Unseemly Science (13 page)

She frowned as she copied down number and letter combinations. The tip of her tongue projected from her mouth, curling up to touch her upper lip. She tapped her fingers against the pen. “What might he have been writing?” she asked.

“That’s what you’re trying to find out, isn’t it?”

“I mean, what words might he have needed to use?”

“The? And? I?”

“Longer words. With double letters.”

“Nottingham?” I suggested.

“That’s good.”

“Surveillance.”

“Very good.”

But after twenty minutes, she pushed the papers away in irritation and began massaging her brow. I found myself smiling, though I knew it unworthy. When she looked up, I quickly replaced my expression with a frown of sympathy.

Some weeds are pinched out before they grow. Others are uprooted. But the most pernicious of all must be harrowed from the soils of history.

From Revolution

There is nothing good to be said for sleeping in a barn. A pile of hay looks soft enough from a distance, but up close there is always a brittle point to poke into your skin. Julia had fallen asleep directly. But unfamiliar sounds kept me awake. At first it had been the scurrying of small creatures. Rats or mice, I supposed. They only went quiet when an owl flew in to perch on a high beam. I know it was an owl because of its screech, which repeated every few minutes thereafter.

The stable master’s wife fussed over us as she served breakfast, apologising that the cottage was so small and that there were no spare beds. I gathered that it was not uncommon for travellers to stay. But they had never had ‘real ladies’ sleeping in the barn before. Sleep was too strong a word for it.

Breakfast was thickly cut bacon, coarse bread and sweet tea. By the third cup, my mood had softened. And when the clop of horses entering the courtyard announced the arrival of our guides, I even managed to smile.

“Exactly six days late,” Julia whispered, though she was smiling also.

The older of the two guides introduced himself as Gideon. His hair was shockingly white against tanned skin. The other, a boy by comparison, was called Peter. He must have been twenty years older than us. Their clothes were simple, almost identical, except that Gideon had loops of coarse twine tied around his sleeves just above the elbow and around his legs just below the knee.

“I’m Miss Swain and this is Miss Brooke,” said Julia. We had decided that Elizabeth was common enough for me to risk keeping, but that even in the wilds it would be foolhardy to use my real surname.

“Happy to meet with you,” said Gideon in an accent that was unfamiliar to me.

The men had dismounted and were standing with their hands clasped in front of them, as if they had been ordered to keep from fidgeting by the teacher of a Sunday school.

“Well,” I said. “Had we better be going?”

Nodding, Gideon stepped towards the stable block. But as I watched him go, I realised that Peter had remained standing and was looking at me. When I turned to face him again, he quickly looked away and hurried off in the direction of the privy.

I watched him go then whispered to Julia: “Did you see him staring?”

She stifled a giggle. “I think he admires you.”

“If he recognised me...”

“There’re no Postal Offices on the high moorland,” she said. “So no fugitive posters either.”

At this point, Gideon returned leading our mounts. Julia touched my arm as if to say I needn’t worry then walked around the ponies in an imitation of one who knew fetlock from withers. The stable master placed a sheaf of legal documents and a pen in my hand. These I read as best I could. In short, they seemed to say that we were receiving beasts in good health and would be liable for their condition on their return. But the terminology was arcane so it was impossible to be certain.

“We shouldn’t sign without first understanding,” Julia said, now back at my side.

It didn
’
t seem the place to point out that, whatever the words meant, I would be committing fraud by signing under a false name. And by adding her own name in knowledge of my deception, she would be an accessory.

“Were you to read it for a month, you’d still be none the wiser,” I said, putting the pen in her hand.

She pouted as she scratched her signature next to mine.

Some women maintain the side-saddle to be a wondrous invention. But to me, it is damning proof of the illogicality of our world. The right knee must be hooked over the upper pommel, while the left foot is supposedly supported by a single stirrup, which dangles unnaturally high on the horse’s flank. The saddle feels too tall and the sitting position too far back so that the reins must be excessively long.

The stable master had chosen our saddles. Julia seemed comfortable on hers. But mine was a few inches too small with the result that my posterior was extended over the far side of the horse in a manner that was possibly indecent and definitely uncomfortable.

In such fashion we set out. Julia and I bumped along next to each other. Our guides rode far enough ahead that Peter may have thought we would not see the bottle he passed to Gideon. Suspicious, I kept close watch. But the drink passed from one to the other and it seemed each took equal share.

