Unseemly Science (20 page)

The magician’s assistant must
be long gone before the
wand is flourished to make her
disappear.

The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

The ticket office for the tour around Derby’s magnificent ice factory was an unassuming building of red brick. It acted as a gateway, the entrance being on the street and the exit within the perimeter railings.

I advanced into the bare foyer in the manner of a man and I paid my money at the office window. The machine chattered, spewing out my ticket. A clock hand displaying the number of visitors ratcheted one place forward. From my previous visit, I knew that every visitor would be counted out again with the same machine at the end. If the numbers did not tally, a search party would doubtless be dispatched. It was this system I needed to subvert.

Stepping through the building, I went to join the other visitors who were assembling out at the back. The guide with the bristling black beard was there to check my ticket. As we waited for the party to be complete, I meandered back until I was next to the ticket office once more. When the foyer was empty and the guide looking in the other direction, I disappeared inside.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said to the man behind the ticket window. I loosened my collar as if in need of air. “I’ve come over poorly.”

“Can’t give refunds,” he said, gesturing with his thumb towards a list of terms and conditions on the wall. “Sorry.”

“So be it.”

I watched as he pressed a key on the ticket machine. It made a double click and the clock hand ratcheted back to remove one from the number of visitors. I stepped away as if leaving. Then, having checked that no one observed, I ducked below his window and re-entered the site.

In that way, I disappeared.

Wearing extra clothes concealed underneath my male outer garments, I was sweating by the time I followed the group down the steps into the well of cold at the entrance to the ice tunnels. The problem had been to pack so much clothing and equipment without appearing to be burdened. My skirt, petticoat and blouse I had wrapped around my waist. My precious flintlock was strapped vertically against my back. When I wore a binding cloth alone, I had a handsome figure. These additions gave me a more rounded outline. They altered my gait also and I found myself swaying like a duck as I stepped inside.

I sat on a pile of hay bundles, as I had done before, and buckled the iron spikes to my boots. The guide was lightly dressed just as he had been on my first visit. My fellow tourists were a mix of earnest Republicans, all keen to learn about the perfections of the age.

“Tight as you can,” said the guide, his beard bristling as he spoke. “We don’t want feet slopping around. There’s two miles of tunnels ahead. It’ll feel like four if you don’t get the buckles right.”

He used the same patter, so far as I could remember. That was good. My plan relied on his routine being unchanged. I watched his eyes flicking around the room – doing his first count of the number of people in the party, which was now different by one from the number on the ticket machine.

He lit the pole lanterns and passed one to a middle- aged man on whose arm clung an expensively- dressed young woman. I remembered to hold my arms out for balance as I stood, as if the spikes were unfamiliar to me. Indeed, the experience was new, for I had never walked in them as a man.

Setting off into the first tunnel, I realised that the spikes were more suited to a male gait. It was easier to walk planting my heels than it had been carrying my weight on my toes. As we descended into the layer of mist, I let myself drift back through the group until I was just in front of the rear marker.

“Isn’t this exciting?,” I said.

“We’ve wanted to see it for years,” responded the man with the lantern.

I wondered how many years they had been together. She seemed too young for it to have been long.

“What is your line of business?” he asked.

“Dairy produce,” I said, relieved when his expression betrayed indifference. “What’s yours?”

“Carpets,” he said. “Wholesale, naturally.”

We had arrived at the first stopping place. The party were gathering in a semi-circle. I positioned myself just behind the shoulder of the carpet man and watched as our guide went through the expected headcount.

Having heard his talk before, I was able to observe more closely. This time I caught the flick of his eyes around the group as he delivered the line about the frozen child. A woman raised a hand to her face, failing to mask her horror. A momentary smile curled the mouth of the guide – the same unwholesome pleasure I had observed in him before.

Speech delivered, he led us on. I noted again how the tunnels played tricks, deadening some sounds and amplifying others. I could hear the deep boom of the engines long before we reached the entrance to the giant ice warehouse.

I watched the front lamp dip under the lintel of the doorway. We followed in single file. When it came to my turn, I made a point of holding the door open for the carpet man’s wife. He followed through after her. As the door swung closed, I slipped back through it into the corridor.

If the guide followed the same routine, he wouldn’t count heads again. The visitors would be returned to the surface via the elevator cage. They would be escorted back out through the little red- brick building. The ticket man would press the button on the machine for each head that passed. When all were through, the clock would register nought. To the system, I no longer existed.

