The Chemickal Marriage (55 page)

‘You mean Svenson.’

‘Indeed I do.’ Trooste shivered. ‘A terrible figure. You should have seen that poor child writhe!
She
guided the machines – you guessed it, I don’t know how – and the stench, the bile, like coal tar filling her mouth –’ Trooste waved his hands at the memory, then immediately lunged back to recover the reins.

‘Dreadful,’ he muttered, ‘simply
dreadful
!’

As the tale came out, Chang perceived the cruelty of the Doctor’s dilemma: how to save Madelaine Kraft without destroying the child. Svenson had failed – or had acted with a coldness of which Chang had not thought him capable … yet who knew Svenson’s mind or manner now? The horses of grief drove each man down a different, darkened path.

‘We fled our separate ways in the fire, and that was the last I saw of them.’ The Professor raised both eyebrows. ‘That German is a madman, you know. A
killer
.’

‘He refrained from killing you.’

‘Not from kindness!’ Trooste gave Chang a sidelong, crafty glance. ‘You know, I think you want to see Robert Vandaariff as much as I – and intend that
I
shall get
you
through the gates with my treasure house of news!’

Trooste chuckled and went so far as to slap Chang’s knee. Chang caught the hand as he might snatch a horsefly from the air.

‘Tell me about Vandaariff’s
new
glass. The different colours.’

‘I’m sure I’ve no idea –’

Chang squeezed, grinding the bones. Trooste grimaced, and Chang released the hand, the puffy flesh pink where he had gripped it. Trooste worked his fingers, chastened, but his eyes remained bright. Usually force and pain were all that was necessary to contain a man unused to violence, but Trooste was more resilient.

‘So that’s where we sit, then? I had hoped for a more collegial –’

‘Then do not
lie
. The different colours. Each with different alchemical properties.’

‘Alchemical?’ Trooste’s sly look had returned. ‘Surely
you
don’t credit such nonsense?’

‘I am not Lord Vandaariff.’

Trooste laughed. ‘But that is just his genius! For every mention of alchemy, planets and spheres – the metaphorical brushstrokes, if you will –’

‘Metaphorical horse droppings.’

‘You may well say, but the science at play is as sound as a
bell
.’

‘So. The coloured glass cards. What is their purpose?’

‘No purpose at all!’ Trooste insisted. ‘Experiments in smelting, nothing more. The primary component of each card remains indigo clay –’

‘But they are not infused with memory.’

‘No! Each card is an amalgam of indigo clay with a different metal –’

‘Why? Why
alchemically
?’

Trooste did not hear the question, for his attention had been taken by Chang’s face. Chang wiped at his cheek, wondering if he’d been splashed with Foison’s blood.

Trooste bit his plump lower lip, and dropped his voice to an eager whisper. ‘My Lord, I’d no idea. And – sweet mercy – where is it
installed
?’

Chang seized the reins and pulled. Trooste fought to keep them – to keep the gig from spilling – but the horse came to a stop without incident.

‘Of all the reckless – you could have broken our necks!’

‘How the nation would mourn. Get out.’ Chang reached beneath the seat and hurled one of the Professor’s satchels to the street.

‘What are you doing? I’m coming with you – you need me!’

Chang threw another satchel – aiming for the fetid gutter but landing short. Trooste lunged to stop him. Chang shoved him hard in the chest.

‘Get
down
.’

The Professor did so, an awkward scramble as the final satchel struck the road. Chang vaulted down after him and walked off quickly. Trooste gathered his burdens and hurried to follow.

‘But our gig! Someone will steal it!’

‘Let them.’

‘My papers are heavy!’

Chang called over his shoulder. ‘Then let them burn.’

Trooste caught up at the corner, red-faced and gasping. ‘You’re a lunatic!’

‘Is that so?’ Chang gazed at the Professor over the rim of his spectacles. ‘You see, I
know
Robert Vandaariff, and knew the Comte d’Orkancz before him even better.’

‘You knew the Comte d’Orkancz?’ Trooste’s voice rose, like a dreamy imperialist speaking of Napoleon.

‘I put a sabre through his guts.’

The Professor hitched his bundles higher on his chest. ‘You are
not
a priest.’

Chang laughed and walked on. Trooste glanced back to the gig as they rounded the corner, the horse waiting docile in the empty street.

‘Lord above!’

