The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter Read online

  “Out,” I whispered, stepping forward, forcing him back towards the curtain of beads. In another two steps we were through and into the dank air of a storeroom. Of the room, I could see nothing save the pale rectangle of a second doorway some paces ahead. I accelerated towards it, pressing the muzzle hard into his flesh, not giving time for him to think of feinting left or right. The floor here was soft, uneven. He stumbled, just keeping his balance, as I pushed him backwards, through into a flagstone yard.

  The privy stank, in spite of the cold. Brick buildings with overhanging roofs loomed all around. There would be narrow walkways near, some crossing the border to the Kingdom, others doubling back towards the Republic. I had no means of keeping the man off his balance for long enough to find my way.

  I accelerated again. Trying to match me, he tripped and thudded back onto the damp stones, the breath knocked out of him. I was on him before he’d had a chance to inhale, my pistol close to his face.

  Of the secret knot-craft of the escapists, I knew but a little. Enough, though, to secure a man’s hands tight behind him in a loop of his own belt. “Take down your trousers,” I hissed.

  His eyes flicked to the turquoise inlayed stock of the gun in my hand. “That’s a pretty thing. I’ll point it in your pretty face one day. Then we’ll see what you’ll do for me.”

  I don’t know if it was fear or anger that made me act. But I found myself shoving the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth and heard the grinding crack of metal against tooth.

  Chapter 3

  No matter what they or the law may say, there are people who want their money taken.

  – The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  Bessie was once a hub ship of the Grand Union Letter and Parcel Distribution Company. Seventy feet of perfectly blacked iron hull, topped with a coal bunker and three narrow cabins that served as mobile sorting office and administrative base. Paddle wheels to port and starboard propelled her forward, while smoke and steam thundered from her tall brass funnel, flared gracefully at the top.

  Then, in the Anglo-Scottish Republic’s 155th year, being equivalent to 1973 in the Kingdom of England and Southern Wales, the Grand Union Letter and Parcel Distribution Company transferred the last of its network to airship and the fleet of narrow boats was sold at auction. Most were as good for bulk haulage as they had been when new and found eager buyers in the Bedford brick works to the south and the Staffordshire potteries to the north. But the hub ships, with their ornate oak-panelled sorting rooms lined with pigeon holes, each engraved with the name of a different parish, were good for no such industrial function.

  When I first saw Bessie, her metalwork was tarnished and moss grew thickly in cracks on the deck. The hull rested low and lopsided in oily water. Yet, her simple lines seemed beautiful to me. Even before I saw the nameplate, I felt kinship.

  On the morning after my escape from the two thugs and the gentleman in the top hat, I woke late. Sensing the strength and height of the sun through the curtained porthole over my bed, I rose quickly, pulling a pair of stockings from one of the pigeonholes on the wall. Then, from a wardrobe that must once have been an office cupboard, I selected a lavender grey blouse. The accompanying skirt, whilst unfashionably narrow in profile, allowed me the freedom of movement needed by one who must climb on and off a houseboat many times each day.

  With the kettle rumbling on the stove in Bessie’s galley, I brushed and gathered my hair, applying a touch of powder to cover the redness of a graze on my brow. I must have caught myself on something during my flight, though I’d not been aware of the injury at the time.

  In the distance I could hear the reedy notes of a concertina. The wife of the coal boatman was taking her morning break. She would have been up for hours already. I pulled a face at my reflection in the hand glass, concluding that the illusion of demure respectability would pass.

  Thus arrayed, I emerged into the thin winter sunlight and looked down the cut to the other narrow boats moored aft to stern along the length of the wharf. My own small deck being clear of dew, I perched myself on the steering seat, placing my cup in its chipped saucer on the roof of the cabin and the Duchess of Bletchley’s crisp ivory papers on my lap.

  There were two reasons to believe her Grace would sever our brief relationship. First was the sudden and brutish interruption to our meeting. What sort of dangerous business must she think I dabble in to have such men on my heel? Second was the revelation that the man she had thought to commission was in fact a woman.

  Unfolding the first of her papers, I re-read the message that had tempted me to our gloomy rendezvous in The Backs. The paper itself hinted at wealth. The message mentioned a missing person but did not indicate that any help had been sought from the constabulary or men at arms, from which I surmised some family shame or illegality must be involved.

  When shame and wealth combine, money is always spent. My need on that account being so desperate, I had been tempted to the meeting despite its irregularity and possible danger.

  Next I turned my attention to the fold of paper which the Duchess had carried concealed in her glove. In grade and texture it was identical to the letter. I raised it to my nose and inhaled the subtle suggestion of an expensive perfume. On unfolding it the previous night, I had expected to read an address. Instead I’d found the name of an institution.

  Harry Timpson’s

  Laboratory of Arcane Wonders

  Now, in the clear morning light, I experienced the same pang of excitement that had accompanied the first reading. I touched the words on the paper and wondered how much the Duchess knew of my past.

  Lost in thought, I did not hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Startled by a sudden rustle of fabric close behind me, I stuffed the papers into the sleeve of my blouse.

