The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter (6 page)

We were rising steadily. Within half a minute the air terminus seemed no more than a collection of greenhouses. I smiled to see a flock of crows passing below us. The maid opposite me got up and pulled the leather strap to raise the window glass and the breeze in the carriage died. There was a shiver in her arm as she re-seated herself.

“Have you flown before?” I asked.

“She has not,” replied the elderly lady on her maid’s behalf.

“Some are nervous on their first flight,” I said.

The lady’s back stiffened. “
We
are not afraid.”

Such was the force with which she spoke the word “we” that it seemed to be a benediction designed to encompass all the occupants of the carriage. I had to restrain myself from thanking her.

“But to fly above the birds,” I said. “A little fear would not seem unnatural. Were one prone to such emotion.”

The lady dabbed a handkerchief to her lips, from which I took it that the conversation had come to an end.

Far below us, smoke from uncounted chimneys clung to the earth. Of the sprawling suburbs I could see only the tallest factories. This seemed strange to me as I had not considered the morning to be particularly foggy. From this height, the four great gasometers that supplied North Leicester appeared to be a cluster of barrels floating in a wide grey sea.

A shrill cough drew my attention back to the lady opposite.

“Lower instincts are ours to conquer,” she said.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“I am referring to fear. We are not like the animals, Miss...?”

“Miss Barnabus,” I said.

“Animals have only lower nature. We can rise above.” She raised a hand to indicate increasing elevation. It was a gesture patronising and comical in equal measure.

The young man across the aisle put a hand to his mouth and feigned a cough, though not quickly enough to completely mask his grin. I took an instant liking to him.

The lady turned to him. “You are spreading rheum around the carriage, sir. There are ladies present!”

His brown eyes caught mine for a moment. I felt sure he had seen the same amusement in me that I had detected in him.

“What is your business in Sleaford?” the lady asked me.

“To seek out the graveyard where my grandparents are interred,” I said.

She nodded her approval. “And where will you be staying?”

I informed her I hoped my brother had found a bed for me at an inn or hotel near the air terminus. At this she tutted.

“Your parents approve of this arrangement?”

“My parents are no longer with me.”

“Then you will stay with me,” she announced.

“I cannot accept,” I said. “To burden another with my keep – that, my parents would never have allowed.”

She frowned. “Then take my card. If trouble finds you, and at the inns near the terminus it is not unlikely, then you must come to me.”

Clear of the city air, I could now make out green fields and drifts of bare trees below. The beat of the engine had picked up in speed, sounding almost as a low hum. Cloth flaps behind the propeller now shifted sideways and the carriage began to lean to the starboard side as we turned. I fancied we were drifting lower also. The tops of the trees, being closer, seemed to slip past at greater speed.

“We’re descending to catch a more favourable wind,” said the man across the aisle. His voice was deep and carried an American lilt.

“The wind is less favourable up here?” I asked.

“See the vents?” he said, pointing to the engine, from which smoke and steam blew once more. “When the pilot wants to carry us higher he pulls a lever and diverts the waste gasses through a heat exchanger, then out through the tailpipe at the back. That gets the canopy hotter and makes us more buoyant. But when he wants to drop to catch the wind lower down, he puts the lever back and lets the exhaust blow from the engine. That way the canopy can cool.”

I watched him as he gestured forward and aft to illustrate his explanation, noticing that his facial hair had been cropped so short as to seem little more than stubble. Though unusual, I found the effect not entirely unpleasing.

The elderly woman angled herself towards him a fraction, yet refrained from turning her neck to look him square in the eye. “Young man,” she said. “Have you been introduced to this lady?” Hardly waiting for him to respond, she continued, “Then please keep your observations to yourself.”

“It happens we have been introduced,” I said.

“Then perhaps you would see fit to inform me of the gentleman’s name?”

“Farthing,” said the man, rescuing me from my lie. “John Farthing.”

“I’m grateful for your presence,” I said to the lady. “It permits Mr Farthing to sit here and talk with me. I’d not known he was to be travelling in the same carriage.”

