by Rod Duncan
It was through a servants’ door at the rear that we entered, stepping from the chill damp of the night into the dry cold of a boot room that seemed to have been long unoccupied. Striking a lucifer, Farthing lit a storm lantern and held it high.
I followed close behind as he walked along a corridor. Shadows swung as we progressed. Through open doorways I glimpsed a scullery, a pantry, a kitchen. Then we emerged into a grand hallway and a sudden warmth.
Though I had not witnessed any sign of occupation when standing outside, I now saw a crack of light under the door opposite.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“No one.”
“Then what is it for?”
“For the work of the Patent Office.”
“But how can...?”
“You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them.” So saying, he rapped a knuckle on the door.
I had never seen a room like the one into which we stepped. In scale it fitted the grandness of the house. Ornate plaster coving edged an exuberantly painted ceiling depicting Jesus watching Saint Peter haul in a net laden with fish. The gold leaf of their haloes shone in the lamplight. The religious theme and conspicuous excess dated the room to before the British Revolutionary War.
A generous fire burned in the stone fireplace opposite me. Book cases lined the other walls. Only when I glanced up and around did I realise why the place made me feel so uneasy, for it was entirely devoid of windows.
Stepping forward I took in the seating. Six leather wing-backed armchairs arranged in a horseshoe, and a seventh chair placed at the focus of the others. It was towards this that Farthing directed me. Only when I took my place did I see the room’s sole occupant – a gaunt and deeply wrinkled man with such a sunken frame that he had been hidden within the embrace of the armchair.
“Miss Elizabeth Barnabus,” Farthing announced from behind me.
The fact that he had not himself taken a seat gave me no comfort.
The gaunt man smiled encouragingly. “You are brother to Mr Edwin Barnabus?” Coming from such a desiccated figure, the voice resonated with a surprising volume.
“Who are you?” I asked, hoping my own voice did not betray the dread that had started to replace my anger.
“A servant of the Patent Office,” the wrinkled man replied.
“I’m Elizabeth Barnabus,” I said.
“And your brother?”
“I haven’t seen him since arriving in Lincolnshire.”
Behind me, John Farthing cleared his throat. “He was in the lobby of her hotel. And asking to see her.”
The skin of my arms and the back of my neck prickled as a sweat started to break.
“What do you know of your brother’s business?” the wrinkled man asked.
“He finds information,” I said. “And people.”
“For whom?”
“For paying clients.”
“And who is presently paying for his services?”
I hesitated, but not for more than half a second. In all likelihood this was information they already possessed. “He’s in the employ of the Duchess of Bletchley.”
“Indeed?”
The wrinkled man’s eyes flicked to where Farthing stood. Being such a slight movement, I might have missed it altogether. But danger sharpens the senses and speeds the mind.
“How did he contact her?”
“By letter, though it was the other way around. She contacted him.”
“Just that?”
“I believe perhaps they met,” I said.
“And your brother took an accomplice with him to that meeting?”
“I know of none.”
The wrinkled man waved his hand in the direction of a low table near one of the book-lined walls. Farthing hurried to it and retrieved a green metal box of the sort shelved in the strong rooms of banks. Returning to my side, he opened the lid and tilted it for me to see the contents. A flintlock handgun rested on the velvet lining. The wooden stock carried the emblem of a running fox inlaid in turquoise. It was unmistakable. It was one of a kind. My father had given it to me on my twelfth birthday. And it should by rights have lain snug in its hiding place strapped to the underside of Bessie’s iron boiler.
The room seemed to sway. I gripped the arms of the chair tighter, willing my panic away.
“Your brother’s accomplice carried this gun, or one so alike they might have been twins.”
I stared but did not speak.
“Interesting, yes? A crime was committed with this gun. It was thrust into the mouth of a man. He feared for his life. One of his teeth was broken. His possessions were robbed. You understand? And that man being in the employ of the Patent Office at the time brings the crime within our jurisdiction.”
“I don’t believe...” I began, but my mouth was so dry that I was forced to stop to allow saliva to return. “...he wouldn’t do this.”
“It was not your brother, but his accomplice.”
“He has none.”
“You claim he always works alone?”
“To my knowledge, sir.”
The wrinkled man pressed his hands down on the arm rests of his chair and levered himself into a standing position. He approached with a stiff gait, as if the movement brought him pain. Reaching into the box he picked up the gun and turned it in his hand, running an arthritic finger over the turquoise design.
“An interesting weapon,” he said. “Turkish perhaps? Or Persian. Old, certainly. We have an interest in non-standard weapons. Perhaps you knew this already?”
His eyes were on me as he turned the gun. There could be no adult within the borders of the Gas-Lit Empire who was unaware of the penalty for patent crime involving weapons. Or that the case would be tried by the Patent Office’s own judges and the punishment carried out by their own executioners. I forced my breathing to slow.
“Our clerks have examined it – the metallurgy, the bore, the lock – nothing is quite as it should be.”