  “Miss Barnabus,” came a brittle voice, “is your brother available this morning?”

  Taking a deep breath to calm the thudding in my chest, I stood, adopted a passable smile and then turned to face the woman who had addressed me from the towpath.

  “Mrs Simmonds, you gave me a start. A delightful start, of course.”

  “That’s as maybe. But is your brother in?”

  “He’s sleeping. I daren’t wake him.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I trust our mooring fees are paid Mrs Simmonds.”

  “Your brother is punctual, Elizabeth. Mr Simmonds and I have no complaint on that score. Never had. Not from our first meeting him. Though I did question the wisdom of having an intelligence gatherer living on our wharf. Yet he has made no trouble.”

  I lowered my gaze and made a slight curtsy. “Shall I pass my brother any message?”

  “No,” she said. “I will speak with him myself the next time I visit.” She wrinkled her nose, as if deciding whether to mention some small unpleasantness. “You are a lucky girl to have a brother who honours his duty so. With the unfortunate circumstance of your parents.”

  “Yes, Mrs Simmonds. Thank you.”

  She peered at my ankle boots, the scuffed toes visible beneath the hem of my skirt, then at my hair, as if searching for something specific to criticise. Her gaze shifted to my sleeves and her frown deepened. I glanced down and was alarmed to see a corner of the Duchess’s papers protruding over the back of my wrist. Quickly, I covered it with my other hand.

  “We worry for you,” she said at last.

  “There’s no need.”

  “Mr Simmonds mentioned his concern to me at breakfast this very day. It seemed to him, and I agreed, that your brother may not have the time or the expertise to invest in your... problem.”

  “My problem?”

  “Acquiring a husband, Elizabeth. My goodness, girl, of what other problem should you be thinking?”

  Several answers occurred to me, but I clenched my jaw and thus my mouth stayed firmly closed.

  Leon had the face of a choirboy – a rosy complexion, a mop of flaxen hair and puppy fat around his cheeks. It was his eyes that ruined the suggestio
n of innocence. They flicked from the contract to the safe in the corner of his seedy office, to my face, to my chest then back to the contract, always calculating.

  “The payment isn’t properly due for two months,” I said, touching the small bag I had placed on the desk between us. It contained a couple of gold coins but mostly silver, the very last of my savings.

  He shook his head. “I’ll see you in January, then. And bring the right money next time. This is a mile short.”

  “I thought perhaps we could agree an alteration,” I said. “I could pay twice a year. Or monthly if you prefer.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “There’d be more money in it for you. And it would help us greatly. My brother’s clients have been few this year.”

  He leaned back, tipping his chair, his knee jiggling with excess energy. “There’s money in it alright. You got two months to get the hundred guineas. If you don’t, I take the boat.”

  “But I’ve come early to negotiate. My brother would see that you’re not out of pocket.”

  A grin began to form on his face. “It’s a wager, girl. He bought the boat from me. He pays the instalments and he keeps it. But break the terms and he takes the forfeit. It’s all in the contract.”

  “But I thought–”

  “Losers always whine. It’s business. He should have read the contract.”

  He fished in a jacket pocket for his pipe and pouch then busied his hands charging the bulb with tobacco. His eyes flicked from the worn desktop, to my blouse, to the grimy window glass then back to my blouse again. Through the wall I could hear the chinking of bottles from the public house next door.

  I pulled the contract towards me across the scratched veneer, turning it to read. It was a single sheet, big as a newspaper, marked with a grid of fold lines. I ran my finger down its numbered clauses, searching for anything that might suggest a way out. I could think of no means to gather the hundred guineas in time, unless it be from the Duchess’s commission. That now seemed a distant possibility.

  There was a soft gurgling as Leon sucked at his pipe, a match held to the tobacco. “Knew you’d never pay,” he said, speaking smoke.

  “We still have time.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “There are still two months.” I shivered, as if the long shadow of the workhouse had touched me already.

  “She’s a pretty boat,” he said. “Now you’ve fixed her up nice for me.”

  I returned to the wording of the contract, searching the clauses on repayment and boat seizure. “If it’s a wager, there must be a way for you to lose.”

  “Nah,” he said. “No point in me drafting a contract like that.”

  Chapter 4

  Grind salts of potash with your gunpowder to affect a muzzle flash of violet colour. Copper salts make a turquoise flame, whilst calcium yields brick red.

  – The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  On the first of November, being three days after my encounter in the Darkside Coffee House, the mild westerly wind backed to a north easterly. The mercury fell and the first thick fog of winter spread its tendrils to swirl around Bessie’s portholes. In an effort to drive out the chilling damp, everyone who could so afford shovelled more coal onto the fire. Smoke rose from chimneys all over the city. Thus the fog thickened, becoming oily and sulphurous.

  In a pea-souper everything seems to stop. Blanket-wrapped, I huddled next to the stove, sipping cup after cup of weak tea. Afraid that ice might be forming around the hull, I would from time to time shift my weight from side to side, listening for that tell-tale crackling in the inky water. In such a state, I pondered with increasing desperation the urgency of securing a new commission.

