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 of the Grand Union Letter and Parcel Distribution Company. Her long, narrow hull was topped with a coal bunker and three 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 155thyear, 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 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 boats, 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 barges and 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 suggestion 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.”