Dr Morbury's Cargo Read online

  Dr Morbury's Cargo

  Frozen Beauty, Volume 3

  Steve Turnbull

  Published by Tau Press Ltd, 2017.

  Frozen Beauty: Dr Morbury’s Cargo by Steve Turnbull

  Copyright © 2014, 2015, 2017 Steve Turnbull. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-910342-29-9

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without permission of the publisher.

  Published by Tau Press Ltd.

  Cover art by Steven Novak (novakillustration.com)

  from original designs by Emily Brand (emilybranddesigns.com)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dr Morbury's Cargo (Frozen Beauty, #3)

  i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  vi

  vii

  viii

  ix

  x

  xi

  xii

  xiii

  xiv

  xv

  xvi

  xvii

  xviii

  xix

  About the Author

  For the Sharons I have known.

  i

  Now

  Fanning backed towards the door of the bridge, the one that led to the cargo hold. She was out of sight of Otto now and could no longer see the navigator’s face twisted in anger.

  “Check your course, von Krone!”

  Otto said something in German. Angry. Arguing with Captain Qi, who spun round and pointed a gun at him. “Check the course, we have to reach our destination on time. We must stay on course. We must be on time.”

  The deck of the Frozen Beauty vibrated beneath Fanning’s feet. The captain was driving the ship hard. They must be burning coal as if it were as cheap as moonshine.

  Otto shouted something in German again.

  “English!” screamed Captain Qi. Then she shouted in Chinese. “English, you idiot.”

  “We are on course, Captain,” he growled without the slightest respect in his voice. “Let me have Fanning, Captain!”

  Fanning reached behind her and turned the handle of the door. Without a sound she pushed it open.

  “You stay at your post, Herr von Krone,” yelled the captain. “Check the course!”

  “I just told you!”

  “Check the course, von Krone,” she said, then more Chinese. “Or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  As silent as the grave, Fanning slipped through the open door and closed it without the slightest click. There was neither key nor bolt, which was a shame. If she could have trapped the two of them on the bridge it would have made her feel a little more safe.

  The short companionway was all greys and shadow. Light filtered around the edges of the trapdoor to the upper deck. Fanning leaned back against the door. The two people on the bridge continued to shout at one another: the captain demanding Otto check the course, he arguing, wanting to “have” Fanning, as if she were a possession, and then obeying.

  Fanning felt in her pocket for her pipe and tobacco pouch. By touch she pushed a thick wad into the bowl and pressed it down with her thumb. She slipped the pouch back into the pocket and fished out her box of Vestas.

  As they rattled one against the other, she cringed. She opened the box and removed a match, carefully closing it again afterwards, and struck the tip against the rough side of the box. It sparked but did not catch. She did it again.

  The flare of the match half-blinded her. Then she saw Mrs Cameron’s face across the companionway in the dark. The woman was staring at her. Fanning hesitated, then touched the flaring tip to the bowl and sucked hard. The flame disappeared into the bowl.

  She could only see Beatrice’s eyes reflecting the light. Eyes with pupils so wide they hid any colour in the iris, just like Otto’s and the captain’s. If the eyes were truly gateways to the soul, these gates had been ripped away completely.

  The flame reared up again. In the bowl, the tobacco glowed red. Mrs Cameron’s head was fully illuminated now: hair dishevelled, cheeks streaked where tears had fallen and then dried. Fanning sucked the match flame down into the bowl once more.

  This time the tobacco glowed with a certainty that it would not now go out. Fanning pulled away the match, extinguishing it with a shake of her hand. She dropped it to the floor and ground out the remaining ember.

  Drawing in a lungful of burning pipe-smoke, Fanning felt its calming and restorative power flow through her. She breathed it out, careful not to blow it directly at Mrs Cameron.

  She brought her hand to her forehead in salute. “Ma’am.”

  “What are you, Fanning?” Beatrice asked, her voice was tremulous. Fanning’s eyes adjusted to the greyness. Mrs Cameron was pressed back against the wall. She glanced here and there, as if she feared something would leap on her at any moment.

  “Ma’am?” Fanning knew what Mrs Cameron was talking about, but no one had ever challenged her so directly on her duality. Fanning was so adjusted to it, she did not even notice.

  “Are you a man or a woman, Fanning?”

  “Can’t rightly say, Mrs Cameron,” she said. “Is that a thing you have a powerful yearning to know?”

  “I don’t know whether I should be afraid of you.”

  “No need to be afraid, ma’am, either way,” said Fanning. “I won’t hurt you none.”

  “That’s what they all say,” she hissed and threw herself at Fanning.

  To say that Fanning expected the attack would be an exaggeration, but given recent events it was not wholly unexpected, either. She moved easily to avoid the knife Mrs Cameron held high and inefficiently. It slammed into the wall where Fanning’s head had been just a moment before.

  Fanning felt very guilty as she punched the woman in the side. She had said she would not hurt her, but Beatrice had made Fanning into a liar. Her hand hit something ribbed and hard. Mrs Cameron turned on her, seemingly unaffected.