  Against all odds I had for three years managed to eke out my living as an intelligence gatherer. Against the law also, for the ownership of businesses in the Republic is the preserve of men. It was Bessie that made this precarious existence possible. If I lost her, I would be forced to seek a shared room in a tenement. From such a place, it would be impossible to lead my double life. The spiral of poverty would surely suck me down.

  Leon would theoretically require a court order to repossess the boat. That might take a couple of weeks from my failure to make payment. Longer even at this time of year, since all business runs slowly in winter. But more likely, I’d find myself confronted by a crowbar wielding mob, before which it would be hard to argue the finer points of law.

  Under a bright sun I might have been able to banish such thoughts. But in the fog they festered.

  It was the faint scuffing of shoes and a gentle movement of the boat that told me someone had climbed up onto the aft deck. Few would venture from their homes in the penumbral gloom of the fog. For a second, the ridiculous thought came to me that the Duchess of Bletchley might be outside, a purse of gold in her hand. Then a knuckle wrapped on the hatchway and my mind jumped to darker possibilities. I found myself glancing at the galley knives above the sink.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “Will you let me in?”

  Recognising the voice, I hurried to slide open the bolt.

  “Julia.” I took the young woman’s hand and pulled her inside, quickly closing the hatch behind her. “You’re half frozen, girl. Get by the stove.”

  “Don’t fuss. It makes you sound like my mother.”

  The layers started to come off, scarf and bonnet first, revealing an eighteen year-old with blonde hair and an impish smile. Her cheeks were always flushed when she visited. I believed this came not from the cold but from daring excitement. In crossing the threshold of my floating home she was stepping off the narrow path that good Republican society had set for her.

  “What possessed you to leave the house?” I asked.

  “It’s Thursday,” she said. “I always come on Thursday.”

  Time had drifted for me under the fog. “Has your lesson come round already? I’m surprised your parents allowed you out with the weather like this.”

  “They don’t know exactly. But Mother gets so unreasonable when she’s cooped up. I just had to escape.”

  Only now as Julia hung up her coat did I see that she had been carrying a small bag next to her body. From it she drew my leather-bound copy of The Intelligence Gatherer’s Guide to Legal Process.

  I opened the stove and tipped the coal scuttle, building the fire up in honour of my guest.

  “Won’t your mother be concerned if she discovers you’re not in the house?”

  “She thinks I’m in bed.”

  “And if she were to call you?”

  Julia huffed. “I left a note on the pillow. Please let’s not talk about it. I came here to get away from all that.”

  “I thought you came here to learn the law!”

  Two years ago Julia had persuaded her parents to take me on as a tutor. I believe they agreed in order to discourage her interest in the law. They’d surely drawn a connection between my unorthodox home and the fact that my brother was a private intelligence gatherer. We were living proof that dabbling in the law and criminal detection yielded no good fruit. My youth and lack of training were clearly a bonus to them. Innocent of my secret life, they believed such insight as I possessed must come from books alone. And if my shortcomings as a teacher failed to discourage, the Spartan conditions of our floating classroom would surely do the trick.

  Perhaps Julia’s mother still clung to that hope. Her father had long since realised how spectacularly the plan had failed.

  I set the kettle on the stove and selected teacups from a pigeonhole. My student paced, running her thumb over a line of carved parish names on the wall: Sproxton, Garthorpe, Buckminster.

  “What have you studied since last time?” I asked.

  She dropped herself onto the bench next to the galley table, opened the book at a marker and read the chapter heading. “The Interception of Communications.”

  “The whole chapter?”

  “Twice. But I’m still puzzled. Is it legal to shoot do
wn a pigeon or is it not?”

  “Legal. If the bird is wild.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Any pigeon flying at night must be owned,” I explained. “Night flight isn’t natural. The birds that can do it have been specially bred and trained by the Avian Post.”

  “And in the day?”

  “You would need to check for a ring on the leg.”

  “But you can’t. Not when it’s flying high in the air.”

  “I suppose not–”

  “In which case, one should never shoot them down. Day or night!”

  I watched her leaf through the pages until she came to the heading she was looking for. “Why is there a section on shooting pigeons?”

  I sat myself next to her and angled the book to read. “I’d forgotten that was in here.”

  “It recommends buckshot,” she said, accusingly.

  I did not share Julia’s cornerstone belief in the crisp perfection of legal process. Thus our conversations often came to this point. “It is a... practical guide,” I said. “Our world is coloured in shades of grey.”

  Julia was frowning. “The law keeps us from such uncertainty. If you want to see society without it, look beyond the borders of the Gas-Lit Empire! Would you have us live like that?”

  “You can’t conjure an argument about the entire civilized world based on the few failed states that lie beyond it! Extreme cases make bad examples.” I took a breath to steady my voice, the pitch of which had been rising.

  The kettle began to whistle, giving me the excuse to leave the table and busy myself with pouring steaming water into the pot. “We shouldn’t confuse the ideal of the law with its application. That’s all I’m saying.”

  I looked back at her and saw that she was stealing a glance up the gangway towards the sleeping cabins. When I sat once more she leaned in close and whispered.