The Chemickal Marriage (50 page)

‘No, Your Grace. That is the irony of it all. Lord Vandaariff
is
a traitor. The Duke of Stäelmaere
was
murdered.’

‘Then why could not the Contessa merely deliver that message? Why did Lady Axewith and Lady Hopton have to die?’

‘It is not the truth of the story, but the timing of its delivery. The Contessa is against Lord Vandaariff – and in that she is for the realm – but she is one who thrives on havoc, and in that she is the realm’s enemy. Lady Hopton’s arrival would have muddled the Contessa’s plans when they brooked no muddling. Surely Your Grace knows the realm
is
under attack.’

‘There is unrest …’

‘If Robert Vandaariff has his way – O I cannot recall the name, but wasn’t there a place – destroyed and forgotten –’

‘At least by you.’

‘They sowed the ground with salt?’

‘That would be Carthage.’

‘Would it?’

‘Why should Robert Vandaariff seek another Carthage? How could he think such a result within his power? Is he insane?’

‘O absolutely.’ The Duchess stared at Miss Temple, a downwards tuck at the corners of her mouth. Well used to this, Miss Temple went on. ‘What you ought to understand – and I don’t know if it is worth the trouble to tell the Queen, that is, whether one actually tells her or tells the Crown Prince or even if one
did
whether it would make a bit of difference – I suppose that is why I’m telling
you
–’

‘You are telling me because I caught you crouched behind a chair.’

‘Yes, but in trusting Vandaariff Her Majesty’s government has laid itself at the feet of a madman. The highest ranks of your nation are riddled with secret slaves, serving a master whose wealth insulates him from all reprisal.’

‘But … but the
Contessa
–’

‘You feel her acts more keenly being personally responsible for her presence here.’ Miss Temple knew she’d found the heart of the Duchess’s concern, and risked touching the woman’s arm. ‘You cannot blame yourself. I don’t blame
myself
, because I know the Contessa. Even forewarned she would have found a way. You must not think you have betrayed your Queen – for here you stand, working to protect her.’

Miss Temple did not believe this at all. She blamed herself keenly for almost everything and knew in her heart that, however much she might, like the Duchess, assuage her complicity through effort, such actions would never shift the damage already done, nor, she was fearfully sure, alter the dark trajectory of her future. She gave the Duchess’s arm another squeeze and ceased further argument. She had seen the look now inhabiting the woman’s face on too many occasions to number: someone with her immediate fate in their hands attempting to gauge how much of what she’d said could be believed – which was to say, how much had been an inveterate lie. The Duchess stabbed a finger at the leather tube under Miss Temple’s arm.

‘Does
that
belong to Mr Schoepfil?’

‘It does
not
,’ replied Miss Temple, and then in a more honeyed tone, ‘I do not mean to be forward, but will I be hanged?’

‘Very possibly.’ The Duchess took her hand. ‘And myself along with you …’

On her father’s plantation privilege arrived with possession, and those organs of advantage – servants of every role and function – were integrated into all the facets of her life with a blunt cruelty. What had been characterized since, by everyone from the staff of the Boniface to the greater Bascombe family circle, as Miss Temple’s intolerant manner was but a natural inheritance. The subtleties that distinguished mere employment from outright property were no part of that landscape, and so escaped both her attention and interest. In a stroke of some irony, once Miss Temple had been catapulted into a life of adventure, which was to say a variety of social stripes and circumstances, her original notions of hierarchy and power had only been reinforced. Whether it was seeing the Prince’s Own 4th Dragoons in service to Minister Crabbé, or Ministry officials doing the bidding of Mrs Marchmoor, or the hired rogues of the Xonck private army, Miss Temple’s youthful assumptions of autocracy had been confirmed again and again as the model of the world’s true working. Great power, like a swollen insect queen, was marked by a population of compliant drones.

Walking with the Duchess, Miss Temple perceived an entirely different mechanism. The Duchess presented no awesome presence, in beauty or violence or wit, but nonetheless provoked a willing deference from each soul they passed. Miss Temple compared this to her own arrival, trailing Colonel Bronque, and the relative disinterest with which the Colonel himself had been viewed, though the importance of his errand had been clear. The Duchess, despite her personal lack of affect, inspired unfeigned respect. And, while these courtiers, like Mr Nordling, sent off with Kelling and the Doctor, would have instantly done the Duchess’s bidding, they did not seem to be her
minions
.

