The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter

by Rod Duncan

  “The door was sealed,” said Farthing. “Who is responsible?”

  “A crime was being committed,” said the man-at-arms. “The seal was already broken.”

  “Indeed?”

  “There was murder here.”

  Farthing strode into the room, stepped around the bodies of Orville and Silvan, turned slowly and looked down on Harry Timpson, now kneeling on the floor. The impresario still held a hand over his eyes. “This man is wanted for questioning by the Patent Office,” he said. “In connection with various suspected infringements. Unfortunately I have no warrant here with me.”

  He reached down, grasped Timpson’s free hand and pulled it up to smell the fingers. “He’s fired a gun. Perhaps you’ll need to question him. What’s your analysis of the murders?”

  “One killed by gun, the other by knife,” said the man-at-arms.

  “Then it seems you have your culprits. The knifeman killed this unhappy fellow and was then shot by the famous Harry Timpson.”

  “What’s your name, madam?” Farthing asked.

  “Florence May,” replied the fake Duchess, still kneeling on the floor.

  “Her father was once a bullet catcher,” said the man-at-arms. “Was helping Mr Orville – that’s this dead gentleman before you – helped him with these machines.”

  “A bullet catcher’s daughter in a workshop such as this? It seems more than a coincidence. Tell me how you came to be here, madam.”

  Orville’s head was still cradled in her lap. She looked up, from face to face, eyes red and tears still streaming. “I fell in love.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, then turned to Fabulo. “You, sir. I’ve seen you before. You’re a long way from home.”

  “Harry Timpson is the Laboratory of Arcane Wonders,” said the dwarf. “That’s always been my home.”

  “Knife throwers and acrobats are of no interest to me. Go, if these guards will allow it.”

  “I stay with Harry.”

  At last, Farthing stepped across to me. “And this is Elizabeth Barnabus.”

  “She’s the property of my master,” said Northampton’s man. “Indentured servitude in lieu of family debts. Fugitive in the Republic this last 5 years.”

  “So she must have been... fifteen?”

  “Fourteen, sir.”

  “I’m sure the Duke will be anxious to exact his five missing years.”

  Two of the men-at-arms sniggered.

  “However,” Farthing continued, “For Elizabeth Barnabus there is a yet more daunting fate. I have here a warrant for her arrest. She’s wanted in connection with patent crime. She’ll be accompanying me.”

  “But she belongs to the Duke.”

  “Indeed you are correct. And once I’ve finished with her, if she is to be released, I’ll inform you of the place and time, in accordance with the relevant laws and treaties. But the Patent Office has precedence over the individual laws of any nation. I’d be grateful for the loan of the irons. You wouldn’t want her to escape any more than I would.”

  Farthing accepted the key from Northampton’s man, then pointed to the machine, which lay on the floor where I had left it. “One of you take this to the carriage.”

  Chains clanking, I followed Farthing towards the door. Behind me, the woman I had known as the Duchess of Bletchley called out.

  “Elizabeth, I’m sorry.”

  Chapter 39

  Gold is the only measure of your art. If your purse is heavy, then the illusion was good.

  – The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  We sat in silence as the carriage carried us along the main drive, away from the hall, and out through the gates. Dawn was spreading across a sky that promised rain. Orville’s machine lay between us on the floor.

  Farthing caught my eye. “We’re clear of the Duke’s lands,” he said.

  I rattled the iron manacles. “And?”

  He raised a hand to his mouth and coughed. It was the same gesture he had used to cover his amusement on our first meeting.

  “You’re enjoying my discomfort,” I said.

  “A little,” he confessed. Then he reached forwards with the key and slotted it into the iron collar, which released with a sharp click.

  I threw it off, letting it drop to the floor. Then I rubbed my wrists and neck, trying to be rid of the feeling of it. “I take it my message reached you.”

  “Thank you. Yes. The pigeon master woke me.”

  “So you have your machine. And you agree to my deal?”

  “Your ‘deal’ has no basis in law. But my office wouldn’t benefit from your imprisonment.”

  “When did you get the warrant for my arrest?”

  “I’ve been carrying it since Sleaford.”

  For a moment neither of us spoke. The carriage swayed. I watched the fields and trees passing outside the window.

  “From the start I thought you honourable,” he said. “I’m happy to be proved right. But I’m still not sure why you chose to help.”

  “Honour had nothing to do with it. I knew Timpson would tell Northampton where I was heading. It came to me that I could play the same trick on him – by telling you.”

  “We’re no one’s toy, Elizabeth.”

  “Your faith amazes me.”

  “And your attitude...” He sighed. “Can’t we talk of something else?”

  “Very well,” I said. “What of Harry Timpson?”

  “When we reach the next post house, I’ll send word for a warrant to be drafted. Though I fear I’ll be too late on that score. I don’t think Bletchley’s men are up to the job of holding him. There aren’t many locks he couldn’t pick.”

  “The machine blinded him,” I said.

  “The dwarf will be his eyes. But don’t worry. He’ll be too busy lying low to give you trouble.”

