The Chemickal Marriage (38 page)

‘Colonel Bronque …’

The Colonel paid them no more heed than a hat stand, striding past. Behind Bronque came a small, stout figure with a foreign-looking goatee, wire-rim spectacles and pearl-grey gloves. His clothes were well tailored but nondescript. Svenson’s impression of familiarity was echoed by the man’s own surreptitious glance at the Doctor. The man vanished round the corner.

‘Forgive me, Alice, but have these gentlemen called upon your premises so early in the day, or do they depart after spending the night?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’ Her words were hushed and chastened.

‘But you knew the Colonel. You must know the gentleman with him.’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t say.’

‘Of course – the first rule of trust is discretion. But if I were to ask you instead –’

She only bobbed another abject curtsy and hurried on.

Alice rapped four times upon a door sheathed in bright steel. A narrow viewing window was pulled back and then slid home just as fast. The door was opened by a muscular man with skin the colour of cherrywood. Her desire for diversion wholly extinguished, Alice dipped again and then fled down the corridor. The large hand that waved them into the room held a revolver whose oiled barrel seemed like a sixth finger.

This was quite obviously a room of business – ledgers, blotters, notebooks, strong box, and a large abacus bolted to a table. Gleaming pipes ran down from the ceiling to another station for the pneumatic system. As Svenson watched, a leather tube rocketed into the padded receiving chamber. The dark man ignored it. Svenson cleared his throat.

‘You must be Mr Mahmoud –’

‘A message came, we should expect you.’ For such a large man, his voice
was delicate, as sleek as an oboe, but the words were charged. ‘And now you’re here.’ Mahmoud nodded coldly to a door on the far side of the office. ‘So. Go see for yourself.’

Svenson released Francesca and the child tore off for the inner door. But at the threshold she stopped still, face frozen with wonder.

‘O Doctor … she looks like a
queen
.’

He hurried to look. A woman lay on a chaise-longue, draped in silks, eyes closed, hands clasped below her bosom.

‘Stay here, Francesca –
do not move
.’ At the sharpness of his tone, the child obeyed.

Careful and thorough, the Doctor took the woman’s pulse at the wrist and throat, peeled back both eyelids, opened her mouth, examined her nails, her teeth, and even, remembering the glass sickness, took an exploratory tug at her hair. Svenson’s dispassionate eye put her age at forty-five. Her golden skin seemed sallow, but he did not suppose she’d seen the sun in two months. Was she from India? An Arab? He looked around the inner room, at the Moorish daybed and enormous desk, now cluttered with the detritus of a sickroom. This too was a place of
work
. Madelaine Kraft was no ordinary woman. The Old Palace was
hers
.

He saw no mystery as to why such a woman had been a target of the Cabal. A brothel-keeper possessed the means to blackmail thousands of rich and influential men – capturing Mrs Kraft’s memory delivered them to the Cabal in a stroke. But why had the Contessa gone to such trouble to send Svenson to Madelaine Kraft
now
?

‘Francesca, what else did the Contessa say? Surely there was some clue, some advice?’ He peered behind the desk. ‘Did she forward some parcel of supplies to help us?’

‘There is no parcel.’

‘Child, there must be. Her own experiments with glass –’

‘There is
me
.’ The girl wore a prideful smirk that turned his stomach. Before he could reply, an explosion of voices came from the outer room.

‘They are strangers! What will the Colonel say?’

‘What do I care?’ This was Mahmoud.

‘Damn you, we agreed –’

‘
You
agreed –’

A sharp-nosed man with a moustache and long, oiled hair stormed in, his eyes leaping about to make sure nothing had been taken. Mahmoud waited in the doorway. The intruder tugged on his white shell jacket and then, glaring at the Doctor and the child, set to cracking his knuckles, one finger at a time.

‘You are Mr Gorine?’ Svenson offered. ‘I am Abelard Svenson, Captain-Surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy, attached to the service of Crown Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck –’

Gorine pulled viciously on his thumb until it popped. ‘And
you
will cure her? Is that what we are to believe?
Macklenburg?
’ Gorine stabbed Svenson’s chest with a finger. ‘We have had enough of
Macklenburg
at the Old Palace!’

‘If you refer to the Prince –’

Gorine slapped Svenson across the face. The blow was not hard – he did not think Gorine had much experience with slapping – but it stung. ‘I
refer
, Captain-Surgeon, to two women abducted from this house, to seven more who wake screaming from unnatural dreams, to the collapse of our business, and lastly –
yes
– to Mrs Kraft. All because your worthless Prince came through our door!’