“Is it illegal?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
He replaced the gun in the box. “Perhaps not,” he said. “It could be argued either way. Lawyers do as they will. But there are no patent marks. The product of an unlicensed workshop, I imagine.”
Farthing closed the lid. “Miss Barnabus admits a family connection to a travelling show,” he said. “Such weapons are common among circus folk.”
“Common is hardly the word,” said the wrinkled man. “Turquoise. There is silver here. And other metals, I’m told.”
“I meant non-standard weapons,” Farthing said. “The travelling people have a fondness for craftsman devices. The lack of a patent mark is only a crime should the device be sold.”
“It seems Miss Barnabus has no need of a lawyer then, with the astute John Farthing speaking on her behalf!”
I could not see Farthing’s reaction, as he was already carrying the box back to its resting place on the table.
“Do you trust him to defend you?” the wrinkled man asked.
“Me? I thought it was a mysterious accomplice that you’d accused.”
His mouth curled into a half-smile. “I do believe you may be as elusive as your brother. But then you are twins. What else would we expect?”
The air became dank as we descended into a vaulted cellar lined with empty wine shelves. From there John Farthing led me into a wide corridor with three cell doors in a line down one side.
“It’s the law,” he said, without conviction, as he ushered me into the furthest cell.
The door closed behind me. The bolt clanged outside. I listened to his footsteps receding, waiting until the sound had disappeared before testing the handle. This I did quietly, for I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing my inevitable failure.
Measuring three paces by four, the cell was furnished with a metal bed, on which lay a mattress some three inches thick, two folded sheets, three blankets and a towel. A small table stood against one wall. On it rested a water jug, a basin and a bar of grey so
ap. I found the chamber pot on the floor in the corner. Being below ground level, there were no windows.
Placing the oil lamp on the table, I tried to focus my attention on the mundane act of spreading and tucking sheets. It must have been the small hours of the morning but my mind raced from one dark future to another. When eventually I slept, it was to a dream of fleeing across ploughed fields, and though I could not see or hear my pursuers, I somehow knew them to be close behind.
On waking, I discovered a plate of bread and ham resting on the flagstones next to the door. Also a bottle of weak red wine and a pewter cup. Pushing the small recessed panel at the base of the door, I discovered a fraction of an inch of play. It would have slid all the way to the left but for some catch mechanism or bolt on the outside. Thus, I reasoned, no one had entered the room as I slept. This knowledge gave me some small comfort. However from that time, I took to leaving the oil lamp on the floor in front of the sliding panel.
I was awake to hear the approaching footsteps when my next meal arrived. A bolt clanged. The small panel slid. I glimpsed a foot shifting and a knee coming to rest on the floor. The brittle movement suggested my gaoler was an elderly man.
Perhaps taken aback by the proximity of the lantern, he did not immediately reach through to retrieve the empty plate, but lowered himself until he could peer through. Lying dead still on the bed beyond the immediate illumination, I must have been invisible to him. There was a pause then a second plate of food scraped over the stones through the hole and the panel clanged closed. I was alone once more.
Bread and cheese this time.
After the third meal, I had lost any sense of day or night, and began to worry that my lamp might run out of oil. Unscrewing the filling cap, I reached my little finger into the well and found it more than half empty. With the wick turned down, it might last me as long again. I checked the oil often after that, its level becoming my only tangible measure of the passage of time. And as I sat, looking at the blank walls, I thought about my small travelling case.
There could be no doubt that John Farthing or one like him would be sitting in my room at the hotel, waiting, crossbow pistol at the ready, perhaps in the dark, listening in vain for the return of my non-existent brother. Eventually he would search. And when he did, my case would yield up its false hair, adhesive, skin pigments, male clothes and binding cloth. I had many dark feelings regarding agents of the Patent Office, but there was no doubt regarding their collective intelligence. In that small travelling case lay the history of my escape from the Kingdom and the secret of my double identity in the Republic, should they wish to read its contents.
What then?
Indeed, what had caused the Patent Office to take an interest in me? Not the heirloom pistol, surely. Not my status as a fugitive from the Kingdom. You may think me a fool when I admit that it was only now, with the lamp wick turned so low that the walls faded from sickly yellow to dark grey, that I perceived their interest might be more with the Duchess of Bletchley than with myself. Or, indeed, with her missing brother. But why they would seek to question me rather than approaching her, I could not understand. There can be no one more conspicuous than an aristocrat of the Kingdom, and therefore, no one easier to find.
The next time I slept it was without dreams. I woke in complete darkness, for the lamp had at last run out of oil. A noise had woken me. Being thick with sleep, it took several seconds before I understood that I was hearing booted feet approach along the corridor. The bolt clanged. The door swung open and dazzling lamplight flooded in.
I held a hand up to shield my eyes.
“Miss Barnabus,” came John Farthing’s voice from behind the lamp. “We must go.”
He stepped back into the corridor and I could at last see his face. Frown lines creased his forehead, and I wondered whether he carried bad news. Or perhaps my unkempt appearance and the smell of the chamber pot had disgusted him.
