Unseemly Science

by Rod Duncan

  I slipped in after them before they closed the boathouse doors.

  “She’ll be safe here,” said Mr Simmonds.

  “Thank you. But I was going to ask if you thought, while she was here, you might... mend the engine.”

  Mr Simmonds sucked his teeth. Mr Swain stroked his chin. Neither spoke.

  “You’ve each spoken of it in the past – how good it would be to see her on the move again.”

  “They say she was a fine sight,” said Mr Swain. “And I’ve seen a photograph from when she carried the post. Her paddles frothed the water to buttermilk. But to fix the engine... I’d have loved to see her running. But it’s been… how many years?”

  “Too many,” grunted Mr Simmons.

  “A boat sitting idle that long. You can’t expect it to be easy.”

  “You said her engine had been left well- greased,” I said.

  “Metal is metal,” said Mr Simmons.

  “I have money. Not a fortune. But if parts were needed... My purpose would be to steam away and hide among the waterways. She’d need to be disguised as a working boat. Perhaps it’s too difficult?”

  Mr Swain steepled his fingers “Well, having a look could do no harm. Was she built in the Kingdom or the Republic do you suppose?”

  “Kingdom,” said Mr Simmonds. “I’ll get the Imperial spanners.”

  Smoothing my skirt under my knees, I knelt by the hatch in the floor. Then bending low, I reached in shoulder-deep and felt underneath the axle to grasp my father’s flintlock pistol. It was the only possession that still connected me to my family. The emblem of a leaping hare on the stock had been fashioned from inlaid turquoise. I laid it next to me and reached below the floor again to retrieve a cloth purse. I had gained two hundred guineas through the sale of a jewel-inlaid box some months before. Most of that had been spent paying off debts. I weighed the purse in my hand, hearing the last few gold coins chink against each other.

  A flicker of movement snapped me from my thoughts. Something dark had passed outside the porthole. I held my breath, listening. There was silence, then the clang of the boathouse door and the sound of the men returning.

  Mr Swain lowered a lamp through the access hatch and clonked a spanner against the axle. “Caked with grease,” he said.

  “Is that bad?” I asked.

  Mr Simmonds tutted as he bent low, getting his head and shoulders deep into the hole in the galley floor. He sniffed noisily.

  They both got to their feet. Mr Swain brushed invisible dust from the knees of his trousers. Mr Simmonds paced the distance between the access hatch and the galley’s aft wall.

  Bessie had once been a postal boat. Workers had sorted letters and parcels as she sped through the night. The pigeonholes that lined most of my galley were testament to that past. But the aft section was different. Unlike the fine joinery that characterised most of the fittings, this had been constructed from cheap pine. Painting it over had been one of the first tasks in making the boat habitable.

  “What’s behind here?” Mr Simmonds asked, rapping his knuckle against the pine boards.

  “I think it was a coal bunker,” I said.

  Mr Simmonds pulled a face that said he disagreed.

  Mr Swain had joined him now and was running his fingers around the edge of the aft wall. “A crowbar do you think?”

  “I’ll get one.”

  I watched through the porthole as the wharf keeper hurried away. “What’s happening?”

  “Did you ever wonder why they put the aft hatch on the starboard side of your boat instead of dead centre?” He nodded towards the panel. What drove this fine craft, Elizabeth? What sent it at such speed along the waterways of our nation?”

  “Paddles.”

  “Which were driven by?”

  “An engine.”

  “Indeed, yes. And where do you suppose that engine might reside?”

  I looked to the access hatch in the floor. Bessie had been sold to me as a decommissioned hulk. I had vaguely assumed her workings were concealed below my feet. But there must have been a firebox, and that would have had to be accessible. It would also have had to be far away from the precious cargo. A conjuror’s daughter should be more interested in hidden things.

  “What you see beneath the floor is merely the drive mechanism by which power was transferred to the paddle wheels on either side.”

  The boat tilted and Mr Simmons clambered back down into the galley. I looked in alarm at the crowbar resting on his shoulder.

  “Couldn’t find a smaller one,” he said.

  “This might become a trifle noisy,” said Mr Swain. “Perhaps you’d like to wait outside?”

  “No,” I said, then seeing Mr Simmonds placing the end of the crowbar against the wall, I changed my mind. “Yes. I’d better...”

  But it was too late. My words were lost as the crowbar bit and the wood squealed like an animal in pain. Mr Simmons shifted his body around, bringing the bar level with the aft wall, levering a plank out of position. It crashed to the floor, throwing black dust into the air. A second plank wobbled for a moment then fell after it.

  The silence that followed was abrupt. I grabbed a tea towel and held it to cover my nose and mouth. But instead of backing away from the evil looking cloud, Mr Simmons manoeuvred himself level with the hole he had created, his boots crunching on the debris strewn floor.

  He clicked his tongue. “Well, look at that!”

  While I stood frozen, trying to comprehend the devastation, Mr Swain stepped forward.

  “Oh my goodness,” he muttered.

  They met each other’s gaze for a moment and then turned as one towards me. They seemed excited, I thought, but embarrassed also.