  I stared at the box on the floor, wondering that something so small could cause so much sorrow. Or perhaps it was not the thing itself, but what people believed it to be. Orville and the bullet catcher’s daughter had fallen in love. Such was the gulf in station that divided them, they could never have married. That was what had driven him to try to overturn the social order.

  It was a long time before Farthing spoke again, but when he did his words carried a weight that made me meet his eyes. “Agents of my office are supposed to be detached from emotion,” he said. “But I must confess, I’ve failed in that respect.”

  After everything that had happened in the last few hours, I was unsure whether he was speaking some great truth or merely having fun at my expense. “What feelings?” My words sounded harsher than I’d intended.

  Whatever he had been trying to express, the moment seemed to have passed. He turned and stared out of the window. “Many different feelings. My distaste for Timpson is one example.”

  “I have feelings also,” I said. “An agent of the Patent Office destroyed my family. I want you to know that.”

  “The Duke of Northampton destroyed your family.”

  “The corrupt agent was his tool.”

  “If you have proof–”

  “Five years have passed. There’s no chance.”

  “I’d help.”

  But I could see from his sadness that he knew the truth. No organisation relishes the prosecution of its own. The Patent Office would bury my claim in a mountain of paperwork, even with the idealistic John Farthing as my advocate.

  “I want you to destroy this machine,” I said.

  “That’s all I’ve been trying to do since we first met.”

  “Then search Orville’s workshop again. The chemicals that drive it are hidden in the fireplace.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps our goals aren’t as different as you think.”

  We crossed at a small border post west of Leicester, the guards lifting the barrier as soon as they saw the Patent Office emblem that Farthing held out of the window. I was not mentioned, nor were my papers asked for.

  I made him stop the coach half a mil
e short of the wharf.

  “You don’t wish to be seen with me?” he asked.

  “Bad for business,” I said.

  “I thought it was your brother’s business.”

  “I help out from time to time.”

  “So I’ve seen. I’d very much like to meet your brother.”

  “He wouldn’t show himself.”

  Farthing seemed affronted. “With the recovery of the machine, there’s no active investigation into his case. His troubles are over.”

  “Indeed his troubles are not over!” I said. “The Duchess wasn’t a Duchess, so there was no money. Her advance is all used up. And if we don’t make payment our boat will be taken.”

  His face flushed then, and he began to feel in his pockets. “I don’t carry enough money to–”

  “Stop! I wouldn’t accept a hand-out.”

  “I’m sorry that you–”

  “But,” I interjected, “I would ask if the thing your office was so bent on recovering is only the machine?”

  “The... the machine. Of course.”

  “Then anything else, you will have no power to impound.”

  “That’s true.”

  “In which case, I’d like to take the box.”

  “The box?”

  “The box the machine sits inside.”

  Clicking the catches, I opened the lid and lifted the mechanism out. He turned the empty box, knocked on its side panels, its lid and its base, checking for any trick or secret compartment.

  “The inlay is silver,” he said at last. “And I fancy the stones may be diamonds. It’d sell for a good price. But if you tell me it belongs to you–”

  “It does.”

  “–then there’s no power that I have as an agent of the Patent Office to stop you taking it.”

  Chapter 40

  It is in our faults and failings, not in our virtues, that we touch each other, and find sympathy. It is in our follies that we are one.

  – Edgar Allan Poe

  At first I imposed on the hospitality of Mrs Swain. She told me that the appeal at the Patent Office Court had found in her husband’s favour. Then she questioned me for many hours about the fashions of London and the architecture and the food and all the other important details Mr Swain had thoughtlessly omitted from his message.

  Julia and her father returned two days later. It was a reunion I had been dreading. At first she would not meet my eyes but gave polite greetings to me and hugged her mother.

  “It’s time I was heading back to the wharf,” I said.

  Mr Swain coughed meaningfully. “See your friend home, Julia.”

  Neither of us spoke on the path back towards the cut. We reached the boathouse and I was about to step inside when she said, “Your brother was real to me, Elizabeth. You’ll think me foolish, but I’d imagined... I’d imagined a future with him. I understand how it happened. And it wasn’t your fault. But when I knew the truth it felt like he’d died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Then I hugged her. She was crying. And then so was I.

  “I’ll promise to tell the truth – if that’s what you want.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Knowing things and not being able to tell – it’s a burden. The bigger the secret–”

  “But I want to know!”

  “Then we should start as we mean to go on. I’ve something to tell you.”

  She broke the hug and stepped back to search my face.

  “Tomorrow I have a risky venture,” I said. “If I get it wrong, I’ll lose my home. It’s a wager of sorts. Would you care to help me?”

  I was not present on the afternoon of January the first, when Leon arrived, accompanied by a magistrate and a crew of five strong men armed with axe handles and crowbars. Seventy foot of empty space on the wharf marked the place where Bessie should have been.

  Leon threatened. The magistrate invoked the powers invested in his office and told everyone who would listen of the penalties that could be visited on those who obstructed the law. No one hindered. Nor did they cooperate. Thus it took an hour for Leon to find the locked boathouse, where Julia stood barring the way, her arms folded.