“Where now?” I said, surprised at the dry sound of my voice. How long had it been since I last spoke?
“To the hotel,” he said.
I held my hands out in front of me, wrists together. “You wish to shackle me?”
“I’ve treated you with respect,” he said.
“You may as well lead me into that place in chains as expect me to walk into the lobby in this state.”
We sat side by side as the carriage took us back to Sleaford. Farthing’s only words were to the driver. He had from somewhere acquired a lady’s hair brush and allowed me time with a hand glass, so that when we stepped down to the pavement in front of the hotel, it was only my crumpled clothing that drew curious glances.
Farthing walked with me to the reception desk. “Is Miss Barnabus’s room still held?”
“Yes sir,” the receptionist said, passing him a key, while taking in my dishevelled appearance.
Farthing placed the key in my hand. “She was taken away on urgent business these last two days,” he said. “Please send a girl for her laundry. She’ll need a hot meal also.”
At the foot of the stairs, I turned to face John Farthing. “I’m free to go?”
“You are.”
“You needn’t accompany me further.”
“I would like the opportunity to explain,” he said.
“You’re going to tell me why you held me? How many days was it? I still don’t know. Once the oil in the lamp ran out I was in darkness.”
He winced. “Sometimes all our liberties must be curtailed for the good of the common man.”
I turned on my heel and began to climb the stairs, aware that he followed. Aware also that the receptionist watched with a disapproving frown. Perhaps he did not notice what he was doing to my reputation. Perhaps he did not care. He was still with me on the second floor, a pace behind as I unlocked the door to my room.
“Goodbye sir. I hope I never see you again.”
I did not turn to speak these words, but stepped directly inside and made to shut him out. His hand stopped the door from closing.
“I need to explain,” he said.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Some things I can’t say. But others I feel honour-bound to tell you.”
So vividly was I aware of everything around me at that moment, every sound and movement and smell and nuance of light and shade, that it seemed the room began to spin. Perhaps this was a reaction to release from my confinement. But it seemed to me at that moment as if I stood at some sort of crossroads, where all possibilities were open and waiting for my decision.
My eyes flicked to the wall behind the door, the place I had left my travelling case so thinly disguised. The embroidered cloth that had covered it rested back in its place on the low coffee table. Of my case there was no sign.
Farthing stepped into the room. “You think we’re tyrants,” he said. “I know this. But believe me when I tell you that agents of the Patent Office have no motivation save the protection of the common man.”
“You live in poverty?” I asked.
“We sacrifice much.”
“You go hungry at night?”
“This isn’t what I want to discuss.”
“You’re fined and forced into debt?” I asked. “Your family ruined?”
“I have no family!”
“Then you’re free from pain.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“But you’re not listening to me!” I shouted, turning away before the tears began to spill down my cheeks.
“I wish you to pass a message to your brother, wherever he’s hiding. He isn’t important to us. But the man he seeks... this is different.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“The man we seek has created a dangerous and unseemly device. It’s patent crime of the first order. Tell your brother that according to the law, to withhold information from our investigation is the same as to be a conspirator in the act itself. He’ll know the penalty.”
Chapter 10
Nothing excites a crowd more tha
n seeing a man who they have already witnessed making a mistake going on to attempt the bullet catch.
– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook
After Farthing had left, I stripped down and washed, scrubbing the cloth over my skin to remove every trace of the unlit house. Then I dressed in clean clothes and took a brush to my hair once more. Anger at my enforced confinement had kept other reactions at bay. But now my fury began to cool. I held my hand in front of my face and saw that I was shaking.
A gentle tapping triggered my heart to a double-time beat.
“Room service,” came a voice from the other side of the door.
My hand hovered near the bolt.
“It’s Alf,” the voice said. “I have something for you.”
I pulled back the bolt.
He stood in the corridor with a tray of food and drink. Beef and potatoes and carrots and gravy and a pot of mustard. A bottle of ale and a glass. I took the tray from him, my mouth too dry to voice thanks.
“I have your case, miss,” he whispered. “Beg pardon, but I took the liberty of removing it after you were taken. Men came to search. I hope I didn’t do wrong.”
The next morning, I took a sheet of the Modesty Hotel’s embossed notepaper and wrote:
Dear Lady,
Having pursued your brother to Sleaford, where I believe he stayed some two weeks gone, I find I am no longer able to continue with your commission. I would be grateful if you could let me know where to return the fee (minus those expenses already incurred).
Yours faithfully,
E Barnabus
P.S. On leaving Sleaford, I believe your brother headed west.
I wafted the paper in the air until the ink had dried, then folded it into a hotel envelope on which I wrote; “The Duchess of Bletchley, Buckinghamshire”. Though I did not know the street or town, I felt confident the Royal Postal Service would find her easily enough.
Such is the speed of air travel and the efficiency of its integration with other modes of transport that I was able to jump down from a steamcar taxi that very evening and, with the aid of the driver, haul my cases along the short stretch of towpath to Bessie’s aft deck.