  I advanced towards the ruined end wall. At first the men just stood staring, but as I approached they parted to let me through. I had been expecting pipes and pressure gauges, but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw something so entirely out of place that at first I couldn’t resolve it. There, inside the cavity, was the torso and head of a woman leaning forwards, breasts jutting towards the light. The same black dust covered everything, but I could discern a gleam of silver on the shoulder and arm where metal showed through. In scale it was perhaps half life- size, but eerily life-like.

  “What’s... that?” I whispered. “And what’s it doing in my boat?”

  “She’s an engine,” said Mr Swain. “Or rather, an ornamental plate. The engine itself is further back.”

  “Richmond-Ellis,” said Mr Simmons.

  “Who?”

  “Not who, but what!” said Mr Swain. “Karl Richmond and Christopher Ellis set up an engine works in Coventry in 1920. They never turned a profit. Went bust... must have been...”

  “1931,” said Mr Simmons.

  “They ran out of capital in 1931. The uh... statue – that was their emblem. She’s called the Spirit of Freedom. Unmistakable really.”

  Unmistakable was one word for it. The head and shoulders leaned free from a vertical plate but lower down the figure had been rendered almost flat – the narrowing of the waist merely an outline, the navel a crescent pock mark on the metal.

  “The point is these engines are rare. And marvellously powerful for their size. And you might not realise, this one’s older than your boat. Bessie was built in... What would it have been? 1960?”

  “1962,” said Mr Simmons.

  “Precisely. So this engine must have been salvaged by someone. And they knew what they were doing, too. Richmond and Ellis weren’t great businessmen but no one’s matched the workmanship, even today.”

  “Rare as hen’s teeth,” said Mr Simmonds. “Got to be fixed.”

  The grit scrunched under my feet as I stepped back. “She’s naked,” I said.

  Mr Swain’s beard hid the colour of his cheeks, but I could see that his neck had reddened above the collar.

  “I hope you aren’t offended,” he said. “She was... that is, it was manufactured in the Kingdom. You know how those Royalists are.
Of course you do. What am I thinking? And, well... we admire her from an engineering standpoint.”

  Offended is exactly how I’d felt. Not because of the nakedness itself – I was content to see my own body or the bodies of other women when I visited the bathhouse. But this thing had been made just so for the gratification of men. And to discover that it had been hidden all these years in my home – my sanctuary.

  I shifted my gaze from its breasts to its face. For a moment I was caught by the serene expression. Ridiculously, I found myself waiting for it to blink. Whoever the model had been, she had knowing eyes. I imagined the sculptor positioning her, telling her to lean forwards, push out her chest. No doubt he thought himself master of the sitting. But that half-smile – it told a different story.

  “The Spirit of Freedom, you say?”

  “We could board it up,” said Mr Swain. “That is, if you think it improper.”

  “No,” I said. “She’s been in the dark too long.”

  Chapter 14

  A young man’s eyes are keener, far. But they will never pierce the illusion that is age itself. For none care to see what they will become.

  The Bullet Catcher’s Daughter

  Ice brought down the swelling. Mrs Swain purchased a block of it. They broke it into pieces which they wrapped in towels and packed around my foot. For two days I lay with leg raised, being fed chicken soup, which Mrs Simmonds pronounced the most strengthening of foods.

  Occasionally, Mr Swain came to sit by the sofa where I was obliged to remain. At these times he would tell me how the work was progressing and school me on the operation of the engine. He drew diagrams of the controls, making me memorise the sequence of operations to start and stop. His fingernails were blackened from grease and rust.

  “You’ll make mistakes,” he said. “It’s more art than science. But if you keep watch on the boiler pressure and the water level, you won’t go far wrong. Remember that – always watch the gauges.”

  Through long hours of waiting, I stared at the ceiling, imagining a journey south. I pictured myself dressed as a man, crossing the border into the Kingdom. Oh the sweet air of those rolling hills. I would ride in comfort along the lanes I had travelled as a child. In my mind, the May blossom was so plentiful that under its weight the branches bowed low. From South Leicestershire I would cross into Northamptonshire, passing Naseby where the old civil war was ended.

  Then on via narrower tracks until I could overlook the grand masonry of the stately home wherein lived the Duke of Northampton. It was hard to decide if it would be better to wait in a hedgerow until he passed, or perhaps climb the wall and steal inside to the place where he slept. I pictured it each way, taking time to imagine the moment when I raised my father’s gun and shot him in the heart.

  I wept as I pictured the scene because I knew it would not happen. My father had given everything to let me escape. Whilst there was a chance of living free, I could not take that step. And there was still one possibility. Julia had offered it to me before she left but I had been too stubborn to accept.

  At five in the morning on the third night of my stay, I got up and dressed in my walking skirt and coat. I packed gun, powder and shot, money, clothes and such disguises as would fit into my battered travelling case. Then, without waking my hosts, I slipped from the house and walked away from the wharf that had been my home for five years.

  By dawn I had flagged down a dairy boat. Five pence bought me a slow ride to the River Trent. There I was able to buy some simple food and wait for another boat whose captain would take passengers. I caught my second lift on a barge loaded with Bedford bricks. We chugged up the Derwent to the Link Canal. The sun had long set by the time we arrived in the city of Derby.

