“We’re a corporation armed by charter. But that doesn’t make us an army. My men will only follow my say if they think the money’s worth the risk. They might sail into a storm on the promise of a fat catch. But there are odds beyond which the bravest’ll turn back.

  “If word spreads that we were facing a power that can snuff out our strongest gunboat, none of my captains will steam south. We wouldn’t be able to do the one job we’re properly paid for. It’d be the end of the North Atlantic fleet. The end of the Company. Our real mission here and our links with the Patent Office – these are secrets known by many of the senior staff. But none of them can know the fate of the Mary May.

  “I’ve had to take extreme measures to keep the secret. I ordered the Iceland Queen to stand off the starboard bow – out of hailing range. But we caught a crewman trying to signal to her with hand semaphore. He claims to have got no reply. I have him locked in solitary just in case. And the Iceland Queen – she’s now standing two miles out, so there can be no repeat of it.

  “I don’t trust you, Miss Barnabus. You’re tangled with the Patent Office in some way I can’t fathom. I don’t like telling you these things. But two orders from the Board came with you. The first is that I’m to keep you informed of any attack, and to do so without delay. Your fifty-foot sperm whale was the price of that.”

  “Two orders?” she asked.

  “Yes. If we’re attacked, I’m to dispatch you to investigate. We wait only for the swell to diminish and the light to fade enough for me to risk bringing the Iceland Queen in close. You’ll be riding out to her tonight. If the ocean permits.”

  Though her paddlewheels were vast, the mother ship was not designed for voyages from one port to another. Each of her three hulls had been built in a different shipyard. The two smaller hulls had been constructed in Marseille and Glasgow. The larger of the three with its giant paddlewheel came from the shipyard in Belfast.

  Had it been an enterprise of the Gas-Lit Empire, they would doubtless have done something similar, spreading the enormous workload to three different member nations. But the mother ship belonged to the Company, which had no such political objectives. The construction method had been designed for speed. When the Company wanted something doing, it wanted it fast.

  The most hazardous aspect of the build had been joining the three parts together. There was no dry dock big enough to lay the hulls side-by-side. They were brought into alignment on an early August day. But it wasn’t until mid-September that the conditions were deemed calm enough to attempt the operation. Even then, with an offshore breeze and the water seemingly flat as a millpond, movement between the hulls was such that a cable snapped and one of the marine engineers lost his arm.

  When at last it was done, the giant floating platform began its slow westward crawl. The newspapers of the world proclaimed it the greatest feat of engineering that had ever been accomplished; a wonder of the modern world to eclipse the Great Lighthouse of Alexandria.

  It was not so much a ship, as an outpost of civilisation deep in the wilds. For although the borders of the Gas-Lit Empire – and therefore the borders of law – stretched a mere twenty miles from land, the mother ship, and the fleet that served it, had brought a kind of order to the mid-most heart of the ocean.

  During its twenty-four years at sea, new structures had been built on the wide deck. Walking across it, Elizabeth tried to keep track of her position, triangulating with repeated glances back to the commodore’s control room far above and behind. They had passed the centre of the ship already and were continuing towards the starboard hull.

  One question, at least, had been settled. The officer who led her across the deck was no longer of unknown rank.

  “My steward will take you,” the commodore had said.

  There was something curious about the way the man walked. She dropped back, the better to observe him. It was, she decided, the overly deliberate swing of the arms that marked him out; a small man’s affectation. Though her own legs were shorter than most men’s, she could match him stride for stride.

  Why he’d been chosen as escort, she had no idea. Nor did she know where she was being taken, for the commodore had given no indication of it. Direct questions hadn’t worked on the steward, so she tried a new angle.

  “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  At first she thought he’d blanked this question like all the others. But then they ducked inside through a watertight hatchway. He turned to her and said. “Watkins. My name is Watkins.” Then he set off down a set of iron stairs. Oil lamps were suspended from hooks on the wall, as they might have been on any ship. But these hung still and steady as plumb lines.

  The land sickness was passing now, though she’d left the rolling deck of the whaler less than two hours before. She no longer stumbled like a drunken sailor.

  Steward Watkins kept up a brisk pace as they descended two more flights. She wondered if perhaps they were below the waterline. But then she remembered the extraordinary height that they had been above it. Everything about the mother ship was outsized.

  “What’s this part of the ship used for?” she asked.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Officers’ quarters.”

  “How many officers are there?”

  “I can’t reveal that.”

  Though his tone of voice was still as strident, she sensed he wasn’t being deliberately obstructive.

  “Is that a commercial secret?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been aboard?”

  “Five years.”

  “And how often do you get back to shore?”

  “I’ve been aboard five years.”

  As she was digesting this, he turned along a side passage. Following him, she saw that the way was blocked by two marine guards. One stepped forwards, his hand hovering near the sabre at his belt.

  “Restricted area,” he said.

  “I’m on orders from the commodore,” said Watkins.

  “And him?”

