The Hidden Family (10 page)

He signed. “Guilty as charged. If you aren’t French, are you sure you aren’t a Black Chamber agent playing a double gamer’

“What’s the Black Chamber?”

“Oh.” Abruptly he looked gloomy. “I suppose I should also have sold you an almanac.”

“That might have been a good idea,” she agreed.

“Well, now.” He brushed papers from the piano stool and sat on it, opposite her, his teacup balanced precariously on a bony knee. “Supposing I avoid saying anything that might incriminate myself. And supposing we take as a matter of faith your outrageous claim to be a denizen of another, ah, world? Like this one, only different. No
le Roi Française
, indeed. What, then, could you be wanting with a humble dealer and broker in secondhand goods and wares like myself?”

“Connections.” Miriam relaxed a little. “I need to establish a firm identity here, as a woman of good character. I have some funds to invest—you’ve seen the form they take—but mostly … hmm. In the place I come from, we do things differently. And while we undoubtedly do some things worse, everything I have seen so far convinces me that we are far,
far
better at certain technical fields. I intend to establish a type of company that as far as I can tell doesn’t exist here, Mister Burgeson. I am limited in the goods I can carry back and forth, physically, to roughly what I can carry on my back—but
ideas
are frequently more valuable than gold bricks.” She grinned. “I said I’d need a lawyer, and perhaps a proxy to sign documents for my business. I forgot to mention that I will also want a patent clerk and a front man for purposes of licensing my inventions.”

“Inventions. Such as?” He sounded skeptical.

“Oh, many things.” She shrugged. “Mostly little things. A machine for binding documents together in an office that is cheap to run, compact, and efficient—so much so that where I come from they’re almost as common as pens. A better design of brake mechanism for automobiles. A better type of wood screw, a better kind of electric cell. But one or two big things, too. A drug that can cure most fulminating infections rapidly and effectively, without side effects. A more efficient engine for aviation.”

Burgeson stared at her. “Incredible,” he said sharply. “You have some proof that you can come up with all these miracles?”

Miriam reached into her bag and pulled out her second weapon, one that had cost her nearly its own weight in gold, back home, a miniature battery-powered gadget with a four-inch color screen. “When I leave, you can start by looking at that book. In the meantime, here’s a toy we use for keeping children quiet on long journeys where I come from. How about some light Sunday entertainment?” And she hit the “start” button on the DVD player.

* * *

Three hours and at least a pint of tea later, Miriam stepped down from a hackney carriage outside the imposing revolving doors of the Brighton Hotel. Behind her, the driver grunted as he heaved her small trunk down from the luggage rack—”if you’re going to try to pass in polite society you’ll need one, no lady of quality would travel without at least a change of day wear and her dinner dress,” Burgeson had told her as he gave her the trunk—”and you need to be at least respectable enough to book a room.” Even if the trunk had been pawned by a penniless refugee and cluttered up a pawnbroker’s cellar for a couple of years, it looked like luggage.

“Thank you,” Miriam said as graciously as she could, and tipped the driver a sixpence. She turned back to the door to see a bellhop already lifting her trunk on his handcart. “I say! You there.”

The concierge at the front desk didn’t turn his nose up at a single woman traveling alone. The funereal outfit Burgeson had scared up for her seemed to forbid all questions, especially after she had added a severe black cap and a net veil in place of her previous hat. “What does milady require?” he asked politely.

“I’d like to take one of your first-class suites. For myself. I travel with no servants, so room service will be required. I will be staying for at least a week, and possibly longer while I seek to buy a house and put the affairs of my late husband in order.”
I hope Erasmus wasn’t stringing me along about getting hold of a new identity,
she thought.

“Ah, by all means. I believe room fourteen is available, m’lady. Perhaps you would like to view it? If it is to your satisfaction…”

“I’m sure it will be,” she said easily. “And if it isn’t you’ll see to it, I’m sure, won’t you? How much will it be?”

He stiffened slightly. “A charge of two pounds and eleven shillings a night applies for room and board, ma’am,” he said severely.