  Being a traditional British lady, Beatrice Cameron was fond of her boned undergarments which, on this occasion, acted as armour. Fanning dodged as Beatrice swung a wild blow at her head. The knife remained embedded in the wall.

  “I won’t let you hurt me!” she said as she threw another untrained punch at Fanning’s face.

  It really was quite awkward. There was no chance Mrs Cameron would hurt her except through dumb luck, but Fanning was keen not to damage Beatrice if at all possible. Like most, if not all, of the crew, Beatrice was overwrought and not in her right mind. She would no doubt regret her actions when she regained her senses.

  Fanning dodged past her and headed along the companionway. She turned her back on her assailant—perhaps not the wisest move, but it was quicker that way.

  She reached the door to the cabin Mrs Cameron shared with the captain. Fanning had agreed that, for the sake of Mrs Cameron’s honour, it would be better if she bunked with the captain, who was more obviously a woman than Fanning was.

  Fanning had grabbed and turned the handle of the door when something heavy hit her between the shoulders. Her forehead slammed into the door. Stupid. Should not have turned her back.

  The door fell open and she stumbled inside on unsteady legs. There was a scream behind her and Mrs Cameron hit her again, this time in the middle of her back. Fanning went down, and the deck did not treat her head any more favourably than the door had.<
br />
  Something heavy and wearing skirts landed on Fanning’s spine. If the ship had not been running under the Faraday, Fanning imagined Mrs Cameron would have knocked the wind out of her. As it was she had Fanning pinned, but it would only take a moment to throw her off since her weight was considerably less than it would normally be.

  Mrs Cameron did not give her the chance.

  Fanning’s head was yanked up and back by her hair. Then her face was repeatedly slammed into the solid wood of the deck. She could hear the noise of each impact reverberating, partly through the room and partly around the inside of her head.

  She clung to consciousness, embarrassed that she had been bested by the least combative member of the crew. With every battering blow, her grip on the real world grew weaker until it was gone completely.

  ii

  Yesterday Afternoon

  Qi frowned as one of the dockworkers tripped and fell against the door support. The box he was carrying slipped from his fingers and he bent at the knees in a vain attempt to catch it before it hit the ground. He only succeeded in getting his hand caught under it. A solid thump echoed through the cargo bay.

  A stream of invective poured from his mouth and he sucked on his bruised fingers. The small crate toppled over and made another less noisy crash. Qi hoped there was nothing important inside.

  “Are you listening, Captain?”

  Qi turned her attention back to Mrs Cameron. “I’m sorry, Beatrice, what were you saying?”

  Beatrice Cameron was decked out in her best European garb complete, from the look of her thin waist, with tightly bound corset. She wondered who had pulled it tight for her. Mrs Cameron might sleep in her cabin but Qi was only there for a few hours a night. Fanning?

  “I realise I asked to be brought to the Fortress, and that was all.” She stopped and glanced across the air-dock. Qi followed her gaze. Beyond the cargo area where the Frozen Beauty was docked were the buildings of the passenger embarkation lounge; then came some of the military buildings and standing over it all, Sigiriya.

  Sigiriya. The great upthrust of granite located near the middle of Ceylon, where the British had chosen to build their enormous naval dockyard. And almost directly above, seven thousand miles into the Void, hung the Queen Victoria Station: the route to every other world.

  “But?” said Qi.

  A steam-driven Faraday truck puffed up to the ship, loaded down with more crates belonging to Dr Morbury. Eight workers gathered round to unload it.

  “I—I would like to stay on board.”

  Qi’s attention snapped around. She had been willing to share her cabin for the duration of this trip because she felt she owed Mrs Cameron a debt for helping her keep the Frozen Beauty from the clutches of the Chinese thugs who claimed to own it.

  They did own it, in all truth, but that did not mean Qi was going to let them have it. So she had been grateful enough to provide Beatrice Cameron with free passage to Ceylon to escape her husband.

  “What capacity would you see yourself filling on board my ship, Beatrice?” said Qi.

  “Cook?”

  “Mr Montgomery is a perfectly good cook, I don’t need another one.”

  Beatrice hesitated. “But it would free him up; he is your engineer.”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive.”

  “Chaperone for Fanning.”

  Qi laughed. “Even Fanning does not have an adequate job description; he’s just a cabin boy.”

  “Someone should look after her—him.”

  Qi glanced up. Fanning was leaning over the rail on the top deck, smoking his pipe. “I do not think Fanning needs a nursemaid.”

  Mrs Cameron frowned. “There must be something I can do.”

  There were shouts from the dock workers as they manhandled the heavy apparatus from the truck down onto the deck and pushed it on runners inside. The trundling sound echoed through the ship.

  “It is not that I do not like you, Beatrice,” said Qi. “But I am running a business and I do not give free rides.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “Why? You can go back to England, or anywhere else, from here. Or even the Americas, where no one knows who you are and would care even less.”