“It still seems improper,” the woman muttered, though with less steely conviction.

“I’m grateful also,” said John Farthing, flashing me a smile so warm and open that it seemed improper. I told myself that it was the American way and hoped my blush did not show.

All the while, the lady’s maid sat biting her lower lip, her face turned to the window. I found myself suspecting that she had perceived more than her mistress had from the exchange.

The rudder veins twitched and shifted, bringing us lower still as we neared our destination. At last the engine became so slow that I could make out each blade of the propeller. We inched forwards, the mooring ropes dragging below, escorted by pairs of ground-crewmen.

Whereas Anstey is a place of pilgrimage for devout Republicans and a nexus of communication, Sleaford is a sleepy market town. The terminus consisted of two mooring pylons, a small stretch of grass and a wooden ticket office little bigger than a garden shed. Streets of meanly appointed houses crowded on every side.

Being close to the mooring points, I braced myself for a juddering stop. But the engine fell silent, the propellers came to rest and the ground crew guided the ropes the last few feet, bringing our journey to the gentlest possible conclusion. With a set of iron steps manoeuvred into position below us, the carriage doors opened.

Taking a deep breath of the Lincolnshire air, I felt a thrill of excitement. After weeks of helplessness, it seemed that my future might be about to pass back into my own hands.

How is it that the very port of entry into any town or city is invariably its worst introduction? So it was with Sleaford. The streets immediately outside the terminus could not have been more than seven paces from gutter to gutter. Red brick houses of a shoddy disposition crowded to either side; their roofs overhung the uneven pavements. The smoke of many winters had darkened the walls and a greasy pallor coated the small windows.

The taxi driver who hefted my cases also carried a gnarled walking stick. This he raised to scatter the professional beggars and hopeless street drinkers who approached, pale palms upturned.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, turning the valve to let steam into the pistons of his car.

“An inn,” I said. “Or a hotel if you please.”

“There are many in Sleaford,” he said.

“Will any of the cheaper ones pay you a fee for bringing new custom?”

“Well...” he began, somewhat abashed. “There might be one.”

“That will do then. If it’s reputable.”

He pulled the lever to engage the flywheel and the car juddered away. Gazing out of the side window, I let my eyes scan the bills and advertisements pasted haphazardly over walls and lamp posts, searching for any sign of Harry Timpson’s name.

“Thank you, miss,” said the driver, out of nothing.

Having cut through a street so narrow it seemed the taxi might become wedged, we emerged on an up-market thoroughfare with pots of flowers dotted along a wide promenade. There would be no daybills in this part of town. For the time being I gave up my search.

Presently the driver turned the wheel and we pulled up outside the overhanging portico of the Modesty Hotel. As I handed over the fare he said, “It’s nothing special but the beds are clean. Ask for Alf. Tell him Joe brought you. He’ll see you right.”

Alf it was who carried my cases to the room. He nodded at the mention of my driver’s name. Joe was his second cousin, he said, though they were more like brothers on account of having been raised by the same grandmother. He then hobbled off, returning minutes later with a tray of bread, pickled cucumber and ham, together with a glass of brownish coloured wine.

“Any time you need service just call,” he said. “Day or night.”

From which I took it that my tip had been over generous for these parts.

The streets where bills might be posted being unsuitable for a single woman of good reputation, I had need of my brother’s assistance once more. Therefore, having closed the wooden shutters and turned up the gas lamp, I drew a keychain from around my neck and unlocked the smaller of my two cases.

The arrangement within would have been familiar to any travelling performer. A small mirror on the inside of the lid revealed my face. Sewn pockets to either side held the pots of pigment, powder and glue, false sideburns, eyebrow hair and moustache with which I would transform myself.

Two layered trays occupied the body of the case, each divided into compartments containing male clothing, neatly folded or coiled. I made my selection, laying each item on the counterpane.