‘If it is any solace, the Prince of Macklenburg is dead.’

‘Why should that bring me solace? Does that bring back our women?’

‘Michel –’ But at Mahmoud’s interjection, Gorine only gave the rest of his complaint directly to the dark man’s face.

‘Does that end the tyranny of our
occupation
– unable to come and go without leave from a gold-jacketed, stone-hearted –’

Doctor Svenson coughed into one hand. ‘If your two women are Margaret Hooke and Angelique, I must inform you both are dead as well.’

Gorine turned on Svenson, his fury heightened. But while Gorine’s back was turned, the Doctor had taken hold of his revolver and now pressed the barrel into Gorine’s abdomen. Gorine’s breath stopped.

‘O well done, Mahmoud –’

‘Be quiet.’ Svenson’s voice was calm. ‘Ignorance makes a man angry, I know. The matter is larger than
us
– than all of us together. I
am
here to help – to help
her
. But I am entirely willing to blow you apart like a pumpkin beforehand.’

The pressure of the pistol caused Gorine’s Adam’s apple to bob like a
cork in a stream. The Doctor lowered the weapon that – he was quite sure – no longer held any bullets. Gorine darted to the side, clearing the way for Mahmoud to fire, but the dark man did not move. Svenson slipped the pistol back into his greatcoat and addressed them both.

‘The Prince of Macklenburg was as much of a dupe as your women, sacrificed to the ambition of a wicked few who are still driving this city to its grave.’

Mahmoud stepped forward. ‘Who? We have ten good men –’

‘Save them – even a hundred is too few.’

‘But their
names
–’

‘The name that matters is Robert Vandaariff.’

Mahmoud cast a doubting glance to Gorine. ‘But he was stricken with blood fever – we assumed he was another victim.’

‘Forty-seven people were taken ill that night,’ said Gorine. ‘Not one has recovered, save Robert Vandaariff. Are
you
the one who cured him?’

‘No. The recovery is false. His entire character is destroyed.’ Svenson rubbed his eyes. ‘Would either of you gentlemen have any tobacco? I have lost my supply and a touch of smoke would do wonders for my mind.’

At Mahmoud’s nudge, Gorine took an ebony box from a desk drawer. ‘Mrs Kraft’s. Get on with your story.’

‘The man is exhausted, Michel.’

‘We are all exhausted,’ Gorine retorted.

Gorine took a cheroot himself before offering the box to Mahmoud, who declined. The squabbling intimacy of the two men was suddenly plain, especially to one who had spent years sailing in close quarters. Svenson shrugged at the insight – it was nothing to him, after all – and took a tightly rolled cheroot from the box and held it to his nose. Gorine held out a light and Svenson puffed with a palpable greed.

Mahmoud waited, one hand still resting on his pistol-butt.

‘So can you help her, Captain-Surgeon, or can you not?’

The Doctor began by asking questions, but the narrative of Mrs Kraft’s care only tightened his jaw. Nothing had answered, yet he could think of nothing left to try. At last he stubbed out the cheroot – he must work or fall asleep.

‘The attack was on Mrs Kraft’s mind, not her body, and in her mind will be the cure.’

‘Her mind is beyond
reach
,’ replied Gorine. ‘She cannot speak one word.’

‘Yes. If I might impose for a supply of chemicals and then a meal – anything at all, though hot soup would be a treasure …’

Mahmoud went for food while Gorine found paper in the desk. As Svenson made a list of what he required, Gorine studied Francesca. She sat at the foot of the chaise-longue, and for the first time Svenson realized how quiet she had become.

‘Heir to the Xonck empire, is it?’ Gorine asked her.

‘Once my uncle Henry dies.’

‘And you’re with this doctor? Alone?’

‘Her parents,’ said Svenson, ‘along with her uncle Francis –’

Gorine plucked the list from Svenson’s hand. ‘Francis Xonck. One hopes she isn’t heir to
that
.’

Gorine left the room. Francesca frowned at the carpet. Svenson had no idea how much the girl had heard at Parchfeldt between her uncle and her mother, or how much she had understood.

‘Do not mind him. We are here to help this lady. As you said yourself, a queenly countenance –’

Francesca still stared at the floor. ‘Did
you
like my uncle Francis?’

‘I’m afraid your uncle did not care for
me
, my dear.’

‘But he loved mother. He loved
me
.’