After an hour of steady climbing, I looked back and was surprised to see how far we had come . The valley floor appeared flat between the jaws of the escarpment on either side. Red kites circled high above the ridge. I scanned the line of the track, searching for any sign that we might have been followed.

“
This is the life I
’
ve dreamed,” said Julia, breaking in on my thoughts.

“Riding?”

“The law,” she said.
“
The pursuit of justice. Our journey has confirmed me. These experiences may be commonplace to you, but the circle of my horizon has been spread so far in these last few days that I hardly think I’m the same person.”

“Then I’m pleased for you. But this is new to me also. I never saw such hills in the Kingdom.”

“You rode through the countryside though – as a child of the circus.”

“Not on one of these,” I said, patting the saddle. “Back then, I rode as the men and boys did.”

Julia blushed. “Isn’t that unnatural? For a woman, I mean.”

“How so?”

“Our bodies,” she whispered. “We may wish the opportunities of men, but we’re formed in a different way.”

“If it were just for the organs that are different, it’s they who should ride side-saddle and us astride!”

At first Julia frowned. But then I saw her blush as she understood my meaning. “You shouldn’t talk of such things!”

The steep part of the climb had been wooded for the most part. But as the slope decreased, trees gave way to scrubby grassland. Sheep country. And then the grass was replaced by bracken in patches and hummocked moss. Dry- stone walls had crisscrossed the slopes lower down but here the land was open and wide under the pale dome of the sky.

A feeling of unease hung around me as I rode, like the remnant of an unquiet dream. I found myself replaying Peter’s gaze in the theatre of my mind. Standing in the stable yard, I’d thought it an expression of recognition. But each time I returned to the memory, I was less certain. I took to glancing back along the path we had travelled. Once I caught sight of a rider in the distance, but he or she was quickly gone.

The hills rose and fell but the track continued along the same constant gradient, having been cut through the rocky bluffs and built up on embankments over the few small valleys that we crossed.

“Does this path seem strange to you?” I asked.

“It seems perfectly pleasant,” said Julia.

“Such a work of engineering. How many use it a day do you suppose?”

“We passed a man an hour ago,” she said.

“One drover and a flock of geese in three hours of riding?”

“You find suspicion everywhere, Elizabeth.”

“Curiosity isn
’
t a vice,” I said.

“It is when scattered in every direction! Turn it to the ice theft and we’ll surely have the crime solved in no time.”

True words often sting most keenly and I was set to defend myself. But Julia
’
s attention had already moved on. She pointed to a copse of trees at a discreet distance from the path and said: “I need to stretch my legs.”

Thus a halt was called while she took herself away for a moment of privacy.

Peter fetched a pouch from his saddlebag and began to roll a cigarette. I caught him stealing a glance at me over his cupped hands.

“Enjoying the ride?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied, trying to dismount but discovering too late that my leg had lost all sensation. It folded under me and I collapsed in a heap by the trackside. Peter offered me his hand but I declined.

“That’s them saddles for you,” said Gideon.

Feeling began to return, bringing with it an agony of pins and needles. I sat on the ground, rubbing my leg while Peter stretched and strolled away up the path.

I watched until I judged him out of hearing then asked Gideon: “Why was this track made?”

“Why’s any track made?”

“Then who made it?”

“Miners done it.”

“Why so strong and level?”

“It was stronger once,” he said. “They tied it all together with iron rails. But those got ripped up before my granddad’s time. Why’s tha want to know?”

“I’m just curious,” I said.

“That you are.”

You
will not trick a man
until you learn to read
him
. But you
will
never
trick a man who has learned to
read you.

The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

We had reached the high moorland. Here and there I caught sight of stone- walled enclosures. Sheep pens perhaps. And once, a derelict cottage, its corner tumbled down. Buzzards mewled overhead in a sky that seemed unnaturally vast. The landscape was stark and treeless. Our progress might be seen from miles if anyone was looking.

“It’s strange country,” Julia said.

“God’s own,” said Gideon.

“You believe in a God, then?” she asked.

“Most do that live here. But he can be a cruel bastard, if tha knows my meaning.”

Despite the brightness of the day, a shiver ran across my shoulders.

The path had brought us to the crest of a low ridge. A stone cottage lay ahead, set amid a scatter of outbuildings. A trace of smoke scudded from the single chimney. It was the first sign of civili
s
ation we had seen in hours.

“Is that where we’re going?” I asked.

Peter nodded, then dug in his heels, leading us off down the slope.

