The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter (19 page)

I did not attempt to move quietly as I followed the dewy footmarks Tania had left in the long grass. Thus I knew she had heard my approach long before the moment I drew level.

“You surprised me!” she said. “Creeping up like that.”

“May I keep you company a while?”

We walked on, side by side. The angle of her head had changed, I noted. No longer was it cast down to the base of the hedgerow. Instead she gazed ahead and her focussed attention was replaced by something more aloof. So consumed had I been with the task of avoiding the fortune-teller lest she extract more information from me, I had not until that morning considered the possibility of information flowing the other way.

“You’d gone from the wagon before I woke,” I said. “How do you move so quietly?”

She lifted her skirts a few inches and I saw that she walked barefoot. “Shock you, do I?”

“No.”

“I think you lie,” she said.

“A little shocked, perhaps. Are you picking herbs?”

“Something to sweeten the broth.”

“And for other things? Spells perhaps?”

“What’s your desire?” she asked.

“Perhaps I should wish for a man to fall in love with me.”

She stopped and faced me. “What do you know of men?”

I ignored the question. “In the circus where I was born there were some who said they could mix up herbs into spells – to make hair grow back or give you luck in cards.”

“Or to make a man love you. You tried these spells?”

“Once. To banish spots from my face.”

We had slowed to a stop and were facing each other. She reached out and touched the smooth skin of my cheek with the back of her fingers. “It worked,” she said.

“They went naturally.”

“You’re comfortable thinking that,” she said. “But how do you know?”

“What does Harry Timpson think of your magic?”

She snorted. “If it’s his heart you’re after, pretend your own is made of clockwork. Or gold.”

“Indeed I’m not!”

“Then who’s the man you wish to lure?”

“None. No one.”

Her fingers still rested on my cheek. Her eyes were pools of still water. Everything seemed to have stopped. “Liar,” she whispered.

“I asked for curiosity. That’s all.”

“If I could magic your lover here, would you ask me to do it?”

I stepped back, breaking the contact. I opened my mouth to protest that she had me wrong. But a clatter of hooves in the lane broke into my awareness. Someone was shouting in the distance. A rider entered the field at a gallop, jumping down before the horse had fully stopped.

Suddenly the whole camp was in motion. Silvan ran across the field, leading a horse towards the wagons. Sal had made his way into the lane, hauling a great tree branch behind him. Tania lifted her skirts and sprang off. I found myself following, not knowing why.

Tinker scurried past and I grabbed his arm before he could get away.

“What’s happening?”

“They coming! They coming!”

“Who?”

“Gotta hide. Quick!”

We were running together. I still had his arm in my grip. “Who? Who is coming?”

Silvan had somehow managed to harness the horse to a wagon already. He jumped up onto the beast’s back and kicked in his heels. The wagon lurched forwards, heading for the top of the field. Tinker dived under the nearest beast wagon. Knowing how filthy it was down there, I held back from following. But when the boy beckoned wildly I got down on my knees in the mud and followed, dropping flat to the ground next to him, panting for breath.

“Bad men coming,” Tinker hissed.

Silvan had turned his wagon onto the lane already and was whipping the horse forward into a trot. Sal, who had headed off in the other direction, now dropped the great tree branch he had been dragging, and though I could not see where it had landed, the intention was clear enough.

The running and shouting having started to die down, I now heard a new sound, quiet at first but growing rapidly louder. Iron wheel rims and horseshoes clattering against stones. A team of four white horses came into view around the bend, pulling a substantial black coach. On seeing Sal, the coachman pulled back on the reins and grabbed for the brake lever.

I could not hear Sal’s slow replies, but the coach driver’s words were clearly audible.

“Get that thing out of the road... I don’t care... Now! Do it now!”

Sal made a show of failing to shift the branch he had a moment before been hauling. The doors opened and the carriage swayed on its springs as four thickset fellows clambered out – rough types all of them. At first, extra hands only added to the confusion, with Sal pulling as they pushed or pushing as they pulled, until one drew a knife from his belt and the giant backed away, hands raised.

