Circle of Shadows (11 page)

‘Did he see your reaction?’

‘I think not – he was bent over his papers again. Crowther, what will she do if she meets him?’

Crowther found himself transported back to the room in Highgate where James had died, saw Harriet’s face as she bent over her husband, his hand clasped between her own and his blood pooling round her dress. She had loved her husband very much. ‘I should imagine she’ll try very hard to kill him,’ he said, and took up his hat.

Krall decided he had given the English travellers enough time to settle into their luxurious cages, and his pipe still clamped between his teeth, was making his way through the rear courtyard to pay his respects when he saw two gentlemen, strangers to him, walking swiftly out into the gardens.

‘Kinkel?’ The head footman turned from the underling he was berating and approached, his shiny black shoes tapping out a quick tripping rhythm over the flagstones under the colonnade.

‘Herr District Officer?’

Krall pointed with his pipe at the disappearing strangers.

‘Milords Crowther and Graves, sir,’ Kinkel said. ‘Perhaps they go to meet Mrs Clode and her sister. The ladies left to tour the gardens some little time ago.’

Krall decided it might be better to put off introducing himself for a while. To pursue the two men would necessitate walking so fast he might disturb his digestion. The two men, both tall, angular beings, disappeared from sight and Krall sniffed and looked about him, patting his belly. The courtyard was lively. Footmen went back and forth with large trunks held between them, and another carriage, emptied of its dignitaries, was being led back out under the arch towards the stables. Krall thought it spoke well of Kinkel’s organisational talents that he was able to watch this with apparent calm.

‘Any other notable arrivals today, Herr Kinkel?’

The footman clasped his hands behind his back. ‘The Princess Theresa Anna, the Duke of Mecklenburg, a troupe of French dancers, and Manzerotti himself.’ Herr Kinkel allowed himself a small sigh. ‘Herr District Officer, I could almost wish myself a valet again if it meant the chance of dressing Manzerotti. The most beautiful clothes, such taste, and on such a handsome man. His looks are as remarkable as his talent.’

Krall looked sideways at Kinkel from under his heavy brows, but it seemed the latter was too lost in admiration to note it. ‘We’re more likely to clap a fiddler who knows a good dance tune than these opera types in Oberbach,’ he grunted. ‘Anyway, this Manzerotti ain’t quite a man, is he?’

Kinkel smiled. ‘The best castrato singer in Europe here among us. I understand the Duke is delighted.’

Deep in Krall’s mind another bell rang, softly; another page of English newsprint swam before his inner eye.

‘Wasn’t he in London when those folk were murdered at the opera house? Weren’t our English guests caught up in that in some way?’

Kinkel nodded. ‘Yes, indeed! I believe Mrs Westerman was at the theatre the night Mademoiselle Marin was murdered on stage. It was just before her husband was killed by some French spy. Manzerotti was the toast of the season there.’ He stared off into the air again. ‘They must be acquainted. How delightful it will be, for them to meet again.’

Krall sucked on his pipe. ‘Delightful indeed.’

‘Remarkable!’ Harriet said softly as the cover was removed.

Adnan nodded. ‘I have been fortunate in the sons of my mother, Mrs Westerman. Sami is an artist. The sculpting of the models and the painting of the features I leave all to him. I find my enthusiasm confined to giving these creatures of ours the power of movement and communication.’

Harriet looked sceptical. ‘Did I hear you right, sir? Communication? Have you trapped some spirit in the statue?’

‘No, madam, there is no – how can I put it? – ghost in this machine. But let me show you.’ Harriet was aware in the background of Sami almost dancing with delight and whispering to Rachel. She was profoundly glad these brothers had been here to offer her sister some refuge, some relief. Sami reminded her of her son when he had some powerful secret to share, and the thought of him both tugged on her sore heart and made her smile.

They were grouped around the figure of a young boy seated at a wooden desk and dressed like the child of a prosperous family. He would have been perhaps four years old, if living. His head was a natural confusion of blond curls and his eyes were bright blue and glimmering glass. The colouring of his face was very beautiful. Harriet expected that if she touched his cheek it would be warm. In his right hand he held a quill pen. He looked with steady contemplation at the piece of parchment in front of him. Adnan pressed some switch on the underside of the mahogany table and then moved to one side where he could observe both the automaton and Harriet’s reaction.