We had to stoop under the low lintel of the cottage door. Once inside, it took time for my eyes to adjust. From the single window, small and deep, a shaft of light pierced the room, revealing threads of smoke in the air. The remains of a fire in the hearth gave no warmth.

“Make tha selves at home,” said Gideon.

“Where is everyone?” Julia asked. “We were to speak to the community.”

“There’ll be time for that,” said Peter. “Once they’re gathered.”

He turned to go.

“Wait,” I called. “Are they far?”

“Far enough.”

He strode out into the sunshine. The door clattered closed behind him.

“I hope it won
’
t be another six days,” said Julia, her tone light- hearted. “What do you suppose ice farmers do when it’s not winter?”

I watched our guides through an uneven pane of window glass as they mounted their horses and started off down the track. If Peter had recognised me, this would be his first chance to confide in the old man
, u
nless he wanted to keep the reward for himself. I wondered whether there were any constables in the high mountains to whom they could deliver me. There were too many permutations to calculate.

It didn’t take us long to explore the small building. Downstairs was a kitchen-scullery and something that could have been described as a living room. The sleeping loft – a row of straw mattresses under the eaves – was reached by climbing a ladder. Julia scolded me when I opened a trunk of someone’s possessions. But she looked over my shoulder to see, just the same. It contained a rabbit- skin coat and trousers, the lining mended with patches of un-matching cloth, a pair of leather gloves with short metal spikes projecting from the palm and fingers, three blankets, a scatter of moth balls and a carved wooden animal that Julia thought a dog but seemed to me more likely a sheep.

Outside we found a pump and a stone water trough. There were slates missing from the roof of one small outhouse. The holes allowed in enough light for us to see a collection of strangely shaped saws, spikes and mallets hanging from hooks in the roof beam. Though most of the metal was brown with rust, the blade edges were bright with sharpening. Other pieces of ironwork lying around, I could not name. They were the tools of the ice farming trade, I supposed.

“It’s hard to believe anyone could make a living from harvesting ice,” said Julia.

“Not much of a living,” I said.

After eating some of our provisions we sat outside, leaning against the wall of the cottage. We talked for a while. There was no one to hear, but I found myself whispering anyway. It felt wrong to announce my presence to that vast emptiness.

Picking up on my unease, Julia said: “You
’
re surely safe here.”

“I don’t feel it.”

“I saw you looking back as we climbed. Did you see anything out of place? The truth is, no one followed. Not even your boy Tinker – which is a wonder in itself.”

“He’s not my boy!”

“He has remarkable tenacity,” she said, undaunted. “Why is he so devoted do you suppose?”

Feeling the heat in my cheeks, I turned away to survey the horizon once more.

“Tell me about codes,” I said.

“What of them?”

“Where did you learn?”

“I found a book in my father’s study. Mother wouldn’t have approved. It was a collection of pirate stories, merely fiction. But one described a method for breaking codes. After reading it, I... experimented. ”

I glanced back and saw that it was now she who blushed. She got to her feet and brushed down her skirts. I was about to press her for more information but she headed inside, returning a moment later with the papers that had been hidden under the spy’s mattress. Having seated herself again, she placed them on the ground between us. “Let’s have another go,” she said.

Julia may have had the advantage over me when it came to mathematical equations, but I’d noticed vague collections of information unsettled her. It was as if she needed to understand how they were related before she could entertain them. Thus, while she methodically counted numbers and letters on the coded sheets, I turned to the two newspaper pages.

I started by examining the long vertical edge along which the sheets had been connected to the rest of the paper. They had been cut out rather than torn. Scissors leave distinct marks, of which there were none to be seen. Thus a knife must have been used. A sharp one, for the edge was perfectly smooth.

Tinker’s crumpling made it hard to be certain, but it seemed the sheets had been crisp before their time bundled inside his shirt. Thus, I reasoned, our spy had not handled them often. Bringing my eye close, I turned the pages, searching for the kind of indentations left by the pressure of a pencil. I could find none. Having exhausted my examination of the paper itself, I began to read the articles.

The first was a report of a skirmish between two chieftains in the mountains of Gwynedd in North Wales. Those anarchic lands beyond the Gas-Lit Empire were taken as a byword for savagery. The reporter claimed direct aerial observation, though no airship would dare fly low enough to see the details he mentioned –
decorated armour
and
hand cannons
with bone inlay
. I guessed the description owed more to an anthropology textbook than to any detail he’d actually seen. The article ended with a homily on our good fortune to be living within the civilised world.