To Trooste’s credit, the outburst was not so fearful as grim. Before them stood the Crampton Place railway station, the platform packed with so many waiting travellers that they spilled into the lane. Chang saw neither Foison’s green-coats nor Bronque’s grenadiers …

‘We will never get through,’ huffed Trooste. ‘We should go back to the horse before it’s taken.’

‘One horse cannot get us there in time. You said it yourself.’

‘In time for
what
?’

Chang stopped cold. Trooste slammed into his back and cursed as a satchel tumbled to the ground.

‘Leave it!’ Chang set off. ‘
Hurry
.’

‘I cannot leave it! O damn you – will you not wait?’

Chang ignored him, sure of what he’d just seen. He plucked a satchel from Trooste’s grasp and thrust it ahead, a battering ram to reach an alley that ran parallel to the rails.

Trooste gestured over his shoulder. ‘Is not the platform
behind
us?’

Chang pointed the walking stick. Trooste extended his bulging neck to look – why did such men so often opt for constrictive garments? At the end of the alley, in a gap between tar-shingled shacks, appeared a squat line of green – rushes along the trackside … and through them came another wink of orange.

At the final shack, Chang knelt to wait. A far-off wail. The train.

‘Who is the man in orange?’ asked Trooste. ‘A friend?’

‘No. If he sees us, he may attack. You should flee.’

‘Not you?’

Chang smiled. ‘Let us say we share an outstanding wager.’

The train wheezed into Crampton Place like a massive metal ox, overburdened but stoic. A bell sounded from the station house and the air erupted with the tumult of hundreds attempting to board. Chang counted twenty carriages in all – a long train, extended to answer the fleeing crowds – and watched as Jack Pfaff broke from his hiding place and ran straight for the brake van. Chang slapped Trooste’s arm and made for the nearest carriage, third from the rear. He vaulted the steps into the vestibule and brusquely pulled Trooste up. He whipped aside the curtain to the baggage compartment. ‘Stay here.’

Trooste peered past Chang down the corridor. ‘While you do what?’

‘No.’ Chang pushed Trooste into the compartment and whisked the curtain shut.

‘What if this wager of yours goes sour?’ protested Trooste. ‘Where am I?’

‘On a train to Harschmort, as you wanted. Don’t make any noise.’

At the corridor’s end he turned in time to see Trooste’s head duck from sight. Chang sighed – there was nothing to be done about it now – and stepped through.

At a flash of white he raised his stick, blocking a forearm reaching for his neck, and dodged the other way, into the arms of a second waiting man. A hard elbow and this second man’s grip gave way, and Chang chopped the walking stick into the first man’s face, knocking him back on his heels. The man overbalanced, his back to the open boarding staircase. Chang thrust the stick into Michel Gorine’s grasping hands, and retrieved him before he could topple out under the iron wheels. Behind Chang, Mr Cunsher exhaled painfully and rubbed his abdomen.

‘A pair of fools!’ Chang shouted over the noise of the wheels. Gorine jabbed his hand towards the rear of the train with the subtlety of a puppet show.

‘Jack Pfaff! I know!’ Chang waved them closer so as not to shout. ‘Have you followed him, or were you on the train already?’

‘From the Thermæ,’ replied Cunsher. ‘He hasn’t seen us. No idea of his intentions.’

‘Have you seen Celeste?’ The question sparked an apprehensive look between the men. ‘
Tell
me.’

‘Beg pardon – the noise is impossible …’ Cunsher put his mouth to Chang’s ear and with characteristic efficiency related his progress since Chang had thrown the rock at Pfaff in the square: following Pfaff, eventually to the Thermæ, Miss Temple’s freeing of Gorine, Cunsher’s intention to follow Pfaff, Miss Temple’s wilful disappearance.

‘We did not realize she was gone until it was too late, yet, with Pfaff likely to reunite with his patroness, he seemed actually the surest way to locate the young lady.’

‘Headstrong idiot,’ muttered Chang.

‘Never met a creature like her,’ agreed Gorine. ‘
Barking
.’

His smile of agreement wilted before Chang’s grim stare.

‘Resourceful young lady,’ observed Cunsher.

Gorine nodded with vigour, then – wanting to appear useful – craned his
head to make sure no one was coming to disturb them, only to realize that Cunsher and Chang had each already positioned their bodies to watch the corridor without being seen. Gorine pulled back, chagrined. He smoothed the lank hair from his eyes. Chang said nothing to alleviate the man’s discomfort. How many times in the perfumed parlours of the Old Palace had Michel Gorine kept him at bay, sending Angelique off with another customer?

‘What do you know of Drusus Schoepfil?’ Chang asked.

