Unseemly Science (17 page)

Art has aforetime been the plaything of kings. We shall recommission it to the service of the common man
.
He
shall it uplift and educate.

From Revolution

Autopsy
– the word glowered at me from the decoded message.
North Leicester
Intelligence Gatherer reports Target A
signed up
Mrs Raike
three weeks ago
.
Target A was surely Julia.
Will send
message indicating disapproval.
We had received the message – Antonia’s severed finger – and passed it on to its intended recipient.
Your description
woman target B too vague.
That had to be me. I took comfort that the description had been insubstantial.
Determine
identity
. H
ighest priority.
It would be disastrous if they did discover my identity. But again, comfort could be taken from the fact that they had not done so yet.
May require intervention as before.
Intervention could mean anything. But a young intelligence gatherer had gone missing. Mrs Raike might assume he had run off with the advance payment, but I feared worse.
Usual bonus.
It had happened before. That supported my theory about the missing intelligence gatherer.
Half payment on collection.
The man was a hired hand.
Half
on autopsy.
The skin on the back of my neck tightened as I re-read the transcription.

Then the final word on the first message:
Fox.

The recipient must have known the identity of the sender. Perhaps the name was some deeper code. Even so, it felt like cold vanity to include it. To make free with any badge of identity in such a conspiratorial message is to believe yourself beyond harm.

From Derby to Nottingham is a journey of just
fifteen
miles. There was no time for better precaution so I travelled by coach with no disguise but the wig and a small beauty spot. I found a respectable boarding house just south of Castle Rock and secured a twin room on the ground floor with the story that my aunt would be joining me in a couple of days and that her arthritis made climbing stairs quite impossible.

I heaved the sash window up and open, then leant out to survey the small back garden. Cucumbers grew under glass in a line of cold frames against the side wall. A brick path ran between a potting shed and a greenhouse. The thought came unbidden that there would be places for Tinker to hide should he find me again. Irritated with myself for the sentiment, I shoved my case under the bed and set about my tasks.

My first call was to the postal office. I scanned the notice board behind the counter and was relieved to find no picture of myself. Emboldened, I asked the clerk for the city directories. He pointed me to a stack of volumes further down the counter, the biggest of which was devoted to medical businesses.

Every town was famous for something. With North Leicester it was trade and smuggling. With Derby it was ice and heavy industry. But with Nottingham it was medicine. Any doctor who hoped to rise through the ranks of his profession would surely study there. A year spent in one of its hospitals was as good as a certificate on the consulting room wall.

I leafed through the heavy volume to the list of principal medical establishments. The Women’s Hospital on Peel Street, the Borough of Nottingham Lunatic Asylum and the Forest House Children’s Hospital could all be discounted. None of them had operating theatres. The City Hospital did carry out surgical procedures. But it was to the General Hospital that bodies were transported for autopsy. The list of surgeons who worked there took up nine pages.

Having thanked the clerk for his help I purchased, for one penny, a sheet of notepaper and an envelope. Then, making sure that no one overlooked me, I wrote:

Dear Mr Farthing.
You told me once that I should contact you in the event that I
needed anything. I am doing so with this letter, which is my request to
meet you at noon today in
the art gallery in
Nottingham Castle.
You will understand why I cannot come to your office in person.

When he visited me in the prison camp, John Farthing had told me that he could be contacted via premises situated on High Pavement. The street was easy to find, though I could not at first locate the building. Looking for something of grand scale, I walked clear past it. But on retracing my steps, noticed the brass name plaque next to the door. It seemed too ordinary a property to be occupied by an agency of world-encircling power.

I offered a boy tuppence to put the letter in Farthing’s hand, but he was too afraid to approach an agent. Tenpence restored his courage and he scampered into the building. I climbed a short flight of steps on the opposite side of the road to the grounds of a library that must once have been a church. From this vantage point, I could look down on the street, whilst pretending to study old gravestones.

I did not have long to wait. John Farthing emerged at a great rush, followed closely by the boy. I slipped into the library before either had a chance to look up and see me.

Nottingham Castle is built on top of a rocky crag in the centre of the city. Little more than a gatehouse remains from the original fortifications. Instead of a drawbridge and portcullis there stands a ticket window and turnstile. I paid my money and entered. Immediately before me were manicured lawns and borders of roses. Paths lead to a large building of pale stone at the top. It was towards this I climbed. Instead of entering, I chose a bench overlooking the gatehouse and sat to wait.

