The Chemickal Marriage (48 page)

All of which was only to clarify Miss Temple’s position. If she were a man, all she would have required to brazen any corridor was a Ministry topcoat and a scowl. For a woman, it was more difficult. She was in less danger of being named as a fugitive than of being cast out for inferior
couture
.

She followed the sound of water to a bustling laundry room, where harried, red-faced women stirred steaming tubs, and others wrung out linens
and hung them to dry. Miss Temple emerged with a stack of fresh towels, hoping they would proclaim a legitimate errand. Managing several corridors without being challenged, she steeled herself to stop a young maid, who carried a covered tray.

‘I beg your pardon. I am looking for Mr Schoepfil.’

The maid apologized for not knowing the gentleman.

‘He may be with Colonel Bronque.’

Again the maid knew nothing. Miss Temple waited for a pair of older ladies to pass, aware of the maid’s discomfort in their presence.

‘They will be in their own part of the house, near the hall of mirrors,’ she explained. ‘I do not expect anyone else is allowed.’

The maid’s mouth formed a knowing O. ‘Is it … the
lady
?’

‘It
is
,’ Miss Temple confided. ‘And she needs these towels
directly
.’

Rather proud of herself, Miss Temple followed the maid’s directions, which happily took her to another servant’s corridor, past locked doors and covered eye-holes. When she reached the proper door – seventh after the turn, painted yellow – it was with satisfaction that she set down the towels and rose on her toes to peek.

Mr Schoepfil sat at a table piled high with papers and books. The walls around him were covered with maps and charts, as well as three canvas squares of dense scrawls that, from a distance, formed pictures – flowers, a mask and two interlaced hands. Mr Schoepfil impatiently turned the pages of an ancient book until, not finding what he sought, the book was closed. The man held still, eyes shut, lips moving, as if in a private ritual of self-pacification … then he strode to the far door and made his exit. Miss Temple opened the servant’s panel and crept in.

She went first to the far door and braced Schoepfil’s chair beneath the knob. Three days of leisure would not have been enough to plough through everything the small room held. Next to the books were printed pages – newspapers and journals in many languages – and great piles of handwritten notes. Of the latter, each stack represented a unique hand. She identified notes by Doctor Lorenz, others by Mr Gray, and Marcus Fochtmann. At least seven piles came from the Comte himself, notes and diagrams and indecipherable formulae. On the walls were maps of the Polksvarte District
(Tarr Village and its quarry marked with pins), the Duchy of Macklenburg, the cities of Vienna and Cadiz, and finally an engineer’s plan of the Orange Canal. Opposite the maps hung a star chart: black parchment pricked with white paint to spell out constellations. Miss Temple had always intended to learn the stars – one spent enough time staring at them – but, as she never had, she continued to the three squares of scribbling she had glimpsed through the spy-hole.

The back of her throat began to burn. The flowers were blue, the mask white, and of the two hands one was white, the other jet black. She recognized each from
The Chemickal Marriage
. Were these sketches to get the correct form? But what made any form correct? Just framing the question made her head throb – and, as she stared, each image seemed to swell, as if drawing life from her attention …

She rubbed her eyes. When she looked up Miss Temple gasped aloud. How could she not have seen it? It was no star chart at all! With the memory of
The Chemickal Marriage
bright in her mind, she saw every part of its composition – the Bride and Groom, the floating figures, each allegorical flourish – represented on the star chart by a mark of white paint. Schoepfil had found the Comte’s blueprint for the entire canvas! Did he know what it was? Miss Temple tore the chart from the wall, rolling it tight. She looked about her and with a happy cry saw a cylindrical document case, sheathed in leather. She emptied the maps inside onto the floor, slid the parchment away, fitted the cap and then slapped the tube on her open palm, a diminutive boatswain ready to administer Sunday punishment.

Her smile froze for, until that moment hidden by the document case, her eyes fell across Roger Bascombe’s notebook – taken from her purse and deposited, like any other bit of evidence, in Schoepfil’s trove. Her regret at having lost it unread rose within her, but now Miss Temple thrust it down. That life was done. She would be free of it, by force of will if nothing else. She snatched up the notebook and wrenched at the cover. The fibres of its binding gave and with another tug came free. Miss Temple hurled both vanquished halves at the wall.