By the time the coach had reached the gate, Silvan was long gone. From my hiding place in the mud, I scanned the field trying to make out which wagon he had taken such pains to remove. Not Timpson’s own. Nor any of the sleeping wagons, all of which remained in place. Feeling Tinker flinch, I turned to see what had frightened him.

Two gentlemen in top hats had clambered from the coach and were instructing the four men who had done battle with Sal and the tree branch. One of the thickset men hurried back up the field to stand guard by the gate. Another set off in a loping run, following the perimeter hedge. The other two headed for the wagons, hollering and hammering on doors.

“Harry Timpson! Present yourself!”

“Everyone out!”

Fabulo emerged from behind the horses.

“Where’s Timpson?” one of the thickset men demanded.

But instead of answering, Fabulo strode towards the coach, next to which the two men in top hats stood waiting.

“You missed the show,” called the dwarf as he approached them.

I could not make out the answer but saw Fabulo folding his arms and planting his feet. “You have no right,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry to all the other members of the troop in their hiding places.

Meanwhile, an argument had broken out at the gate where Silvan was trying to enter the field on foot. One of the top hats waved a signal for the man standing guard to step aside.

Next to me, Tinker had covered his muddy face. I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

Silvan had taken up position next to Fabulo, matching the dwarf’s folded arm stance. The two gentlemen were arguing with them. I saw Silvan shaking his head emphatically. Tinker leaned in closer to me.

“You’re not doing that!” announced Fabulo.

When it happened, it was so quick that to blink would have been to miss it. The man in the top hat who had been facing us pulled a sword from inside his cane and flicked the point down towards Fabulo. The dwarf jumped back, stung, clutching his upper chest. He twisted as he fell to the ground.

Silvan leapt forwards, knife drawn, but the man with the sword stood over the prostrate Fabulo and could have finished him in one movement. Silvan dropped his knife, which landed point first in the turf and was then kicked away.

Tinker was crying silently. I could feel the shudder of his sobs.

The man with the sword put his foot on Fabulo’s chest. “Tell them!” he shouted.

Spitting fury, Silvan turned and called. “Everyone come out.” And then, after a moment of silence: “Come out now!”

People began to emerge from their hiding places in ones and twos, gathering behind Silvan. The swordsman lifted his boot, allowing Fabulo to roll free. Blood had spread across the dwarf’s white shirt, staining a circle the size of a saucer. Yet he moved freely enough and I suspected it was his pride that had taken the worst of the hit.

The other top hat – the one without the sword – had arranged the members of the troop into a rough line, and seemed to be questioning each in turn. There had been a paper in his hand and though he was now mostly hidden from my view, I guessed he was compiling some kind of register.

“Any more?” asked the one with the sword. “You bring down trouble on yourself if we find you later.”

“Come,” I whispered to Tinker.

He shook his head, his eyes screwed tightly closed.

But the man with the sword had not finished. “And you’ll bring down trouble on your friends also.”

“Come,” I said again, leading the boy by the wrist out from under the wagon, taking up a position behind the end of the line with Sal’s giant frame in front of us. I had yet to see the face of the man compiling the list, but now I was close enough to hear him speak.

“Name?” he demanded.

“Ellie Samuelson.”

“Your work?”

“Usherette and cashier.”

“Name?”

“Lara Samuelson.”

“Work?”

“Same as Ellie.”

Tinker had turned to stare at me. He must have been able to feel the sudden tension in my grip as I listened to the voice. I glanced behind me, looking for a way to run. But one of the thickset men stood near the rear hedge.

“Name.”

“Vincent Salieri.”

“Your job?”

“Entertainer.”

“You’re all entertainers.”

“I throw knives.” These words Sal hissed through his teeth.

“And you behind?”

The man’s arm reached between Sal and Lara, making them stand apart so that he could see us. His deep voice and American accent had been unmistakable. But it was only now that I was able to see John Farthing’s face.

Chapter 22

You may devise a switch, a gimmick tamping rod, a cunning barrel breach or any other plan. But also devise the means to double check before the gun is pointed at your head.