I was still unsure of Farthing’s reaction to my escape. He had seen my preparation – the folding of my stocking to thicken the ankle. I felt myself blushing as I remembered. He had stared at my reflection in the dark glass of the window and seen what a man should not see. I believed it was shame that stopped him reporting me. Or perhaps it was simply beyond the narrow focus of his loyalty. Though Patent Law transcends all borders within the Gas-Lit Empire, it is of limited scope.

Even if he had planned to make a report, one of the prisoners in the hut had got there first. The image of Tulip swam in my mind, the woman who saw me leave. She’d told me that she was a bad person. I had not believed her.

Now, at last, one question from that episode would be resolved. If Farthing came accompanied by the
c
onstabulary, I would know the nature of his loyalty. I had already planned my escape route.

The town clock struck twelve with no sign of him. Feeling a pang of disappointment, I decided that ten more minutes could do no harm. But it was not until the fading of the half hour chime that he at last came hurrying through the gatehouse turnstile. Even at a distance he was unmistakable. Some men seem to lurch or tumble as they run. John Farthing had balance.

I kept watching the turnstile. The next person through was a nurse leading two toddlers. There were no constables.

He did not notice me. I counted to ten before getting up and following him inside the building. I took my time climbing the stairs to the art gallery on the first floor. He took off his hat as I stepped towards him and I saw that he was perspiring.

He ran a hand back through his hair. “I thought I’d missed you.”

“And I thought you might be fetching the constables.”

A look of pain crossed his face and I immediately regretted my words. He turned, as if to examine the paintings on the wall – a triptych of Ned Ludd smashing the stocking frames.

“Forgive me,” I said. “You came as I asked.”

“I couldn’t have not come, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you.”

“I was surprised by your letter. Getting away was... difficult. Discreetly, I mean.” He faced me again. “Why did you call me here?”

We found a pair of back to back benches and sat one on each, heads close together but facing in opposite directions. To an observer it would have seemed we studied the paintings on different walls. In a low voice I related my adventure – in edited form. I did not give away the real identity of Mrs Raike. Nor her relationship to the kidnapped Antonia. And I was especially careful to steer away from any hint of my method of disguise. That was one card I was glad to keep up my sleeve – one power I still had to use against John Farthing if the need came.

When I told him about the perfectly severed finger and the evidence that pointed to Nottingham, he stood and began pacing. I followed him. When I caught up he said:

“I don’t approve.”

“Of severed fingers?”

“Of your investigation.”

“I should have conducted it some other way?”

“I have a duty to protect,” he said. “And this is too dangerous.”

“Think of poor Antonia. Kidnapped by bodysnatchers. Is she owed no duty?”

His mouth opened and closed again, caught between speaking and silence.

A party of teenage girls with satchels entered the gallery, shepherded by two women who might have been governesses.

“Your brother should be doing this,” Farthing muttered. “Not you.”

Then he strode away, as if he had merely been passing the place where I stood. On the other side of the room, the governesses gave instructions and the girls began getting out pencils and sketch pads. I caught up with Farthing in the next gallery along.

“Even if your deductions are correct,” he said, “what can you possibly achieve?”

“I can follow clues.”

“You intend to visit every hospital? Question every physician?”

“Remember the name from the message? Fox. There are only two medical men with that surname. A dentist and a chiropodist. Not promising. But there’s also a Dr Foxley. Erasmus Foxley. He does public autopsies. What odds would you have put on that?”

Farthing checked and wound his pocket watch. I walked away and stood in front of a huge canvas depicting the battle of Stanhope. Heroic lead miners doing battle with the soldiers of the Prince Bishop. Other visitors were ambling through the gallery. Farthing did not join me until they had moved on.

“Your reasoning could be wrong,” he said. “Have you thought of that?. Elizabeth Barnabus could have made a mistake?”

“You think me proud?”

“I think you clothe yourself in virtue and call me corrupt whenever I disagree!”

“Then you fault my reasoning?”

“I cannot. That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re walking into terrible danger.”

“Then help me!”

“You know the risk I’ve taken merely coming here?”

“And why have I asked you? Why am I forced to do these things? Because an agent of the Patent Office took a bribe an
d–
”

“Say the word and I’ll raise your complaint. There could yet be an investigation. If an agent is guilty as you claim…”

“The Patent Office investigating its own? I’d win my case, do you suppose? We both know that’s not going to happen.”

“Then what can I do?”

“You have files on important people. Check to see if anything’s written about Erasmus Foxley. That’s all I ask. Without information, I’m fighting blind. If there was something, even a suspicion, you could ask questions. Officially, I mean. As an
a
gent.”

