‘No doubt for private art lessons!’ said Emily.
‘I left a note under the door apologising for being a little abrupt, and inviting Muriel to the circus matinee the following Saturday. On the Friday a letter arrived saying that she would be delighted to go to the circus with me. I saw her lots of times after that, mostly on the railway platform at Balaclava. I would get off on the way home from school, and we would spend the time together holding hands until the next train, then I would go home. I thought our misunderstanding had been resolved.’
‘I warned you about those artists!’ said Emily sharply.
‘Just vanishing and leaving a note is the coward’s way,’ said Liore.
‘Typical artists,’ added Emily.
‘Ya got any more sketches?’ asked Barry.
Liore had another ten sketches. The dates on them spanned a two week period, the last being the 27th of May. Fox did appear to have been doing some genuine artwork along with whatever else had transpired between him and Muriel. One of the sketches was only the size of a postcard. Muriel was posing in a feathered hat, with a fencing sabre held jauntily over her shoulder. Daniel stared at it for a long time.
‘Emily, could I have some hot chocolate and shortbreads?’ he asked with a very slight grin.
‘Oh, Daniel, wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you were going to do something stupid like die of a broken heart.’
As soon as he heard Emily’s shoes clattering down the stairs, Daniel held out his hand to Liore.
‘Could I have the little sketch?’ he asked.
‘Why torture yourself ?’ asked Liore.
‘Yeah, I’ll take the lot off ya hands for a guinea,’ said Barry.
‘All I have of Muriel are the two strips of her petticoat that she used to bandage you and me after the fight to save parliament. The picture is more substantial.’
‘I ask again, why torture yourself ?’ said Liore.
‘One pound ten, that’s me final offer,’ added Barry.
‘To remind myself that I once had a sweetheart all to myself.’
‘Take them all,’ said Liore, handing the sketches to Daniel.
The sketches were safely under Daniel’s mattress by the time Emily returned. Daniel drank the hot chocolate listlessly, then dutifully finished all six shortbreads that she had brought on a plate.
‘You should get on your telegraph thing and tell Fox he is a scoundrel, a cad, a bounder and a deserter,’ Emily told Liore as Daniel munched.
‘Fox left his radiocomm here,’ said Liore, holding both units up for Emily to see.
‘How’s a raddycom work without wires?’ asked Barry.
‘It’s a Marconi wireless,’ said Daniel.
‘What would you know about things that have not even been invented?’ snapped Emily, forgetting to be sympathetic to her brother by sheer reflex.
‘We learned about Marconi wirelesses in school,’ said Daniel. ‘By using them, two people can speak to each other at great distances.’
‘Radiocomms can also locate each other,’ said Liore, holding the units up again. ‘On the battlefield it is useful.’
‘That weapon thing’s more of a worry,’ said Barry, gently steering the conversation to his own agenda. ‘Wot if someone ’alf inches it?’
‘Half inches, no target,’ said Liore.
‘Pinches,’ explained Barry.
‘Steals,’ said Daniel.
‘That’s wot I said. Anyway, I reckon ya could start a war with that thing. Probably win it, too.’
‘A security pad locks the weapon,’ said Liore. ‘No clearance, no shot.’
‘Wot ya mean?’
‘Liore’s weapon will not activate unless she touches the pad,’ said Emily, who had once been cleared to use the weapon. ‘It can recognise people who are allowed to use it from the touch of a finger.’
‘What if ya finger’s blown off ?’ asked Barry.
‘Barry!’ shrieked Emily. ‘What a thing to say.’
‘Any part from my body activates it,’ said Liore. ‘Even blood or hair will do. It scans for my DNA.’
‘DNA?’ asked Barry.
‘Future discovery,’ replied Liore.
‘I think the future should be left alone,’ said Emily firmly.
That terminated the discussion, but Barry had comprehended just enough to make himself dangerous. He already knew that the weapon recognised who was allowed to use it, but now he knew how that was done.