When the noise of voices had receded from the other side of the door, I fumbled in my pockets for matches and candle. Soon I had light again, though not as much as the lanterns had shed.

I checked my watch. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. Four hours remained before they would expect me to arrive and bargain for Tinker’s life.

Cupping the candle in my hand, I retraced my steps through the tunnels. The door to the anteroom was locked, but not sturdy enough to resist my shoulder. I broke through without too much noise and positioned myself on a pile of hay bundles to wait. Discovering that two of my fingers had gone numb, I got up again and began to pace, squeezing my hands into fists and releasing them again and again, trying to get the blood to circulate.

The cold continued to work its way in. By half past seven, I was shivering intermittently. Running on the spot warmed me
, b
ut my throat and lungs became raw from dragging in the icy air.

At eight o’clock, with one hour remaining, I set off back along the passageway at a brisk walk, counting side tunnels and memorising as much of the place as I could. I found a small chamber in which to change. It could not have been any warmer than the passage outside, but the sense of enclosure made me feel less exposed.

All the cold I had felt before was merely prelude to this. I stripped off the male disguise, unbound myself and hurried to dress again. Then I made a pile of the discarded clothing. At first my hands were trembling too violently to strike a match. When at last one caught, I held the tiny bead of flame to the false beard hair, which caught quickly. The rubber adhesive flared, giving off acrid smoke. Then the trousers were burning and the binding cloth.

The warmth was a sudden and blissful relief. I had brought with me a small can of oil – the tool of a burglar who wants to move silently in a house of creaky doors. As the fire started to subside, I dripped it into the embers, making new flames dance. At the end it was little more than a lantern flame but the heat had been enough to bring feeling back to my hands and feet. The shivering had stopped, though my cheeks smarted as if I had scoured my face with salt water.

I had not endured all this merely to gain access to the ice tunnels. My enemy had set the parameters of our meeting. In doing so, he had surely intended my fatal disadvantage. My task was to overturn his plans and trip up his expectations. He would look for me to arrive from one direction. I wou
ld
announce myself from the other.

This place of unmapped tunnels and hidden rooms – I had come to believe it more than a supplier of ice. Indeed, if I had thought more clearly, I might have realised this sooner. The ice farmers loaded the boats. The boat captains brought the cargo to the factory. Antonia had recorded the coming
s
and going
s
. The ice was somehow disappearing. I had assumed there was some secret tunnel via which it was being taken out. Then I learned of the doctor’s experiments in the freezing of bodies and it came to me that the ice would not need to leave the factory if it was consumed there.

Erasmus Foxley was making a fortune through his work. The public autopsy had an aura of illicit mystery and the wealthy gentlemen who attended felt like a secret society. But all of it was legal. As a medical researcher he was immune from the Patent Office. And as an expert in the field of cryonics, he could have ordered as much ice as he wanted to be delivered to the hospital in full view. There was no need for petty theft.

Warmed by the fire, my shivering had subsided. I set off back towards the anteroom where I placed my ear to the outer door. There was nothing to hear but the indistinct hum of the city. I put my eye to the crack but could see no lights outside.

My plan, such as it was, relied on the doctor entering the tunnels to chase after me. Therefore, I struck a match and lit the pole lanterns, which were propped against the wall. Then I went back to the door.

The first sign that my vigil had reached its conclusion was the sound of approaching horses. Then, much closer, I heard the footsteps of perhaps three men. They spoke to each other in hushed voices so that until they drew closer, I could only make out a few words.

“...what you agreed.”

“...so it is.”

“You wait...”

They had reached the flight of steps just beyond the door.

“She’s due in
ten
minutes. There’ll be a gentleman here. He’ll lead her over.”

“What gentlem
a
n?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You didn’t say anything about a gentleman.”

“Forget the gentleman! You’ll see him just this once and you’ll forget him real quick. He goes. You take the girl. That’s it.”

“We’re not sharing the reward. No one said anything about a gentleman.”

“That’s still the deal. You take her tonight. Get her across the border. Make sure she speaks to no one. You get all the Duke’s reward.”

“All right then. I was just saying.”

“Are we square?”

“We’re square.”

One man walked away. The other two would be within arm’s reach had the door been open. They would be bounty hunters or constables working on private commission. Not workers in the ice factory. Even if they turned to look, they might not understand the significance of lamplight glowing through the cracks of the door.