  “What would I do in the Americas, Captain?” said Mrs Cameron, her voice desolate. “Walk the streets because, as you have so ably pointed out, I have no useful skills.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “I have offered to pay.”

  “And I refuse to take your money,” said Qi. “You will squander it on travelling with us and then you will truly be destitute. I will not have that on my conscience.”

  The second machine was being offloaded. The men were competent enough, but if she had been in charge of the process she would have slowed them down. They were damaging the cargo.

  Still, that was not her concern in this instance. The Beauty was solely for transportation; getting the cargo to its destination was her only responsibility.

  Calcutta was close to the Chinese border and under the sway of the gangs, two things which composed a potential concern. But selling the cargo was not required; all they had to do was open the doors and let it be offloaded. They had already been paid for this journey, and for the return trip carrying one of the botanists plus the travel agent.

  Mrs Cameron pulled out her kerchief and dabbed at her cheek. A diesel-powered carriage rumbled up to the Beauty and three men extricated themselves from it. The two younger ones, perhaps in their thirties, treated the third, who was old enough to have white hair, with considerable deference.

  Qi neither liked nor understood these people. When Dingbang had returned to the ship explaining that he had the commission she was pleased, since carrying passengers and cargo was simpler than cutting ice. Then she had met them, which put a whole new face on the situation. Dr Morbury was a very rude man, and the less she had to do with him the better.

  She glanced back at Beatrice. “You can stay on board for this trip.”

  “How much?”

  “I will not charge you for the reason I gave and I will not set a precedent,” said Qi. “You can, however, liaise with our passengers. I find them difficult to talk to.”

  Mrs Cameron suppressed the excitement that reddened her cheeks. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I will do such a good job you will want to keep me.”

  “I doubt it, Beatrice,” said Qi. “As I have made quite plain, we do not carry passengers as a rule.”

  “When shall I start?”

  Qi nodded in the direction of the three men heading in their direction. “Immediately. Make sure everything is to their satisfaction and deal with their accommodation.”

  * * * * *

  To Beatrice’s eye, the captain turned and faded from view into the dark interior of the ship. She smoothed down the front of her dress, made one final dab at her eyes to dry them, and then turned towards the oncoming group.

  She smiled pleasantly. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Frozen Beauty. My name is Mrs Beatrice Cameron and I will be your ship’s liaison for the journey.” She held out her hand to the older gentleman, who squinted at her. A monocle dangled from his lapel.

  He took her hand in a weak grasp and gave it a gentle shake. “A woman?”

  Mrs Cameron’s smile did not falter. “My dear sir, your captain is also a woman.”

  “Damn suffragists.”

  The smile remained in place but any genuine good humour had drained out of her. The captain had certainly given her the worst possible job, presumably as her punishment for nagging.

  “And you are, sir?” she said keeping her voice calm. May I have the pleasure of knowing who is insulting me?

  After a moment’s hesitation the youngest of the three stepped forwards. “This is Dr Morbury, the Curator of the Botanic Garden in Oxford.”

  He said the name of the garden with such significance Beatrice could only assume it was important. Though she looked expectantly in his direction, the great man did not nod his head or ack
nowledge her in any way.

  “And Dr Lambington.”

  “Mrs Cameron,” said the second man. He smiled pleasantly but did not offer his hand. He was only in his thirties but already losing his hair, and was quite rotund.

  “And I am Tom Ketteridge,” he said and held out his hand.

  She shook it. “A pleasure, Dr Ketteridge.”

  The old man spluttered.

  “Just Mr Ketteridge. I am responsible for the various travel arrangements.”

  “My apologies, Mr Ketteridge,” she said. “I am delighted to welcome you all on board.”

  “I hope we will have the opportunity to be introduced to all of the crew?”

  “Speak for yourself, man,” said Dr Morbury.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr Ketteridge,” said Beatrice, surprised at her own strength of will in suppressing her desire to strike out at the rudeness of the curator.

  iii

  Now

  Fanning came awake with the awareness that her throat and tongue were very dry. And that her forehead was throbbing.

  She blinked her eyes open. She was no longer face down on the floor but face up on a bed. The ceiling was a fuzzy grey, illuminated by the dim light from the porthole.

  The reason for the dryness in her mouth came to her; she was completely unable to breathe through her nose. She made to reach up with her left hand to touch it but found her arm would not move. Her wrist was tied. Both were tied. She squinted along her nose; it looked larger than usual, and in the dim light she could see patches of congealed blood.

  The beating she had received at the hands of Mrs Cameron had not been a dream at all. She wondered how long she had been unconscious. Long enough for it to have become dusk, apparently. It was difficult to understand what had happened. Even more difficult to understand why she was unaffected.

  Assuming she was unaffected. The possibility that everyone else was entirely sane and she was the one that had gone mad crossed her mind. She rejected it, as both of her minds were aware of the other and each of them knew the other had not changed.