A piece of Liore, thought Barry. He could demonstrate the weapon to Luker the Lurker. Luker would then introduce him to someone who knew the king. Gettin’ a piece of Liore’s the problem, though.
Liore left, saying that she had other matters to attend to, and Emily went downstairs with her to see her to the front door. Now that they were alone together, Daniel picked up a pencil and opened his address book.
‘Barry, where were you when Mrs Baker gave Muriel’s address in Paris to Liore?’ he asked.
‘Outside, mindin’ the bike.’
‘So you don’t know it?’
‘Nah, but I seen it.’
‘Where?’
‘On the envelope wot the nude piccies were in, down on one corner.’
‘Liore took the envelope with her … but I wonder …’
Daniel took out the sketches and examined them carefully, then rubbed at a corner of one sketch with the side of the pencil’s lead. The address appeared as white letters on a black background.
‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Barry. ‘That’s one trick I gotta remember. Oi, but yer not gonna write to her or nothin’, are ya?’
‘Write, oh no,’ said Daniel. ‘Writing to Muriel is the last thing on my mind.’
Any bit of her body, Barry thought as he rode the delivery bike back to North Brighton Station. Needn’t be attached, neither. Wot’s a bit of body? Fingernails? Snot? Hair? Hair!
Barry remembered the comb on Liore’s chest of drawers, but it had been as clean as new. The floor of her room had been swept, and even the wastebasket had been empty.
I bet the tidy baggage cleans her place every friggin’ mornin’. Oi, now there’s an inspirational. Where’s the rubbish go? The dustbin? Yeah!
The sixth of June was the next moonlit night on which there was a garbage collection. The moon rose at 9 pm, and was nearly full. Barry was ready with the station bike as the first moonlight glowed from the eastern horizon. Minutes later he was in Keys Street, where Liore lived.
Rubbish bins stood outside each house for the collection the following morning. Barry rode up and stopped outside number eight. To his relief, the dog had decided that the night was too cold to be on patrol, and was nowhere to be seen. Taking a potato sack from his bag, he removed the bin’s lid, decanted the entire contents into the sack, then rode away with the sack balanced in the delivery basket.
He made straight for North Brighton Station, where he emptied the sack onto the mail room floor.Mostly it was kitchen scraps and other household rubbish, but something else stood out. There were seven little packets of newspaper, all neatly wrapped and tied with string. Barry unwrapped one. It contained dust, crumbs and a few strands of hair. The boys at university wore their hair fashionably long, and Liore had grown her hair out to look like one of them. The strands were the right length for Liore’s hair, and when twisted together they were also the right colour.
Blow me down, so the murderin’ baggage does clean her place every day, thought Barry as he unwrapped the next packet.
Soon he had enough for a thin braid of Liore’s hair, along with the pile of reeking garbage. He burned what he could in the station’s fireplace, then carried the rest a short distance along the railway tracks and dumped it into the grass. The mail room continued to smell of kitchen refuse, so he left the door open while he fanned the air with some newspaper. Finally he locked the door, made up a mattress of mail bags, pulled a blanket from under the counter and settled down for the night. His father had rooms above a nearby shop, but made Barry sleep
at the station to deter thieves.
By the moonlight streaming through the window, Barry carefully wound the strands of Liore’s hair into a braid as he lay there, then fashioned this into a ring that fitted over his right thumb.
‘Reckon you’re a bit of Liore,’ he told the ring of hair. ‘Reckon you’re gonna make me Sir Barry Porter, richest knight in the empire.’
Chapter 2
TRAVELLER
Because Barry was so very frightened of Liore, he decided to let some time pass after stealing Mrs O’Brien’s garbage. Each day he lived in fear of Liore arriving at the station and threatening to kill him, but she did no more than buy a ticket for Flinders Street. Slowly Barry’s courage returned, but it was still two weeks before he approached her house again. This time he was far better prepared. He bribed the watchdog with a cream bun, picked the lock on Liore’s door, and let himself in. By now he had been studying her movements at the railway station very closely, and knew when she took the train to go to university lectures. As he entered the room his heart was pounding so loudly that he thought the landlady might hear. The place was still meticulously clean and orderly.
