The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter

The Bullet Catcher’s Daughter

Rod Duncan

being volume one of
The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire

Contents

The Bullet Catcher’s Daughter

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Glossary

Chapter 1

There was once a line marked out by God, through which were divided Heaven and Hell. And thus was chaos banished from the world. The Devil created lawyers to make amends. They argued the thickness of the line until there was room enough within it for all the sins of men to fit. And all the sins of women too.

– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

Had I been a man, I could have strolled into that dark warren of narrow streets, blind alleys and iniquity, letting the steel tip of my cane tap out a leisurely report of my progress, receiving winks and catcalls from barkers and gamblers, gin-sellers and rowdy girls.

But the Backs is no place for a lady. By which I mean that no woman can risk the scandal of being seen there. Thus I strolled along Churchgate attired and disguised as a young gentleman. And from many years of practice, I was able to walk as one also, rolling the shoulders rather than the hips, maintaining a distance between my feet, occupying the centre of the road. Men fancy that they recognise a woman by dress, figure and face but it is more through movement that gender is revealed.

The further I advanced towards my goal, the deeper the potholes became. Deeper too were the shadows of doorways and arches, for the street lamps gave less light here, as if the grandees of the gas corporation wished to hide the lawlessness and sin that lay ahead. All of which worked for my benefit that evening. I do not willingly expose my disguise to brighter lights.

Skulking can attract the interest of the curious, however. Therefore I held my head and top hat high, creating the illusion of one in possession of confidence. The act felt easier thanks to the weight of my father’s flintlock pistol, which bumped reassuringly against my leg.

On reaching Haymarket, one catches view of the border crossing itself. It consists of two identical sentry boxes, one on each side, wherein guards can shelter, and a wooden toll gate through which no goods ever pass. The deliberate symmetry does nothing to please the eye. On this October night, four flaming torches had been placed on stands across the road, each leaving a splash of yellow reflected on the damp cobbles.

I glanced up at the town clock and made some small show of checking my pocket watch, though covertly I scanned the road behind me for shadows out of place. Being so close to the border put me on my guard. And the meeting towards which I was making such cautious progress contained riddles yet to be answered.

Striding out again with that unnatural male gait, I crossed Haymarket and hurried through into Cheapside and then into that haven of smugglers known throughout the land as the Leicester Backs. With the rendezvous now close, I assessed the various decrepit figures propping up nearby walls, searching for one to enlist. My attention was drawn by a woman who stood apart from the others, huddled in a doorway.

She called out in a brittle voice as I approached. “Have mercy, kind sir, and spare a coin.”

I saw now that she wore a curious assortment of rags and sacking. In one hand she gripped a bottle of back-alley gin.

“Would it be mercy to buy you more poison?” I asked, forcing my throat muscles open so that the sound would resonate at the top of my chest, giving my words a masculine pitch. Though I had practised this art for many years, my voice could only pass when I spoke softly.

“Blindness is a mercy, sir, for those who walk in the night.” She held her bottle up for me to see and sloshed the inch of liquid that remained.

Nothing good would come of hiring her if she was already half blind from wood alcohol. I pulled a coin from beneath my cloak and flicked it up. Her head snapped towards the slight metallic ringing as it spun in the air and I began to think she used her ears not her eyes. With a swift movement, I made to trap it on the back of my gloved hand.

“What say you?”

“Heads,” she said, without hesitation.

“Heads for luck or heads for blindness?”

“For mercy, sir.”

Removing my hand, I revealed the space where the coin should have been, but was not. Then with a deceiving movement of my other hand, I pulled it from the air. The woman’s lips drew back into a grin, revealing the stumps of three stained teeth. I flicked the coin towards her and she snatched it, fleet as a snake strike.

“It seems you’re not blind yet.”

“No indeed, though I will work to remedy that with your good help.”

“Watch for me as I go,” I said. “Look for any other that may follow. I’ll visit again on my return.”

“Bless you, sir,” she said. Then, as I walked away I heard her calling out, “May many buxom women bear you sons.”

A bell jangled as I pushed the door and stepped into the warm closeness of the Darkside Coffee House. High-backed benches divided the room into a series of secluded drinking booths. Tables lay between them, on each of which guttered the inconstant flame of a small candle. A brass-mounted chromatic lamp adorned the shelf behind the bar. Its round lenses illuminated caddies of coffee, tobacco and hashish, but left the body of the room darker than the street.