  “Do you know Upper Wharf Street?” I asked.

  The captain nodded.

  “Then could you tell me where it is?”

  “You’ll not be wanting to go,” he said.

  “Nevertheless – if I did, what direction would I walk?”

  He pointed along a street running away from the canal. “That’s Wharf Street. Beyond that, Upper Wharf Street. But a girl on her own shouldn’t risk it. You don’t know the creatures that sleep in the gutters there. Leave it till morning.” So saying, he gestured to the cabin of his boat and gave me a smile, unnervingly false.

  From his description, it seemed I was close, so I decided to risk it. After fifty paces, I fancied there might be feet following and thought to step back to the boat. But when I listened more closely, there was nothing to be heard but water trickling in an open drain so I pressed on along Wharf Street. However, after five minutes, I was regretting the decision. One amorous boat captain seemed a small risk compared to the various shapes that I could now see moving on the edge of my vision.

  Lamps there were, but not one of them lit. Such illumination as there was came from the half moon, which seemed to me like an axe blade. Half of the street lay concealed in inky blackness. Growls and grunts issued from deep doorways. They could have been made by animals, except that I caught the occasional word slipped in among them.

  Fatigue burned in my arm, but I lifted the travelling case higher and quickened my step. Here and there, cobbles showed through the mud and filth. Puddles of water reflected the clouds. Stepping into one, my foot had already gone ankle-deep before I realised my mistake and jumped clear.

  Ahead, I could make out a warehouse building with a quarter-circle of low steps leading to a curved door at the very corner. A single gas lamp hissed and spluttered above it. A painted sign read:

  MRS RAIKE’S CHARITABLE FOUNDATION

  Mon–-Fri 8am to 6pm

  “Pretty girl!”

  The sudden shout came from behind a water trough to my left.

  I ran the last twenty paces and yanked the bell-pull. The lamp above the door, though feeble, now blinded me to anything beyond its sickly yellow circle.

  Unclipping my travelling case, I snatched my father’s pistol from inside. The mechanism made a crisp click as I pulled back the hammer full cock. The shuffling of feet beyond the lamplight abruptly died.

  But now there was another sound – footsteps approaching from within the building. A scrape of metal on metal – a spy-hole cover being slid. Then three bolts slid one after the other. I half turned, not daring to present my back to the street. The door opened a crack.

  A woman stood within, dressed in a nightgown and cap. By the candle lantern in her hand I could make out a great length of grey hair falling forwards over one shoulder.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Let me in.”

  “It’s after hours. There’s no entrance after hours.”

  “Please.”

  “It’s not allowed.”

  “I need to see Julia Swain.”

  This time she hesitated before responding. “I can’t discuss our members. You’ll have to come back in–...”

  “There’s someone out here!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Then I need to see Mrs Raike. Tell her it’s Elizabeth Barnabus!”

  The woman seemed to be examining me through the crack. Then it closed. Three bolts scraped back into place. Footsteps hurried away.

  I pressed my back to the door and tried to peer beyond the gas-light, but found no definition in the darkness. There was a sound though – something scuffing over the cobbles, circling left. Then a figure resolved. It was a man, shambling towards me without lifting his feet. His lips were drawn back like a snarling dog. But his eyes stared blank as if he was not seeing me at all. So compellingly inhuman was his expression that it took me a second to realise he was naked.

  “Stay back!”

  My shout made no change in his expression.

  “Mother!”

  The word came grunted from the right hand side, away from the naked man. Movement flickered there on the edge of the black. I swung to face it and raised the gun as if taking aim, my finger pressed to the trigger guard. It was loaded and primed, but
a knife would have been more use. With my foot, I slid the travelling case closer to the door.

  “Strumpet!”

  My aim was wrong entirely. I spun thirty degrees and took aim again, touching the cold metal of the trigger itself. “Step into the light and say that!”

  The naked man stood staring at the wall. A string of saliva ran from one side of his mouth. He swiped a hand at the air, as if trying to hit something that was invisible to me.

  Through my back, I felt a vibration. Then there were footsteps coming at a run and the scrape of the bolts being drawn. I half-fell backwards into the building. It was the same woman as before. She dragged my case in after me and slammed the door closed. I leant against it as she locked up against whatever those creatures were.

  We stood panting, looking at each other. I now saw that her grey hair was flecked with a few strands of black. Her eyes tracked down to the gun in my hand.

  “You can have no firearms here.”

  I was reluctant to give my father’s pistol to anyone. But liking even less the thought of stepping back outside, I half- cocked it, pulled back the steel and blew the powder from the pan. The woman seemed alarmed when I held it out for her to take.

  “It’s safe,” I said.

  With the lantern raised in one hand and the gun dangling from the other, held between finger and thumb, she led me away from the door along a wide, bare corridor.

  “There were men out there,” I said.

  “Unfortunates.”

  “Then they’re known to you?”

  “At this time of night, anyone out there is a lost soul. You shouldn’t have come.”

  “One of them shouted things.”

  “The asylum is full.”

  “But the other was worse. His face... it seemed not human.”