After a momentary pause, the boy’s head lifted and, blinking his eyes, he nodded at Harriet, then dipped his quill in the inkpot at his side and put his pen to the paper. His chest rose and fell and he tilted his head to one side as he began to write, then to the other. After a moment he seemed to shift the paper a little to his left and he continued, his chin now tucked into his lace cravat. There was the faintest sound of whirr and click in the air, but the illusion was remarkable. Half of Harriet’s mind told her she was seeing a clever copy of life, but watching it move, breathe and concentrate, half of her protested that this was a living being. The effect was distinctly unsettling.

‘This is a masterpiece,’ she whispered, almost expecting the child to complain of the interruption.

‘We have only excelled it once,’ Adnan said, watching his creation with affectionate pride, ‘with a walking automaton – and I think we were both a little in love with her before she left us.’ A minute or two passed, and the little boy looked up again and moved his arm away from the page with a nod. Harriet could hear the smile in Al-Said’s voice as he said, ‘Do examine the paper, madam.’

Harriet approached the desk warily, half-expecting the child to drop the pretence and start laughing at her, and peered down at the paper before the inert little scholar.

Good afternoon, Mrs Westerman
, it read,
and welcome to my home
.

‘You are both magicians, I can barely comprehend it! Are there many machines that write like this?’

‘Some. We have made several that draw also. It is a matter only of examining the movements of the hand as it performs the action we wish, forward and back, right and left, then translating it onto our little brass discs.’

‘You make it sound easy,’ Harriet said wonderingly, and touched the paper face of the child with a fingertip.

‘Not easy no, but in some way simple.’

Sami approached the mechanism and picked up the sheet to cover it. ‘Adnan is too modest,’ he said. He ruffled the model’s hair affectionately, and just as he dropped the sheet over it there came the sound of a male voice calling outside. ‘Oh, perhaps that is Julius,’ he said, and headed for the door with long strides.

‘My apologies, Mrs Westerman,’ Al-Said said, watching him go. ‘Our neighbour is a metalworker called Julius. He and Sami are good friends.’

The words were only just out of his mouth when Sami returned and handed a folded sheet of paper to Harriet. ‘It was a message for you, Mrs Westerman, from the palace.’

Harriet took it from him and broke the seal. She felt the smile fall from her lips and her skin whiten. She thrust the note into her pocket. ‘I am afraid I must go at once. I hope to see you both again, gentlemen.’

‘Harriet, what is it?’ Rachel asked. ‘Is Daniel well?’

‘It is nothing to do with Daniel, dear. If you would stay here and finish your tea, then perhaps the gentlemen may escort you back to the palace.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Harry. I am coming with you.’

‘Stay here.’ She said it so sharply, Rachel almost shrank away. Without trusting herself to speak further, and with only a nod to the astonished brothers, Harriet hurriedly left the house and started out along the northward path from the village.

The directions she had received were very clear. Harriet found the Temple of Apollo at the far end of the formal gardens, at the summit of an artificial hill which gave it views back across the expanse of water, hedges and flower gardens to the pink face of the palace itself. It was a smallish, circular domed building, the roof supported by Doric columns. Below them was a wall covered in frescoes of the Muses. She mounted the steps and found herself in its stone interior. A marble bench curved round the low wall, and taking his ease on it, a lazy smile on his lips and surrounded by various gods apparently offering him lyres and laurel wreaths, was Manzerotti. He was as beautiful as ever. She hesitated.

‘Mrs Westerman,’ he said, his voice light and high as a dove cooing to its mate, and nodded to his right. On the bench, just out of his reach was an open walnut case with a pair of travelling pistols in it. She did not speak but took a seat next to it and removed one of the guns. It was a beautiful object – walnut grip, full silver mount. It was cold and smooth in her hand. Heavy without being cumbersome, it felt full of its purpose. She glanced up at its owner. It was like him to own something so perfect, so lovingly made and so deadly.

‘Are we to fight a duel?’ she said at last. Her voice broke in her throat; it sounded harsh and ugly in her ears.

He shook his head and looked out across the view away from the palace and towards the great forests of Maulberg swelling and falling over the hills.