Was not the Queen’s inner court the most stiffly hierarchical body in existence?

Miss Temple listened intently to her guide’s mutters of greeting and her comments on a host of matters that seemed wholly trivial, given the crisis.
Why should anyone care about the milk delivery or invitations to next week’s concert? She realized that the more trivial the task, the more agitated the person assigned to manage it had been, and that their entire progress had been one in which the Duchess – herself emotionally wrought, Miss Temple knew – had smoothed the disarray of the court like a tortoiseshell comb smoothed wet, tangled hair … and all without a threat, a slap or a single urgent word.

Miss Temple drew no conclusion, for when it came to a fight – as it seemed everything in her world, at the finish, must – she did not see how the Duchess could stand against Colonel Bronque’s troopers. But she kept her eyes and ears open.

The prospect of violence returned Miss Temple’s thoughts, as she supposed would be inevitable in the whole of her remaining life, to the Contessa. Assuming the woman had finally fled, why now? What had changed, or what had she at last achieved? Miss Temple admitted it was possible the Contessa had put her trust in Colonel Bronque and departed only at the news of his betrayal. But Miss Temple was not satisfied, and her dissatisfaction took firmer root as she realized the Duchess was leading her down damp staircases and past peeling walls, back to the level of the baths.

They stopped at another metal door with an iron wheel in its centre, flanked by two burly footmen. The footmen, white wigs drooping in the damp, came to attention at the sight of the Duchess, but her gesture to open the door was interrupted by an echoing cry. Miss Temple turned as a party of some dozen figures clattered down the stairs in their wake.

‘Stand with them,’ said the Duchess. Miss Temple was pulled behind the footmen with her back against the wheel, feeling like a weak but valuable chess piece.

Mr Schoepfil arrived first, anger evident in his ruddy face and strident tone. ‘I will have answers, madam! I will have answers!’

After him in a jumble came Mr Kelling, still carrying the crate, leather case restored within it, then Doctor Svenson, sullenly rubbing his jaw, with Mr Nordling interposed between them. Miss Temple did not recognize the rest of the party – soldiers from Bronque’s regiment, men in Ministry top-coats
and several fellows who, like Nordling, wore more fashionable garments of different colours and were most likely to be courtiers.

Schoepfil gripped his oblong box in one hand and waved it for emphasis. ‘Where is she, Your Grace? Where have you hidden her? Two men are dead at this woman’s hands. But she has not passed the guardhouse. She has not passed any exit, nor out any window.’

‘I dislike your tone, Mr Schoepfil.’

While the Duchess of Cogstead was taller than Miss Temple, this was no particular feat, and Mr Schoepfil – a man used to dominating conversations from below – met her eyes with disdain. ‘You arranged today’s audience. You and Pont-Joule have indulged her time and again.’ He snorted once at Miss Temple. ‘That you have
this
one with you is all the proof I need.’ Schoepfil flicked his head at the iron oval door. ‘You know where she’s gone, and I demand you stand aside.’

The Duchess pitched her voice to the group. ‘Mr Schoepfil has been commanded by royal writ to retire, at
once
. Any man that stands with him will pay the penalty.’

‘What penalty?’ demanded Schoepfil. ‘Your city is burning and you’re
here
, no more pertinent to its fate than a blood-stuffed tick is to a cart-horse.’

‘Mr Schoepfil! No matter
whose
nephew –’

‘My uncle will not survive this night. You do not want me for an enemy. Step aside.’

The Duchess did not move. The soldiers behind Schoepfil stood ready. Miss Temple sought Doctor Svenson, but Svenson’s eyes met hers as if from a great distance – not cold so much as uninflected. She swallowed with dismay. Had he
given up
?

She went to her toes and whispered to the footmen.‘You must open the door and pull the Duchess through.’ They did not reply, but one shifted his weight nearer the iron wheel.

‘You cannot pass,’ the Duchess insisted. ‘Her Majesty is within.’

‘O she is not,’ retorted Schoepfil.

‘Mr Schoepfil, your insolence paints no good prospect for your future at court.’

Schoepfil’s eyes gleamed. The man found real delight in such contests of
will, but hesitated to use force against the Duchess. However, though he would not attack, nor would he leave – and should the door open, he would push through. A soldier loosened his sword in its scabbard. The courtiers with Nordling inched backwards. Doctor Svenson looked at the floor, as if to confirm his altered heart.