‘Vandaariff’s nephew and heir,’ replied Cunsher, as if it were a common fact. ‘Apparently
he
questioned Miss Temple at the Thermæ –’

‘Wait!’ Gorine cried. ‘In the Old Palace, Bronque always had another man with him – they used our tunnel to the Institute – we thought he was some minor royal.’

‘He’d be flattered to hear it,’ said Chang. ‘But it is with Drusus Schoepfil that Madelaine Kraft has sought protection.’

‘Impossible! They ransacked the Old Palace! Bronque nearly broke my jaw!’

‘She’s a pragmatic woman.’ Chang gripped Gorine’s arm. ‘What would she offer Schoepfil in return?’

‘Information about his uncle?’ ventured Cunsher.

Gorine shook his head. ‘Robert Vandaariff never went near the Old Palace.’

Not Vandaariff, Chang realized, yet how many times had Mrs Kraft hosted the Comte d’Orkancz?
Those
were the secrets to tempt Schoepfil … and perhaps to fuel her own revenge.

He took hold of a wall bracket and swung his body down the open stairs, face into the wind. Packington Station would not be far. Would Pfaff leave the train? Would the Contessa board it? He pulled himself inside. ‘In the next baggage compartment you will find Professor Trooste, late of the Royal Institute –’

‘Augustus Trooste!’ spat Gorine. ‘That shameless fat sponge –’

‘He was present at Mrs Kraft’s restoration, and may be able to help. Hide him. I will tackle Pfaff.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Cunsher. ‘If we interrupt his plans –’

‘You mean if I kill him?’ Chang reached for the door. ‘I’ll find you as soon as I can.’

‘And if you don’t?’ asked Cunsher.

‘Acquit yourselves well,’ Chang replied. ‘It’s the end of the world, after all.’

He entered the rearmost carriage to find Jack Pfaff, in his orange coat and chequered trousers, slouched against the far door. Pfaff held up a finger for silence, and pointed to the line of compartments that lay between them. In spite of their earlier provocations Pfaff’s sharp face showed a smile, as if they were allies, or at least men who shared a common goal.

Chang began to walk, stick held ready. He glanced into the first compartment: six men of business, cases gripped across their laps. Pfaff ambled forward as well, hands empty. Chang reached the second compartment: women of differing ages and too many children. The youngest boy lay cradled across the lap of a dark-skinned maid, his legs wrapped with bandages.

Pfaff came nearer. The third compartment held at least ten people, women in the seats and men standing. The curtains on the fourth compartment door were drawn. Pfaff halted at its other side, perhaps ten feet away.

‘Joined the clergy, I see.’

‘Where is she, Jack?’

‘Which
she
do you mean?’ Pfaff nodded at the walking stick. ‘No room to swing. You’re hampered.’

‘Do you think?’ Chang took a sudden step forward. Pfaff just as quickly fell back, though his teasing smile remained.

‘Go in.’ Pfaff’s gaze darted past Chang, to the end of the corridor. ‘While there’s time.’

‘You coming in with me?’

‘I’ll wait. Following instructions.’

‘You always do, don’t you, Jack? Until you stop following them.’

Pfaff’s lips split in a childish grin. ‘
Precisamente
.’

Chang rapped the head of his walking stick against the fourth compartment door and entered. The occupants looked up, but Chang paid them no mind, stepping quickly from the doorway. He did not put it past Pfaff to have a
pistol and fire through the glass. But no shot came. Chang glanced at Madelaine Kraft, then at Mahmoud, whose hand made a polished revolver look like a toy. The third man he did not know, crowded in the opposite row of seats, between boxes tied with rope.

‘That is Mr Kelling,’ explained Mrs Kraft.

‘You’re Cardinal Chang!’ The angular Kelling pushed himself back into his seat, all elbows and knees. He wore the clothes of a clerk, but there was a bandage around his wrist and a deepening bruise across his jaw.

‘Difficult day all round,’ observed Chang; then to Mahmoud, at the window: ‘
Sit
.’

‘Not while you –’

Before Mahmoud could finish Chang’s hand was around Madelaine Kraft’s throat. ‘Sit or we’ll start settling things the wrong way.’

‘Mahmoud …’ Mrs Kraft said gently. The dark man shoved the pistol into a pocket of his long coat and perched on the very edge of his seat, poised to fling himself onto Chang. Kelling did not stir. Chang released his grip. Mrs Kraft stretched her neck and studied Chang. He found the scrutiny unwelcome.