Unseemly Science (15 page)

Then, my breath coming short, I said: “When did you first recognise me?”

He did not answer but his face went slack with surprise.

“When was it?”

He could have denied knowledge. I might yet have believed him. Instead he turned his head away. Still gripping his hand, I sidestepped bringing myself back into his eye line.

“Why didn’t you tell Gideon?”

He wrenched himself free but I grabbed his wrist.

“You wanted to keep the reward for yourself.”

“No!”

“Ashamed then? Ashamed to hurt a woman who came to help your people?”

“Hurt? I wouldn’t–...”

“Do you have a daughter?”

He shook his head.

“A sister then?” I saw from his eyes that he did.

He tried to pull free again, but with less strength than before.

“You know what’ll happen to me if I’m sent back?”

“But you’re a criminal...”

“Who told you that?”

“In the pub – there was a poster – they said you were on the run.”

“That’s right. I am on the run. An old man – very rich – paid bribes so the court would make me his property. How old is your sister?”

He tried to get out of my gaze but I moved again, forcing him to look at me.

“To him, I’m just runaway property. You know what he’ll do to me?”

“I... I didn’t know. They read it for me. I can’t–...”

“What were you going to do? Wait till we were settled in our lodgings then find the nearest police house?”

“I won’t tell! I’m sorry. I promise I won’t tell.”

I released him. For a heartbeat he stared directly back at me. Then he was scurrying away towards the others and busying himself with the saddlebags. I watched, rooted to the towpath, trying to catch the meaning of his final glance, not knowing if I’d witnessed sincerity in his expression or if it had been fear.

In this gilded age, perfection shall
predominate over the wild horses of innovation and science.

From Revolution

There were three of us riding along the towpath back towards Derby. Then, when we had gone a mile or so, I pulled my horse to a stop.

“We can find our way from here,” I said.

Peter opened his mouth as if to speak but then closed it again. He turned his horse in the path and set off back the way we had come. Julia didn’t question me about it and I chose not to explain.

Three empty narrow boats passed us one after the other, climbing through the locks as we descended. I reminded myself that any one of the captains could have been responsible for the theft. We waved to each. The crews waved back, more friendly than the master of
The Peary
had been. But then, we weren’t in the company of the ice farmers. Arguments over the missing cargo must surely have soured the relationship.

“I’ve been thinking about the code,” said Julia after a long period of silence. “Or, I should say I’ve been thinking of the code
book
. I might have been wrong about it being made rather than bought. There’s another way to do it. The key could be an ordinary printed book.”

“Like a novel?” I asked.

“Certainly. Any would do.”

“
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“Don’t tease,” she said, her cheeks colouring. “A banned book would be no use. The coder and decoder both need to be able to access it. Each triplet in the code would direct the user to a particular word from the text.”

There was an elegance to the idea. If it were a common enough text, the spy wouldn’t even need to carry it with him.

“It’s still no good though,” Julia said. “We don’t know what books he had in his room.”

“We know of one,” I said. “It lies in the bedside drawers of every guesthouse and hotel in the land.”

“
From Revolution
,” said Julia.

She said no more on the matter, but I could see the excitement that had kindled in her eyes.

She urged her pony on faster after that, eager to reach Derby and find a lodging place. But every mile south brought us closer to the border and increased the danger of my being discovered. With the outskirts of the city just ahead, I stopped to put on the mousy brown wig, which I’d not worn during our time in the mountains.

We found a coaching inn outside the city on Duffield Road. The stable master expressed surprise that two women should be riding unaccompanied. I smiled, though silently berating myself that I’d not foreseen the danger. I imagined the stable master relating the story of two strange women riding without escort. A jar of ale and it would be everywhere. We’d not be able to stay there long.

Julia was too well brought up to take the stairs at a run
, b
ut she climbed so fast that I was out of breath by the time we reached the room. She was at the bedside table in two strides and had
From
Revolution
open before I could bolt the door behind us.

“The code,” she said, flapping her hand in my direction.

I pulled the papers from my case and handed them to her. She was immediately leafing through the pages of the book. “If the letter represents the essay and the numbers are line and word, it gives us... Charter... The... And...” She frowned.

“That makes no sense,” I said.

“Then we try them the other way. The first number defines the essay. Then the letter can be the line number...”

I watched her leafing through the book, licking the tip of her finger the better to turn the pages.

“If... And... Almighty... That’s no better.”

The puzzle of the code kept Julia working late into the night. It was the small hours of the morning when she finally admitted defeat and turned down the lamp. Her breathing slowed as she dropped into sleep. For a long time after, I listened to those small sounds that every building makes, searching in them for signs of danger, hoping that Peter’s shame would not be overcome by greed.

We had been to the metal troughs where the ice was formed in the mountains and to the disused mines in which it was stored. We’d ridden the ice carts down the mountain to the boats, which we had then seen loaded. And we had followed the path of the boats back to the city of Derby. Now we approached the final stage – Derby’s famous ice factory. Here the ice was processed and from here it would be distributed to the great cities of the south.

