The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter (2 page)

But as I was shaking out my long hair, the Duchess turned for a final look. For a fraction of a second she stood wide-eyed, staring at the woman I had half-revealed myself to be. Then she was gone in a cascading clatter of glass beads and the thugs were charging towards the sound.

Chapter 2

There is no more complete and satisfying way for a man to disappear than for him to have never existed.

– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

Illusion was my inheritance, fed to me on my mother’s lap as the drowsy rocking of the caravan and the slow rhythm of iron-shod hooves lulled me. It was a ripe strawberry conjured from the air, or a silver coin caressed from my soft cheek by the touch of a loving hand.

As I grew, I learned that others built lives on stuff they fancied more solid. To them, illusion was a shifting mist they wished to define or dispel. But instead of shunning us, these people were drawn to buy tickets for our shows. At first they might choose seats at the back of the tent, as if embarrassed to be seen in our low company. But night by night fascination would overcome their better judgement until they were sitting on the edge of their seats in the front row. But the harder they clung to that which they thought solid, the further their gaze drifted from the moment of the trick.

The first great illusion given me by my father was the gift of being, when needed, my own twin brother. I learned by stages to move as he moved and to look as he looked. My voice would always be the weakest part of the illusion, but even this could be covered by misdirection. At a distance of twenty paces, under the deceiving illumination of the stage lights, my friends could not tell me from a man.

Of itself that would not have been enough. To create a great illusion one must combine several tricks. And so I learned the art of the quick change, taking every movement of the transformation and rehearsing it ten thousand times until I could walk across the stage, pass behind a cabinet and without breaking stride, or so it seemed, emerge from the other side as a man. For by repetition, the workings of the clock are slowed.

Mine was a secret nurtured. I practised it in windowless rooms. Even in the Circus of Mysteries, most did not know it. There had been but seven people who held the secret. With the Duchess’s unexpected backward glance, there were eight.

The fast beat of footsteps crashed towards me from the front of the Darkside Coffee House. I repeated the mantra in my head and let my limbs follow the dance they had rehearsed. Lift. Unbutton. Swirl. Reverse the cloak. In the same movement, rip away the false coverings from my lower legs.

Breathe.

Click the release button and snap the cane into a parasol. Collapse and fold the top hat into a lady’s purse. Pull the flintlock free from its straps. Grip it beneath the table.

Breathe again.

The two thugs crashed past me, clattering the curtain, thundering out to the storerooms at the back. Thus my first thoughts were with the Duchess, fearing she’d had insufficient start to reach the border, though it must lie very close.

Then I heard the clipped footsteps of the third man approaching. Hard soles to judge by the sound. New and expensive. He drew level with the booth, but instead of following his men out through the rear, he hesitated mid-stride and turned towards me.

I felt the fear gripping at my chest.

“Madam?” he enquired, leaning forward for a clearer view in the low light.

“I want no trouble, sir.” I said, in the manner of a woman of The Backs. Hearing the tremor in my own voice, I felt certain he would also.

“Do you drink alone?”

“Would you keep my company, sir?”

“Don’t trade wordplay with me woman.”

“Then shall it be foreplay, sir?”

Beneath the table my hand shook. I placed my thumb on the hammer of the pistol, braced ready to pull it back.

“Who sat here with you?” he asked.

“A fine lady,” I said.

“And?” He tapped his cane on the table.

“And a young gent, sir. He’d promised me business but you’ve chased him away.”

The man stood tall again, drew a small cloth purse from under his cloak and shifted it in his fingers so the coins clinked within. The sound was similar enough in character to mask the cocking of the flintlock, yet not loud enough to allow the risk. I watched the purse as if transfixed.

“What did the fine lady and the young ‘gent’ speak of as they drank their coffee?”

I dropped my voice and leaned forward as if in conspiracy. “She was much insulted, sir.”

“How so?”

“I couldn’t say. But she was un-pleased to see me on the young gent’s arm.”

My voice was more level now. My heart still thudded fast but no longer jumped within my chest.

“Where is your hat, madam?” he asked. “That is not a hat.”

“They call it a fascinator, sir.”

“Then it is not a hat and you are not properly dressed.”

“It passes in The Backs.”

The thugs’ footsteps were approaching once more from the rear. The curtain clattered as they side-stepped through. It seemed the Duchess had given them a run, for there was a bitter smell of sweat on them and a stormy anger on their faces. The man in the top hat took a deep breath and half-closed his eyes.

“I fancy we have not the story complete,” he said.

“Why, it’s the truth, sir!”

“And yet...” He narrowed his eyes still further. “There is something about you.” Turning to the more muscle-bound of his thugs, he said. “We’ll need to question her more. See to it.” Then he strode away, followed by the smaller one. At the door, the barman received the purse of coins and bowed. The bell jangled and they were gone.

The remaining thug regarded me with an emotionless stare. “Up,” he said.

No time remained to think or to be afraid. I swallowed the bitter dregs from my coffee cup, then clinked it down loudly onto the saucer, cocking the pistol at the same moment.

I stood.

“Out,” he said, violence just below the surface of his voice.

Men have died for not believing a woman would shoot them in the heart. So I chose instead to press the pistol to his groin. Obligingly, he froze. Then his gaze tracked down, ever so slowly, to the weapon in my hand. His expression might have been comical, but I had no doubt he’d break my neck as quick as clicking his fingers, and with as little effort, were my aim to waver.

“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.”