Then I heard another sound – horses and carriage wheels. There were more voices in the distance. I expected to hear the doctor. Instead there were heavy boot falls – men labouring under a weight. And then swearing followed by a scuffle.

“Get him!”

Running feet. A clatter. The cry of a boy in pain. It was Tinker.

“Tie his legs!”

“And what’s this other one?”

“Caught him snooping.”

“God’s teeth!”

“Where’re the bounty hunters?”

“By the door.”

After that the voices dropped.

Perhaps I should have felt flattered that so many men were there to wait for me. My watch showed a minute short of nine o’clock. There was no reason to wait longer.

I dragged hay bundles from around the wall and stacked them against the door. Then I unscrewed the filler cap from one of the lanterns and sprinkled oil over the pile. At first I thought the oil had soaked away, but when I smashed the lamp down, the flame rippled out so fast that I had to jump back to save my skirts from catching fire. The room was suddenly bright, milky walls reflecting orange flame.

The men outside had heard the noise. One of them was calling for help. Flames licked the inside of the door.

The heat of it was extraordinary. I backed away but still my face felt as if it was burning. Smoke ran out across the ceiling. Where it met the walls it cascaded down. The chamber began to fill with it. I grabbed the other lantern and backed away into the tunnel. There was shouting outside now. The door rattled under a heavy impact. I retreated into cleaner, colder air.

Then the door burst open. There were men outside. One shouted for water. It would take minutes to get the fire under control. What happened after that would tell me if my reasoning had been true. If something of value was hidden in the tunnels – the thing that had been consuming ice – they would fear I’d located it and would chase me. But if my reasoning had been false, if there was nothing to be found, they would simply lock the doors and leave me to freeze to death.

All war is lunacy. Therefore, raising an army is not sufficient. The
enemy must believe you are
insane
enough to use it.

From Revolution

I tried to run but the iron spikes threw me off-balance. So I returned to walking but with my stride lengthened to an ungainly degree. The shouts of men battling the fire receded behind me, becoming distorted by the shape of the tunnel until their voices blended into an indistinct hum.

I was well beyond the light from the fire when something changed. I stopped to listen. The silence was absolute. It took me a moment to understand what had happened. Then the animal excitement that had been driving me curdled into a queasy fear. My heart, which had been pumping regular as a piston now seemed to sprint and slow. I closed the lantern cover, reducing its light to almost nothing.

I heard and saw them in the same instant – the distant crunch of spiked boots on ice and the glow of lanterns reflected from the milky tunnel walls. The light was so faint that I might have missed it. But it moved. They were through the fire and heading towards me at speed.

I set off away from them. I’d passed side passages already. I could have dodged down any one of them. My pursuers would not be able to check them all. But if I could hear their spikes in the ice, so too would they hear mine. I had to disappear completely.

I didn’t bother removing the spikes from my boots. Rather, I pulled off boots, spikes and all. The cold didn’t shock my stockinged feet at first. The feeling started mild. But within twenty paces, I was gritting my teeth against the pain. I tried to run, but my feet slipped underneath me. Only when I accelerated slowly was I able to pick up speed. At last, I was moving swiftly. And I was silent.

The side passages that I had passed so far had been broad and rectangular in cross-section, as if frequently used and maintained. But now I came to the narrow tunnel I’d noted on my previous visit. Its corners had been filled in by the accretion of frost, shrinking it to an oval. I slowed as best I could without falling, then ducked into the claustrophobic entrance. Having retreated far enough to be out of view, I doused my light.

The first thing I noticed was how close the crunch of footsteps had become. They had gained on me even though I’d been running. My feet were growing numb, so I sat on the ground and kneaded first one and then the other. Despite the noise they would make, I had no choice but to put my boots back on. My pursuers were travelling at speed. If I was lucky, my footfalls would be lost in theirs.

Whatever it was they had hidden in the ice tunnels, they would fear that I’d discovered it. It was for a reason that I’d chosen to reveal myself with fire. They needed to believe I was capable of wanton destruction. There were ten miles of tunnels, the guide had said. Since they couldn’t search them all, they would run to protect the thing they thought most precious. And I would follow them.

Noticing a faint light, I thought the lanterns of my pursuers must be close. But the main passageway along which they approached was still dark. I turned around and stared deeper into the oval tunnel. The light was coming from further in. I had chosen this place to hide because it seemed unmaintained. It seemed others had chosen it for the self- same reason.

