Free The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter by Rod Duncan Page B

bay windows symmetrically arranged to either side. Strangely, none of the windows were lit, though the sulphurous tang of coal smoke in the air suggested the presence of humanity somewhere near.
    While Farthing was instructing the coach driver to stable the horses, I turned full circle, hoping to see lights in the distance or any sign of habitation. There was none. A thin mist clung to the ground, from which the black fingers of bare tree branches reached towards the sky.
    It was through a servants’ door at the rear that we entered, stepping from the chill damp of the night into the dry cold of a boot room that seemed to have been long unoccupied. Striking a lucifer, Farthing lit a storm lantern and held it high.
    I followed close behind as he walked along a corridor. Shadows swung as we progressed. Through open doorways I glimpsed a scullery, a pantry, a kitchen. Then we emerged into a grand hallway and a sudden warmth.
    Though I had not witnessed any sign of occupation when standing outside, I now saw a crack of light under the door opposite.
    “Who lives here?” I asked.
    “No one.”
    “Then what is it for?”
    “For the work of the Patent Office.”
    “But how can...?”
    “You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them.” So saying, he rapped a knuckle on the door.
    I had never seen a room like the one into which we stepped. In scale it fitted the grandness of the house. Ornate plaster coving edged an exuberantly painted ceiling depicting Jesus watching Saint Peter haul in a net laden with fish. The gold leaf of their haloes shone in the lamplight. The religious theme and conspicuous excess dated the room to before the British Revolutionary War.
    A generous fire burned in the stone fireplace opposite me. Book cases lined the other walls. Only when I glanced up and around did I realise why the place made me feel so uneasy, for it was entirely devoid of windows.
    Stepping forward I took in the seating. Six leather wing-backed armchairs arranged in a horseshoe, and a seventh chair placed at the focus of the others. It was towards this that Farthing directed me. Only when I took my place did I see the room’s sole occupant – a gaunt and deeply wrinkled man with such a sunken frame that he had been hidden within the embrace of the armchair.
    “Miss Elizabeth Barnabus,” Farthing announced from behind me.
    The fact that he had not himself taken a seat gave me no comfort.
    The gaunt man smiled encouragingly. “You are brother to Mr Edwin Barnabus?” Coming from such a desiccated figure, the voice resonated with a surprising volume.
    “Who are you?” I asked, hoping my own voice did not betray the dread that had started to replace my anger.
    “A servant of the Patent Office,” the wrinkled man replied.
    “I’m Elizabeth Barnabus,” I said.
    “And your brother?”
    “I haven’t seen him since arriving in Lincolnshire.”
    Behind me, John Farthing cleared his throat. “He was in the lobby of her hotel. And asking to see her.”
    The skin of my arms and the back of my neck prickled as a sweat started to break.
    “What do you know of your brother’s business?” the wrinkled man asked.
    “He finds information,” I said. “And people.”
    “For whom?”
    “For paying clients.”
    “And who is presently paying for his services?”
    I hesitated, but not for more than half a second. In all likelihood this was information they already possessed. “He’s in the employ of the Duchess of Bletchley.”
    “Indeed?”
    The wrinkled man’s eyes flicked to where Farthing stood. Being such a slight movement, I might have missed it altogether. But danger sharpens the senses and speeds the mind.
    “How did he contact her?”
    “By letter, though it was the other way around. She contacted him.”
    “Just that?”
    “I believe perhaps they met,” I said.
    “And your brother took an accomplice with him to that meeting?”
    “I know of none.”
    The wrinkled man waved his hand in the direction of a low