  “We’re both on orders from the commodore. We’re to see the prisoner.”

  She expected the guard to demand written proof, but he turned and led them to an iron door, which he unlocked.

  Watkins said: “I’ll be waiting outside. Just knock when you’re done.”

  “But who am I to see?”

  “The captain of the Iceland Queen.”

  Chapter 6

  Elizabeth kept her emotions hidden as she walked up Churchgate from the omnibus stop, heading into the Leicester Backs. Tears would have looked wrong on the face of a man. Edging down the narrow walkway between grimy walls, her eyes began to prickle. But it was only as she stepped into the room above the ale house and bolted the door behind her that they welled up.

  When she turned to face John Farthing he was already looking away, following the custom that had grown up between them.

  She dried her face as she wiped away the makeup, but it wouldn’t do. In the time it took her to cast off the male guise, her cheeks had become rivers again. Instead of dressing as a woman, she threw down the last intimate garments and stood naked.

  Perhaps he’d heard the catch of her breath, because he was already turning as she launched herself towards him. Trusting the strength of his arms, she let herself drop.

  He held her. “Elizabeth? My darling. What’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t answer, but pressed her mouth to his. And then, though she hadn’t thought to do it, she unbuckled his belt and reached for him. He returned the kiss, uncertainly at first, as if startled, but with more pressure as her tongue touched his. His fingers inched down the lines of muscle in her back, as if questioning.

  She whispered: “Yes.”

  Beyond that there was no more uncertainty. Her abandon had set the same fire in him. For a time she disappeared, and so did her sorrow.

  It would usually have been him who broke the moment. But this day would be different. He lay holding her, contented for once, his face pressed into her hair. His breath came slow and even. She focussed on the angle of her hip as it pressed on the hard floor, the coldness of the autumn air, a sulphurous tang of coal smoke from somewhere outside. She dug her thumbnail into the soft skin of her upper arm, focussing on the physical pain. But no discomfort would be enough.

  When his sleep had deepened, she lifted his arm from across her shoulder and rolled free. Clothes were scattered. They’d crashed about on the table and a chair before grabbing the rug from the carpet bag and taking their place on the floor.

  She slipped the chemise over her skin and was gathering the rest of her clothes when he spoke.

  “What’s wrong, Elizabeth?”

  “Julia is dead.”

  She was surprised to hear her own words come out so flat and factual. She watched their meaning take hold of him; his puzzled expression, then shock, then concern. He scrambled to his feet and held her. This time she didn’t relax into him.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “I found out today. Her father sent a messenger.”

  She felt his hand caressing the back of her head. “What happened?”

  “It was three weeks ago.”

  “In America?”

  “On the journey. There was some kind of accident. She was flying on an airship, the American Frontier, and…”

  She felt the tensing of his stomach, the hesitation, then the speeding up of his hand as it stroked her hair. And then the too deliberate relaxing as he tried to cover the tell. She prised herself free from his embrace. He gave her an expression of sympathy, but she knew him well enough to see through it.

  “Tell me what you know!” she said.

  “The airship went down.”

  “What else do you know about it?”

  “Only what was in the newspapers. Elizabeth, what are you…”

  “It wasn’t in the papers!” she snapped, not letting him finish. “I went to the library and searched. All they printed were obituaries for the dead. It was all vague – as if no one wanted to report it straight. And no article about the accident itself.”

  Farthing looked to the floorboards. “Then I must have heard people talking.”

  “Agents of the Patent Office?”

  “Elizabeth, I can’t always be open about what I hear. There are secrets I’m bound to keep.”

  “John Farthing! We’re talking about Julia. My dearest friend in the world. If you know something about her death, you will tell me now!”

  He turned his face away, as if by the force of a slap. “I’m bound by oath of office… to not speak of certain things.”

  “What about celibacy?” She knew the damage her words were doing, but couldn’t stop. “Wasn’t that an oath as well?”

  He reached behind him for the support of a chair, then slumped down onto it. She held her breath. He lowered his face.

  When he spoke, his voice was muffled by his hands. “There’s a case open that involves the downing of the American Frontier. There’ll be a file but I haven’t seen it. I didn’t know Julia was a passenger. I’m so sorry.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “But could you find out?”

  He sat there, naked, still not meeting her eyes. “It’s a different department.”

  “Get me the file,” she said.

  “I’m not supposed to have access.”

  “Bring it to me. I need to see it. Steal it if you must!”

  Elizabeth took her time walking to the Swain household, a place of rose bushes, bay windows and neat brickwork on the hill overlooking the canal. She’d been dreading her first meeting with Julia’s grieving parents.

  Mr Swain welcomed her in the tiled hallway. He said a few words, which she couldn’t afterwards remember. The sense of them was that he was sorry for any loss that she herself might have suffered in the tragedy. Then he took himself away to his workshop, his back held perfectly upright, his each step brittle. The maid showed her through to the drawing room, where Mrs Swain sat venting grief, as if tears were a medicine that might cure the world of pain.