That’s how the bagman likes it, he thought as he looked about, locking the room’s layout into his mind. Neat is easy to remember.
A quick search of the drawers and cupboard revealed nothing that would be out of place in mid1901. Next Barry set to work on the trunk. This time he was more familiar with the brass padlock, so he had it open sooner. The weapon was still within, along with two uniforms, a tiny medical kit, the small, smooth black thing that was Fox’s radiocomm, some papers written in a code that he did not understand, and two pairs of boots. There was nothing that looked as if Liore would need to use it every day.
Putting on a pair of gloves that he kept in his bag, he noted the exact position of the weapon, then lifted it from the trunk. It was not as heavy as he had expected. He saw that it was switched off, because the little red light was not glowing. Barry removed a glove and touched his thumb to the security pad, as he had seen Liore do. The recessed red light did not come on. Barry put the ring of Liore’s hair around his thumb and touched the pad with it. This time the red light glowed into life.
‘Man o’ mine, Barry Bagman!’ he exclaimed, then remembered where he was. Nobody came to investigate his cry of triumph, however, not even the dog.
Barry now pushed the door open, raised the weapon and looked through the gunsights. The magnified image of the top of a distant gum tree presented itself as a suitable target. He gently pressed the firing stud. There was a sharp, shrill squeak. The tree’s crown gave a little flash, then flames burst out amid the leaves.
‘Barry boy, have you got a deal for that king or wot?’ he whispered with satisfaction.
Again Barry pressed the ring of hair against the pad, and the light winked out in its little recess. He put the weapon in his bag, locked the trunk, checked that everything was precisely as he had found it, then stepped out, locking the door behind him. He had reached the front yard when the dog looked up, failed to recall who Barry was or that he had just given him a cream bun, and charged him with a barrage of barks. As Barry vaulted the front gate he heard the dog’s jaws click shut, but it was on space that he no longer occupied. He set off along the street, but the neighbours were looking at the burning tree so nobody paid him any attention.
After all the trouble he had taken to steal Liore’s weapon, Barry had been expecting at least a little awe and respect from Luker the Lurker when he put his bag down on the café table and opened it. Luker looked into the bag, frowned, then turned to Barry.
‘That’s no gun,’ he said.
‘Yeah it is,’ said Barry, throwing caution to the wind and lifting the weapon out.
Luker peered at it. A few other patrons glanced at it as well, decided that it looked like part of some steam engine, and went back to their own business.
‘Two barrels got glass in ’em, there’s no trigger and there’s no stock,’ said Luker. ‘Did you pay some cove real money for this?’
‘Luker, man o’ mine, this is a very special gun,’ said Barry, putting the weapon back into his bag. ‘Come outside. I’ll show ya.’
‘Shove off, I’m havin’ a coffee.’
‘But I gotta demonstrate it to ya.’
‘Do it here.’
‘I can’t. All these people will see.’
‘You mean all these people will see it do nothing.’
Barry was almost frantic. Every moment spent arguing with Luker the Lurker was a moment less before Liore returned to her room. Barry knew that he could stage a spectacular demonstration of the weapon’s power within the café, but then rumours would quickly spread that Barry the Bag had a fantastically powerful weapon. Liore made it her business to keep track of unusual rumours.
After considerably more pleading, and finally offering Luker half a crown if the weapon did not work, Barry and Luker emerged into Acland Street. They entered a lane, and Barry took the weapon from his bag.
‘This better be good,’ said Luker.
‘Trust the bagman,’ said Barry, slipping the ring of Liore’s hair onto his thumb and touching the security pad. ‘See that streetlamp?’ he said, pointing at a cast iron gaslight lamp in Acland Street. ‘What about it?’