What lay behind the oval door that could be so important?

That Schoepfil believed the Contessa could be within spoke to the woman having insinuated herself more deeply into the Queen’s household than anyone had suspected. If Lady Axewith had employed the Contessa as a confidante, perhaps she’d managed a similar intimacy here, with this Lord Pont-Joule or – was it possible – even with the Queen? Why else had the Duchess come to this room but to answer her own fears? At once Miss Temple saw that to allow Schoepfil’s entry – for he would take hold of whatever evidence he found – was to grant him unspeakable leverage: proof that a murderer had been granted favour by the Crown.

‘This man should be under arrest!’ Miss Temple pointed an accusing finger at Schoepfil. ‘He is a threat to Her Majesty’s person! Your duty is clear! Unless you are all cowards –’

Mr Kelling dropped his crate with a crash and reached into his topcoat. He yanked out a shining short-barrelled revolver, but no sooner had Kelling extended his arm than the weapon sprung from his hand and Kelling split the air with a shriek. Mr Nordling had pulled apart his cane and thrust its thin blade into Kelling’s wrist. The Ministry men retreated, taking no side. Schoepfil roared with rage and struck Nordling three times across the face before the courtier could bring his weapon to bear. Kelling tripped over his crate and went down, holding his wounded limb. The soldiers swept out their sabres. The courtiers leapt to Nordling’s defence and were struck repeatedly in turn. The footmen shoved Miss Temple aside and turned the iron wheel.

A shot rang out and Miss Temple flinched at the spray of plaster from the splintered ceiling. Doctor Svenson held Kelling’s revolver.

Svenson aimed at the troopers, then swung the barrel at Schoepfil. ‘The first to make a move will die … and probably the second.’ He addressed the
soldiers, nodding to Schoepfil. ‘Perhaps this man is worth your lives – if so, you are welcome to come at me.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ called Schoepfil. ‘This is murder.’

Svenson ignored him. ‘The case, Mr Kelling. Slide it across the floor.’

‘Do nothing of the sort!’ shouted Schoepfil.

Svenson extended the pistol towards Kelling and drew back the hammer with his thumb. ‘Look at me, Mr Kelling.’

Kelling’s face was white, and he turned guiltily to his employer, who sputtered and threw up his hands. ‘Lord above, this cuts it!’ Schoepfil protested. ‘This cuts it fine!’

Kelling made to push the leather case to Svenson, but the Doctor nodded at Miss Temple. ‘Not to me. To her.’

Kelling slid the case to Miss Temple’s feet. Behind her the Duchess had passed through the oval doorway, but stood watching.

‘Of all the idiocy,’ declared Schoepfil.

Svenson returned his aim to the soldiers. ‘Lay your blades on the floor …’

But the soldiers did not move. Instead, each took a careful step away from the other, and extended their sabres, measuring the distance they would need to cut Svenson down.

‘Well, then,’ said the Doctor. ‘That’s clear enough. Anyone who wants to leave, I would suggest it. Stray shots, you know.’

‘Any man who leaves is dead,’ cried Schoepfil, a smile playing again on his lips. ‘At least to my favour.’

The Ministry men glanced at one another, but did not flee. The courtiers stood next to Nordling, who dabbed a bloody nose with his shirt-cuff. Svenson tightened his grip on the pistol. ‘Celeste, please go. Seal the door behind you.’

‘Come with me,’ she whispered.

‘Give my best wishes to Her Majesty. All of Macklenburg is at her service.’

She had not noticed Schoepfil moving – or he simply moved too quickly – but then the wooden crate was in the air. Svenson dodged and the missile smashed into the footman who had opened the door, a hammer blow that filled the air with fluttering paper and knocked the footman flat. Miss Temple
jumped through the door. The Doctor’s pistol roared, three rapid shots – cries of anger and pain – but before she could see, the second footman shoved the oval door closed and spun the wheel, sealing Miss Temple and the Duchess tight.

The room was silent, not a trace of the mayhem outside piercing through. Miss Temple found a heavy iron candelabrum and wedged it hard into the door’s inner wheel. She turned to the Duchess, still stunned to immobility.

‘Is Her Majesty truly here?’

‘Of course not. These rooms belong to Lord Pont-Joule.’ The Duchess led her into a strange octagonal room whose every side held another of the oval doors.