  Afterwards, not ready to return home, Elizabeth found a place next to the canal, away from the bustle of the wharf. There she sat, staring at the dancing reflections of trees on the far bank. A group of townsfolk came cycling along the towpath, laughing at some joke they’d shared. They didn’t seem to notice her. As they passed, she felt the urge to call out to them, to tell them that Julia had died. The most true, honest, bright and joy-filled woman that they might ever have met was now gone. They would never have the chance to know her. But she held her tongue and she held her tears and then they were gone.

  A rustling in the grass made her turn. It was Tinker, barefoot again; the boy could never keep a pair of shoes for long. He sat next to her, chin resting on knees. She’d been hiding her sorrow from him. He was just a scrap of a boy, after all. He’d been through enough of his own suffering before latching onto her as a surrogate parent. He had no business sharing the darkness that lay in her mind and heart.

  “What shall we make for dinner?” she asked, food being his chief concern.

  Instead of answering, he leaned over, laying his head in her lap. He took her hand and made it stroke his hair, until she would do it with her own strength, whereon he let go and she began to cry. He’d always had a way of seeing to the truth of her.

  The days passed slowly after that. There was no body, so there could be no grave nor a funeral in the ordinary sense. The congregation of the Secular Hall had donated money for a memorial plaque. A meeting was scheduled to celebrate Julia’s short life. Mr and Mrs Swain, each in their own way, threw themselves into organising. Having something practical to do seemed to bring them together. But whenever Elizabeth saw them, she felt the burden of the things she couldn’t say. They might busy themselves with caterers and invitations. But there was more to be known, beyond the simple fact of the tragedy. And secrets had always been Elizabeth’s domain.

  And then, ten days into the turmoil of unresolved loss, a messenger arrived with a card written in John Farthing’s hand: I have it. Come now.

  It was evening by the time she reached the Leicester Backs but the sun had yet to dip below the roofscape. Two crows sat on the ridge tiles of the latrine roof. They watched as Elizabeth climbed the steps to the room above the ale house. She had never before come so early to the rendezvous. Inside, the south-facing wall radiated heat into the room. The windows were all sealed shut with old paint.

  “Did you bring it?” she asked.

  John Farthing wouldn’t say anything until the door had been closed and bolted.

  She’d expected the report on the downing of the airship American Frontier to be properly bound; a leather volume perhaps. But three box files lay open on the card table. Two of them were full of papers, the third half full. She flicked through one of the piles. Most were loose sheets but some had been pinned together. She sat, still dressed as a man, and tried to force her jittery focus onto the documents. At first he paced behind her, the floorboards creaking under his feet. Then he took one of the chairs and dragged it back to the corner near the door and sat.

  She pulled out a sheet on which background data had been laid out. Twenty airships shuttled the North Atlantic every week, it said; more than that near the end of the financial year. Their main cargos were businessmen and information. It was the safest method of travel, and by far the quickest.

  Accidents had been common in the early years of the twentieth century. But the technology of flight had developed, within limits set by the International Patent Office. Attention to detail had improved; the checking and rechecking of engines, the training of pilots and the precautionary principle in weather forecasting. In the final decade of the century no airships had been lost.

  The raw data had been tabulated in fine copperplate on the following pages. Elizabeth brought her head closer to the table. It was written in brown ink, the lines closely spaced, which made for difficult reading. She placed the sheets side by side on the table, trying not to think about her lover just behind her. His chair creaked as he shifted.

  Faithful to his promise, he’d borrowed the report from the Patent Office filing room. Stolen would have been the better word, but the plan was to get it back in place before anyone noticed it was missing. She knew it was distressing him. The betrayal of the vow sat like a heavy chain across his shoulders. Thinking of his pain began to overwhelm her, so she wrenched her mind back to her own raw wound, the death of Julia Swain, her dearest friend.

  The chart on the table showed columns for the nationalities of airship, weather conditions at the time of loss, the manufacturers and model numbers of the engines, a demographic breakdown of casualties and more. Decades had been scored out as rows. At first she could make no sense of it. It appeared to show a single loss in the 1980s, no losses in the 1990s and three losses in the 2000s. But there were seven losses listed at the bottom of the chart that she could at first make no sense of. Then she realized that all seven had come in the two years since 2010. The American Frontier was the last of them.

  Name:AS American Frontier

  Date:12th/13th April 2012

  Weather: Assumed fair

  Visibility: Assumed good

  Altitude:8,000 feet

  Passengers: 40

  Crew:8

  Airship status: Total loss

  Witnesses: None

  Cause of loss: Unknown

  Survivors: Nil

  Farthing’s voice broke her concentration. “If you plan to read every line, we’ll still be here tomorrow,” he said.

  “You stole it for me. Shouldn’t I read it?”

  She knew her words would be poison to him, but couldn’t stop them.

  “It’s not like a book,” he said. “You don’t work through it from page one. And even if you did, you wouldn’t understand.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29