Having bought our tickets, we slipped in with the other tourists and picked our way down a flight of damp stone stairs, into a well of cool air at the bottom. But when our guide opened the double doors and we followed him through into a lamp-lit antechamber, the gentle chill turned to harsh cold. The walls were milky with accreted frost. Sharp corners were rounded. Melting and refreezing had caused ice stalagmites to form on the ground below brass lamp fittings projecting from the walls.

Our guide, the least warmly dressed of the party, had a bristling black beard and a constant grin. He clapped his hands and the chatter of conversation stopped. “It’s here you put on the spikes,” he said. “Tight as you can. We don’t want feet slopping around. There’s two miles of tunnel ahead. It’ll feel like four if you don’t get the buckles right.”

Julia had been out of sorts all morning. She hadn’t mentioned the code, but I could see it weighing on her mind. She had convinced herself that
From Revolution
would be the key. I believe her mood was kept low by a sense of failure. And so preoccupied was I by the risk of capture that I could find no enthusiasm to offer her.

Since returning to Derby, I’d not looked at the face of a stranger without asking myself if he or she might know my identity. I surveyed the others in our tour party, all busily buckling iron spikes to their footwear. None looked like a spy. But paradoxically, no spy does.

Clockwise around the room there was a pair of elderly ladies, a genteel husband-and-wife, a small party of students and a young couple who clung together even more tightly than the cold and slippery surfaces required. Honeymooners, I thought. A suitable wedding gift, this visit to an industrial facility.

I had never understood the Republican fascination with factories, warehouses and building projects. Wherever working men sweated to shift earth or to grease machines, there would be the middle classes looking on and feeling good about themselves – as if through some vicarious process they were absorbing the virtue that came with toil.

They did things differently in the Kingdom. The closest most Royalists wanted to be to sweat was in a steam bath. And the only workers that made them feel good were waiters and shop attendants.

Julia parked herself on a pile of hay bundles by the wall. She examined the spiked irons, turning them until they matched her boots. I sat next to her and did the same with mine.

“Forget the code,” I whispered.

“I
had
forgotten!” she hissed, shooting me an angry look. “I wanted to enjoy this. I’ve never been to an ice factory before. Now code books will be filling my mind all morning!”

“The way to solve a problem is to think about something else.”

“Then please stop raising it!”

She stood and took a tentative step, holding her hands out to either side. I tightened the leather straps over my own boots and followed. Others were getting to their feet. The young couple clung together tighter than ever. Perhaps in their case I could understand the enthusiasm. A week travelling the factories of the Midlands would be a week spent away from the eyes and ears of his family. The elderly ladies looked on and tutted.

“It might feel shaky out here,” said our guide. “But once we’re on the thick ice the spikes’ll sink in. Be glad of
’
em.”

He looked around the party, satisfying himself that all was in order. While we had been busy he had lit two storm lanterns. One he held on a pole above his head. The other he passed to the leader of the student group. “You stay at the back. Don’t let anyone lag behind.”

Then he pushed open a set of double doors and we followed him into the dark beyond. Though the tunnel must have originally been cut square, the accumulation of ice had rounded its corners. The air was so cold that it felt painful to inhale. After a few paces, I realised that we were descending a gentle slope. A layer of mist clung to the floor, deepening as we progressed. At first it covered only our boots but by the time we were
fifty
paces in, I was wading through it waist deep.

Up ahead I could see our guide’s lamp dipping under the surface. One of the elderly ladies in front of me wore long black feathers in her hat. Soon these were the only part of her projecting above the mist. I found myself ducking involuntarily to take my head below the surface.

“These tunnels were built during the construction,” our guide announced. “That was
one hundred and twenty
years ago. Now we use them only for the tours and as part of the ventilation system. They’re cleaned through once a year. Else they’d be iced up in no time.”

We had passed three side-tunnels already, narrower than this one. One was so heavily iced that it had grown oval in cross section. It seemed that not all the tunnels were cleaned so often.

Our guide had stopped at a crossroads where the tunnel was wider. He gathered us in a loose circle, waiting for the leader of the student group to arrive before he began to speak again.

“All still present? Very good. Wouldn’t do to lose anyone. Though we’ve two miles to walk, there’s more than ten miles of tunnels, if you add them all together. And that’s the ones we know. Every few years the cleaners find something to add to the map. Last year it was a room where the navvies used to sleep. The doorway was full of ice. But once we broke through, it was like Tutankhamen’s tomb. No gold or ebony though. There was plates, cups, bedding. Even the food on the table – just as they left it. A loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese.

“And fifteen years ago – I worked in the factory proper back then – they found the body of a little girl. All iced in. Curled up in a corner of one of the side rooms just like she’d gone to sleep. We called the constables. Got relatives of missing girls to come look. None of them knew her. Then someone sees her shoes and says them buckles went out a hundred years ago. And they bring in museum people then. They look over her clothes and say it’s true. The girl’s been lying there for a century. Turns out she was the daughter of one of the factory foremen. Went missing in 1905.