– The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

John Farthing opened his mouth and then closed it again. He glanced over his shoulder to where the other agent was instructing the men, sending them off to search the wagons.

“You boy,” he said, pointing at Tinker with his pencil. “Name?”

“Sam,” said Tinker.

“Family name?”

“Smith.”

“Sam Smith,” said Farthing, adding the name to the paper in his hand. “What’s your job?”

“Boy,” said Tinker.

Farthing echoed the word as he wrote it.

I braced myself. Silvan would shortly have all the excuses he needed to come at me, knife drawn, something he had clearly wanted to do since I arrived. My best hope was that Farthing would arrest me and that I would be bundled away in his carriage. As for those members of the troop whose trust I had gradually won, I could not bear the thought of the betrayal they would feel on learning that I was a spy, or at least the sister to one.

“And finally...” said Farthing, turning to me. “Name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Family name?”

“Barnabus.” Anger sounded in the pitch of my voice. That he should toy with me in this way.

Braced for his sarcastic response, I watched as he wrote on the sheet of paper. Yet when he had finished and straightened himself once more, he held the sheet turned in my direction and I saw that where my name should have been, at the bottom of the list, he had written instead ‘Elizabeth Brown’. Having held it still for just long enough for me to take in the words, he stepped back to his colleague.

Tinker snuffled as he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. Sal turned and placed his huge hand on my shoulder. The gesture was at once protective and accepting. It seemed the shared ordeal had ushered me across an invisible barrier. I stood now on his side, part of the troop. Part of a family set square against any prejudice or injustice the world might throw against us.

“We’ve had this before,” he whispered. “We get through.”

At last they permitted Tania to go and forage for herbs with which to dress Fabulo’s wound. The Patent Office men were still searching the wagons, hauling out boxes of belongings, emptying bags of clothes onto the wet grass, treading clean linen underfoot.

The dwarf’s wound proved long but not deep. Tania pressed sphagnum moss onto his skin, together with a twist of some pale leaves I did not recognise. Having bound it in place with a strip of cloth around the barrel of Fabulo’s chest, she pronounced herself satisfied.

“A clean cut,” she said. “It won’t fester.”

Of all the blades Sal must have thrown at the dwarf during their act, the first scar would come from the sword of a Patent Office agent. Lara and Ellie fussed over him, bringing a flagon of red wine to ease the discomfort. He grumbled and frowned, but I suspected he might not be so unpleased with the way his part in the affair had resolved.

The Patent Office man went into Tania’s wagon and began throwing my belongings out onto the mud along with everyone else’s. I watched as he stood on the steps delving into the pockets of my coat. But he did not probe the lining with his fingers, so its secrets remained undiscovered and I began to breathe again.

The final wagon to be searched was Timpson’s, wherein I assumed the old impresario to be waiting. John Farthing led the men inside, closing the door behind them. The wagon shifted on its springs as they moved within. No clothes or equipment were ejected. And when they emerged some 30 minutes later, I saw them shake their heads in disappointment.

“We’ll start at the bottom of the list and work our way back up,” said Farthing, pointing in my direction. “Bring the woman and the boy.”

So it was that I found myself sitting in the gloom of the large carriage, its blinds closed. Tinker clung to my arm, more frightened than I had seen him before.

“Don’t be scared,” I said, though that was exactly the emotion pumping through my veins. “They won’t hurt you.”

“They’ll take me back,” he sobbed.

“They’re after bigger fish than you, Tinker.”

“But...”

“Hush now.”

I had no timepiece, so could not say how long they had already kept us stewing there. With each minute that passed my confusion changed more into anxiety. Sure enough, Farthing had recorded my name as Brown not Barnabus. He had held the paper so that I could see it, though whether that had been deliberate or merely chance, I could not say.

Explanations tumbled in my mind, each more extravagant than the last. He wished to hide my identity from the other agent. He wished to accuse me of giving a false name and on that pretext arrest me. He wished to dispose of me and leave no paper record. I would be murdered without witness, my body disposed of in an unmarked grave.