“Hmm.” She sucked on her lower lip. “And for a week? Or longer?”

“I believe we could come down from that a little,” he said, less aggressively. “Especially if provision was made in advance.”

“Two a night.” Miriam palmed a huge, gorgeously colored ten-pound note onto the front desk and paused. “Six shillings on top for the service.”

The concierge smiled and nodded at her. “Then it will be an initial four nights?” he asked.

“I will pay in advance, if I choose to renew it,” she replied tonelessly.
Bastard,
she thought angrily. Erasmus had primed her with the hotel’s rates. Two pounds flat was the norm for a luxury suite: This man was trying to soak her. “
If
it’s satisfactory,” she emphasized.

“I’ll see to it myself.” He bowed, then stepped out from behind his desk. “If I may show you up to your suite myself, m’lady?”

Once she was alone in the hotel suite, Miriam locked the door on the inside, then removed her coat and hung it up to dry in the niche by the door. “I’m impressed,” she said aloud. “It’s huge.” She peeled off her gloves and slung them over a brass radiator that gurgled beneath the shuttered windows, then unbuttoned her jacket and collar and knelt to unlace her ankle boots—her feet were beginning to feel as if they were molded to the inside of the damp, cold leather.
Chilblains as an occupational hazard for explorers of other worlds?
she thought whimsically. She stepped out of her shoes then carried them to the radiator, stockinged feet feeling almost naked against the thick pile of the woolen carpet.

Dry at last, she walked over to the sideboard and the huge silver samovar, steaming gently atop a gas flame plumbed into the wall. She poured a glass full of hot water and dunked a sachet of Earl Grey tea into it. Finally, gratefully, she plopped herself down in the overstuffed armchair opposite the bedroom door, pulled out her dictaphone, and began to compose a report to herself. “Here I am, in Suite fourteen of the Brighton Hotel. The concierge tried to soak me. Getting a handle on the prices is hard—a pound seems to be equivalent to about, uh, two hundred dollars? Something like that. This is an
expensive
suite, and it shows; it’s got central heating, electric lights—incandescent filaments, lots of them, dim enough you can look right at them—and silk curtains.” She glanced through the open bathroom door. “The bathroom looks to be all brass and porcelain fittings and a flushing toilet. Hmm. Must check to see what their power distribution system’s like. Might be an opportunity to sell them electric showers.”

She sighed. “Tomorrow Erasmus will fix me up with a meeting with his attorney and start making inquiries about that house. He also said he’d look into a patent clerk and get me into the central reading library. Looks like their intellectual property framework is a bit primitive. I’ll need to bring over some more fungibles soon. Gold is all very well, but I’m not sure it isn’t cheaper here than it is back home. I wonder what their kitchens are short of,” she added, brooding.

“Damn. I wish there was someone to talk to.” She clicked off the little machine and put it down on the sideboard, frowning. Whether or not Erasmus Burgeson was trustworthy was an interesting question. Probably he was, up to a point—as long as he could sniff a way to put one over on the cops who were enforcing his unwilling cooperation. But he was most clearly a bachelor, and there was something uncomfortable, slightly strained about him when she was in his presence.
He’s not used to dealing with women, other than customers in his shop,
she decided.
That’s probably it.

In any event, her head ached and she was feeling tired.
Think I’ll leave the dining room for another day,
she decided. The bed seemed to beckon. Tomorrow would be a fresh start…

Gold Bugs

The following morning, Miriam awakened early. It was still semi-dark outside. She yawned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair. “Hmm. They wear it long here, don’t they?” It would just have to do, she thought, as she dressed in yesterday’s clothes once more. She carefully sorted through her shoulder bag to make sure there was nothing too obtrusively alien in it, then pulled her boots on.

She paused at the foot of the main staircase, poised above the polished marble floor next to the front desk. “Can I help you, ma’am?” a bellhop offered eagerly.

She smiled wanly. “Breakfast. Where is it?” The realization that she’d missed both lunch and dinner crashed down on her. Abruptly she felt almost weak from hunger.