‘Francesca …’

‘He
did
.’

‘Your uncle Francis loved to be happy, sweetheart – how could he not love you?’ It was a feeble attempt, and Francesca Trapping wrinkled her nose. She fell silent again. ‘What … ah … what did the Contessa say to you, about your uncle?’

Francesca snorted, as if the question was especially stupid.

Gorine hurried in. ‘There is someone to see you –’

Svenson reached for his revolver. ‘No one knows I am here –’

Gorine seized his arm. ‘For God’s sake – don’t be a fool!’

Mahmoud appeared, and his added strength wrenched the Doctor’s weapon away.

‘There is no help for it,’ the dark man said. ‘He recalled your face.’

Colonel Bronque stood in the doorway. Black hair sat flat against his skull, a widow’s peak accentuating his hawk-like nose. Gorine and Mahmoud retreated to either side.

‘
Macklenburg
.’ The Colonel spat it like a curse. ‘
Macklenburg
.’

‘What of it?’

‘You’re Svenson. Surgeon.
Spy
.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘Obviously not. If you did, you would be more frightened.’

The Doctor’s fatigue got the better of him. ‘O no
doubt
,’ he replied, and sat on the desk.

Colonel Bronque barked with harsh laughter. Svenson risked a glance to Mahmoud and Gorine – both nodding gamely along with the Colonel’s amusement. Bronque came forward beaming. ‘I did not think you fellows had any humour at all.’

‘What fellows?’

‘Macklenburgers – Germans. I knew your Major Blach. Tight as a drum head.’

‘Indeed, a horrid man. Who
are
you?’

Instead of a reply, Bronque extended his arms, and his glittering eyes invited the Doctor to guess – a test. Svenson had no choice.

‘Very well. Your name tells me nothing, nor –
a priori
– does your rank. You are seen in a brothel in full dress, with another man whose clothing is expensive but undistinguished. Judging by the poor crease of your trousers, you have spent the night. One guess says your charge is a high-born
personage
bent upon his pleasures, requiring an especially trusted chaperone in these troubled days.’

Bronque grinned with a wolfish satisfaction. ‘But why should I bother with you?’

‘Because, as a criminal, my presence opens your
personage
to scandal.’

‘Nonsense.’

Svenson sighed. ‘Indeed, you would simply kill me.’

‘But I have
not
.’

The Colonel’s intensity was oppressive. Svenson rubbed his eyes. It was early, and the better part of his mind was tangled with thoughts of blue glass. But then he had it.

‘Ah. Because you are not
here
at all.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You have not come for the brothel’s wares. You have come for the tunnel.’

‘What tunnel?’

‘Under the Old Palace is a tunnel to the Royal Institute. At one point the Comte d’Orkancz used the Institute for his research, and employed the tunnel to ferry test subjects –’

The Colonel looked accusingly at Gorine and Mahmoud. ‘Did
they
tell you that?’

‘Of course not. But it explains why the Old Palace continues to operate – you have demanded access to the tunnel in exchange. Which sets your companion in an entirely new light – not a patron, but perhaps a Ministry official, an engineer, a Doctor of metals –’

Gorine could bear it no more. ‘Doctor Svenson –’

‘Silence!’ Bronque’s lips curled like a twist of uncooked meat. ‘I apply the same logic to you, Doctor. You were attached to the Prince’s party as a spy –’

Svenson shook his head. ‘I am only here to attend Mrs Kraft.’

‘I do not believe you.’ Bronque stepped back, all amusement gone. ‘The tunnel is watched. Consider yourself watched as well.’

The Colonel strode out as quickly as he’d come.

‘Threaten away,’ Svenson muttered. ‘I already face a death sentence …’

Neither Mahmoud or Gorine replied. Both men were gazing intently at Madelaine Kraft, whose large brown eyes were open.

Despite the raised voices that had woken her, Mrs Kraft’s attention was entirely taken with Francesca, and the child returned the woman’s gaze with a directness ordinarily reserved for odd-looking insects or younger siblings.

‘What will you do?’ Mahmoud whispered to Svenson. He shook his head.

The girl gently patted Mrs Kraft’s foot under the blanket. ‘I am Francesca Trapping.’

‘And I am Doctor Svenson.’ He pulled a chair near to sit. The cost of her subordinates’ well-intentioned treatments – extending to leeches and quicksilver – were etched on the woman. He laid a palm across her forehead. How long could anyone survive in such a cocoon?