“There won’t be anything,” he said.

“But you will look?”

“I don’t know why I’m agreeing. But yes. I’ll look.”

“How soon can we meet?”

“A week?”

“Too long.”

“Searching the files, I put myself in danger! I’ll need four days, at least.”

He began telling me of a tea shop on Bridlesmith Gate where we could meet. I gazed at the canvas on the wall in front of us.

“Elizabeth, did you take in what I said?”

In truth I’d drifted, distracted by the unfamiliar thought that an agent of the International Patent Office could be in danger from his own organisation.

“I was saying that he’s a doctor. That leaves slim chance of finding anything in the records.”

I gestured to the painting. “Look at those miners. You know the story. What chance did they have against trained soldiers? But all other choice was gone. So they took up arms.”

“You’re not fighting a war, Elizabeth.”

After a moment in which we both stared at the picture, I asked: “Why didn’t you report me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“At the prison camp. You knew I was planning to escape.”

“I... I didn’t mean to look at you. But–...”

“A woman prisoner raised the alarm. You refrained.”

“She was driven to it. Don’t think too badly of her.”

I tried to drive the image of Tulip from my mind. I had thought her my friend.

“Neither you nor I have children,” said Farthing. “We can’t know the desperation that woman felt. I was there when she raised the alarm. I can tell you she wept.”

“Children?”

“Her son and daughter. They were together on the end of the same chain that held you. She informed in the hope it would win their release. It did not.”

Misdirection is your trick. All else is polish. A pretty girl dancing will leave an elephant unseen.

The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

Public autopsies cannot be read about on day-bills. Nor even in exclusive magazines. But the third hospital porter I approached proved susceptible. The more rapidly I fanned myself, the more he seemed encouraged.

“They love to see a body cut open,” he said.

“Who could bear to watch such things?”

“Gents as you’d think respectable,” he said. “Gents as hold more cash than kindling.”

“And have you seen it?” I asked.

“No, Miss. But I see the bodies laid out,
’
coz it’s my job to keep the ice topped up. And I take the bits away, after.” He put special emphasis on the word
bits
. “You wouldn’t believe the things inside a body. And the colours. Not just red. There’s blue and black and white and yellow.”

“I think you’re brave,” I said, fanning myself extra hard for good effect. “I could never look at such things. Who attends?”

“The richer a man, the more he likes it.”

“Are the demonstrations advertised?”

“You wasn’t thinking of going, was you?” After laughing heartily at his own joke, he added: “Word gets round. Day before a show, there’ll be a crowd of servants waiting out the back to buy tickets.”

“I’ve heard of one surgeon,” I said. “Erasmus Foxley.”

“I like his work,” said the porter, nodding like a connoisseur. “Always a clean cut. He’s doing one Tuesday. I iced the body this morning. A man from Bristol. They do like to see a Royalist on the slab. Bet he never thought he’d end up in the Republic, eh? When it’s an old wrinkly, died in debt, they won’t sell all the tickets. But this one’s a young’un. The place’ll be full. Better still if it was a woman, young and pretty...”

I hadn’t been aware of the nausea creeping up on me. Each revelation had been more gruesome and compelling than the last. Unexpectedly I saw Florence May in my mind’s eye, standing with the noose around her neck and a casket of ice to the side. I had to turn away and cover my mouth with my hand. My skin felt cold and damp.

“You like that do you?” he said.

Though the porter had misjudged much, his description proved accurate. On Monday morning, I found my way to a rear door of the hospital where a crowd of young servants mingled. They smoked and chatted in the sunshine, giving the impression of a familiar routine. A sign next to the door read:
For Night Deliveries
First
Call at Lodge
.

My arrival was like a stone being dropped into the middle of a pond. Awareness that something was wrong spread through the group. Conversations stopped.

“Can I help you, Miss?” inquired a man not much older than Tinker.

“Is this the place to buy the tickets?” I asked.

“Yes, but…” He looked around the group as if for moral support. “It’s not for a lady, Miss.

“It’s the master wants one,.” I said, trying to match the pattern of his speech.

But he was shaking his head. “It’s not right.”

I looked to the others. Arms were folded. Their faces were a stone wall. Had I not been wanted by the law I might have pressed my case.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “A mistake.” Then hurried away before they started asking questions I could not answer.

The front of the hospital presented a grand aspect with a Georgian range and the round tower of the famous Oak Wing. But the addition of further wards and ancillary buildings had been haphazard and the rear of the hospital sprawled into a maze of disreputable- looking passages.