“This way, please!” He guided her toward two huge mahogany-and-glass doors set at one side of the foyer, then ushered her to a seat at a small table, topped in spotless linen. “I shall just fetch the waiter.”

Miriam angled her chair around to take in the other diners as discreetly as possible.
It’s like a historical movie!
she thought. One set in a really exclusive Victorian hotel, except the Victorians hadn’t had a thing for vivid turquoise and purple wallpaper and the costumes were messed up beyond recognition. Men in Nehru suits with cutaway waists, women in long skirts or trousers and wing-collared shirts. Waiters with white aprons bearing plates of—fish? And bread rolls? The one familiar aspect was the newspaper. “Can you fetch me a paper?” she asked after the bellhop.

“Surely, ma’am!” he answered, and was off like a shot. He was back in a second and Miriam fumbled for a tip, before starting methodically on the front page.

The headlines in
The London Intelligencer
were bizarrely familiar, simultaneously tainted with the exotic. “Speaker: House May Impeach Crown for Adultery”—but no, there was no King Clinton in here, just unfamiliar names and a proposal to amend the Basic Law to add a collection of additional charges for which the Crown could be impeached—Adultery, Capitative Fraud, and Irreconsilience, whatever that was.
They can impeach the king?
Miriam shook her head, moved on to the next story. “Morris and Stokes to hang,” about a pair of jewel thieves who had killed a shopkeeper. Farther down the page was more weirdness, a list of captains of merchantmen to whom had been granted letters of marque and reprise against “the forces and agents of the continental enemy,” and a list of etheric resonances assigned for experimentation by the Teloptic Wireless Company of New Britain.

A waiter appeared at her shoulder as she was about to turn the page. “May I be of service, ma’am?”

“Sure. What’s good, today?”

He smiled broadly. “The kippers are most piquant, and if I may recommend Mrs. Wilson’s strawberry jam for after? Does ma’am prefer tea or coffee?”

“Coffee. Strong, with milk.” She nodded. “I’ll take your recommendations, please. That’ll be all.”

He rustled away from her, leaving her puzzling over the meaning of a story about taxation powers being granted by The-King-In-Parliament to the Grand Estates, and enforcement of the powers of printing rights by the Royal Excise. Even the addition of a powerful dose of coffee and a plate of smoked fish—not her customary start to the day, but nevertheless remarkably edible on an empty stomach—didn’t make it any clearer.
This place is so complex! Am I ever going to understand it?
she wondered.

She was almost to the bottom of her coffee when a different bellhop arrived, bearing a silver platter. “Message for the Widow Fletcher?” he asked, using the pseudonym Miriam had checked in under.

“That’s me.” Miriam took the note atop the platter—a piece of card with strips of printed tape gummed to it. MEET ME AT 54 GRT MAURICE ST AT 10 SEE BATES STOP EB ENDS. “Ah, good.” She glanced at the clock above the ornate entrance. “Can you arrange a cab for me, please? To Great Maurice Street, leaving in twenty minutes.”

Folding her paper she rose and returned to her room to retrieve her hat and topcoat.
The game’s afoot,
she thought excitedly.

By the time the cab found its way to Great Maurice Street she’d cooled off a little, taking time to collect her thoughts and begin to work out what she needed to do and say. She also made sure her right glove was pulled down around her wrist, and the sleeve of her blouse was bunched up toward the elbow. Not that it was the ideal way to make an exit—indeed, it would wreck her plans completely if she had to escape by means of the temporary tattoo of a certain intricate knot—but if Erasmus had decided to sell her out to the constabulary, he’d be sorry.

Great Maurice Street was a curving cobblestoned boulevard hemmed in on either side by expensive stone town houses. Little stone bridges leapt from sidewalk to broad front doors across a trench which held two levels of subterranean windows. The street and sidewalks had been swept free of snow, although huge piles stood at regular intervals in the road to await collection. Miriam stepped down from the cab, paid the driver, and marched along the sidewalk until she identified number 54. “Charteris, Bates and Charteris,” she muttered to herself. “Sounds legal.” She advanced on the door and pulled the bell-rope.