I had left it too late to run back to the main passageway, so I set off away from it. From ahead came a new sound – the gurgle and hiss of gas lights. As the passage curved around to the left, I saw a lamp mounted on the wall. The heat of it must have stopped ice accreting there, for the tunnel widened at that point. There were more lamps beyond it, regularly spaced. And now I saw openings to the left and right. I took the first one and found myself entering a small chamber, quite dark. I backed into it, stumbling on a low step and almost falling. But my flailing arms found purchase on what I took to be a block of ice dangling from the ceiling.

Crouching, I was able to keep watch on the lit tunnel. Two men hurried past in quick succession. Then came another two, hauling a ragged sack between them. Then the sack kicked out and I realised it was Tinker. Next were two men carrying the poles of a laden stretcher. And finally the bearded guide.

I was ready to follow, but first took a backward glance into the chamber. I could now make out the shape of the dangling ice block. It was one of many, hanging in rows. I blinked, trying to understand what I was seeing. The room had the appearance of a butcher’s cold store. Except that the dangling objects were not sides of meat. Rather, they were people.

The bodies were hanging upside down, legs bound together at the ankles, wrists tied in place over the stomach. They were men and women. Children too. Each wore an identical garment – a loose fitting gown held in place by drawstrings. Onto the chest of each was pinned a sheaf of papers.

I grabbed the papers from the nearest body, ripped them free and hurried back out into the oval corridor, ready to give chase. My spikes were crunching the ice, so I began to place my feet with care. The men had slowed now. Perhaps the burdens they carried were tiring them. Or perhaps they were approaching their destination.

“Everyone quiet!”

The instruction stopped me mid-step. It had been spoken by one of the party up ahead. And though it was more of a hiss than a shout, it had come to me as crisply as if it had been whispered into my ear. The passageway ahead veered sharply right. They were not far beyond the bend.

I waited. The cloud of my breath made a halo around the wall lamp. There was no sound except the hiss of gas. For the first time I looked at the papers clutched in my hand.

Name: David Clarke Davidson

Place of birth:
Unknown

Date of birth:
Unknown

Age: Approximately 30

Weight:
79.4 kg

Height:
177 cm

Date of freezing: 28
^th
of September

Cause of death: Not applicable

The pages that followed were thick with technical language. Though I didn’t understand the words, they seemed to be descriptions of a medical treatment – chemical names, dosages and dates. Alongside them were notes of body function and temperature. These had been written in a different hand. The first date mentioned was the 22
^nd
of September at which point the temperature had been 38°C. The final date was a week later. The temperature had dropped to ten degrees below freezing. I looked back to the cover sheet and re-read the words:
Cause of death not applicable.
A shudder ran through my body.

“Told you. She’s not here.”

“You underestimate her.”

I recognised the first voice as the guide. The second voice was Erasmus Foxley.

“She’ll be lost,” said the guide. “We’ll find her frozen solid in a day or two.”

“Nevertheless…”

“Or maybe in ten years.”

“Nevertheless, we search.”

“For what? What could she do?”

“It would be a waste to let her die don’t you think? Unused.”

Not waiting to hear the answer, I started back along the oval tunnel. I would not abandon Tinker. But letting myself be captured could not help him. I chose the third of the side passages I came to. It proved short, opening quickly into a dark chamber. I dared not light a match in case the smell of phosphorus drew them to me. So I stepped deeper into the room with my arms stretched out, feeling blind, fearing more bodies might be hanging there.

There were none.

Four paces in, I bumped into a table with a top that seemed to be made of metal. The base was a solid pedestal. I felt my way around it to the side furthest from the entrance and crouched low.

I folded the papers and stuffed them into a pocket of my coat. By way of exchange, I removed my father’s pistol and cocked the hammer. The energy of flight had warmed my limbs
, b
ut as I waited, the cold began to creep back into me again. I was confident of my grip, but my trigger finger felt numb and unresponsive. I applied pressure to the trigger guard, trying to reassure myself that I would be able to shoot if it came to that.

I could hear nothing beyond my own breathing. Some quality of the chamber and its entranceway was deadening external sounds.