Once the young men had collected tickets for their masters, most would make their way to the front and disperse via the main road. But I noticed a small alleyway, which might serve as a cut-through for a brave soul wanting to head in the opposite direction. It did not run straight but doglegged between a laundry and the ambulance stables, creating a blind spot a few paces across that could not be seen from either end.

It was here that I positioned myself, prostrate as if fainted, face resting on outstretched arm. Then, thinking of my likely audience, I hitched up my skirts a few inches, bunching the material above my knee so to reveal a gap between boot and hem. I’m not a practiced dipper, but with enough distraction anyone can pick a pocket.

The first footsteps I heard approaching came from the wrong end of the alleyway. I scrambled to my feet with just enough time to brush myself down before a medical orderly hurried into view, carrying the poles of a stretcher on his shoulder. Busy about his work, he passed me without a glance.

Once he was away, I lay back down on the cobbles, repositioning myself as might an artist’s model. Two minutes passed before I heard footsteps coming from the other direction. I held my breath. The footsteps scraped to an abrupt stop.

“Hells bells!”

It was a man’s voice.

“Miss?”

He patted the back of my hand. Then, when I didn’t move, he lifted it and pulled gently. Fearing that he might rush off to get help, I let out a groan as if coming round from a faint.

“Wake up. Please. Miss?”

Through my eyelashes, I could see that his jacket was of poor cut, but likely there were pockets within. I shifted my position and gripped his arm. In moments he was lifting me. I grabbed his jacket lapel, as if for support. There was no pocket on his right side.

He had me on my feet and was about to step back so I let my knees buckle again and he was forced to grab me under the arms.

The unfamiliar contact was distracting enough for me, let alone for him, a man of perhaps
nineteen
years. My hand darted within the left side of his jacket and dipped into the pocket. I covered the move with a forward lurch. He was obliged to use his body to stop me falling.

“Let me sit,” I said.

As he lowered me I contrived to drop the contents of his pocket onto the floor beneath my skirts.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Water,” I gasped. Then added, as an afterthought in case the water proved too near: “And smelling salts.”

He seemed grateful for the chance to run away. As soon as the sound of his footsteps had died I got to my feet, grabbed what I had stolen and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.

If you ever find yourself on the run and looking for a place of safety, choose somewhere with an entrance fee. I paid my money and once again pushed through the turnstile into the grounds of Nottingham Castle. Having followed the curving path up the hill, I selected a bench with the security of a wide view over the grounds below. No one gave me a second glance. Once a tourist has paid her money, it is no one’s business to ask how she spends the time.

The contents of the man’s pocket I now laid out on my lap, seeing them properly for the first time. I felt little guilt. The finer morals are easily forgotten when life itself is under threat. I wondered whether he would be punished. His master might think he had stolen the money. Though, if the gentleman was a regular, he would most likely have an account. The servant would not be trusted with substantial sums.

The first item was a slim tin box that rattled when I shook it. Opening it, I found five greenish pills and a sheet of finely printed paper. To steal the poor man’s medicine had not been my intention. But on reading the paper, I relaxed.
Dr Farnham’s patented strengthening pills.
A tonic for
masculine vigour.
The accompanying illustration showed a sailor embracing his sweetheart. I guessed the servant’s life would not be threatened by their loss.

I dropped the tin into the flower border behind the bench and disposed of a small purse in the same way, having first extracted four tenpences and three pennies, which I added to my own money. How easily I had become a common criminal.

Next on the pile was a sheet of paper. I unfolded it, flattening out the creases on my knee. It was a daybill advertising the performance of
Artistic Tableau on the Classical T
hemes
. The illustration included strategically placed fig leaves. I could not believe such shows would be tolerated in Nottingham. Sure enough, the flier gave an address in Cank Street, deep in the Leicester Backs. How like my adopted city. It had been peeled from a wall to judge by the wrinkles and the tear down one side.

Finally, I came to the ticket itself.

For admission to the public autopsy of Mr Jeremiah Tuesday, convicted murderer, hanged in Bristol. In life the specimen was a working man of
twenty-eight
28
years. The body shows finely developed musculature.
Since execution it has been kept in ice.
Autopsy to be performed by Doctor Erasmus
Foxley
.

I turned the paper over and saw the price – fifty guineas. My skin prickled with the breaking through of perspiration. Men have hanged for lesser robberies. The rightful owner of the ticket would surely inform the constables. They might go to the hospital to search for the thief. Whatever I could have learned attending the demonstration would remain undiscovered. The risk was too great.

In spite of the chance I was losing, I felt a wash of relief.