Abruptly she shoved a pile of Doctor Lorenz’s notes off the table, where it exploded like feathers burst from a seam-ripped pillow. In quick order the
rest of the papers followed. Between two stacks of books nestled a pair of fountain pens and bottle of black ink. With a grin she uncorked the ink bottle and flung the contents in wet bolts across the papered floor. She opened the books wide and heaped them together, tearing what pages she could on the way. She yanked the maps and canvases from the wall and balled them up atop the books. The painting of the hands she rolled into a tube and shoved its paint-clogged end into the gaslight sconce.

She glanced at the door. Were those footsteps? They were. The knob was turned, but the chair held, catching on the floorboards. The knob was worked again, and then the key tried. The tip of the canvas blackened and began to curl. The door was pushed with force. Flame crawled up the canvas, turning green and blue as it licked the coloured paints. Miss Temple stepped to the table, the door now rattling hard, and plunged the flaming tip into the pile of papers, maps, canvases and books.

‘Open this door!’ shouted Mr Kelling. ‘Who is there?’

He flung himself against the door, the chair skidding back an inch. The flame leapt across the maps with a sudden hunger. Kelling’s hand came through the gap, groping to dislodge the chair. Curls of white smoke climbed the wall. Miss Temple slipped into the servant’s passage. Holding the leather tube in both hands, she began to run.

Her face glowed with the pleasure of mayhem. How long they must have searched to gather those artefacts together! Even if Kelling could smother the fire – she knew from childhood how hard it was to burn a book, especially a thick one – she’d ruined so
many
pages. She laughed at the hours needed to sort it back to sense – and who knew, perhaps it
would
catch after all!

She tumbled into the brightness of the main corridors. The danger of being recognized and denounced for Lady Hopton’s death was as real as the prospect of Mr Kelling’s appearing at her heels, yet exhilaration lent an air of invulnerability. What was more, something in the atmosphere of the Royal Thermæ had changed. The crowds seeking favour had dispersed. In their place were preoccupied individuals rushing in opposite directions. No one paid her the slightest mind, and when her path was crossed by officials
or soldiers, they cared even less than the guests. What had happened while she’d been in the stable?

Shouts echoed behind her and a glance showed a gang of men in shirtsleeves, faces black with ash. She prudently retreated to an empty reception room whose walls were hung with red draperies. The far door abruptly opened.

‘
Stop!
’

Miss Temple froze. The uniformed man with his hand on the knob did not see her, his face turned behind him.

‘What is it
now
?’ called Colonel Bronque with impatience.

Miss Temple darted behind a curtain, flattening her dress and carefully angling her eye to peer out. The imperious voice that had called she recognized too well.

The Colonel stepped aside at the Contessa’s entrance, and gave a grim nod to the two soldiers who were her escort, before closing the door in their faces.

‘What has happened now?’ Bronque’s voice was wary, but the Contessa’s reply was only plaintive.

‘Where have you
been
?’ she complained. ‘I expected you this last hour, but have seen only that horrid Drusus Schoepfil. Such preening
satisfaction
.’

‘Why should you care? If he has taken you under his protection –’

‘I am his to deliver to the law at any time.’ The Contessa caught the Colonel’s hand. ‘
You
are my only friend. If you go, I am at Schoepfil’s mercy.’

‘Rosamonde, please. If you’ve been honest –’

The Contessa slapped the Colonel’s face with an echoing crack.

‘
Honest?
’ she cried. ‘There is a warrant for my life. Everything I know of Vandaariff’s intentions I have told you both.’

Bronque said nothing. In the charged silence she traced the red mark on his cheek with an extended finger.

‘Such indifference
humbles
a lady.’

‘I have explained, once I return –’

‘And if you don’t?’

‘Robert Vandaariff’s hired brutes cannot stand against trained regiments.’

‘But you’ve not said where you are going – or why.’

‘You must make yourself content.’

‘That’s very cruel.’

Bronque caught her finger in his hand. ‘Then you must be content with my cruelty.’

‘Must I?’ The Contessa ducked her head. ‘May I ask just one more tiny, tiny question?’