Stripped to my chemise, I began to wrap myself in a plain cotton binding cloth; one time tightly around the chest, holding in and flattening my mercifully small breasts, then more loosely around my belly just above the hip, filling in the hollow of the waist. The effect was precisely the opposite of my corset. One distortion of shape was being exchanged for another. Having lived with both disguises since puberty neither binding seemed strange to me.

Anticipating no need for a quick-change getaway, I did not clothe myself as I had for my visit to the Darkside Coffee House. Rather than false trousers that merely covered my lower legs, I could wear the real thing. Thus I dressed in all the layers with which a man would be familiar, from socks and boots to starched shirt and jacket. Of my female clothes I retained only the chemise, the innermost layer. I watched the transformation in the small mirror on the inside of my case, the makeup, false hair and top hat creating a new person before my eyes.

With the case packed away and the bed made up to seem as if a woman might be lying asleep, I turned off the gas and stood by the door in darkness, listening. Outside, the town clock struck five.

A set of back stairs took me to a tradesman’s entrance unseen. Then via a cobbled rear yard and a narrow jitty I picked my way back to the busy thoroughfare. Ah, the advantages that men enjoy without even knowing. I strolled towards the front of the Modesty Hotel receiving no judgement or second glances.

The lamplighter had done his rounds already. Light shone also from the windows of shops. Enough to see by, but not enough for my real face to be perceived under the disguise. Thus I could stand as if waiting for some prearranged meeting. Turning slowly, I examined the doorways and windows on the far side of the street, the places I might have chosen had I wanted to keep watch on the hotel. Finding nothing out of place, I glanced into the lobby. And there, tall before the reception desk, looking out at the street, stood John Farthing, the same man who had provided such fine entertainment on the flight. I could not see his Gladstone bag, though he still wore the Homburg.

What slim chance of fate had put us in the same hotel? Perhaps my momentary conflict of emotions had shown, for he looked directly at me. I let my gaze slide past him as if idly taking in the details of the lobby. Then I checked the time on my fob watch and turned to go. Five doors along, I paused as if diverted by the display in a shop window. Under this pretence, I snatched a look back towards the hotel, confirming that John Farthing had not followed. I felt relieved, but not entirely so. No intelligence gatherer is happy with a coincidence.

Cutting away from the main street, I entered a narrow way of cafes and eateries, the tip of my cane tapping on the uneven cobbles.

“Eels and oysters, sir,” called a restaurant barker. “The freshest in Sleaford.”

The next establishment boasted finest Lincolnshire plum bread. After that were a tavern, from which the din of a lively crowd drifted, a goldsmith, a gentlemen’s barber and the offices of a public notary. Smells of food mixed in the chill air, and though I had eaten, I felt hungry again.

At the mouth of this street there might have been space for two carriages to pass, but it narrowed and darkened as I progressed so that after fifty yards any driver might fear scratching his paintwork against the walls. The further I walked from the main thoroughfare, the more bills and advertisements I found pasted. In places they lay on top of each other several sheets deep, smoothing and obscuring the contours of the bricks beneath. I scanned advertisements for “Liver Tonic”, “Fossop Lamp Mantles co.”, “Marmite Spread” and “Manchester Brass Cleaner”. Not finding what I sought, I strolled on, deeper into the warren.

Here lampposts were covered also, and the doors to rear yards and walkthroughs. Were the bills not scraped off periodically, it seemed the town might one day be lost under paste and cheaply printed paper.

It was not until I began to peel back the layers that I had my first sight of the great Harry Timpson. In the fifty years since he gave his name to the Travelling Laboratory of Arcane Wonders his image had become famous throughout the Republic. Though he must now be an old man, it was the same youthful picture, magnificently moustachioed, that peered out at me from a torn daybill.

The Great Harry Timpson,

~ explorer, scientist, emeritus professor ~

is proud to offer a very final viewing of his famous Laboratory of Arcane Wonders. His last ever tour of the Anglo-Scottish Republic presents the culmination of his life’s work, a collection the like of which has never before been assembled. Exotic beasts and men, arcane engines, impossible magic, controlled explosions and a demonstration of the alchemic process whereby base metal is transmuted into gold before your eyes.