewhiskered, enjoying the ease of movement granted by male attire. Fashions for bustles, corsets and hooped skirts would surely vanish should women experience such freedom. Even the rational dress I habitually chose did not allow me to clamber the shortcut from the towpath up the steep embankment. Dressed as my brother I took pleasure in the scramble.
Having reached the shadow of the wharf keeper’s cottage, I stood to watch and listen as was my habit. The resident tabby padded towards me from across the yard, pressing its brow to my outstretched hand, knowing me by scent. I could feel it purring as it leaned its body against my leg.
The evening air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves. A factory steam whistle sounded in the distance. Some poor workers’ shift had ended. To start one’s labours before dawn and return home after the sun had set was not a life I wished to contemplate. My frugal existence amid the peace of the cut would seem as luxury to the uncounted masses who laboured in the mills of North and South Leicester.
Loose chippings of gravel crackled under my boots as I stepped to the door which, on my knocking, was opened by Mrs Simmonds. She beamed, taking my gloved hand and attempting to pull me into the brightly lit hallway.
“Such a pleasure,” she said. “So unexpected.”
“I should not,” I said, letting the words resonate in my chest, keeping the pitch low. “I have a cold. You wouldn’t want to catch it.”
“Nonsense.” She pulled again, but I slipped her grasp and dipped into my pocket for the coins.
Her husband stepped into the hallway behind her, receipt book and pencil in hand. Where his wife’s sharp movements suggested a heron on the hunt for small animals, he put me in mind of a sleepy toad, an impression heightened by the magnifying lenses of his spectacles. I passed him the money, which he accepted with a slow nod.
“My dear,” he said to his wife, “I believe we should respect Mr Barnabus’s wish.”
“But I want him to meet our guest.”
“Nevertheless–”
“He would be enchanted to meet her. And her him.”
Mr Simmonds slipped a sheet of carbon paper between the pages and wrote out a receipt in blocky, deliberate letters. “Thanking you kindly,” he said.
His wife muttered something under her breath, then stepped back into the house. A moment later she had returned, leading her guest by the hand.
“Mr Barnabus, I have the honour of introducing you to Miss Julia Swain. Miss Swain, may I introduce Mr Edwin Barnabus.”
Julia curtsied, her eyes averted from mine. In the light of the hall, I could see she was blushing. “I was just leaving,” she said.
Mrs Simmonds smiled with the satisfaction of one whose plan has just come to fruition. “Then you must walk her home, Mr Barnabus. It isn’t safe for a young lady to be out at this time of night.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” I said.
“Then I shall accompany you as chaperone.”
Shoulder to shoulder, I would have stood two inches taller than Julia Swain, but the boots I wore had been made to include lifts. Thus I found myself looking down on her from an unaccustomed angle as we walked the road up the hill towards her house. Mrs Simmonds insisted we go ahead, though she kept close enough to be able to listen in on our conversation.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Julia said.
“Yes,” I replied.
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br /> “And November on us already. Ned Ludd Day will be here before you know it. Do you prepare through the winter or leave it to the last moment?”
“I don’t really... that is, I was brought up in the Kingdom.”
“Then you give gifts at Christmas? To your sister perhaps?”
“Indeed.”
“Surely you must have built models of the Infernal Machines or seen them smashed.”
“Never.”
“It’s hard to imagine not doing. It’s such a part of our winter. Evenings by the fire. Gluing and painting. Together as a family.” She paused for a moment as if gathering her courage, then said in an artificially casual tone: “Perhaps you could come to our house on Ned Ludd Day. With your sister of course. We would eat the feast and sing the hymns together. Then you could see Father smashing the Infernal Machines for another year.”
We walked on in silence for a while. Though I kept my gaze forward, I was able to see her on the periphery of my vision stealing coy glances in my direction. This was a meeting that should never have happened.
“How are you acquainted with Mr and Mrs Simmonds,” I asked, reasoning it would be easier to pose my own questions than to evade hers.
“My father is a registered inventor,” she said. “He has seven patents to his name. Two of them concern the steam propulsion of boats. Mr Simmonds visits on occasion to consult.”
Hearing Mrs Simmonds’s footsteps closer behind us, I turned and asked, “Is your husband a frequent visitor to the Swain household?”
She flustered and tutted as she fell back to a distance of some fifteen paces.
“This was my first visit,” Julia whispered. “Though I’ve long been intrigued to meet you, I wouldn’t have had it happen in this way. Your sister is my teacher. And yet more than a teacher.”
“She enjoys your classes,” I said.
“Don’t think too badly of Mrs Simmonds. She means well enough. She has two sons, grown and fled to Carlisle where I hear they have good jobs and families of their own. Arranging the lives of others is her small consolation.”