“Ice preserves. Stops things living. Whether it’s rot or animal or man. That’s the beauty of it. And that’s the peril too. So don’t go wandering off or they might be finding you curled up in a corner in
one hundred
years
time
.”

He grinned, looking around the party for anyone to share his joke. A few of the students laughed, though the smiles were not quite so easy as before. The reaction seemed to satisfy him, though. He clapped his hands again and started leading us down the side passage to the left. After a few yards he glanced back, checking the rear marker was still following.

We had been walking for some minutes when I noticed a slowly repeating boom. It was so quiet and low that at first it seemed to be a tremor rather than a sound. But as we progressed through the ice tunnel, it grew and I recognised it as the rhythm of some large beam engine. I was about to mention it to Julia but stopped myself. Her expression could have been a sulk or focussed concentration. Either way, I decided it safer not to disturb her.

It was a curious quality of the tunnels to play tricks with sound, sometimes muffling, sometimes amplifying. Turning into yet another passage, the engine noise became suddenly louder. The young couple whispered to each other. The lady in front turned her head as if trying to determine the direction it came from. Hat feathers twitched above her.

Our guide stopped in front of another set of doors, did a quick head-count, then without introduction led us through into a vast underground chamber. Lamps in the wall and ceiling, regularly spaced, receded into the mist. Before us stood towering racks of shelving, on which lay blocks of ice, each perhaps two foot thick and six foot along the sides.

“Don’t touch the metal,” shouted our guide.

Three of the students who had been edging towards the nearest ice block, pulled up mid-step. Frozen, so to speak.

“Down here it’s
twenty
below. Touch the racks and you’d freeze to the metal. Don’t want you leaving your skin behind.”

It seemed strange that he hadn’t warned us before. But it came to me that this apparently genial man took pleasure in shocking his audience.

The rhythmic boom echoed in the cavernous hall. I could now make out other rhythms, quieter than the first. Strips of cloth fluttered from a metal grille in the wall. I put my hand next to it and felt the frigid breeze.

“We’ve seven Rawlings and Buckley heat exchanging engines,” our guide announced. “Four of them are in use at any one time. The others can be maintained or fixed if they’re broken. That’s what keeps it so cold in here. Takes a ton of coal an hour to feed them. But if we had to freeze the water to make these blocks we’d need ten times that. And it would take too long. That’s why we bring ice in from the mountains.”

One of the students put up his hand.
“
Why don’t you stack the blocks on top of each other? Why the shelving?”

“That’s how they tried it at first,” said our guide. “Like stacking blocks of stone. And it worked. Three or four blocks, straw scattered between. Worked fine. But you try making a stack as high as this room. That’s when ice flows. More like tallow than brick. Then the piles fall over and you’re in all kinds of mess.

“The racks were built in 1897. Over a hundred years old and no one’s found a better way. You can’t improve on perfection. The blocks get pushed along by shunting pistons. They start at the top of the hall, then work their way down by stages. The ice comes here at maybe
two degrees
below. We form it into these blocks, send it on its journey. By the time it reaches the floor level, we’ve taken it to minus twenty and it’s ready to go out.”

Our party set off at a brisk walk along the edge of the room. I was glad of the movement because I had started to shiver and was having to clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering against each other. I saw now that the racks sloped like a child’s marble run. I imagined the life of a block of ice, sliding down from near the roof all the way to the floor.

A loud crash made us jerk our heads around. Ice was sliding along the rack. Another loud crash – the sound of a block reaching the end of the room and dropping to the shelf below.

“Why are the blocks that size?” asked the leader of the students.

“It was the largest the boats could carry back in 1897. That was before the canals were widened. There are hoists at the very end of the line to lift the blocks up to where the barges are waiting. From there, they’re away to keep the best ice houses stocked. We send
two hundred
blocks a year to the
k
ing himself in London town.”

The elderly ladies gasped audibly, displaying a virtuous distaste for the monarchy. I wondered how many times our guide had used that line and enjoyed a shocked response.

I put my hand up. “How do you keep track?”

“Keep track?”

“If this were a wool warehouse, you’d have a system to account for it all. You’d know which farmer had given how much. Otherwise how would you know what to pay them?”

He scratched at his beard. “All the ice is weighed as it comes in. We keep records just like any warehouse.”

“But wool doesn’t melt,” I said.

“You think our ice melts? Must be a warm coat you’re wearing.”

“Wasn’t there a dispute. In the newspaper it said–...”

“Don’t believe what you read!” he snapped. Then just as suddenly as it had gone, the jovial tone returned. “Ice farmers, eh? Sleeping all summer. Not what you’d call the deserving poor.”

Others in the group laughed, though not as easily as before.

“I read someone had been stealing their ice,” I said.

“Stealing off each other most likely. Just because you read it, don’t make it true. If someone had been stealing their ice, then it’s further up the chain. We keep account of it all. We’ve shown the books to the lawyers.”

“They think it’s being taken from this factory.”

“They’re wrong. And that’s an end to it!”

So saying, the man who enjoyed shocking his visitors wheeled and marched away. It was all the elderly ladies could do to keep up.