Barry pressed the firing stud as he waved the barrel in the general direction of the gaslight. There was a flash high on the cast iron stem of the pole, then the top four feet toppled and fell to the gutter with a loud crash, spraying broken glass all about. The white hot edge of the severed metal ignited the gas that now gushed free, sending a long tongue of yellow flame into the air. Women screamed, men shouted, horses reared and bolted, and every dog in the street either fled or began barking. Nobody thought to glance down the lane.
‘Bleedin’ hell!’ exclaimed Luker. ‘Even a new Lee-Enfield couldn’t do that. Give it here, you little pisser.’
Barry backed away, the barrels pointed at Luker. Remembering what had just happened to the gaslight, Luker stopped and raised his hands.
‘Now just you listen,’ Barry warned. ‘This thing can blow up a train, an’ it did.’
‘Blow up a train? You mean that wagon in Albury last month?’
‘Yeah, yeah. There was secret spies. They used this.’
Luker considered the situation carefully. Again, what Barry was saying had an oddly genuine feel to it, and the proof was pouring flames into the air out in Acland Street.
‘Righto little bagman, what’s your terms?’
‘You just tell someone wot knows the king about this implemental. Tell that king that it’s ’is in return for rekkypense of expenses incurred by a loyal subject. That’s two hundred quid.’
‘You didn’t spend two hundred quid stealing this!’
‘The king’s not gonna know that, Luker, matey. Oi, make that two-fifty, then it’s fifty for you.’
Barry was the only person not crowding about to view the broken, burning gaslight as he got back onto the station bike. Half an hour of frantic pedalling had him back at Liore’s place in Keys Street, and this time the dog was nowhere to be seen. He entered very quietly by the side gate and wheeled the bike up the path. In the backyard he saw Wellington chewing on a large bone. Being a little deaf, the dog did not turn around as Barry set to work picking the lock on Liore’s door. Once safely inside the room, Barry picked the padlock on the trunk, then replaced the weapon. He was outside again and had just locked Liore’s door when Wellington stood up, looked about for somewhere to bury his bone, and spotted him.
Barry tried to ride down the side path while Wellington ran beside him, barking furiously and snapping at his legs. Barry raised his legs to the handlebars, then noticed that he was rapidly approaching the front gate. The bicycle collided with the gate and Barry fell on Wellington. The dog yelped, then ran back up the side path with his tail between his legs. Having reached the backyard, the dog turned around to bark at Barry, who had the side gate open and was wheeling the b
ike into the street. By the time Mrs O’Brien came out to see what the dog was barking at, Barry was around the corner and pedalling down Union Street, swearing to himself that next time he would bring two cream buns and a bone to keep the dog occupied.
It was not often that Daniel’s father called a family meeting. Outwardly he was the head of a very conventional household, but in fact his wife’s family had most of the money and all of the authority in his business. Most of the time she was happy enough to let him run things, but when he failed in something important she took over at once. Because he had failed so spectacularly in the matter of Daniel and his obsession with Muriel, Mrs Lang had sent numerous telegrams to her relatives in England. They decided what was best for Daniel, and Mr Lang was told what to announce.
‘My boy, we are seriously worried about you,’ said Mr Lang, standing with his back to the living room fire as his wife, Daniel and Emily sat in a semicircle around him. ‘It has been six weeks since that, that girl saw fit to abandon you, yet still you are moping. I am informed that you are failing all your tests and essays at school after being top of your class. This is simply not good enough.’
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ said Daniel, staring past him into the fire.
‘Well, it’s too late for regrets now. There is a school in England named Harlingford. It specialises in tutoring the sons of gentlefolk in preparation for university.’
‘You plan to send me there next year, Father.’
‘Well, plans change. Because of all your moping, your mother and I have decided that you need a regime of hard work and discipline at once. You are booked to sail for Britain on the steamship Andromeda in six days. Harlingford should have you prepared for Oxford University as early as this time next year.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ said Daniel listlessly, feigning that he did not care what he was being told. All the while his heart was pounding with excitement.
‘You will have a first-class cabin all to yourself,’ said his mother. ‘This will be a wonderful and exciting adventure. It will change your life forever.’
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