A short, irritated-looking clerk opened the door. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Miriam stared down her nose at him. “I’m here to see Mr. Bates,” she said.

“Who did you say you were?” He raised a hand to cup his ear and Miriam realized he was half-deaf.

“Mrs. Fletcher, to see Mr. Bates,” she replied loudly.

“
Oh.
Come in, then, I’ll tell someone you’re here.”

Lawyers’ offices didn’t differ much between here and her own world, Miriam realized. There was a big, black, ancient-looking electric typewriter with a keyboard like a church organ that had shrunk in the wash, and there was an archaic telephone with a separate speaking horn, but otherwise the only differences were the clothes. Which, for a legal secretary in this place and time—male, thin, harried-looking—included a powdered wig, knee breeches, and a cutaway coat. “Please be seated—ah, no,” said the secretary, looking bemused as a tall fellow dressed entirely in black opened the door of an inner office and waggled a finger at Miriam: “This is His Honor Mr. Bates,” he explained. “You are … ?”

“I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” Miriam repeated patiently. “I’m supposed to be seeing Mr. Bates. Is that right?”

“Ah, yes.” Bates nodded congenially at her. “If you’d like to come this way, please?”

The differences from her own world became vanishingly small inside his office, perhaps because so many lawyers back home aimed for a traditional feel to their furnishings. Miriam glanced round. “Burgeson isn’t here yet,” she observed disapprovingly.

“He’s been detained,” said Bates. “If you’d care to take a seat?”

“Yes.” Miriam sat down. “How much has Erasmus told you?”

Bates picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. His whiskers twitched, walruslike. “He has told me enough, I think,” he intoned in a plummy voice. “A woman fallen upon hard times, husband dead after years abroad, papers lost in an unfortunate pursuit—I believe he referred to the foundering of the
Greenbaum Lamplight
, a most unpleasant experience for you, I am sure—and therefore in need of the emollient reaffirmation of her identity, is that right? He vouched for you most plaintively. And he also mentioned something about a fortune overseas, held in trust, to which you have limited access.”

“Yes, that’s all correct,” Miriam said fervently. “I am indeed in need of new papers—and a few other services best rendered by a man of the law.”

“Well. I can see
at a glance
that you are no Frenchie,” he said, nodding at her. “And so I can see nothing wrong with your party. It will take but an hour to draw up the correct deeds and post them with the inns of court, to declare your identity fair and square. Erasmus said you were born at Shreveport on, ah, if I may be so indelicate, the seventh of September, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty nine. Is that correct?”

Miriam nodded.
Near enough,
she thought. “Uh, yes.”

“Very well. If you would examine and sign this—” he passed a large and imposing sheet of parchment to her—”and this—” he passed her another, “we will set the wheels of justice in motion.”

Miriam examined the documents rapidly. One of them was a declaration of some sort; asserting her name, age, place of birth, and identity and petitioning for a replacement birth certificate for the one lost at sea on behalf of the vacant authorities of—”Why are the authorities of Shreveport not directly involved?” she asked.

Bates looked at her oddly. “After what happened during the war there isn’t enough left of Shreveport to
have
any authorities,” he muttered darkly.

“Oh.” She read on. The next paper petitioned for a passport in her name, with a peculiar status—competent adult. “I see I am considered a competent adult here. Can you just explain precisely what that entails?”

“Certainly.” Bates leaned back in his chair. “You are an adult, aged over thirty, and a widow; there is no man under whose mantle your rights and autonomy are exercised, and you are deemed old enough in law to be self-sufficient. So you may enter into contracts at your own peril, as an adult, until such time as you choose to remarry, and any such contracts as you make will then be binding upon your future husband.”

“Oh,” she said faindy, and signed in the space provided.
Better not marry anyone, then.
She put the papers back on his desk then cleared her throat. “There are some other matters I will want you to see to,” she added.

“And what might those be?” He smiled politely. After all, the clock was ticking at her expense.