‘I would not challenge you, madam. There are the guns. Do with them what you will.’

In her mind, during the three years since she had seen him in triumph on the stage of His Majesty’s Theatre, she had tried to make him ugly. She felt his sins should show in his face: this spy-master, for whoever would pay him, this monster without principle or ideal who had sown destruction then fled England, protected by her government. They had made use of him in the past too, and his work meant they were willing to let him leave trailing glory and fame, adored and mourned by the public while others who had done less than he were hung as traitors. Harriet remembered that before she had first laid eyes on Manzerotti, she had been told that a woman had gone mad with love for him and thrown herself under his coach. She had thought the story ridiculous, then having seen him and heard him sing, she had believed it. The years had made no mark on him. He was still an ideal model of a human. And with a casual command from his rosebud mouth, he had ordered the murder of her husband.

She lifted the powder flask from its niche among the velvet and unscrewed the lid, noticing that the motif of leaves and flowers from the metalwork on the gun was repeated round the shoulder of the flask. It was full. There was enough powder there to kill Manzerotti a dozen times over.

Crowther and Graves hurried along the path without any clear idea of where they were going.

‘Why is he here?’ Graves hissed. ‘We should never have agreed to keep silent!’

‘It was an order from the King, Graves. Even if it was framed as a request.’ Crowther could move with surprising speed when he wished. Graves jogged along at his side. Crowther continued. ‘Manzerotti, I am sure, is here on his usual business. The marriage of a sovereign Duke, a murder. The foreign powers will be interested in Maulberg at the moment. No doubt Manzerotti is working for Catherine, or Frederick of Prussia. Both, possibly. There is Mrs Clode … I cannot see Mrs Westerman.’

Rachel had just emerged from one of the side paths, accompanied by a dark-complexioned man. Crowther did not take any trouble with formalities. ‘Where is she?’

Rachel looked between them. ‘She received a note and left at once. I thought she would be meeting you, Crowther.’

‘Manzerotti is here,’ Graves said, and Rachel covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Do you have any notion where she went?’

Rachel shook her head. Al-Said frowned. ‘I think I saw her take the path towards the Temple of Apollo.’

‘Manzerotti absolutely,’ Crowther said through gritted teeth. ‘Can you take us there, sir? As quickly as possible, please.’

Al-Said hesitated, then nodded. ‘This way.’

‘I am sorry your husband was killed, Mrs Westerman.’ Manzerotti still had the trick of making every phrase he spoke sound like a snatch of music in his lightly accented English. He crossed his legs and the black silk whispered. He seemed quite calm.

‘Murdered. On your order.’ She rolled one of the lead bullets around the centre of her palm.

‘All wars have casualties. Your husband sank many ships, drowned many men, and was called a hero.’

Harriet made a sound of disgust in her throat.

Manzerotti continued as if he had not heard her. ‘I regret his death now. It proved unnecessary, given my identity was already discovered, but we were not to know that then.’ Harriet picked up the gun again and examined the mechanism. ‘But then I was not the only person to order a murder, was I, Mrs Westerman?’

She paused. ‘I do not know what you mean, Manzerotti.’

He watched her carefully, examining her face as if he were about to draw it.

‘I think the authorities would have preferred my friend Johannes delivered to them alive, yet he was given over to an angry mob. Mr Crowther is hardly the creature to do such a thing unprompted. His blood, for the most part, runs too cold.’ Harriet felt herself flinch, felt it seen. ‘No, Mrs Westerman, I believe it was
you
that ordered Johannes’ death. Asked Crowther to perform that act of revenge on your behalf from your husband’s bedside. Johannes had been my companion since childhood, you know.’

Harriet tried to concentrate on the pistol, heavy in her hand, and tapped powder into the muzzle. Her hand had begun to shake a little. ‘He was your knife-man. Did you keep a tally of the murders he did for you?’

Manzerotti nodded, his eyebrows slightly lifted as if considering what she said. ‘I am sure you thought the murder justified. Though I have never murdered for revenge. And that is what it was, my dear, revenge.’ She dropped the ball into the barrel and rammed home the charge with all her strength. ‘And you have killed since, I understand, with your own hand. Some evil-doer in Keswick, was it not? The same man who shot Mr Crowther?’