The second story concerned the racehorse market in Chepstow. Prices had doubled in three years. One man had made five thousand guineas by buying a stallion on a Monday and selling it again on the Friday. Nothing pleases Republicans more than a story which confirms their prejudices. This one had it all – Royalists gambling on horses and boasting about financial gain.

“It’s the wrong kind of code,” said Julia, cutting across my thoughts.

“I’m sorry?”

She passed me her sheet of notes. “I’ve eliminated the possibilities. It’s not a substitution code. Not a simple one, anyway. The triplets on the messages probably represent whole words rather than letters.” She tapped a column of numbers on the notepaper. “It means there’s probably a code book behind it. A list of words and what represents each one.”

“Then how would it be cracked?”

“It wouldn’t. Unless you have the book.”

Absorbing this setback, I discovered that I was not surprised. Julia’s innocent enthusiasm saw the world as simpler and cleaner than it really was. The prospect of her decoding the messages of a master spy had always been remote. Nevertheless, another avenue had been closed to us.

A bird flitted down, alighting on the brink of the water trough. We both watched as it dipped to drink. Then in a flash of yellow and brown feathers it was gone. I sat listening to the hiss of the wind in the long grass and the distant call of buzzards. It felt as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something that it knew was going to happen. Something just beyond my sight.

The sun began to set and the air chilled. Julia went back indoors, but I remained outside to keep watch. A bank of cloud inched across the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. Within an hour it had become so dark that I needed to feel my way along the wall of the cottage to find the water trough.

Then I made out a line of lights approaching along what must have been the track, though I could no more see it than I could the ground under my feet. I tapped my knuckle on the cottage door. Julia emerged carrying a candle, the brightness of which hurt my eyes. I licked my finger and snuffed it out.

“Until we know who it is,” I whispered.

At first the approaching lights were disembodied. They floated above the ground like a line of fireflies. But as they came closer I discerned them to be lanterns held aloft on poles, perhaps thirty in number. I edged along the wall to the corner of the cottage, readying myself to slip away. But then I saw there were children among the leaders and I knew this was the community of the ice farmers after all.

The low murmur of their conversation grew louder as they approached. But when they assembled in front of us, it dropped away to nothing. Arranged in an open arc, they stared at us as visitors to the zoo might stare, had they never before seen a pair of baboons.

Gideon and Peter were the last to arrive.

“This is them,” said Gideon to the crowd. “The ladies from Derby.”

“We’re pleased to meet you,” said Julia.

At this several of the adults gave greetings of their own, some murmuring, others nodding and tugging their forelocks.

There shouldn’t have been room for half of them in the cottage. But once we had entered and Gideon had followed, they crammed in behind. We found ourselves pushed back until we were huddled in the farthest corner. A few pressed around the doorway or stared in at the window. I could see nothing of Peter, who must have remained outside.

Gideon coughed and made a small nod, indicating that we should begin.

“Thank you for coming,” said Julia, annunciating each word, as if her audience might not otherwise understand. I cringed but they showed no sign of feeling patronised.

“We have come to hear about your problems.” And then, when no one spoke, she added: “Please begin.”

“They’s taking the ice,” said one, an ancient- looking man with a face so brown and wrinkled he looked like a raisin.

There were murmurs of ascent from the others.

“Who do you think has been taking it?” Julia asked.

“They,” he said, spreading his arms as if to indicate everyone beyond the four walls of the cottage.

“Oh,” said Julia.

It seemed the conversation might stop there, so I asked: “How do you know the ice is being taken?”

“What they send and what’s credited to them don’t match,” said Gideon.

“And what can we do to help?” asked Julia.

“Get us paid,” said the wrinkled man. Everyone nodded.

“And how would you like us to do that?”

Gideon frowned and the raisin man frowned deeper. “Use the law,” said a woman’s voice from somewhere at the back.

To form a useful question one needs knowledge. This is the paradox of ignorance. I decided to try a different approach.

“They’ve been stealing your ice?” I asked.

“Ay.”

“Could you show us?”

Gideon looked to the wrinkled man. The wrinkled man turned, as if seeking approval from the woman at the back. Others nodded. I heard words muttered under the breath, so thickly accented that I couldn’t make them out. Then, suddenly, everyone was moving. Some stepped outside. Through the door, I could see one family group settling down on the ground as if getting ready for sleep. Others seated themselves on the earth floor of the house. It appeared that a decision had been made.

“What’s to happen?” I asked.

“They’ll show you,” said Gideon. “Tomorrow. The beds are for you.” He pointed up the ladder to the loft.