‘By God, you will press every advantage. What is it?’

‘Were you a friend of Francis Xonck?’

Her voice retained the same shy lilt, but the Colonel’s indulgent smile froze. ‘Why in hell do you mention
him
?’

‘Because you never said how you met Drusus Schoepfil, how you became of use.’

‘We are
partners
–’

‘Schoepfil is nothing to his uncle, after all – always the dog smelling supper from another room. Admittedly, a clever dog – no doubt why Vandaariff distrusted him. Smart animals make people nervous.’

Bronque sighed. ‘We have spoken too long. You must go back, and be patient –’

‘Blue Caesar blue palace ice consumption.’

She whispered the words and then stepped away. A shudder shook Bronque’s body. His eyes went dull.

‘Drusus Schoepfil is a boat that can venture only on the smoothest seas. He doubts. He trusts no one – which means he should not trust you … yet he apparently
does
. At first I wondered why, but then it was clear –
Francis
. I can imagine your relief at his death, silencing the secret of your corruption. But Schoepfil guessed, didn’t he?’

‘He’d seen me at Harschmort … knew I played cards with Arthur Trapping …’

‘And so you secretly underwent the Process. Did you enjoy it?’

Miss Temple recalled Roger Bascombe on the dirigible, slumped against a wall, calmly confessing his own treachery. Every initiate of the Process was instilled with a control phrase. The speaking of this phrase, which the Contessa had deduced from her knowledge of Xonck, delivered the initiate into
the power of the speaker, a passive state in which any questions would be answered and all commands obeyed. Colonel Bronque’s reply was vacant and cool.

‘
Enormously
.’

‘You planned to betray me all along.’

‘Of course.’

The Contessa slapped Bronque’s face twice more, echoing blows that left a bead of red at the corner of his mouth. ‘
Tell me
.’

‘Schoepfil will sell you to Vandaariff, forcing a meeting where Vandaariff will be killed.’

The Contessa’s lips curled with fury. ‘
Why?
’

‘We no longer need you.’ Bronque’s reply was distant. ‘And Harcourt’s warrant for your death absolves our action.’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘First to Axewith, so he knows the Queen has refused his writ, then to Vandaariff, to arrange your sale. After the Queen’s denial, he will leap at the chance, and we will have him.’

‘And where is Axewith?’

‘At the fire. The longer he is distracted, the more time we have.’

‘What weapons do you carry, apart from that ridiculous sword?’

Bronque unbuttoned his jacket and plucked out a horn-handled clasp-knife. ‘I keep this for luck, it belonged to my father –’

The Contessa snatched it from his hand, opening the blade – a malignant flashing finger – then snapping it home. The doorknob rattled. She tucked the knife away and hissed at Bronque. ‘You have not told me a thing. Wake.’

Bronque brought a hand to his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned to an agitated Mr Schoepfil, bustling in with the oblong box gripped tightly in one hand.

‘What are you doing alone with this woman?’

‘Nothing of your concern, I assure you.’ Bronque’s voice had recovered its strength, but his face still blazed with the impact of the Contessa’s hand.

Schoepfil glared at the Contessa, who had retreated behind the Colonel. ‘
Someone
has set a fire in our rooms!’

‘
Another
fire?’ The Contessa bit her lip. ‘Is the entire town tinderwood? Must we evacuate? Is Her Majesty safe?’

Schoepfil gave a derisive snort and quickly snatched her hands in his. He turned them to study each side, then lifted them to his nose.

‘How gallant. Do you expect to smell paraffin or kerosene?’

He thrust her hands away and waved angrily to the two soldiers who had followed him in. ‘Remove this woman.’

Schoepfil shut the door on the Contessa’s heels and turned, fuming, on Bronque.

‘A fire set in
our
rooms. Kelling will need hours to even divine the damage. And I find you with her here – alone! Please, Colonel!
Think!
’

‘How could she be responsible? I distrust her as much as you do –’

Schoepfil reached to rebutton Bronque’s jacket. ‘What has happened to your face?’

‘Nothing has happened.’

‘You are very red.’

‘From the steam. Wasn’t the Contessa under guard?’

‘But who else knew of our trove?’

‘The German doctor?’