I started to raise a hand to check the hair was still in place on my upper lip, but managed to stop myself halfway. The barman was watching me. Tilting my head forwards so the shadow of my hat brim lay across my eyes, I stepped towards him. “I’m here to meet someone,” I said. “A lady.”

“Aye.” He turned a gilt-rimmed glass onto a matching saucer and started pouring thick Turkish coffee from a silver pot. “Was waiting on seeing who the lucky man would be.”

“Where may I find her?”

Taking my money, he nodded towards the back.

Stepping between the booths I picked my way in the direction he had indicated. Sweet tobacco and hashish smoke mixed with the smells of bitter coffee and alcohol. Growing accustomed to the gloom, I could just make out the whites of eyes watching me. Here and there the bowl of a smoking pipe flared red.

The identity of this much-needed client had not been hard to ascertain. Her letter of enquiry had been phrased in that over-embellished prose so typical of the aristocratic houses of the south. An educated hand of swirls and serifs had written that letter. Heavy cream-coloured paper reinforced the impression. All spoke of money. But it had been the edge of a watermark that had narrowed my search to one estate.

It seemed that such a woman would be conspicuous in this setting, but when I reached the rear of the room and saw her, I marvelled at how well she had camouflaged herself. A coarse woollen shawl hung from her shoulders and a plain bonnet hid all but a few of her blond ringlets. Only when she reached out her hand did the shawl part and I glimpsed the jewel-green blouse she wore beneath, its full sleeves nipped in at the forearm by long, tight cuffs. Even in that gloom the colour seemed bright.

I took her hand, and made a small bow.

“Mr Barnabas?” she enquired.

There was a shifting in one of the nearby booths; a whisper of cloth as if a head had turned or a hand had reached to open a watch casing. I slid into the seat opposite her and placed my coffee glass on the table between us.

“You speak too loud,” I whispered.

She leaned forwards, bringing her head close. “Please forgive me. But my mind has been racing. I did not think.”

“If I hear the bell above the door, I may choose to slip away,” I said.

As she composed herself, I examined the back wall of the coffee house and was pleased to see a curtain of glass beads strung across a recess. That I had not been able to see it from the bar made it an excellent route of escape, should one be needed. Store rooms would surely lie behind it, then a rear yard, perhaps a privy and beyond that the maze of hidden spaces and unwatched cut-throughs that had accidentally turned The Backs into a smugglers’ paradise.

“Why did you come in person?” I asked.

“Your services aren’t usually commissioned face to face?”

“I’ve never heard of an aristocrat of the Kingdom entering the Anglo-Scottish Republic by choice.”

She folded her arms before her.

“Are you not the Duchess of Bletchley?” I asked.

“And if I am? The border lies not thirty paces behind me.”

“But the embarrassment to your King should you be found?”

“A matter of no significance.”

A matter of significance it was, though I let it lie. “Your letter mentioned a person missing. A loved one perhaps?”

“A brother. My brother. He’s been gone three weeks.”

“You must know I’m not free to cross into the Kingdom. Even coming this close to the border is a risk.”

“My brother has crossed into the Republic,” she said. “He’s not so much missing, as out of my reach. And yet I wish to reach him.”

“There are many private intelligence gatherers for hire,” I said. “Men who are free to cross into the Kingdom if they wish. Why contract me? I can’t even visit your home to question those who might have information.”

“Your knowledge matches my needs,” she said. “And I’ve heard that you are most reliable.”

In my foolish vanity, her words made sense to me.

“Your coffee is growing cold,” she said.

“How am I to find your brother?”

“I know where he is.” She pulled the glove from her left hand, then reached inside with slender fingers and withdrew a fold of paper.

“I’ll need payment,” I said. “Gold, not some promissory note from the Kingdom bank.”

“Gold you will have.”

I reached out to take the paper from her, but stopped halfway. The air had shifted and I could smell the dank of the rear yard. Somewhere in the building a door must have opened. Or a window perhaps. I brought a finger to my lips, held my breath and listened. The low murmur of secret conversations in the Darkside Coffee House had fallen away to almost nothing. Keeping my head low, I peered around the high back of the bench. The barman was standing next to the open door, muffling the bell with his raised hand. Stepping in from the street were three figures, one wearing a tall top hat, the other two in cloth caps.

I grabbed the paper from the Duchess’s hand, pointed towards the bead curtain and mouthed one word. “Go.”

She was already moving, stepping towards the gap, her back towards me. So I ripped the false hair from my cheeks and upper lip then snatched the hat from my head, revealing the lacy head covering beneath.