“Firstly.” She held up a finger. “There is a house that takes my fancy; it is located at number 46, Bridge Park Lane, and it appears to be empty. Am I right in thinking you can make inquiries on my behalf about its availability? If it’s open for lease or purchase I’d be extremely interested in acquiring it, and I’ll want to move in as soon as possible.”

Bates sat up straight and nodded, almost enthusiastically. “Of course, of course,” he said, scribbling in a crabbed hand on a yellow pad. “And is there anything else?” he asked.

“Secondly.” She held up a second finger. “Over the next month I will be wanting to create or purchase a limited liability company. It will need setting up. In addition, I will have a number of applications for patents that must be processed through the royal patent office-—I need to locate and retain a patent agent on behalf of my company.”

“A company, and a patents agent.” He raised an eyebrow but kept writing. “Is there anything else?” he asked politely.

“Indeed. Thirdly, I have a quantity, held overseas, I should add, of bullion. Can you advise me on the issues surrounding its legal sale here?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” He put his pen down. “I can’t, because it’s illegal for anyone but the crown to own bullion.” He pointed at the signet nng he wore on his lett hand. No rule against jewelry, of course, so long as it weighs less than a pound. But bullion?” He sniffed. “You can perhaps approach the mint about an import license, and sell it to the crown yourself—they’ll give you a terrible rate, not worth your while, only ten pounds for an ounce. But that’s the war, for you. The mint is chronically short. If I were you I’d sell it overseas and repatriate the proceeds as bearer bonds.”

“Thank you.” Miriam beamed at him ingratiatingly to cover up the sound of her teeth grinding together.
Ten pounds for an ounce? Erasmus, you and I are going to have strong words,
she thought.
Scratch finding an alternative, though.
“How long will this take?” she asked.

“To file the papers? I’ll have the boy run over with them right now. Your passport and birth certificate will be ready tomorrow if you send for them from my office. The company—” he rubbed his chin. “We would have to pay a parliamentarian to get the act of formation passed as a private member’s bill in this sitting, and I believe the going rate has been driven up by the demands of the military upon the legislature in the current session. It would be cheaper to buy an existing company with no debts. I can ask around, but I believe it will be difficult to find one for less than seventy pounds.”

“Ouch.” Miriam pulled a face. “There’s no automatic process to go through to set one up?”

“Sadly, no.” Bates shook his head. “Every company requires an act of parliament; rubber-stamping them is bread and butter for most MPs, for they can easily charge fifty pounds or more to put forward an early day motion for a five-minute bill in the Commons. Every so often someone proposes a registry of companies and a regulator to create them, but the backbenches won’t ever approve that—it would take a large bite out of their living.”

“Humph.” Miriam nodded. “Alright, we’ll do it your way. The patent agent?”

Bates nodded. “Our junior clerk, Hinchliffe, is just the fellow for such a job. He has dealt witii patents before, and will doubtless do so again. When will you need him?”

Miriam met Bates’s eye. “Not until I have a company to employ him, a company that I will capitalize by entirely legal means that need not concern you.” The lawyer nodded again, eyes knowing. “Then—let’s just say, I have encountered some ingenious innovations overseas that I believe may best be exploited by patenting them, and farming out the rights to the patents to local factory owners. Do you follow?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Bates nodded to himself, and smiled like a crocodile. “I look forward to your future custom, Mrs. Fletcher. It has been a pleasure to do business with such a perceptive member of the frail sex. Even if I don’t believe a word of it.”

* * *

Miriam spent the rest of the morning shopping for clothes. It was a disorienting experience. There were no department or chain stores: Each type of garment needed purchasing from a separate supplier, and the vast majority needed alterations to fit. Nor was she filled with enthusiasm by what she found. “Why are fashion items invariably designed to make people look ugly or feel uncomfortable?” she muttered into her microphone, after experiencing a milliner’s and a corsetiere’s in rapid succession. “I’m going to stick to sports bras and briefs, even if I have to carry everything across myself,” she grumbled. Nevertheless, she managed to find a couple of presentable walking suits and an evening outfit.