Minutes passed. Then the faint glow from the entrance dimmed and spiked boots were crunching the ice. Lamplight flooded in. The table grew a shadow which swung left and right. I could see my surroundings properly for the first time. A line of barrels rested against one wall. Above them, shelves had been stacked with laboratory glassware. The shadow of the table shifted as the lamp progressed around the room. There was a dead drumbeat as something knocked on the barrels, one after the other. He was checking that no one hid inside. Then he was around the edge and I could see him. It was the guide – a lamp in one hand, a short handled axe in the other. I started to lift my gun, using both hands to steady it. He must have heard the breath of my coat shifting, for I made no other sound. The axe head had been reaching out to tap the next barrel in line. Then it was swinging towards me. Even if I pulled the trigger, his momentum was going to carry it to my head. I threw myself to the right and the heavy blade whispered through the air inches from my ear. I scrambled in the other direction. There was a crash of steel splitting ice as a blow landed on the floor just behind me. I rolled into a crouch and raised the gun. His axe hand came to a stop at the top of its arc. Then he threw the
l
antern at my head. I deflected it with my arm, losing aim as I did so. It smashed and the light went out.

I sidestepped in the dark. At the same moment I heard a grunt of effort. There was a sudden tug on my coat and the sound of the axe striking the floor next to me. I sidestepped again. Fragments of the lamp mantle broke with a crackle under my boot. He took a step towards me, silhouetting himself against the faint glow from the entrance passage. I would be invisible to him. I raised my gun, holding it in both hands. Then as he stepped towards me, I jumped left and jabbed the muzzle hard into his side. There was a fraction of a second when he might have swung at me. But then I was behind him.

“You’re not getting out of here,” he said.

“Where’s the boy?”

“Out there. Fifty yards.”

He made to turn. I stepped around keeping myself behind him until he was facing the entrance.

“You’re not getting out,” he said again. “You’ve got one gun against... you don’t even know how many.” He began walking towards the entrance. I matched him step for step, increasing the pressure of the gun barrel against his back.

“I just want the boy. Then I’ll go.”

“After what you’ve seen? Do a deal, that’s my advice. Give up. In exchange we’ll kill you.”

“What sort of deal’s that?”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?”

“I thought you were brave coming here. But you don’t know nothing.”

We’d reached the oval tunnel. He turned left. I followed.

“What does it mean on the papers – ‘Date of death not applicable’?”

“Now that’s a stupid question,” he said.

“But they’re dead!”

“You want that to be true.”

“Then can they be woken?”

“You might say. And then you might not.”

“What does that mean?”

When he didn’t answer, I jabbed him hard with the gun.

“We’d have given you to the
d
uke,” he said. “That was the plan. Just to get rid of you. But we can’t let you go. Not now you’ve been in here.”

“Where’s the boy?”

“Not far.”

The passage curved sharply to the right, so I didn’t see the end until I reached it. Ahead lay a large, brightly- lit chamber. Keppler and Foxley stood looking at us. Tinker thrashed on the floor between them, bound hand and foot. Next to him was the stretcher I’d seen carried. A man’s body lay inert on top of it, face down.

The guide stepped into the room and turned to face me. “You should see yourself,” he said. “Your face is white already. White as ice.”

I was staring past him. At the back of the room was a large machine. I’d not seen its like before, though I could recognise some of the parts – crank handle, wheels and geared belts. In the middle was a metal trough, wide and deep. A great mound of crushed ice had been heaped into it. On either side of the trough was a flat surface, like the draining board of a sink.

“Miss Barnabus, I presume,” said Dr Foxley.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A freezer. Would you like a closer look?”

I shifted my focus to aim at the doctor. “Untie the boy!”

“You have but one bullet my dear.”

“But I can choose where to spend it.”

Keppler began circling to the left, the guide moved to the right. I switched my aim back and forward between them.

“You’ve made our job easier,” Foxley said. “By coming here. And this way you’ll contribute to my research.”

“One of you unties the boy. One of the others, I shoot.”

There was a hesitation, then a nod between them. The guide stepped towards Tinker. I aimed the gun at Keppler, touched my finger to the trigger. And then, without warning, a sack was pulled down hard over my head. Strong hands were holding me. I whipped my hand down, pointed the gun behind me and pulled the trigger. I saw the muzzle flash through the sacking. Though half deaf from the shot, I could hear the man behind me screaming in pain. But other hands had grabbed me. I lost grip of the gun as they wrestled me to the floor.