  The magistrate rumbled through his speech again, whereon Julia demanded that Mr Simmonds be shown the warrant papers. Leon accused her of trying to waste time – which was precisely true. But the magistrate informed him that Julia’s understanding of the law was correct. No entry could be forced without the owner having had the chance to read the papers.

  Then, with Leon’s blood pressure rising and his men looking dangerous, she demanded that a copy of the original contract be produced. No sooner was this in her hand than Leon shoved her out of the way. The small crowd of boat families that had gathered hissed and booed at this. But Leon had his eye to the edge of the boathouse door and could see Bessie through the crack.

  He ordered his men forward, crowbars at the ready. They were about to wrench the hinges when Mr Simmonds produced the key.

  None of this I saw for myself. While Julia had been pitting her bravery against Leon’s threats, I had been running from the road where a steamcar had just dropped me. Disguised and dressed as a man, I could take the direct route, scrambling down the embankment.

  On approaching the wharf, I could hear the shouts of protest from the crowd. Then I saw the boat families being pushed aside as the thugs forced their way through. Leon turned and saw me. His choirboy face broke into a grin.

  “January’s here,” he said.

  “Wait–”

  “You lost the wager.”

  The magistrate cleared his throat. “Mr Leon, are you invoking clause nineteen of this contract of sale?”

  “I am.”

  “Is it your assertion that Mr Edwin Barnabus, being the second party mentioned therein, is in breach on the grounds that he has failed to pay your company Leon and Son Holdings Limited, the sum of one hundred guineas that fell due at noon on this day?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you further assert that this is the boat named in the contract?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I, standing witness to your statements and to this contract, forbid any here present to interfere with your seizure of said boat.”

  Leon stepped heavily onto Bessie’s aft deck and tested the padlock. Then he grabbed a crowbar from one of his men and slammed the end into the hasp. There was a splintering of wood and a squeal of metal as he wrenched the hatchway open. “The boat’s mine,” he said.

  I gripped the boathouse door to steady my dizziness. “No!”

  Everyone turned to look at me as I began to advance. I felt blindingly aware of every movement. The crowd parted to let me through.

  “Do you have a complaint?” asked the magistrate.

  “I do.”

  “You dispute the contract?”

  “No.”

  Leon jeered. “Losers always whine.”

  I pulled out a receipt and passed it to the magistrate. “I made payment today. Five minutes before noon. He’d left the office already but his son was there to receive it.”

  “This does seem to be in order,” said the magistrate, examining the signature and stamp on the bottom of the paper.

  Leon swore. A woman in the crowd covered her ears.

  “There’s always next year,” he said. “Or the year after that. You’ve not won.”

  Julia held the copy of the contract above her head. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice coming out as a squeak.

  I heard because I had been waiting for her to intervene. But it took a moment before other heads started to turn towards her.

  “Mr Leon isn’t correct,” she said. “He broke into this boat under a false claim. He said the payment hadn’t been made, when it had.” She passed the contract to the magistrate. “You were a witness to that.”

  The magistrate glanced from the document in his hand to the crowd of onlookers to Leon and then back to the document again. “I... yes. Tha
t is technically–”

  “Mr Leon has broken the terms of the contract.” Julia’s voice was becoming stronger as she grew in confidence. “That means Mr Edwin Barnabus, being the second party, owes nothing more. Not now. Not ever. The boat belongs to him!”

  “Clause nineteen,” said the magistrate. “I’m afraid what she says is true. It cuts both ways.”

  I’d never seen a face turn truly purple before that day. Indeed I thought Leon might be having a heart attack as his men helped him up the embankment. I could not find it in myself to hope otherwise.

  Within a week Bessie was out of the boathouse and moored on the wharf once more. With new curtains tied back and a pleasant smell of linseed oil from the glazier’s putty still hanging in the air, I carried the teapot to the table and sat myself opposite Julia.

  “I received a kind letter yesterday,” she said.

  “I trust all the letters you receive are kind.”

  She pulled a face, but I could see she was pleased about something. “Who was this letter from?”

  “Do you remember the young lawyer outside the courtroom, who so kindly offered his help?”

  “How did he find your address?”

  “I... that is, I’d felt it proper to write thanking him for his kindness.”

  “Did you indeed? And what does he say in response to your thanks?”

  Blushing now, she pulled a folded sheet of paper from within her sleeve. I opened it out on the table and read.

  “He admires you, Julia.”

  “No. You think?” Julia was stirring the milk into her tea so vigorously that some of it slopped into the saucer. “When we met him, I was so preoccupied with anger that I... I may have acted in an unladylike manner.”

  “You mean you slugged a man-at-arms?”

  “Is it possible,” she asked, “that having seen me behave in such a muscular fashion, a gentleman might still think kindly of me?”

  “To judge by the letter, I believe the way you acted may have made a very favourable impression indeed.”

  A brisk knocking on the hatchway broke into the pleasant silence that had settled on us after our tea.

  “Miss Barnabus? Are you home?”